This is a story of a cuckold husband. A story of a husband's sick fantasies coming back to bite him. If you are offended by the subject of cuckolds and husbands who push their wives into bed with other men, then read no further.
Ashima had loved being fucked by Mr. Abdul, the plumber, that second time, in her own house, on her own bed.
She particularly liked the way she had undermined his brutish behaviour and wrested some control back from the ugly little man. Denying his orgasm when he wanted to shoot his load into her mouth, and again when she was riding his cock, but didn't allow him to come when she did. The plumber knew it too, especially when she told him to slap her tits, and then slap them harder.
"I deserve to be punished, Mr. Abdul... I'm a lying... unfaithful slut... Slap me hard! Please."
What was it he called her? Oh, yes: "You're a fucking psycho-bitch."
In that moment, she embraced the notion she had inherited the slut gene from her ......, and used her wild, whorish behaviour to subversively dominate the fat, little man, and the resulting orgasms had been the best she ever experienced.
But later that evening, after her post-orgasmic rapture had faded away, and while she sat at the dining table with Christopher, along with their two children, Ashima found herself quietly reflecting on the rapid escalation of her recent sexual misadventures.
These extramarital exploits had all started when she'd let her neighbour’s husband finger her cunt at Arianwen's birthday party, and this had been closely followed by the incident when Abdul had brutally fucked her in her sister's apartment. At least with those two episodes, she could ease her conscience by claiming they were unplanned, indeed during the latter incident the plumber had physically forced himself on Ashima.
Not so today, when she fucked Abdul. It had been Ashima who had initiated the plumber's visit to her house. It was she that decided to dress so provocatively in Arianwen's old school uniform. It was she who had wanted to fuck the old man with the big, nasty cock, and got an extra erotic thrill out of the fact she made it happen in her own home and on the bed, she normally shared with her husband, Christopher.
It was all very well blaming her conduct on inheriting the slut gene from her ......, but the truth was it was she who was responsible for her actions, not some accident of genealogy. It was a sobering realisation and caused her concern about where things might end up. Could it soon be the case that any stranger with a working cock who happened to call at the house while she was alone, could fuck her? The notion was as worrying as it was titillating.
She loved Christopher, in a humdrum, comfortable sort of way and she was fiercely devoted to her children. Were the intense sexual encounters she had opened herself up to in recent weeks really worth putting all that at risk?
No, it was time to put the genie back in the lamp, before matters really got out of hand.
Over the following days and weeks, Ashima resisted the temptation of resummoning Abdul through his firm, Elegant Interiors. Instead, whenever her pussy got too heated, which was a lot, she used her recently acquired, rabbit-eared vibrator and when to town on her cunt and clitoris.
Like giving up nicotine, the cravings eventually eased, and she found she could go through a whole day without thinking about being fucked by Abdul, or Pakistani perverts like him.
Unknown to Ashima, Christopher continued to monitor the live feed from the nanny-cam every time the motion sensor in their bedroom activated, although nothing like the incident, when he discovered the short, fat man fucking Ashima, ever happened again. It came as a surprise to him that he was undecided about how that made him feel. It had to be good that he had no further grounds for jealousy, didn't it? However, every time he looked at the recording of his wife fucking like a wanton whore, he couldn't help masturbating to the images. Although, he never came quite as hard as he did that first time, while sitting in his car in their garage and watching live feed of Ashima fucking upstairs.
Despite the evidence so readily accessible on his phone, he never confronted Ashima about her whorish adultery. He had certainly intended to but baulked when he considered the possible ramifications. Confrontation would give rise to accusations and arguments that could so easily result in separation or even divorce. Then as time passed, his constant monitoring of her daily activities revealed nothing suspicious, and he began to think that what had happened was just a crazy one-off fling. Yet he was also aware, even if it was only subconsciously, that by not challenging his wife about her adultery, it left open the possibility it might happen again.
In a matter of a few short weeks following the incident with Abdul, Christopher surprised Ashima when, for their tenth wedding anniversary, he purchased a couple of really good seats at a West End production of Hamilton, followed by an overnight stay in the very plush Covent Garden Hotel. It was unlike him to celebrate in this extravagant way, and it only made her more determined to continue being faithful to him, even if her body was sorely missing out on the erotic excitement of illicit unprotected sex with large penises.
The show was fantastic, and this was followed up by a couple of drinks at the hotel bar on their return. It was almost midnight when they finally made their way back to the hotel room, but Ashima was determined that her night was not yet finished. She couldn't remember the last time she and Christopher had sex, or to put it in terms her neglected cunt could understand, the last time he'd properly fucked her. However, she was going to change that tonight.
Once in the room, Ashima asked Christopher to get her a drink from the minibar and entered the bathroom humming the tune to 'The Room Where It Happens'. Unknown to her husband, she had packed some very sexy lingerie. On the day she had visited one of the Elizabeth Winter's boutique sex shops, to buy the rabbit-eared vibrator, her attention was drawn to the lingerie section. Packed in her overnight case was a set made from the finest white, floral lace and in addition to the bra, G-string, garter belt and stockings, it had a neck collar with a gold chain that ran all the way down to the garter straps.
As Ashima put the final touches to her full lips, settling for a subtle red, as she didn't feel the need to overdo her makeup because the lingerie was slutty enough, she thought she heard a knock on the door of the hotel room. She wondered why Christopher was bothering with room service at this late hour when the minibar was so well stocked. No matter, she thought, and used the delay to review her getup in the mirror and compliment herself on how well the sexy underwear suited her full and shapely figure. They'd soon be alone, and, given the way she looked, Christopher was certain to fuck her.
When Ashima stepped out of the bathroom, she was shocked. Christopher wasn't alone and the other person in the room didn't look like room service. Feeling very exposed in her lingerie, she instinctively looked around for a bathrobe and, not finding one, placed one arm across her breasts while her other hand covered her pubic area.
"Well, ain't she cute," said the other person in the room. He was a black man that Ashima guessed was still in his twenties. He wore a bright yellow, hooded tracksuit with a red stripe down the arms and legs and spoke with a distinctly American accent. However, the most striking thing about him was his imposing physique. The man was enormous, well over six foot tall, with broad, muscular shoulders that tapered down to what was almost certainly a ripped waist.
Christopher was sitting on a chair stripped down to his underpants. Ashima was so taken aback by the presence of the stranger, it took her a moment to register the fact that her husband's wrists were secured to the arms of the chair with plastic cables, while his ankles were secured in a similar fashion to the chair's legs.
"What are you doing to my husband!" Ashima didn't realise she was shouting until the words came out. "Get out of here before I call down to reception and have them get the police."
"Now, there's no need for that, baby."
Ashima made a move for the telephone on the bedside locker, but she stopped when the man held what looked like a sharp, folding knife close to her husband's throat.
"Ashima, don't," Christopher said pleadingly, a look of genuine fear in his eyes. "He's probably only here to rob us. It's better to co-operate and not aggravate him. He'll soon be gone."
"But Christopher, he's got a knife."
"Yeah, bitch," said the man. He twirled the knife dexterously between his fingers, then gave her a broad smile and she saw that a number of his teeth were gold plated. "All the more reason not to get on my bad side. I'm Omar Ali, by the way. Baby, why don't you come over here and let me have a good look at you."
"Leave her alone," growled Christopher. He strained uselessly against the bindings. "If you lay a finger on my wife, I'll..."
Omar slapped Christopher across the face and shocked him into silence.
"Come on over here, honey," said the man while beckoning her with the knife. "I gotta get a better look at you."
A chill ran down Ashima's spine, but it seemed she had no choice. Judging by how quickly he had struck Christopher, the man seemed very volatile and apt to become suddenly violent again if she did not obey.
When she drew close enough, Omar played with the light, gold chain that linked her garters to the collar round her neck. "So, your Ashima, and this pencil-dick is Christopher."
"Yes," she responded fearfully.
Almost distractedly, he repeated their names. "Ashima and Christopher." As he spoke, he took hold of her hair and turned her slowly from side to side while looking her up and down. "My, my, what a great body you have there, Ashima. Then with his free hand he made a sudden violent motion as he roughly pulled both her breasts out of her bra. "Thems mighty fine titties on you, girl. I likes 'em big. Guess, you must like 'em big too, eh Christopher."
Christopher did not respond. He just looked on in horror. Ashima thought her husband was probably feeling stupid for thinking that their intruder would be satisfied with only taking their money and other valuables.
Omar began to massage one of her breasts before spitting on her areola and rubbing the saliva into the nipple, making it swell up before he pulled on it with his finger and thumb. Then he performed the same action on her other breast.
"Take your hands off me," said Ashima. There was more than an element of desperation in her voice because not only were her breasts visibly responding to the intruder's rough treatment, but she also felt her cunt moistening. She didn't want Christopher to see that she was becoming aroused at the hands of this stranger.
However, her reaction only seemed to make matters worse.
Omar slapped her across both breasts. It wasn't a powerful blow, but her already aroused and sensitive nipples felt like they'd been struck with a bolt of electricity.
"There's no call to get uppity, now is there, bitch?"
Ashima remained silent. If anything, this seemed to anger Omar even more because he struck her across the breasts again. The man couldn't have known that having her tits slapped was something that really turned her on, and she worried that if he kept it up, she might come, right there in front of her captive husband.
However, her experience with Abdul the plumber had taught her how to placate abusers. "Omar, I'm sorry," she said, "you can play with my tits all you want." Reaching behind she unclasped the hooks of her lace bra and let it fall away to the ground.
While she freed her breasts, she cast a sideways glance at Christopher and could see the hurt in his eyes. Didn't he understand she had to appease this dangerous man in whatever way she could? Christ, he had a knife and it seemed to her he was willing to use it.
"Now we're talking," said Omar. "A bitch's got to show a man some respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Ain't that right, Christopher?"
Instead of slapping her again, Omar slipped his big hand down the front of Ashima's panties. "My, my. Ain't you full of surprises, bitch? A shaved pussy; my favourite. And what's this? Your cunt's already wet." He took his hand out and put his glistening fingers close to Christopher's nose. "See that? Her slit's wetter than New Orleans after Katrina."
Ashima had loved being fucked by Mr. Abdul, the plumber, that second time, in her own house, on her own bed.
She particularly liked the way she had undermined his brutish behaviour and wrested some control back from the ugly little man. Denying his orgasm when he wanted to shoot his load into her mouth, and again when she was riding his cock, but didn't allow him to come when she did. The plumber knew it too, especially when she told him to slap her tits, and then slap them harder.
"I deserve to be punished, Mr. Abdul... I'm a lying... unfaithful slut... Slap me hard! Please."
What was it he called her? Oh, yes: "You're a fucking psycho-bitch."
In that moment, she embraced the notion she had inherited the slut gene from her ......, and used her wild, whorish behaviour to subversively dominate the fat, little man, and the resulting orgasms had been the best she ever experienced.
But later that evening, after her post-orgasmic rapture had faded away, and while she sat at the dining table with Christopher, along with their two children, Ashima found herself quietly reflecting on the rapid escalation of her recent sexual misadventures.
These extramarital exploits had all started when she'd let her neighbour’s husband finger her cunt at Arianwen's birthday party, and this had been closely followed by the incident when Abdul had brutally fucked her in her sister's apartment. At least with those two episodes, she could ease her conscience by claiming they were unplanned, indeed during the latter incident the plumber had physically forced himself on Ashima.
Not so today, when she fucked Abdul. It had been Ashima who had initiated the plumber's visit to her house. It was she that decided to dress so provocatively in Arianwen's old school uniform. It was she who had wanted to fuck the old man with the big, nasty cock, and got an extra erotic thrill out of the fact she made it happen in her own home and on the bed, she normally shared with her husband, Christopher.
It was all very well blaming her conduct on inheriting the slut gene from her ......, but the truth was it was she who was responsible for her actions, not some accident of genealogy. It was a sobering realisation and caused her concern about where things might end up. Could it soon be the case that any stranger with a working cock who happened to call at the house while she was alone, could fuck her? The notion was as worrying as it was titillating.
She loved Christopher, in a humdrum, comfortable sort of way and she was fiercely devoted to her children. Were the intense sexual encounters she had opened herself up to in recent weeks really worth putting all that at risk?
No, it was time to put the genie back in the lamp, before matters really got out of hand.
Over the following days and weeks, Ashima resisted the temptation of resummoning Abdul through his firm, Elegant Interiors. Instead, whenever her pussy got too heated, which was a lot, she used her recently acquired, rabbit-eared vibrator and when to town on her cunt and clitoris.
Like giving up nicotine, the cravings eventually eased, and she found she could go through a whole day without thinking about being fucked by Abdul, or Pakistani perverts like him.
Unknown to Ashima, Christopher continued to monitor the live feed from the nanny-cam every time the motion sensor in their bedroom activated, although nothing like the incident, when he discovered the short, fat man fucking Ashima, ever happened again. It came as a surprise to him that he was undecided about how that made him feel. It had to be good that he had no further grounds for jealousy, didn't it? However, every time he looked at the recording of his wife fucking like a wanton whore, he couldn't help masturbating to the images. Although, he never came quite as hard as he did that first time, while sitting in his car in their garage and watching live feed of Ashima fucking upstairs.
Despite the evidence so readily accessible on his phone, he never confronted Ashima about her whorish adultery. He had certainly intended to but baulked when he considered the possible ramifications. Confrontation would give rise to accusations and arguments that could so easily result in separation or even divorce. Then as time passed, his constant monitoring of her daily activities revealed nothing suspicious, and he began to think that what had happened was just a crazy one-off fling. Yet he was also aware, even if it was only subconsciously, that by not challenging his wife about her adultery, it left open the possibility it might happen again.
In a matter of a few short weeks following the incident with Abdul, Christopher surprised Ashima when, for their tenth wedding anniversary, he purchased a couple of really good seats at a West End production of Hamilton, followed by an overnight stay in the very plush Covent Garden Hotel. It was unlike him to celebrate in this extravagant way, and it only made her more determined to continue being faithful to him, even if her body was sorely missing out on the erotic excitement of illicit unprotected sex with large penises.
The show was fantastic, and this was followed up by a couple of drinks at the hotel bar on their return. It was almost midnight when they finally made their way back to the hotel room, but Ashima was determined that her night was not yet finished. She couldn't remember the last time she and Christopher had sex, or to put it in terms her neglected cunt could understand, the last time he'd properly fucked her. However, she was going to change that tonight.
Once in the room, Ashima asked Christopher to get her a drink from the minibar and entered the bathroom humming the tune to 'The Room Where It Happens'. Unknown to her husband, she had packed some very sexy lingerie. On the day she had visited one of the Elizabeth Winter's boutique sex shops, to buy the rabbit-eared vibrator, her attention was drawn to the lingerie section. Packed in her overnight case was a set made from the finest white, floral lace and in addition to the bra, G-string, garter belt and stockings, it had a neck collar with a gold chain that ran all the way down to the garter straps.
As Ashima put the final touches to her full lips, settling for a subtle red, as she didn't feel the need to overdo her makeup because the lingerie was slutty enough, she thought she heard a knock on the door of the hotel room. She wondered why Christopher was bothering with room service at this late hour when the minibar was so well stocked. No matter, she thought, and used the delay to review her getup in the mirror and compliment herself on how well the sexy underwear suited her full and shapely figure. They'd soon be alone, and, given the way she looked, Christopher was certain to fuck her.
When Ashima stepped out of the bathroom, she was shocked. Christopher wasn't alone and the other person in the room didn't look like room service. Feeling very exposed in her lingerie, she instinctively looked around for a bathrobe and, not finding one, placed one arm across her breasts while her other hand covered her pubic area.
"Well, ain't she cute," said the other person in the room. He was a black man that Ashima guessed was still in his twenties. He wore a bright yellow, hooded tracksuit with a red stripe down the arms and legs and spoke with a distinctly American accent. However, the most striking thing about him was his imposing physique. The man was enormous, well over six foot tall, with broad, muscular shoulders that tapered down to what was almost certainly a ripped waist.
Christopher was sitting on a chair stripped down to his underpants. Ashima was so taken aback by the presence of the stranger, it took her a moment to register the fact that her husband's wrists were secured to the arms of the chair with plastic cables, while his ankles were secured in a similar fashion to the chair's legs.
"What are you doing to my husband!" Ashima didn't realise she was shouting until the words came out. "Get out of here before I call down to reception and have them get the police."
"Now, there's no need for that, baby."
Ashima made a move for the telephone on the bedside locker, but she stopped when the man held what looked like a sharp, folding knife close to her husband's throat.
"Ashima, don't," Christopher said pleadingly, a look of genuine fear in his eyes. "He's probably only here to rob us. It's better to co-operate and not aggravate him. He'll soon be gone."
"But Christopher, he's got a knife."
"Yeah, bitch," said the man. He twirled the knife dexterously between his fingers, then gave her a broad smile and she saw that a number of his teeth were gold plated. "All the more reason not to get on my bad side. I'm Omar Ali, by the way. Baby, why don't you come over here and let me have a good look at you."
"Leave her alone," growled Christopher. He strained uselessly against the bindings. "If you lay a finger on my wife, I'll..."
Omar slapped Christopher across the face and shocked him into silence.
"Come on over here, honey," said the man while beckoning her with the knife. "I gotta get a better look at you."
A chill ran down Ashima's spine, but it seemed she had no choice. Judging by how quickly he had struck Christopher, the man seemed very volatile and apt to become suddenly violent again if she did not obey.
When she drew close enough, Omar played with the light, gold chain that linked her garters to the collar round her neck. "So, your Ashima, and this pencil-dick is Christopher."
"Yes," she responded fearfully.
Almost distractedly, he repeated their names. "Ashima and Christopher." As he spoke, he took hold of her hair and turned her slowly from side to side while looking her up and down. "My, my, what a great body you have there, Ashima. Then with his free hand he made a sudden violent motion as he roughly pulled both her breasts out of her bra. "Thems mighty fine titties on you, girl. I likes 'em big. Guess, you must like 'em big too, eh Christopher."
Christopher did not respond. He just looked on in horror. Ashima thought her husband was probably feeling stupid for thinking that their intruder would be satisfied with only taking their money and other valuables.
Omar began to massage one of her breasts before spitting on her areola and rubbing the saliva into the nipple, making it swell up before he pulled on it with his finger and thumb. Then he performed the same action on her other breast.
"Take your hands off me," said Ashima. There was more than an element of desperation in her voice because not only were her breasts visibly responding to the intruder's rough treatment, but she also felt her cunt moistening. She didn't want Christopher to see that she was becoming aroused at the hands of this stranger.
However, her reaction only seemed to make matters worse.
Omar slapped her across both breasts. It wasn't a powerful blow, but her already aroused and sensitive nipples felt like they'd been struck with a bolt of electricity.
"There's no call to get uppity, now is there, bitch?"
Ashima remained silent. If anything, this seemed to anger Omar even more because he struck her across the breasts again. The man couldn't have known that having her tits slapped was something that really turned her on, and she worried that if he kept it up, she might come, right there in front of her captive husband.
However, her experience with Abdul the plumber had taught her how to placate abusers. "Omar, I'm sorry," she said, "you can play with my tits all you want." Reaching behind she unclasped the hooks of her lace bra and let it fall away to the ground.
While she freed her breasts, she cast a sideways glance at Christopher and could see the hurt in his eyes. Didn't he understand she had to appease this dangerous man in whatever way she could? Christ, he had a knife and it seemed to her he was willing to use it.
"Now we're talking," said Omar. "A bitch's got to show a man some respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Ain't that right, Christopher?"
Instead of slapping her again, Omar slipped his big hand down the front of Ashima's panties. "My, my. Ain't you full of surprises, bitch? A shaved pussy; my favourite. And what's this? Your cunt's already wet." He took his hand out and put his glistening fingers close to Christopher's nose. "See that? Her slit's wetter than New Orleans after Katrina."
