I’ve been married to my wife Riya for 5 years now. She is 32, a stunning mix of Bengali and Punjabi heritage. She’s extroverted, easygoing, and radiates charm..her fair but slightly dusky skin glows like warm honey, framed by thick black curly hair with golden streaks at the ends. She’s thick in all the right places..full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into wide hips, and a round, firm ass that jiggles when she walks.
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So it all kicked off when Riya scored a job at a high-flying marketing firm. After years of freelancing, she was electric, raving about the glass-walled office, the edgy team and the buzz of pitching campaigns. My accounting job was a soul-sucking grind, and our marriage had dulled. Late nights at my desk left little room for passion. However, this job rekindled Riya’s passion, and I believed it would revive us.
She’d come home vibrating with energy, kicking off her heels, her tight kurtis clinging to her curves, leggings hugging her thick thighs. She’d gush about her boss, “He has such a commanding presence.” who “owns every room”. She’d mention his crisp shirts, his deep voice..how he’d praise her ideas in meetings. Her tone was too warm, her cheeks too flushed. I figured she was just excited about the gig.
I was such a Dumbass..right?
A month in, the firm hosted a networking party at a rooftop bar, all neon lights and thumping music. Riya begged me to come meet her colleagues. She wore a thigh-high black dress, so tight it molded to her tits and ass, her dusky cleavage spilling out, gold hoops glinting in her streaked hair. “Looking good no…? Hun?” she grinned, slicking on red lipstick. I felt like a loser in my polo and slacks, but I tagged along, curious about her world.
The bar was a sea of polished ad types, all smirks and martinis. Riya flitted around, introducing me to her team, who gave me half-assed handshakes before ignoring me. Then she dragged me to her boss. He was a tower of raw charisma..tall, ripped, with a sharp jawline and eyes that pinned you. His fitted blazer screamed wealth, his cologne sharp and invasive. He crushed my hand, smirking.. “So, you’re Riya’s husband huh? Lucky guy!”. Riya giggled, her fingers grazing his sleeve too long. I stammered about my job, but he cut me off, pulling her aside for a quick chat. I was left clutching my beer.
From the bar, I watched them. He leaned in, whispering, his hand brushing her lower back. Riya laughed, tossing her hair, her dress riding up her thick thighs. They vanished into the crowd. When she returned, her lipstick was smeared, her hair tousled, her skin glowing. “You should have joined us on the dance floor….” she mumbled, but her eyes screamed secrets. I let it slide, too awkward to press.
Things spiraled. Riya started “working late” citing “client dinners” or “urgent pitches”. She’d stumble in past midnight, her crop tops wrinkled, leggings stretched, smelling of smoke and that same cologne. Her phone pinged nonstop, messages she’d hide, giggling as she typed. Her style got sluttier..skin-tight tops that bared her midriff, leggings so thin they showed her thong, thigh-high dresses that barely covered her ass. Hickeys bloomed on her neck, bite marks on her inner thighs. “Tripped at the gym…” she’d lie, smirking. I saw receipts for spa days, boutique hotels..shit we couldn’t afford. Once, I glimpsed a text from him: “No bra tomorrow. And that favourite Black dress..got it slut?” My gut twisted, but I stayed quiet. Worse, it turned me on!
She was distant at home, glued to her phone, barely noticing me. But she radiated heat, her dusky skin shimmering, her lips always parted like she was mid-fantasy. I’d find her panties in the laundry, soaked and reeking of him. I knew, deep down, but I was too weak to confront her.
Here’s how it went down: her boss had her from that party. He started with flirty banter, “private reviews” in his office, his hands wandering her curves. Then came the “business trips”. He’d whisk her to fancy resorts, fucking her senseless in ocean-view suites, her thick ass bouncing as she screamed his name. She’d call me..voice unsteady, saying she might have to go to extended the trip for a few days, her pussy still dripping from his cock. In Mumbai, he’d rail her in his office, her leggings yanked down, her moans echoing as he spanked her raw. She’d come home with his scent on her skin, crawling into our bed like I didn’t exist.
He turned her into a filthy slut. The Riya I married..loyal, ideal and faithful..was gone! She craved his degradation. He’d fuck her in gritty motels, treating her like a cheap hooker, pulling her hair, choking her as she begged for his cum. She’d send him videos from our bedroom, stripping out of her lingerie, fingering herself while I slept. He’d parade her at client parties, her thigh-high dresses slipping to flash her bare pussy, her tits bouncing as she danced for his leering partners. She’d laugh, high on his dominance, grinding on him while they whispered about me.
They mocked me constantly. I caught her on a call, cackling, “Haha yaa exactly! He’s such a chutiya..he still thinks I’m his sanskari wife!” At a company party, her colleagues smirked as I walked by, one muttering, “Bet this looser jerks off to it all! Pathetic Cuck!” Her boss would summon me to his office, her perfume thick in the air, and joke about Riya’s “late nights” He’d toss me her expense reports..”oh she loves spending on lingeries, and tiny tops and dresses it seems!” All I could do is smile and agree..right?
Eventually Riya announced she was pregnant. “We’re gonna be parents!” she beamed, her hand on her belly. I was ecstatic, too blind to question it. We hadn’t fucked in ages..she’d push me away, saying she was tired..but I did question it! Then her boss texted: “Congrats for the kid man!” with a laughing emoji. My heart sank. The kid was his, conceived in some sleazy hotel while I paid our bills.
Now, Riya’s his whore, body and soul. He fucks her in our apartment, on our bed, leaving cum-soaked sheets for me to clean. He’ll bend her over the dining table, her crop top pushed up, her leggings ripped, her thick ass jiggling as she screams. She wears his gifts..a locket with his initials, chokers, thigh chains, and what not! He sends videos to her phone, ones I “accidentally” see: Riya gagging on his cock in his car, or sprawled on his desk, her dusky tits bouncing as she calls him “Daddy”. She doesn’t hide it..almost as if she wants me broken!
They degrade me openly. At a team event, her boss raised a glass “to supportive husbands..” his hand on Riya’s ass, her leggings so tight I saw her pussy lips. Her colleagues laughed, eyeing me like trash.
I’m cucked, trapped in a nightmare I can’t escape. I slave at my job, funding her slutty tops and spa days, raising a kid that’s his. He screws her in my home, lounges on my sofa, sipping my beer while Riya worships his cock. I’ll walk in, and they would just ignore me like am a nobody!Riya’s never looked hotter, her dusky skin glowing, her thick curves owned by him. I’m their joke, their doormat, humiliated and hard, too pathetic to fight back.
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