This is an account of true events, and you may find it slow and long. I recommend reading from the beginning if you are to understand how and why the sex comes in. Names have been changed to protect privacy :)
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My name is James. I have always been a cuckold. Some people think it is an event. I don't believe that. I think I was born with it, it's just that I realised it much later. Even before I got married, I had thoughts of watching my wife with another man. Watching her enjoying forbidden fruit. Watching her sharing the intimacy that was rightfully mine with another man, right in our marital bed. I used to watch porn and imagine the female to be my wife and the man to be someone else - a neighbour, a stranger, a friend.
I grew up in a modest but happy home in a small suburb of North Mumbai. My father owned a music shop that sold everything from audio cassettes (which were all the rage in the 90s) to instruments. He was a conscientious man. He went to church, loved his beer and feni, and adored his family and friends. As far as I can remember, I have never known him to be angry, rude or violent towards anyone...until earlier this year.
My mother died from cancer when I was six. I remember feeling a scary jolt, but the truth is that everything after that is hazy. It is difficult to express; while I obviously wish she were alive and I had known her, I just don't recall feeling that something was missing in my life. My father who loved her madly, should have been broken. Instead he transferred all of that love to me. He was there when I woke up and had to go to school. He was there to pick me up. He cooked all my meals himself and was there to tuck me into bed. When I was older, I learned that he had hired a helper at the shop and was driving an auto rickshaw at night. A bully at school mocked me for it, but instead of being ashamed it was at that moment I resolved that I would do anything to give my father everything he wished for.
That was then, I am twenty five now and picked up right out of management school by one of the largest business consulting companies in the world. It did help that I was in the top ten of my class. Like all conventional Indian parents, last year my father suggested I should get married. I told him I would if he would move out to a larger house, one that my company was willing to finance. I wanted him to be more comfortable and live lavishly. In hindsight I should regret that suggestion, but I really don't. More on that soon.
Mousami and I have been in love since I was in college. She was a new neighbour then and we liked each other from the time we first met at the grocers. She was funny, kind, wild, and extremely beautiful. To her, borrowing my friend's car so we could have sex in the backseat was not dirty, but fun! So as soon as my father and I moved into our new house, I popped the question and we got married in early January this year and had a short but lovely honeymoon in Goa. We came back with a lot of cashew feni for dad. And that is when everything started going downhill.
My father had always loved his beer, but I had never seen him drunk or staggering. Not that he could hold much, but he was always too much of a gentleman. Maybe it was moving out of his and mom's house, maybe it was seeing my marital life (and I admit, we might have been a bit too cuddly in his presence), he grew morose and silent. He barely went to the shop which he had insisted on keeping. He drank and passed out every night, sometimes in the living room. It seemed like all the tears he had buried were coming out in a tidal wave. He never openly cried; I just happened to see him once. He would barely eat anything for days except while he was drinking. If he ever stayed sober he couldn't stop throwing up whatever he ate. Whenever I pleaded with him, he screamed at me to go away. I tried asking my wife to give him some food, and he turned her down too though he never shouted at her. Twice we had to hospitalize him. This amazing man, who had put his life and soul into raising me and giving me a good life, was withering away in my plain sight. It was maddening and I felt impotent. We'd called his friends, we'd called his brother who graciously came all the way from Goa. Nothing had worked.
One night in March, my face was buried in my wife's soft snatch. I say soft but it is really velvet. She has symmetrical lips, trimmed hair, and the sweetest smell in the world. She was bucking her hips wildly, urging me to lick deeper. I did what i do best, I slide my middle finger, which is the longest, into her and touched her velcro-like g-spot. She began whimpering and shaking.
"Baby...Jamie baby...fuck shit..."
She was grabbing my hair and humping my face wildly, about to cum, when...
We heard a glass shatter. We'd have been alarmed if this hadn't been happening regularly for the last few days. Mousami asked me to stop. Knowing she was very close I continued, trying to bring her to an orgasm, but she pushed me away.
"Please, this doesn't feel right."
I looked up at her.
"I'm sorry baby. I feel guilty making love right now when he is so upset."
"Ok sweetheart, let me go talk to him."
