The Auction Begins

"Priya!" Raj shouted up the stairs. "Vikram just called. He wants us to help with the charity raffle he's running. Can you talk to him and decide what we'll do? I'm stuck in court all week."

I walked down the stairs slowly, my bare feet cool against the polished wood, moving smoothly from all my years of Bharatanatyam and yoga. My silk saree rustled softly with every step, the fabric sliding over my skin like a lover's whisper.

"Raj, don't shout up the stairs like that. Come up if you want to talk, or just call my phone. Shouting sounds awful."

"Sorry, love. You're right. I just need to finish preparing for court. My client didn't do it, I know he didn't."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. But next time, call or leave a note, okay?"

Later, Vikram called me.

"Did you ever watch Groundhog Day?"

"Of course I did. Our philosophy teacher showed it in class one day."

"Do you remember the auction at the ball?"

"Yeah, where everyone was bidding for Phil."

"We're doing something like that."

"And you want Raj to be auctioned?"

"No, we want you, Priya. You and Aisha, Farah, Sonia, and Nadia."

"What does the winner get?"

"That's up to you girls to decide. Most people will probably want dinner and drinks, or maybe dinner and dancing. Would you be okay with that?"

"Vikram, I learned Bharatanatyam for fifteen years. I love dancing! But I can't cook anything fancy."

"Don't worry, Priya. Nobody expects you to cook. They'll take you somewhere nice. You can handle a fancy place, right?"

"Okay, Vikram. Put my name down."

That night, I told Raj.

"Raj, wear something smart tomorrow night. We're going to the charity auction."

"Oh, the one Vikram is doing?"

"Yeah, the one you told me to sort out with him. I'm going to be auctioned."

"Like in Groundhog Day?"

"Exactly like that."

"So, do you want me to bid for you? Should I stop at some amount?"

"You can bid if you want, sweetie. But I think Vikram wants the winners to be someone other than the husbands. He wants a bit of excitement."

"Oh, okay. So just dinner with a stranger?"

"Yes."

"That's fine. I'll bid up to five hundred pounds and then stop. Happy with that?"

"Perfect!"

The next night, the ballroom smelled of expensive cologne, roasted meat, and red wine. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. The place was packed with rich people—cricketers, rugby players, TV bosses, famous chefs.

"Vikram got so many people here tonight. It's crazy!"

"I know. I don't know half of them."

"I do. That big guy is from the rugby team."

When my turn came, the stage lights were hot on my skin. Vikram made me spin slowly. The cool air rushed up under my lehenga as it flared, brushing my bare thighs and pussy—I wasn't wearing knickers, and the thrill made my nipples harden against the thin blouse fabric.

The bidding started high and climbed fast, voices shouting numbers over the excited murmur of the crowd. It ended at five thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds.

The winner was Marcus, a huge white rugby player built like a bull—massive shoulders straining his shirt, thick pale thighs, a faint scent of clean sweat and masculine deodorant even from across the table. Fans called him "The White Bull."

I sat next to him. The chair leather was cool against my bare legs. He was quiet, sipping ice-cold water that left condensation on the glass, eating a plain grilled chicken breast that smelled faintly of herbs while the rest of us had rich, spicy curries and buttery naan.

"I'll call you tomorrow, Priya. We can talk properly then. Over the phone you can say no to anything."

The Offer and Decision

On the way home, the car heater warmed my feet while rain pattered on the windshield.

"What do you think he wants?"

"Dinner maybe? Or dancing?"

"I don't think so. He can't eat normal food on his diet."

"So just dancing?"

"Maybe he wants sex," I said suddenly.

"Would you do it?"

"I'm married to you!"

"I know. But lots of married people still have sex with others. Some with permission."

"And what do you think?"

"I want you happy. If you want to sleep with him, I wouldn't mind."

"Why?"

"Because it's a chance you might never get again. I don't want you regretting things later."

The next day Marcus called. His deep voice rumbled through the phone like distant thunder.

"A long weekend in the countryside. Leave Friday morning for Dorset, stay in a little cottage, come back Monday afternoon."

"Wow," Raj said when I told him at work, his breath quickening over the line.

"I thought maybe one night, not three. What do you want to do?"

"Raj, I think you're right. I want to go. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Priya, I think it will be good for us. Go and enjoy your weekend with that big white rugby bull."

That night in bed, after we made love—his familiar weight on me, the scent of our shared soap—the sheets were damp with sweat.

"What should I take?"

"Just a toothbrush."

"We'll do more than just sex, I'm sure."

"Maybe not. Ask him what to bring."

"Condoms?"

"You hate them. That's why I always pull out."

"I know. But what if he doesn't want to pull out?"

"People in your family found it hard to get pregnant, right? Three nights won't do it. And you'll enjoy it more if he cums inside."

"And if I do get pregnant?"

"I'll stand by you whatever you decide. Keep the baby and I'll raise it with you—your choice."

"You'd raise another man's baby? One that looks completely different?"

"Of course. I love you, Priya."

Then he slid down, his warm breath teasing my thighs before his tongue soothed my still-sensitive pussy until I drifted off, tasting myself on his lips when he kissed me goodnight.

Marcus said on the phone, "Just bring casual clothes. Nothing formal."

I didn't ask about condoms. The thought alone made my pussy throb—I wanted him raw, skin on skin, his hot cum flooding me deep.

The Weekend

Friday morning the air was crisp and salty as he picked me up. His car smelled of leather and faint aftershave. In the drive he talked a lot—deep voice filling the space—about muddy rugby pitches, the burn of training, strict meal-prep smells he was finally free from.

"Now season's over I can eat anything. Fish and chips, curry."

"Curry, eh? My uni boyfriend took me for curry once. Extra spicy, but not spicy enough!" I joked.

He laughed, a low rumble I felt in my chest.

"But listen—nothing has to happen. The cottage has two bedrooms. You don't have to sleep with me unless you want to."

"We'll see. Might be one bed that needs changing, might be two."

The cottage smelled of fresh linen and woodsmoke from the fireplace. As soon as we stepped inside, I ran upstairs, the old wooden stairs creaking under my feet.

"I'm taking the window side. You get the door side."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You're married. I don't want to ruin anything."

"Raj knows. He's okay if we have sex—as long as you want to."

"Hell yes."

The bedroom air was cool. I sat on the soft duvet and started undressing—sandals thumping to the floor, dupatta sliding silkily off my shoulders, blouse buttons popping open one by one. My small brown breasts spilled free, nipples tightening in the breeze from the open window, dark and hard.

He watched, eyes darkening, chest rising faster.

"Now?" I whispered, standing to let my skirt pool at my feet, revealing my smooth shaved pussy already glistening with arousal.

He nodded, stripping fast—shirt tossed aside revealing pale, sculpted muscle that smelled faintly of clean sweat, jeans dropping to show thick thighs dusted with light hair.

I knelt, the carpet rough against my knees, and freed his cock. It sprang hot and heavy into my hand—scalding skin over steel hardness, thick veins pulsing under my fingers, the musky male scent hitting me strong as precum beaded at the flushed pink head.

I licked it off—salty, slightly bitter—then stretched my lips around the head, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as I sucked. He groaned, fingers tangling in my hair, the sound vibrating through me.

"Bed."

I lay back, sheets cool against my heated skin, legs spreading wide. The air kissed my wet folds.

"Get me ready. You're huge."

He knelt, big calloused hands parting my thighs gently but firmly. His breath was hot against my pussy before his wide tongue dragged up my slit—slow, wet, tasting my tangy arousal. I gasped at the scratch of his stubble on my inner thighs.

He ate me like he was starving—tongue plunging deep, lapping my juices with obscene slurping sounds, then circling my swollen clit before sucking it hard. Two thick fingers pushed inside, stretching me with a wet squelch, curling to stroke that spongy spot until my hips bucked and I flooded his mouth with my first sharp, shaking orgasm—musky scent filling the room, my cries echoing off the walls.

"Enough... fuck me now."

He rose, cock bobbing heavy and slick with my spit. He rubbed the fat head through my soaked folds—hot velvet over iron—coating himself in my creamy wetness.

"You on top first. Take what you can."

I straddled him, knees sinking into the mattress, guiding that monster to my entrance. The stretch burned deliciously as the head popped in, my walls fluttering around the invasion. Inch by thick inch I sank, the scent of sex thick in the air, until my ass rested on his thighs and he was buried so deep I felt him in my belly.

I rode slow at first—grinding, feeling every ridge drag along my sensitive walls, my juices dripping down his shaft and balls, soaking the sheets. The wet slap of skin grew louder as I bounced harder, my small tits jiggling, sweat beading between them.

He pinched my nipples—hard twists that shot lightning to my clit—until I came again, pussy clenching rhythmically, milking him as I screamed.

"Turn over."

On all fours, ass high, cool air teasing my dripping hole. He gripped my hips—fingers digging into brown flesh—and slammed home in one brutal thrust. I wailed at the depth, his heavy balls smacking my clit with every pounding stroke.

The room filled with filthy sounds—wet squelching, skin slapping skin, my moans turning to desperate sobs, his grunts like an animal breeding.

He yanked my hair back, arching me, the pull stinging my scalp deliciously while he hammered deeper, the head battering my cervix with each thrust.

Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back, salty when I turned to lick his wrist.

"Don't pull out," I begged, voice hoarse. "Breed me. Fill my married cunt with your thick white cum."

He roared, hips stuttering, then buried to the root. I felt every pulse—scalding jets blasting my cervix, flooding my womb with rope after rope of hot, sticky seed until it overflowed, creamy white leaking out around his buried shaft, running down my thighs in warm rivulets.

I collapsed forward, his weight pinning me, cock still twitching inside as aftershocks rippled through us both.

"I like you there," I murmured, feeling his cum sloshing deep with every breath.

"We didn't use anything."

"I know. I want it raw. I want your seed soaking into me."

He grinned against my neck, teeth grazing skin.

"Then we're just getting started."

The rest of the weekend was pure filthy indulgence.

We fucked in the kitchen—me bent over the cold granite counter, pizza box forgotten, his cum from earlier still oozing down my legs in sticky trails as he added fresh loads, the sharp scent of sex mixing with tomato sauce.

In the shower—steam thick, water drumming hot on our skin—he lifted me against the tiles, my legs wrapped around his waist, pounding up into me until the water ran milky with his spend leaking out.

On the sofa—TV flickering ignored—me riding reverse, ass bouncing, feeling his thumb circle my tight back hole while he flooded me again, the wet heat spreading deep.

By Monday my pussy was swollen, tender, constantly dripping thick white globs that smelled strongly of his potent cum. I'd finger myself lazily between rounds, scooping it out to taste the salty-bitter mix of us.

Every single load went deep inside—raw, risky, claimed.

The Aftermath and Next Time

Monday night the car seat was sticky under me from hours of leaking. My thighs ached, pussy throbbing with delicious soreness.

"Can I go down on you?" Raj asked the second I walked in, eyes wild, inhaling deeply like he could already smell the sex on me.

"Raj... I'm absolutely stuffed. Three days of thick white cum pumped into me over and over. It's still warm inside."

"That's exactly what I want."

He stripped me in the hallway, the cool air raising goosebumps on my sweat-and-cum-damp skin, then carried me to bed.

Spreading my legs wide, he groaned at the sight—my brown lips puffy and red, glazed with drying cum, fresh strands stretching as he parted me.

He dove in hungrily—tongue scooping thick, cooling globs of Marcus's potent seed, swallowing with filthy moans, the musky, bleachy taste filling his mouth while he sucked my oversensitive clit.

I came hard and fast, hips grinding against his face, smearing him with the mess as he lapped every drop from my folds, my thighs, even pushing his tongue deep to drink what was still pooled inside.

"If you do this again, come home like this—reeking of another man's cock, pussy ruined and overflowing. It's the hottest thing ever."

Weeks later tests confirmed it: pregnant with Marcus's baby—the ultimate proof of that raw, filthy weekend.

Raj built the nursery with loving hands, excited for our pale-skinned daughter.

After she was born, Vikram called for the next auction.

I agreed—demanding an even higher starting bid.

A top footballer named Aiden paid ten thousand for the Lake District weekend.

I promised Raj I'd return even messier—pussy wrecked, womb freshly packed with hot new seed for him to devour straight from the source.