"My Husband Thinks I’m At My Maika, But I’m Servicing His Boss Every Tuesday! (The Escalation)"
SPORT
Yaar, I need to get this out before I explode. If anyone reads this, please, just know this is 100% real, and I’m terrified but addicted.
My name isn't important, but my situation is. I'm married to a decent, middle-class guy, Rahul. He’s good to me, pays the bills, but let’s be honest, his bedroom game is boring. Like, same spot, same pace, 5 minutes done. I started feeling invisible, like a piece of furniture.
This started six months ago, thanks to my saas being conveniently "sick" and me having mandatory weekly trips to my maika (maternal home) to "help out." Rahul believes it completely. Bhola hai woh.
The target? Mr. Sharma, Rahul’s boss at the MNC. Sharma ji is 50, overweight, bald patch growing, but the man has power. And a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. When he first looked at me during an office party, it wasn't looking; it was assessing.
He cornered me near the bar. He didn't use sweet words. He just whispered, very close to my ear, "Tiwari ki patni, you look wasted tonight. You deserve better service than your husband can provide. Meet me Tuesday, 3 PM. My office, my rules. Say no, and Rahul loses his promotion."
My legs went weak. Blackmail. Dirty. Degrading. Everything I secretly craved. I said yes, my voice barely a squeak.
The First Time: Submission
Tuesday, 3 PM. I walked into his massive, soundproof office. He didn't offer water. He just pointed to the expensive leather sofa. "Strip. Slowly. I want to watch you decide whether you are worth my time."
I shook, but the fear of Rahul losing his job mixed with sheer lust pushed me. I stripped down to my last layer—my favorite lacy red bra and panty set. He didn't touch me. He just sat back, sipping scotch, his eyes tracing every curve.
"You are beautiful, but too proud. Let's fix that." He walked over, grabbed my hair—not roughly, but firmly enough to show ownership—and pulled my face down to his crotch. His erection was thick, heavy, and smelled faintly of stale cologne and power. "Lick it clean. Show me you know your place."
Tears were blurring my vision, but my mouth obeyed. I dedicated myself to that thick, demanding flesh. When I finished, he dragged me up, pushed me onto the sofa, and forced my legs wide open. He didn't use lube. He just positioned himself, and with one hard thrust, he buried himself inside me.
It hurt. A sharp, tearing pain mixed with overwhelming fullness. He grunted, "That’s better. You belong to me now, every Tuesday." He fucked me like I was a cheap prostitute, fast, shallow, demanding eye contact the entire time. He finished inside me, not caring about Rahul’s potential lineage, just pure selfish release.
The Escalation: Degradation
Last Tuesday was the worst, and I begged for it.
He told me to wear nothing but high heels. When I arrived, he had a cheap, stained dupatta tied around my waist like a leash. He was waiting for me not in the office, but in his private executive washroom. The marble floor was cold.
"Today, you clean my boots first," he commanded, pointing to his expensive black office shoes. I knelt down, tongue out, cleaning the dirt off his soles. While I was doing that, he used his free hand to grab my breasts and squeeze them hard enough to bruise.
"Good girl. Now, the main course." He pulled the dupatta tight, yanking me up against the wall. He didn't allow me to look at his face. He just demanded I look at my own reflection in the mirrored wall while he entered me forcefully from behind, one hand holding the leash tight.
He kept chanting, "Rahul's wife is just a toy for the management. You earn your husband’s salary for him by satisfying me." He made me moan his name, not mine, not Rahul's. The degradation was total. When he climaxed, he slapped my rear hard enough to leave a bright red mark, and then threw me down onto the bathmat.
He dressed calmly while I lay there, naked, shivering, feeling used up, yet already counting the days until next Tuesday. I hate him, I hate myself, but when I go back to Rahul, his predictable, safe touch feels like ash. I am addicted to Sharma Ji’s power and the dirty feeling of being his secret property. I don't know how long I can keep this lie going. Pray for me, or better yet, tell me I'm not the only one who craves this filth.