After Goa, Raghuveer became my private obsession. I started creating opportunities for us with careful planning. I would suggest weekend treks or short drives to Lonavala, always framing them as harmless boys’ outings. To the world, we were just close friends. In reality, those hours were ours alone — filled with raw passion, quiet tenderness, and the kind of intimacy I had never known.
The thrill of secrecy became addictive. During family dinners, while everyone chatted and laughed, I would slide my hand under the table and gently squeeze Raghuveer’s thigh, then slowly move higher until my fingers brushed the growing bulge in his pants. He would try to keep a straight face, breathing shallow, while I stroked him slowly under the tablecloth.Sometimes grabbing him n kissing him in kitchen while everyone was in living room. The risk of our wives sitting right across from us made my pulse race every single time.
One unforgettable evening, Neha was talking to me from the hall about some household matter. Raghuveer was on the balcony. He quietly knelt down, unzipped me through the narrow grill opening, and took my cock into his warm mouth. I stood there answering my wife normally, trying not to moan, while he sucked me deep and wet till I cum in his mouth as there was no chance of pulling out. Raghu happily swallowed for the first time and smiled with satisfaction.
And the sheer audacity of it — getting a blowjob while casually conversing with my wife — gave me one of the most intense orgasms I had ever experienced.
We had several close calls. Once, Neha returned home much earlier than expected and caught us both coming out of the bedroom, my hair messy and Raghuveer’s shirt improperly buttoned. My heart nearly stopped. I quickly invented a story about fixing a noisy AC unit. She bought it, but the adrenaline from that narrow escape made our next encounter even more frantic and passionate.
Neha n Priya would teas us light-heartedly. My wife would jokingly call Raghuveer “sautan” whenever she saw us together. “Suhas, my sautan is here again,” she would say with a laugh. Little did she know how close to the truth she was.
My farmhouse just outside Pune was heaven specifically for us. We would drive there under the excuse of “checking on the property.” Those weekends became our private playground. We explored every fantasy we could imagine — slow, romantic lovemaking in front of the large mirror, light bondage with hands tied to the bedpost, role-play as strangers or boss and employee, outdoor sex on the terrace under the stars, edging each other for hours, and new toys we bought secretly. Every discovery brought us closer and made our connection deeper.
There is a private room in our farmhouse that remains locked and inaccessible to family members. This space contains our romantic photo frames, various gifts we have exchanged, toys ,fancy thongs that we love seeing each other in and even a sex sofa . We generally do not bring family members to this farmhouse . I have informed my wife that the house serves as an investment for our future, . And about the our room I maintain the excuse that it houses important property documents and functions as my personal solitude room.
One night at the farmhouse, after a particularly intense session, I told Raghuveer about Sharad. I described how Raghuveer reminded me so much of my first love story — the same gentle strength, the same warm eyes. Tears filled both our eyes as I spoke. We held each other tightly that night, and the lovemaking that followed was slower, deeper, and more emotional than anything we had shared before.
In that quiet moment, with tears still in our eyes, I confessed what I had been feeling for so long. “Raghu, I love you like a husband. We have wives and kids, but there is our own world which is beyond sex. I crave for you — for your glimpse, your mere presence in the house next to me is peaceful. We have to live a dual life and we have to accept it. Maybe in the next lifetime we won’t have to share ourselves with anyone else.”
He looked at me with the same depth of emotion. We both knew the weight of those words.
We both celebrate two birthdays every year. One with family — full of cake, laughter, and relatives. The other was private, just the two of us. I would gift him small things he could wear hidden under his clothes — a chain, a watch, a simple ring. He would surprise me with thoughtful notes or new toys for our farmhouse adventures. Even our Goa night as an anniversary every year.
The times when both our wives and kids were away were the most liberating. We would fuck in every room possible, take long baths together, walk around the house completely nude the whole day, order our favourite food, watch movies cuddled up on the sofa, and talk about life for hours. Whenever one of us got hard again, we would go at it immediately — we simply could not get enough of each other.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, we would wake up at 3 or 4 a.m., hearts pounding with risk, quietly cross the balcony, and fuck intensely until the first light of morning before slipping back to our respective beds beside our wives. Those stolen moments — hurried, desperate, and full of adrenaline — only made our secret bond stronger.
Our wives are happy, we try hard to do so, whatever they want we make sure they get, time money body romance and what not we try hard to prioritise them but yes raghu n me love each other bit more than everything else.
Even today, 4 years later, when I see Raghuveer smile at me across the balcony or feel his hand brush mine secretly, I remember that first deliberate night in Goa. What began as my careful plan on a moonlit beach has become the most authentic and beautiful part of my life.
