30-03-2025, 09:24 AM
I couldn’t stay at my desk—not with my coworkers tapping away just beyond the cubicle walls—so I muttered some excuse about needing a break and bolted for the bathroom stall, my pulse hammering as I locked the door behind me. I slumped against the cold stall wall, my phone screen casting a faint glow in the dim light. I pulled up the camera feeds with trembling hands, already reaching for my zipper, the cramped stall barely muffling my ragged breaths. The sound system wasn’t much—cheap mics that caught only scraps of noise—but as I maxed the volume, faint echoes trickled through: a low thud of the door, a rustle of fabric, and her soft, distant “Hi” as she opened it. On the screen, I watched my beautiful wife greet our sleazy, fat landlord. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I saw her sway toward Mr. Banerjee in that sheer ghagra-choli he’d demanded. The fabric shimmered, hugging her dusky curves, her modest C-cups faintly outlined, nipples peeking through like dark secrets. She’d worn nothing underneath, just as he’d texted her, and the sight made my throat dry and my cock twitch against my unzipped trousers.
Mr. Banerjee loomed in the doorway, all fifty-something years of him—pudgy, balding, his paunch straining against a stained kurta. His face was a mess of patchy stubble and crooked teeth, ugly in a way that made my stomach churn, but there he was, leering at my wife like she was his prize. His small, beady eyes dropped to her barely-covered breasts, a lecherous grin curling his lips as he stepped inside, his presence filling the frame. A faint, gravelly “Look at you” rumbled through the feed, smug and thick, spiking my pulse.
His eyes raked over her, lingering on her chest before dropping to that ass he’d pawed at before. He pushed the door shut with a thud that came through muted, and Aradhya flinched—just a flicker of her shoulders—but then straightened, playing along. She despised him, I knew that; she’d told me once, her voice tight with disgust after he’d left a sweaty handprint on her plump ass. But I’d also seen her thighs clench afterward, her breath quicken when she recounted how he’d ordered her to her knees. She didn’t like him, but he turned her on, and that twisted something deep inside me—shame and heat tangling together.
Mr. Banerjee didn’t waste time. He snatched my wife’s wrist, yanking her toward him with that aggressive swagger that made my gut twist, his other hand pawing at her succulent covered breasts through the sheer ghagra. Her lips parted—a faint, breathy “ohhhh” crackled through, barely audible—and her head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering as he squeezed her modest C-cups, fingers digging in. My hand shook, the phone nearly slipping as I fumbled with myself, my breath catching. She mouthed something—a soft “Slow down” whispered through the mic—her expression coy, a shy smirk tugging at her lips as she squirmed under his grip, playing along as her cheeks flushed.
The pervy landlord didn’t care though. His mouth crashed into hers, sloppy and forceful, all teeth and tongue—a wet smack faintly reached me as her head jerked back before he pulled her in tighter. Her hands hovered near his shoulders, hesitant, then pressed lightly against him, a half-hearted push that melted into submission. He groped her harder, one hand sliding down to clutch her thick ass, kneading it through the see-through choli while the other stayed on her chest, pinching and tugging. She arched into him, her coyness slipping into something more wanton, her eyes flicking sideways—nervous, maybe, or teasing me through the camera. A soft, stifled “Mmm” from her filtered through, drowned by his low chuckle.
Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back with a rough jerk. Her mouth opened wider—a sharp, faint “Ahhh!” hissed through—and he spat into it, a thick glob landing on her tongue. Her eyes widened, shock cutting through her shy pout, but he didn’t give her a chance to react. He dove in again, kissing her with messy aggression, a muted slurp leaking through as their spit mingled, smearing across her dusky cheeks. I caught his gravelly “Take it,” faint but clear, and my stomach lurched, arousal spiking as she squirmed, her hands clutching his kurta for balance. He spat again—this time on her lips—before licking it back up, his tongue slobbering over her mouth.
But then he did something unexpected — something she’d never mentioned before. He broke the kiss, his pudgy bearded face hovering over hers, and dragged his tongue across her cheek in a slow, wet lick. Her expression twisted—disgust flashing in her wide eyes, her nose wrinkling as she turned her head away, wiping at her face with a trembling hand. A tiny, muffled “Ugh, stop” slipped from her, just audible, making my chest tighten.
I bit my lip, stifling a whimper in the stall. Despite our chubby landlord’s aggressive and downright despicable treatment, my wife wasn’t fighting him—not really. He spun her around—rough, domineering—and bent her over the arm of our couch, her ass jutting out, the sheer fabric riding up to expose her completely. His grin widened, perverted and triumphant, as he slapped her there—a faint crack echoed through—followed by her distant “Ouch!” Her head snapped back, lips parting in a sharp gasp I could just hear, her hands bracing against the cushions, her body tense but yielding, that shy submission kicking in.
My hand trembled on the phone, my pants pooled around my ankles as I sat on the toilet seat, the stall’s cold air prickling my bare skin. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, my fingers hovering near my cock, twitching with the urge to stroke myself. But I hesitated, my breath ragged, panic clawing at me—I knew I’d finish too fast, the shame of spilling early burning me. I clenched my fist, fighting the heat, desperate to hold out, the faint dialogue and sounds—her gasps, his grunts—pulling me deeper.
Mr. Banerjee didn’t stop. He grabbed her hips, yanking her back upright with a possessive tug, and shoved her down onto the couch cushions. She landed on her back, legs splaying slightly, the ghagra-choli bunching up around her thighs. Her dusky skin gleamed under the living room light, her plump ass sinking into the fabric as she propped herself up on her elbows, her expression flickering between shy reluctance and that teasing pout. He loomed over her, his pudgy frame casting a shadow, his balding head tilted as he raked his beady eyes over her. A low, gravelly “Fucking perfect” crackled faintly through, dripping with lust.
He dropped to his knees beside the couch, his meaty hands lunging for her again. One palm clamped onto her thigh, prying her legs apart as he squeezed, his fingers leaving red marks. She squirmed, her head tilting away, but her lips twitched—almost a smirk—daring him on. His other hand slid up her stomach, pushing the sheer choli higher until her modest C-cups were fully exposed, nipples dark and stiff. He pinched one, rolling it between his grubby fingers, and her back arched, a soft “Oh God” whispering through the mic, sending a jolt through me.
I shifted in the stall, my balls tight, my breath shallow. He wasn’t done. He grabbed her hair again, pulling her face toward his, and planted another spit-soaked kiss on her lips—a faint smack reaching me as his tongue slobbered over her. She flinched, her hands pressing against his chest, but he laughed—a muffled, throaty “You love it”—and spat onto her neck, watching it trickle down her collarbone. Her nose wrinkled, disgust flashing, but she stayed put, her coy game holding as he smeared the spit with his thumb, marking her.
Then he climbed onto the couch, straddling her thighs, his weight pinning her down. The cushions sank under his bulk, and she wriggled beneath him, her hands hovering near his arms, unsure. He groped her chest again, both hands kneading her breasts with sloppy aggression, his crooked teeth bared as he leaned down to lick her jaw—a faint slurping sound trickling through—making her turn her head sharply, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. I swallowed hard, my pulse racing, her trapped under his lecherous frame burning into me. He slapped her thigh next—a muted crack—and she jolted, her faint “Hey!” reaching me as he forced her legs wider, his hands roaming freely.
She mouthed something—maybe “enough!”—her shy facade cracking, but he ignored it, his fingers hooking into the waist of her ghagra, tugging it down an inch to expose more of her hips. He teased the edge, his perverted smirk growing as he traced a sweaty finger along her skin. My heart hammered, the foreplay stretching out, every move of his filthy hands and faint words pushing me deeper into that sick, horny haze.
Mr. Banerjee shifted, his thick, wiry beard brushing her arm as he adjusted his bulk, the coarse hairs scbanging her dusky skin, leaving faint red streaks. She twitched, her lips pursing in that shy pout, a tiny “nnghhh” slipping out. He grabbed her arms, pinning them above her head with one meaty hand, stretching her taut beneath him. Her sheer choli rode up further, and he dipped his head, his bald scalp gleaming as he buried his face in her armpit. His tongue darted out, licking the soft hollow—a faint wet sound crackling through—savoring her skin. Her head turned away, discomfort crossing her face as his beard scratched, but her breasts heaved, betraying that reluctant heat.
He lingered, his tongue slobbering over her armpit, spit matting the dark hair under his beard as he groaned—a low “tasty” just audible—his free hand kneading her hip. Then he pulled back, grinning lecherously, and lowered his mouth to her chest. He latched onto one of her mammaries, sucking hard on her nipple through the fabric, then yanking the choli aside to expose her. His lips closed around her, his beard rasping as he sucked sloppily—a faint “Mmm” from him leaking through—her nipple glistening with spit, her hands flexing against his grip.
She mouthed something—maybe “too much”—her coy mask slipping as her eyes squeezed shut, a strained “please” barely reaching me, but he didn’t care. He switched to her other tit, his tongue swirling before sucking it in, the faint slurping louder, his beard chafing her red. His pudgy fingers dug into her sides, pressing his weight down to trap her. Her legs kicked faintly, the ghagra riding higher, and he spat onto her stomach—a muted splat—saying “dirty whore” faintly before dragging his beard through it, smearing the mess across her skin.
I sat there, pants around my ankles, my phone shaking as I watched him devour her, the faint dialogue—her pleas, his crude taunts—mixing with gasps and grunts, pulling me deeper into the haze.
Mr. Banerjee pulled back slightly, his beady eyes glinting with perverse delight as he surveyed her pinned beneath him. His hands gripped the edges of her sheer choli, yanking it upward with a rough tug—a faint rustle crackling through—as the fabric caught on her arms. Her dusky mammaries bounced free, the air hitting her spit-slicked nipples as she arched, a quick “careful” whispering from her. She lifted her arms, half-helping, half-resisting, her shy pout returning as the choli tangled around her wrists.
He tossed the garment aside, his thick beard brushing her collarbone as he leaned in, planting a hard, spit-soaked kiss on her jaw—a faint “my sweet randii” rumbling through, leaving saliva dribbling down her chin. Then he licked a slow stripe down her neck, his tongue slobbering—a muted slurping sound—her head tilting away, a flicker of disgust in her wrinkled nose, but her body stayed pliant, her dusky skin glistening under the living room light.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her ghagra next, tugging it down further—not off, not yet—but low enough to bare the tops of her thighs and the curve of her hips completely. The sheer fabric bunched around her lower abdomen, teasing the edge of her vulnerability, and she squirmed, her fat ass shifting against the couch as she tried to adjust, her coy smirk faltering into something softer, more uncertain.
Mr. Banerjee loomed in the doorway, all fifty-something years of him—pudgy, balding, his paunch straining against a stained kurta. His face was a mess of patchy stubble and crooked teeth, ugly in a way that made my stomach churn, but there he was, leering at my wife like she was his prize. His small, beady eyes dropped to her barely-covered breasts, a lecherous grin curling his lips as he stepped inside, his presence filling the frame. A faint, gravelly “Look at you” rumbled through the feed, smug and thick, spiking my pulse.
His eyes raked over her, lingering on her chest before dropping to that ass he’d pawed at before. He pushed the door shut with a thud that came through muted, and Aradhya flinched—just a flicker of her shoulders—but then straightened, playing along. She despised him, I knew that; she’d told me once, her voice tight with disgust after he’d left a sweaty handprint on her plump ass. But I’d also seen her thighs clench afterward, her breath quicken when she recounted how he’d ordered her to her knees. She didn’t like him, but he turned her on, and that twisted something deep inside me—shame and heat tangling together.
Mr. Banerjee didn’t waste time. He snatched my wife’s wrist, yanking her toward him with that aggressive swagger that made my gut twist, his other hand pawing at her succulent covered breasts through the sheer ghagra. Her lips parted—a faint, breathy “ohhhh” crackled through, barely audible—and her head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering as he squeezed her modest C-cups, fingers digging in. My hand shook, the phone nearly slipping as I fumbled with myself, my breath catching. She mouthed something—a soft “Slow down” whispered through the mic—her expression coy, a shy smirk tugging at her lips as she squirmed under his grip, playing along as her cheeks flushed.
The pervy landlord didn’t care though. His mouth crashed into hers, sloppy and forceful, all teeth and tongue—a wet smack faintly reached me as her head jerked back before he pulled her in tighter. Her hands hovered near his shoulders, hesitant, then pressed lightly against him, a half-hearted push that melted into submission. He groped her harder, one hand sliding down to clutch her thick ass, kneading it through the see-through choli while the other stayed on her chest, pinching and tugging. She arched into him, her coyness slipping into something more wanton, her eyes flicking sideways—nervous, maybe, or teasing me through the camera. A soft, stifled “Mmm” from her filtered through, drowned by his low chuckle.
Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back with a rough jerk. Her mouth opened wider—a sharp, faint “Ahhh!” hissed through—and he spat into it, a thick glob landing on her tongue. Her eyes widened, shock cutting through her shy pout, but he didn’t give her a chance to react. He dove in again, kissing her with messy aggression, a muted slurp leaking through as their spit mingled, smearing across her dusky cheeks. I caught his gravelly “Take it,” faint but clear, and my stomach lurched, arousal spiking as she squirmed, her hands clutching his kurta for balance. He spat again—this time on her lips—before licking it back up, his tongue slobbering over her mouth.
But then he did something unexpected — something she’d never mentioned before. He broke the kiss, his pudgy bearded face hovering over hers, and dragged his tongue across her cheek in a slow, wet lick. Her expression twisted—disgust flashing in her wide eyes, her nose wrinkling as she turned her head away, wiping at her face with a trembling hand. A tiny, muffled “Ugh, stop” slipped from her, just audible, making my chest tighten.
I bit my lip, stifling a whimper in the stall. Despite our chubby landlord’s aggressive and downright despicable treatment, my wife wasn’t fighting him—not really. He spun her around—rough, domineering—and bent her over the arm of our couch, her ass jutting out, the sheer fabric riding up to expose her completely. His grin widened, perverted and triumphant, as he slapped her there—a faint crack echoed through—followed by her distant “Ouch!” Her head snapped back, lips parting in a sharp gasp I could just hear, her hands bracing against the cushions, her body tense but yielding, that shy submission kicking in.
My hand trembled on the phone, my pants pooled around my ankles as I sat on the toilet seat, the stall’s cold air prickling my bare skin. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, my fingers hovering near my cock, twitching with the urge to stroke myself. But I hesitated, my breath ragged, panic clawing at me—I knew I’d finish too fast, the shame of spilling early burning me. I clenched my fist, fighting the heat, desperate to hold out, the faint dialogue and sounds—her gasps, his grunts—pulling me deeper.
Mr. Banerjee didn’t stop. He grabbed her hips, yanking her back upright with a possessive tug, and shoved her down onto the couch cushions. She landed on her back, legs splaying slightly, the ghagra-choli bunching up around her thighs. Her dusky skin gleamed under the living room light, her plump ass sinking into the fabric as she propped herself up on her elbows, her expression flickering between shy reluctance and that teasing pout. He loomed over her, his pudgy frame casting a shadow, his balding head tilted as he raked his beady eyes over her. A low, gravelly “Fucking perfect” crackled faintly through, dripping with lust.
He dropped to his knees beside the couch, his meaty hands lunging for her again. One palm clamped onto her thigh, prying her legs apart as he squeezed, his fingers leaving red marks. She squirmed, her head tilting away, but her lips twitched—almost a smirk—daring him on. His other hand slid up her stomach, pushing the sheer choli higher until her modest C-cups were fully exposed, nipples dark and stiff. He pinched one, rolling it between his grubby fingers, and her back arched, a soft “Oh God” whispering through the mic, sending a jolt through me.
I shifted in the stall, my balls tight, my breath shallow. He wasn’t done. He grabbed her hair again, pulling her face toward his, and planted another spit-soaked kiss on her lips—a faint smack reaching me as his tongue slobbered over her. She flinched, her hands pressing against his chest, but he laughed—a muffled, throaty “You love it”—and spat onto her neck, watching it trickle down her collarbone. Her nose wrinkled, disgust flashing, but she stayed put, her coy game holding as he smeared the spit with his thumb, marking her.
Then he climbed onto the couch, straddling her thighs, his weight pinning her down. The cushions sank under his bulk, and she wriggled beneath him, her hands hovering near his arms, unsure. He groped her chest again, both hands kneading her breasts with sloppy aggression, his crooked teeth bared as he leaned down to lick her jaw—a faint slurping sound trickling through—making her turn her head sharply, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. I swallowed hard, my pulse racing, her trapped under his lecherous frame burning into me. He slapped her thigh next—a muted crack—and she jolted, her faint “Hey!” reaching me as he forced her legs wider, his hands roaming freely.
She mouthed something—maybe “enough!”—her shy facade cracking, but he ignored it, his fingers hooking into the waist of her ghagra, tugging it down an inch to expose more of her hips. He teased the edge, his perverted smirk growing as he traced a sweaty finger along her skin. My heart hammered, the foreplay stretching out, every move of his filthy hands and faint words pushing me deeper into that sick, horny haze.
Mr. Banerjee shifted, his thick, wiry beard brushing her arm as he adjusted his bulk, the coarse hairs scbanging her dusky skin, leaving faint red streaks. She twitched, her lips pursing in that shy pout, a tiny “nnghhh” slipping out. He grabbed her arms, pinning them above her head with one meaty hand, stretching her taut beneath him. Her sheer choli rode up further, and he dipped his head, his bald scalp gleaming as he buried his face in her armpit. His tongue darted out, licking the soft hollow—a faint wet sound crackling through—savoring her skin. Her head turned away, discomfort crossing her face as his beard scratched, but her breasts heaved, betraying that reluctant heat.
He lingered, his tongue slobbering over her armpit, spit matting the dark hair under his beard as he groaned—a low “tasty” just audible—his free hand kneading her hip. Then he pulled back, grinning lecherously, and lowered his mouth to her chest. He latched onto one of her mammaries, sucking hard on her nipple through the fabric, then yanking the choli aside to expose her. His lips closed around her, his beard rasping as he sucked sloppily—a faint “Mmm” from him leaking through—her nipple glistening with spit, her hands flexing against his grip.
She mouthed something—maybe “too much”—her coy mask slipping as her eyes squeezed shut, a strained “please” barely reaching me, but he didn’t care. He switched to her other tit, his tongue swirling before sucking it in, the faint slurping louder, his beard chafing her red. His pudgy fingers dug into her sides, pressing his weight down to trap her. Her legs kicked faintly, the ghagra riding higher, and he spat onto her stomach—a muted splat—saying “dirty whore” faintly before dragging his beard through it, smearing the mess across her skin.
I sat there, pants around my ankles, my phone shaking as I watched him devour her, the faint dialogue—her pleas, his crude taunts—mixing with gasps and grunts, pulling me deeper into the haze.
Mr. Banerjee pulled back slightly, his beady eyes glinting with perverse delight as he surveyed her pinned beneath him. His hands gripped the edges of her sheer choli, yanking it upward with a rough tug—a faint rustle crackling through—as the fabric caught on her arms. Her dusky mammaries bounced free, the air hitting her spit-slicked nipples as she arched, a quick “careful” whispering from her. She lifted her arms, half-helping, half-resisting, her shy pout returning as the choli tangled around her wrists.
He tossed the garment aside, his thick beard brushing her collarbone as he leaned in, planting a hard, spit-soaked kiss on her jaw—a faint “my sweet randii” rumbling through, leaving saliva dribbling down her chin. Then he licked a slow stripe down her neck, his tongue slobbering—a muted slurping sound—her head tilting away, a flicker of disgust in her wrinkled nose, but her body stayed pliant, her dusky skin glistening under the living room light.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her ghagra next, tugging it down further—not off, not yet—but low enough to bare the tops of her thighs and the curve of her hips completely. The sheer fabric bunched around her lower abdomen, teasing the edge of her vulnerability, and she squirmed, her fat ass shifting against the couch as she tried to adjust, her coy smirk faltering into something softer, more uncertain.
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