The Bengali IT Couple

User Submission #1

I’m writing this under a fake name—let’s say I’m Shubho—because if anyone in my para or office found out, my life would be over. I’m a 30-year-old Bengali guy, married for three years to my college sweetheart, Ananya (not her real name). We both work at TCS in Salt Lake, Kolkata, living in a rented 2BHK in Rajarhat. From the outside, we’re the typical bhadralok couple—Ananya in her saree at pujo pandals, me with my spectacles and laptop bag, arguing about whether Bhogobaner Ghee Bhaja Khichuri is better than Bhojohori Manna. But what’s happening in our marriage now? Eesh, that’s a story I can’t tell anyone in real life. It’s too hot, too twisted, too real.

Ananya is gorgeous, always has been. She’s not fair like those Tollywood heroines, but her dusky skin glows, especially when she wears her red Jamdani saree. Her figure is what Bengalis call “bhara thasa”—curvy, full, with hips that sway when she walks to the TCS cafeteria. Her eyes are sharp, like she’s always one step ahead, and her laugh, oof, it’s like the jingle of payesh chhanch in a kansar thala. At work, she’s a rockstar, handling client calls with ease while I’m the quiet coder, happy with my Python scripts and evening adda over lebu cha at the tapri.

Our marriage was blissful at first. Ananya was fiery in bed, whispering “Shubho, tui amay pagol korchhish” as we tangled in the sheets of our New Town flat. But after three years, the spark dulled. TCS deadlines, Kolkata’s humidity, and the daily grind of EM Bypass traffic wore us down. Our nights became more about scrolling X than shorir milano. I could sense Ananya’s restlessness. She’d tease me, “Shubho, tui toh ekhon shudhu laptop niye boshish, amay bhule gechhish,” her voice playful but edged with something deeper. I laughed, but it stung. My Ananya, my shona, wanted more.

Then came Arijit. Not a Bengali, but a Punjabi guy from Delhi, transferred to our project four months ago. He was everything I’m not—tall, broad-shouldered, with a gym-honed body and a charm that could sell sand in the Sahara. He spoke decent Bangla, probably from binge-watching Bengali web series, and had this knack for making everyone laugh. The women in our team adored him, but Ananya? She was drawn to him like a moth to a diya. I noticed it in small things—how she’d fix her dupatta when he walked by, how her voice softened when she said, “Arijit, tumi abar client ke impress korechho, na?” I felt a knot in my chest, but I told myself it was nothing. She was my wife, my Ananya, who still made me ilish maach on Sundays.

It started innocently enough. Our team had to work late for a big delivery, and Arijit, being the lead, was always around. One evening, Ananya mentioned she was going to his flat in New Town for a “team discussion” after work. “Shubho, just some project planning, tui chinta korish na,” she said, kissing my cheek before leaving in her navy blue saree, the one that hugs her curves just right. I nodded, but something gnawed at me. Around 10 p.m., I couldn’t sit still. I texted her, “Kothay achhish, shona?” No reply. My heart raced. I knew Arijit lived in a posh society nearby, and against my better judgment, I drove there.

His flat was on the 12th floor. I don’t know what possessed me, but I took the lift, my palms sweaty, my mind screaming this was a bad idea. The door was slightly ajar—careless, or maybe intentional. I heard music, soft Rabindrasangeet, of all things, and then her laugh, that familiar, throaty sound that used to be just for me. I pushed the door open a crack and peeked inside.

There was Ananya, on his couch, her saree pallu slipped off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast under her blouse. Arijit was next to her, too close, his hand resting on her thigh. She wasn’t stopping him. Her face was flushed, maybe from the wine glass in her hand, maybe from something else. “Arijit, tui janish, Shubho would never understand this,” she said, her voice low, sultry. My stomach dropped, but my body betrayed me, a shameful heat pooling in my groin.

He leaned in, whispering something I couldn’t hear, and she giggled, her hand brushing his chest. Then he kissed her, slow at first, like he was tasting her. Ananya moaned softly, her fingers clutching his shirt. I should’ve stormed in, shouted “Ki hochchhe?!” But I couldn’t move. My heart pounded, my cock twitched, and I hated myself for it. I watched as he pulled her closer, his hands roaming her back, unhooking her blouse with a practiced ease that made my throat dry. Her bra was lacy, black, one I’d never seen before. Did she buy it for him?

“Ananya, tui eto sundor,” he murmured, his lips on her neck, and she arched into him, her shakha-pola clinking as she gripped his shoulders. “Arijit, dheere… amay samla,” she whispered, but her body said otherwise, her hips grinding against him. He lifted her saree, exposing her thighs, and I saw her panties—red, bold, not the cotton ones she wore for me. My chest tightened, but my hand was already in my pants, stroking myself to the sight of my wife unraveling for another man.

He slid her panties down, and she gasped as his fingers found her. “Ohh, Arijit, tui… tui eto bhalo…” Her voice was thick with lust, her Bengali accent making it dirtier somehow. I watched, transfixed, as she spread her legs wider, her moans growing louder. He unzipped his jeans, and when he pulled it out, I felt a stab of inadequacy. He was bigger, thicker, everything I wasn’t. Ananya’s eyes widened, and she bit her lip, reaching for him. “Eita… eita ki, Arijit?” she said, half-laughing, half-in-awe, stroking him like she was worshipping him.

When he entered her, her cry was raw, primal, nothing like the soft sounds she made with me. “Haan, aro… amay bhoriye de,” she begged, her nails digging into his back. The couch creaked as he fucked her, her breasts bouncing, her sindoor smudged from sweat. She was his, completely, her body moving with a hunger I’d never seen. My Ananya, my shona, was a stranger, a goddess of desire, and I was just a pathetic voyeur, coming in my hand as she screamed his name.

I slipped away before they finished, driving home in a daze. When Ananya came back at midnight, she smelled of his cologne, her saree slightly wrinkled. “Shubho, sorry, meeting ta late hoye gelo,” she said, kissing me softly. I nodded, my throat tight, my cock stirring again at the thought of what she’d done. She fucked me that night, hard and fast, like she was purging something. But I knew—she was thinking of him, his hands, his cock, his everything.

Now, it’s a silent game. Ananya doesn’t know I saw, but she’s bolder. She’ll mention Arijit casually, “O toh ajke client ke floored korechhe,” her eyes sparkling. Sometimes, she’ll come home late, her lipstick faded, her body warm. I don’t ask. I just watch, jerk off to the images in my head, hating myself but craving it more. I’m still the dutiful Bengali husband—buying her phuchka from the corner stall, holding her hand at Shyambazar’s Durga Pujo. But inside, I’m burning, torn between shame and this sick, electric thrill. My Ananya is his, and I’m letting it happen. Ki korbo, bolo? This is my life now.

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