For days, she toyed with him, her touches lingering, her sarees chosen to tease—low blouses, sheer fabrics, her curves a constant lure. She’d brush past him in the hallway, her hips grazing his, whispering, “Still dreaming of your dirty fantasy?” But Amit persisted, his pleas a nightly ritual. Over dinner, he’d say, “It’ll save us, Priya, bring us closer.” In bed, his fingers teasing her, he’d murmur, “Imagine him inside you, making you scream, me watching every second.” Her resistance crumbled, each “no” softer, her body responding to his words.
Finally, one night, beneath the creaking fan, her chemise hiked to her hips, sweat beading on her skin, she sighed, her breath warm against his ear. “Alright, Amit,” she said, smirking, her voice a sultry challenge. “Your madness, your man. Find him. But I’ll make you work for it.” Her words ignited a fire in his chest, the cuckold fantasy no longer a secret shame but a shared obsession. He imagined her beneath another’s hands, her moans a spectacle for his eyes, the fan’s shadows dancing like ghosts of the boundaries they were about to shatter.
Amit became a ghost in his own life, his days at the office a blur of numbers and chai breaks, his nights consumed by the flickering glow of their ancient laptop. The search for the man who would fulfill his cuckold fantasy was a descent into obsession, each click on Kolkata-based forums and discreet chatrooms a pulse of adrenaline. He scoured profiles, his palms slick with sweat, his glasses fogging as he leaned closer to the screen, the fan’s hum a constant drone. He curated a list of men, each a potential spark for Priya’s desire, and presented them to her over humid evenings, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of jasmine from her perfume.
The first profile was Vikram, a 34-year-old lawyer from Park Street, his photo showing a lean frame in a crisp suit, his smile polished but reserved. Amit sat beside Priya on the couch, the laptop balanced on his knees, his voice tentative. “He’s educated, successful, seems discreet,” he said, scrolling through Vikram’s bio, which boasted a love for literature and travel. Priya leaned in, her chemise slipping slightly, her eyes scanning the screen. She wrinkled her nose, her lips curling into a dismissive smirk. “Too boring,” she said, swatting the air, her bangles clinking. “He looks like he’d lecture me on Tagore before touching me. I want someone… exciting.” Amit’s throat tightened, her rejection sharp but fueling his determination, his fantasy urging him on.
Next was Arjun, a 30-year-old IT consultant from Howrah, his profile picture a shirtless selfie, his toned chest glistening with sweat, a gym rat’s pride evident. “He’s fit, confident,” Amit said, his fingers trembling as he clicked through Arjun’s photos, one showing him on a motorcycle, his grin cocky. Priya sipped her tea, her eyes narrowing, her foot tapping impatiently. “Too young,” she declared, leaning back, her chemise riding up her thigh. “He’s probably all talk, no experience. I don’t want a boy playing games.” Her tone was final, her rejection a blade that cut through Amit’s hope, but her playful glance suggested she was testing him, enjoying the process.
He tried again days later, showing her Sameer, a 38-year-old restaurateur from New Market, his profile exuding charm: a bearded face, a warm smile, photos of him in his upscale eatery, apron tied low. “He’s mature, owns a business,” Amit said, his voice hopeful, the laptop’s glow casting shadows on Priya’s face. She studied Sameer’s photos, her lips pursing, then shook her head. “He’s too… ordinary,” she said, her voice laced with disdain. “I want someone who stands out, not a cook who smells of curry all day.” Her rejection stung, her standards a mystery, but Amit pressed on, his arousal spiking at her pickiness, imagining her with the perfect man.
One humid night, after a whiskey-fueled argument about their stagnating marriage, Amit showed her Rehan Malik’s profile. At thirty-five, Rehan was a gym trainer from Dum Dum, his profile picture a study in quiet power: broad shoulders straining a white kurta, a neatly trimmed beard framing a jaw that could cut glass, dark eyes smoldering with intensity. His bio hinted at wealth—a chain of gyms, a sleek black SUV in the background of photos, a gold watch glinting on his wrist. “What about him?” Amit asked, his voice low, his pulse racing as he watched Priya’s reaction. She leaned closer, her breath catching, her eyes widening as she scrolled through Rehan’s photos: one in a tailored suit, another lifting weights, his muscles rippling, a third at a rooftop bar, exuding affluence. “He’s… different,” she murmured, her voice soft, her fingers lingering on the screen, tracing his image. “Strong, confident… maybe.” Her lips parted, a flush creeping up her neck, her attraction palpable.
Amit’s chest tightened, a flicker of doubt sparking. Rehan’s wealth was evident—the SUV, the watch, the gym chain—and Priya’s eyes sparkled in a way they hadn’t for the others. “You like him because he’s rich, don’t you?” Amit asked, half-teasing, half-probing, his glasses slipping down his nose. Priya laughed, swatting his arm, her bangles clinking. “Don’t be silly, Amit,” she said, her tone playful but evasive. “He’s just… the right fit. Looks like he knows what he wants.” Her smirk was coy, her eyes avoiding his, and Amit’s doubt grew, a nagging whisper that her choice was driven by Rehan’s affluence, not just his physique. But his cuckold fantasy surged, the image of Priya with a man like Rehan—powerful, wealthy, commanding—overriding his suspicion. He pushed the doubt aside, arousal clouding his judgment, nodding. “Alright, I’ll message him,” he said, his voice hoarse, the fan’s shadows dancing like specters of his surrender.
