My Husband’s Boss – The Corporate Cuckold & My Double Life
SPORT
My husband, Ajay, is a good man. Simple, hardworking, works in a mid-sized IT firm. We have a decent house, two kids, the usual middle-class dream. But somewhere along the line, the spark died, replaced by routine and a boring sex life where I felt like a chore, not a desire.
Enter Mr. Sharma, Ajay’s boss.
Sharma-ji is in his late 40s, sharp dresser, always smells expensive, and has that dangerous, calculating look in his eyes. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it. He started noticing me during company events. First, it was lingering stares; then, "Accidental" bumps in the elevator.
It escalated when he started calling me when Ajay was traveling for work. It started innocently—asking about Ajay, then casually complimenting my looks. One evening, he called and said, "Geetika, I need your advice on a presentation for Ajay’s promotion. Can you come over? Just for an hour."
I knew exactly what he meant. My heart was thumping, part terror, part sheer, filthy excitement. I told Ajay I was meeting my sister.
When I reached Sharma-ji's penthouse—yes, penthouse, not the office—he opened the door wearing just a silk robe. The apartment was massive, all glass and leather. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. He just looked me up and down, his eyes burning into my chudai fantasies.
"Take off your saree, Geetika," his voice was low, commanding.
I froze. "Sir, I... I can’t. Ajay..."
He laughed, a harsh, arrogant sound. "Ajay? Your husband is an ant compared to me. He works for me. You think he has any say here? You are here because I allow you to be here. Now, drop the act."
That tone—the absolute dominance—it broke me. I felt myself shrinking, feeling utterly worthless, and yet, incredibly turned on by the power dynamic. I slowly unwrapped the saree. I was wearing my cheap cotton salwar kameez underneath.
He didn't touch me immediately. He made me stand there, completely exposed in front of his opulent living room. He poured himself whiskey and just watched me tremble.
"Bend over the sofa, Geetika. Hands on the cushions."
I obeyed instantly. My knees were shaking so hard. I could hear him walking up behind me. The sound of his silk robe rustling was louder than any music. Then, I felt the cold edge of his expensive belt buckle graze my bare ass.
"You belong to me tonight," he whispered right next to my ear, his breath hot.
He didn't use condoms. That was his first rule. He just shoved his hand down hard, grabbed my hair, and pulled my head back roughly so I had to look at myself in the massive mirror across the room while he entered me from behind.
It was brutal. Hard, fast, and completely humiliating. Every thrust felt like a slap to my fidelity, and I loved it. I cried out, not in pain, but in the sheer shock of being degraded by a man who controlled my husband's career. I felt like a cheap toy, used for his stress relief.
He didn't stop there. When he was done with me anally, he pulled out, looked at the mess, and said, "Clean yourself up a little. Now, you’re going to lick it off."
He made me kneel down on the thick rug and clean his load from my body. Every lick felt like a vow of allegiance to this dirty secret. I looked up at him, mascara running, completely shattered but weirdly satisfied.
He then used my mouth until I thought I’d choke. It was not about connection; it was about ownership.
When I left two hours later, he gave me an envelope filled with cash—more than Ajay made in a month. He told me, "Tell Ajay I said hi. And call me next time his promotion review comes up."
I walked out feeling like a corporate whore, driving back to my mundane life, knowing I sold my soul, my marriage, and my self-respect for a few hours of pure, dominating filth with my husband’s boss. And the worst part? I’m waiting for his next call. I’m addicted to being his secret, his dirtiest file.