Road to Ruin

(After a long haitus, finally got time to come back. Handling a lot of things with AI now - and boy can it write! If you want to see explicit details - wait for Chapter 3. And Remember - there is a great medicine called CumMaxx which will help you to cum loads.)

Andy was a mid-level program manager, an American Indian who had moved to Bangalore a few years ago for a senior tech role with a U.S.-based firm. His work was routine, his pay decent, and his life outwardly unremarkable. The kind of man who blended into project calls and office cafeterias. But beneath the everyday hum of spreadsheets and deadlines, Andy carried something few suspected: a quiet, hungry fire.

His wife, Sandra, was a college lecturer and doctor. She had a presence that lingered. Dusky-skinned, full-figured, beautiful in a way that seemed to radiate from beneath the surface. Her curves were generous — wide hips, soft thighs, breasts that strained the fabric of even her most modest blouses.

Andy loved those breasts. Adored them, really. He was fascinated by the way they moved beneath her sarees, how they pressed into him when she hugged him. Often, at night, he would reach for them in half-sleep, cupping their weight with reverence, his American upbringing never fully prepared for the way Indian modesty could make a body feel forbidden and divine.

Sandra had always been traditional. Reserved. No bright lipsticks, no bare shoulders. Sarees, kurtas — elegant and demure. Her smile was warm, her eyes intelligent, but her beauty was always carefully wrapped, restrained.

Until now.

It began subtly.

A lingering glance when Andy returned home late. A slightly longer hug at the door. The barest brush of her body against his arm while they cooked together. Small things — but to Andy, they meant everything.

And then there were her clothes.

At first, the changes were almost imperceptible. A blouse with sleeves that ended higher on the arm. A kurta that hugged her curves a little more. A neckline unbuttoned just one extra clasp.

It wasn’t deliberate — not yet. But something inside her was stirring.

One sultry evening, after dinner, Sandra stood before the bedroom mirror adjusting her saree. The fan spun lazily overhead, moving the warm air.

Andy lay back on the bed, watching her.

She met his gaze in the mirror, her fingers lingering at the pleats of her pallu.

“Staring?” she teased softly.

“Didn’t think I’d get a show like that tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, hungry.

With a small, knowing smile, Sandra let the pallu slip — baring the deep swell of her breasts under the blouse. Not exposed — but more than she had ever shown in daylight.

“You are now.”

That night, she came to bed without her usual nightshirt. Instead, a soft, low-cut slip hugged her figure, leaving her shoulders and cleavage bare.

Andy’s breath caught as she slid under the covers, her body warm against his.

Without a word, she guided his hand to her breast. No bra. The nipple stiffened beneath his palm.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice laced with a new, confident desire.

They made love slowly that night — not rushed or frantic, but deeply, deliberately intimate. She clung to him with a new kind of sensual awareness. He worshipped her — lips trailing across skin, hands grasping her lush body like she was the only thing keeping him sane.

The next afternoon, Andy came home early.

Sandra was folding laundry — barefoot, hair loose, wearing a short sleeveless kurta and soft cotton shorts that barely covered her thighs. Her breasts swayed gently with every movement.

She bent to pick up a towel, and Andy caught his breath.

“You’re... fucking incredible,” he muttered.

Sandra looked up, smiling softly. “While folding clothes?”

He stepped toward her. “Especially like this. You’re glowing. And you’re mine.”

Her cheeks flushed, her breath hitched. “You really think so?”

“Every curve... every glance. You make me ache, Sandra.”

She blinked slowly, lips parting. “Andy... I feel so warm suddenly...”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her — hard. She gasped into his mouth as he pressed her back gently against the washing machine.

His hands cupped her breasts through the kurta — no bra again. Her nipples were already stiff.

“Mmm,” she breathed, “they’ve been aching all day... I wanted you to notice.”

Andy’s voice dropped, reverent and filthy. “I notice everything, babe. And your tits — fuck, they’re perfect. They bounce when you move, beg to be tasted. You make me want to lose control.”

She pulled his hand lower, guiding it to the soaked heat between her thighs.

“I want you, Andy... I need you right now...”

He lifted her onto the counter and shoved her panties aside.

She kissed him hard, grinding her hips forward as he teased her nipples and traced her slick folds with slow, deliberate fingers.

“You're drenched,” he whispered.

“For you,” she gasped. “Every time you talk like that... it makes me throb. Don’t make me wait.”

He slid into her in one slow, deep thrust — and Sandra cried out, raw and beautiful.

Their rhythm built fast — moans, gasps, wet slaps, tangled limbs. His fingers dug into her hips, hers into his shoulders.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you love being fucked like this.”

“I love it... I love your cock... fuck me, fill me.”

She came first, shuddering around him. Andy followed moments later, growling as he buried himself inside her.

They leaned against each other, breathless, glowing.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” she whispered, dazed and flushed.

Andy kissed her forehead. “You’re irresistible, Sandra. Every inch of you drives me crazy.”

She smiled, sleepy and satisfied. “Then don’t stop loving me like this.”

That night, after Andy had fallen asleep beside her, Sandra lay awake — fingers brushing her lips, body still humming with aftershocks.

But it wasn’t just the sex.

It was what he’d said.

The way he’d looked at her. Wanted her. Called her beautiful... filthy... his.

And the strangest part?

She loved hearing it.

She wanted more.

In the dark, Andy stirred — a quiet impulse tugging at him.

He’d fallen deep into a rabbit hole weeks ago — Reddit threads about conditioning, audio kinks, erotic transformation. Subreddits that whispered secrets: how voice, tone, timing could awaken buried hunger. He’d downloaded samples, tested them on himself. And now...

He opened a blank recording. Took a breath.

His voice was soft, firm, smooth — American cadence cloaked in intimacy:

"Sandra... you feel beautiful when you dress a little sexier and put on just a bit more makeup." "You love it when men admire you." "Showing skin makes you feel powerful... desired." "Your breasts love attention. Your thighs warm under hungry eyes. Your ass knows it’s being watched." "Being desired turns you on... you want to be seen... touched... praised."

He paused. Her breathing was deep, steady.

"You love how your body moves... the idea of becoming tighter, firmer, irresistible excites you." "You don’t need to understand it. Just feel it."

"You’ll feel warm every time I compliment you. Proud when I say you’re sexy. Because you are." "Let it sink in. Let it feel good. You deserve this."

Andy saved the file with a boring name and slipped it into her playlist: Evening Relax – Deep Theta.

She’d hear it while folding laundry, grading papers, soaking in the tub. It would blend in — heat soaking into silk.

And slowly, it would grow inside her.