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A professor’s wife entertains his students

I’m an Associate Professor in a well-known business school in Karachi (Pakistan). I am 39 year old, married; my wife, Rozi (short for Rozina) is a year older than me (something which is fairly uncommon in our culture). She is a double masters in English and used to teach in a school before we had our son (who is now 12 years old), and she decided to become a housewife rather than a working mother. Rozi’s marriage to me was the result of a love affair and despite a glitch or two, we have been happily married.

Rozi, while not exceptionally beautiful, was always pretty and at 40, is still attractive enough to turn heads and earn looks by men half her age. She’s put on a little bit of weight (which actually becomes her as she was very thin when she got married to me), particularly on her butt (which I find extremely sexy, though she doesn’t agree with me there). Apart from her full, round hips, she’s got nice breasts, sizeable enough to be noticeable with out being exceptionally big (I’ve never liked those “monster breasts” anyway), a nice complexion, very smooth and flawless skin, a round face with short-cropped hair, a beautiful smile with white and even teeth, and lovely eyes. Maybe I’m biased, but that’s the way I see my darling. Oh, and lest I forget, she’s got very pretty hands, feet and ankles. I simply love it when she wears trousers (not as in pants – Paksitani style as culets) that end above the ankle, a little below the knee. Especially when she wears them with sandals having straps tied to the ankles. I have something of a foot fetish, I admit.

Foot fetish is not the only sexual fantasy that I have though. Foot fetish is something one can talk about and even indulge in quiet frankly with one’s wife, something I’ve almost always done as part of our foreplay. There are darker, more perverted aspects to my sexual orientation. One of which is to see my wife exposing herself in front of other men. This is, of course, something, I’d never told her till the incident occurred which I’m about to narrate. Nevertheless, I’d always given very subtle hints. Like encouraging her to wear low necklines as much as possible, wearing skin-tight shirts etc. For the most part she had always responded favorably to these suggestions and, I’m sure, even enjoyed the looks she got from men around her. In the privacy of our bedroom, of course, I bought her the sexiest lingerie and took a lot of pictures with our digital camera. After taking those pictures and saving them on our computer, I would look at them often and masturbated (when she wasn’t around), fantasizing that it was some other man looking at nude pics of my wife. Weird? I don’t know….., but what I’ve learnt on the net is that I’m not the only husband in the world who feels that way

A still higher (and darker) level of my fantasies involve watching my wife having sex with another man. Initially, even such a fantasy used to make me feel guilty. But gradually, the pleasure associated with this fantasy overcame the guilt part. Early on in our marriage, we used to watch porn together, and I would encourage her to comment on all the cocks shown in those movies. Mostly, she would comment very carefully, making sure whatever she said would sound casual, neutral and objective, like “oh, he’s got a long one, but without circumcision seems a little strange” etc. Only once did she let down her guard. In one of the movies, there was a scene where a girl got fucked by two hunks at the same time (a typical threesome as you would call it). After watching the whole scene in silence, she remarked that “this is a fantasy of a lot of girls”. When I tried to ask her if she had ever had that fantasy too, she immediately got on the defensive again by saying “O come on; I’m sure every guy would love to do it to two beautiful girls at the same time too, wouldn’t you agree?” and changed the topic like that before it got too close to comfort, as one would say.

You may say that there was always the potential in her to become a slut.


In a teacher’s life there are always a few students who get closer to you in personal terms as compared to the rest of the lot. Besides, as an Associate Professor, I’m on the young side, compared to most of the grey haired faculty members, and therefore, students find me more approachable and friendly. Salman and Tariq had been two such students who, right from the time they entered as freshmen, have become very friendly with me. Salman is broad shouldered, a little stocky, into stuff like weight-training etc. While Tariq is tall and lanky, very fair complexioned, more into reading books, keeping himself updated with current affairs and all. This description, however, shouldn’t imply that both are stereotypes – one all brawn the other all brain! Not at all. Salman is intelligent enough and reasonably well read himself, while Tariq can do a reasonably good job in sports like table tennis, basket ball etc. Both are in their early twenties. Both are intelligent, good-looking boys.

My relationship with them outside the class grew to a point where I even had them over at our house a few times, initially to help them out in studies, but later they used to come over just for the sake of it. Of course, once that started happening, they came on good terms with Rozi as well, and she also seemed to take a liking to the two. Once, when she wanted to replace certain old furniture with new one, they actually came over and helped her out a lot in moving and fixing various stuff. I was at the university the whole day and we (Rozi & I) were quiet grateful to them for their assistance. So Salman and Tariq, to cut it short, became something like family friends to Rozi and me.

The four of us had dinner together, went out and watched movies, and engaged in long, enduring discussions on every topic under the sun. Rozi is herself a highly educated, intelligent woman, and she liked engaging in conversation with two bright kids. The feeling seemed to be mutual on both sides. In fact, I would have to admit at this point that the feelings on both sides were a little more than platonic. More than once I observed Salman and Tariq discreetly checking out Rozi’s figures, particularly her boobs, when they thought I wasn’t noticing; and Rozi clearly enjoyed the attention she was getting from two young men almost half her age. Needless to say, I didn’t mind in the least, but also did not imagine this going any further than harmless flirtation at the most. How wrong I was!


I don’t clearly remember when, but in one of many such discussions, the conversation veered towards sex. As every one opened up after an initial inhibition, Salman went on to discuss his sexual escapades with many of his girlfriends, some of which were funny, and made us all laugh. Tariq, true to his personality, was more of a lover than a “many flings” kind of a guy and had fallen desperately for a girl who, sadly, was going steady with someone else.

In subsequent meetings, sex – matters related to it, seemed to become our favorite topic. We became open to the extent of discussing even our own (meaning Rozi’s and mine) sexual life with the two boys. Salman, daring as usual, even asked, “so, what’s the favorite position of you guys?” to which he got a playful but sharp slap on the shoulder from Rozi. But then, to my surprise, she did answer, “usually we go for the ‘missionary position’, but sometimes….., well,…. sometimes, we try out new stuff.” “New stuff?” said Salman, in mock reflection, “how’s that? What kind of new stuff?” “Well….,” Rozi shrugged her shoulders, “Y’know, as in new positions.” “Ahan” Salman was clearly interested now, his eyes shining, “what new positions?” Rozi was becoming uncomfortable now and she looked at me to get her out of this spot. I was in no mood to do so; for one, SHE had encouraged the two boys to bring the conversation to this point, second, I was enjoying the whole idea of my wife discussing her sexual life with my students and was actually feeling the start of a hardening bulge in my crotch. Of course, she could have ended the conversation at this point, saying ‘enough’s enough’ or something like that, but when all she got was an indulgent smile from me, she carried on: “Well, sometimes I get on top” she said, and paused, hoping that would be enough. Salman wasn’t about to let her go so easily and asked: “Uh huh! And……., do you guys ever try the doggie style?” He was crossing the limits now and he knew it, but then, nobody was stopping him. “Don’t call it that!” Rozi responded, feigning annoyance, “that expression makes me feel like a…….” she had to stop short when she realized the implications of the word that would have completed the sentence. For a second, there was silence, and then all three men present in the room, burst out laughing. We couldn’t help it. Rozi struggled for a few seconds, deciding whether she should be angry or not, and then joined in our laughter. At this point I will cut it short and come to that fateful evening when my life – and my wife – were to start undergoing a change that I would have thought nothing short of impossible.

It was a Saturday evening in April (2009). Our son was spending the night at my sister’s place. He and my sister’s son are just a year apart and they’re great friends. I mention this because it constituted a big factor in what occurred that night. Had our son been in the house none of us could have gone as far as we went. Salman and Tariq were at our place, and we had just finished a cup of coffee each, except Rozi, who likes to go for tea in summers and keeps her coffee-drinking for winters only. It must have been around 10 p.m. or so. We’d all had our supper and were feeling, as one usually does on a weekend night, quiet comfy, so to say. The four of us were sitting, as we always did, in that part of our house which serves as a guest-cum-dining room. One side of the room has a small, rectangular table with four chairs around it, and on the other side we have a sofa set with the usual glass table, two side tables, a few racks bearing some decoration pieces, a book case…, the usual stuff.

Salman was recounting a story which held our interest. The story involved him and a group of his friends (3 boys and 2 girls) in high school, who ended up having a game of strip poker (or some other game of cards), that left all but one of the boys (the winner) in their underwear. The deal, according to him, was to “go all the way” but after losing one more hand, a girl who was already down to her bra and panties, chickened out. She got up and started putting on her clothes amidst mild protest by the boys. That was the end of the game. “In our hearts” said Salman, smiling, “all of us knew that at least the girls would never go that far.” “Interesting story” I said, shifting a little in my chair, “if its true.” Tariq laughed, looking at Salman, while Salman managed to look a little annoyed while still smiling with his natural good humor. “Yes, well” Rozi began (I noticed she was listening to the story with rapt attention) “I thought this kind of thing was reserved for Hollywood teen movies only.” “Reality does imitate fiction, you know” Tariq said, on a serious note. “Haven’t you heard of serial killers modeling themselves after fictional or movie serial killers?” “Exactly” said Salman, glad to have support at last. “The story’s true. I’m still in touch with the guy in whose house it happened. In fact, just last Eid we met, we reminisced about that incident, and agreed that it was a wonder that those girls agreed in the first place, though they were wild things, both of them. But then, it was too much to expect them to go all the way…., in fact, no girl in her right mind would agree to a dare like that, given that boys are naturally better than girls at card games anyway.” At this, I immediately looked towards Rozi. While I’ve always had zero interest in cards, my wife regards herself as something of an amateur wizard. Being a strong-headed woman and something of a feminist, I knew she would take this comment as little less than insulting. And I was absolutely right. “Careful young man” she said, pointing at Salman with her petite finger, “you don’t know what you’re saying. I bet I could beat you with my eyes closed in any card game you’d like to play.” “Whoa!” Salman responded a little exaggeratedly, though he was a bit surprised. “You really mean that? I wish I had a pack of cards with me to see how good you really are.” “I do” said Rozi calmly, and getting up from her seat left the room. I knew she had a pack of cards (more than one pack in fact) and used to practice or play by herself at times, silently ruing the fact that I had no interest. She tried to teach me a few times but gave up after a while, saying that my heart wasn’t in it (which was the truth), but she still loved me for trying only to please her. She was back quickly, holding a pack in her hands. She sat down, took the cards out from the carton, and placing them firmly on the table between us, looked at Salman and said, “Ready, wise guy?” (I also thought that expression was a little theatrical, but believe me, it looked so sexy on her!). Salman, a cool customer himself, was far from intimidated. Still smiling, he raised his eyebrows quizzically and said, “On the same terms?” My heart jumped to my throat for a moment as I realized what he meant. But I thought to myself, ‘not in your lifetime mate…, she would NEVER agree’! “What do you mean?” said Rozi (though I think she already understood). “I mean, are we going to play on the same terms: losers take off one piece of clothing at the end of every hand”? Ok. That was a critical moment. The way he said it, Rozi could have laughed it off as a joke; or, she could have taken it seriously and shown her displeasure over what was, essentially, a remarkably indecent proposal. What she did say caught me by such surprise I can only thank God I was not eating anything at the time, otherwise I would have choked to death! “Only if you want to end up sitting here with nothing on but this chain (Salman does wear a medallion) on your neck” was the cool, smartass reply my wife made. “Let me get this straight” Salman said, his eyes shining the way they shone in my classes when he was about to make a really intelligent remark during a general discussion, “you’re saying we play for stakes where losers strip, and when YOU lose, you won’t back out?” “Absolutely.” My wife replied confidently. “And there’s NO chance of me backing out because I am not going to lose, as you will see shortly. In fact, to be fair to you, let me warn you that I’ve participated in two amateur tournaments organized at city level, won one of them and came runners up in the other ONLY because I had bad case of sinusitis on the big day and couldn’t concentrate. After this, if you still want to take me on, you’re very welcome…. Unless, of course, my husband disapproves of the whole idea, in which case we will not have the game…., or rather, have the game but not under the same bet.”

Everyone looked at me! I didn’t know whether to feel excited or annoyed. Excited because what was about to happen was as close to my deepest, most erotic fantasies as it would ever get. Annoyed because Rozi had, so cleverly put the entire responsibility on me. Trust women to do that!

Of course, what Rozi did not know was that Salman himself was nothing short of a champion himself when it came to cards. This fact was well-known in the campus. As a husband, was it my responsibility to let Rozi know that? Well, yes, I guess…, if you look at from a conventional moralistic angle. The problem is: conventional morals are such weak deterrents when put against intoxicatingly strong erotic fantasies about to come true, and a cock which is already on its way to getting hard at the mere possibility of my wife taking off her clothes in front of two young men, who also happen to be my students! Trying to look almost bored, I just shrugged my shoulders, looked at my wife and said, “What the hell! Like you said, you’re not going to lose anyway.”Well, that settled it I guess. The game started once they had agreed on a few rules – such as what counted as a piece of clothing and what didn’t: it was agreed that shoes and clothes will count, but things like watches, rings and other stuff would not (this was decided on Rozi’s insistence – she would have argued differently had she know what was to come). Even socks would not count as only Salman was wearing a pair, while Tariq had a pair of causal moccasins on his feet without socks, and Rozi of course wasn’t wearing any. Undergarments, would of course, count. I, not being a card player, would only act as a “neutral observer-cum-referee” while the three of them would compete.[I won’t, and can’t, give you a frame by frame detail of the game itself, like telling you who got a “good hand” who won by using which card etc. For one, I simply don’t have the necessary understanding to do so (honestly, to this day, I don’t even know exactly which game they were playing, and I don’t care); second, it would be too boring for most readers.]

I watched with baited breath as the first round started. I could only judge who was winning by watching the facial expressions of the players (although card players are supposed to keep a “poker face” from what I’ve heard). I thought Rozi was winning the first hand and I turned out to be right, though a little disappointed, to be honest! “Off with your shoes, both of you” she said, as she began collecting deck again with a triumphant look on her face. Both the boys duly removed their shoes, with the only comment coming from Salman, who said, “Fluke!” “Hah!” said Rozi, “sore loser.” At that point I had no idea if Salman was just letting her win initially to make her feel comfortable. I still don’t know for sure, but I have a strong suspicion, particularly how things turned out a little later. Anyway, she won the second round as well, and the boys were now forced to lose their shirts. This again presented a technical problem, as Salman was only wearing a t-shirt with nothing underneath, while Tariq had a vest beneath his half-sleeve shirt. “Too bad” commented Rozi, snugly, when the point was debated, “we can’t help it if you’re wearing less.” Salman was of the opinion that Tariq should also remove his vest to bring the contestants at par, so to say. However, the implications of this argument weren’t lost on Rozi, as she knew that once she lost a couple of rounds herself, she would be supposed to remove her shirt and bra at one go! Not, that the idea of losing and reaching that point seriously entered her mind at that stage, but still. (To make it clear to you: she was dressed in jeans, a lose button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up, not tucked in but hanging out, over the top of her jeans, and of course a pair of casual slippers.) The point was referred to me for adjudication and I had to rule in favor of Rozi, not willingly, but to conform to her expectations (as a husband I couldn’t appear eager to see my wife losing her shirt and bra in one go before two young men). Honestly, at this point, I had started thinking that Rozi was too good for her young opponents.

My hopes (I’m almost ashamed to say so) started rising when Salman won the third round. If Rozi was worried she certainly didn’t show it. She took off her slippers without comment and immediately started getting ready for the next round.

By this time I was building an urge to pee, but dared not get up from my seat. The anticipation and the suspense were just too much. If Rozi lost this round she would have to take off her shirt. Would she actually do it? After making Salman and Tariq take off their shirts she had certainly put herself in a corner. And if I know anything about my wife it’s that she would rather die than back-off in a challenge. But then, would she go to that extent? It was with thoughts like these in my mind that I watched the rapidly piling cards on the table, their faces changing from King to Queen to Joker in seconds.


By the time Salman had thumped in the last card on the table, bringing it down hard on the surface with a bang, I knew the result. Rozi had lost! (so had Tariq but of course that becomes academic).

Salman looked at her, with the devil in his eyes. Tariq was also looking at her but seemed quiet nervous; not sure how things will proceed from thereon. I couldn’t remember if my heart had pumped any louder than at that moment.

As for Rozi? Well, she seemed frozen in her place for a few seconds. Then she looked at me, and I could read the message in her eyes: ‘save me’ written all over in capital letters. Suddenly, I was angry. She gets into a strip match with two young men with tall claims and boasts; I certainly didn’t ask her to – and when she gets into a spot I am supposed to play the protecting husband role, get up from my seat, pick up the cards, laugh and say, “ok boys, that’s enough fun for the night”.

Call me a jerk if you will, but I wasn’t going to do anything like that. And “that” message I passed on back to her in “my” eyes. You have to give it to the woman though. When she saw no help coming from her husband, she grit her teeth (as we do when we realize we have to take a painful but necessary shot in the arm), raised her hands to her shirt front, undid the buttons one by one, then rolled down each sleeve, got up from her chair, removed her shirt and sat down again.

For a moment every man in that room was stunned. First, that she actually had the guts to keep her word. Second, there is no way I can describe the eroticism of the scene unfolding before me: my wife, seated almost topless barring her black bra (my favorite) in our guest room, in front of my own students, within touching distance of them. Her full, rotund, milky breasts seemed to be forcing their way out of the twin cups holding them. She has a black mole towards the upper mound of her right breast, and that mole, which hitherto had only been seen by me, was now visible to both my students, who were gaping unashamedly at the semi-nude woman in front of them – their own teacher’s wife.

“If you’re thru staring, maybe we can start the next round” Rozi’s voice shook us out of our trance. Her voice had an icy cutting edge to it that showed how pissed off she was.

“Sorry” it was Tariq who murmured. Salman turned and looked at him as if asking `why the hell are you sorry?’

“Before we start” Rozi said, “aren’t you supposed to take off something as well?” she pointed at Tariq. She was absolutely right of course. We had all become so engrossed in watching Roze take off her shirt that we complete forgot Tariq. Of course, he had also lost the hand which only meant that he had to get rid of the beige cotton casuals he was wearing. So, seated around the table, we now had one fully dressed gentleman (that being me), one guy wearing his jeans but no shirt, another wearing nothing but his jockey briefs, and last – but by no means the least, an attractive 40 year old woman who happened to be the fully dressed gentleman’s wife, saved only by her bra from being topless!The next round started amidst tension so thick you could slice it with a knife. Rozi looked so determined to win it seemed as if she had finally unsettled even Salman, who was, perhaps, also distracted by her breasts. She did win the round, and the look of relief on her face was immense. The look on Tariq’s face, however, told a different story. The result meant that Salman went down to his briefs, but Tariq was to go “full monty” as the brits might say!

He looked around, a look of disbelief on his face, and laughed a little uneasily. “Come on, you guys seriously don’t mean it” he asked, adjusting the glasses on his thin, yet attractive face. “I didn’t ask that when I was supposed to remove my shirt” replied Rozi, icily. I actually felt for the poor guy. He never claimed to be a champion unlike Rozi and Salman, and hadn’t won a single hand. When it finally dawned on him that no one in the room was kidding, he got up first, stood for a second, then realized what would happen if he took off his briefs like that, sat down again, pushed his chair forward against the dining table as much as he could so that his lower half of the body was under the table and totally hidden from our view, and in that position, hoisting his hips up a little, he managed to slide his briefs down his legs. When he left them lying on his feet, Salman (sitting next to him – Rozi and I were on the other side) tapped him on the shoulder and said, ”Up here….., where everyone can see them” and he pointed to the table. Tariq, now totally hapless, bent down, picked his white briefs up in his right hand and was about to place them on the table, then, habitual good manners got the better of him and he placed them gently on the back of an empty chair beside him.

In this way, Tariq had become momentarily irrelevant to the scenario. The fight was now directly between the two “champs”. The next round ended with Rozi losing her pants. Salman, though down to his briefs, had regained his composure. Nobody said a word once the round ended. Rozi simply got up, her face expressionless, pushed her chair back, opened the front button of her trousers, slid down the zipper and rolled down her pants as easily as if she was doing it in the privacy of her bedroom. Tariq and Salman watched intently, unashamedly, at her plump, shapely, smoothly waxed legs, and whatever little was visible of her round, full ass, though they were only getting a side view at best. Contrary to expectations, she wasn’t wearing black panties to match her bra; what she had on was an old pair, with a slightly pinkish floral pattern on white background. Nothing too sexy as per say, but then….., hell! Anything would have seemed sexy at that point. Even her slightly protruding abdomen and some extra flesh around her hips and thighs (a bit of fat that she put on after child birth and could not quiet get rid of) seemed sexy. In fact, the slight imperfections of her figure made the whole scene even more erotic – reminding everyone in the room that this was an attractive yet ordinary housewife being made to do a slow strip tease before us, not some professional stripper with a gorgeous figure and an artificial smile……. If you guys know what I mean!

Had this entire incident taken place in America or Europe, I might have rationalized our behavior that night by telling you that we were all drunk or a “little high” on some dope. There was nothing of the sort of course. But what was happening in that room was research paper material for some psychiatrist: four perfectly normal, decent people had entered into a trance like state where the bizarre, the extraordinary, was being accepted and enacted as if some force, other than our own individual selves, was at work that night. And it was all highly erotic. With a raging hard-on, my urge to pee was increasing by the minute, but I simply could not leave the room at that point, even if it meant peeing in my pants.

The next round started with me realizing that if my wife lost again, she would be actually be taking off at least one piece of her undergarments, leaving her nude (in the real sense of the word) in the presence of my students, either from the top or the bottom.

From this point on, I can only describe things abruptly, as I don’t really have the words to capture the electric eroticism of the scene.

The round ended and Rozi had lost again! Things might…, just might, have ended at this stage. After all, it was all getting too much. Rozi might have looked at me once more with pleading eyes, and I might have got up and ended the whole affair by taking charge of the situation and telling everyone to get dressed. But that rascal, Salman, played “his cards” (pun intended) really well there. Understanding the psychology of the woman before him, he smiled, looked at her and said, “We can end it now if you finally accept that women just can’t beat men at cards…., or any other game for that matter.” That did it. There’s a raging feminist inside my wife. My heart actually skipped a beat as I thought she might chose to dispense with her bra. But even in her fury she was smart enough. She did exactly what Tariq had done. Pushed her chair forward so that the two boys seated on the other end could not see her lower half, hoisted her hips up a little, and slid her panties off in a sitting position. Having taken them off, she turned towards me and said: “Mind holding them for me honey, while I play the next round?” The knife-sharp sarcasm in her voice was not missed by anyone in the room. I held out my hand and took the panties from her, a little red-faced, understanding her anger and feeling ashamed of my own weakness. I could have prevented her this indignity and she knew it….., everyone in that room knew it. They were, after all, my students. I could have just told Salman to stop the bullshit right then and there. But of course, there was a side of me which wanted it all to happen, and that side had firm control by that time.

One piece of undergarment was now saving the two participants from complete nudity, but for all that, the stakes were far higher for Rozi than for Salman. Everyone present in that room knew that if she lost this one, there was no way she could remove her bra and not expose her boobs – or so we thought, short of wriggling under the table and remaining there.

At that point, Salman raised stakes still higher. “Hold on” he said, raising his hand. “Why? Afraid of losing your knickers my boy?” Rozi replied. She seemed impatient, almost in a fatalistic mode, an edginess to her voice that I didn’t like – than only crept in when we had the worst of our fights, and there have been very few such occasions. “There’s another convention in these strip games” Salman continued, ignoring the remark. “Whoever wins gets to have at least one wish that HAS to be carried out by the losers.” Rozi looked at him with suspicious eyes. “You’re making this up” she said. “No, why would I?” he said, “I have as much chance of losing at this stage as you do…., unless, of course, you feel that’s NOT the case and that’s the reason you want to chicken out.” He smiled. “Don’t give that chicken out stuff” Rozi replied, haughtily, “the chicken-out-type would have been out of this room after she lost the second hand.” She was absolutely right there, but I guessed Salman was again cleverly using her grit against her. “What kind of a wish are we talking about?” I asked, wanting to diffuse the tension. “Well, nothing outrageous I can assure. The one we played at my friend’s house, we decided that the losers with all get their butts spanked by each other and then by the winner.” “Oh, and there’s nothing outrageous about it at all!” Rozi replied, sarcastically. “Forget it.” “No, no…., hold on” Salman raised his hands again, his muscular biceps almost shining in the overhead white light. “I didn’t say I was suggesting the same here. What I intended was something far more reasonable.” `As if anything could be considered reasonable tonight’ I thought. “As what?” asked my wife. “Well, tell you what: if I win I’ll let you know the deal afterwards, and you can do the same; and we’ll leave it to Sir, here” pointing to me, “to decide if the `wish’ is reasonable enough to be carried out or not; in fact, he can even change or amend the order if thinks fit.” Great! As if I didn’t have enough on my hands with a pissed-off wife, all but naked, sitting next, and an increasing urge to pee with a raging hard on at the same time. But even in that state, I knew why he was involving me: any suggestion endorsed or given by me would not be so far out of the way as to be totally unacceptable to my wife. At the same time, I knew that he had now seen the hidden side of me; the side which would actually enjoy watching my wife being made to do a slow strip-tease; the side that he’d never seen in a classroom! “I’m just raising the stakes slightly” he said, as if taking the word out of my mind, “and we all know who wants to back out when the stakes are raised….., the one who has a greater fear of losing.” “Start the last round.” Rozi said, and started shuffling the cards. “You mean….?” Salman said. “Yeah, yeah. What ever! If you’re so keen on getting your butt slapped I can’t help you” she waived her hands, her posture on the verge of being arrogant, but I could sense the fear inside. It was in her eyes now. That she continued despite her fear is something I find remarkable. Well, for all her bravado, she lost the last round. The silence in the room was deathly. I didn’t know which part of my anatomy was exerting a higher pressure now: my bladder wanting to empty its contents, or my balls asking me to let out the sperm thru my rock hard member? ‘Is my wife really going to expose those exquisite breasts of hers in front of my students…., just like that?’ I couldn’t believe it. Yet, hadn’t she already taken off the rest of her clothes? But so far she had more or less successfully hidden those parts which really make a woman nude; how would she manage now?

I should have know better than to underestimate my wife! She took a deep breath, placed the last card on the table, and actually shook hands with Salman, saying “Congratulations. You were the better player ON THE DAY!” (Wow…., what vanity!). Then turned to me and said, “Dear, would you please go to that book-rack over there?” “Uh, sure” I said, taken aback. With a less than intelligent expression on my face, trying my best to hide my erection, I walked to the rack and stood beside it, not knowing what to do. “Take out that Atlas.” She ordered. I knew which one she meant since there’s only one on the rack. A large, hard-bound World Atlas Book I got at a throw-away price in an old-books shop. It was a large, heavy item, with maps of different continents illustrated in color; somewhat the size of those large wedding albums newly weds are always showing around to family and friends.

Still not quiet clear on what she wanted, I nevertheless took it out and brought it over to her. She took it from me calmly, put it on the table in a vertical position, like the way it was placed on the rack, making a kind of protective shield out of it, as the top half of her body was now totally covered up till her neck. I got it at once! But then, how would she unclasp her bra while holding this in front? “Ok dear, you can take off my bra now” she said, and immediately, I had my answer.

I could have gone down on my knees and kissed her feet then and there, showing my appreciation, nay devotion, to her intelligence and presence of mind. She was keeping her side of the bet, with out showing her nudity to the two guys present.

With unsteady hands, I managed to unclasp her black bra from behind and free her boobs. I placed the bra gently on the back of my own vacant chair, rendering my wife completely naked right before my two students. The fact that she was still managing to retain a semblance of dignity in that situation, only speaks for her marvelous grace and wit.

“Not fair!” Salman cried. “Cheating.” “Why?” Rozi replied, calmly, “the bet was about taking off clothes, which I’ve done. Nobody mentioned anything about having to flaunt your nakedness in front of everyone. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind when Tariq took off his briefs hiding under the table.”

She had him there and he knew it! “We can all put our clothes on again, I presume?” It was more of a rhetorical question on her part. “Mind putting my bra back on again, dear?” I obliged immediately, picking the bra up again, though not without some disappointment, I am ashamed to admit. “Hold on. What about granting the winner’s wish?” Salman asked, not willing to give up yet. “If this wish is about me sitting here naked holding this rather heavy book, you can think again.” She said, as she balanced the book with one hand and raised the other a little so that I could slip the bra-strap over her right shoulder.

“No, nothing like that.” Salman said. Ok, I’m listening” she said, while I put the bra-strap over her left shoulder. “My wish is” said Salman, pausing to give effect, “that you go to your bedroom once you have put on your clothes, then take them off again, and put on your sexiest nightwear. Then come back, go the kitchen, make us all some tea, serve it and drink it sitting here with us, in whatever you’re wearing.”

I could only marvel at his cheek. He was talking to my wife, in front of me, his teacher, as if he was addressing his girl-friend. (I also happened to think it was a very good idea!).

Rozi was putting her panties back on again, in that sitting position, the way she took them off. She listened to his “wish” calmly, got up, picked up her jeans, slid inside it, tied the front button and pulled up the zipper. As she reached for her shirt, she looked at me and said: “Ok. You heard him?” So once again, the responsibility of the whole thing was conveniently placed on me. “Well…” I began, uncertainly, “Considering that its only a night dress….., and, umm… if I deny this request….., wish…., he will make another one…, and, well…, a bet’s a bet…, like you said.., but of course, if you don’t want to do it….” “Ok dear. I’ll do it.” She said, apparently without emotion, but the disdain in her eyes was clear. Once again that made me feel resentful. I wanted to shout and tell her, ‘listen: I DID NOT put you into this situation. You did!’ But of course I didn’t do anything of the kind. “And may I remind you” she said to Salman, “I’m not the only `loser’ around here.” Literally, I suppose, she was pointing out that the “wish-concept” applied to Tariq as well, but the way she put stress on the word `loser’, I knew she was figuratively taking me in the loop, taunting me for my weakness to protect her from her own ill-conceived plans. “Sure” said Salman, “I have something special planned for my pal here.” He said, patting Tariq’s bare shoulder. “He will put on a pair of `your’ panties” he said, pointing with his index finger at Rozi, “and will spend the rest of the evening like that.” I thought Tariq would be furious at this, but the way he looked at Salman only showed embarrassment and a sense of being let down a little, as if a person whom you trust has just leaked out some secret concerning you.

“No way.” Replied Rozi. “I’m not going to ruin my lingerie by letting it be worn by a man.” “You could lend him an old pair.” I blurted out, and realized how stupid that must have sounded. “Thank you dear” Rozi turned to me with that icy stare, “so thoughtful of you.” “Preferrably” Salman continued, “the ones you already have on…., in fact I insist on this one…., if, of course, Sir allows” he gestured towards me. “Sir”, by that time was getting desperate to leave the room and take a leak and would have agreed to anything. So I mumbled something like “I don’t see any harm in it” and started to leave the room with my wife. “And be sure you are honest when choosing your sexiest nightdress” Salman called out (I could have given that boy a medal for his sheer guts and cheek, “Of course, I have complete faith on Sir’s integrity and I’m certain he will make sure you do choose the sexiest one” he finished. The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me!Once we were back in our bedroom I rushed to the toilet to relieve the pressure on my bladder. When I came out of the toilet I saw that Rozi had taken out the collection of her nightwear and spread them out on the bed. “So which one do you think I should wear?” she asked, so casually as if asking what she should wear while going out somewhere. Cautiously, I picked out a blue, lacy kind of thing, pretty but not quiet revealing. “Are you sure that’s the sexiest one I have?” she asked, looking at me intently, “after all, your student is relying on your integrity.” I could feel the resentment clearly, but hell, I was also getting angry at this stage…., why did she keep blaming me; she got herself into this fix? So this time I threw caution to the wind and picked a thin, transparent teddy, steel-grey in color; something that didn’t leave a lot to imagination. She gave a little laugh (there was no humor in it though) as she saw what I had picked and said, “I knew you’d go for this.” Then she gave me one of her old panties, pink in color, for Tariq, and told me to go join the boys. Just as I was leaving she called me again and asked: “What’s it going to be….., panties or thong?” I looked back and tried to guess whether she was testing me further – as to how “low” I could go towards exposing her in front of my students. I could not read anything into her expressionless face and replied, without hesitation, “Thong”. What the hell, I said to myself, once again angry at her anger.

Back in the guest room I saw that Salman was still in his briefs while Tariq had put on his own pair. But that was soon to be replace by Rozi’s panties – pink! I thought that was a deliberate affront. Somewhat to my surprise, Tariq didn’t appear as pissed off with Salman as he should have been for landing him in that situation. They seemed to be sharing some secret, from the looks they exchanged when they saw the pair of panties I had brought with me. The fact is – I didn’t know it at the time, but both of them, from that point onwards, had it all planned out. Salman made some half-hearted attempt at pulling his leg as Tariq took the panties from me and turned around to replace his cotton briefs with them. As he took off his briefs I couldn’t help noticing that he had a nice, slim ass, with almost no hair around his back…, almost like a girl’s. He seemed to struggle with the panties a little as he tried to jack them on to fit his crotch but managed finally. As he turned around I was surprised to see that he had developed a semi-hard on, and he seemed embarrassed about it. At the time I thought it was the idea of wearing Rozi’s against his own cock that was making him hard. Salman kept passing remarks on his (Tariq’s) situation, saying he looked `oh so pretty’ and calling him names like `chikna’ etc but Tariq seemed to be paying no attention to him. Somehow the whole thing looked like a show, as if they were doing it for my benefit. `Almost’ I thought, `as if they’ve done it before!’ And that was when the truth struck me…. Being somewhat of a cuckold doesn’t mean you’re dumb. Fact was: Tariq “liked” wearing women’s underwear, and Salman knew it! He didn’t think of that “punishment” for Tariq on the spur of the moment. That made me ask myself the next question: `are they bi?’ I had no way of knowing for sure, but then there was no time to concentrate on such questions as Rozi entered the room.

While she had put on the teddy and the thong as promised, but she’d taken one precaution to cover herself somewhat. She had worn it with a bra, the same one she’d been wearing earlier. That meant she was able to hide her breasts, otherwise she would have been exposed right down to the nipples in that transparent thing. She came and stood calmly in front of the boys, actually giving them time – I noticed, to look at her from head to toe. Hands on hips, she even had a hint of smile on her lips. Another truth struck me then (it was night of revelations alight); as angry as she was at losing the game and being made to strip and all; there was a part of her which was enjoying this. The latent exhibitionist inside her, given the opportunity to come out of the closet, was now taking over and making her take pleasure in seducing two young men like that. She was feeling the power that she had over us as a woman. Part of her may also have been taking revenge from me, for acting the weakling and not saving her grace. It was like she was saying, `so, you gutless excuse for a husband, now watch your own students check out your wife’s body in your presence!’ May be it was all of that, and may be both of us were experiencing conflicting emotions that night, discovering our hidden selves.

“Hmmm, not bad” Salman commented, trying to sound indifferent but I could see the shine in his eyes as he scanned her thoroughly, “not bad at all. But honestly, do you always wear this with a bra?” “No I don’t; and don’t push your luck about it” Roze replied calmly, and then told Tariq to get up and come to the kitchen with her to make tea; making it clear that being joint losers, they had to share the consequences together. She hardly seemed to have noticed him till then, or the fact that he was wearing her pink panties (by crossing his legs he had managed to hide his hardening cock so far from her). As she turned to leave for the kitchen, Tariq following her at a distance, she presented her full, round ass, practically naked in that transparent dress, to our view. I could tell that both the boys were stunned. From the front it must have appeared to them as if she was wearing regular panties. That thong caught them off-guard. Tariq’s eyes seemed to bulge behind his specs and even Salman’s mouth remain open for the few seconds she took to disappear from our view.

Once only Salman and I were left sitting in the guest room, I found that normal conversation was almost impossible under the circumstances. Its very difficult to retain that friendly, student-teacher relationship when the teacher’s wife has just been stripped almost-naked by the student concerned! So, making some excuse, I went to the kitchen. Another strange sight welcomed me there (was it my house that night or Alice’s Wonderland?): Tariq, by then, had developed a full-fledged erection, his cock trying to burst out of Rozi’s panties, and my wife was standing, not two feet in front of his cock, looking at it, shaking her head as she does when our son has spilled some juice on the carpet, and saying something to Tariq.

As I entered she looked at me and said, “Well, seems like your student here gets excited wearing girly panties.” There was nothing offensive in her tone. It was like she had just caught a kid in the middle of a harmless prank. And Tariq was actually telling her about his obsession as the two of them made tea. It was the typical story: he was around eleven years old and once, alone in the house, tried on a pair of his mother’s panties, and it seemed to give him an erection…., so on and so forth. Rozi seemed to be listening like a psychologist and made comments meant to indicate that she entirely understood his obsession, and did not find it offensive at all. I also remarked that a lot of boys developed that kind of thing early on in childhood, and, it appeared that the three of us were having a normal conversation. Listening to us, no one could have guessed that inside the kitchen there was a semi-nude woman, the semi-nude woman’s husband, and a young man wearing the semi-nude woman’s panties, with a raging hard-on!

Once the tea was ready, Rozi set up the china on a tray and said, with mock exasperation, “Ok, lets serve tea to His Highness! (meaning Salman).”

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