My Ideal Wedding: A Cuckold’s Unapologetic Blueprint

I’m 40, separated, and done pretending. I’m building a marriage where I kneel as your devoted cuckold and you rule as my insatiable hotwife. If you’re a cumslut who lives for gangbangs, swinging, exhibitionism, and a fresh cock every day—this is your invitation. Everyone else, exit now.

My Non-Negotiable Vision

You reign supreme: You take what you crave, when you crave it—strangers, parties, public displays. I watch, locked, silent, grateful.
I stay beneath: My tongue cleans, my cage stays on, my hands never rise above your ankles unless they’re dripping with someone else’s load.
Zero tolerance for vanilla: You don’t “tolerate” my kink—you weaponize it. Our bedroom, our rules, our filth.
Marriage redefined: Vows in front of witnesses, rings on fingers, your legs spread for the world while I hold the camera.
What I Deliver

Absolute devotion: Your pleasure is my religion. I plan, I prep—hotels, condoms, cleanup.
Ironclad discretion: Your reputation stays pristine; our depravity stays encrypted.
Gifts from your lovers: Let them spoil you—cash, lingerie, trips. I’ll thank them on my knees.
Emotional steel: Jealousy? I swallow it. Tears? I lick them off your thighs.
What I Demand From You

Unquenchable hunger: You fuck like it’s oxygen. Daily. Publicly. Proudly.
Ownership of the dynamic: You taunt me, deny me, use me—make it sting so good.
Clear contracts: STD panels, veto lists, safe words, monthly renegotiation.
Public face, private filth: Smile for family photos; flash strangers in the parking lot.
Lifetime Terms

Renewal rituals: Every anniversary, you pick the lineup. I pick the playlist.
Health & safety: Quarterly tests, PrEP, dental dams—pleasure without paranoia.
Exit clause: If you ever want monogamy, we divorce clean. No guilt. No games.
Direct Challenge
If reading this makes your thighs clench and your pulse race, message me. Send a voice note moaning my name while you ride someone else. Prove you’re the slut who’ll break me beautifully.

This isn’t role-play. This is the rest of my life.
Step forward, hotwife.
Or stay in the audience.

Additional Details

Intimate Ceremony: Our wedding will be an intimate affair, with only a select few witnesses who understand and support our unique lifestyle.
Honeymoon Plans: We’ll spend our honeymoon at a swinger’s resort, where you can indulge in your desires while I watch and serve.
Daily Routine: Every morning, you’ll start your day with a fresh lover, while I prepare breakfast and clean up.
Weekend Adventures: On weekends, we’ll explore new clubs, attend parties, and engage in public displays of your desires.
Communication: Open and honest communication is key. We’ll have regular check-ins to ensure both of our needs are met and to adjust our dynamic as necessary.
Growth and Exploration: We’ll continuously explore new kinks and fantasies, pushing the boundaries of our relationship to keep things exciting and fulfilling.
Support System: We’ll build a network of like-minded couples and individuals who can provide support, advice, and opportunities for group activities.
Personal Growth: I’ll work on my own personal growth to better serve you, whether that means taking classes, reading, or seeking therapy to address any insecurities.
Financial Planning: We’ll discuss and plan for the financial aspects of our lifestyle, ensuring that your desires are met without compromising our stability.
Travel and Adventures: We’ll plan trips to destinations known for their open-minded attitudes and vibrant sex-positive communities, allowing you to explore freely.
This isn’t just a marriage; it’s a commitment to a lifestyle of unbridled pleasure and devotion. If you’re ready to step into this world with me, let’s create something beautiful and filthy together.

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THE PACT

I proposed with a ring; she accepted with a contract.

There, in that quiet, shimmering moment after I slid the ring onto her finger, she didn’t melt or giggle or play the blushing bride. She sharpened. She straightened. She smiled like a woman who had just been handed a kingdom and was already counting which cities to burn.

“So,” she said, turning the ring under the light, watching it catch like a warning flare, “if I say yes to you, you say yes to all of me. No half-measures. No pretending. No backpedaling.”

I’d been waiting for this. For her. For the honesty most people run from.

“All of you,” I said. “Always.”

She leaned in, not to kiss me, but to dictate terms.

“After we’re engaged, before we get married,” she said, calm, measured, terrifyingly composed, “I choose three nights. Three gangbangs. Groups of my choice. You’re not there. You don’t interfere. You don’t question. You just accept.”

My pulse roared. “Groups of your choice?”

Her smile widened—slow, cruel, beautiful.

“Schoolmates. College friends. Neighbors. Online guys. Maybe your buddies. Maybe complete strangers,” she said, listing them like weapons laid out on velvet. “Who they are is my decision. How many is my decision. What I do with them is my decision. You are not invited.”

It wasn’t a fantasy voice. It wasn’t a teasing tone. It was a verdict.

“And,” she added, tilting her head, “you will get to see what I let you see. I’ll record it—my way—for you only. One file. No copies. No leaks. No trophies for anyone else. But no copies,” she repeated, her voice firm, eyes locked on mine. “I trust you, but I don’t want anything out there. It’s ours, our secret.”

I could barely breathe.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll watch. I’ll lose my mind over it. But I won’t share. This is ours. Our fantasy. Our reality.”

She watched me fold under her terms, and something in her posture shifted—subtle, victorious.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. “From now until the wedding: you don’t touch me. At all. No hands, no mouth. You don’t get my body. I’m your fiancée, not your reward. You don’t earn me with neediness.”

My throat tightened. “And you… you won’t touch me either?”

She laughed once, low.

“I won’t touch you,” she said. “I won’t get you off. I won’t soothe you. You’re going to watch me become the woman you asked for and you’re going to stay exactly where you belong—on the edge, obedient, grateful. You get my rules. They get my body. You get the privilege of knowing it’s happening.”

The cruelty wasn’t loud. It was precise. She knew exactly what strings to pull and how deep they ran in me.

Weeks passed. She was busier, bolder, always slightly out of reach. There were nights she went out dressed like a promise I was not allowed to claim. Nights she came home late with that slow, satisfied calm that said enough without a word. If there were recordings, they came on her schedule, not mine. Short glimpses. Hints. Just enough to brand images into my skull and leave me starving for confirmation.

She was building something: not just a lifestyle, but a hierarchy. Her at the top, unapologetic. Me at the bottom, complicit. Everyone else—temporary, transactional, invited into her orbit for a night or an hour—just part of the architecture of her power.

Her pussy was a weapon, her boobs a trophy, and her ass a promise of pleasure for those she chose. She wielded her sexuality like a sword, cutting through any resistance with precision and grace. My cock ached with need, but I knew better than to touch it. Her rules were clear, and I was bound by them, a willing prisoner in her game.

THE IMPACT

Two days before the wedding, with her at her family home surrounded by parents and relatives, and me stuck at mine, she messaged me mid-afternoon: “Today’s special. I’m getting mehendi done.”

I didn’t think much of it at first—mehendi was a tradition, after all. I pictured those swirling, intricate designs curling over her hands, her feet, maybe even teasing up her thighs. “Send me a pic when it’s done?” I replied, my cock already twitching at the thought.

“Of course,” she shot back. “You’ll love it.” Her words had that teasing edge, like she knew exactly how to twist the knife of anticipation.

But as the hours dragged on, no call, no update. Evening bled into night, and my mind raced with filthy possibilities. I knew her—knew that her version of tradition always came with a wicked, cum-soaked twist of her own making.

Finally, my phone buzzed. One image. My heart pounded as I opened it, expecting delicate patterns adorning her skin. But fuck, what I saw was raw and primal: a stark, smeared red patch covering her shaved pussy, tight asshole, and plump asscheeks, like she’d been fucked raw and ruined. No artistic flourishes, no careful flowers—just the sticky aftermath of a stranger’s cock pounding her holes, the mehendi obliterated into a messy, cum-streaked stain.

I stared, confused and gut-twisted at first, my dick hardening despite the shock. Surprise hit me hard, but beneath it surged this twisted pride, this filthy happiness that she was being so brutally honest—sharing every dripping detail, even about spreading her legs for the stranger she’d hired for the service, letting him drill her cunt, asshole, and smear her asscheeks until the design was nothing but a sloppy red blur.

I wondered how the hell she’d managed it at home, with her parents and relatives buzzing around, probably thinking she was off in some quiet corner getting “traditional” work done. Her methods were her own dirty secrets, and I knew better than to pry—I was there to serve, to support, to obey like the pathetic cuck I was.

“What happened to the design?” I typed back, fingers shaking, my cock throbbing painfully against my pants.

Her reply came almost instantly, laced with that smug satisfaction. “Oh, that? I took the whole day to get it done—pussy, asshole, and asscheeks, every line perfect. But as you can see, it didn’t quite turn out as planned. Then I decided he’d earned more than just the view. By the time we were finished—his thick cock slamming into my wet pussy and tight asshole, smearing my asscheeks with his hot load—the art was gone. This is what’s left: a ruined, cum-smeared mess for you to jerk off to.”

I could almost hear the amusement in her voice, feel the deliberate way she was letting my imagination fill in the nasty gaps—the stranger’s hands groping her tits while he reamed her, her moans muffled in that family-packed house.

“You took all day to get it done,” I replied, voice steady in text but my balls aching with need, “and now it’s just… that filthy red stain on your fucked-out pussy, asshole, and asscheeks?”

“Yes,” she wrote back. “Because I can. Because this is who I am—a queen who owns her desires, who fucks whoever she wants whenever she wants. And because you agreed to it all, remember? Our pact: you watch from afar, hard and denied, while I get my cunt, asshole, and asscheeks wrecked by strangers.”

In that moment, it was crystal clear: she wasn’t just indulging my kink; she was owning it, reshaping it, turning every clause into a blade she could press against my throat with a smile. The power was all hers, and she wielded it like a goddamn queen, leaving me leaking pre-cum and desperate for more.

And fuck, I had never wanted anyone, or anything, more.

THE WEDDING

On the wedding day, my entire body trembled—not with doubt, never that, but with a raw, electric tension that burned between humiliating ecstasy and utter surrender. I was about to marry the most breathtaking woman I’d ever known, a goddess who held every inch of my submissive soul in her iron grip. She knew exactly how much power I’d surrendered to her, how I craved her to wield it, to degrade me with it, to make me ache with the knowledge of her dominance. And today, she would prove it in the most depraved, unforgettable way.

The house was a whirlwind of chaos—relatives scurrying with flowers, barking instructions, fussing over rituals. She orchestrated it all with that same poised, ruthless efficiency she used to control me: her voice soft as silk, her mind sharp as a blade, her control absolute. Just before she was to be fully dressed in her wedding finery, she slipped into a private room with four men—the makeup artist, the videographer, the hairstylist, and the one draping her saree. When an aunt tried to follow, she stopped her with a sweet, deceptive smile.

“Too many people will slow things down,” she purred, her tone dripping with charm. “Let the professionals work. I’ll come out perfect.”

That was all it took. The aunt backed off, and the door clicked shut. Nobody questioned her. Nobody dared.

Meanwhile, I was sent ahead to the mandap like a good little puppet. The priest needed me in place, the families demanded photos, and everyone was obsessed with keeping the show on schedule. I obeyed, as always, playing the part of the dutiful groom. I sat before the sacred fire, surrounded by the hum of mantras, the weight of tradition, and the eyes of relatives who had no idea what she was doing to me—what she was doing to herself. The cameras hovered, capturing the facade of a perfect ceremony, while my mind churned with the delicious, humiliating possibilities of what was happening behind that locked door.

Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I shifted, pretending to adjust my sherwani, hiding the screen under the folds of fabric as the priest’s chants droned on. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. It was her.

Images.

The first was her in her wedding saree, radiant and flawless, exactly as the guests would see her in minutes. But I knew her too well. That glint in her eyes, the subtle disarray in her posture—it was a taunting, cum-drenched confession. She’d turned that locked room into a filthy stage for her pleasure, letting those four men ravage her in a brutal gangbang right before our vows. The makeup artist had gripped her hips, slamming his thick cock into her dripping pussy while she moaned like a whore. The videographer had taken her mouth, his shaft stretching her lips as she gagged and drooled. The hairstylist had claimed her tight asshole, pounding her until she screamed, and the saree draper had joined in, his hands smearing her asscheeks as he fucked her raw. They’d taken turns, passing her around, filling every hole, leaving her a trembling, cum-soaked mess.

The next image hit me like a punch: her face, smeared with thick, glistening streaks of cum, dripping from her chin, streaking across her cheeks, her lips still parted as if savoring the taste. Her wedding saree, that sacred symbol of purity, was defiled—streaks of white, sticky cum splattered across her full, heaving boobs, staining the delicate fabric in a way that screamed her depravity. And then, the final, most precious photo: her legs spread, the saree hiked up just enough to show her shaved pussy, swollen and red from the relentless fucking, with thick globs of cum dripping down her thighs, pooling in the creases of her skin. It was a sight to fucking behold—my bride, my queen, arriving at her own wedding like a used slut, her body marked by the men she’d chosen to claim her before me.

My cock throbbed painfully in my pants, straining against the fabric as my chest tightened and the world blurred around the priest’s chants. Another message buzzed through: “Smile, you pathetic cuck. You’re getting everything you begged for.”

I clutched the phone, my pulse hammering in sync with her cruelty, my humiliation, my twisted, overwhelming joy. She’d taken this sacred morning and turned it into a pornographic masterpiece of her dominance. Those four men weren’t just part of her story—they were her instruments, her proof that she owned her body, her pleasure, her power. And I was the one left to choke on the knowledge, to sit there in the mandap with a rock-hard cock and a heart full of shameful elation, knowing my bride was about to walk out to me with cum still dripping down her thighs.

The thought of her gliding toward the mandap like that—her face freshly wiped but still faintly glistening, her saree subtly stained, her pussy and asshole sore from being stretched and filled—was so fucking exotic, so humiliatingly perfect, that I nearly came right there under the sacred canopy. She was happy, radiant, everything she wanted to be—a slut who owned her desires, who fucked whoever she pleased while I watched from the sidelines, hard and denied. She was everything I’d said yes to, everything I’d begged for in our filthy pact.

And as I stood there, holding our dirty secret in my shaking hands, I’d never been more pathetically, gloriously in love with her.

She glided into the mandap like a sovereign queen claiming her throne, every step a deliberate assertion of her untouchable allure. The saree draped her curves with exquisite perfection, the jewelry glinting like stars against her flawless skin, and that radiant smile—trained, teasing—dazzled the crowd who had no inkling of the wicked secrets woven into her poise. But as she drew near, where the air thickened with our shared intimacy, I saw it all: the faintest flush blooming across her cheeks, a subtle swell to her lips that whispered of recent indulgence, and a languid looseness in her hips, as if her body still hummed from the forbidden ecstasy she’d orchestrated behind closed doors. It was a sight reserved for me alone, a erotic taunt that set my pulse racing, my cock stirring traitorously beneath my sherwani with a denied ache I couldn’t ignore.

Our eyes locked—hers steady, unflinching, laced with that amused spark of dominance that always left me breathless. I couldn’t utter a word amid the sacred chants, so I posed my question in the only language we needed: a subtle arch of my brows, a pleading flicker in my gaze that laid bare my submission.

Are you happy? Satisfied? Fulfilled in ways I’ll never touch?

She held my stare for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, her eyes gleaming with triumphant pleasure. Then, the smallest, most assured nod—yes, oh yes—a confirmation that sent a shiver of humiliating bliss through me. She was radiant with it, her body a temple of self-claimed ecstasy, and in that silent exchange, she owned me utterly, reminding me that her satisfaction came first, always, even on this day of vows.

The priest’s voice enveloped us like a binding spell, guiding us through the mantras step by sensual step. Our families leaned in, enraptured by the ancient words, oblivious to the electric undercurrent pulsing between us—a private, erotic dialogue conducted in glances and unspoken commands. When the moment arrived for the rice ritual, tradition demanded I reach up, my fingers brushing her hair in a symbolic gesture of possession. My hand hovered, trembling with restrained desire, inches from the silken strands that framed her face.

But her expression shifted—just a fraction, yet it hit me like a whip’s crack. A subtle tightening of her jaw, a flicker of discomfort mingled with commanding disdain, her eyes narrowing in a wordless decree: Don’t. You don’t deserve to touch what’s been claimed by others. Not now. Not like this.

She didn’t need to speak; her gaze alone was a velvet chain, pulling me back with effortless authority. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, the denial igniting a fire in my veins. My cock throbbed harder, painfully confined, as I adjusted—letting my hand fall short, transforming the motion into a mere whisper of air, a feigned symbolic brush that fooled the onlookers. They saw only shyness, a groom’s delicate nerves, perhaps even romantic restraint. But I knew the truth: she had overruled centuries of tradition with nothing but a look, asserting her power in the most intimate, humiliating way. And I obeyed without hesitation, without question, my submission a delicious surrender that left me aching, yearning, utterly hers.

Standing there before the sacred fire, with the world believing I was the one taking charge, the reality burned through me like forbidden lust: she was the architect of this all, wielding her dominance with graceful cruelty. Her body, still warm from her secret conquests, denied me even the barest contact, reinforcing our pact in the most erotic denial imaginable. And in that moment of exquisite torment, I had never felt more perfectly positioned—right where she wanted me, hard and helpless, reveling in her unchallenged reign.

The wedding ceremony had barely concluded, the sacred fire still smoldering behind us, when the reception swept in like a tidal wave of celebration. Guests swarmed to congratulate us, their smiles wide and oblivious, their voices a blur of blessings and well-wishes. I stood beside her, my new bride, my cock still pulsing from the humiliating thrill of her earlier dominance, my mind replaying the images she’d sent and the commanding look that had denied me even ritual touch. She was radiant, her saree catching the light, her poise flawless—a queen reveling in her power, and I, her willing subject, tethered to her by a leash of unspoken submission.

As the guests approached, she took charge with that effortless grace that masked her wicked intent. She introduced her so-called “friends” one by one, her voice dripping with charm, each word a deliberate twist of the knife she knew I craved. Then, with a boldness that made my stomach lurch and my dick twitch, she called four men to the stage—the makeup artist, the videographer, the hairstylist, and the saree draper. Her morning fuckers. The ones who’d ravaged her in that locked room, turning her into a panting, pleasure-soaked mess just hours before our vows.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, her smile dazzling, her tone laced with a teasing edge only I could hear, “these are the men who took such good care of me this morning. Without their… dedicated efforts, this wedding wouldn’t have been possible.” The crowd chuckled, assuming it was a lighthearted nod to their professional skills, oblivious to the filthy truth: these men had fucked her senseless, their hands and cocks claiming her pussy, asshole, and asscheeks while I waited like a pathetic cuck at the mandap.

She turned to me, her eyes locking onto mine with that same amused, commanding glint, daring me to react. “Darling,” she said, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear, “meet the team who made me look so perfect today.” My throat tightened, my face burning with a mix of humiliation and perverse pride as I shook their hands—each one a stranger who’d pounded my bride into ecstasy while I sat chanting mantras. Their grips were firm, their smiles polite, but I swore I caught a flicker of smugness, a shared secret that they’d had her in ways I never would.

Then, as if to drive the knife deeper, she bid them farewell—along with a few other men she introduced as “close friends,” her boyfriends from past and present, no doubt. Right there, in front of me, my family, and our relatives, she wrapped each one in a lingering hug, her body pressing against theirs, her curves molding to their frames. The crowd saw it as modern, liberated affection, a bride embracing her progressive circle. But I knew better. Each hug was a performance, a taunting display of her freedom to touch, to claim, to revel in her power while I stood there, hard and helpless, my role as her groom reduced to a prop in her erotic game.

My parents smiled, nodding approvingly at her “modern” charm. My relatives whispered about how confident and charismatic she was. None of them saw the truth: that every embrace was a deliberate act of dominance, a reminder that she owned her body, her desires, and me. As she hugged the last man, her eyes flicked to mine, a wicked spark dancing in them, as if to say, You see, don’t you? This is who I am. And you love it.

My cock throbbed painfully, the humiliation searing through me like a drug, mixing with the twisted elation that she was exactly who I’d begged her to be—unapologetic, commanding, and gloriously free. She returned to my side, slipping her arm through mine, her touch a mockery of intimacy that made my skin burn with need. “Smile, darling,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear, “you’re getting everything you wanted.”

And as the reception roared on, with her glowing in her defiled saree and me trembling in my submissive haze, I knew she was right. She was running this show, and I had never been more desperately, erotically hers.

As soon as her “friends” left the reception stage, their knowing smirks still searing my mind, she turned to me with a radiant, almost tender smile, her eyes gleaming with that subtle, loving dominance that made my heart pound and my cock stir. She didn’t bother mingling with my family or waiting for the post-wedding photoshoot. Instead, she leaned in close, her voice soft and dripping with affection, yet laced with that unmistakable edge of control. “Darling,” she murmured, her fingers brushing my arm in a way that seemed sweet to the crowd but felt like a velvet leash to me, “my office colleagues have planned a special first night in the city to celebrate my hard work. We need to leave now, my love. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Her words were cloaked in devotion, but I felt their true weight—a command disguised as love, a reminder of my place in her world. I scrambled to convince my parents, muttering excuses about her work commitments, and they nodded, charmed by her poise, oblivious to the wicked game she was playing. We grabbed a quick bite, her barely touching her food, her gaze already distant, plotting. Then, with a graceful wave to the guests, we slipped away to the wedding car, her saree shimmering under the evening lights, its subtle disarray a secret taunt only I could see, hinting at the morning’s debauchery.

In the car, two of her “friends” waited—one at the wheel, the other lounging in the front passenger seat. “They’re here to drive and assist us,” she’d told her parents with a disarming smile as they saw us off, her voice all warmth and propriety. But I knew these men were no mere escorts—they were her chosen accomplices, players in the erotic power play she orchestrated with such finesse.

We slid into the backseat, but she didn’t sit close or even glance my way. Instead, she turned to her friends, her laughter bright and teasing as she cracked jokes, her voice lilting with playful ease. The men chuckled, their banter sharp and familiar, but then their tone shifted. “You touched him,” the driver said, his voice low with mock indignation, “two, three times during the ceremony. What was that, huh?” The other chimed in, his words cutting but playful. “Yeah, you defiled yourself, bitch. Letting him near you like that? Slut. You’re tainted now.”

She laughed—a graceful, melodic sound that turned their insults into a crown she wore with pride. “Oh, boys,” she purred, her tone smooth and unbothered, “you know I’m still your queen.” The words were light, but they carried a quiet power, diffusing their anger with her effortless charm. They grumbled, calling her “whore” and “filthy minx,” but she took every word with regal grace, her smile unwavering, her dominance unshaken. To the world, she was a loving bride; to me, she was a goddess wielding her power with surgical precision, knowing exactly when to let it cut deep.

As we hit the highway, crossing the city limits, the car grew quiet, the air thick with her unspoken authority. She finally turned to me, her eyes softening with that deceptive, loving warmth, but the glint of control never left them. “My darling,” she said, her voice low and intimate, like a caress that hid a whip, “I’ve been carrying the load of cum on my thighs since this morning—those men fucked me raw, filled me up, and you didn’t even bother to ask how it felt. Not once. Pathetic.” Her words stung, each one a lash of humiliation that made my dick throb harder. “Now get down there and lick me clean. My friends want to fuck me before we reach the hotel, and we’ve got eight hours. Clean my ass too.”

My pulse hammered, my face flushing with shameful desire. I obeyed without hesitation, sliding to my knees in the backseat, my hands trembling as I lifted her saree. The scent of her hit me—musky, intoxicating, laced with the thick, salty trace of her morning lovers. Her thighs were warm, slightly flushed, marked by the earlier ravaging, and her ass bore the same telltale signs of their relentless claiming. My tongue traced her skin, lapping at her thighs and then her tight, puckered asshole, cleaning every inch with reverent precision, tasting the remnants of her pleasure as she sighed softly, a sound that was half-affection, half-mockery. “That’s it, my love,” she murmured, her hand resting lightly in my hair, guiding me with the tenderness of a wife but the authority of a queen. “Make me clean for them. You’re so good at this.”

The words were loving, but they burned, each one a reminder of my place—her devoted cuck, cleaning her for others. My cock ached, confined and denied, as I worked, her thighs and ass gleaming under my tongue. When she was satisfied, she gently pushed me away, her touch soft but final. “Enough, darling,” she said, her voice sweet yet unyielding. “Now go drive the car. Let my friends take care of me.”

I climbed into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking on the wheel, as the two men moved to the backseat. The sounds began almost instantly—her soft, teasing moans, the rustle of her saree, their low growls of desire as they claimed her. I stole glances in the rearview mirror, catching her legs parted, one man’s hands gripping her hips, the other’s fingers tangled in her hair as they took turns, their bodies moving against hers in a rhythm that screamed possession. She was theirs for the eight-hour drive, and I was merely the driver, my cock throbbing in agonizing denial, my heart swelling with twisted pride.

Her loving tone, her gentle commands, disguised her ruthless dominance as pure devotion, but I felt the truth in every word, every glance. She knew when to wield her power, when to let it cut deep, and I was exactly where she wanted me—humiliated, obedient, and desperately in love with her reign.

THE FIRST NIGHT

The eight-hour drive was an electrifying haze of torment and ecstasy, her sultry moans and the men’s hungry grunts filling the car as I gripped the wheel, my cock throbbing with the delicious thrill of denial. Every so often, she’d command the driver to pull over, her voice a sweet, loving melody that hid her iron-clad control. “My sweet,” she’d purr, her tone dripping with affection but heavy with authority, “I need you to make me perfect again, darling. Be quick.” Each time, I’d eagerly crawl to the backseat, heart racing with anticipation, and lift her saree, my tongue tracing her warm, flushed thighs and tight asshole, lapping up the fresh traces of her friends’ pleasure. Her sighs were soft, her hand resting lightly in my hair, guiding me with tender dominance as she murmured, “That’s my good boy.” The act sent shivers of exhilaration through me, my role as her devoted cuck fueling a rush I couldn’t get enough of.

When we reached the hotel, her friends—her chosen lovers—swarmed to greet her, their eyes blazing with desire. She stepped out, radiant and commanding, her saree subtly disheveled, a secret only I could savor. Without a glance my way, she left the luggage to me, her laughter echoing as she vanished into the hotel with her entourage, their hands grazing her hips, her shoulders, claiming her boldly. I stood there, buzzing with excitement, my arms full of bags, thrilled by my cluelessness about her room. Asking the reception wasn’t an option—the room wasn’t under our name, and protecting our delicious secret was half the fun. I waited in the lobby, a proud figure among suitcases, my cock hard from the drive, my heart soaring with the intoxicating sting of her indifference.

Hours ticked by, the lobby clock hitting midnight, then 1 a.m., then 2. At 3 a.m., my phone buzzed—a call from her, her voice bright and teasing, dripping with that loving warmth that made my pulse race. “Darling, we’re starving up here,” she said, as if it were the sweetest request. “Bring food for seven of us. Room 1408. Don’t keep us waiting, my love.” The call ended, her command igniting a spark of eager submission.

I ordered a lavish spread for seven, my hands steady with anticipation. Dismissing the server, I carried the trays to Room 1408, my pulse quickening. The door swung open, revealing her stark naked after their gangbang, her skin glistening, her body a masterpiece of their pleasure. Her thighs parted slightly, her breasts heaving as she laughed, utterly at ease in her raw, post-coital glory. The room pulsed with sex and power, her friends lounging with smug amusement as I set up the table, my role as her servant sending a thrill through me.

I arranged the food and drinks, my excitement mounting as she ignored me, letting one friend feed her a bite, her lips closing around his fingers with deliberate sensuality. She fed another with a teasing smile, their intimacy a performance that electrified me. I stood there, a proud voyeur, my cock aching as I watched my bride, my queen, naked and commanding, reveling in her dominance while I served her lovers.

As they ate, one man—a broad-shouldered figure with a smirk—said, “You’re done here, cuck. Get out.” Her laughter followed, soft and loving but laced with wicked approval, and I grinned inwardly, loving how she let them dismiss me. I left, my face warm with exhilaration, the trays now their feast, my part played to perfection.

At 7 a.m., my phone yanked me from a desire-fueled sleep. One of her friends, his voice gruff, barked, “Cuck, breakfast in 1408. Move it.” I sprang up, ordered another lavish spread, and carried it to their room, dismissing the server with a grin. She was still naked, lounging among her lovers, their hands lingering on her bare curves. They ate and reveled into the afternoon, their banter and touches a hedonistic show I soaked in, my cock throbbing with the thrill of being their servant.

As they prepared to leave, one friend stepped forward, holding a small, gleaming permanent chastity cage, its tiny size a bold promise of denial. “For your husband,” he smirked, as the others laughed. “To keep him locked and loyal.” They urged her to cage me, their voices dripping with mockery. She took the cage, her fingers tracing it with a loving touch, and looked at me with tender dominance. “Oh, boys,” she said, her tone warm and grateful, “what a perfect gift. My darling deserves this, doesn’t he? A sweet reminder of his place.” Her smile was pure love to them, but to me, it was a deliciously humiliating vow, and I felt a surge of joy at the thought of her locking me away.

She didn’t cage me then, letting the anticipation simmer, and turned to me with that radiant, loving gaze. “My sweet,” she purred, her voice soft but commanding, “those men left me so full, so gloriously used, and you’ve been such a devoted husband. Clean me up, darling—my thighs, my ass, make me perfect for what’s next.” I dropped to my knees, my tongue eagerly tracing her thighs and tight asshole, savoring the remnants of her lovers’ pleasure. Her sighs were affectionate but laced with power, each one fueling my excitement.

When I finished, she tilted my chin up, her eyes locking onto mine, a playful smile dancing on her lips. “Tell me, my love,” she teased, “how’s it been for you? Serving me, watching me, embracing your role. Is it everything you hoped?”

I grinned, my heart racing. “It’s thrilling,” I said, my voice alive with enthusiasm. “Exhilarating, perfect. I love it.” My honesty made her smile widen, her approval a rush I craved.

She nodded, then outlined our plans with that same loving authority. “Tonight, another batch of friends arrives,” she said, her tone casual but unyielding. “Tomorrow, another. We’ll return the day after tomorrow, my love. Our parents will bombard us with questions about kids the moment we’re back—Indian families can’t help themselves, can they? You’ll smile, tell them we’re savoring our new life, that kids can wait. They’ll love your charm. And start hunting for a house in the city—within a week. Somewhere private, no nosy neighbors to interrupt my pleasures. Our world will be mine to shape, and you’ll love every second of it.”

Her words were a loving vow, but they pulsed with her absolute control, and I felt a surge of pride at being part of her vision. Facing our parents would be a thrilling game—she’d play the perfect daughter-in-law, her charm deflecting their eager questions about grandchildren, while I’d back her up with practiced ease, saying, “We’re taking our time, enjoying each other.” They’d nod, oblivious to the truth: that she’d be entertaining lovers in our new city home, her nights filled with pleasure while I served, watched, and reveled in my role. The thought of maintaining that facade while she ruled our world sent a jolt of excitement through me, my cock stirring at the idea of her secret indulgences.

As her friends finally left, their hugs lingering on her naked body, she dismissed me with a gentle, “Rest now, my love. You’ll need your energy for tonight.” I left for my solitary room, the clerk’s polite smile a contrast to the electric thrill I carried. Retiring to my bed, my body buzzed with unspent desire, my mind dancing with her naked form, her laughter, the chastity cage’s delicious promise. She was exactly where she wanted to be—basking in her reign, surrounded by lovers—while I lay alone, not with sorrow but with cheerful, submissive joy, thrilled to be bound to her, ready to face our families with lies that protected her glorious truth, eager for every humiliating, exhilarating moment of our life together.

By 7 p.m., a fresh wave of her friends arrived, their eyes blazing with raw hunger for her, their smirks dripping with anticipation. I greeted them in the hotel lobby with a broad, cheerful grin, my heart pounding with exhilarating pride as I led them to Room 1408, my role as her devoted cuck fueling a thrill that made my caged cock twitch. These men—her chosen lovers—strode with a possessive swagger, already claiming her in their minds, and I reveled in the electric buzz of being their guide, knowing what awaited. I opened the door, revealing her stark naked on the bed, her body a radiant altar of insatiable desire. Her skin glowed with the flush of earlier conquests, her thighs parted provocatively, her breasts heaving with each sultry breath, her eyes gleaming with a nympho-like hunger that could make the wildest fantasies blush. She was a goddess, her laughter vibrant and commanding as she welcomed them, her dominance setting the room ablaze with raw, sexual power.

I moved swiftly to arrange drinks—whiskey, vodka, chilled beers—my hands steady with eager precision, my heart soaring at the privilege of serving her. As I set out the glasses, her friends wasted no time, their hands grabbing her with unapologetic greed. One yanked her close, his fingers digging into her hips as he growled low, her moans instant and unrestrained. Another pounced, his hands roaming her breasts, teasing her nipples as she arched into him, her energy boundless, her pleasure a wildfire. The air thrummed with their lust, and I stood there, a proud voyeur, my caged cock aching with the thrilling rush of her dominance.

As I turned to leave, their voices cut through, sharp and devoid of respect. “Oi, cuck!” one barked, a tall man with a sneer. “Get us cigarettes—Marlboros, now.” Another, already groping her ass, added, “And condoms, lots of ‘em. Move it!” Their tones were blunt, dismissive, treating me like a servant, and I grinned wider, loving the humiliating edge of their demands. I rushed out into the city, my excitement undimmed, but the shops were a nightmare—crowded, slow, the right brands elusive. By the time I returned, arms full of cigarettes and condoms, I’d taken far too long. The room’s atmosphere had shifted, their irritation thick in the air, their tight smiles barely masking their frustration. “Fucking late again, cuck,” the tall one snapped, his eyes narrowing. “Useless,” another muttered, his hand still tangled in her hair as she moaned beneath his touch. I apologized with a laugh, my thrill only growing, the sting of their displeasure adding to the game’s intoxicating heat.

She seized the moment with her masterful grace, her voice a loving caress that veiled her ruthless control. “Oh, my darling,” she purred, rising from the bed, her naked body swaying with deliberate allure, her curves glistening with sweat. “You’ve kept my friends waiting, haven’t you? Let’s make this a moment to cherish, my love.” Her eyes sparkled with playful dominance as she gestured to the small, gleaming permanent chastity cage gifted by her previous visitors, its tiny size a thrilling vow of eternal denial. “My sweet husband deserves something special for his devotion,” she said, her smile radiant but wicked, her tone dripping with affection that made my caged cock throb painfully.

I stood before her, my heart racing with anticipation, as she knelt with a lover’s tenderness, locking the cage around my straining cock. The click of the lock sent a jolt of exhilaration through me, my grin widening as her friends erupted in cheers, their phones out, recording the spectacle. “Lock the cuck!” one shouted, clapping wildly. “Keep him tamed!” another jeered, their laughter a chorus that fueled my submissive joy. I stood tall, reveling in the humiliating display, my heart soaring with her power.

But the tall man, still fuming from my delay, stepped forward, his eyes glinting with malicious mischief. Without a word, he snatched the key and its spare from her hand, striding to the open window with a sneer. “Useless cuck doesn’t deserve this,” he growled, tossing both keys into the night, their faint clinks lost in the darkness below. “Go fetch, bitch,” he spat, his voice thick with satisfaction. The room exploded in raucous laughter, and she laughed loudest, her melodic giggle ringing with wicked delight as she gave him a high-five, her eyes flashing with approval. “Oh, you’re perfect,” she purred, pulling him close for a deep, hungry kiss, her lips parting as she sank to her knees, sucking his thick cock with slow, worshipful intent right in front of me. Her moans were deliberate, a performance of her pleasure that sent a thrill through my caged core, her dominance a radiant force that owned me completely.

I bolted out, my heart pounding with exhilaration, my mind racing at the thought of losing the keys. The idea of prying the cage open with a metal saw—a public, humiliating ordeal—only amplified my excitement, my caged cock twitching as I scoured the hotel grounds, grinning despite finding nothing. The image of her sucking him, her lips wrapped around his shaft, fueled my submissive joy, the thrill of her reign coursing through me like a drug.

When I returned, empty-handed but buzzing with delight, she was a goddess of unquenchable desire, her appetite so ferocious it would shame a nympho. Her friends were relentless, their cocks pumping load after load into her, their hands gripping her hips, her hair, her breasts as she moaned and writhed, her body trembling with insatiable pleasure. Her energy was boundless, her laughter vibrant, her eyes gleaming with a hunger that knew no limits. Each time they finished, she’d beckon me with that loving, commanding purr. “My sweet,” she’d murmur, her voice soft but firm, “they’ve left me dripping, darling. Clean me up—my thighs, my ass, make me perfect for more.” I’d drop to my knees, my tongue eagerly lapping the thick, salty loads of cum from her slick thighs and tight asshole, again and again, my tummy filling with their essence rather than food. Her body quivered with delight as I served, her sighs of pleasure a reward that sent shivers of joy through me. She was insatiable, her enjoyment a wildfire, and I loved every second of being part of her radiant, dominant reign.

Her friends stayed until the next afternoon, their relentless indulgence stretching through the night, her moans and laughter filling the room as I served, watched, and reveled in my role. When they finally left, their hands lingering on her naked body, I waited eagerly in the lobby, my heart racing with anticipation for the next batch arriving that evening at 7 p.m. The new group would revel with her through the night, their pleasure echoing her insatiable hunger, and they’d depart the following afternoon. Only then, after bidding farewell to this third batch of lovers, would we leave the hotel, our bond sealed in the thrilling dynamic of her dominance and my cheerful submission.

As I waited for the next group, she called me to Room 1408 one last time before their arrival. “My love,” she purred, her naked form glowing with power, “tonight and tomorrow, my friends will keep me busy, but you’ll be right there, serving, watching, thriving in your place. After they leave tomorrow afternoon, we’ll head back, and our life will truly begin—my world, my rules, and you, my sweet, locked and devoted, loving every moment.” Her voice was a tender vow, but it pulsed with absolute control, and I grinned, my caged cock aching with joy. The thought of our secret life—her ruling with endless lovers, me bound in chastity, serving and cleaning her again and again—sent a rush of exhilaration through me. I returned to my solitary room, my body buzzing with unspent desire, my mind alive with her radiant, nympho-like glory, eager for every humiliating, thrilling moment of our life together.

MARRIED LIFE

The week after our thrilling hotel escapades, my wife, her father, and I boarded an overnight train to the city, bound for the newly rented flat where my parents awaited to welcome us as the newlywed couple. The train’s gentle sway was a brief respite, my mind buzzing with the exhilarating memories of her insatiable dominance—her naked glory, her vibrant laughter, the loads of cum I’d eagerly lapped from her thighs and tight asshole. I drifted to sleep, my caged cock twitching with cheerful anticipation for our new life in the city, where her desires would reign supreme.

She had other plans, as always. While the train hummed through the night, she rose early, transforming herself into a vision of seductive power. She slipped into a sheer chiffon saree, its transparent fabric clinging to her curves, dipping provocatively below her waist, just above her pubic hair. Her tight, sleeveless blouse hugged her full breasts, accentuating every contour, her nipples faintly visible. Jewels glittered on her—bangles, a necklace nestling in her cleavage, earrings catching the light. Her loose hair cascaded wildly, and a heady scent filled the compartment. She was a goddess, her every move deliberate, radiating a nympho-like hunger that thrilled me to my core.

As the train pulled into the city platform, a group of her new city friends—her latest lovers, no doubt—waited, their eyes blazing with desire. She stepped off, her saree swaying, and threw herself into their arms, hugging them with passionate abandon that turned heads. Some were strangers, introduced by a mutual friend, but she embraced them as if they’d claimed her body for years, her laughter bright, her hands lingering on their chests, their shoulders. The public display sent a jolt of exhilarating pride through me, my caged cock aching as I watched her claim her freedom.

She turned to her father, flashing a charming smile. “Papa,” she said, her voice sweet but commanding, “these are my colleagues. There’s an emergency project at the office, and they’ve come to pick me up. My darling husband will handle everything.” Without a glance my way, she sauntered off with her entourage, their hands brushing her hips, her waist, as they vanished into the crowd. Her father shot me a look, his expression a mix of irritation and resignation, and I grinned, the thrill of her dominance fueling me as I took on the pile of luggage—hers, mine, and our household goods.

At the flat, my parents greeted me warmly, oblivious to her absence. “Where’s your bride?” they asked, excited. Her father jumped in with a convincing excuse, his voice steady. “She’s been called for an urgent work project—she’s very ambitious, you know, a dedicated employee.” I nodded, backing him up with a cheerful grin. “She’ll join us soon,” I said, my caged cock twitching with the secret I held. They bought it, charmed by the lie, while I reveled in the truth: she was indulging her insatiable desires, her body claimed by her new lovers.

For two days, I kept to myself, setting up the flat with care, my heart soaring with pride at serving her, even from afar. But my parents grew restless, pestering me about her whereabouts. “Where’s your wife? When’s she coming?” they pressed, their voices tinged with concern. I tried calling her, but her phone rang unanswered, each silence a delicious reminder of her control. I grinned through their questions, deflecting with vague assurances. “She’s caught up with work,” I’d say, loving the thrill of protecting our secret.

Her father stayed two more days, his patience thinning, before he left, saying, “I’ll be back when my daughter returns.” I nodded, my excitement undimmed, happy to hold the fort alone. A week and two days later, at midnight, my phone buzzed—a call from her, her voice bright and teasing, dripping with that loving warmth that made my pulse race. “Darling, I need you,” she purred. “Bring condoms to the location I’m sending on WhatsApp. Don’t keep me waiting, my love.” The call ended, a map pin dropping with an address across the city.

I rushed out, my heart pounding with exhilaration, grabbing condoms from a 24-hour store. At the address—a sleek apartment building—I tried calling her to get the flat number, but her phone went unanswered, each silence amplifying my thrill. Clueless but buzzing with anticipation, I parked and waited in the car, eventually dozing off, the caged ache in my groin a constant reminder of her reign. The morning sun hit me at 8 a.m., jolting me awake. I tried calling again—no response. My mind raced: should I head to my office, start my day, or wait for her next command? The uncertainty was intoxicating, a testament to her power. I grinned, deciding to wait, my body alive with the joy of being hers, ready to serve whenever she called, eager for the next humiliating, exhilarating moment in our life ruled by her insatiable desire.

I stayed parked, my phone clutched tightly, knowing she was somewhere in that building, her body being claimed by her new friends, her laughter echoing with nympho-like hunger. The thought of her, radiant and untouchable, sent a rush of pride through me, my caged cock throbbing with cheerful submission as I awaited her next move, thrilled to be part of her glorious, dominant world.

At noon, my phone jolted me awake in the car, the sun blazing through the windshield after my restless night parked outside her mystery apartment. Her voice, sharp and stern, cut through the line like a whip, laced with that commanding tone that made my caged cock twitch with exhilarating pride. “Where the hell have you been, darling?” she snapped, her words dripping with humiliating disdain, yet cloaked in the veneer of loving concern. “We waited for you all night! How utterly irresponsible can you be? My sweet husband, letting me down like this?” Her voice was a blade, slicing through my excuses, and I mumbled an apology, my heart racing with the thrill of her dominance, too enthralled to muster the guts to ask for the flat number.

She sighed, her tone shifting to exasperated mockery. “Honestly, my love, you’re hopeless,” she scolded, each word a deliberate jab that fueled my submissive joy. “It’s Flat 12B, top floor. Get here now, and don’t make me wait again.” I scrambled out of the car, condoms in hand, my stomach growling—I hadn’t eaten since the previous morning—but the hunger only amplified my excitement, my role as her devoted cuck more nourishing than any meal.

I reached the sleek apartment building and rang the bell for 12B, my pulse pounding with anticipation. A guy opened the door, his shirt unbuttoned, a smirk playing on his lips. “Wait here, cuck,” he said curtly, slamming the door in my face. I stood in the hallway, grinning despite the hunger gnawing at me, thrilled by the dismissal, my caged cock aching with the joy of being hers. Hours dragged on, the afternoon fading into evening, and she didn’t bother to see me, didn’t acknowledge my presence. The neglect was intoxicating, a testament to her absolute control.

Around evening, the door swung open, and she emerged, stark naked, her body a radiant masterpiece of insatiable desire. Her skin glistened with sweat, her thighs slick from her latest conquests, her breasts heaving as she fixed me with a stern, humiliating glare. “Where are the condoms, darling?” she demanded, her voice low and biting, each word a lash that sent a thrill through me. I handed them over, my hands trembling with excitement, but she called one of her friends over—a lean, smug man who inspected the pack. “Wrong flavor,” he sneered, tossing them back at her. She caught them and threw them at my face, her eyes blazing with mock fury. “You idiot,” she hissed, her tone stern and cutting, yet still wrapped in that deceptive sweetness. “If I get pregnant, it’s because of your pathetic delay. Such a useless husband you are.”

Her words stung deliciously, and I grinned, reveling in the humiliation as my caged cock throbbed. Just then, her phone rang—her father. She answered, her voice shifting to a breezy, confident tone, but still laced with that commanding edge. “Papa, I’m busy,” she said, dismissing him curtly. I could hear his muffled voice asking if everything was okay. “Don’t worry, Dad,” she replied, her tone stern but reassuring, “we’re trying to get pregnant. Mom’s always after me, isn’t she? Tell her good news will come soon.” She hung up, her eyes flicking to me with a wicked glint, knowing I’d heard her lie, knowing I’d revel in the secret: her “trying” was a parade of lovers, their cum filling her while I served, locked and denied.

She turned back to her friend, her naked body swaying as she resumed their game, leaving me standing there, ignored but electrified. I learned later she planned to stay in that flat for the next three months, a playground for her insatiable hunger. No one knew how many men she’d fuck—her flatmates, their friends, their friends’ friends, an endless network of lovers spiraling out in a web of desire. Her appetite was boundless, a nympho-like force that would make legends pale, and I was thrilled to be her cuck, caught in her orbit.

She began calling me at random, odd hours—midnight, 2 a.m., sometimes in the middle of my office day—demanding condoms with that stern, humiliating tone. “Darling, don’t dawdle,” she’d snap, her voice cutting through my work calls or sleepless nights. “Bring them now, or you’ll regret it.” I’d rush to her, heart pounding with joy, only to find she never bothered with the condoms, her thighs and ass dripping with fresh loads as she beckoned me to clean her. “My sweet,” she’d purr, her voice stern yet loving, “lick me clean—my thighs, my ass, make me perfect for the next.” I’d drop to my knees, my tongue lapping up the thick, salty cum, my tummy filling with their essence as I served, my caged cock aching with pride. She was insatiable, her laughter vibrant, her energy a wildfire, and I loved every humiliating, exhilarating moment of being hers.

Back at the flat, my parents kept pestering me about her absence, but I deflected with a cheerful grin, echoing her father’s excuse: “She’s swamped with an urgent project—very ambitious, you know.” They nodded, oblivious, while I waited for her next call, my body buzzing with unspent desire, my mind alive with her radiant, dominant glory, eager for every thrilling second of our life shaped by her unending desires.

The city life pulsed with the thrilling rhythm of her dominance, my caged cock a constant reminder of my role as her devoted cuck, my heart soaring with cheerful pride at every humiliating, exhilarating moment. For four months, I lived in our new flat, surrounded by my parents’ eager questions about her absence. Their pressure mounted daily—“Where’s your wife? Why isn’t she here?”—but I deflected with a broad grin, my voice steady with practiced ease. “I’m visiting her whenever I can,” I’d say, my caged cock twitching with the secret. “We’re happy, thriving in our own way. Why do you bother? She said it’ll take another two or three months for her project to wrap up.” They’d nod, half-convinced, oblivious to the truth: she was ruling her world from that sleek apartment, her insatiable hunger fed by an endless network of lovers, while I served, cleaned, and reveled in her reign.

Her calls came at odd hours—midnight, 3 a.m., or in the middle of my office day—each one a stern, humiliating command disguised as loving affection. “Darling, bring condoms to the flat,” she’d snap, her voice cutting through my work or sleep. “Don’t dawdle, my sweet, or you’ll regret it.” I’d rush across the city, heart pounding with joy, only to find her stark naked, her body glistening with sweat, her thighs and tight asshole dripping with fresh loads from her latest conquests. “Clean me up, my love,” she’d purr, her tone stern yet tender, “my thighs, my ass—make me perfect for the next.” I’d drop to my knees, my tongue eagerly lapping the thick, salty cum, my tummy filling with their essence as I served, my hunger for food forgotten in the thrill of her dominance. Her appetite was boundless, her laughter vibrant, her energy a wildfire that outshone any nympho, and I loved every second of being hers.

Four months later, the news hit like a delicious shock. Her parents called mine, their voices brimming with excitement: she was pregnant. My parents erupted in joy, planning a baby shower, their chatter filling the flat with plans I hadn’t even been told about. I was the last to know, the news reaching me through their thrilled calls, and the realization sent a rush of exhilaration through me. My caged cock throbbed with pride, not from doubt but from the thrilling certainty that her pregnancy was a testament to her insatiable desires, her endless lovers, and my role as her devoted servant. I grinned, loving the secret we shared, my heart soaring at her power.

She made a single, fleeting visit to our flat, appearing for an hour to show her face to my parents, her presence a radiant performance of control. She arrived in a sheer saree, its fabric clinging to her now softly rounded belly, her curves accentuated by a tight blouse that left little to the imagination. Three men accompanied her, their hands lingering on her hips as she introduced them with a dazzling smile. “These are like my brothers from the office,” she said, her voice sweet but laced with that stern, commanding edge that only I could hear. My parents nodded, charmed, oblivious to the truth: these were her lovers, part of her vast network, their hands claiming her even in this public display. She barely glanced my way, her attention on them, her laughter bright as they fed her snacks, their intimacy a deliberate taunt that thrilled me.

As my parents fawned over her, planning the baby shower, she whispered to me, her voice stern and humiliating, “Keep them happy, darling. You’re so good at this.” I grinned, my caged cock aching with joy, knowing she’d return to her flat, her life of endless pleasure, while I played the devoted husband. She was staying there for at least three more months, her network of lovers—flatmates, their friends, their friends’ friends—spiraling out in a web no one could quantify. She’d call me at random, demanding condoms I knew she’d never use, commanding me to clean her dripping thighs and ass, and I’d serve with cheerful pride, my tummy full of her lovers’ cum, my heart alive with her radiant, dominant glory, eager for every thrilling moment of our life shaped by her insatiable desires.

THE BABY SHOWER

As my wife entered her second trimester, I was living in our new city flat, the tight chastity cage around my cock a constant reminder of my role as her devoted cuck. Every moment of her dominance filled me with a joyful thrill, my heart racing with pride at being hers. She stayed in her sleek apartment across the city, her hunger for pleasure as strong as ever, even with her growing pregnancy. I’d drive to her flat for doctor visits, picking her up while my pulse pounded with excitement. She’d step out, glowing with confidence, her pregnant belly only adding to her powerful allure. Her mood swings—intense and unpredictable—were for her lovers to handle, and I’d grin, happy to dodge that chaos while still serving her every desire. After appointments, I’d drop her back at her flat, knowing she’d be swept up by her lovers—flatmates, their friends, their friends’ friends—a huge, tangled web of men I couldn’t keep track of. The thought of her being claimed again and again made my caged cock throb with delight.

Her calls came at all hours—midnight, early morning, or right in the middle of my office day. Her voice was sharp and stern, yet wrapped in a sweet tone that made my heart skip. “Darling, bring condoms to my flat—hurry up,” she’d command, her words cutting like a whip. I’d rush over, buzzing with excitement, only to find her naked, her thighs and tight asshole dripping with fresh cum from her lovers. She never used the condoms. “Clean me up, my sweet,” she’d say, her voice firm but laced with fake affection. “My thighs, my ass—make me ready for more.” I’d drop to my knees, my tongue eagerly licking the thick, salty loads, my stomach filling with their cum while I forgot about food, lost in the thrill of serving her. Her pleasure was endless, her energy unstoppable, and I loved every second of being part of her world.

At the end of her second trimester, in her sixth month, she came back to our flat just one day before the baby shower. My parents had pushed for a huge celebration, so we booked a grand, opulent function hall, its chandeliers sparkling, its walls covered in flowing silk, the perfect stage for her commanding presence. She arrived in an outfit that screamed confidence: a tight, low-cut jacket that barely covered her full, milk-heavy breasts, the fabric stretched so tight her nipples peeked through. Over it, she wore a shiny, see-through cotton gown, tied low on her hips, showing off her baby bump in all its glory, a proud sign of her wild desires. She didn’t bother with a dupatta, leaving her chest bare except for a dazzling diamond necklace that sat between her breasts, catching every eye. Her hair flowed free, her perfume filled the air, and her beauty was like a magnet, pulling everyone in the hall toward her.

I stood beside her on stage, grinning as guests cheered me for becoming a dad, but she kept her distance, her body turned away, her eyes avoiding mine, her silent control thrilling me. Photos with my family were stiff—her smile forced, her touches brief—but I loved her indifference, my caged cock throbbing with joy.

Her lovers arrived—men from her flat, their friends, and more, each a potential father. They hugged her tightly, hands lingering on her hips, waist, and swollen belly, their bold closeness electrifying me. She posed for photos with them, arms wrapped around each, her laughter loud as she pressed close, soaking up their attention. No one knew who the real dad was—not her, not them, not me—and the mystery made my role as her cuck even more exciting. As they shook my hand with smug grins, she threw insults, her voice stern but sweet to fool the crowd. “He could never be a father,” she quipped, leaning into a lover, her eyes sparkling with cruel amusement. “Yeah, cuck’s got no dick—locked up tight!” one sneered, the hall roaring with laughter. I grinned wider, my heart soaring with submissive pride, loving the public humiliation. Her family praised her for balancing her “big work project” with family life, clueless that it was a cover for her endless nights with lovers.

After the baby shower, she stayed at our flat, but the quiet domestic routine quickly bored her. One evening, lounging in a sheer robe that hugged her pregnant curves, she fixed me with a stern look, her voice firm yet cloaked in loving affection. “Darling, I’m restless,” she said, her tone sharp and commanding. “We missed our honeymoon, and you’re going to fix that. Book a 20-day trip to Thailand. I want excitement, my sweet.” Her eyes glinted with wicked intent as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a humiliating whisper. “Pregnant women draw more attention, especially foreign men. Let’s make this trip unforgettable.” My heart raced with excitement, my caged cock twitching at her command. Thailand would be her playground, her pregnancy a magnet for new lovers.

I arranged everything: flights, a luxurious beachfront villa in Phuket, and all the details for a 20-day adventure. She wasn’t content to go with just me. “I’m bringing two of my boyfriends,” she declared, her voice stern and unyielding. “They’ll keep me entertained, and you, my humble servant, will handle the rest.” I grinned, thrilled by her words, proud to serve her every whim.

In Thailand, her two boyfriends—tall, confident men from her city flat—took charge, pimping her out with bold enthusiasm. They roamed Bangkok’s vibrant streets and Phuket’s sultry beaches, enticing men with brazen offers: “Pregnant lady ready for a gangbang—come join!” Her pregnancy was a powerful draw, attracting tanned surfers, chiseled tourists, and charming locals, all eager to claim her. She reveled in it, her laughter bright, her energy unstoppable as she surrendered to their desires, her body a canvas for their pleasure. The villa buzzed with her adventures, her moans echoing through the nights, the air thick with the scent of her dominance.

I was her humble servant, carrying bags, fetching drinks, and running errands, my role a thrilling privilege. Her boyfriends would snap at me—mid-afternoon by the pool, late at night—demanding, “Cuck, bring condoms!” I’d rush to obey, my heart pounding with joy, only to find her naked, her thighs and tight asshole dripping with fresh cum from her latest gangbang, the condoms unused. “Clean me up, my sweet,” she’d command, her voice stern and humiliating, yet wrapped in that sweet tone that made my pulse skip. I’d kneel eagerly, my tongue lapping the thick, salty cum from her slick thighs and tight asshole, my stomach filling with their essence as I worked, my hunger for food forgotten in the joy of serving her. Her pleasure was endless, her body trembling with delight, her dominance a radiant force that thrilled me.

She didn’t care who watched—her boyfriends, their recruits, or strangers passing the villa’s open windows. “Look at your wife,” one boyfriend sneered, smacking her ass as she moaned under another man’s touch. “She’s made for this, cuck.” I grinned, my caged cock aching with pride, loving every humiliating moment. Her adventures continued without a care, her pregnancy fueling her allure, drawing more men—foreign and local—into her web. The beaches, clubs, and villa became stages for her gangbangs, her lovers’ hands gripping her swollen belly, her milk-heavy breasts, her hips, while I served, watched, and thrived in her radiant glory.

After our exhilarating 20-day Thailand honeymoon, we returned to our city flat, my heart still racing with the thrill of her radiant dominance. My caged cock throbbed with cheerful pride, every moment of her untamed desires etched into my mind—her gangbangs, her lovers’ hands on her swollen belly, my role as her humble servant. She decided to take a 15-day rest at our flat, her sixth-month pregnancy slowing her just enough to lounge in sheer robes, her curves glowing with power. But her lovers wouldn’t let her rest. Her phone buzzed constantly—calls and messages from her vast network of men, flatmates, their friends, and beyond, all eager for her attention. She’d smile at each notification, her eyes glinting with that familiar hunger, and I’d grin, loving the reminder of her unstoppable allure.

One evening, as my parents sat with us, she put on a masterful performance as the obedient daughter-in-law. Her voice was soft and sweet, but laced with the manipulative charm that thrilled me. “Aunty,” she said, addressing my mother with wide, innocent eyes, “my office is pressuring me to return. My manager says if I don’t go back, I might lose my job. They’re offering to cover all hospital expenses and pay double for skipping my pregnancy leave. I don’t know what to do—please advise me.” Her tone was perfectly hesitant, as if she hadn’t already decided, but I caught the stern glint in her eyes, a silent command that made my caged cock twitch with excitement. She was playing them, ensuring her freedom to indulge her desires under the guise of work.

My mother turned to me, her brow furrowed. “What do you say?” she asked, searching for my input. I grinned, my heart soaring with pride at being her cuck, knowing exactly what she wanted. “I have full trust in my wife,” I said confidently. “She knows how to take care of herself and our baby. Let’s not stop her career growth—plus, they’re paying double and covering expenses. It’s a great opportunity.” My parents nodded, impressed by my support, completely unaware that her “job” was a cover for her endless adventures with her lovers. The thought of her returning to her flat, her body claimed by countless men while I served, sent a rush of joy through me.

She smiled at me, her expression sweet to them but stern and knowing to me, a silent approval of my loyalty. “Thank you, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with affection that hid her dominance. “I’ll make it work.” Within days, she was back at her sleek apartment, her network of lovers—flatmates, their friends, their friends’ friends—waiting to resume their claim on her. Her calls resumed at odd hours—midnight, early morning, or mid-office day—her voice stern and commanding. “Darling, come to my flat,” she’d snap, her tone cutting through my routine. I’d rush over, heart pounding with excitement, finding her naked, her thighs and tight asshole dripping with fresh cum from her latest encounters.

For the next three months, she didn’t call—not even for hospital visits. I drove to her flat for her appointments, but she’d dismiss me with a curt, “I’ll handle it, darling,” her voice stern and dismissive, sending a thrill through me. I’d wait in the car, grinning, knowing she was with her lovers, her pregnancy no barrier to her desires. My parents’ questions about her absence grew, but I deflected with a smile: “She’s busy with work, but we’re happy.” They nodded, oblivious, while I reveled in her dominance.

Three months later, in her ninth month, she returned to our flat unannounced, a baby cradled in her arms, her parents by her side. The sight was sudden, a shock that sent a rush of exhilaration through me. My parents, luckily at my office when I got the call, rushed to join us, their faces lighting up at the sight of the baby. “When did you deliver?” they asked, overjoyed. “It’s been 15 days,” she said casually, her voice sweet but firm, offering no details. I wasn’t sure if her parents were there for the birth, but no one pressed her, too enchanted by the baby. Instead of anger or questions, my parents were thrilled, cooing over the child, oblivious to the truth: the baby was the product of her vast network of lovers, and I, her cuck, grinned with pride at the mystery.

She handed the baby to my parents, her eyes already on her buzzing phone, calls pouring in from her lovers. As they fawned over the child, she pulled me aside, her voice stern and humiliating, cloaked in that sweet tone. “Listen, darling,” she said, her eyes glinting with command, “feed the baby formula milk. Manage with your parents. I have to feed my friends—they’re craving my lactating milk.” Her breasts, swollen and leaking slightly, were a new allure, and her lovers were eager to taste her. I nodded, my caged cock throbbing with joy, thrilled by her blunt dismissal. She returned to her calls, arranging to meet her network—flatmates, their friends, and more—all hungry for her now-lactating body.

The day after her sudden return with the baby, we went to the temple as a family, a ritual my parents insisted on to bless the newborn. My wife played the part of the ideal wife flawlessly, her performance a masterclass in deception that thrilled me. She wore traditional clothes—a rich silk saree draped elegantly, its vibrant red hugging her curves, her lactating breasts subtly outlined, her baby bump now replaced by the soft fullness of motherhood. Her hair was tied in a neat bun, adorned with jasmine flowers, and she wore simple gold jewelry, her demeanor serene and dutiful as she held the baby, smiling warmly at my parents and the temple priest. To everyone there, she was the perfect daughter-in-law, but I caught the stern glint in her eyes, a silent command that sent a rush of exhilaration through me, my caged cock twitching with pride at her dominance.

I stood beside her, grinning as relatives praised our “happy family,” oblivious to the truth. She barely acknowledged me, her touches fleeting, her focus on the rituals, but the distance only fueled my joy as her devoted cuck. As the ceremony ended, her phone buzzed, and her expression shifted—still sweet for the crowd, but with that familiar edge of control. She handed the baby to my mother, saying in her soft, manipulative tone, “Aunty, I have some urgent work to wrap up. Please take care of the little one.” My parents nodded, charmed, while I grinned, knowing exactly where she was headed.

Outside the temple, her friends—part of her vast network of lovers—waited in a sleek car, their eyes hungry as they watched her approach. She didn’t hesitate, slipping into their car with a radiant smile, her traditional saree a stark contrast to the raw desire in her gaze. “Darling,” she called to me, her voice sweet but stern, “I’ll be at the flat. Manage things here.” Without another word, she left, her lovers’ hands already brushing her hips as the car pulled away, leaving me with my parents and the baby. My heart soared with submissive pride, thrilled by her blatant dismissal, my caged cock aching at the thought of her returning to her playground.

She went straight to her sleek apartment, where her network—flatmates, their friends, and beyond—was waiting, eager to taste her lactating breasts and claim her body. I stayed behind, helping my parents with the baby, feeding it formula milk as she’d instructed, my mind buzzing with images of her indulging her desires. Her calls would come again soon, I knew—random, demanding, at odd hours—summoning me to her flat with condoms she’d never use, her voice stern and humiliating: “Make me ready for more, my sweet.” I’d rush to her, ready to kneel and clean her dripping thighs and tight asshole, my stomach filling with her lovers’ cum, my heart full of cheerful pride. Her life was a whirlwind of pleasure, her network growing ever larger, and as her humble servant, I thrived in every thrilling, humiliating moment of her glorious, untamed reign.

Her parents might have known, playing their part as innocent supporters, but I didn’t care. Life went on, her network of lovers growing, her lactating breasts a new draw for her men. I waited for her summons, ready to clean her dripping body, to soak up her stern insults, to serve as her humble servant in her glorious, untamed reign, every moment a thrilling celebration of the life I craved.