04-09-2025, 10:11 AM
"Show them what a whore you've become. Let them jerk off to the sight of you." Nidhi's initial shame transformed into something deeper, more intoxicating; her pussy clenched tighter around me, her bounces becoming more frantic and uninhibited. "No... oh fuck, Rudra... they're seeing everything... my breasts, my pussy..." But she didn't stop—in fact, the exposure seemed to heighten her pleasure, pushing her toward the edge. She came hard, her body shuddering violently as she screamed out her release, her juices soaking my lap while the brothers watched intently, one of them visibly stroking himself through his pants.
From that day onward, the balcony spectacle became a daily ritual, each evening building on the last in intensity and exposure. The brothers turned into eager regulars, sometimes even waving discreetly from their side, their arousal palpable across the divide. One particularly bold day, I made Nidhi face them directly, spreading her legs wide as I fucked her missionary on the lounge chair, her boobs splayed out invitingly, her pussy fully exposed and glistening as I thrust into her. "Wave to your fans, slut," I commanded between grunts, slapping her thigh for emphasis. Nidhi, her face flushed with a potent mix of shame and thrill, lifted a trembling hand weakly in their direction, her moans betraying how much the attention intoxicated her. "Hello... oh god, they're staring right at me..." The brothers responded with thumbs up, their grins wide as they openly masturbated, adding to the erotic charge.
The encounters began spilling beyond the balcony into the community's corridors and common areas. The brothers, emboldened by the nightly shows, started "accidentally" bumping into Nidhi during her daily errands around the gated complex—whether she was heading to the gym, picking up mail, or walking her kids to the playground. "Hey, Nidhi ma'am," the elder brother said one afternoon in the lobby, his eyes raking over her body clad in a fitted salwar kameez. "Saw you on the balcony last night—those incredible tits of yours bouncing like that? Damn, it's the highlight of our evenings. When do we get a turn to join the fun?" Nidhi flushed deeply, her saree suddenly feeling too thin against her skin, her nipples hardening traitorously under his hungry gaze. "Please... don't say that," she stammered, shifting uncomfortably. "It's private... you shouldn't have been watching." But deep down, a rush of shame and arousal flooded her, making her thighs clench together.
The younger brother was even bolder, cornering her in the elevator one morning as she headed down for a business meeting. "Ma'am, your bounces are hypnotic—bet your pussy feels amazing wrapped around a cock," he said with a sly grin, brushing his hand against her arm casually, his bulge obvious in his jeans. "Let us join next time? We could make it a real party." Nidhi pressed back against the elevator wall, her breath quickening, a familiar dampness forming between her legs despite her horror. "No... I can't. It's wrong, please stop," she whispered, but her body betrayed her, her cheeks burning as the doors finally opened and she hurried away. These encounters left her shaken yet inexplicably aroused, her shame fueling even wilder sessions with me later that day, her pussy wetter and more responsive than ever.
One elaborate evening, I decided to escalate the balcony play further. I blindfolded Nidhi with a silk scarf, tying her hands behind her back with soft ropes I'd brought, positioning her on all fours on the balcony floor. The cool tiles pressed against her knees as I fucked her doggy-style from behind, her ass and pussy fully exposed to the brothers' view. They watched from their side, cheering silently with raised fists, as I made her beg loudly for more. "Please, brother... fuck me harder! Use your slut sister!" Her words carried across the gap on the wind, her shame peaking as the exposure pushed her over the edge. She came explosively, squirting onto the balcony floor in a rare display, her body convulsing while the brothers masturbated openly, their cum splattering against their own glass doors in tribute.
Nidhi's dual feelings deepened with each passing day—ashamed at how she was now seen as the community's secret whore, yet utterly intoxicated by the thrill of it all. "Rudra... they see me as nothing but a slut now," she'd whisper post-orgasm, collapsing into my arms, but her pussy would clench at the mere thought, ready for more. The ravagings continued unabated: kitchen counters left slick with her juices, hallways echoing with the sharp slaps of skin on skin, bedrooms reeking of our incestuous passion. Siddu's visits to Priti grew more frequent and dominant, always with me as the eager audience, claiming her in ways that pushed our boundaries further.
But the exhibitionism wasn't limited to Nidhi. While she was being displayed to the neighbor brothers, Priti had her own unexpected spectacle one memorable day. It happened during one of Siddu's visits, a particularly intense session in our apartment's hall. I'd positioned myself on the armchair, watching as Siddu had Priti on the sofa, her legs spread wide as he thrust into her missionary-style, her moans filling the room like music. "Oh fuck, Siddu... harder! Rudra's watching—make me scream for him!" she cried, her body arching under him.
The milkman, a sturdy middle-aged man who usually left the bottles outside our door without a word, must have heard the commotion that day. Instead of his routine drop-off, he pushed the door open—perhaps thinking something was wrong—and walked right in, milk crates in hand. His eyes widened at the sight: Priti naked and writhing under Siddu, her breasts heaving, pussy stretched around his cock, while I sat nearby stroking myself. "What... what's going on here?" he stammered, frozen in place, his gaze locked on Priti's exposed body.
Siddu didn't stop, grinning over his shoulder. "Just enjoying the missus—care to watch, or join?" Priti, far from embarrassed, locked eyes with the milkman, her moans intensifying. "Don't stop... let him see," she gasped, the unexpected audience pushing her to a shattering orgasm. The milkman dropped the crates, his pants tenting as he stared, mumbling excuses before fleeing—but not before getting a full view. Later, Priti confessed the thrill had made her cum harder than ever, and the milkman started lingering longer during deliveries, his eyes hopeful for another show.
My goals were fully manifesting—both women devoured daily, their bodies mine to ravage and showcase. The ravagings, the spectacles, the shared pleasures—it was all endless, intoxicating, and only the beginning of even darker fantasies whispering in my mind: perhaps inviting the brothers over for Nidhi, or escalating Priti's exposures further. The game evolved, boundless and addictive.
From that day onward, the balcony spectacle became a daily ritual, each evening building on the last in intensity and exposure. The brothers turned into eager regulars, sometimes even waving discreetly from their side, their arousal palpable across the divide. One particularly bold day, I made Nidhi face them directly, spreading her legs wide as I fucked her missionary on the lounge chair, her boobs splayed out invitingly, her pussy fully exposed and glistening as I thrust into her. "Wave to your fans, slut," I commanded between grunts, slapping her thigh for emphasis. Nidhi, her face flushed with a potent mix of shame and thrill, lifted a trembling hand weakly in their direction, her moans betraying how much the attention intoxicated her. "Hello... oh god, they're staring right at me..." The brothers responded with thumbs up, their grins wide as they openly masturbated, adding to the erotic charge.
The encounters began spilling beyond the balcony into the community's corridors and common areas. The brothers, emboldened by the nightly shows, started "accidentally" bumping into Nidhi during her daily errands around the gated complex—whether she was heading to the gym, picking up mail, or walking her kids to the playground. "Hey, Nidhi ma'am," the elder brother said one afternoon in the lobby, his eyes raking over her body clad in a fitted salwar kameez. "Saw you on the balcony last night—those incredible tits of yours bouncing like that? Damn, it's the highlight of our evenings. When do we get a turn to join the fun?" Nidhi flushed deeply, her saree suddenly feeling too thin against her skin, her nipples hardening traitorously under his hungry gaze. "Please... don't say that," she stammered, shifting uncomfortably. "It's private... you shouldn't have been watching." But deep down, a rush of shame and arousal flooded her, making her thighs clench together.
The younger brother was even bolder, cornering her in the elevator one morning as she headed down for a business meeting. "Ma'am, your bounces are hypnotic—bet your pussy feels amazing wrapped around a cock," he said with a sly grin, brushing his hand against her arm casually, his bulge obvious in his jeans. "Let us join next time? We could make it a real party." Nidhi pressed back against the elevator wall, her breath quickening, a familiar dampness forming between her legs despite her horror. "No... I can't. It's wrong, please stop," she whispered, but her body betrayed her, her cheeks burning as the doors finally opened and she hurried away. These encounters left her shaken yet inexplicably aroused, her shame fueling even wilder sessions with me later that day, her pussy wetter and more responsive than ever.
One elaborate evening, I decided to escalate the balcony play further. I blindfolded Nidhi with a silk scarf, tying her hands behind her back with soft ropes I'd brought, positioning her on all fours on the balcony floor. The cool tiles pressed against her knees as I fucked her doggy-style from behind, her ass and pussy fully exposed to the brothers' view. They watched from their side, cheering silently with raised fists, as I made her beg loudly for more. "Please, brother... fuck me harder! Use your slut sister!" Her words carried across the gap on the wind, her shame peaking as the exposure pushed her over the edge. She came explosively, squirting onto the balcony floor in a rare display, her body convulsing while the brothers masturbated openly, their cum splattering against their own glass doors in tribute.
Nidhi's dual feelings deepened with each passing day—ashamed at how she was now seen as the community's secret whore, yet utterly intoxicated by the thrill of it all. "Rudra... they see me as nothing but a slut now," she'd whisper post-orgasm, collapsing into my arms, but her pussy would clench at the mere thought, ready for more. The ravagings continued unabated: kitchen counters left slick with her juices, hallways echoing with the sharp slaps of skin on skin, bedrooms reeking of our incestuous passion. Siddu's visits to Priti grew more frequent and dominant, always with me as the eager audience, claiming her in ways that pushed our boundaries further.
But the exhibitionism wasn't limited to Nidhi. While she was being displayed to the neighbor brothers, Priti had her own unexpected spectacle one memorable day. It happened during one of Siddu's visits, a particularly intense session in our apartment's hall. I'd positioned myself on the armchair, watching as Siddu had Priti on the sofa, her legs spread wide as he thrust into her missionary-style, her moans filling the room like music. "Oh fuck, Siddu... harder! Rudra's watching—make me scream for him!" she cried, her body arching under him.
The milkman, a sturdy middle-aged man who usually left the bottles outside our door without a word, must have heard the commotion that day. Instead of his routine drop-off, he pushed the door open—perhaps thinking something was wrong—and walked right in, milk crates in hand. His eyes widened at the sight: Priti naked and writhing under Siddu, her breasts heaving, pussy stretched around his cock, while I sat nearby stroking myself. "What... what's going on here?" he stammered, frozen in place, his gaze locked on Priti's exposed body.
Siddu didn't stop, grinning over his shoulder. "Just enjoying the missus—care to watch, or join?" Priti, far from embarrassed, locked eyes with the milkman, her moans intensifying. "Don't stop... let him see," she gasped, the unexpected audience pushing her to a shattering orgasm. The milkman dropped the crates, his pants tenting as he stared, mumbling excuses before fleeing—but not before getting a full view. Later, Priti confessed the thrill had made her cum harder than ever, and the milkman started lingering longer during deliveries, his eyes hopeful for another show.
My goals were fully manifesting—both women devoured daily, their bodies mine to ravage and showcase. The ravagings, the spectacles, the shared pleasures—it was all endless, intoxicating, and only the beginning of even darker fantasies whispering in my mind: perhaps inviting the brothers over for Nidhi, or escalating Priti's exposures further. The game evolved, boundless and addictive.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)
