Alia. Becoming a Sexwife. Part 2

About a few months had passed, life went on as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.

I was busy with my office work, Aliyusha with her studies and martial arts.

One day I decided to surprise her—to come to her training session. She always said, "Come watch, it's interesting," but I kept putting it off. The gym was in the basement of an old building, smelling of sweat and rubber. I entered quietly and stood by the wall.

The training was in full swing. She was paired with a tall guy—about 190 cm, broad shoulders. His name, I think, is Arlan.

Earlier, she had mentioned him, saying he was like the coach's assistant and sometimes helped, demonstrating techniques.

They

were on the ground. She tries to apply a hold on him, pushes, twists. He doesn't give in—smiles, plays along. Suddenly, he sweeps her leg, throws her onto her back. Skillfully grabs her, pins her down.

The hold is tight: her legs are spread apart, knees bent, he's between them. His hips are pressed firmly against her crotch. I see everything: Aliya's shorts are digging in, the fabric is taut, her tanned skin glistens with sweat. His cock—clearly hard—is pressing right against her through the fabric. She tries to break free, but he holds her, whispers something, presses harder. Her chest heaves, her gaze is tense.

But he absolutely dominates her, like a cheetah that's torn apart a gazelle, lying on top of her.

Five seconds—an eternity. Then the coach whistles: "Switch!"

Aliya gets up, flushed, adjusts her shorts. Arlan smirks, gives her a friendly slap on the ass—light but confident. She doesn't pull away. I stand in the corner, my cock rock hard. She notices me, waves: "Hi, sunshine!"

At that moment, I wanted to say that I didn't like how guys were wrestling with girls here and that she shouldn't come, but on the other hand, it really turned me on and I badly wanted sex.

We quickly got to the apartment, this time at her place. Her mother was at work all day, and meanwhile, we were going up the stairs, I was already hard and my mind was boiling with desire.

Aliya is on top of me, her toned ass slapping against my hips, her breasts swaying near my face, I'm holding her by the waist—and suddenly the thought pops into my head again: what if it wasn't me? What if it was him. His cock is rock hard. She's riding that thing like crazy. I came faster than usual, Aliya started getting upset, muttering "Tsk, Zhan" (affectionately calling me).

She sighed with deep and unconcealed disappointment and ran to the shower. I knew what she would do with the showerhead, trying to finish on her own.

While she was in the shower, I got very curious to snoop through her phone, aware it was a rat-like thing to do, I grabbed the phone and started rummaging through it.

Her Instagram was flooded with recommendations—jewelry, fashionable dresses, Instagram models, and also, surprisingly, local Kazakh entrepreneurs with audiences (owners of coffee shops and the like).

She was also followed by coaches, buff guys from the gym, and just nobodies. Comments: "🔥", "would love to fuck you", "Ass is fire." And all in that vein, apparently there were more, but she had deleted such comments. In the DMs, someone sent a voice message in such a deep male tone, saying he'd like to meet, have a cup of coffee with her, and have a heart-to-heart. Realizing I messed up by opening the message, I just deleted it.

From my phone, I opened his Instagram and thought: "Yeah, really, this guy could give her what she constantly asks me for: expensive purchases, restaurants, driving around in a car with him (not on the bus like with me), and he'd give her money (unlike me splitting the bill and borrowing)."

Something tightened inside me, I looked at myself and felt disgusted. I really started wondering, how can she be with me? When she could easily date one of those guys.

Another incident made me realize that I don't provide her with financial security, or even physical protection.

This is about her ass. She wore sportswear as everyday clothes. When she walked down the street in her tight clothes, the fabric dug into the curve so much it seemed her ass was about to burst out. Tall, toned, with a sharp line—like Brazilian models. Men didn't just look. They reacted.

On the minibus—some men in the crowd pressed against her from behind, rubbed their cocks against her thigh while she stood holding the rail. It was easy to do in a crowd. Near the house, some taxi driver yelled at her in Kazakh and seemed to offer 80 thousand for the night, a couple of times when we were crossing at a crosswalk, guys drove by and whistled looking at her.

But the most unexpected episode in my life happened when we were walking in the park after dark. Aliya in sports leggings and a short top. I'm walking on her right, holding her hand. Suddenly from behind—a cyclist, a young guy, in a helmet, on a mountain bike. He zooms past, slows down, stretches out his right hand and gives her ass a juicy slap—loudly, his palm fully landing on the fabric. "That's an ass!"—he shouts and pedals away, speeding off.

Aliya flinches, turns around, but he's already far away. I stand rooted to the spot and don't know what to do, knowing I can't catch him. She looks at me: "Did you see that, do something?!"—"Sorry,"—I only mumbled, not knowing what else to add.

We argued over this, but quickly made up with sex. Sex turned into a routine. I had gained more weight over the last few months. I started coming much faster, I saw her disappointment.

I asked once: "Is everything okay?"—"Yes, just tired,"—she replied. But I knew what the issue might be.

I understood well her high sex drive, that my cock—frankly speaking, is small, only 9-11 cm long, not thick. And generally not comparable to the size of her ass. But I always find excuses for myself that it's average size, some have even less. I understand my belly doesn't flatter my body. I make decisions poorly, she has to take the initiative herself. She did everything herself: rented the apartment, ordered taxis, decided where we'd go, and much more.

In the evening, she said directly:

— Bekzat, you're good. But... be more confident in life, I want you to provide for us, why am I carrying everything on my shoulders. Sometimes I want a man to take responsibility. Understand?

I was silent. She sighed and said: "Okay, I signed up for the gym, I want to keep in shape, otherwise with you it seems I'm starting to gain weight." And... asked for a personal trainer. Arlan. Remember him? He works in fitness now. Said he'll train me individually, as a friend for a big discount."

She looked at me. Waited for a reaction.

I nodded.

— Cool. Yeah, go for it, babe" (as if I could influence this).

And in my head, already a picture: How this "Arnold Schwarzenegger" fucks my Aliya doggy style and slaps her ass, wrapping her hair around his fist and pulling it back.

I went to the bathroom. Locked myself in. Imagined all this in detail and jerked off until I came.

That's how I finally accepted the thought that another man could take her if he wanted.