Encounter with my neighbor

I spent the next few days replaying every second of that Friday afternoon with her. The way her cunt had gripped me, the way she had come with my cock buried deep, the quiet, almost grateful way she had held me afterward. But another thought kept rising alongside it. Her husband. The man who preferred men. The man who only took her from behind with expensive silicone gel. I wanted him.
When she invited me for dinner the following week I accepted at once. “Bring him,” I said. “I want to meet the man who leaves you alone so often.” She only smiled that private smile again and said he would be home.
I prepared carefully. I shaved everything smooth, applied the same perfume, and settled the 44D breast forms into a tight, low-cut blouse that pushed them high and close. A soft, stretchable sari in deep maroon, the fabric clinging to my hips and the curve of the forms. High heels, heavy gold bangles, anklets, a small Western nose ring that matched hers, and a long black wig that fell past my shoulders. Full makeup—arched brows, kohl, deep red lipstick. When I looked in the mirror I looked like a married woman dressed for an evening visit, soft and inviting.
I walked the short corridor to 2-B and knocked. She opened the door in a pale green sari, eyes widening just slightly at how thoroughly I had transformed. Behind her stood her husband—tall, lean, early forties, clean-shaven, with the quiet, contained look of a man who kept his real hungers locked away. He looked at me with polite interest and no recognition at all.
“This is our new neighbor,” she said. “The junior engineer from Block C.”
He nodded, offered a brief smile, and stepped aside. We sat at the small dining table. She had cooked simple Tamil food—sambar, rice, a dry vegetable fry. He sat to my right, close enough that our knees almost touched under the narrow table. Conversation stayed light. Work. The colony. The weather. He never once looked at me as if I might be anything other than a woman.
Halfway through the meal I let my left hand drop under the table. I found his wrist, guided his hand across, and pressed his palm firmly against the hard ridge of my cock under the soft folds of the sari. He froze. His fingers tensed as if to pull away. I held him there, letting him feel the unmistakable shape and heat of it, the way it twitched once under his hand. His eyes stayed on his plate, but a faint color rose in his neck. After a long second he did not pull away. His fingers shifted, testing the outline, confirming what his mind was already telling him.
At the same time I slid my right hand into his lap, found the zipper of his trousers, and worked it down carefully. He wore soft cotton underwear. I slipped inside, wrapped my fingers around his cock, and felt it already thickening. He was not small. I stroked him slowly under the table, thumb circling the head, while his hand remained on my crotch, now pressing more deliberately against the hard length hidden by the sari.
She watched us both with quiet, knowing eyes. She did not speak. She simply refilled our water glasses and continued eating as if nothing unusual was happening.
When the meal ended she stood and began clearing plates. I rose as well, still holding his cock through the open zipper, and murmured that I needed to use the bathroom. He followed me down the short hall without a word. The moment the bathroom door closed behind us I pushed him back against the sink and kissed him hard, lipstick smearing across his mouth. His hands went straight to my breast forms, squeezing, testing the give of the sensors, then lower to the hard cock straining against the sari. He made a low sound in his throat when he felt how stiff I was.
I turned, hiked the sari up around my waist, and bent over the edge of the sink. The soft panty I wore was already pulled aside. I had prepared carefully—high-quality silicone gel worked deep into my ass until I was slick and open. I reached back, took his cock in my hand, and guided the thick head to my entrance.
“Push,” I whispered.
He did. The head stretched me open, the gel making the entry smooth despite his size. He sank in slowly, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against my ass and I was completely filled. The sensation was intense—full, hot, the pressure deep inside me. He stayed still for a moment, breathing hard against my neck, then began to move.
He fucked me with long, controlled strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the root. The wet sound of the gel and the tight grip of my ass filled the small bathroom. I braced my hands on the sink and pushed back to meet every thrust, the breast forms heavy and swinging beneath me, the anklets chiming softly with each impact. He grew rougher, hands clamping on my hips, slamming into me harder, the slap of skin on skin loud in the tiled space. I could feel every ridge of his cock dragging inside me, every pulse as he got closer.
He reached around and gripped my cock through the sari, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation—being filled so deeply while he worked me—pushed me to the edge fast. I came first, cock jerking in his fist, cum soaking the soft fabric of the sari while my ass clenched hard around him. The tight, rhythmic squeezing triggered him. He drove in to the hilt and held there, hips jerking as he emptied himself deep inside me, thick pulses of cum flooding my ass while he groaned against my shoulder.
We stayed locked together for several long seconds, both of us shaking, his cock still twitching inside me as the last of his orgasm faded. When he finally pulled out, slow and careful, I felt his cum begin to slip from me, warm and slick. I straightened, adjusted the sari, and looked at him in the mirror. Lipstick was smeared across both our mouths. His eyes were dark, still hungry.
From the doorway his wife’s voice came, soft and amused. “Dinner is finished. You two should come back to the table.”
He zipped himself carefully. I wiped the excess gel and cum with a towel, smoothed the sari, and stepped out first. She was waiting in the hallway, eyes moving between us with quiet satisfaction. No jealousy. Only the same private smile she had given me on the stairs the day we met.
I stayed another hour. We did not speak of what had happened in the bathroom. We did not need to. When I finally left, walking carefully in the high heels with his cum still warm inside me, she walked me to the door and murmured, “Next time, stay longer.”
I looked past her to where her husband stood in the living room, watching me with new, open hunger.
“I will,” I said.