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Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and with the T20 World Cup on, my husband insisted we host his friends at our penthouse to “celebrate love and cricket.” I laughed inside. Love? I was dressed to be ruined, deep-red low-cut blouse that barely held my boobs, mangalsutra disappearing between them, short black skirt riding high on my thighs, alta on my feet, toe-rings and wedding ring shining like the good Hindu wife I pretend to be.
The boys were already half-drunk by the time the England vs Scotland match started. My husband was the loudest, slurring over every boundary, completely ignoring the way I looked. But Ahmed, his colleague and my secret bull for the last eight months, noticed. He kept glancing at my cleavage while pretending to watch the game.
As the match dragged on and the guys got louder, I got bored and horny. I sank into the corner sofa, legs parted just enough, and slipped my hand under my skirt. My eyes locked on Ahmed’s lap, the thick, heavy outline of his circumcised cock straining against his shorts. I started rubbing my soaked vagina, pinching my clit hard, sliding two fingers inside myself. The contrast was filthy, my sacred mangalsutra bouncing between my boobs while I fingered myself thinking about a Muslim man’s cock.
The orgasm hit like a truck. My legs shook, I squirted down my thighs, and I couldn’t stop the loud moan that escaped. A couple of the guys stirred but thought it was the match excitement. Ahmed’s eyes burned into me. He knew.
Later in the kitchen, while my husband was passed out on the couch with an empty glass in his hand, Ahmed cornered me.
“I saw everything, babe,” he whispered, voice thick. “You were staring at my cock the whole time like a desperate girl.”
Before I could answer, his hand shot up my skirt. Two thick fingers pushed straight into my dripping vagina. He rubbed my clit roughly, whispering, “Your husband is out there drunk, and I’m finger-fucking his wife on Valentine’s.” I came again on his hand, biting my lip to stay quiet.
We weren’t done.
When I was sure everyone else was out cold, I pulled Ahmed into the guest bedroom. He didn’t waste time, ripped my blouse open, sucked my boobs hard enough to leave marks, then bent me over the bed and slammed his thick, veiny cock balls-deep into me in one thrust.
“Take it, you married woman,” he growled, pounding me mercilessly. “Your cuck is snoring outside while I breed his wife on Valentine’s Day.”
I came so hard I saw stars, screaming into the pillow. He pulled my mangalsutra like reins and flooded my womb with thick, hot ropes of cum, the same womb my husband hasn’t been allowed inside for years.
I walked back to the living room, cum dripping down my thighs, and woke my husband. I spread my legs right in front of his face.
“Clean me, loser. Ahmed just filled your wife while you were drinking with your friends.”
He cried like the pathetic cuck he is, but his tongue went straight to work, lapping every drop of superior seed from my married vagina.
That’s how a real wife celebrates Valentine’s.
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