Adultery Home is where the scandals are !

[Lousy1995]

HOME IS WHERE THE SCANDALS ARE !

The old saying goes, "Home is where the heart is." In our family, we had a different, more whispered version of that phrase, one born from years of observing the intricate, unspoken dramas that played out behind closed doors: Home is where the scandals are.

And it all seemed to orbit, in one way or another, around my mother.
To the outside world, we were the picture of normalcy. But I knew the currents that ran beneath the surface, and they all started with Anuradha—Mom.

Mom (Anuradha) -  At forty-six, she carried herself with a grace that her former profession had bestowed upon her. A decade ago, she had been a teacher of English Literature, and you could still see it in the careful precision of her words and the thoughtful, almost analytical light in her eyes when she listened. She hadn't stood in front of a classroom in ten years, but she never quite left it behind.
It was more than just her mind, though. People always did a double-take when I introduced her as my mother. She possessed a kind of beauty that was both elegant and disarming. She’d maintained a well-structured, enviable figure that she cared for with a quiet, disciplined dedication. I remember, with the strange clarity that children often have, the specific details of her presence. Her daily uniform was the soft, comfortable embrace of a crisp cotton sari, its gentle fabric moving with her as she went about her day at home, and the distinct, faint whisper of her 36B bra beneath them—a detail I’d known since I was a curious child rummaging through her drawers, a number and letter that somehow symbolized her perfectly put-together femininity. In the evenings, that sari would be swapped for the simple comfort of a soft cotton nighty, a uniform of quiet domesticity.
But for special occasions and family functions, a transformation occurred. The practical cottons were carefully stored away, and out would come the brilliant, rustling silks. She would dbang herself in a Kanjeevaram or a Banarasi, the rich fabrics and intricate zari work transforming her from the comfortable, familiar figure of my mother into a vision of stunning, formidable elegance.
Her skin was a smooth, white tone that seemed to glow against the vibrant colors she loved to wear, a genetic gift she shared with her sisters. She came from a simple, unassuming middle-class family, but she and her sisters had always been the talk of their town—the stunning trio. Her elder sister, my Auntie, carried her beauty with a matronly authority, while her younger brother, my Uncle, was the proud brother always flanked by his gorgeous siblings. But it was the two sisters, Mom and her elder sister, who were truly a sight together. They were different flowers from the same breathtaking vine, both gifted with faces and figures that could command a room.
She had married my father, a man five years her senior, and together they had built this home, this beautiful facade that housed our beautiful family. But even the most beautiful vases can have hairline cracks, and in our house, you learned to listen for the faintest tell-tale sounds of strain. I knew, even from a young age, that Mom’s beauty and Dad’s quiet, steady presence were just the opening lines of a much more complicated story. .

Family - Our family  was a simple unit of four. There was Mom, Anuradha, the quiet center of our home. Then there was my father, Anthony, a man whose steady presence had always been the foundation of our lives. He was a man of faith and hard work, his devotion to God matched only by his devotion to providing for us. My elder brother, Britto, inherited that devout nature, always more serious, more inclined to follow the rules than I ever was. And then there was me, John, the younger son, the one who always seemed to be questioning the very foundations they held so dear.

We were a Christian family, and for my parents, that identity was woven into the fabric of our daily life. Every Sunday without fail, we would don our best clothes and file into the church pews—Dad with his solemn prayer book, Mom with her head bowed in genuine reverence, Britto following dutifully, and me, just going through the motions. They were both deeply religious, but somewhere along the way, I had diverged from that path. While they found solace in scripture, I found my answers in logic and the tangible world. I was the silent atheist in a house of faith, a contradiction that often made me feel like a stranger within my own walls.



Dad’s journey had been one of upward mobility. He had started his career in the IT sector, a reliable job that placed us firmly in the comfort of the middle class. But ambition burned in him, and a few years ago, he took a leap of faith—the kind I could believe in—and started a business with a friend right here in Bangalore. The gamble paid off. The company began to flourish, generating high revenue that steadily lifted us from our middle-class existence into the realm of the upper middle class. The tide had turned, and a new current of prosperity began to flow through our lives.



This shift changed the physical landscape of our world. We moved out of the familiar rental house that held the memories of my entire childhood and into a symbol of our new status: a sprawling, modern 4 BHK house in the heart of the city. Our new neighborhood was a community of high-class families, their imposing homes standing as testaments to their success. Our house, however, was situated at the very end of the street, a fact that lent it an air of secluded privacy. And next to us was not another mansion, but a surprising vestige of wilderness: a little forest of full-grown, ancient trees. The only barrier between our manicured lawn and that untamed green world was a huge, formidable compound wall.


The composition of our home changed too. With the business demanding more of his time and Britto securing a good job out of station, the rhythms of the house altered. Now, it is just Mom and me. I’m in my third year of college, navigating the chaos of assignments and an uncertain future. And Mom, Anuradha, is here too, but she seems to have retreated further into the shell of our new, large house. Having left her teaching career a decade ago, she is now a housewife, and her nature has grown increasingly conservative. She mostly stays within these four walls, a beautiful, silent presence moving between rooms. She doesn’t have friends to speak with, no circle of companions to share her days. Her world has shrunk to the dimensions of this luxurious, empty house, with its high ceilings and silent corridors, with only me and the whispering trees from the forest next door for company. The stage was set, beautiful and isolated, waiting for the drama to unfold.


The stage was set, beautiful and isolated, waiting for the drama to unfold. For almost two months after moving into our new, spacious home, we lived like ghosts in our own neighborhood. We were adapting, existing behind the large windows and manicured lawn without truly connecting to the world outside our compound wall. We observed the comings and goings of the other high-class families, but we remained outsiders, a quiet Christian family in a sea of unknown affluence.


It was impossible not to notice the house directly opposite ours. It was a palace compared to our own, a monstrously huge structure that seemed to swallow the land it stood on. Whispers, gathered by my father from brief chats with delivery men, reached us. It was said only two people lived in that vastness—the husband and wife—with the rest of the figures we occasionally glimpsed being servants and maids. The couple was the same age as my parents. The story went that the husband, a wealthy man from Delhi, had fallen in love with and married a Tamil girl. Now, their children were grown and living abroad, leaving this opulent shell empty save for the two of them.

Their names were Aravind and Shalini. He owned a multi-national business, a fact that explained the fleet of branded cars—a sleek BMW, a imposing Audi—that would glide in and out of their gate. He was clearly well-settled, a man who didn't need to worry about anything. Shalini, the Tamil wife, was a housewife like my mom, but that seemed to be their only similarity. Where my mother was slender and structured, Shalini was a little chubby, but with a nice skin tone and what I couldn't help but notice was a very sexy, curvaceous body. They were the undeniable big shots of the area, and we were the new, quiet family across the street.

Meanwhile, the sheer size of our 4 BHK house was becoming too much for my mother to maintain alone. The silence that had once been a mark of our privacy was now becoming a heavy, burdensome thing. After much discussion, we decided we needed help. We decided to hire a live-out female maid, not just for the chores, but to provide some semblance of companionship for my mother during the long days when I was at college.

The problem was, my mom didn't know anyone. She had no friends to ask for a reference. Swallowing her inherent conservatism and shyness, she made a decision. She would go to the only person she thought might know: the sophisticated woman who lived in the mansion across the street. She would ask Shalini for information on a reliable maid.

This simple, practical decision, born from isolation and a need for help, was the spark. This is where the story truly begins. This is where everything in my life, and in the carefully constructed world of my family, started to crumble. It all started the day my mother, Anuradha, smoothed down her cotton sari, took a deep breath, and walked across the street to knock on Shalini's door.

 She returned an hour later, not just with a phone number, but with a solution. Shalini, in her effortless, wealthy way, had immediately offered up the services of their own part-time maid, a young woman named Vini. Shalini explained that Vini was looking for more work and came highly recommended. She was a 26-year-old from a poor family who lived on a nearby street, a woman with a dusky skin tone and a skinny body who always wore a simple saree to her job. That was all we knew, and it seemed enough.

A few days later, Vini(Maid) arrived for her first day. She was exactly as described—young, slender, and quiet, her dusky skin a stark contrast to the bright, printed cotton of her well-worn saree. She moved through our house with a nervous efficiency, and my mom, ever kind, seemed to relax slightly having another presence in the house, even if it was a silent, hired one.

Around this same time, another presence began to fill the empty spaces of our house more frequently: my mother’s elder sister, my Aunt Madhu. As I had always known, the two sisters were like two exquisite flowers from the same vine. Both possessed the same stunning genes, the same well-structured and enviable figures that turned heads. But the four-year age difference and the vastly different paths their lives had taken had etched itself into their beings. If my mom was a natural, understated beauty, content with her cotton sarees and minimal makeup, Aunt Madhu was a curated masterpiece. She gave intense, meticulous importance to her appearance, every hair in place, her clothes always signalling a high-class attitude that often came across as sheer show-off.

Her recent status as a widow hadn’t dimmed this; if anything, it had intensified her need to be seen. She would visit often, her perfume arriving before she did, her critical eyes scanning our new home, offering unsolicited advice on decor and, more pointedly, on how my mother should present herself now that we had “moved up in the world.” She would constantly compare herself to Mom, a subtle competition where she’d point out her own more expensive saree while backhandedly complimenting Mom’s “sweet, simple beauty.” The dynamic was complex—a blend of sisterly love, fierce jealousy, and a relentless need to assert her own perceived superiority.

So now, the stage was truly crowded. The large, empty house was no longer silent. It was filled with the quiet shuffling of a young, skinny maid trying to be invisible, the loud, perfumed pronouncements of a widowed aunt trying to be anything but, and the quiet tension of my beautiful mother, Anuradha, caught between her old life and this startling new one.

And it all traced back to that one knock on a door. A simple request for a maid’s phone number was the first domino to fall, setting into motion a chain of events that would pull every one of these characters—Mom, Dad, Britto, me, Shalini, Aravind, Vini, and Aunt Madhu—into a tangled web where the scandals we whispered about would finally, devastatingly, come to light.


Below i have attached my mom and my aunt's pic feel free to comment who do you like ?


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this is my insta id - https://www.instagram.com/affair_master4...BwNw%3D%3D

[Lousy1995]

Due of my busy work schedule, I will update gradually whenever I get time.  I therefore require your assistance and will respond to you.  Regards


So which of the two sisters do you like ?

1 . Anuradha
2 . Madhu

Give your comments !

[Rocky@handsome]

Anuradha

[Lousy1995]

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[img][/img]

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[kk007]

An amazing start. Features of mom anuradha is so tempting but you forgot to describe about her jiggling juicy ass, which is a defining feature of hot moms. Expecting a lot of voyeurism and john going through sensual cuck son experience (like the story my agent mom written by devteen) and worshipping the spicy ass of both mom and aunt.

[Auntified]

Good beginning bro.

[Auntified]

An amazing start. Features of mom anuradha is so tempting but you forgot to describe about her jiggling juicy ass, which is a defining feature of hot moms. Expecting a lot of voyeurism and john going through sensual cuck son experience (like the story my agent mom written by devteen) and worshipping the spicy ass of both mom and aunt.

Bro i love "my agent mom" written by devteen. Still remember many scenes especially faisal fucking the mom infront of kanna and kanna licking sajan sir's cum from mom's ass and pussy. Do you have the full story or do you know where the full story will be?

[Kundi lover]

Eagerly waiting for john's journey of discovering the scandals behind closed doors. Whether he will get a chance to participate in those nasty encounters or will he just watch.

[Eswar P]

Extremely wonderfull narration beautiful story. Continue bro

[Lousy1995]

A little spinoff before the main story 

"Collar, Cum, and Crawl: The Brutal 30-Day Breaking of an Innocent Dusky Slut"

The mansion stood like a white marble fortress at the dead end of an exclusive lane in Koramangala’s most coveted enclave, its towering gates and thirty-foot compound walls shutting out the city’s chaos. Inside, crystal chandeliers glittered over Italian marble floors that stretched into echoing silence, and the air always carried the faint scent of oud and money. This was the kingdom of Aravind Menon, fifty-one years old, ruthless founder of a multinational logistics empire that moved containers across oceans while he moved people with a single glance. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered, veins still roping over forearms that could crush a man’s hand in a handshake, his salt-and-pepper hair was always perfectly styled, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. When he walked through five-star lobbies or boardrooms, conversations hushed; when he smiled, lesser men felt the temperature drop. In the gym at 5 a.m. every day, he punished his body the same way he punished competitors, until sweat carved rivers down the deep valleys of muscle beneath his skin. Power clung to him like cologne.His wife, Shalini, forty-six, was the soft, voluptuous counterpoint to his steel. A Tamil beauty from an old Madras family that had lost its money but never its pride, she had married up and never looked back. Her skin was the colour of dark honey, her body generously curved, heavy breasts and rounded hips that strained against the rich Kanjeevaram silks she dbangd herself in every day. Gold bangles chimed on her plump wrists, diamonds flashed at her throat, and her long black hair was always oiled and braided with fresh jasmine. She spent her mornings directing the cook, her afternoons on hour-long calls with cousins in Coimbatore or at exclusive spas having rose-milk facials and full-body scrubs. Their two children, a son and daughter, were finishing MBAs in London and Boston, their rooms on the first floor preserved like museum exhibits. The mansion’s corridors rang hollow; the laughter that once filled them had been replaced by the distant hum of air-conditioners and the soft pad of servants’ feet.Among those servants was Vini.Twenty-six years old, barely five-foot-two, thin as a reed from too many half-meals and too much work. Her skin was the deep, earthy brown of village girls who had grown up under open sun, her cheekbones sharp, eyes large and liquid with perpetual caution. She came from a narrow lane behind the local fish market, a one-room house with a tin roof where six people slept head-to-toe. Every rupee she earned went to medicines for her diabetic father and college fees for her younger brothers. She arrived each morning at six-thirty in the same faded sarees, once bright, now washed to the colour of old tea, the cotton clinging to her narrow ribcage, the small, high swell of her breasts, the unexpected flare of hips that hinted at what malnutrition had not yet stolen. Beneath the pallu, her waist was so tiny a man’s hands could almost circle it completely. She moved like a shadow, head bowed, voice barely above a whisper, terrified of making a mistake that might cost her the job. When Aravind’s eyes, cold and assessing, passed over her, she felt them like a physical weight and shrank smaller. When Shalini snapped “Vini! The silver needs polishing again!”, she flinched and hurried away.For a full year she had been invisible, just another pair of hands keeping the palace spotless.But invisibility, in a house ruled by a man like Aravind, never lasts.Over the next thirty days, in the scented, air-conditioned silence of that sprawling mansion, the predator would circle, the trap would close, and the timid, God-fearing girl who still slept with a small wooden cross above her mat would be stripped, broken, and remade into something that knelt eagerly at her master’s feet, mouth open, eyes shining with desperate worship.This is the story of how innocence was hunted down, cornered, and devoured, one trembling heartbeat at a time.

Week 1: 

The Spark of Temptation  

[b]Emotional state: nervous flattery → growing unease → first shameful wetness .[/b]

It began on a humid Monday morning, the kind where the Bangalore air clung to skin like a second layer of sweat. Shalini had left hours earlier, her chauffeur-driven Audi vanishing down the gated lane for her usual marathon of boutique-hopping. The mansion was eerily quiet, the only sound the soft slap of Vini’s bare feet on cool marble and the wet drag of her cloth across the kitchen counter.Aravind stepped in for coffee and froze in the doorway.Vini was bent low over the black granite island, scrubbing at a stubborn stain. The cheap cotton saree (once bright blue, now sun-bleached and threadbare) had slipped from her hip and bunched at her waist. Her petticoat rode high enough to expose the gentle inward curve just above her thigh, dusky skin gleaming with a thin sheen of perspiration. The edge of her plain white panties peeked out, stretched tight across the small, firm mound of her ass. A single drop of sweat rolled down the hollow of her spine and disappeared beneath the fabric.Aravind felt his cock thicken instantly, pressing against the seam of his tailored trousers. He had seen hundreds of women naked, but there was something obscene about this accidental glimpse of the poor maid’s untouched body, something that made his mouth go dry and his palms itch to bruise.He didn’t speak at first. He just watched her, letting the silence stretch until Vini sensed him and straightened with a startled gasp, yanking the pallu back into place. Her cheeks burned dark rose against her brown skin.“S-sir… coffee?” she stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.He said nothing about the view he’d just devoured. Instead he stepped closer, close enough that she caught the expensive scent of his cologne mixed with raw male heat. He let his knuckles brush the bare strip of midriff exposed when her saree shifted again. Just a graze, feather-light, but Vini flinched as if burned.“Careful with the counter,” he murmured, voice low, amused. “Wouldn’t want you slipping and hurting that pretty little body.”She fled as soon as he turned away, heart hammering so hard she felt it in her throat.Over the next four days he hunted her in small, deliberate ways.Tuesday: he “accidentally” brushed the length of his body against her back while she reached for a high shelf, letting her feel the hard line of his erection for one unmistakable second before stepping away.Wednesday: he called her into his study, made her bend to pick up a fallen pen, and told her in a voice like velvet over steel, “You have the kind of waist made for a man’s hands, Vini. Such a waste hiding it under these rags.”Thursday: he trapped her against the fridge door, caged her with his arms, and let his thumb trace the edge of her lower lip while pretending to wipe away a smudge of flour. Her breath hitched; her nipples tightened painfully against the thin cotton of her blouse. She whimpered, “Saab, please…” and he only smiled, letting the word please linger in the air like a promise.Each night she went home to her cramped one-room shack, stripped off the saree that now felt like it carried his fingerprints, and tried to pray. But her thighs rubbed together restlessly, the cotton of her panties soaked through with a slickness she had no name for. She pressed her palms between her legs to stop the ache and only made it worse, hips jerking against her own hand in the dark, ashamed and terrified of the images flashing behind her closed eyes: his large hand sliding under her pallu, his mouth on her throat, the thick bulge she’d felt against her back.By Friday afternoon, Shalini was napping upstairs with the air-conditioning on full blast and a silk mask over her eyes.Aravind found Vini in the laundry room folding bedsheets, the air thick with detergent and heat. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. Click.She froze.He pulled a crisp thousand-rupee note from his wallet (more than she earned in three days) and pressed it into her shaking palm, folding her small fingers over it one by one. Then he let his hand drift lower, knuckles deliberately grazing the soft skin just above the knot of her petticoat. His fingertips traced the faint line of sweat that had collected there, dipping just beneath the fabric for a single heartbeat.“For your family,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers. “There’ll be more. Much more… if you’re a good girl.”Vini’s breath came in tiny, panicked gasps. The note crumpled in her fist. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the barely leashed hunger in the way his thumb now rested possessively against the curve of her waist.She bolted the second he stepped back, running all the way to the servants’ exit, the thousand rupees clutched like sin against her chest.That night, lying on a thin mat on the floor of her house while her mother snored nearby, Vini couldn’t stop her hand from sliding beneath her nightie. She bit down on her own wrist to muffle the sounds as she rubbed her swollen clit in frantic circles, thighs slick, hips bucking. When she came (her first orgasm ever), it was with Aravind’s voice echoing in her head: good girl, pretty little body, much more.Tears rolled into her hair as the aftershocks faded, shame and hunger twisted so tight she could barely breathe.She knew, even then, that the ruin had already begun.

Week 2: 

The Blackmail and First Surrender

[b]Emotional state: terror → humiliation → first unwanted orgasm → self-loathing[/b]

Wednesday afternoon, 
Shalini’s car had disappeared through the gates twenty minutes earlier, bound for some charity luncheon at the Leela Palace. The mansion was tomb-silent except for the low hum of the air-conditioning and the frantic thud of Vini’s heartbeat when Aravind’s voice cut through the hallway like a blade.“Vini. My office. Now.”She knew that tone. She wiped her damp palms on her saree and followed him inside. The heavy teak door shut behind her with a final click. The lock turned.He didn’t speak at first. He simply swivelled the laptop toward her.On the screen: high-definition footage from the guest bathroom. Vini, two days ago, peeling off her soaked blouse after spilling detergent, her small, high breasts exposed to the cold air, dark nipples tightening instantly. She had glanced around nervously, then quickly changed, never noticing the tiny black lens above the mirror.Her knees buckled. A broken sound escaped her throat. “Sir… please… delete it… please, I beg you…”Aravind leaned back in his leather chair, eyes glittering. “Your father still goes to church every morning, doesn’t he? Imagine this playing on the big screen during Sunday mass.”Vini fell to the floor, palms pressed together, tears already streaming. “I’ll do anything… anything… just don’t send it…”He stood slowly, unbuckling his belt with deliberate calm. The zipper rasped down. His cock sprang free: thick, veined, angry red at the crown, eight inches of rigid flesh already glistening at the slit. The musky scent hit her like a slap.“Then open your mouth, little whore.”She crawled forward on shaking knees, sobbing so hard her vision blurred. When the swollen head touched her lips she gagged on the taste alone: salt, skin, raw masculinity. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pushed. Her lips stretched painfully wide; the head scbangd over her tongue and hit the back of her throat. She retched, saliva flooding her mouth, spilling in silver threads down her chin and onto her cheap cotton blouse.Aravind set a merciless rhythm: slow, deep strokes that made her throat bulge, then sudden withdrawals so she gasped for air before he forced back in. With his free hand he yanked her pallu aside and pinched her nipples through the wet fabric until they stood like bullets, aching and traitorous.“Look at you,” he growled. “Crying like a virgin while your nipples beg to be hurt.”Ten minutes felt like hours. Her jaw burned, throat raw, mascara running black down her cheeks. When his thrusts grew erratic she tried to pull away, terrified, but he locked her head in place and buried himself to the root. His cock pulsed; thick, scalding jets of cum shot straight into her stomach. She choked, swallowed, choked again, cum bubbling from her nostrils as he held her impaled until the last spurt.Only then did he release her. She collapsed coughing, strings of semen and saliva hanging from her swollen lips. He wiped the final streak across her cheek with his thumb like marking territory.“Clean yourself up. And remember: this mouth belongs to me now.”She stumbled to the staff bathroom, locked the door, and vomited until her ribs hurt. She scrubbed her tongue with detergent until it bled, gargled bleach-tasting mouthwash, and still tasted him. She cried until there were no tears left, whispering prayers that felt hollow.But that night, in the dark of her tiny room, her fingers slipped between her thighs almost against her will. The memory of his cruel grip in her hair, the stretch of her throat, the way he had used her like an object; her clit throbbed so violently she came in seconds, biting her own wrist to silence the shameful moan. She hated herself for it. And still came again.

Friday evening, 9:42 p.m.
Shalini had texted that the kitty party was running late; she wouldn’t be home before one.Aravind didn’t bother with words this time. He simply crooked a finger. Vini followed him into the office on legs that already trembled with dread and something darker.He bent her over the same teakwood desk that still carried faint scratch marks from her fingernails two days ago. He flipped her saree and petticoat up to her waist; no panties, as he had ordered that morning under threat of the video. Her small ass trembled in the cool air, the lips of her virgin cunt already glistening with shameful wetness.He lined up and drove in with one brutal thrust.Vini screamed into the polished wood as her hymen tore, a sharp, bright pain that made her vision white out. A trickle of blood slid warm down her inner thigh. He gave her no time to adjust. His hands clamped on her narrow hips hard enough to bruise and he started pounding, hips slamming against her ass, balls slapping her clit with every stroke. The desk rocked; a crystal paperweight crashed to the floor.He reached under her blouse, found her small breasts, and mauled them mercilessly, twisting the nipples until she sobbed. The pain blurred, melted, twisted into something sickeningly sweet. Her traitorous pussy began to flutter around the thick cock splitting her open.“No… please… no…” she whimpered, even as her hips began to rock back to meet him.He felt her tighten, laughed low in his throat, and hammered harder. The first orgasm crashed through her like a fist, ripping a broken cry from her throat. Her walls milked him greedily; he snarled and slammed deep, flooding her ruined cunt with pulse after pulse of hot cum until it overflowed and dripped down her thighs in thick white rivulets mixed with her virgin blood.He pulled out slowly, admiring the wrecked, gaping hole he had made. Then he gripped her hair, turned her around, and pushed the blood-streaked, cum-smeared cock against her lips.“Clean your mess, maid.”Still shaking with aftershocks, tears pouring down her face, Vini opened her mouth and licked him clean; tasting iron, semen, and her own shameful arousal until he was spotless.That night she curled into a ball on her thin mat, thighs sticky, pussy throbbing with every heartbeat. She hated him. She hated herself more. And when her fingers found her swollen clit again, she came instantly, whispering his name like a curse and a prayer.

Week 3: 

Deepening Corruption and Slutty Transformation

Emotional state: resistance crumbling → addiction → first voluntary moans

Week 3 began with a new uniform hidden beneath the old one.Every morning Aravind laid out the day’s secret wardrobe on the marble counter of the guest bathroom: crimson lace bras that pushed her small tits together into obscene cleavage, blouses two sizes too small so the hooks strained and the fabric gaped, crotchless panties that left her shaved pussy bare and accessible. Over them she still dbangd her faded work saree, but the cheap cotton now clung to the lewd shapes underneath like a mockery of modesty. By the third day he didn’t even need to speak. His phone would buzz in her pocket while she scrubbed floors on her knees:

[b]flash[/b]

She would glance around, heart hammering, then quickly pull her pallu aside and tug the blouse down just enough to expose one stiff brown nipple to the empty corridor, snap a photo with shaking hands, and send it before anyone could appear. The first time she did it she nearly vomited from shame. By Thursday her cunt was dripping the second the text arrived, her nipples aching to be shown. Tuesday night Shalini swallowed two extra sleeping pills with her post-dinner wine and was dead to in minutes upstairs. Aravind led Vini into the master bedroom (the same king-sized bed where Shalini’s jasmine perfume still lingered in the sheets). He stripped her slowly, savouring every tremble, then used Shalini’s own emerald-green silk scarves to bind Vini’s slender wrists to the carved headboard. Her small tits rose and fell in panic, nipples already peaked from terror and cold. He flipped her onto her stomach, knees spread wide, ass high. The sight of that tiny, untouched brown hole made his cock leak. He spat once, twice, watched the saliva slide down her crack, then worked one thick finger in to the knuckle. Vini sobbed into the pillow, begging in broken Tamil: “No sir… not there… please, I’ll die…”He added a second finger, scissoring roughly, stretching the ring until it burned. The phone with the original blackmail video sat on the nightstand like a silent judge. When he pressed the fat, slick head of his cock against her virgin asshole, Vini’s entire body went rigid. He pushed. Slowly. Relentlessly. The ring gave way with a pop of pain that tore a raw scream from her throat. Inch by agonizing inch he fed his length into her bowels until his hips met her ass cheeks and she was impaled completely, stuffed fuller than she thought possible. Then he started fucking her in earnest: long, punishing strokes that dragged over every nerve inside her, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The bed creaked beneath them. Tears soaked the pillowcase. He reached under her sweat-slick body and found her clit, rubbing it in brutal circles. Against every prayer screaming in her head, pleasure detonated. Her asshole clamped down rhythmically, milking him as the hardest orgasm of her life ripped through her. She came with a broken wail, squirting onto the expensive sheets, body shaking uncontrollably while he kept reaming her spasming hole. The clench of her orgasm dragged him over the edge; he buried himself to the root and unloaded, pulse after pulse of thick cum flooding her rectum until it overflowed and ran in warm rivulets down her thighs. He pulled out slowly, admiring the wrecked, gaping ring that struggled to close. Took three close-up photos on his phone: her ruined asshole, cum leaking, face buried in tears and shame. He left her tied there for twenty minutes, leaking on his wife’s 1200-thread-count sheets, before untying her and sending her to clean herself. She walked bow-legged to the bathroom, cum still dripping with every step.By the end of that week the tears stopped.She still whimpered when he entered her ass, but now it was a whimper of need. She started pushing back before he even told her to, chasing the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness. After he finished in her throat or cunt or ass she no longer fled; she stayed on her knees, licking him clean, whispering “more, sir… please more” like a junkie. Saturday afternoon the garage door stood half open to the driveway, bright sunlight cutting across the concrete. Aravind found her polishing the BMW’s hood. Without a word he bent GD her over the warm metal, yanked her saree up to her waist, and found both holes already slick and ready. He alternated without warning: five brutal thrusts in her dripping pussy, then straight into her loosened asshole, back and forth, using her own juices as lube. The car rocked with every slam. Her small tits were crushed against the hood, nipples scbanging paint.The risk of the open door, the distant sound of the watchman’s radio, only made her wetter. When he slammed into her ass one final time and ordered “come for me, whore,” she shattered: legs buckling, pussy squirting in long arcs onto the concrete floor while her asshole clenched around him like a fist.“Harder, sir… harder…” she moaned, voice cracking, tears of pure overwhelmed pleasure streaking her cheeks.In that moment, bent over a half-a-crore car, skirt around her waist, both holes gaping and leaking, she felt the last fragment of the old Vini die. The girl who had once prayed for purity was gone forever, replaced by something that lived only for the next cock, the next command, the next humiliating orgasm.

Week 4: Full Submission and Obedience

Emotional state: total surrender → worship → pride in being owned

Shalini’s flight to Chennai left at 6:45 a.m. on Day 28. By 7:15 the driver had returned, the staff had been given the weekend off, and the mansion’s thirty-six security cameras were looping old footage on Aravind’s command.
For the first time in years the palace belonged to only two people: predator and prey.Day 28 – The CollarHe waited for her in the master bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed like a king on a throne. On the silk duvet lay the final gift: a narrow black leather collar, one inch wide, lined with soft velvet on the inside and studded on the outside with tiny rhinestones that spelled a single word in glittering capitals: SLUT.Vini stood naked in the doorway, trembling, arms crossed over her small breasts out of leftover modesty. The last thirty days had stripped twenty-six years of shame from her body but not yet from her mind. Aravind crooked a finger. She walked forward on shaky legs.“Kneel.”She dropped instantly.He lifted the collar, let her see the word, then buckled it around her slender throat. The click of the tiny gold lock was deafening in the silence. Something electric shot straight to her cunt; her thighs slickened before he even touched her.“From this moment,” he said, voice low, “you are no longer Vini. You are my bitch. Say it.”“I’m your bitch, Master,” she whispered, and the moment the words left her lips her pussy clenched so hard a drop of wetness hit the marble between her knees.He clipped a thin silver chain to the collar’s O-ring and led her out of the bedroom on all fours. The cold floor bit into her palms and knees, her small tits swaying beneath her, nipples brushing the air with every crawl. Red patent stilettos (size 5, bought specially) forced her ass higher, made her feel obscene and owned.In the living room he sat on the long white sofa and spread his thighs. Without being told she crawled between them, nuzzled the bulge in his trousers like an animal in heat, then freed his cock and swallowed it to the root in one practiced motion. She gagged herself willingly now, throat opening, mascara already running in deliberate black streaks down her cheeks. She fucked her own face on him, spit and precum bubbling at the corners of her mouth, moaning around the thick shaft like it was the only thing keeping her alive.When he was slick and throbbing he yanked the chain, pulled her off with a wet pop, and dragged her to the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the street. Afternoon sunlight poured in; the watchman was fifty metres away, the neighbours’ drivers lounged by their cars. Anyone who looked up would see.He sat back on the wide window ledge, pulled her onto his lap facing outward, and impaled her in one brutal downward thrust. Her soaked cunt swallowed him to the hilt. The red heels scrabbled for purchase on the marble as he gripped her hips and made her ride: up until only the head remained inside, then slam down until her ass met his thighs. Each bounce forced a broken cry from her throat.He slapped her swollen clit in time with her thrusts, sharp, stinging smacks that made her squirt in tiny arcs onto the glass.“Tell me what you are,” he growled against her ear, loud enough that the words vibrated through her whole body.“I’m your dirty maid slut, Master!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Your personal cum-dump, your three-hole whore, please never stop using me, never throw me away!”The humiliation detonated inside her. She came hard, cunt spasming, squirting in long streams down his balls and onto the floor. He kept forcing her to ride through it, slapping her clit again and again until she came a second time, sobbing, body shaking so violently the collar’s rhinestones flashed like strobe lights in the sun.Day 30 – The Final ClaimingTwo days later the mansion still smelled of sex and submission.On the wide leather sofa in the living room he folded her body like a doll: ankles by her ears, knees pressed to her shoulders, swollen cunt and loosened asshole completely exposed and glistening. The collar had not come off once; the word SLUT was imprinted faintly red into her skin.He fucked her like he wanted to break her in half.Long, punishing strokes that bottomed out against her cervix, his hips slamming into her ass hard enough to leave bruises. Her small tits jiggled violently, nipples scbangd raw against his shirt. She was beyond words, only broken moans and the wet slap of flesh on flesh.When he felt his orgasm rising he pinned her harder, growled, “Look at me,” and unloaded: the biggest load of the entire month, thick, endless ropes that painted her insides white, overflowed instantly, ran in heavy streams down her ass crack and pooled beneath her on the leather.He pulled out slowly, watching her wrecked hole gape and wink, unable to close, cum pouring out in a slow river.Then he pressed her face down into the warm, sticky mess.“Lick it clean, bitch. Every drop belongs to you.”Vini obeyed with desperate, worshipful eagerness: tongue lapping his seed off the sofa like a starving puppy, ass high in the air, wiggling, back arched to display both ruined holes still leaking. She swallowed mouthful after mouthful, moaning at the taste, eyes glazed with pure animal devotion.When the leather was spotless she crawled up his body, collar chain dangling, and laid her head on his thigh.Voice hoarse from two days of screaming, she looked up at him with shining, tear-filled eyes and whispered the only truth left in her world:“Thank you, Master. I was nothing before you owned me.”In exactly thirty days the shy, virgin maid who once flinched at a man’s gaze had been stripped, trained, and rebuilt into Aravind’s collared, cock-worshipping, three-hole fuck-pet: a creature that lived only for the taste of his cum, the burn of his cock, and the next command that would shatter her all over again.

[Lousy1995]

This is what Maid Vini looks like 

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[Eswar P]

Verynice story bro