Adultery Cuckold got cheated

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Months slipped by, Rehan’s presence a dark tide that reshaped their lives, the flat a battleground of desire and tension. Priya shed her last traces of restraint, her body a willing offering to their shared addiction. But cracks began to form, subtle at first, in the humid haze of their new normal. Amit noticed Priya’s absences—her excuses vague, her phone buzzing at odd hours, her sarees carrying unfamiliar scents, not just jasmine but something sharper, like oud or cheap cologne. She’d return late, her kohl smudged, her lips swollen, her laughter too quick, too bright. His questions were met with smirks, her deflections a dance he couldn’t follow. Suspicion gnawed at him, a worm in his gut, fed by small betrayals that piled like monsoon debris.

The community’s whispers grew louder, their warnings more pointed, each a needle pricking Amit’s denial. One sweltering afternoon, at the local tea stall, Mr. Banerjee, a retired clerk with a penchant for gossip, leaned close, his breath sour with paan. “Amit, I saw your Priya near Park Street,” he muttered, eyes glinting. “With a tall man, bearded, built like a wrestler. They were at a café, laughing, her hand on his arm, too cozy for just friends. Be careful, beta.” Amit forced a smile, muttering about a cousin, but the description—Rehan’s physique, his white kurta—lodged in his mind, a splinter he couldn’t ignore.

Days later, during a lunch break at the office, his colleague Suman pulled him aside, voice low. “Saw Priya at Esplanade, Amit,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “She was with a man, muscular, in a fancy kurta, gold watch shining. They were shopping, her saree brushing his side, giggling like newlyweds. Didn’t look like a colleague.” Amit’s stomach twisted, his chai growing cold, Suman’s words painting a vivid picture—Priya’s flirtatious laugh, Rehan’s confident stride. He brushed it off, claiming it was a friend, but doubt festered, the image of their intimacy a shadow in his thoughts.

 

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A week later, at the neighborhood Durga Puja planning meeting, Mrs. Das, a stern matron, cornered him by the pandal. “Amit, I saw Priya in Dum Dum,” she whispered, her bangles clinking. “With a man, tall, bearded, driving a black SUV. They stopped at a sweet shop, sharing mishti, her eyes all sparkly. It’s not right, a married woman like that.” Her disapproval stung, her description of Rehan’s vehicle and Priya’s radiance too precise, too damning. Amit mumbled about a relative, his palms sweaty, the community’s eyes seeming to bore into him.

One evening, while buying fish at the market, the vendor, Gopal, leaned over the counter, his knife pausing mid-slice. “Amit da, saw your wife at New Market,” he said, voice low, eyes darting. “With a strong-looking man, bearded, in a white kurta. They were at a jewelry stall, him buying her bangles, her smiling like a bride. Looked… close.” The image—Priya’s wrist adorned, Rehan’s wealth on display—burned into Amit, his denial fraying, the fish’s metallic tang mirroring his growing dread. He nodded, claiming it was a family friend, but Gopal’s knowing look lingered.

The final blow came from Mrs. Chatterjee, the community’s gossip queen, who accosted him at the market, her voice a conspiratorial hiss. “Amit, I saw Priya in Dum Dum, near a gym,” she said, eyes wide. “With a tall, bearded man, muscular, in a white kurta. They were close—too close, laughing, her hand on his chest, him whispering in her ear. Be careful, she’s slipping.” Her description matched Rehan perfectly, the intimacy she described—Priya’s touch, Rehan’s whispers—a dagger in Amit’s chest. He thanked her, voice hollow, the weight of the community’s warnings crushing his illusions.

 

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Alongside these whispers, incidents piled up, each a clue to Priya’s secret trysts with Rehan, eroding Amit’s trust. One morning, Priya rushed out, claiming a friend’s emergency, leaving her purse behind. Amit, curious, found a crumpled receipt for a Dum Dum café, dated the previous day, for two coffees and a dessert, the time when she’d claimed to be at a tailor’s. The receipt’s intimacy—shared sweets, a stolen hour—gnawed at him, Rehan’s presence a ghost in the numbers.

Another evening, Priya returned from “grocery shopping,” her saree slightly askew, a faint bruise on her neck, barely hidden by her pallu. When Amit asked, she laughed, blaming a clumsy fall, but the mark’s shape—too precise, too suggestive of lips—screamed Rehan’s touch, her flushed cheeks betraying recent passion. The lie hung heavy, Amit’s silence a surrender to his suspicions.

A week later, checking their shared laundry, Amit found a pair of Priya’s panties, not her usual cotton but black lace, damp and scented with musk, tucked inside a saree she hadn’t worn for him. The fabric’s luxury, the scent of oud clinging to it, pointed to Rehan’s wealth and desire, a secret encounter woven into the threads. His hands shook, the evidence a quiet betrayal.

One night, Priya’s phone buzzed on the table, a message lighting up the screen before she snatched it away. Amit glimpsed “R” and “missed you, come tomorrow,” the words searing his mind. Her quick dismissal—“just a friend”—rang hollow, the intimacy of the message, Rehan’s initial, a confirmation of their hidden meetings. He said nothing, his heart a drumbeat of dread.

Finally, after Priya claimed to visit her mother, Amit called to check, learning she hadn’t been there. When she returned, her hair was mussed, her blouse misbuttoned, a faint glow in her eyes, her scent—sweat and oud—screaming Rehan. The lie, so blatant, was a slap, her casual “traffic delay” a mockery of his trust.

 

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That evening, unable to bear the weight, Amit confronted her, his voice shaking as they stood in the flat, the fan’s hum a mocking drone. “Priya, where were you today?” he demanded, thrusting her burner phone—found hidden in her jewelry box—at her, its call log filled with Rehan’s number. She froze, her saree wrinkled, lips swollen, the scent of rain and musk betraying her. “With Rehan,” she admitted, voice soft, careful, her eyes searching his, not wanting to shatter their arrangement.

“Have you fucked him without me?” Amit asked, trembling, dread rising like bile. She nodded, voice low. “Yes.” “How long?” he pressed, his world tilting, the community’s warnings and his discoveries crashing together. “Since the first night,” she said, pausing, then adding, “I did it to spice your fantasy, Amit, to make it better for you.” The lie was smooth, her tone too practiced, but she stepped closer, fingers brushing his chest, her touch a calculated balm. “I can’t back out now—it’s too good, too intense. But I’ll stop meeting him alone, I promise.”

Amit, torn between pain and arousal, his fetish twisting his anger into desire, nodded, voice hoarse. “No more without me.” She agreed, her smile subtle, manipulative, her eyes glinting with a plan already forming. But her hunger grew, her manipulations creative and relentless. One evening, she whispered, “Rehan wants to discuss boundaries, meet him at his gym.” Amit arrived, finding it empty, Priya’s excuse—she forgot—thin, her lips swollen when she returned, saree askew. Another time, she sent him to buy wine, returning late, giggling, “Got caught in traffic,” but her scent betrayed Rehan’s touch, her thighs slick. One night, she fucked Rehan on their balcony, saree hiked, bent over the railing, moans drifting, claiming it was spontaneous, but Amit sensed planning, her taunts—“He’s so good, Amit”—a calculated lash, her secret meetings continuing, her body Rehan’s, Amit’s control a fading illusion.

Priya’s affair with Rehan became a wildfire, her manipulations a calculated art that eroded Amit’s resistance, pulling him deeper into her web. She no longer hid her hunger, her body a canvas for Rehan’s desires, her taunts a lash that both wounded and enthralled Amit. Her new goal was to meet Rehan alone, without Amit’s presence, and she wielded her dominance with precision, exploiting his fetish to bend him to her will. Meanwhile, incidents piled up, each a stark revelation that Rehan was fucking Priya behind his back, shattering the illusion of control Amit clung to.

 

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One humid evening, Priya suggested a “night out” with Rehan, her voice casual as she applied kohl in the bedroom mirror, her saree a deep emerald that hugged her curves. “Just drinks, Amit, to keep things exciting,” she said, her lips curving, her eyes avoiding his. Against his better judgment, he agreed, his fantasy overriding the nagging doubt that Rehan’s wealth—his SUV, his gym empire—had always been Priya’s true draw. She returned at dawn, her saree wrinkled, a hickey blooming on her collarbone, her laughter too bright as she claimed, “We just talked.” But the scent of oud and sweat, the glow in her eyes, screamed of a hotel room, Rehan’s hands claiming her in ways Amit could only imagine, his exclusion a fresh wound.

Her manipulations grew bolder, each a step toward her goal. One night, after Rehan fucked her on their couch, her moans echoing, she straddled Amit, her thighs slick, whispering, “Let me see him alone sometimes, Amit. It’ll make me wilder for you.” Her fingers teased him, her voice a siren’s call, exploiting his arousal. “You love watching, don’t you? Imagine me coming back, telling you everything.” Amit, lost in lust, mumbled agreement, her dominance a chain he couldn’t break, unaware she’d already been meeting Rehan alone for months.

Incidents confirmed his fears. One morning, Amit found a gym membership card in Priya’s purse, issued by Rehan’s Dum Dum gym, dated months back, its wear suggesting regular visits under the guise of “yoga classes.” The card’s presence, her flushed returns from the gym, pointed to secret fucks in Rehan’s office, her screams muffled by mirrored walls. Another day, a coworker, Rajesh, mentioned seeing Priya at a Dum Dum restaurant, “cozy” with a bearded man in a white kurta, her hand on his thigh, laughing like lovers. “Thought it was her husband,” Rajesh said, oblivious to Amit’s marriage, the comment a knife confirming Rehan’s intimacy outside their flat.

 

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A pair of gold earrings, engraved with “R,” appeared in Priya’s jewelry box, their cost beyond Amit’s means, a lover’s gift from Rehan, likely bought after a stolen afternoon, her ears adorned as he fucked her. A late-night call to Priya’s phone, answered by mistake, revealed Rehan’s voice, “Miss you, come over,” her quick cover—a prank—failing to mask their secret trysts. Finally, a hotel keycard from a Park Street boutique, dated when she’d claimed to visit a cousin, carried Rehan’s oud scent, evidence of a passionate escape, her body his in a stranger’s bed.

Priya’s encounters grew brazen, her manipulations ensuring Amit’s compliance. On their dining table, as Amit ate, she straddled Rehan, saree a crumpled heap, her breasts pressed to the wood as he took her from behind, taunting, “He’s so much better, Amit,” her cry sharp as she came, Amit’s fork clattering, his hand working himself. In the living room, she rode Rehan reverse on the couch, eyes on Amit, “You’re nothing compared to him,” her screams peaking as they finished, her laughter cruel. On the balcony, she bent over the railing, saree hiked, Rehan fucking her under the city’s gaze, her moans drifting, the public edge sharpening Amit’s shame and lust.

Her lies grew flimsy—errands stretching hours, her body returning marked, scented with Rehan. Whispers from coworkers intensified: “Saw Priya in Dum Dum, dressed like a proper wife, praying at a masjid.” Amit’s suspicions solidified, Priya slipping into a life where he was nothing, her manipulations ensuring he remained complicit, a puppet to her desires.

 

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Amit became a shadow, trailing Priya through Kolkata’s monsoon-soaked streets, piecing together her dual life with agonizing clarity. Beyond their Salt Lake flat, she was Farzana Begum, Rehan’s wife, known and loved in Dum Dum’s bustling lanes. The discovery unfolded through five haunting scenes, each revealing her deception, confirmed by distant acquaintances who unknowingly crushed Amit’s identity as her husband. The confrontation left him a puppet, Priya and Rehan wielding his fetish to bind him, Priya fully embracing her life as Rehan’s wife, using Amit to spice their sex life.

One rainy afternoon, Amit followed Priya to Dum Dum’s crowded market, hiding behind a fruit stall. She moved with ease, a maroon lehenga hugging her curves, a dupatta draped modestly, laughing with vendors who called her “Farzana Begum.” A fishmonger grinned, slipping her extra rohu, “For Rehan bhai’s begum, only the best!” Rehan stood beside her, his hand possessive on her waist, his wealth evident in his gold watch. A distant acquaintance, Mr. Roy from Amit’s office, passed by, later chuckling, “Saw Rehan’s wife at the market, stunning woman. You know them?” Amit’s heart sank, the name “Farzana” erasing his existence.

 

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Amit trailed Priya to a Dum Dum masjid one evening, lingering in the shadows. She entered, a green salwar kameez flowing, her dupatta covering her hair, kneeling as “Farzana Begum.” Rehan joined her, his arm around her after, their intimacy serene. The imam greeted her, “Farzana, your charity feeds our orphans.” A college friend, Anil, texted later, “Saw you near the masjid! Rehan’s wife was there, praying with him. Classy lady, no?” Amit’s throat tightened, Priya’s new identity universal, his role a ghost.

One weekend, Amit watched Priya outside Rehan’s gym, a blue saree clinging to her curves, tossing sweets to children shouting, “Farzana chachi!” Her laughter was maternal, a side she’d never shown him. Rehan kissed her cheek, kids cheering, “Rehan chacha!” A distant cousin, Mina, called, “Was that you in Dum Dum? Saw Rehan’s wife, so sweet with kids. You know her?” Amit’s chest hollowed, Priya’s role as Farzana a vibrant life excluding him.

 

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At an office outing, Vikram mentioned a Dum Dum restaurant dinner, “Saw a couple, man in a white kurta, woman in a red lehenga, so in love. Waiter called her Farzana Begum, Rehan’s wife.” The description—Priya’s favorite lehenga, Rehan’s kurta—froze Amit, Vikram adding, “She’s a regular, always with Rehan.” The casual reference to “Rehan’s wife” was a hammer, her dual life public, Amit’s marriage a secret.

At a Dum Dum charity event, Priya stood on stage, radiant in a gold saree, introduced as “Farzana Begum, Rehan Malik’s wife,” donating to a school. Rehan beamed, his hand on hers. A former neighbor, Mrs. Sen, said later, “Didn’t know you were at the event! Rehan’s wife was amazing, such a generous couple.” Amit’s world tilted, Priya’s identity as Farzana complete, his name erased.

The breaking point came one stormy evening, Amit storming Rehan’s flat, kicking the door open. Priya—Farzana—lay naked on the rug, Rehan thrusting with feral force, her breasts jiggling, her moans raw as she clawed the floor. “Amit!” she gasped, but her hips kept bucking, eyes defiant. Rehan grinned, slapping her ass, “She’s mine here, cuck.” Priya rose, sweat-slicked, approaching Amit, her scent—sex and rain—overwhelming. “You wanted this,” she whispered, fingers trailing his chest. “You can’t leave me.”

 

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She confessed: she’d fucked Rehan everywhere—kitchen counter, legs spread, screams waking neighbors; bedroom, riding him slow, cries piercing walls; balcony, bent over, shaking under stars; shower, sucking him deep, his cum on her face; SUV, thighs straddling him in a dark alley, moans muffled by rain. Each revelation stripped Amit bare, his identity crumbling.

Rehan yanked Priya back, spreading her on the couch, entering her slow, her legs trembling. “Watch your wife, cuck,” he growled, her eyes on Amit as she moaned, “He owns me, Amit. Every inch.” “Harder,” she begged, Rehan pounding, her taunts—“Feel how he breaks me”—sinking into Amit. Amit stood, arousal drowning anguish, his hand moving, the betrayal a mirror of his desires.

Priya’s life as Farzana solidified, her role as Rehan’s wife complete. They used Amit to flavor their sex life. In Rehan’s flat, Priya rode him, pausing to make Amit lick her thighs, her taste mixed with Rehan’s, taunting, “Clean me for him.” In Amit’s flat, she bent over their bed, Rehan thrusting, commanding Amit to jerk off, “Show us how pathetic you are.” On a balcony, she sucked Rehan, spitting his cum onto Amit’s face, laughing, “You’re our toy.” In their kitchen, Rehan took her against the counter, making Amit serve tea after, her smirk cruel. At a Dum Dum party, introduced as Farzana, she fucked Rehan in a guest room, calling Amit to watch, her taunts—“He’s my husband now”—sealing his role as their puppet, his fetish chaining him to their world, the storm a requiem for his lost self.