How Rakesh Saves his Marriage Ch. 01

I'm Rakesh Jha, 37, born in Kanpur, now living in Thane -- not because the city seduced me, but because my wife Kanika did. Gujju blood with a snow-white glow, curly long hair, and those frameless glasses that made her look like a librarian who could wreck your entire mental peace with just a half-smile. I met her twelve years ago -- our first job, our first paycheque, our first stolen glances.

She was painfully thin back then, but God... her breasts were already full for her size, round, high, the kind that stretched any kurti fabric, made her dupatta flutter faster than wind. Her waist was narrow, her hips perfectly curved -- and that voice... like a sleepy drizzle on a summer night.

I was just the humorous guy in the team -- average looks, but clean tongue, clever jokes, and eyes that only softened when she was around. I proposed straight. She thought I was mad. Maybe I was.

Twelve years later, here we are -- paying ₹40,000 EMI for a flat she calls "our nest," though it's mostly hers. A 10-year-old son, Anuj, now in Pune with my parents.

Twelve years into marriage... Kanika isn't the same woman I proposed to.

She's something far more dangerous now -- a goddess in cotton saree. A woman who knows her curves can command a room, even if the room is just our bedroom.

Her breasts, once modest and soft, have grown fuller with age and motherhood. Back then they were maybe 32B -- now, she proudly wears 36D. And they are magnificent. Heavy, firm, with a gentle hang that makes them press together even in the loosest blouse. The gold chain of her mangalsutra rests perfectly in her cleavage now, almost like a line dividing devotion and desire. When I see that sacred thread nestled between her breasts, soaked with the scent of her skin, I feel both shame and worship.

Her hips -- oh God, her hips. Once narrow, girlish, 34 inches maybe -- now they're closer to 40. Wide, queenly, with that walk... that arrogant sway that announces she doesn't need anyone's approval anymore. Her buttocks are no longer just "cute" -- they're thick, round, jiggling under her saree like temptation itself. When she bends to pick something from the floor, it's not gravity I fear -- it's the madness she stirs in my blood.

And me? I've changed too.

I'm no longer that lean office flirt who could lift her, twirl her, make her melt just with a kiss. I've become heavy -- 110 kilos. Years of stress, long hours, and whisky nights have carved softness where strength once lived. And worst of all... my erection isn't the man it used to be. Some nights it just sleeps. And when it doesn't, it's confused -- half up, half gone. But my mouth hasn't lost its power.

Now, I serve her like she's royalty.

I make her lie back, legs spread, nipples tight with anticipation, the golden curve of her waist catching the light. I bury my face between her thighs, inhale the warm musky perfume of her arousal, and let my tongue worship her. I lick her slowly at first -- around her labia, tracing her vulva, feeling every slick fold until her clit throbs under my tongue. I feel her hips start to move, her body thrusting forward, pressing her vagina hard against my lips.

She grabs my head like a command -- fingers tangled in my hair -- and rides my mouth with wet, milky thrusts. She moans low at first, then sharper, more desperate. When she screams my name, when her thighs squeeze around my face and her pussy floods with her hot love juice -- I don't feel like a loser. I feel like I've done my duty. Like a slave who's been allowed to taste heaven.

But lately... something's missing.

She doesn't kiss me like before.

Kanika used to grab my face in the middle of a makeout and devour my lips -- kiss me like she was drowning in love, in lust, in me. But now, even after the deepest nights of oral and orgasm, she turns her face away when I try to kiss her. Her lips stay closed. Her passion -- distant.

It reminded me of something we men used to say after spa visits back in the day. The call girls never kissed -- not on the lips. You could fuck them, they'd suck you, even smile sweetly after. But the kiss... that was off-limits. That was sacred. That was for someone they loved.

That thought haunts me now.

Has Kanika stopped loving me?

Or is there someone else who receives the part of her I can no longer reach?

I try not to ask. I try to believe that it's just routine, or kids, or life. But every time she turns her face away from my kiss, and every time she moans under my tongue but avoids my eyes after -- a voice in my head whispers the same thing:

"You're not her man anymore. You're just her servant."

And yet... I keep licking. Keep holding her buttocks in my palms like they're my world. Keep making her come until her thighs tremble. Because maybe, just maybe, through all this -- I'll find a way back into her heart.

It was Navratri -- the first Garba night in our housing society after two years of dull silence. Everyone was excited, especially Kanika. She'd spent an entire hour getting ready, and I hadn't seen her like that in a while. Not this eager. Not this alive.

When she finally stepped out of the bedroom, I froze.

She wasn't my wife anymore.

She was a firecracker wrapped in a deep-necked red chaniya choli, the blouse clinging to her heavy breasts like it had been stitched over them. The neckline plunged so low I could see the soft top of her cleavage -- and the black beads of her mangalsutra resting neatly between her breasts, swinging slightly with every move.

Her waist was bare -- smooth, soft, and glowing under the fairy lights. The choli barely covered her back, tied by thin golden strings that made her look younger, wilder, untamed. Her hips swayed under the heavy skirt as she turned to adjust her bangles -- her fleshy buttocks rolling under the fabric like ripe temptation. Her long curly hair, now colored with burgundy tints, fell over one shoulder. Her lipstick -- blood red.

She looked... dangerous.

And every boy noticed.

I saw the stares from across the courtyard -- boys barely 22, some in kurtas, some with open shirts and chains, all pretending to dance but never taking their eyes off her. Two of them whispered something and laughed. One said loud enough for me to hear:

"Aye bhai, teri bhabhi toh full item nikli, yaar..."

Another chimed in, licking his lips:

"Aisi bhabhiyo ke liye hi toh Garba attend karte hain."

I wanted to punch someone. But I didn't.

Because deep inside, I understood them.

Kanika twirled in the dance circle, her choli tightening as her arms went up -- those full breasts pushing out, her curves on full display under the swirling skirt. Her waist jiggled with each taali, and her face... that face wasn't shy or coy. It was proud. Arrogant. She knew she was the center of every man's hunger tonight.

I stood at the side, holding a glass of cold drink like a fool, 110 kilos of forgotten husband. I felt invisible.

Kanika caught my eye once. Smirked. Then turned back to her steps, her bangles chiming, her hips circling, her breasts bouncing softly under the blouse. She didn't come to stand beside me. Didn't ask if I was okay. She was lost in her zone -- a queen among her admirers.

One guy even dared to step into her circle during the raas moment. He was tall, young, shirt tight around his biceps. He twirled and clapped with her -- too close. When their dandiya sticks clicked, he winked. She didn't react. But she didn't step back either.

I felt the blood in my ears heat up.

After the dance, she walked back toward me -- sweat on her neck, her chest rising and falling. She took the glass from my hand, drank it in one gulp, the liquid slipping down her throat as I watched her mangalsutra bounce slightly.

Then she leaned close to my ear.

"Control yourself, Rakesh," she whispered, her voice sharp but sultry.

"I can feel your jealousy from here. Enjoy the view -- not everyone gets to sleep with the most wanted bhabhi tonight."

And she walked away, her buttocks swaying, hips rolling like slow fire.

I stood there -- half proud, half humiliated, and fully erect in a way that only helpless craving can create

Dinner time -- the usual chaos.

My mother was busy feeding Anuj near the food counters, and the whole society was buzzing near the pav bhaji and pulao stalls. I ate silently. No Kanika in sight. Her phone wasn't reachable. Typical.

My head was heavy, my chest tight. I slipped away with a cigarette -- my secret, one of the few things I still had control over. No one knew I smoked, not even Ma. I walked behind the colony's parking lane, where it was always quiet and half-dark. A known dead spot.

That's when I saw... movement.

Two silhouettes -- close, breathing into each other. A couple. Hugging. Kissing. I froze behind the scooter shed. The man's hand slipped under her chaniya choli, hiking it up as she giggled, gasped, then kissed him again, hard. Her leg lifted slightly -- he gripped her thigh. My heart was beating like a drum. My breath locked.

Then... a passing car on the flyover above threw its light through the railing slits -- just for a moment.

That moment shattered my soul.

It was Kanika.

My wife. omg

Pressed against the wall by Amardeep -- the 23-year-old Punjabi gym freak from our society. I had seen her laugh at his jokes. Praise his biceps during society workouts. But never thought...

She was holding his hard cock in her hand -- thick, long, veiny. She was stroking it, watching him in the eye. He was groping her breasts -- bare now, pulled out of that same tight choli she wore so confidently during Garba. He pinched her nipples, and she slapped his hand playfully, whispering something.

He kissed her and pointed her to go down and then she knelt.

Kanika -- my Kanika -- unzip his jeans and pulled it down to his knees and took his cock into her mouth like it was her right. No hesitation. No shame. Her head moved with rhythm, lips stretching around his shaft, eyes half closed like she was tasting something divine. Her hand gently cradled his balls. She sucked him like she owned him.

And all I could think was -- she never did that to me.

He moaned. Thrust gently into her mouth. She let him. She licked the underside, sucked the tip, teased him. he started pressing her against wall and thrust his cock in she took it all in. and then his rhythm begin holding her head, When he was about to cum, he pulled out -- aiming at her face.

But she stopped him. Whispered, "No baby, you'll ruin my makeup. Give it inside -- clean."

She took him back in -- just the tip -- and held it there while he grunted, climaxing into her mouth. Her hands on his thighs. Her body still. Like a ritual. Then she cleaned her lips with her dupatta corner. They adjusted their clothes, laughed, and casually walked out to join dinner like nothing happened.

I stayed hidden.

My cigarette had burned itself out. My hand was trembling. My heart... I don't know what it was anymore. Pain? Rage? Shame?

And yet...

I had an erection.

Not just a slight one -- a full, throbbing hard-on, pushing against my trousers, painfully stiff. Watching her do something so raw, so filthy, so confident -- watching her become someone else -- had turned me on in a way I didn't understand.

Maybe I had lost her.

Maybe I had never known her.

Maybe I was never worthy of her to begin with.

I stood there, alone in the dark...

And realized I had no idea who my wife really was.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Not because I was hurt. But because I was hard.

I kept thinking of her on her knees. Her lips wrapped around Amardeep's thick cock. That soft face of hers, glowing under streetlight -- her mouth, once mine, now dripping with his moan.

I walked into our bedroom.

She had already changed -- a soft nighty, thin cotton clinging to her thighs, one breast slipping out as she turned. Her back was to me. Her hips, those round buttocks I used to worship, were rising and falling with her slow breath.

I climbed onto the bed. Pressed my body against hers.

She stirred. "Hmm?"

I didn't speak. I kissed her neck. My hand ran over her breasts -- soft, heavy, warm. She mumbled something sleepy. I didn't stop. I turned her roughly toward me. And I kissed her. Hard. Possessive. Angry.

She resisted -- just a flicker. Her lips stayed shut. But I forced my tongue in -- thinking, this is the same mouth that was filled with him.

And I still wanted it.

More than ever.

She tasted like betrayal and mystery. And I devoured it.

I dropped down between her thighs. I didn't even wait for her approval. My tongue was hungry, mad, desperate -- swirling around her clit like I was reclaiming what was mine. She moaned eventually, her hand tightening on my hair, her hips rolling... not to stop me, but to use me.

She came. Loud. Shaking.

Moaning my name.

But I knew. That wasn't love. That was just a body breaking under pleasure.

I lay beside her after. Sweating. Angry. Lost.

I whispered, softly, dangerously, "Kanika... is there someone else you like?"

She stiffened.

Then turned to me like a blade. "How dare you?"

Her tone was sharp. Her eyes wide.

"You think I'd cheat on you? After everything I've given up? The house, the child, the years -- and now you ask me this?!"

I froze.

The same mouth that had just taken another man inside it was now yelling at me for doubting her.

I panicked. I folded. "Sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..."

She turned away, back to me. Silent.

I stayed up that night.

Staring at the ceiling.

My throat dry.

My chest heavier than ever.

And that image wouldn't leave --

Kanika... kneeling... swallowing... and then lying beside me like nothing happened.

I didn't want my marriage to break. So I told my friend Omkar, but disguised it -- said it was his cousin's story, not mine. He chuckled darkly and said, "Tell him to be careful... wives sometimes go too deep with their boyfriends. Even murder happens." That line stuck. Not the fear of death, but the fear of losing her. I went silent after that. Didn't tell Omkar anything more. Some things hurt more when spoken aloud.

It was past midnight. The flat was quiet. Our son and my mother was in Pune and here Kanika... was glowing in that thin satin nighty, lying sideways, her soft thigh peeking out, the loose strap falling off one shoulder. There was a relaxed mischief in her body that night -- like she wanted to be touched, but wouldn't ask.

I slid next to her. Kissed her neck.

She smiled faintly. "You've been behaving nice lately."

I didn't reply. My hand gently cupped her breast, thumb brushing her nipple through the nighty. "Baby... I have an idea," I whispered, voice low, lips hot on her ear. "A little roleplay... but only inside your head."

She raised an eyebrow. "Roleplay? Now what madness is this, Rakesh?"

I grinned. "You just lie back. Spread your legs. Let me lick you while I tell you a dirty story. You just... feel."

She laughed, almost in disbelief. "You're seriously going mad day by day."

I kissed down her stomach slowly. "Maybe. But let's see if madness works."

She sighed, shaking her head -- but her thighs opened.

I pulled her nighty up gently. Her vagina glistened softly in the dim lamp light, her scent hitting me like oxygen. I buried my face in it. Started slow. Tongue flat, warm. She shivered. Then gasped.

While my tongue circled her clit, I began.

"Imagine this, Kanika... You've joined the gym. You're in tight black yoga pants, sports bra. Amardeep is your trainer now. Young. Strong. Watching you squat from behind. His eyes are fixed on your buttocks, the way they move in rhythm..."

She inhaled sharply, her hips rising into my mouth.

"You ask him for help. He touches your hips to adjust your stance. Holds you longer. His fingers linger. And after gym, he says he'll give you... personal coaching. In the store room."

Kanika's moan was soft now, breath catching.

"He closes the door. You're sweating. He kneels behind you. His tongue slides up the inside of your thigh. You gasp. You tell him not to -- but he pushes your leggings down and licks your pussy from behind. Just like this."

I licked her deeper. My tongue faster now, swirling across her wet folds, circling the clit with timed pressure. Her hand flew to my hair, gripping tight.

"You bend forward. He slides his cock in you from behind. Thick. Long. He fucks you like a madman in that tiny gym store room. Your moans echo off dumbbells and mirrors."

Kanika's hips were shaking now. Her thighs tightening around my face. She wasn't protesting anymore.

"And when you're about to cum... he whispers in your ear, 'Say my name, bhabhi...' and you do. Loud."

Her whole body arched. A sharp gasp escaped her throat. Her fingers tugged my hair hard as she climaxed -- trembling under my tongue.

I didn't stop. I slowed, letting her ride it out, kissing her softly between her legs.

She lay still after. Sweaty. Quiet. Breathing uneven.

And then -- to my disbelief -- a few minutes later, she pulled my head back again, opened her thighs wider, and said just one thing.

"Tell me more."

It was two nights later. The society had gone quiet. Kanika said she was going for a short walk. Nothing unusual. Loose T-shirt. Grey trackpants hugging her hips. Hair casually tied. I nodded, but something in me stirred... and followed.

Up past the lifts. Onto the terrace. Behind the tanks.

The old maintenance cabin -- broken walls, rusted locks, half-forgotten by everyone.

Except them.

I froze behind a half-cracked door. My heart thudded in my throat.

There she was -- my wife -- on her knees. And he, Amardeep, shirtless, his jeans hanging dangerously low.

Her hands ran up his thighs, slow and teasing. "You really don't understand," she whispered, loud enough in the concrete echo. "I crave the feel of your hardness in my palm."

Amardeep chuckled, almost breathless. "You say things I only dreamt of, bhabhi..."

She looked up at him, her glasses slightly fogged, sweat at her collarbone. "You know why I like you?" she said, licking her lips. "Because you don't just have the body... you have that wild confidence. That cocky walk. That thick, warm cock I think about when I fake sleep beside my husband."

He swallowed hard. She pulled down his jeans, letting him spring free into the humid air. Her fingers wrapped around him. She kissed the head, slow and soft, and then licked down the shaft -- like worship.

She pressed her breasts against his legs, arched her back, and took him into her mouth slowly... deeper... inch by inch. Her cheeks hollowed, and she groaned from her throat, as if tasting something she'd missed for days.

Amardeep leaned back, moaning. His fingers gripped her shoulder.

She pulled off with a wet sound, eyes gleaming. "I love how heavy you feel on my tongue," she whispered, breath hot against his skin. "You stretch my lips... fill my mouth like you own it."

I gripped the wall to keep from falling.

She stroked him faster, kissed the shaft, cupped his balls gently, and smiled, "But you're not fucking me here. This place stinks. There's paint and dirt. I'm not letting your perfect dick touch me unless it's on a clean bed, with soap nearby and no chance of interruption."

He blinked, stunned. "Kanika..."

She stood, adjusting her hair, pulling her T-shirt straight. "I want to feel you inside me properly. And when I do it -- I'll make you lose your mind."

She kissed his cheek and walked out. Calm. Confident. Still hungry.

Amardeep zipped up slowly, still dazed.

And me -- I stayed back in the shadows.

Hard. Shattered. And strangely, burning with a hunger that I couldn't name.

After that night on the terrace... I knew it was only a matter of time.

Soon, she'd give herself completely to him.

And somewhere in that twisted mess, I didn't feel rage anymore.

I felt fear.

Not fear of her body going to someone else. But fear of her heart drifting so far... she'd never look back.

And fear that if this truth exploded the wrong way -- it would destroy us. Our son. Our home. Everything.

I couldn't lose her. Not like this.