Adultery Undercover Desires

[Ananthukutty]

Tell me how do you like this does this pciture goes with the character, please comment and let me know coz im gonna write according to it
Thank you

This lady looks like modern high class woman. kavya mother can never be like this. she must be more traditional hiding all her desires and living life fearing cannot cheat her husband. now these mslm men will bring the bitch our of the hndu women and ruin them. if there are any other women in the family of kavya, you can bring them too. 

[Astroboy11]

She seems like the post-liberated version of a previously traditional, somewhat conservative mother.

[Chennaiboy]

SHE LOOKS PERFECT

[Ayush01111]

There is no reason for that to happen. This story is built up on feelings and desires. Kavya has expressed regret (it seemed hollow to me) and the author has progressed it further from the first marriage. Having Rahul show up just to fuck her would be a shallow revenge. I get the feeling that the author has no intension to (or perhaps it was never the intension to) have a revenge arc for the ex-husband. 

I am talking about what I want. How the story continues is up to the author. There is no compulsion for the author to listen to me. I'm okay with that.

I am also saying whrn any womne can vheat in marrige with huaband friend so why cant cheat current husband and sleep with ex husband it is also a seaire for women and i can be deaire for women and renvenge for ex husband

[John446]

I am also saying whrn any womne can vheat in marrige with huaband friend so why cant cheat current husband and sleep with ex husband it is also a seaire for women and i can be deaire for women and renvenge for ex husband

I understand Ayush but the thing is how can she have sex with ex husband with whom she never enjoyed it.

[Astroboy11]

I understand Ayush but the thing is how can she have sex with ex husband with whom she never enjoyed it.

Yup, the revenge arc seems unlikely now. Not that it needs to be consented

[PELURI]

think some want Rahul to sort of force himself on Kavya as a revenge...but my point is that's not how Rahul can do things... he's not made for such things....

[Paty@123]

Revenge of Rahul should be on both kavya and Danish because he believed his friend and also his wife. They both have put him dark when he was in USA for his assignment,

[Astroboy11]

think some want Rahul to sort of force himself on Kavya as a revenge...but my point is that's not how Rahul can do things... he's not made for such things....

I understand where you are coming from and the way his character has been written so far, that does seem unlikely. 

It’s just that a lot of stories here have that sort of a husband and one where he takes a nuclear revenge is missing. I feel like having that here would elevate the story

[Astroboy11]

Revenge of Rahul should be on both kavya and Danish because he believed his friend and also his wife. They both have put him dark when he was in USA for his assignment,

Completely agree. I don’t think the author does, so wanting it won’t mean anything

[Ayush01111]

Yup, the revenge arc seems unlikely now. Not that it needs to be consented

But it is 1 year back now rahul is changed and writer can do any thing with his writing may be in guilt it can be done

[John446]

CHAPTER – 71


Unexpected Extra Day:
The next morning dawned gray and restless.
Danish woke at 5:00 AM to the low rumble of thunder, the sky over Delhi a bruised purple, rain lashing the windows in sudden, violent sheets. Kavya stirred beside him, her hair a dark spill across the pillow, one arm still dbangd over his chest. He kissed her forehead softly, then slipped out of bed to check his phone.

Flight Status: DEL → HYD

Delayed due to severe weather. Rescheduled to 04:45 AM tomorrow.
He exhaled, half-relieved, half-amused. One more day.
By 7:00 AM, the house was awake to the storm. Rajesh sat in his armchair, walker folded beside him, peering out the window with a frown. “This isn’t letting up anytime soon,” he muttered, sipping his masala chai. Trisha stood at the balcony door, arms crossed, watching the garden flood—marigolds bowed under the weight of water, the neem tree swaying like a drunk dancer. She wore a simple cotton saree in muted green, the pallu tucked neatly, but her bun was slightly askew from sleep, a few silver strands glinting in the dim light.
Kavya padded in, still in her nightie, rubbing her eyes. “Flight delayed?”
Danish nodded, showing her the screen. She grinned—wide, unguarded—and threw her arms around his neck. “One more day with us!” she sang, kissing his cheek. Rajesh chuckled. Trisha turned, her hazel eyes meeting Danish’s for a fraction longer than usual, then looked away, a faint flush on her cheeks.
The power had been out for three hours.
The kitchen was a dim, humid cave lit only by a single kerosene lamp on the counter and the cold gray storm-light seeping through the rain-lashed window. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, ghee, and the sharp bite of green chillies.
Trisha stood at the wooden chopping board in her faded green cotton saree, the pallu tucked tightly at her waist, blouse damp at the small of her back and under her arms. Her bun had come half-undone; thick black-silver strands clung to the nape of her neck and temples, curling from the steam. She chopped potatoes with short, angry strokes, the knife thudding against the board like her heartbeat.
She could not stop seeing it.
Every time she blinked she saw Kavya’s ankles hooked over Danish’s shoulders, saw her daughter’s thighs trembling violently, saw the way Kavya’s mouth had fallen open in a soundless scream when Danish finally pressed all the way in and held himself there, grinding in slow, merciless circles. She saw the slick, obscene glide of his cock — thick, heavy, veined — pulling almost all the way out until only the swollen head remained, Kavya’s body clenching desperately to keep him inside, then the slow, relentless push forward again, inch by inch, stretching her daughter open until Kavya’s back bowed off the bed and her toes curled so hard the knuckles went white.
Trisha’s knife slipped.
A potato rolled.
Her breath came shallow and fast.
Danish stepped into the kitchen quietly, barefoot, kurta sleeves rolled high.
“Let me help, Mummy ji.”
His voice — low, calm — sent a shiver straight between her legs.
She couldn’t speak. Only nodded.
He moved behind her to reach the heavy iron tawa from the bottom shelf. The narrow space forced his body close — so close she felt the heat radiating off his chest through the thin cotton, felt the faint brush of his hip against the curve of her buttock as he straightened. Her nipples stiffened instantly against the blouse, aching. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper.
He set the tawa on the gas burner, struck a match. The tiny flare lit the strong line of his forearm, the flex of muscle as he adjusted the flame — exactly the same forearm that had been braced beside Kavya’s head last night, holding his weight while his hips rolled in that slow, devastating rhythm.
Trisha’s thighs pressed together beneath her petticoat.
She felt herself grow wet — shamefully, instantly wet — and hated her body for it.
Danish knelt at the sink to peel potatoes.
His shoulders moved under the kurta with every stroke of the peeler, the fabric pulling tight across his back. She remembered that back rippling above Kavya, remembered the way sweat had glistened along his spine each time he drew out slowly, deliberately, letting Kavya feel every inch of emptiness before filling her again.
She remembered how Kavya — her fierce, untouchable Kavya — had whimpered, had actually whimpered, nails clawing at his skin, hips lifting in helpless, greedy little jerks, begging without words for him to come back inside.
Trisha had never heard her daughter make those sounds.
Never seen her surrender so completely.
A soft clatter — the peeler slipped from Danish’s fingers.
He bent to retrieve it. His kurta rode up at the back, revealing a strip of warm brown skin, the dimples just above the waistband of his track pants. Trisha’s gaze locked there, and for one burning second she imagined her own fingers digging into that skin, imagined her own legs pushed back to her ears, imagined that thick, slick length easing into her the same way — slow, merciless, stretching her open until she forgot she was fifty, forgot she was a mother, forgot everything except the ache to be filled exactly like that.
The knife fell from her hand with a loud metallic clatter.
Danish straightened instantly. “Mummy ji?”
She couldn’t look at him.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice cracked and hoarse.
He moved to her side — too close again — and reached past her for the steel dabba of jeera on the shelf. His arm brushed the side of her breast, the accidental pressure sending a bolt of pure heat straight to her clit. She gasped — a tiny, involuntary sound — and stepped back, bumping hard into the counter. The edge dug into her lower back.
Their eyes met.
His were dark, concerned, gentle.
Hers were wide, pupils blown, lips parted.
The lamp flame danced between them.
Rain hammered the window like a thousand frantic heartbeats.
She saw it then — the steadiness in him, the quiet strength, the absolute control.
The same control that had turned her proud daughter into a trembling, soaking, pleading mess.
Her nipples throbbed against the cotton blouse.
She felt the wetness sliding warm between her thighs, soaking the thin fabric of her panties, and a wave of dizzying shame crashed over her.
He is your son-in-law.
He belongs to Kavya.
He made love to your daughter exactly the way you have never been made love to in years of marriage.
Danish’s gaze dropped — just for a fraction of a second — to the rapid rise and fall of her chest, to the hard points of her nipples visible through the damp blouse, then snapped back to her face. His jaw tightened. He took one careful step back.
“I’ll… finish the rotis,” he said quietly, and turned to the counter.
Trisha gripped the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles went white.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted — God forgive her — to know what it felt like to have those strong hands fold her in half, to have that thick cock ease into her so slowly she felt every vein, every pulse, every inch claiming her until she shattered exactly the way Kavya had shattered.
The thought lasted less than two seconds.
Then guilt and horror slammed into her like a wave.
She turned back to the stove, hands shaking as she stirred the dal, tears mixing with the steam on her lashes.
The rain kept falling.
The lamp kept flickering.
And in the small, hot kitchen, a fifty-year-old woman stood trembling with a hunger she had no right to feel, burning with the memory of how completely her daughter had been loved — and wondering, for one treacherous, aching moment, what it would feel like to be loved like that just once before she died.
Midnight – 1:07 AM
The house was silent except for the soft ticking of the old wall clock and the occasional drip from the balcony after the day’s rain.
Trisha lay on her back in the darkness of the master bedroom, eyes wide open, blanket kicked to her feet.
Rajesh snored gently beside her, one arm flung above his head, mouth slightly open.
She had been staring at the ceiling for two hours, body rigid, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw it again:
Kavya folded beneath Danish, thighs trembling, ankles over his shoulders, taking that slow, merciless cock inch by inch until her back arched and her toes curled white.
She heard the wet slap of his balls, the muffled moans, the way her daughter had begged with her body.
Trisha’s nightie was twisted around her waist.
Her thighs were slick.
Her nipples ached against the cotton.
She had pressed her legs together, rubbed them, even slipped a shameful hand between them for a few desperate seconds before yanking it away in horror.
Nothing helped.
At 1:07 AM she sat up, chest heaving.
She looked at Rajesh — sleeping so peacefully, so obliviously — then swung her legs off the bed.
The wooden floor was cool under her bare feet.
She didn’t bother with a shawl.
She didn’t think.
She just moved.
The hallway was pitch black except for the thin blade of moonlight spilling from the gap in Kavya and Danish’s door.
She knew they weren’t sleeping.
She could feel it in the air — thick, charged, scented faintly with sex and jasmine.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she crept closer.
Every step felt like walking toward fire.
The door was ajar exactly as it had been the night before — just enough.
Trisha stopped a foot away, hands clenched at her sides, breathing through her mouth.
Go back, the last sane part of her screamed.
This is wrong. This is depraved.
But her feet moved forward anyway.
She leaned in.
One eye to the gap.
And froze.
Moonlight poured across the bed like liquid silver.
Danish sat on the edge of the mattress, legs spread, back against the headboard, completely naked.
His head was tilted back, throat exposed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted on silent breaths.
One large hand was tangled gently in Kavya’s long hair — not forcing, just resting, guiding.
Kavya was on her knees between his thighs.
Her cotton nightie was pushed down to her waist, breasts bare and swaying with every bob of her head.
Her mangalsutra swung like a pendulum between them, glinting with each movement.
She had Danish’s cock in her mouth — all of it.
Trisha watched, stunned, as her daughter — her modest, sharp-tongued daughter — took him to the root in one slow, practiced glide.
Kavya’s lips were stretched wide around the thick shaft, cheeks hollowed, throat working visibly as the swollen head slipped past her tonsils.
A thin string of saliva connected her bottom lip to his balls when she pulled back, only to sink down again immediately, nose brushing the trimmed hair at his base.
Danish exhaled a low, shaky groan — barely audible, but it speared straight through Trisha’s core.
Kavya’s eyes were closed in concentration and pleasure.
Her right hand cupped his heavy sac, rolling it gently, while her left stroked the few inches she couldn’t swallow on the upstroke.
She twisted her wrist on every pull, tongue swirling around the ridge of the head, lapping at the bead of precum that welled up again and again.
Trisha couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
She watched Kavya pull off slowly, lips dragging along the length until only the head remained in her mouth.
Kavya looked up then — eyes locked with Danish’s — and sucked hard, cheeks hollowing dramatically, tongue flicking the sensitive underside.
Danish’s hips jerked; his hand tightened in her hair.
“Fuck… Kavya…” he whispered, voice ragged.
Kavya hummed — a low, filthy sound that vibrated through his cock — and took him deep again, throat fluttering around him.
Her free hand slipped between her own thighs, rubbing herself shamelessly through the soaked cotton of her panties.
Trisha’s knees nearly gave out.
She had never imagined her daughter could look like this:
On her knees.
Hungry.
Slutty.
Utterly devoted.
Kavya’s pace quickened — wet, sloppy sounds filling the room now, saliva dripping down Danish’s shaft, coating his balls, running over Kavya’s fingers.
She was moaning around him, the vibrations making Danish’s thighs tense, his toes curl against the sheets.
Trisha’s hand flew to her own mouth to stifle a gasp.
Her other hand — traitor — pressed hard between her legs, right over her aching clit, through the thin nightie.
Danish’s head fell forward.
He watched Kavya with dark, reverent eyes — exactly the way he had watched her while fucking her last night.
“Look at me,” he breathed.
Kavya’s lashes lifted.
Their eyes locked.
She sucked harder, cheeks hollow, throat working, hand flying between her legs now.
Danish’s jaw clenched.
His abs contracted.
His hand tightened in her hair (not rough, but firm).
He held her there, buried to the hilt, for three… four… five long seconds.
Kavya’s throat worked around him in frantic swallows; tears glittered on her lashes; her fingers dug into his thighs.
When her nails tapped twice (quick, gentle) against the muscle of his leg, he released her instantly.
She came off with a wet, gasping pop, strings of saliva stretching from her swollen lips to his glistening cock.
She gulped air, chest heaving, but the moment she had breath she dove back down (hungry, desperate, loving every second).
Now it was messy.
She bobbed fast and sloppy, hand pumping what her mouth couldn’t reach, tongue lashing the head on every upstroke.
Saliva poured down his length, coated her chin, dripped onto her bare breasts.
The room filled with wet, rhythmic sounds: gluck-gluck-gluck, the soft slap of her hand, Danish’s ragged breathing.
Danish’s head fell back against the headboard.
“Look at me,” he rasped.
Kavya’s eyes snapped up (dark, glassy, utterly surrendered).
She locked gazes with him and took him deep again.
This time he didn’t ask.
He gripped her hair with both hands now, hips rolling up slightly, and pushed (slow, deliberate) until her nose pressed flat against his pelvis.
He held her there.
Counted silently: one… two… three… four…
Kavya’s throat spasmed around him.
Her whole body trembled.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her eyes never left his (pleading, trusting, loving).
At the fifth second her fingers tapped his thigh again (soft, urgent).
He let go.
She pulled off coughing, gasping, a thick rope of saliva hanging from her bottom lip to his cock.
Before she could fully catch her breath she plunged back down on her own, moaning like she couldn’t live without him in her mouth.
Kavya pulled off slowly (lips dragging the full length until only the head remained in her mouth).
She swirled her tongue around the crown, flicked the sensitive slit, then looked up at him with dark, teasing eyes.
Danish gave a low, husky laugh (half groan, half growl).
His fingers tightened gently in her hair.
“Kavya… baby…”
His voice was rough, but steady, almost amused.
“I’m nowhere near cumming yet. I’m just warming up.”
Kavya’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed with wicked delight.
She hummed (a low, filthy sound that vibrated straight through his shaft) and sank down again, taking him deeper than before, throat fluttering around him.
Trisha, pressed against the wall outside, felt the words like a physical blow.
Just warming up.
Twenty-five minutes of the most intense, devoted blowjob she had ever witnessed, and he was just warming up.
Most men she had heard about from whispered conversations with friends finished in two or three minutes, sometimes less.
But Danish (strong, patient) sat there like a king on a throne, cock throbbing, balls drawn tight, and calmly announced he was nowhere close.
Trisha’s knees buckled.
She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold floor, nightie bunched around her thighs, one trembling hand pressed hard between her legs.
She couldn’t stop the images:
·       Kavya’s throat working around him, tears on her lashes, still hungry.
·       Danish’s abs flexing each time he fought back the edge.
·       The way he smiled down at her daughter (loving, possessive, utterly in control).
And now this:
Just warming up.
Trisha’s breath came in shallow, desperate pants. Trisha pressed the heel of her hand harder against herself, biting her lip until it bled, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
She had never felt so old.
So empty.
So achingly, unbearably alive.
She knew (without doubt) that when he finally decided to cum, it would be catastrophic.
Trisha remained crumpled on the hallway floor, back pressed to the cool wall, legs splayed shamelessly beneath her nightie.
The sounds from the room had turned slower, filthier: the wet drag of Kavya’s lips, the soft slap of her hand, Danish’s low, steady breathing.
She had never done it.
Not once.
In thirty years of marriage, the idea of taking Rajesh in her mouth had felt unthinkable, dirty, something only “loose” women did.
She had blushed even hearing the word blowjob in films, had changed the channel quickly if a scene grew too suggestive.
Oral sex was a line she had drawn in her mind long ago: sacred boundaries, ***** wife, respectable teacher’s daughter.
Yet now…
Her eyes were fixed on the sliver of moonlight that revealed everything.
Danish’s cock stood impossibly thick and long, angry-dark with blood, glistening with layer after layer of Kavya’s saliva.
The head was swollen, flushed almost purple, slick and shining each time Kavya pulled back.
A thick vein ran along the underside, pulsing visibly with his heartbeat.
Every time Kavya took him deep, the shaft disappeared between her daughter’s stretched lips until her nose pressed flat against his pelvis, and Trisha could see the faint bulge in Kavya’s slender throat.
Trisha’s mouth was flooding with saliva.
She swallowed hard (once, twice), but it kept coming.
Her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, restless, imagining.
What does it taste like?
She watched Kavya pull off slowly, lips dragging, and saw the clear strand of precum stretch from the tip to her daughter’s bottom lip before Kavya licked it away with a happy little moan.
Salty?
Musky?
Bitter at the end like almonds?
Kavya’s eyes were half-closed in bliss, cheeks flushed, tears of effort on her lashes, yet she looked… radiant.
Not degraded.
Not ashamed.
She looked like a woman feasting on something sacred.
Trisha’s breath came in shallow, burning gasps.
She had never touched Rajesh there with anything but her hand (and only in the dark, under the blanket, eyes squeezed shut).
She had never seen a man’s cock this close, this alive, this… beautiful.
It looked powerful.
Heavy.
Velvet over steel.
She watched Kavya swirl her tongue around the head again, watched Danish’s hips give a tiny, involuntary roll, watched the way Kavya hummed (like she couldn’t get enough of the taste).
A bolt of pure, shameful heat shot straight between Trisha’s legs.
She pressed her thighs together so hard it hurt.
Her mind spun wild, forbidden pictures:
·       Kneeling where Kavya knelt.
·       Feeling that weight on her own tongue.
·       The stretch of her lips (fifty-year-old lips that had only ever kissed chastely) around something so thick and alive.
·       The heat of it.
·       The pulse.
·       The moment it would nudge the back of her throat and she would panic and pull off, coughing, only for strong fingers to gently guide her back down and teach her how to breathe through it.
Her nipples throbbed so painfully she had to bite down on her own wrist to stay silent.
She was dripping (soaked through her cotton panties, the nightie clinging to the tops of her thighs).
She had never been this wet in her entire life.
Kavya took Danish deep again (slow, deliberate), and held him there.
Trisha watched her daughter’s throat work, watched Danish’s hand tighten gently in her hair, watched the way Kavya’s eyes fluttered shut in pure contentment.
And for one terrifying, dizzying second, Trisha understood:
This wasn’t dirty.
This was worship.
Kavya wasn’t serving.
She was devouring something she loved, something that belonged to her as much as she belonged to it.
Trisha’s fingers twitched against the floor.
She imagined the taste exploding across her tongue (salt and skin and something darker, something uniquely him).
Imagined the weight settling heavy and warm, imagined the moment he would groan her name the way he groaned Kavya’s).
A broken whimper escaped her throat before she could stop it.
Inside the room, everything stilled for half a heartbeat.
Trisha clamped both hands over her mouth, eyes wide in pure terror.
But the sounds resumed (wet, rhythmic, unhurried).
Danish’s low chuckle drifted through the gap, rough with pleasure.
“Greedy girl… we have all night.”
Trisha stayed frozen on the floor, tears sliding silently down her temples into her hair, body shaking with a hunger so fierce it felt like grief.
She had never tasted a man.
She had never wanted to.
Until tonight.
Finally Danish exhaled a long, shaky breath and curled his fingers under her chin.
“Enough, baby… come here.”
He pulled her up gently but firmly, drawing her onto his lap.
Their mouths crashed together (hungry, open, filthy).
Tongues slid and tangled, tasting each other: Kavya tasting herself on his lips from earlier, Danish tasting the salt-musk of his own cock on her tongue.
He kissed her like he was starving, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other splayed across her bare back, pressing her breasts to his chest.
Kavya whimpered into his mouth, grinding her soaked panties against his slick shaft, leaving wet trails on his stomach.
Minutes melted.
The kiss turned slower, deeper, until they were simply breathing each other in, foreheads touching, noses brushing.
Danish broke away just enough to whisper against her swollen lips, voice rough with promise:
“My turn, baby.”
He lifted her effortlessly (arms under her thighs and back) and laid her on the bed like something precious.
Kavya sank into the mattress with a soft sigh, nightie still bunched at her waist, legs already falling open in invitation.
Danish knelt at the foot of the bed.
He started at her feet.
He took her right foot in both hands, thumbs pressing into the arch, then slowly, deliberately, dragged his tongue from her heel to the tip of her big toe.
He sucked each toe into his mouth (warm, wet suction), swirling his tongue around them the same way she had swirled around his cock minutes ago.
Kavya’s breath hitched; her fingers twisted in the sheets.
He moved upward (agonizingly slowly).
Open-mouthed kisses along the top of her foot, her ankle, the delicate bone of her shin.
When he reached the soft hollow behind her knee he lingered, licking in slow circles until her leg trembled and she let out a broken little laugh that turned into a moan.
Then the thighs.
God, the thighs.
He pushed her legs wider, settling between them, and began a systematic, reverent assault.
Long, wet stripes from mid-thigh to the crease where leg met torso (never quite touching where she needed him).
He licked the sensitive inner skin so lightly it was torture, then pressed harder, open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make her jerk.
He turned her slightly onto her side to reach the soft, untouched backs of her thighs (places no one had ever kissed), dragging his tongue in slow, wet paths until goosebumps rose across her skin.
Kavya was already writhing.
He traced the lace edge of her panties with the tip of his tongue, following the seam where fabric met flesh, breathing hot air over her clit through the soaked cotton but never making contact.
He licked the tender crease where thigh met groin (left side, then right), over and over, until her hips were chasing his mouth and she was babbling.
“Danish… please… please…”
He ignored her.
He hooked his fingers under the backs of her knees and pushed her legs up and back (almost folding her in half), exposing the soft, untouched skin behind her thighs completely.
He licked there in long, slow drags (from the crease of her buttock all the way to the back of her knee), alternating sides, tasting the faint salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin.
Kavya’s hands flew to her own breasts, squeezing hard, pulling at her nipples, head thrown back, mouth open on silent screams.
He spent what felt like hours on that tender, secret skin (licking, sucking, leaving faint pink marks that would bloom tomorrow).
Every time her hips bucked desperately, he pressed them back down with steady hands and continued his slow worship.
Only when Kavya was a sobbing, trembling mess (legs shaking uncontrollably, panties drenched and clinging transparently to her swollen lips), only then did he finally hook his fingers in the waistband and drag the scrap of lace down her legs.
He didn’t dive in.
He started again at the newly exposed skin (just above where the panties had been), licking in teasing circles, blowing cool air over the wet trails he left behind.
Kavya’s entire body arched off the bed.
“Danish… I can’t… please… I’ll die…”
He looked up the length of her body (eyes dark, predatory, loving) and smiled against her thigh.
“Not yet, baby. I’m still warming up.”
And he lowered his head again, beginning the slow, devastating journey all over again.
From the hallway, Trisha heard every broken moan, every wet sound, every desperate plea.
She sat curled against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, tears sliding silently down her cheeks, thighs clenched so tightly her muscles ached.
Because she now understood, with devastating clarity, that whatever came next would ruin her daughter in the most beautiful way possible.
And she had never wanted to trade places more in her entire life.
Kavya was beyond words.
Her thighs shook uncontrollably; her fingers were twisted so tightly in the sheets that the fabric had torn at the seams.
Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
“Danish… please… it hurts… I need… please… I can’t take it anymore…”
The plea cracked out of her (raw, broken, desperate).
Danish’s eyes flicked up, dark and gleaming.
He pressed one final slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tender crease where thigh met body, then finally (finally) lowered his mouth to her centre.
He didn’t attack.
He started gentle (almost reverent).
The flat of his tongue dragged slowly upward from her entrance to her clit in one long, wet stripe.
Kavya’s entire body jerked; a strangled cry tore from her throat.
He did it again (slower, firmer), gathering her slickness, tasting her like she was the rarest dessert.
On the third pass he paused at her clit, circled it once, twice, then sealed his lips around the swollen bundle and sucked (softly at first, then harder).
Kavya’s back bowed off the bed.
Her hands flew to his head, fingers digging into his hair, hips trying to grind against his face.
Danish pinned her thighs wide and open with strong hands and set to work.
Long, slow licks (entrance to clit, entrance to clit), lapping at her like he was starving.
He pushed his tongue inside her, as deep as it would go, curling, thrusting, fucking her with it until her walls fluttered and clenched around the intrusion.
Then back to her clit (rapid flicks, then slow circles, then hard, steady suction that made her sob).
He alternated relentlessly:
·       soft, teasing kitten licks that had her whining,
·       hard, pointed thrusts of his tongue inside her,
·       long minutes of pure, steady suction on her clit while two thick fingers slid into her and curled, stroking that spot that made her vision white out.
Kavya lost language.
Only broken sounds (high, keening, animal).
Her first orgasm hit like a wave breaking.
Her whole body seized; her thighs tried to clamp around his head; a rush of wetness flooded his mouth.
Danish didn’t stop.
He licked her through it, gentler now, drawing it out until she was shaking with aftershocks.
Then he built her up again (slower this time, more deliberate).
He spread her open with his thumbs, exposing every fold, and traced each one with the tip of his tongue like he was memorising her.
He sucked her inner lips into his mouth, tugged gently, released, then did it again.
He fluttered his tongue directly on her clit in quick, light pulses until her hips were jerking helplessly, then switched to broad, flat licks that covered her entire sex.
Kavya’s second climax built higher, slower, devastating.
She was openly crying now (tears of pure overwhelmed pleasure), begging in fragments:
“Danish… oh god… please… don’t stop… never stop…”
Trisha’s eye was pressed to the narrow gap, unblinking, pupils blown wide in the dark.
She had never been licked down there.
Not once.
Not even a curious kiss on her wedding night.
Rajesh had considered it unclean, unnecessary.
She had accepted it as normal, the way good wives did.
Now she watched, frozen in horrified fascination, as Danish devoured her daughter like a starving man who had found water in the desert.
Kavya was spread open completely (knees pushed back almost to her shoulders, thighs trembling in Danish’s strong hands).
Her sex was flushed dark pink, swollen, glistening with a mixture of her own wetness and Danish’s saliva.
Every fold was exposed, vulnerable, worshipped.
Danish’s tongue was everywhere.
He started with long, slow licks from her entrance to her clit (broad, flat strokes that collected every drop of her).
Each time the flat of his tongue dragged over Kavya’s clit, her entire body jerked as though electrified.
He paused at the top, sealed his lips around the hard little pearl, and sucked (gentle at first, then harder, then gentle again) until Kavya’s back bowed off the bed and a raw, broken cry tore from her throat.
“Please… Danish… don’t stop… I’m begging you…”
Trisha’s breath stopped.
She had never heard Kavya beg for anything in her life.
Now her proud, fierce daughter was sobbing (actual tears rolling down her temples), hips trying to chase Danish’s mouth every time he pulled away even a fraction.
Danish gave a low, soothing hum that vibrated straight through Kavya’s clit.
Then he did something that made Trisha’s knees buckle.
He pushed Kavya’s legs even wider, spread her open with his thumbs, and buried his tongue inside her (deep, thrusting, curling).
Kavya’s eyes rolled back; her mouth opened in a silent scream; her fingers clawed at the sheets.
Trisha watched his tongue disappear into her daughter again and again, watched Kavya’s inner walls flutter and clench around it, watched clear wetness coat Danish’s lips and chin and drip down to the sheet.
She felt it in her own body (phantom pressure, phantom heat).
Her clit throbbed so violently she had to press her thighs together to keep from collapsing.
What does it feel like?
To have a warm, wet tongue pushing inside you, tasting you, drinking you?
To have someone hold you open and lick every secret fold like it was the most delicious thing they’d ever tasted?
To feel that soft, relentless suction on the most sensitive part of you until your entire world narrowed to that single point of pleasure?
Trisha’s mouth was flooded with saliva again.
She swallowed convulsively.
She imagined (unbidden, unstoppable) Danish’s head between her own thighs, imagined that same patient, hungry mouth on her untouched fifty-year-old sex.
Imagined how it would feel to have someone spread her open for the first time and lick her slowly, thoroughly, until she forgot her name, forgot her age, forgot years of quiet, dutiful denial.
Danish rose up on his knees, chest heaving, mouth and chin glistening with Kavya.
He was magnificent in the moonlight: shoulders broad, stomach tight, cock standing rigid against his belly (dark, thick, slick with her earlier saliva and now streaked with her wetness).
A single strand of precum stretched from the swollen head to his navel.
Kavya lay sprawled beneath him, thighs still trembling from the last orgasm, eyes glazed, lips parted on soft, broken breaths.
He leaned down, kissed her slowly (tongue sliding against hers, letting her taste everything he had just done to her), then whispered against her mouth:
“Need to be inside you now, baby.”
Kavya could only nod, legs falling open wider in invitation.
Danish took himself in hand, dragged the broad head through her soaked folds (once, twice), coating himself, teasing her clit until she whimpered.
Then he pushed in.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One long, unhurried glide that stretched her open inch by thick inch.
Kavya’s back arched; her breath caught in a soft, high moan as he filled her completely.
He didn’t stop until his pelvis met hers, until he was seated to the root, until her inner walls fluttered helplessly around every inch of him.
He stayed still for a moment (savouring the clutch of her body, the way she gripped him like she never wanted to let go).
Then he began to move.
Slow, deep strokes (pulling almost all the way out until only the head remained, pausing, then sinking back in until his balls pressed against her).
Each thrust was measured, controlled, the slick drag of his cock visible in the moonlight, her wetness coating him, shining on his shaft and dripping down to the sheet.
Kavya’s hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
Danish’s rhythm never faltered (long, slow, devastating).
After several minutes he sat back on his heels, gripped her hips, and lifted her lower body slightly off the bed.
He hooked both of Kavya’s legs over his shoulders (folding her nearly in half again), opening her completely.
The new angle let him sink even deeper.
He started moving again (slow, powerful thrusts that bottomed out every time).
The head of his cock dragged against that spot inside her with every stroke.
Kavya’s eyes rolled back; her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Trisha, still on the floor outside, watched every second.
She saw the way Danish’s buttocks flexed with each deliberate thrust, saw the way Kavya’s toes curled over his shoulders, saw the wet shine on his cock each time he pulled out (coated in her daughter’s arousal), saw the way Kavya’s entire body trembled on the edge of another climax.
Danish’s control was fraying.
His thrusts grew heavier, deeper, though still slow (like he was trying to imprint himself inside her forever).
His breathing turned ragged; low growls rumbled in his chest.
Kavya was sobbing with pleasure now, hands clutching the sheets, head thrown back.
He leaned forward, folding her even more, chest pressing against the backs of her thighs, and began driving into her with long, punishing strokes that made the bed creak rhythmically.
The climax hit him suddenly.
His entire body went rigid.
For one heartbeat he remembered (Rajesh and Trisha’s room was only two doors down).
He opened his mouth to warn her, to pull out, to be quiet.
But the pleasure was too huge, too perfect.
He couldn’t ruin it.
A wild, primal roar tore from his throat (raw, animal, unrestrained).
His hips slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt.
He came hard (thick, endless pulses flooding Kavya’s depths, filling her completely).
His whole body shook with the force of it; his cock jerked inside her again and again, pumping everything he had into her willing body.
Kavya cried out beneath him, her own climax triggered by the heat and the fullness, inner walls milking him greedily.
The roar echoed down the hallway.
Trisha’s heart stopped.
She knew (without doubt) that Rajesh had heard.
That the entire house had heard.
But Danish didn’t care.
He collapsed forward, still buried deep, and gently lowered Kavya’s trembling legs from his shoulders.
He stayed inside her, softening slowly, and rained soft kisses over her face (her closed eyelids, her tear-streaked cheeks, her swollen lips, her forehead).
Kavya clung to him, arms around his neck, legs wrapped loosely around his waist, both of them breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat.
Minutes passed in silence broken only by the soft sounds of kisses and whispered endearments.
Trisha’s eye was still pressed to the crack in the door, unblinking, breath held so long her lungs burned.
She saw everything.
She saw the moment Danish’s control snapped like a wire stretched too tight.
His back arched, every muscle locking at once, shoulders, arms, thighs, buttocks, all carved in moonlight and rigid with power.
His head snapped back, throat exposed, cords standing out, and then the roar came.
It was not human.
It was the sound of a man possessed, a primal, guttural bellow that tore from the deepest part of him and filled the entire house.
The walls themselves seemed to shake with it.
It was triumph, surrender, ownership, love, and raw animal lust braided together into one savage note.
Trisha felt it in her womb.
The roar rolled down the hallway, slammed into her chest, vibrated between her legs.
Her knees gave out completely; she sank to the floor, palms pressed to the wood, mouth open in a silent scream of her own.
She had just watched a man transform into a beast.
Moments before, he had been slow, tender, worshipful.
Now she saw the truth: beneath the patience, beneath the care, lived something wild and untamed.
His hips had slammed forward one final time, burying that thick, brutal length to the hilt.
She saw his buttocks clench hard, saw the tremor that ran through his thighs as he emptied himself in long, violent pulses.
Saw Kavya’s body jerk beneath him with every spurt, saw her daughter’s eyes roll white, mouth open in a silent cry as she was filled, claimed, marked.
Trisha had never seen a man lose himself like that.
Never heard a sound so raw, so unashamed.
Rajesh had always finished quietly, politely, a soft grunt at most, eyes closed, body still.
This was different.
This was a man who fucked like the world was ending and he had to pour every drop of life into the woman beneath him.
And for one terrifying, blinding second, Trisha’s mind betrayed her completely.
She pictured herself in Kavya’s place.
Legs pushed back to her shoulders.
That same thick, merciless cock stretching her open, slow and deep and patient until she was sobbing.
And then, when she thought she couldn’t take any more, that beast unleashed: hips snapping, roar tearing from his throat, body pinning her down as he flooded her with heat and weight and possession.
Could she survive it?
Could her fifty-year-old body, untouched by anything but gentle duty, withstand that kind of fucking?
That kind of claiming?
Would it break her?
Or would it finally, finally make her feel alive?
The thought flashed through her like lightning: white-hot, shameful, irresistible.
She saw herself beneath him: back bowed, mouth open on a scream she would never dare make, thighs trembling, taking every savage thrust, every pulse of his release, until she shattered into pieces and was reborn.
The image lasted less than a heartbeat.
Then shame crashed over her like cold water.
She pressed both hands to her mouth, tears spilling between her fingers, body shaking with silent sobs.
She was his mother-in-law.
He belonged to her daughter.
She was fifty years old.
And yet…
She had just seen the truth.
Danish was not just a good lover.
He was a storm.
A force.
A man who could reduce a woman to begging, then rebuild her with tenderness, then destroy her again with pleasure so fierce it sounded like pain.
And for the rest of her life, Trisha would carry the echo of that roar in her bones.
She would lie beside her sleeping husband night after night and remember the beast she had witnessed, and wonder, with a grief so deep it felt like dying, whether any woman could ever truly be the same after being loved like that.

[Astroboy11]

What an update. Well written and keep up the good work

[Astroboy11]

When you look back at the story as a whole, then it becomes apparent that KD were always going to get together. That the story has been that of a love affair between them. My revenge fantasy had died before it was ever born.

I would appreciate it if the author could slip in a positive sort of a life update for Rahul. Just to shut my nagging voice down. His quiet exit irked me and continues to do so.

[PELURI]

hi dear writer....just too good man....exhilarating stuff....very rarely will come across such beautiful prose....these lines are an emotion that would hunt any female life long:

"She had just seen the truth. Danish was not just a good lover. He was a storm.
A force....A man who could reduce a woman to begging, then rebuild her with tenderness, their pleasure so fierce it sounded like pain.."

how could the writer come up with such tantalising yet deep hounding narration....hats-off dear John...

[Projectmp]

Amazing build-up

[LovePookie]

wow awesome

[John446]

CHAPTER – 72


The house was still wrapped in pre-dawn darkness, the storm long gone, leaving only the faint drip of water from the balcony railing and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
Danish stood in the guest room, zipping his small suitcase. He wore a fresh shirt (light blue, sleeves rolled once), hair still damp from the shower, the faint shadows under his eyes from the short, intense sleep.
Kavya slept curled on her side, one arm stretched toward the empty half of the bed, lips slightly parted, peaceful.
He bent, kissed her forehead softly. “Back in ten days,” he whispered. She murmured something incoherent and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
He smiled, shouldered his backpack, and stepped into the hallway. The kitchen light was already on.
Trisha was there. She stood at the counter in a simple cotton nightie covered by an old floral apron, hair in its usual neat bun, a few loose strands curling at her temples from the steam of the stove. The flame under the tawa hissed softly. The air smelled of ghee, cumin, and fresh parathas.
Danish paused in the doorway. She didn’t turn immediately, but her shoulders stiffened (just a fraction).
“Mummy ji… aap itni subah?” (You’re up so early?)
She kept her eyes on the tawa, flipping a paratha with practiced flicks of her wrist. “Flight hai na. Kuch kha ke jaana chahiye.” (You have a flight. You should eat something before leaving.)
Her voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor only a mother would notice.
She had not slept.
All night the images had played on an endless loop: Danish’s back muscles rippling as he drove into Kavya. The slow, merciless stretch of his cock disappearing inside her daughter again and again. That roar (raw, animal, shaking the walls). The way Kavya had shattered beneath him, completely undone.
Trisha’s hands moved automatically (rolling dough, pressing, dusting with flour), but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
She remembered the exact moment Danish’s hips had slammed forward one final time, the night before, the way his entire body had locked, the way that primal sound had torn from his throat as he emptied himself deep inside Kavya. She remembered the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the way Kavya’s thighs had trembled over his shoulders, the way her daughter’s face had looked (lost, ecstatic, transformed).
Her cheeks burned even now.
She slid another paratha onto the tawa, pressed it gently with the spatula, watching the edges curl and brown.
Danish stepped closer, setting his bag down quietly. “Main madad kar doon?” (Shall I help?)
She shook her head too quickly. “Nahi… baitho. Main kar leti hoon.” (No… sit. I’ll manage.)
But her voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t sit. Instead he moved to the sink, began washing the steel tiffin boxes she had set out, his movements calm presence filling the small kitchen like it always did.
Trisha stole a glance. He looked exhausted but content, the faint red scratch marks on the back of his neck just visible above his collar (Kavya’s nails).
She remembered those same shoulders flexing under her daughter’s hands, remembered the way his buttocks had clenched as he came.
Her stomach flipped.
She turned back to the stove, hands trembling as she folded a paratha, stuffed it with spiced aloo, pressed it flat again.
He is leaving in an hour. He will walk out that door and take that… that force… that beast… back to Hyderabad. And I will never see it again.
The thought brought an ache so sharp it stole her breath.
She packed the tiffin with mechanical care: three aloo parathas, a small box of curd, a spoon of mango pickle, two theplas, a handful of roasted makhana, a banana. Every item placed with the precision of a woman trying to keep her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t wander.
Danish dried his hands, leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Mummy ji,” he said softly, “aap theek hain na?”
She froze, spatula suspended mid-air.
For one terrifying second she thought he knew (knew she had watched, knew she had touched herself in the hallway, knew she had come silently while listening to him ruin her daughter with pleasure).
But his eyes were only gentle, concerned.
She forced a smile that felt like breaking glass. “Haan, beta. Bas… thaki hui hoon. Neend nahi aayi.” (Yes, beta. Just… tired. Couldn’t sleep.)
He nodded, accepting it.
Every time she reached for something on the upper shelf (salt, pickle jar, foil), the fabric rode another fraction, exposing the soft, pale underside of her left buttock and the faint dimple there.
She didn’t notice.
Or pretended not to.
Danish noticed everything.
He had been watching her for the last four minutes without moving.
He watched the way the apron string pulled the nightie tight across her lower back, outlining the gentle dip of her spine and the swell of her hips.
He watched the way her breasts shifted under the cloth when she bent to flip a paratha (full, heavy, the faint bounce of flesh that had been hidden under modest sarees all week).
He watched the thin strap slip off one shoulder and stay there, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone and the upper slope of her breast, pale skin glowing in the half-light.
His pulse thudded in his ears.
He remembered the first morning:
her body in Downward Dog, hips high, back long, the perfect curve of her ass presented to him like an offering.
The way her armpits had glistened with the first sheen of sweat when she raised her arms overhead.
The accidental flash of cleavage when she folded forward, the soft weight of her breasts swaying gently.
The memory slammed into him now, raw and unfiltered.
Trisha turned with the steel tiffin box in her hands.
She caught him staring (eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising a little too fast).
The box trembled between them.
Neither spoke.
She stepped forward to hand it to him.
The kitchen was so small that her breasts almost brushed his chest when she leaned in.
Danish took the box slowly, deliberately.
His knuckles grazed the inside of her wrist (once, twice), then stayed there, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against the frantic beat of her pulse.
Trisha’s breath stuttered.
His thumb traced a tiny, unconscious circle on her skin (just one), then slid higher, under the edge of her sleeve, touching the soft inner flesh of her forearm.
The contact was feather-light, but it burned.
Trisha’s nipples tightened instantly against the thin cotton, two hard points suddenly visible.
She felt them ache, felt heat flood between her legs so fast she swayed.
Danish’s gaze dropped (slow, helpless) to her chest, lingered on the stiff peaks pressing against the nightie, then dragged back up to her face.
His pupils were blown wide.
For three endless seconds the only sound was their breathing and the soft pop of cooling ghee.
Trisha’s lips parted (no words, just air).
Danish’s thumb pressed a fraction harder, then slid down again to the centre of her palm, tracing the lifeline once, slowly, possessively.
He remembered the exact moment in yoga when she had stood in Tadasana, arms overhead, the fabric of her kurti pulling tight across her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples visible even then.
He remembered wanting to step behind her, slide his hands under that kurti, cup the weight he had only glimpsed.
The memory collided with the present: her standing inches away, flushed, trembling, nipples hard, pulse racing under his thumb.
His cock stirred (thick, unmistakable) against the front of his track pants.
Trisha saw it.
Her eyes flicked down, widened, snapped back up.
Colour flooded her cheeks, her throat, her chest.
Danish released her hand like he’d been burned.
He stepped back, voice rough.
“Thank you… for the food.”
Trisha couldn’t answer.
She just nodded, arms crossing instinctively over her breasts, trying to hide what was already seen.
Danish set the tiffin and backpack down on the dining table with a soft thud.
The kitchen was lit only by the low blue flame under the empty tawa and the first pale hint of dawn.
Trisha stood three feet away, arms wrapped around herself, nightie clinging to damp skin, eyes shining in the half-light.
He took one slow step toward her.
“Thank you, beta,” she whispered, voice cracking with genuine emotion. “Rajesh… when he was in hospital… you came running from Hyderabad, stayed with us, held everything together… I can never repay that.”
Her words trembled out, raw with gratitude and exhaustion.
Danish’s eyes softened.
He opened his arms without thinking. “Mummy ji… please.”
She stepped into the hug like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It began gently, almost formally.
Her arms went lightly around his shoulders; his circled her waist with careful distance.
Her cheek rested against the side of his neck, just above the collar.
His chin brushed the top of her loose bun.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, voice muffled against his shirt. “You gave Kavya strength… gave me strength…”
His arms tightened (just a fraction), pulling her a little closer.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “You’re family.”
The word family should have ended it.
Her arms circled his shoulders lightly.
His arms settled around her waist, careful distance.
Then gratitude cracked open into something else.
Danish lowered his face slowly, deliberately, until his cheek rested against the side of her neck.
His stubble scbangd the tender skin just below her ear.
His nose brushed the shell of her ear, then settled into the warm hollow where neck met shoulder.
He inhaled (deep, shaky), lips parted, the faintest graze of teeth against her racing pulse.
Trisha’s entire body went rigid for half a heartbeat… then melted.
At the exact same moment, her hands moved on their own.
Fingers that had rested politely on his shoulders slid upward, palms gliding over warm skin until they cradled the back of his neck.
Her thumbs brushed the short hair at his nape, then pressed, nails lightly scoring the sensitive skin there.
She pulled him in (just a fraction), anchoring his face against her throat.
Danish felt the shift.
His answering exhale was ragged against her skin.
His hand on her lower back slid lower (slow, inevitable), palm spreading wide, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her nightie to rest on bare skin just above the curve of her buttock.
His other hand followed, openly cupping her, pulling her hips flush against the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection.
Trisha felt every thick inch of him pressed into her belly.
A soft, broken whimper escaped her lips, vibrating against his ear.
His mouth opened fully against the side of her neck (warm breath, the faintest brush of tongue tasting her pulse), while her fingers tightened at the back of his neck, nails digging in, holding him exactly where he was.
Seventy endless seconds of perfect, silent devastation.
Neither moved to end it.
Trisha’s entire body was trembling, thighs clenched, pulse roaring in her ears.
Danish’s mouth still hovered at her throat, lips wet, stubble burning, the ghost of his teeth imprinted on her skin.
They both knew it had to end.
Slowly, reluctantly, his arms began to loosen.
That was when Trisha moved.
On pure instinct (gratitude, longing, madness), she turned her face and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.
A mother-in-law’s thank-you kiss.
Meant to be chaste.
It wasn’t.
Her lips stayed longer than they should have, warm and trembling against the rough stubble of his jaw, just beside the corner of his mouth.
The moment her lips touched him, Danish froze.
Then something inside him snapped.
His arms tightened again (hard, sudden), crushing her to him.
At the exact same second, he dipped his head and pressed a single, deliberate, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat (right over the spot he had marked with teeth seconds ago).
His lips parted just enough for her to feel the wet heat of his tongue, the soft drag of his lower lip, the faintest suction before he released.
Simultaneously, the hand cupping her ass squeezed (slow, possessive, fingers digging into soft flesh through the nightie, lifting her slightly onto her toes).
Trisha’s breath broke on a tiny, shocked moan against his cheek.
The kiss on her throat lasted two full seconds.
The squeeze lasted three.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he released her.
His hands slid away (fingers trailing one last burning path across her hip before dropping).
His mouth left her skin with a soft, wet sound.
They separated.
Trisha’s hand flew to her throat, covering the fresh, wet mark he had just left.
Her other hand clutched the counter behind her for balance.
Danish’s eyes were black, pupils blown, lips parted and glistening.
He looked like a man who had just tasted something forbidden and wanted more.
Neither spoke.
He grabbed his bags with shaking hands, turned, and walked out without looking back.
The door closed.
Trisha remained standing, legs barely holding her, one palm pressed to the side of her neck where his mouth had been twice now, the other pressed between her thighs, trying to still the violent ache he had woken.
Her cheek still tingled from where her own lips had touched his skin.
Her ass still burned from the slow, claiming squeeze of his hand.
She had kissed him to say thank you.
He had kissed her neck and squeezed her like a man who already knew exactly how she would feel beneath him.
And for the rest of her life, every time she looked in the mirror, she would see the faint red mark on her neck and remember the ninety-eight seconds when her daughter’s husband held her, tasted her, and marked her as his in a way no one else would ever know.

[Astroboy11]

Thank you for giving us perverts the next kink to get hard to. The thrill of a forbidden relationship is what was missing from the story recently.

Don’t strangle this like you did with Kavya and her father in law.

Looking forward to the next update. Keep up the good work.

[PELURI]

what a scorcher man...delivered steaming hot.....just like mummy ji ke tawa hot Aloo Parathe with spicy mango pickle.... read and re-read and read again and couldn’t hold any further...too titillating and nerve wrecking....disappointing however is danish had a thick hard one.....mummy ji noticed too...still gave him a thank you hug but danish didn't make mummy ji feel it and also didn't thank mummy ji ENOUGH for the food....even that was too much to handle ofcourse....finally could check himself and pulled back and walked out without looking back...that my dear friends is  Danish for you... a bull of a man yet gentleman to the core...

great  work john the writer...thank you v much for the double whammy of two back to back hot episodes...dil mange more...jaldi plz