[girrich9486]

Part 6 – The Night of Witness




Four days of silence had only sharpened the blade.

The four-hour video still lived on their phones like a living thing — replayed in fragments during stolen

moments, Karthik’s hand between Shailaja’s thighs while her own fingers circled her clit to the sound of her

own recorded screams. They never spoke of how many times they’d come to it. They didn’t need to.

Wednesday afternoon the message arrived at 4:42 p.m.

Today 8 p.m. sharp.

You only. No husband.

First-night red Banarasi saree.

Black lace bra. Black lace panty.

Nothing else.

Don’t be late.

She showed Karthik without a word. He read it twice, cock already thickening in his trousers.

At 7:38 p.m. she stepped out of their bedroom like a sacrifice dressed as a bride.

The heavy red Banarasi silk clung low on her hips, gold zari borders catching the hallway light. Navel bare and

deep. Mangalsutra resting exactly between the swell of her breasts. Black lace visible through the sheer pallu

when she moved. No bangles, no anklets — just the saree, the lingerie, and the thin gold chain that

disappeared into her cleavage.

Karthik stared, throat working. “You look like our wedding night.”

“That’s the point,” she said softly. “He wants to fuck the bride you married.”

He reached for her cheek. She caught his wrist.

“If you touch me I won’t go,” she whispered.

He let his hand fall.

The Mercedes was waiting at 7:58.

She left without looking back.

The penthouse elevator opened to a changed scene.

Floor-to-ceiling glass showing the night city. Charcoal sheets on the four-poster bed. Two tripods — one

camera tight on the bed, one large monitor facing it already showing their living room in real time.

Karthik sat rigid on the sofa at home, phone clutched white-knuckled.

On the bedside table: a wide crystal bowl brimming with large, razor-clear ice cubes. Condensation already

dripping like slow tears down the sides.

Vikram waited near the windows in nothing but loose black lounge pants, bare torso gleaming under

recessed lights, whiskey glass in hand.

“Perfect timing,” he said. Voice calm. Almost tender.

Shailaja remained frozen at the elevator threshold.

Vikram lifted his phone. One tap.

Karthik’s phone rang on speaker. The sound burst through hidden ceiling microphones into the penthouse.

“Shailaja?” His voice cracked with desperation.

Vikram crossed to her. Took her wrist. Led her slowly into frame — centre of the shot, centre of the monitor

feed.

“Karthik,” Vikram said pleasantly, speaking toward his phone. “Your beautiful bride has arrived. Dressed

exactly like the day you promised her forever. I thought you’d like to hear what forever really sounds like

now.”

He didn’t wait.

Fingers caught the edge of her pallu. One slow, deliberate pull.

Heavy silk cascaded off her shoulder. Black lace bra exposed — sheer enough to show dark areolas, nipples

already peaked and straining.

Karthik’s breathing turned ragged over the line — fast, shallow pants.

Vikram unwound the saree with excruciating patience. Fold by fold. Pleat by pleat. Each layer whispered

down her body until the last red silk pooled at her feet like spilled blood.

She stood in black lace lingerie, mangalsutra glinting, navel shadowed and perfect, thighs already trembling.

Vikram circled her once — predatory, appreciative — then stopped behind her.

One arm banded her waist. Other hand cupped her left breast through lace. Thumb brushed the nipple in

slow, cruel circles.

She gasped — soft at first.

He pinched.

Hard.

She cried out — sharp, startled.

“Louder,” he murmured against her ear. “Let your husband hear how easily you break for me.”

He twisted both nipples at once through the lace.

Shailaja’s head fell back against his shoulder. A long, keening moan poured out — rising, rising — until it

cracked into a high, helpless scream.

[girrich9486]

Karthik groaned low and broken on the other end.

Vikram peeled the bra cups down. Heavy breasts spilled free — nipples dark, swollen, begging.


He caught them again. Pinched. Rolled. Tugged until tears pricked her eyes and fresh screams tore from her

throat — raw, animal, echoing off glass walls.

Then he pushed her forward.

Face down on the bed. Ass high. Knees spread wide.

He dragged the lace panty aside — not off — just enough.

Two fingers plunged inside her soaked heat.

She moaned — long, guttural.

He added a third.

Her scream shattered the room — high, desperate, repeating in frantic waves: “Ahhh… ahhhh… AHHHHHH!”

Vikram looked straight at the camera — at Karthik on the monitor feed.

“Listen to your wife, Karthik. This is what she sounds like when she’s already dripping for another man’s

cock.”

He finger-fucked her mercilessly — curling, twisting, the wet squelch obscene and loud.

Her screams climbed higher — louder — until they were almost continuous wails.

“Please…” Karthik rasped over the line. “Please let me see. Video call. I need to see her face… her body…

please…”

Vikram stilled his fingers deep inside her.

Smiled.

“You want to watch me ruin her live?”

“Yes… God yes…”

“Then prove you know your place.”

Vikram pulled his fingers free. Shailaja sobbed at the emptiness.

“Stand up, Karthik,” Vikram ordered into the phone. “Strip naked. Kneel on the living-room floor in front of

your phone camera. Hands behind your back. Cock out and leaking. Look straight into the lens so I can see

the shame in your eyes while I fuck your wife.”

Rustling fabric. A soft thud of knees on carpet.

“I’m… I’m kneeling,” Karthik whispered, voice thick with humiliation.

Vikram tapped his screen.

The monitor flared to life.

There was Karthik — naked, kneeling, cock rigid and dripping pre-cum onto the carpet, hands locked behind

him, face burning red, eyes glassy with need and degradation.

Vikram laughed — low, satisfied.

“Pathetic. But obedient. Good.”

He turned back to Shailaja.

Picked up the first ice cube from the bowl.

Held it above her navel.

First drop of meltwater fell into the deep hollow.

She hissed. Haaaaa

Then he pressed the entire cube into that perfect oval.

The cold hit like a slap.

Her stomach convulsed. Goosebumps erupted everywhere. A sharp, shocked scream ripped from her —

“AAAAAHHHHHH!”

Vikram fucked her navel with the ice — slow circles, in and out, twisting it like a frozen cock while meltwater

ran in icy trails down her sides.

Her screams turned frantic — high-pitched, shuddering: “Cold… so cold… AHHH… AHHHH… PLEASE…!”

He dragged the melting cube upward.

Between her breasts.

Over one nipple — circling the areola until it shrivelled painfully tight.

She arched violently, screaming louder — a continuous, broken wail.

Then the other nipple.

He pressed harder.

She shrieked — raw, throat-scbanging — tears streaming now.

Downward again.

He parted her swollen folds.

Placed the half-melted cube directly on her clit.

The contrast against her burning heat was devastating.

She exploded into the loudest scream yet — piercing, endless: “NOOOOOO… AHHHHHHHHHH… TOO COLD…

TOO MUCH… AAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Vikram rubbed the ice mercilessly — tight, fast circles over her clit while two fingers plunged back inside her,

chasing the cold deeper.

Her entire body shook — thighs quivering, hips bucking uncontrollably.

He took a fresh, larger cube.

Pushed it slowly — inexorably — inside her pussy.

Inch by frozen inch.

Her inner walls clenched desperately around the intrusion.

She screamed again — long, guttural, rising to a shattering crescendo: “DEEP… INSIDE… COLD… AHHHHHHH…

IT’S MELTING INSIDE ME… AAAAAAHHHH!”

He fucked her with his fingers around the ice — pushing it deeper, twisting, until it vanished completely and

only freezing water leaked out around his knuckles, mixing with her arousal.

[girrich9486]

She came then — violently — thighs clamping his wrist, back bowing off the bed, a wailing, sobbing scream

that went on and on: “I’M COMING… ON ICE… FOR YOU… AHHHHHHHHHH!”

Karthik watched every second — cock jerking untouched, tears on his cheeks.

Vikram rose. Dropped his pants.

Ten thick, veined inches sprang free — dripping.

He positioned her on hands and knees — facing the camera directly.

“Look at your pathetic husband while I fuck you,” he growled.

Shailaja lifted her head. Eyes locked on Karthik’s humiliated face on the screen.

Vikram entered her in one brutal stroke — her pussy still chilled inside from the ice, the sudden heat of his

cock making her scream louder than ever: “TOO BIG… TOO DEEP… AHHHHHH… SPLITTING ME…

AAAAAAHHHHHH!”

He fucked her hard — relentless — hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so her breasts bounced

wildly, mangalsutra swinging, navel still glistening with meltwater trails.

“Tell him,” Vikram snarled.

“I love his cock…” she sobbed between screams. “So much bigger than yours… filling every inch… the ice

made me so fucking sensitive… I can feel every vein… every thrust… AHHHH… I’M HIS SLUT NOW…

AAAAAAHHHH!”

Karthik sobbed openly — cock leaking steadily.

Vikram flipped her onto her back.

Legs hooked over his shoulders — deep, punishing angle.

He pounded straight down — brutal cervix kisses — each one forcing a fresh scream from her: “DEEPER… HIT

IT… AHHHH… BREAK ME… AAAAAAHHHH!”

He grabbed another ice cube.

Pressed it between her breasts while he fucked her — letting it melt and run in cold rivers over her stomach,

pooling in her navel again.

She came again — screaming his name by mistake — “VIKRAM… YES… FUCK… AHHHHHHHH!”

He didn’t stop.

Flipped her sideways — spooning position — one leg lifted high.

Fucked her from behind while reaching around to rub a fresh ice cube directly on her clit.

The dual sensation — hot cock stretching her, freezing pressure on her clit — made her scream continuously

— hoarse, shattered wails that filled both rooms.

Karthik begged — voice cracking: “Please… let me come… please…”

Vikram looked straight into the camera.

“Come now, cuck,” he commanded. “Kneeling on your floor like a dog while I breed your wife again — while

the last ice melts inside her cunt and mixes with my cum.”

Karthik’s body jerked violently.

Thick ropes shot across the carpet — untouched — while he sobbed.

Vikram slammed deep one final time — grinding — and emptied inside her with a low groan.

Shailaja shattered again — longest scream of the night — body convulsing, pussy pulsing, milking every drop

while cold meltwater and hot cum leaked out around his shaft.

When he finally pulled out, a thick, obscene river followed — pearly white swirled with clear, chilled traces.

Shailaja collapsed — trembling, wrecked, still whimpering.

Vikram brushed sweat-soaked hair from her face.

“Round four,” he murmured. “On your back again. Legs wide. I want your husband to watch me fuck his bride

until she can’t scream anymore.”

She looked up at him — eyes glassy, lips parted, body shivering from cold and overstimulation.

“Yes…” she whispered hoarsely.

The monitor still showed Karthik — kneeling, spent, cock softening in a pool of his own cum, face streaked

with tears.

Vikram smiled at the camera.

“Stay there,” he told Karthik. “Don’t move. Don’t touch yourself again. Just watch.”

He reached for another ice cube.

And began again.

Outside, Gurgaon glittered coldly.

Inside, the night stretched on — screams, ice, and utter surrender.











Continues.......

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The night refused to end.

Vikram didn’t rush. That was the cruelest part. He let silence settle after the fourth round — only the soft drip

of the last melting ice cube in the crystal bowl and Shailaja’s uneven, hiccuping breaths filled the penthouse.

On the monitor, Karthik remained exactly where he’d been ordered: naked, kneeling, semen drying in sticky

streaks on his thighs and the carpet, shoulders trembling with aftershocks of shame. His cock hung soft and

spent between his legs, yet it twitched faintly every time Shailaja whimpered.

Vikram crouched beside the bed. Traced one fingertip through the obscene mess leaking from between her

thighs — the pale swirl of his cum mixed with crystalline meltwater — then brought that glistening finger to

her lips.


“Clean it,” he said quietly.


Shailaja’s tongue darted out instantly. She sucked the finger deep, eyes fluttering closed, tasting salt and

frost and her own ruined arousal. A tiny, broken moan vibrated around his knuckle.


“Good girl,” he murmured. “Your husband is watching you lick another man’s cum off my finger while wearing

the mangalsutra he tied around your neck.”


Karthik made a small, wounded sound — half sob, half plea.






Vikram stood. Walked to the bedside table. This time he didn’t reach for ice.

He lifted a slim black velvet pouch.

Inside: three smooth, heavy glass plugs graduated in size, each one chilled to near-freezing in the bowl

earlier. The largest was unmistakably thick — almost obscene for anal use without long, patient preparation.

Shailaja’s eyes widened when she saw it.

“No…” The word slipped out involuntarily — soft, frightened, aroused.

Vikram smiled. “Yes.”






He returned to the bed. Flipped her gently but firmly onto her stomach. Pulled two thick pillows under her

hips so her ass lifted high, presented. The camera tripod had the perfect angle: her face turned sideways

toward the lens, mangalsutra dangling, heavy breasts squashed against charcoal sheets, thighs spread, pussy

still gaping and leaking.

He poured a thin stream of chilled lube directly onto her untouched rear hole. She flinched at the cold.

“Relax,” he told her — almost kindly. “Or it will hurt more.”


First came the smallest plug.

He pressed the rounded, icy tip against her resistance. Circled. Pushed.

Shailaja hissed through clenched teeth. Her fingers clawed silk sheets.

“Tell your husband how it feels,” Vikram ordered.

“C-cold…” she gasped. “Stretching… so full already… and it’s only the small one…”

He twisted it in slowly — millimeter by millimeter — until the flared base kissed her rim.



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She shuddered violently. A long, quivering moan poured out.

Karthik’s breathing hitched audibly over the speakers.

Vikram left the small plug seated. Reached for the medium one — noticeably thicker.

He removed the first with a wet pop. Shailaja yelped at the sudden emptiness.

Before she could recover he pressed the second against her — colder, wider.

This time she screamed outright when the widest part breached her — sharp, startled, rising into a long wail:

“TOO THICK… AHHH… IT BURNS… COLD… AHHHHHH!”

He didn’t pause. Kept steady pressure until it sank home. Her back arched like a bow. Thighs shook. Fresh

tears tracked down her cheeks.

“Look at the camera,” Vikram said. “Let him see your face while another man trains your ass.”

Shailaja turned her head. Eyes glassy, mascara streaked, lips swollen and parted. She stared straight into the

lens — straight at Karthik — while her body trembled around the frozen intrusion.

Vikram tapped his phone.

The monitor split-screened: one half showed Shailaja’s wrecked expression and raised ass; the other showed

Karthik’s face — mouth open in silent horror, fresh tears spilling, cock stirring traitorously back to half-

hardness despite having come minutes earlier.

“Touch yourself,” Vikram told him. “Slow strokes. No coming. Just edge while I open your wife’s virgin ass for

my cock.”

Karthik obeyed instantly. Hand wrapping his reviving shaft. Slow, tortured pulls. Whimpers leaking from his

throat.

Vikram gripped the base of the medium plug. Began to fuck her with it — shallow thrusts at first, then deeper,

twisting on every withdrawal so the cold glass dragged against sensitive inner walls.

Shailaja’s screams turned rhythmic — punched out of her with each thrust:


“Ah! … Ahh! … AHHH! … PLEASE… TOO DEEP… TOO COLD… DON’T STOP… AHHHH!”







She came without warning — ass clenching brutally around the plug, pussy gushing fresh slick onto the

sheets, a high, shattered keen ripping from her throat.

Vikram pulled the plug free. Her hole gaped for a moment — pink, glistening, twitching — before slowly trying

to close.

He didn’t give it time.

The largest plug — brutally thick, heavily flared, still icy — was already in his hand.

Shailaja began shaking her head frantically. “No… no no no… it won’t fit… please…”

“It will,” Vikram said simply.

He pressed.

She screamed — long, animal, throat-scbanging — as the widest part forced her open. Her entire body locked.

Toes curled. Fingers tore at sheets.

“BREATHE,” he commanded.

She tried. Failed. Another piercing wail.

Inch by frozen inch he sank it inside until only the wide base remained visible, stretching her rim to its limit.





Shailaja sobbed openly now — great, heaving cries mixed with helpless moans.

Vikram leaned over her. Kissed the nape of her neck almost tenderly.

“You took it all,” he whispered. “Such a good slut for me.”

He left it seated. Climbed behind her. Aligned his cock with her dripping pussy.

And thrust in — one long, merciless slide.

The double fullness — thick cock stretching her cunt, massive chilled plug filling her ass — destroyed her.

Her scream cracked the air — raw, endless: “FULL… SO FULL… I CAN FEEL BOTH… AHHHHHH… RIPPING ME

APART… VIKRAM… FUCK… AAAAAAHHHHHH!”

He fucked her like that — hard, possessive strokes — the plug shifting with every thrust, pressing against the

thin wall that separated cock from glass. Each movement sent icy shocks radiating through her core.

She came again almost immediately — violently — pussy spasming, ass clenching so hard around the plug

that Vikram groaned.

He didn’t stop.







Flipped her onto her back. Legs pushed back until her knees framed her face — obscene, exposed angle. The

plug’s base now clearly visible between her cheeks.

He re-entered her cunt in this position — deeper, more punishing.

Every downward stroke drove the plug even harder against her front wall.

She couldn’t form words anymore — only continuous, hoarse screams and broken sobs.

Karthik was openly weeping on the monitor — stroking frantically, hips jerking, begging: “Please… let me

come again… I can’t… I need… please…”

Vikram looked straight into the camera while pounding Shailaja.

“Come,” he ordered. “But this time say it clearly: ‘Thank you, Vikram, for fucking my wife better than I ever

could.’”

Karthik broke instantly.

“Thank you… Vikram… for fucking my wife… better than I ever could…” Voice splintered. “Please… keep fucking

her… ruin her… she’s yours…”

He erupted — weaker spurts this time, body shaking, face a mask of utter degradation.

Vikram smiled.

Pulled out of Shailaja’s cunt. Gripped the base of the massive plug.

And began to fuck her ass with it — fast, brutal — while his other hand rubbed vicious circles over her swollen

clit.

She detonated — longest, loudest scream of the entire night — body seizing, squirting hard across his wrist

and the sheets, ass pulsing around glass, pussy empty and clenching on nothing.






Only then did he remove the plug — slow, deliberate — letting her feel every ridge as it left her gaping.

He slid back into her pussy for a final time.

Fucked her through the aftershocks — slow now, deep, grinding.

When he came it was with a low, possessive growl — flooding her again while she whimpered his name like a

prayer.

Afterward he didn’t pull out immediately.

He stayed buried inside her. Reached for the last large ice cube remaining in the bowl.

Pressed it flat against her overstimulated clit.

She jerked, gave one last shattered scream — weak, exhausted, euphoric.

Then silence.

Only panting.

Vikram finally eased out. A thick river followed — cum, meltwater, her own release.

He gathered her against his chest — bridal carry — and turned so they both faced the camera.

“Look at your wife, Karthik,” he said softly. “Completely mine tonight. Marked inside and out. Still shivering

from ice and cock.”

Shailaja’s eyes fluttered open. Met her husband’s on the screen.

She didn’t speak.

She only looks — small, wrecked, radiant — and whispered two words:

“I am sorry karthik?”

Karthik’s sob was answer enough.

Outside, the Gurgaon skyline glittered on — indifferent.

Inside the penthouse the night finally, reluctantly, began to fade.

But the hunger — theirs, all three of them — only grew sharper.





And Vikram order to Karthik your wife will be there by 1 hour. By that one hour you have to stay nude... Once she come lick my cum drenching


from your wife's pussy......karthik replied yes sir....




To be continued...

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Next update today evening.... a surprised...

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Very hot

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The first light of dawn crept through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Vikram's Gurgaon penthouse, casting a

pale, unforgiving glow over the scene. Shailaja lay curled in his arms, her body limp and spent, the

mangalsutra around her neck a stark reminder of the vows she'd shattered that night. Her skin was flushed,

marked with faint red imprints from his hands, and between her thighs, a sticky mixture of cum, lube, and

melted ice still oozed slowly, pooling on the silk sheets beneath her. Vikram held her in that bridal carry, his

own body glistening with sweat, his cock soft now but still twitching occasionally against her hip. On the

monitor, Karthik's face was a portrait of devastation—eyes red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with tears, his spent

semen drying in humiliating streaks on his thighs. He'd come twice under Vikram's command, each time

degrading himself further, and now he knelt there, broken and aroused in equal measure.

Vikram's voice cut through the quiet like a blade, low and commanding. "Shailaja, listen carefully. The night is

over, but our game isn't. When you get home, you're not to shower or clean yourself. Do you understand?"

She nodded weakly against his chest, her breath still ragged. "Y-yes..."

"Good." He shifted her slightly, so her face was angled toward the camera again. "Karthik will be waiting for

you. And when you walk through that door, he's going to clean you. Every drop of my cum that's dripping

from your cunt and your ass—he's going to lick it up. Use his tongue like the devoted cuckold he is. Make him

taste how thoroughly I've claimed his wife."

Shailaja's eyes widened, a fresh shiver running through her. The thought was obscene, humiliating for both

her and Karthik, but it sent a dark thrill straight to her core. On the screen, Karthik whimpered, his head

bowing lower, but his cock gave a traitorous twitch.

Vikram's lips curled into a predatory smile. "And I'll be watching. Set up the video call the moment you arrive.

I want to see every second—his tongue lapping at your ruined holes, swallowing my seed mixed with your

arousal. If he hesitates, remind him who owns you both now."

Karthik's voice crackled over the speakers, barely audible. "Please... Vikram... I-I'll do it..."

"Of course you will," Vikram replied coolly. "Because you love it. You love knowing your wife's body is filled with

another man's cum, and you'll savor cleaning her like the pathetic cleanup boy you are."

He set Shailaja down gently on the bed, her legs wobbling as she tried to sit up. The massive plug had left her

ass sore and gaping slightly, a dull ache that pulsed with every movement. Vikram dressed her methodically—

slipping her back into the red saree she'd arrived in, the fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin. No panties,

no bra; she felt exposed, the evidence of their night seeping down her inner thighs as she stood. He

smoothed her hair, wiped the smudged mascara from her cheeks with a tenderness that contrasted the

brutality of hours before.

"Go home to your husband," he murmured, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. "And remember: next time, I

come to you. I'll fuck you in your own marital bed, right in front of him. No screens, no distance. He'll watch up

close as I ruin you again."

Shailaja's pulse raced at the promise, her body already aching for more despite the exhaustion. She glanced

at the monitor one last time—Karthik's eyes locked on hers, a mix of despair and desperate longing. Then

Vikram escorted her to the door, calling a cab for her with his app. As the elevator descended, she leaned

against the wall, feeling the cool air tease her sensitive skin, the sticky warmth between her legs a constant

reminder.

The drive back to their modest apartment in Sector 56 felt eternal. Gurgaon's morning traffic was just stirring

—commuters in sedans, auto-rickshaws honking, the skyline fading into smog. Shailaja sat in the back seat,

thighs pressed together to stem the slow drip, but it was futile. By the time she paid the driver and climbed

the stairs to their third-floor flat, her saree was damp at the hem, her ass throbbing from the plugs' earlier

assault. Her hands trembled as she unlocked the door.


Karthik was there, waiting in the living room, still naked as Vikram had commanded during the call. He'd

cleaned up his own mess from the floor, but his face was pale, eyes hollow from the sleepless night. The

moment she entered, he dropped to his knees, crawling toward her like a supplicant.

"Shailu..." His voice broke. "Did he... did he hurt you?"

She shook her head, though her body screamed otherwise. "No. It was... intense." She pulled out her phone,

propping it up on the coffee table, and initiated the video call to Vikram. It connected almost immediately—

his face appearing on the screen, relaxed in his penthouse, a glass of whiskey in hand despite the early hour.

"Right on time," Vikram said, his tone approving. "Show me."

Shailaja moved to the couch, hiking up her saree as she sat, spreading her legs wide. The camera captured

everything—the swollen, reddened lips of her pussy, still leaking a pearlescent mix of cum and her own juices;

the slight gape of her ass, slick with lube and residue. Karthik hesitated for a split second, his cheeks burning

with shame.

"Do it," Vikram ordered sharply. "Clean her. Start with her ass."

Karthik leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. Shailaja gasped as his tongue made first contact—tentative

at first, lapping at the outer rim where the lube had dried. The taste hit him: salty, musky, unmistakably

Vikram's cum mixed with the faint chill of melted ice. He groaned, a sound of pure humiliation, but he didn't

stop. His tongue delved deeper, circling the stretched hole, sucking gently to draw out every drop.

Shailaja's head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Oh god... Karthik... that's... good..."

Vikram chuckled over the call. "Look at him, Shailaja. Your husband on his knees, eating another man's cum

from your ass. Tell me, does it feel right?"
"
Yes," she whispered, her fingers threading through Karthik's hair, pulling him closer. "It feels... perfect."

Emboldened—or broken—Karthik worked more fervently, his tongue thrusting inside her ass, cleaning every

crevice. The sensation was electric, her body still hypersensitive from the night's torments. She rocked her

hips slightly, grinding against his face, fresh arousal building despite the soreness.

"Now her cunt," Vikram directed. "Make sure you swallow it all. I want her spotless for next time."


Karthik shifted upward, his nose brushing her clit as his mouth covered her pussy. He sucked greedily now,

tongue scooping out the thick globs of cum that had pooled deep inside. The flavor was overwhelming—

Vikram's essence, her sweetness, the faint tang of lube. He whimpered against her, his own cock hardening

again, bobbing untouched between his legs.

Shailaja cried out, her orgasm building fast. "Karthik... yes... clean me... taste how he filled me..."

Vikram's voice was a growl. "Edge yourself while you do it, Karthik. Stroke, but don't come. That's my privilege."

Karthik's hand wrapped around his shaft, pumping slowly as he devoured her. Shailaja came with a sharp cry,

her juices flooding his mouth, mixing with the remnants of Vikram's load. He swallowed it all, tears streaming

down his face, his body trembling on the edge of release.

"Enough," Vikram said finally. "You've done well. Shailaja, rest now. Karthik—thank me."

"Thank you, Vikram," Karthik rasped, his voice hoarse. "For... for letting me clean her."

The call ended. Shailaja pulled Karthik up, kissing him deeply, tasting the mingled flavors on his lips. They

collapsed together on the couch, exhausted, entwined in a twisted embrace. The day passed in a haze—work

calls ignored, meals skipped, just the two of them processing the night's events. Karthik was gentle,

massaging her sore muscles, whispering apologies and confessions of how aroused it had made him. Shailaja

reassured him, her own mind racing toward the promise of "next time."

[girrich9486]

Please update

Thank you today I will update..

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Lovely

Thankyou

[girrich9486]

Update please

Sure I will update. Thankyou

[girrich9486]

excellent updates...

Thank you bro...

[girrich9486]

Please update bro

Thank you bro sorry for delay..

[girrich9486]

Will husband take revenge and wife will help please reply and update

Thank you bro... But already husband become cuck.. May be in future he will take.

[girrich9486]

When will update come bro

Sorry bro. I am in other emergency work. So I can't write.. Today my work will over.. I will start again. 


Thank you..

[girrich9486]

The days after that brutal Wednesday night stretched into a strange, quiet normalcy. Vikram vanished completely—no messages, no late-night calls, no black Mercedes waiting outside their apartment. The silence felt heavier than his presence ever had. Shailaja’s body still ached in places she didn’t want to admit—her nipples tender, her pussy and ass sore from ice and thick cock—but the marks faded slowly, leaving only faint red lines and memories that made her wet when she least expected it.
She and Karthik tried to return to regular life. Mornings: coffee together, her cooking dosa while he checked emails. Evenings: TV serials, small talk about work, her head on his shoulder like nothing had changed. They fucked sometimes—quick, familiar sex in the dark—but it felt different now. Karthik’s touches were harder, almost angry. He gripped her hips too tight, thrust deeper than before, as if trying to erase Vikram’s shape from inside her.
Shailaja noticed. She didn’t say anything.
One Friday night, ten days after the penthouse, Karthik came home late from office. Shailaja was already in bed, wearing only a thin cotton nightie, scrolling her phone. He didn’t speak. He just locked the bedroom door, pulled off his shirt, and climbed over her.
“Karthik… slow…” she murmured, smiling sleepily.
He didn’t slow.
He flipped her onto her stomach roughly. Yanked the nightie up to her waist. No foreplay. No kisses. His cock—already rock-hard—was pressing against her ass crack before she could even gasp.
“Wait… not there…” she whispered, suddenly tense.
He ignored her.
One hand pinned her wrists above her head. The other guided his thick shaft to her rear hole—the same hole Vikram had stretched with ice-cold glass plugs. Karthik didn’t use lube. Only the little wetness that had leaked from her pussy when she remembered those nights.
He pushed.
Hard.
Shailaja’s eyes flew open. “No! Karthik—no—no—no! It hurts!”
He didn’t care.
With one brutal shove he buried half his length inside her dry, unprepared ass. She screamed—sharp, real pain tearing through her.
“AAAAHHH! Karthik—please—slow down—pls—too big—burning—AHHH!”
He leaned down, mouth against her ear, voice low and bitter.
“You screamed louder for him. Much louder. Begged for his cock like a whore. Took ice in your cunt and ass like it was nothing. Now take your husband.”
He slammed forward again—deeper—all the way in.
Shailaja’s whole body jerked. Tears spilled instantly. Her ass clenched around him in panic, trying to push him out, but that only made him groan with dark pleasure.
“Pls… Karthik… slow… I can’t… AHHHH!”
He started fucking her—hard, fast, punishing strokes. No mercy. Each thrust slapped his balls against her pussy lips. Her screams turned hoarse, broken.
“No—no—no—please—slow—Karthik—hurts—AAAAHHH!”
But her body betrayed her. After the first brutal minutes, the burn eased into a deep, stretching fullness. Her pussy dripped onto the sheets. Her hips started lifting—tiny, involuntary movements—meeting his thrusts.
He noticed.
“You like it,” he growled. “Slut. You like it rough now. He trained you well.”
He pulled out suddenly—making her whimper at the emptiness—then flipped her onto her back. Legs forced wide. He slammed back into her pussy this time—deep, angry strokes—while two fingers pushed into her still-gaping ass.
Double penetrated by her own husband.
Shailaja’s head thrashed side to side. “Too much—too much—Karthik—AAAAHHH! Both holes—please—slow—AHHHH!”
He fucked both holes at once—cock in cunt, fingers in ass—matching rhythm. Her screams climbed higher, turning into long, wailing cries.
“I’M SORRY… AHHH… I’M SORRY… FOR MOANING FOR HIM… PLS… SLOW… I CAN’T… AAAAAHHH!”
He didn’t slow.
He fucked her until she came—shaking, squirting around his cock, ass clenching his fingers so hard he grunted. Only then did he pull out of her pussy and slam back into her ass—finishing there with short, brutal thrusts.
He came deep inside her rear—hot spurts filling her while she sobbed and trembled.
When he finally rolled off, both were panting. Shailaja curled into a ball, ass leaking his cum, tears wet on the pillow.
Karthik stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Then he whispered, “Next time… you’ll scream my name louder than his.”
Shailaja didn’t answer.
But the grudge in his chest only grew.
———
Karthik started planning revenge the very next week.
He knew about Vikram’s younger sister—Navya. Everyone in their old college circle knew. She was twenty-eight now, married three years, but her husband worked in Canada—software engineer, gone nine months of the year. Navya stayed in Gurgaon, alone in a fancy apartment near Golf Course Road. Photos on social media showed her: tall, fair, long black hair, sharp jawline, full lips, curves that made men stare. Always in tight gym wear or sarees that hugged her waist and ass perfectly. The kind of beauty that looked effortless and expensive.
Karthik decided she would pay for what her brother did to his wife.
He changed his jogging route. Started going to the same park where Navya ran every morning at 6:30 a.m.—bright pink sports bra, black leggings, ponytail swinging. First week he just nodded politely when their paths crossed. Second week he smiled. Third week he said “Good morning” and matched her pace for a few meters.
She smiled back—friendly, no suspicion.
They started talking.
Small things at first: “Nice shoes… Which app do you use for tracking?… Weather is getting hot, right?”
Then longer conversations. She laughed easily. Told him about missing her husband, about boring corporate job, about how running helped her forget loneliness.
Karthik listened. Nodded. Acted kind. Acted safe.
After three weeks he invited her for coffee after the run—“just as friends, nothing else.” She hesitated, then agreed.
They met at a small café near the park. She wore a loose white T-shirt and shorts—sweaty, glowing, nipples faintly visible through damp fabric. Karthik’s cock stirred just looking at her.
They talked for two hours. She opened up more—said her marriage felt distant, that she felt neglected, that sometimes she wondered if she was still desirable.
Karthik touched her hand lightly. “You’re very desirable, Navya. Any man would be lucky.”
She blushed. Didn’t pull away.
Next week he suggested a “longer run” on Sunday—early morning trail outside the city. She said yes.
That Sunday he picked her up in his car. She wore tiny running shorts and a sports bra again—cleavage bouncing as she climbed in. They drove to a quiet forested trail. Ran for forty minutes. Sweaty. Breathing hard.
At the end, near a small clearing with benches, he offered her water. She drank. He stepped closer.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded—then looked up at him with those big, dark eyes.
He kissed her.
She froze for one second—then kissed back. Hungry. Desperate.
They stumbled to his car. Backseat. Clothes half-off. He sucked her dark nipples through the bra while she moaned his name. Fingers inside her wet pussy. She came fast—shaking, whispering “Yes… yes… please…”
But Karthik didn’t fuck her that day.
He wanted more.
He wanted proof.
Next week he booked a hotel room—small, discreet, in a business area far from both their homes. Told her he had “something special” planned after their run. She agreed—nervous but excited.
Saturday evening. 7 p.m.
Navya arrived wearing a simple red kurti and jeans—beautiful, shy. Karthik had already set up: phone on tripod in the corner, recording in hidden mode. Another phone ready for photos.
They kissed the moment the door closed.
He stripped her slowly—kurti off, bra unhooked, jeans pulled down. She stood in black lace panties—full breasts heaving, nipples hard, pussy already wet through the fabric.
He pushed her onto the bed. Spread her legs wide.
“Smile for me,” he whispered.
She laughed—thinking it was playful.
He took photos—her face, her breasts, her open thighs, panties pulled aside showing pink, glistening folds.
She didn’t notice the camera in the corner still recording.
He ate her pussy—slow, teasing licks on her clit until she was moaning loudly, hips bucking.
“Karthik… oh god… yes… eat me… AHHH!”
He made her come on his tongue—screaming his name, thighs clamping his head.
Then he flipped her over. Ass up. Pulled her panties down to her knees.
He entered her pussy from behind—one hard thrust.
Navya cried out—pleasure mixed with surprise.
“Fuck… so thick… Karthik… yes… harder…”
He fucked her hard—slapping her ass, pulling her hair, making her scream with every deep stroke.
“You like it rough?” he growled.
“Yes… yes… fuck me hard… AHHH!”
He recorded everything—her face in ecstasy, her bouncing tits, his cock disappearing into her wet cunt.
Then he pulled out. Pressed against her ass.
“No… wait… not there…” she gasped.
He didn’t listen—just like he hadn’t listened to Shailaja.
He pushed in—slow at first, then harder.
Navya screamed—“No—no—Karthik—it hurts—pls—slow—AHHH!”
He kept going—inch by inch—until he was buried in her tight virgin ass.
She sobbed—pain, pleasure, shame all mixed.
He fucked her ass—slow then fast—slapping her cheeks red.
“Tell me you love it,” he ordered.
“I… I love it… fuck my ass… AHHH… Karthik… please…”
She came again—ass clenching around him, pussy dripping untouched.
He pulled out. Flipped her onto her back. Fucked her pussy again—deep, brutal—while rubbing her clit.
She screamed his name over and over—lost completely.
When he was close he pulled out. Made her kneel.
“Open your mouth.”
She obeyed—tongue out.
He came on her face—thick ropes across her cheeks, lips, tongue.
Took more photos—her cum-covered face, eyes glassy, mangalsutra still around her neck (she hadn’t removed it).
Afterward she lay trembling—exhausted, satisfied, guilty.
Karthik cleaned her gently. Kissed her forehead.
“This stays between us,” he said softly.
She nodded—still dazed.
But he already had the videos. The photos. Saved in a hidden folder.
That night he went home to Shailaja.
Showed her nothing—yet.
But when they fucked later, he made her scream louder than ever—pounding her pussy and ass while whispering in her ear:
“I’m going to ruin him the way he ruined us.”
Shailaja moaned—half in fear, half in dark excitement.
The game had only just begun.

[girrich9486]