Encounter with my neighbor

The invitation for the following Friday arrived in a different way.
My neighbour did not send a message this time. She came to my flat herself, still in her office sari, and stood in my doorway with a small, knowing smile.
“The senior officers’ wives are coming,” she said. “Three of them. Their husbands know. Two of them already watched the last video. They want to be in the next one.”
She stepped closer, reached down, and cupped me through my trousers.
“Wear the bridal set,” she murmured. “The red one. They want to see you like that.”
I spent the afternoon transforming completely. The heavy red bridal lehenga with gold embroidery. The tight blouse that forced the 44D forms high and full. The full set of bridal jewelry—maang tikka, heavy necklace, stacks of bangles, anklets. The long black wig. Perfect bridal makeup: arched brows, dark kohl, glowing skin, deep red lipstick, the small nose ring. When I looked in the mirror I looked like a bride who had been dressed for a wedding night that would never be ordinary.
At eight o’clock I walked the short corridor to her flat. The door opened before I could knock.
The living room was crowded.
All four of the original wives.
Their three husbands.
And three new women—senior officers’ wives, elegant, confident, in their early-to-mid forties, already watching me with open hunger. Behind them stood two more men I recognized from the plant’s administrative block. One of them was already hard in his trousers.
The tripods were set up. Three phones this time. All of them recording.
My neighbour took my hand and led me into the center of the room.
“This is her,” she said simply.
They undressed me in layers for the cameras. First the veil. Then the heavy necklace. The blouse was opened slowly, the breast forms spilling free under the warm lights. When the lehenga was unwrapped and the soft panty drawn down, my cock sprang out, thick and already leaking. One of the new wives—the tallest, with a small diamond nose ring—reached out and stroked it once, openly, while the cameras captured everything.
They put me on my knees first.
The mechanical engineer stepped forward and fed his cock into my mouth while one of the senior officers’ wives held a phone close, filming the way my red lipstick smeared along his shaft. Behind me, the chemist coated himself with gel and pushed into my ass in one long, steady stroke. The dual invasion made me moan around the cock in my mouth. The wives surrounded us—hands on the breast forms, fingers in my hair, soft instructions to look at the cameras, to keep my eyes open, to let them see every expression.
They rotated me between the men with deliberate care.
I was placed on my back on the joined mattresses. One of the new wives—full-figured, in a green silk sari that was quickly removed—sank down onto my cock, facing the main camera so every wet inch of me disappearing inside her was clearly visible. At the same time the accounts officer pushed into my ass, fucking me in deep, heavy thrusts that made the bridal jewelry chime. The tall senior wife straddled my face, lowering her cunt onto my mouth, while the remaining women stroked, kissed, and made sure every angle was recorded.
The room filled with wet sounds and low voices.
“Look at the camera when you come.”
“Take it deeper.”
“Hold her hips so they can see.”
I came first, flooding the woman riding me while the man in my ass groaned and followed, pulsing hot cum deep inside me. The cameras caught every spurt, every tremor, every smear of red lipstick and bridal makeup.
They were far from finished.
I was turned onto my hands and knees again. One of the new husbands—the quieter senior officer—knelt behind me and entered my already-slick hole while his wife lay beneath me so I could fuck her in long, deep strokes. The original wives held the phones close, filming the exact place where his cock stretched me and the place where I sank into his wife. The other men took turns with my mouth. Cum streaked my chin, the breast forms, the gold embroidery of the bridal blouse that still hung open around me.
At one point my neighbour made me sit up on my knees so all five men could stand around me. I stroked two cocks while sucking a third. The wives filmed everything—the way I looked up through kohl-lined eyes, the way the bridal jewelry swayed, the way I opened my mouth and let them finish across my tongue and the heavy breast forms.
By the time the recording finally stopped, the bridal lehenga was ruined, my makeup was destroyed, and I was dripping with the combined evidence of every person who had used me.
My neighbour picked up one of the phones, reviewed the footage, and smiled that private smile.
“This one is almost an hour,” she said softly. “They’ll be watching it for weeks.”
She leaned down and kissed me, tasting everything that was still on my lips.
“Next Friday,” she murmured against my mouth, “we’re going to the senior officers’ colony guest house. Private. Soundproof. They want a full night. And they want you in the bridal set again.”
Outside, the staff colony was dark and quiet.
Inside, the red recording lights had gone dark, but the circle had grown once more.
And every Friday, it would keep growing.