I’m 34, own a marketing agency, live in Greater Kailash I, and for the last 2 years I’ve spent about 3 weekends a month with other men’s wives, at the husbands’ request. I only take quality, meet in person, and I don’t do video calls because a recording is a leak waiting to happen. Rules go out before anyone says a word about bedrooms: a condom every single time, nothing inside anybody, and a safe word that stops the night cold. Couples who argue with the condom rule don’t hear back from me.
Last Saturday was a typical night. A husband named Varun had pinged me 3 weeks earlier from a handle with no photo, and after a coffee in Khan Market where his wife Ritika barely looked up from her cup, I agreed to come to their flat in Vasant Vihar at 9 p.m. Varun opened the door in a crisp white shirt, shook my hand twice, and offered me a Glenfiddich I turned down, because I don’t drink before work. Ritika was on the sofa in an ivory silk saree with a pearl necklace and bangles stacked to her elbows, her heels already off, and the room smelled of tuberose and nerves.
“Tell him what you told me,” Varun said to her, and sat down in a leather armchair 6 feet from the bed they’d made up with fresh sheets. She looked at me, then at him, and said in a small voice, “He wants me to be used properly. He says I’m too polite in bed with him.” I told her the rules once more, the condom, the safe word being “mango,” and that either of them could end the night atpoint, and Ritika laughed shakily and said she’d never wanted anything so much in her life.
I took her hand and led her to the bedroom, and Varun followed and sat in the chair with a glass of water he never drank. She turned her back to me, and I unwound the saree in long turns until she stood in a blush pink petticoat and a lace blouse, her breath coming fast. When I pulled her hair back and bit her neck, she gasped and pushed her ass into my hips, and I whispered, “Varun’s watching you, Ritika, so show him what you’ve been hiding.” Her answer came out as a whimper, and I shoved her face first onto the mattress.
I pushed the petticoat up around her waist and found her soaked through her thong, which I tore aside with one hand. She was dripping so heavily that the inside of her thighs shone under the bedside lamp, and when I slid two fingers into her she bucked and cried out, “Oh god, yes, please, harder.” Pulling a condom from my pocket, I tore the foil with my teeth, rolled it on, and drove into her in one hard stroke that made her scream into the sheets. Her pussy gripped me like a fist, and I fucked her with a brutal rhythm, one palm pinning her neck to the bed, the other cracking across her ass until the skin went red.
“Look at him, Ritika,” I growled, turning her face toward the chair, and Varun’s eyes were wide and wet, his hand clamped around the armrest. “Tell your husband how it feels.” She sobbed out, “It’s so deep, Varun, he’s so deep, I’ve never felt this,” and her whole body went rigid when she came, clenching around me so hard that I had to slow down to keep from finishing. I flipped her onto her back, pushed her knees to her ears, and pounded into her while she clawed at my shoulders and begged in Punjabi and English.
She came a second time with her heels locked behind my back and her mouth open in a silent scream, and 5 minutes later I pulled out, ripped the condom off, and spilled across her stomach in thick, hot ropes, because I never finish inside, not once, no exceptions. Varun let out a ragged breath from the chair, and I realized he’d been silently coming in his trousers for the last minute. Ritika grabbed a corner of the sheet, wiped her belly, and laughed with tears on her cheeks. “That’s the best my body has ever felt, thank you,” she whispered, and Varun crossed the room, knelt, and kissed her forehead like a man at a shrine.
By 11:30 I was in my car with 2 fresh scratches down my back, headed to GK, and a call from Varun was already waiting: “Same time next month? Ritika wants her friend to watch next time.” I’ve learned not to answer that sort of thing at midnight, but I did save the contact. What the husbands never ask, and what I’d say if they did, is that the job isn’t about sex at all, because every couple I’ve worked with was lonely long before I showed up.
They hire me to hand them back something they believe they’ve lost, and about 6 times out of 10 they stop calling after a few months because the marriage found its pulse again. The other 4 keep me on retainer, and I’m fine with that, because I’ve got 3 more couples booked through December and a calendar that never sleeps.
You can share all your sexual feelings and fantasies over Gmail or Google Chat Praveenpandu6102@gmail.com