My marriage meant me quitting my job and moving out to a new city. My husband, with the help of his parents, had bought a new house. But we had to wait for ten more months to get possession of the keys to our apartment, as the building was in the final stages of its construction. That meant renting a smaller flat in the distant suburbs to save money. The two of us already had too many uncertainties in our new life, so I decided against applying for a new job. At least until we moved to our own home.
With my husband away at work, I had abundance of time to spare everyday, but living in an underdeveloped part of the town I had few amenities to spend it on. This resulted in most of it being squandered doing nothing. But I couldn’t complain. It was a fresh marriage with an understanding and caring man.
I was never a fan of reading and there was only so much of television that I could watch. I didn’t really hit it off with the other women in my building. Unsurprisingly, sitting around all day in the house began to show on my bones. So I decided to make use of the nearby national park. For walks. For long, lonely walks to occupy my head and trim my frame. And, thus, a routine was born.
Everyday at 5 in the evening I went for a walk in the nearby national park. On my lucky days I spotted a monkey, snake, bird or a giant frog. On my luckier days I got to entertain a playful dog. To challenge myself, I stretched my path, every few days. I even discovered newer territories with every muddy fork that came my way. One such diversion was ‘R’.
It was the third week of my routine, when I first spotted him selling peanuts. He looked like every other peanut seller I had met before; friendly and persuasive in just the right amounts to sell his nut-filled paper cone. For the first few days our conversations were made up of only monosyllables necessary to exchange his goods for my money. A cone of *shengdana* for two rupees. The proverbial ice between us was broken one day by a couple, storming out in opposite moods. She was stomping ahead in a steaming rage, followed by her man pleading her to stop.
R and I both spontaneously smirked and shook our heads at the squabbling teens who had departed. He quickly quipped how it was the usual for him. I laughed and said, ‘Yeah’ or something to that effect, before I enquired about his business out of sheer politeness. A small talk until he prepared a cone. Apparently, business was fairly good. Who knew enclosures of densely packed shrubs and trees could host so many people? Couples, he said, were his main income. After the park would close at 7, he would shift to the nearby railway station to feed the folks returning home from work. I showed him that I was impressed, again out of sheer politeness, and that was our first real conversation.
In the coming few days we had lot more such small talks. In those, I got his name and he was satisfied with knowing me as just ‘madam’. I came to know about his village, while he never dared to ask about my apartment building. I came to know about his family of seven back home while he refrained from asking about mine. It was clear that he needed me for his 2 Rupees, and like a good peanut seller he continued to be friendly and persuasive without ever being pushy. Sometimes he would tell me a tiny tale or a quick anecdote, and I would spend a little while longer with him. By long, I mean couple of more minutes.
Most of his anecdotes revolved around couples fighting in the park or being troubled by the monkeys. And in most of those tales featured the area behind *Toota Killa* (broken fort), an apparent hotspot for young lovers. A spot that in time aroused my curiosity.
It took me a couple of days to establish where that place exactly was. It took me few more days on top of that to muster enough courage to walk up to it. To my disappointment it wasn’t much of a fort. Just several half-broken, stone walls standing besides each other, like withered old warriors in a giant huddle, patiently waiting for the green coffins to creep over them forever. My brain, goaded by a misguided sense of adventure, was delighted of my hard-earned discovery. But before I could stamp my foot, like a proud explorer, on the site, a couple popped out from the nearby shrubs. Scared and embarrassed, I put on the most unconvincing act of being lost, and rushed away.
I returned to the spot three days later, braver and more cautious. I explored the ‘Killa’, and through the holes featuring on its decaying walls I could see a sea of green below and beyond, splintered with muddled nerves of thin, dusty roads. You could hide several bodies in each of those green clusters. No wonder it was a perfect spot for lovers seeking privacy in a madly, crowded city.
It was through one of those small holes that I spotted a couple sitting under a tree at a distance. I could only see parts of them, through the green maze. As the girl vigilantly canvassed the area around her, the boy, whose face I couldn’t see, groped both her breasts over her *Punjabi dress*. Intermittently she pulled her *dupatta* down to cover his frisky hands, but the cloth kept rising up. It weirdly excited me, seeing those hands squeezing her breasts and pinching at the nipples from time to time.
She then stood up, turned around, lowered her pajama, and quickly sat in his lap. While I could see her back, tightly embraced within his arms, moving up and down, I couldn’t see anything else. I desperately moved to the other small holes on the walls, but I could only see green shrubs or trees through them. Returning to the first hole I resumed my watch. I couldn’t believe that I was actually witnessing someone have sex, even though all I saw was a clothed back, a pair of arms and a pony tail bouncing vertically. I had never ever seen someone else have sex in person before, and the sight was exhilarating. Flushed with sweat, my teeth gnawed on my *pallu*, as I felt wet in my knicker and my knees going weak.
It was only when the couple finished moving that I came out of a blur, realising that I could be caught being a creep. I quickly stepped out of the Killa, almost stumbling down few times, and rushed towards the exit. I could hear my heart rapidly echoing inside of me, as I finally arrived onto the main road of the park, passing by the few evening walkers and even R. He tried to get me to buy a cone, but I waved my hand to say no and darted out through the exit.
I only relaxed when I reached the safe confines of my home. My sweaty mess slouched on the sofa and allowed my breathing to slow down under the fast rotating fan. But only for few minutes, as my mind replayed the images of the couple and their act. I knew what I had to do. I pulled at my saree, but the damn thing wouldn’t come off. In frustration, I hoicked it up and thrust my fingers over my knicker. I felt a crusty layer in the centre; the dried remains of an outburst. I pulled my knicker aside and began masturbating, while squeezing my breast with the other hand. I imagined myself and my husband having unhinged sex in the park, just like the couple. My blouse and bra undone; his head lost between my chest; my petticoat gathered around my waist; my saree spread over the ground and my knicker lowered and stretched between my knees. I burst so wildly that it even left wet stains on my petticoat, but thankfully not the couch.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had so much joy out of masturbation, but somehow I still wasn’t content. All through the evening while cooking dinner, I could only think about that couple.
My husband, after a hard day at work, wasn’t feeling well that night, fighting off tiredness and acidity. But I didn’t care. I coaxed him into sex by rubbing his penise while he tried to sleep, and he eventually gave in. The sex wasn’t special that night, and yet somehow it was. Still it wasn’t enough. As my husband’s snores announced themselves to the world, I began to masturbate again – except this time I was having sex with the faceless man from the park. He was squeezing my breasts and pinching my nipples. He took me in his lap, on the ground and even against the tree, ripping my saree, pulling my hair, slapping my butt and biting my shoulder. He did me like no other man had ever done me in my dreams – better than all my favourite heroes, my crushes and even my accounts professor. It was the best dream sex that I ever had, and the result showed on my nightie and bedsheet.
There was only one thing I wanted to do, when I woke up the next day. A visit to the Killa, and I couldn’t wait for the clock to strike 5. I left home at 3:30 itself, not caring for the brutal afternoon sun. I was full of excitement, but despite spending 2 and half hours at the Killa, I got nothing to witness. I did spot couples entering into the greens, but also disappearing amongst it. I checked every hole, but none of it had anything to show. My misfortune continued for the next 4-5 days.
It was only on the sixth day that I caught some action. A shy girl allowing her man to suck one of her breasts for few seconds, before giving him an awkward handjob. For me, however, it was more than enough. It made my evening and night, and my husband’s too.
In the following month of my twisted routine, I caught three couples having sex, a blowjob, five handjobs, and several instances of clothed groping and kissing. I would buy two cones of peanuts from R, sneak towards the Killa and wait in it’s innermost corner. I would roughly spend one and a half to two hours in it everyday, monitoring the holes and the spectacles beyond them. On the days I got lucky, I would have a blast with my own self in the evening, picturing myself in the girl’s place, and then at night with my husband. Life, in a weird kind of way, couldn’t be more exciting for me. And then came that fateful day of May.
I bought cones from R and went to the Killa, like always. And within 20 minutes a couple arrived and began to instantly go at it. She lifted her T-shirt and bra allowing him to fondle and kiss her breasts.
I was so engrossed in the spectacle, that I almost missed hearing a soft crunch. But in the following second, however, a part of my mind made a serious note of it. Never had a second felt so long in my life, as I realised within it that the soft crunch was the sound of dried leaves being stepped on by something; possibly the feet of a human being. It meant I was caught, and that I would be humiliated.
I looked to the side and my fears were realised. I was horrified to see R. But worse was seeing the smirk on his face. It was the smirk of a man who knew what I was doing. I dropped the cones, and grabbed the pallu to cover my shameful mouth that uttered the faintest ‘Sorry’. I looked away to the ground and moved towards the exit, but he quickly moved to the side and blocked it. I stepped back and looked at his face, that nudged me to look below.
I followed his gaze towards his hands, which lifted and parted his *lungi*. They lowered his underwear and pulled out his penise, which he began to stroke. I looked at his face, that continued to smile at me. He winked at me, before his eyes again urged me to look down, at his erect penise, and I did.
I was scared and unsure, but instead of running or making an attempt to run, I was transfixed by his penise. It wasn’t the biggest and quite hairy, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off it.
Sensing my interest, he stepped towards me and stood in front of me. His eyes urged me to hold his penise, but I didn’t. I simply stared at his face and the hard organ that was now grazing on my saree. He grabbed my hand and placed it on his penise. It was warm and faintly throbbing on its side, as if it was serenading me with the tune of his eager heart. As I slowly pulled on it, my thumb came upon its tip that squeezed out a tiny droplet. I rubbed that slimy precum against my forefinger, and it seeped and disappeared into and over my skin. I pulled few more times, before opening my palm and running my fingers in his pubic hair. They were dense, rough and sweaty. I slowly moved onto his balls, but he grabbed my hand and placed it back on his penise.
He moved my pallu aside and unbuttoned my blouse, before lifting up my bra, allowing the pair to drop down. He quickly covered them with his hands, squeezing them in all possible directions. His head dived onto my neck, where he planted several kisses and some generous licks. His mouth ascended and covered my lips with his, before parting them wide open to leave behind a strong taste of tobacco all over my tongue and teeth.
I wanted him to continue squeezing my breasts, but he lifted his hands and grabbed my head from the sides to hold it still, to allow his tongue to slide deeper. And it did, like a thick, wet, slightly rustic python, slithering in my mouth, desperate to dive into my throat, as if a delicious prey was hiding in my fleshy burrow.
My head remained pinned by his mouth, as his hands descended below and lifted my saree. When he pushed himself on me, I felt the damp tip of his penise, wildly swaying like a blind man’s stick, drawing thin, wet lines on my thighs. Realising what he wanted I came to his aid, by holding my saree and petticoat up, and lowering my knicker. He tried to enter me, but couldn’t. I tried to guide his penise, but somehow it changed directions right when it arrived near the welcoming entrance. It quickly dawned to us, that we weren’t made for the wall.
He gestured towards the floor, but I remained unmoved, apprehensive of laying on a dirty surface. He realised my concerns, and jumped off me to grab all the papers from his basket. The squares of newspaper meant for cones were quickly arranged into a long makeshift mat. He laid a cloth over it, that usually held his basket. Feeling assured of the arrangement, I took off my knicker and placed it in his basket.
He grabbed me and laid me down on the improvised carpet. I lifted my saree and petticoat, and spread my thighs, exposing my vagina that was met by his approving smile. I smiled back, as he laid on top of me. This time he didn’t miss. He went right in. It hurt for a fleeting moment, in the best possible way, and then it felt better. A kind of better that we all know but simply can’t put into words.
I grabbed his moist head and brought his lips near mine. I fell in love with that taste of tobacco and musky sweat this time. We kissed again as he repeatedly thrust.
As my world began to spin, our mouths and bodies remained interlinked, within our minds interlinked. Within one moment. And greedily grinding against the ground, two hungry fleshes played.
He lasted for only a couple of minutes, finishing with the warm slime flooding inside of me. And it gushed out of me, when he pulled his penise out. It was short and quick, but it was by far the greatest sex I ever had.
He stayed on top of me for a minute, before sliding to the side. I dipped my hand below and felt his semen dripping out of my vagina. I collected as much as I could in my fingers and raised my hand up. My fingers were a shiny sight, hoisting several layers of translucent, white curtains between them.
That’s when he sat up and grabbed my knicker from his basket. He used it to wipe his penise, my fingers and then my vagina. He caught me looking at him, and I smiled as our frantic breathing began to subside. But his eyes had already moved to my breasts.
He tucked my knicker under my side, and grabbed my breasts. But before his hands could begin squeezing them, I used mine to hold my nipples between my fingers, pinching and twirling them. He instantly followed the cue, but his fingers were harsher than mine. I moaned in pain, as he pinched and pulled my nipples up, slightly raising my breasts. I quickly grabbed his hands to return them back. He moved closer and transferred the custody of my left nipple to his wet mouth, that was kinder and warmer than his digits. It soothed my bruised nipple by sucking the pain out of it. He showed the same affection to my right, before sliding to the side and lifting my right leg.
I knew what was about to come. I had felt his penise, that was resting on my thigh while he sucked my nipples, slowly hardening. He tried to enter from the side, but he couldn’t arrange the alignment.
Like before, I suggested a different approach, by turning over and climbing on top of him. He approved the change of position by lifting my saree and petticoat, allowing me to bend forward and guide his penise in. It was my time to make an effort. At every bounce I felt his sweaty, hairy groin. A moist, cold touch on the outside with a warm, squisher thrust on the inside – synchronised in perfection to the rhythmic melody of body slaps. This time he ploughed for a little longer, but the burst inside felt considerably less. As I slumped on his profusely sweaty chest, my frame twitched in ecstasy.
We laid in a wet embrace for several minutes, until I decided to move. As I stood up, his penise slipped out like a lifeless cork, draining with it his semen on his groin. I quickly lifted my saree and petticoat away, to save them from the stains, but I couldn’t save all my clothes. Like before, he causally grabbed by knicker and wiped his penise and groin with it.
I moved to the side to pee. Mindful of the fact that he was watching me, I made sure that he received an unobstructed view. He grinned in enjoyment from start to finish. I returned to the mat to pick up my knicker, but he grabbed my hand, while gently stroking his penise, and pulled me towards him. But suddenly he released my hand, and turned to the side. He was no longer stroking his penise, and instead holding it with both his hand, while faintly moaning in pain. It seemed his friend was too tired and had rebelled. As he tried to calm his knackered partner, with his back to me, I quickly mended my saree. I pulled my damp knicker up my legs, and felt cold, sticky pats on my thighs, butt and vagina.
I didn’t wait for him to turn around, let alone say any goodbyes. I darted out of the Killa and eventually onto the main road of the national park, that was filling up with the evening crowd. Suddenly, I felt conscious of each and every one of them, and their glances towards me. My head was quickly flooded with many questions. Could they tell? Do they know? Were my clothes or I a visible mess? But I didn’t ponder on those doubts. I pulled my pallu over my head and raced to my home.
The questions only grew louder, once I locked myself indoors. I had inadvertently let in the fears and guilt. I rushed to the bathroom to wash my clothes and myself, and alongwith it I lost all the joy and excitement.
It took my heart few days to calm down, during which I never stepped out of my house, scared that I would run into R. Scared that he would want more. Scared that our secret would come out.
It was only after few weeks that my fears completely evaporated, allowing my mind to revisit that day without worrying about the consequences. I rarely stepped out of the house after that day, and when I did I would wear a Punjabi dress and use my dupatta to cover my face. Eventually we left the suburbs to settle into our new home.
I have been happily married for seventeen years now, and things have substantially changed. The only thing remaining from that day in May is the knicker, washed clean of its stains but not the memories. I never wore it again since, but have often used it when I am alone.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/im3wkj/wife_nutted_mf