Babar slammed the front door behind him, the echo bouncing off the walls of their quirky suburban house—the one with the mismatched furniture they'd scavenged from garage sales over the years. His tie was already loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, and his face carried that tight-jawed look from another endless day at the office. Meetings that dragged on like bad jokes, a boss who micromanaged every email, and traffic that turned a short commute into a personal hell. He kicked off his shoes in the hallway, not bothering with the rack, and headed straight for the kitchen.
Uzma was there, stirring something on the stove, her hips swaying slightly to the faint hum of a podcast playing from her phone. She wore a simple tank top and shorts, the kind that hugged her curves without trying too hard, her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail. After thirteen years of marriage, she could read Babar like an open book. The way he exhaled sharply, the slump in his shoulders—it all screamed stress. She glanced over her shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips. She knew exactly what he needed. Not dinner first, not small talk about the day. Something to unwind him, to make him feel seen and wanted, even if it came with a twist he secretly craved.
"Hey, tough day?" she asked, turning off the burner and wiping her hands on a towel. Her voice was casual, but her eyes lingered on him, assessing.
Babar leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. "You could say that. Feels like the world's piling on."
Uzma stepped closer, her bare feet padding softly on the tile. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. "I get it. But I've got you. Come on, let's get you out of these clothes." She didn't wait for a response, tugging at his shirt buttons with efficient fingers. Babar let her, the simple act of her taking charge already easing the knot in his gut. It was their rhythm—her leading, him following, especially on days like this.
They moved to the living room, where afternoon sun filtered through the half-open blinds, casting warm stripes across the worn leather couch. Uzma pushed him down onto it gently but firmly, her hands working his belt free. "Stay put," she murmured, her tone playful yet commanding. Babar nodded, watching as she knelt between his legs, her fingers unzipping his pants. She pulled them down along with his boxers, exposing him to the air. He was already half-hard, the anticipation building from her touch alone. Uzma stayed fully dressed, a dynamic they both enjoyed—her in control, him bare and vulnerable. It made every sensation sharper, more intense.
She wrapped her hand around his cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke. Babar groaned, his head falling back against the cushions. Uzma's grip was perfect, not too tight at first, just enough to tease the length of him. She knew his body inside out, every sensitive spot, every rhythm that drove him wild. But this wasn't going to be straightforward. Not today. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his thigh, and started talking, her voice low and teasing.
"You know, Babar, I remember the last time you came home like this," she said, her hand sliding up to the head of his dick, thumb circling the tip where a bead of pre-cum was already forming. "That handjob I gave you, right here on this couch. You melted into it, didn't you? All that stress just... gone." Her words wove in memories subtly, reminding him of how good she was at this, how she always knew.
Babar's eyes met hers, a spark of excitement in his gaze. He loved when she brought up their past encounters, especially the ones laced with her favorite game. "Yeah," he breathed, his hips shifting slightly under her touch.
Uzma's smile turned wicked. She pumped him harder now, her fist gliding down to the base, squeezing just enough to make him twitch. "But let's be real. You're not the biggest I've had my hands on." She paused, letting the words hang, watching his reaction. Babar's cock throbbed in her grip, betraying how much the humiliation turned him on. It was their thing—her dirty talk, comparing him to others, making him feel small in the best way. He nodded, urging her on without words.
"Take my ex-husband, for instance," Uzma continued, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she stroked him deliberately slowly, drawing out the pleasure. "God, that man had a cock that could make you forget your own name. Eight inches, easy—at least when it was fully hard. Thick, too, like it could stretch you to your limits. And those balls? Heavy, full, hanging low like they were made for breeding." She emphasized each word with a twist of her wrist, her hand slick now from his arousal. Babar let out a low moan, his hands gripping the couch edges.
She leaned back slightly, eyeing his erection critically, as if measuring it. "Yours is what, five inches on a good day? Maybe six if I really work it." Her tone was matter-of-fact, laced with that teasing edge she knew he craved. "But his? It dwarfed yours, Babar. I'd wrap my fingers around it and barely close my hand. Yours fits so nicely in my palm, though—cute, almost." She sped up her strokes, the long, hard pulls making wet sounds in the quiet room. Babar's breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving.
Uzma didn't let up, her free hand trailing up his thigh, nails lightly scraping the skin. "He'd fuck me for hours, you know? That thick dick pounding away, filling me up in ways I still dream about sometimes." The cuckold edge crept in, her words painting vivid pictures of her past. Babar imagined it—her with another man, moaning under a bigger cock—and it only made him harder, his shaft pulsing in her relentless grip. She was building him up, layer by layer, the humiliation fueling the fire.
"You're getting so stiff now," she observed, her hand flying faster, twisting at the top to rub over the sensitive underside. "Does hearing about his big balls turn you on? How they'd slap against me while he railed me from behind? Yours are nice, Babar—tight and eager—but his were like pendulums, swinging with every thrust." She rated him openly now, her voice a sultry drawl. "On a scale of one to ten, yours is a solid six. Functional, fun. But his? A ten. A fucking monster that owned every inch of my pussy."
Babar's face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and raw lust. He loved this—Uzma in charge, stripping him bare not just physically but emotionally, making him feel desired through the tease. "Fuck, Uzma," he gasped, his hips bucking into her hand.
She chuckled softly, slowing her pace to edge him, her fingers barely grazing the length before squeezing the base hard. "Oh, I know you love it. That's why I do it. Remember that time in the bedroom, sun streaming in, when I told you about how he used to make me squirt? You came so fast after that." The memory slipped in naturally, tying back to their shared history, heightening the intimacy. She resumed the long strokes, her arm working steadily, building that delicious pressure in his groin.
Uzma shifted on her knees, her tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of her midriff. She was still clothed, fully in control, while Babar lay exposed, his cock glistening from her efforts. "Imagine if he walked in right now," she whispered, leaning forward so her lips brushed his ear. "Seeing me jerk you off like this, knowing his dick ruined me for anyone smaller. You'd watch, wouldn't you? Let him take over, show you how a real man does it." The cuckold fantasy wove deeper, her words dripping with filth. Babar's mind raced with the image—her ex's massive cock sliding into her while he stroked himself, humiliated and aroused.
Her handjob intensified, long and hard now, no mercy. She alternated speeds—fast pumps that made his balls tighten, then slow drags that prolonged the torment. Pre-cum leaked steadily, lubing her palm, the slick friction driving him wild. "His cock was so veiny, Babar—thick ridges that hit every spot inside me. Yours is smoother, easier to handle. But fuck, it's hot how you get off on being second best." She rated it again, playfully cruel. "Length-wise, you're half his. But you make up for it with how desperate you get."
Babar was close, his body tensing, but Uzma knew his tells. She slowed just enough to keep him on the brink, her dirty talk relentless. "He'd cum buckets, too—hot loads that overflowed. You'd love to see that, hear me beg for more from a bigger dick." The room filled with the sounds of her hand working him, his moans mixing with her teasing whispers. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the sun warming his skin as the pleasure coiled tighter.
She built him back up, her grip unyielding, strokes pulling from root to tip with expert pressure. "You're mine, though," she added, a softer note creeping in amid the humiliation. "My little-cocked husband who loves every word." Babar nodded frantically, lost in the sensation, the cuckold thrill pushing him higher.
Uzma's pace quickened, her hand a blur now, focusing on the head with twisting motions that made stars burst behind his eyelids. She talked him through it, voice steady. "Think about his eight inches stretching my pussy wide, Babar. How I'd ride him until I couldn't walk. Yours gets me wet thinking about it, but his owned me." The comparisons fueled his arousal, every dirty detail etching into his mind.
Finally, as his body arched, she pushed him over the edge with a final, hard series of strokes. Babar cried out, his release hitting him in waves, spilling hot and thick over her hand and onto his stomach. Uzma milked him through it, drawing out every pulse, her eyes locked on his face, watching the relief wash over him.
She sat back on her heels, wiping her hand on a nearby tissue, a satisfied grin on her face. Babar panted, boneless and spent, the stress of the day evaporated. Uzma crawled up beside him, pulling him into her arms, her clothed body pressing against his naked one. "Feel better?" she asked, kissing his temple.
"God, yes," he murmured, turning to nuzzle her neck. "You're incredible."
Uzma laughed, light and genuine. "I know. Now, how about I make that dinner? Or... round two?" Her hand trailed down his chest teasingly, already stirring interest.
Babar smirked, pulling her closer. "Dinner can wait." In that moment, wrapped in her warmth, he felt not just relaxed, but utterly alive—thirteen years in, and she still knew exactly how to make their world spin.