Yesterday, 10:57 AM
The penthouse atop Mumbai’s skyline was Maya’s fortress, its glass walls framing the Arabian Sea’s restless shimmer, the city’s pulse a distant hum thirty floors below. Inside, white marble floors gleamed under recessed LEDs, a sleek desk bore her laptop and a sprawl of contracts, and a half-empty wine glass caught the glow of her latest triumph—a Rs. 500-crore deal with a Gujarat farmers’ cooperative, their fields now dotted with SolaraTech’s solar panels, funded by generous government subsidies. At 32, Maya was a titan, her company riding the green wave, profits soaring from private buyers—farmers, small-town entrepreneurs, eco-conscious elites—who snapped up her panels, lured by tax breaks and her sharp pitches. Her books, though, danced on a fine line: inflated installation costs, padded subsidy claims, numbers massaged just enough to keep regulators at bay, her ambition a blade that cut corners but never bled. Her tailored blazer hung over a chrome chair, her silk blouse unbuttoned, revealing a sheer red bra, her pencil skirt pooled on the floor, her stilettos kicked aside, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her full lips parted, her hazel eyes shadowed with a hunger no deal could sate—Arjun, her former consultant, her lover, gone for six months, his absence a throbbing ache between her legs, his dominance a ghost in her pussy.
She crossed to the en-suite bathroom, a marble haven where steam curled from a rainfall shower, the air heavy with lemongrass and eucalyptus, a glass wall etched with orchids fogging over. She stripped, her red bra falling, her matching panties sliding down, the lace catching on her thighs, her naked body a vision—full breasts, nipples dark and stiffening, a taut stomach, hips flaring, strong thighs sculpted by yoga, her pussy shaved, lips plump, already glistening with need. The hot water hit her, streaming over her curves, slicking her skin, her nipples tingling, her pussy pulsing, her breath hitching as she leaned against the cool marble, her fingers trembling, her mind fleeing the boardroom’s sterile wins to Arjun—his chiseled jaw, his dark eyes that stripped her bare, his cock that owned her, his dirty words that soaked her, words she craved now, her body screaming for him, her soul split between her empire’s crown and the heat between her legs.
Her fingers found her pussy, parting the lips, her clit swollen, throbbing as she rubbed slow, deliberate circles, the water a lover’s caress, her moans low, raw, swallowed by the shower’s roar. She pictured Arjun, not the suit-clad strategist who’d honed her pitches, but the man who’d fucked her senseless last monsoon, bending her over the hood of his black Mustang in a deserted Goa beach lot, the metal scorching her breasts, her skirt yanked up, her panties ripped, his cock slamming into her pussy, deep and brutal, her juices dripping, her screams echoing with the tide. His hand had fisted her hair, his voice a growl, spitting filthy names that made her wetter: “My dirty slut, you love this cock, don’t you?” “Greedy whore, begging for it, soaking my dick.” “Filthy bitch, come for your master, show me your cunt’s mine.” Each word had ignited her, her pussy clenching, her clit grinding the hood, her orgasm shattering, her body shaking, his cum flooding her, hot and thick, spilling down her thighs, marking her as his, her moans a surrender to his filthy praise, her pussy his altar, her heart his captive.
She moaned louder, her fingers plunging into her pussy, two, then three, stretching her, curling, pumping, her thumb circling her clit, her juices flowing, mixing with the water, her thighs quaking, her breasts heaving, her nipples aching for his teeth. She imagined him now, pinning her in this shower, his cock splitting her, his voice rasping more names: “Nasty little fucktoy, you’re dripping for me, aren’t you?” “Slutty queen, your pussy’s my throne, take it all.” “Wanton bitch, scream my name, let your cunt beg.” Her pussy clenched, her moans rising, her mind lost in his dirty litany, his words a drug that soaked her, her body aching for his hands, his lips, his cock, his dominance that matched her fire, her clit pulsing, her orgasm building, her heart twisting—he’d made her practice pitches, his hand on her thigh, his whispers of “You’re a goddess, Maya,” but it was his filthy names, his brutal fucks, that her pussy craved, that her soul missed, his absence a void no subsidy deal could fill.
Her success was undeniable—SolaraTech’s profits spiked, farmers across Maharashtra and Gujarat signing contracts, her panels glinting in their fields, her pitches flawless, her charm lethal, her face set for Economic Times’ cover. But she’d missed Arjun’s edge, his relentless prep, the way he’d drill her on data until her voice was iron, his fingers grazing her wrist, his eyes promising more than boardroom wins. Today’s deal had dazzled, but her body burned, her pussy throbbing for his cock, her mind replaying his names—slut, whore, fucktoy—each one a spark, her fingers fucking faster, her clit sparking, her moans a crescendo, her thighs buckling, her breasts bouncing, the water no match for the fire between her legs. She came, a sharp, shattering cry, her pussy clamping her fingers, her juices gushing, flooding the tiles, her body convulsing, her knees weak, the marble holding her up, her breath ragged, her longing for Arjun unquenched, his dirty words echoing, her pussy still pulsing, begging for him.
She lingered under the water, lemongrass soap a faint balm, her skin flushed, her nipples tender, her pussy aching, her mind shifting to the threat on her horizon—Salma, the new GST official, a predator in a sari, her office a veneer for darker games: backroom deals, corporate shakedowns, a network of informants feeding her power. Salma’s audit loomed, her hawkish eyes probing SolaraTech’s subsidy claims, sniffing for padded numbers, her ambition a mirror to Maya’s, her methods colder, sharper, a woman who broke companies for sport, her smile a blade. Maya’s profits—fat from farmers, propped by subsidies—were clean on paper, but Salma’s gaze could unravel her careful math, threaten her empire, force a reckoning. Maya rinsed off, her resolve hardening, her pussy’s ache a fuel, her mind a battlefield—she’d face Salma, protect her throne, find Arjun, reclaim his cock, his names, his fire.
She stepped out, toweling off, her naked body reflected in the glass, her curves a weapon, her hazel eyes fierce. Her laptop pinged—an email from a junior minister offering audit protection for a discreet payment, another from a farmer co-op praising her panels, her world a high-stakes game. But Arjun’s absence lingered, his dirty words—slut, whore, fucktoy—a chant in her pussy, his dominance a ghost in her soul, her success a crown that felt empty without him, Salma’s shadow creeping closer, the clash inevitable, the fire between her legs a promise to fight, to win, to love.
London’s gray drizzle streaked the windows of Arjun’s Mayfair flat, the city’s chill a stark contrast to Mumbai’s humid pulse, where Maya’s memory burned in his veins. At 35, Arjun was a force—lean, chiseled, his dark eyes sharp with intellect, his consultancy firm brokering high-stakes deals for British renewable energy startups, his days packed with boardrooms and Whitehall meetings, his nights haunted by Maya, her full breasts, her tight pussy, her moans under his cock, her fiery ambition matching his own. Six months in England had honed him—new suits, sharper pitches—but dulled his heart, his cock stirring only for Maya, her absence a knot in his chest, her dirty names—slut, whore, fucktoy—echoing in his mind, their last fuck on a Goa Mustang hood a vivid ache, her pussy clenching, her juices dripping, his cum marking her. New women—blonde interns, sleek diplomats—flirted, their eyes hungry, but he rebuffed them, his body loyal to Maya, his mind puzzled by the pull, his soul craving her fire, her voice, her cunt.
He leaned back in a leather chair, a glass of single malt in hand, his laptop open to a courier confirmation—a package sent to Ruby, his former airport mistress, now a bride in Delhi. Ruby, 28, had been a fleeting spark—met in a Mumbai airport lounge, her lithe body, sharp cheekbones, and sultry laugh drawing him in, their affair a whirlwind of quick fucks in VIP lounges, her pussy tight, her moans soft, her ambition to rise above her murky past (a tangled birth, no legal family) a quiet bond. He’d helped her, digging into her lineage, securing her birth rights—a modest estate, a name—while fucking her senseless, her lips around his cock, her ass red from his slaps. Her wedding to Charlie, a Delhi tech heir, had prompted his gift: a gold dildo, cast from his own cock, life-sized, heavy, gleaming, paired with a Rs. 2 crore cheque and a note, scrawled in his bold hand: Congrats, Ruby. Birth rights secured, enjoy the ride. – Arjun. The dildo was naughty, provocative, a nod to their past, his way of stirring her new life, his heart still Maya’s, his cock unmoved by Ruby now, but his mischief alive.
In Delhi, Ruby’s wedding night unfolded in a plush suite at the Oberoi, rose petals strewn across a king-sized bed, champagne chilling, the city’s skyline glittering beyond silk curtains. Ruby, radiant in a sheer negligee, her dark hair loose, her body petite but curved—small breasts, pert ass, long legs—gazed at Charlie, 30, lean and boyish, his tech wealth a quiet power, his eyes soft with adoration. The gift box from Arjun sat open, the gold dildo glinting under lamplight, its weight surprising her, its shape a shock—Arjun’s cock, thick, veined, life-sized, a memory of his thrusts, her pussy clenching at the sight, the cheque tucked beside it, her birth rights confirmed, her future secure. “Arjun sent this,” she murmured, her voice husky, her fingers tracing the dildo’s curve, her pussy dampening, her eyes flicking to Charlie, expecting jealousy but finding a grin.
“Arjun told me,” Charlie said, his tone light, his hand stroking her thigh, his cock hardening under his boxers. “Before the wedding, he called—said it’s a gift, a nod to your past. I’m fine with it, Ruby. I’m… a cuck, you know? I like it. Arjun’s a good guy, won’t hurt you or your name. Use it, let’s make it fun.” His words stunned her, then thrilled her, her pussy throbbing, her lips parting, her body leaning into his, their dynamic clear—Charlie’s love was open, his arousal tied to her pleasure, Arjun’s shadow a spice, not a threat.
They kissed, rough and hungry, his hands ripping her negligee, her small breasts exposed, nipples stiff, her panties shed, her pussy wet, glistening, her moans sharp as he pinned her to the bed. He fucked her hard, 15 minutes of primal rhythm, his cock—smaller than Arjun’s but eager—slamming her pussy, her legs wrapped around him, her ass bouncing, her moans rising, the headboard thumping, rose petals scattering. “Fuck, Ruby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his thrusts erratic, her pussy clenching, her clit sparking, but not enough—she needed more, her mind flashing to Arjun, his cock, his dildo. Charlie pulled out, his cum spurting, hot and thick, splattering her boobs, streaking her nipples, her skin glistening, her breath ragged, her pussy unsatisfied, her eyes on the gold dildo, its weight a promise.
Charlie grabbed it, grinning, his cock soft but his hands steady, the dildo heavy, solid gold, a strain to wield, its gleam hypnotic as he nudged it against her pussy, the cold metal a shock, her clit pulsing, her juices slicking it. “Let’s make you cum,” he panted, working hard, his arms flexing, the dildo’s weight a challenge, its life-sized shape—Arjun’s cock, thick, veined—stretching her pussy as he pushed it in, slow, deliberate, her walls gripping, her moans sharp, her realization dawning: it was Arjun, molded, real, her pussy soaking at the thought, her boobs still sticky with Charlie’s cum, her nipples throbbing. He pumped it, rough, deep, the gold heavy, her pussy gushing, her clit grinding the metal, her moans a crescendo—“Oh, fuck, Arjun, Charlie, yes!”—her orgasm crashing, her body convulsing, her juices flooding, the dildo slick, her thighs quaking, her breath ragged, Charlie’s effort a labor of love, his cuckold thrill clear, Arjun’s gift a bridge between them.
They collapsed, panting, the dildo gleaming, heavy on the sheets, Ruby’s pussy pulsing, her boobs cum-streaked, her heart racing—Arjun’s gesture, Charlie’s acceptance, her pleasure a tangled knot. She kissed Charlie, soft, grateful, her mind flickering to Arjun, his note, his cheque, his cock, her new life secure but his shadow lingering, her pussy sated but her heart curious. Charlie held her, his voice warm: “Arjun’s gift… it’s us now, too.” Ruby nodded, her body spent, her future bright, Arjun’s dildo a secret they’d keep, his reputation safe, her love for Charlie true.
She crossed to the en-suite bathroom, a marble haven where steam curled from a rainfall shower, the air heavy with lemongrass and eucalyptus, a glass wall etched with orchids fogging over. She stripped, her red bra falling, her matching panties sliding down, the lace catching on her thighs, her naked body a vision—full breasts, nipples dark and stiffening, a taut stomach, hips flaring, strong thighs sculpted by yoga, her pussy shaved, lips plump, already glistening with need. The hot water hit her, streaming over her curves, slicking her skin, her nipples tingling, her pussy pulsing, her breath hitching as she leaned against the cool marble, her fingers trembling, her mind fleeing the boardroom’s sterile wins to Arjun—his chiseled jaw, his dark eyes that stripped her bare, his cock that owned her, his dirty words that soaked her, words she craved now, her body screaming for him, her soul split between her empire’s crown and the heat between her legs.
Her fingers found her pussy, parting the lips, her clit swollen, throbbing as she rubbed slow, deliberate circles, the water a lover’s caress, her moans low, raw, swallowed by the shower’s roar. She pictured Arjun, not the suit-clad strategist who’d honed her pitches, but the man who’d fucked her senseless last monsoon, bending her over the hood of his black Mustang in a deserted Goa beach lot, the metal scorching her breasts, her skirt yanked up, her panties ripped, his cock slamming into her pussy, deep and brutal, her juices dripping, her screams echoing with the tide. His hand had fisted her hair, his voice a growl, spitting filthy names that made her wetter: “My dirty slut, you love this cock, don’t you?” “Greedy whore, begging for it, soaking my dick.” “Filthy bitch, come for your master, show me your cunt’s mine.” Each word had ignited her, her pussy clenching, her clit grinding the hood, her orgasm shattering, her body shaking, his cum flooding her, hot and thick, spilling down her thighs, marking her as his, her moans a surrender to his filthy praise, her pussy his altar, her heart his captive.
She moaned louder, her fingers plunging into her pussy, two, then three, stretching her, curling, pumping, her thumb circling her clit, her juices flowing, mixing with the water, her thighs quaking, her breasts heaving, her nipples aching for his teeth. She imagined him now, pinning her in this shower, his cock splitting her, his voice rasping more names: “Nasty little fucktoy, you’re dripping for me, aren’t you?” “Slutty queen, your pussy’s my throne, take it all.” “Wanton bitch, scream my name, let your cunt beg.” Her pussy clenched, her moans rising, her mind lost in his dirty litany, his words a drug that soaked her, her body aching for his hands, his lips, his cock, his dominance that matched her fire, her clit pulsing, her orgasm building, her heart twisting—he’d made her practice pitches, his hand on her thigh, his whispers of “You’re a goddess, Maya,” but it was his filthy names, his brutal fucks, that her pussy craved, that her soul missed, his absence a void no subsidy deal could fill.
Her success was undeniable—SolaraTech’s profits spiked, farmers across Maharashtra and Gujarat signing contracts, her panels glinting in their fields, her pitches flawless, her charm lethal, her face set for Economic Times’ cover. But she’d missed Arjun’s edge, his relentless prep, the way he’d drill her on data until her voice was iron, his fingers grazing her wrist, his eyes promising more than boardroom wins. Today’s deal had dazzled, but her body burned, her pussy throbbing for his cock, her mind replaying his names—slut, whore, fucktoy—each one a spark, her fingers fucking faster, her clit sparking, her moans a crescendo, her thighs buckling, her breasts bouncing, the water no match for the fire between her legs. She came, a sharp, shattering cry, her pussy clamping her fingers, her juices gushing, flooding the tiles, her body convulsing, her knees weak, the marble holding her up, her breath ragged, her longing for Arjun unquenched, his dirty words echoing, her pussy still pulsing, begging for him.
She lingered under the water, lemongrass soap a faint balm, her skin flushed, her nipples tender, her pussy aching, her mind shifting to the threat on her horizon—Salma, the new GST official, a predator in a sari, her office a veneer for darker games: backroom deals, corporate shakedowns, a network of informants feeding her power. Salma’s audit loomed, her hawkish eyes probing SolaraTech’s subsidy claims, sniffing for padded numbers, her ambition a mirror to Maya’s, her methods colder, sharper, a woman who broke companies for sport, her smile a blade. Maya’s profits—fat from farmers, propped by subsidies—were clean on paper, but Salma’s gaze could unravel her careful math, threaten her empire, force a reckoning. Maya rinsed off, her resolve hardening, her pussy’s ache a fuel, her mind a battlefield—she’d face Salma, protect her throne, find Arjun, reclaim his cock, his names, his fire.
She stepped out, toweling off, her naked body reflected in the glass, her curves a weapon, her hazel eyes fierce. Her laptop pinged—an email from a junior minister offering audit protection for a discreet payment, another from a farmer co-op praising her panels, her world a high-stakes game. But Arjun’s absence lingered, his dirty words—slut, whore, fucktoy—a chant in her pussy, his dominance a ghost in her soul, her success a crown that felt empty without him, Salma’s shadow creeping closer, the clash inevitable, the fire between her legs a promise to fight, to win, to love.
London’s gray drizzle streaked the windows of Arjun’s Mayfair flat, the city’s chill a stark contrast to Mumbai’s humid pulse, where Maya’s memory burned in his veins. At 35, Arjun was a force—lean, chiseled, his dark eyes sharp with intellect, his consultancy firm brokering high-stakes deals for British renewable energy startups, his days packed with boardrooms and Whitehall meetings, his nights haunted by Maya, her full breasts, her tight pussy, her moans under his cock, her fiery ambition matching his own. Six months in England had honed him—new suits, sharper pitches—but dulled his heart, his cock stirring only for Maya, her absence a knot in his chest, her dirty names—slut, whore, fucktoy—echoing in his mind, their last fuck on a Goa Mustang hood a vivid ache, her pussy clenching, her juices dripping, his cum marking her. New women—blonde interns, sleek diplomats—flirted, their eyes hungry, but he rebuffed them, his body loyal to Maya, his mind puzzled by the pull, his soul craving her fire, her voice, her cunt.
He leaned back in a leather chair, a glass of single malt in hand, his laptop open to a courier confirmation—a package sent to Ruby, his former airport mistress, now a bride in Delhi. Ruby, 28, had been a fleeting spark—met in a Mumbai airport lounge, her lithe body, sharp cheekbones, and sultry laugh drawing him in, their affair a whirlwind of quick fucks in VIP lounges, her pussy tight, her moans soft, her ambition to rise above her murky past (a tangled birth, no legal family) a quiet bond. He’d helped her, digging into her lineage, securing her birth rights—a modest estate, a name—while fucking her senseless, her lips around his cock, her ass red from his slaps. Her wedding to Charlie, a Delhi tech heir, had prompted his gift: a gold dildo, cast from his own cock, life-sized, heavy, gleaming, paired with a Rs. 2 crore cheque and a note, scrawled in his bold hand: Congrats, Ruby. Birth rights secured, enjoy the ride. – Arjun. The dildo was naughty, provocative, a nod to their past, his way of stirring her new life, his heart still Maya’s, his cock unmoved by Ruby now, but his mischief alive.
In Delhi, Ruby’s wedding night unfolded in a plush suite at the Oberoi, rose petals strewn across a king-sized bed, champagne chilling, the city’s skyline glittering beyond silk curtains. Ruby, radiant in a sheer negligee, her dark hair loose, her body petite but curved—small breasts, pert ass, long legs—gazed at Charlie, 30, lean and boyish, his tech wealth a quiet power, his eyes soft with adoration. The gift box from Arjun sat open, the gold dildo glinting under lamplight, its weight surprising her, its shape a shock—Arjun’s cock, thick, veined, life-sized, a memory of his thrusts, her pussy clenching at the sight, the cheque tucked beside it, her birth rights confirmed, her future secure. “Arjun sent this,” she murmured, her voice husky, her fingers tracing the dildo’s curve, her pussy dampening, her eyes flicking to Charlie, expecting jealousy but finding a grin.
“Arjun told me,” Charlie said, his tone light, his hand stroking her thigh, his cock hardening under his boxers. “Before the wedding, he called—said it’s a gift, a nod to your past. I’m fine with it, Ruby. I’m… a cuck, you know? I like it. Arjun’s a good guy, won’t hurt you or your name. Use it, let’s make it fun.” His words stunned her, then thrilled her, her pussy throbbing, her lips parting, her body leaning into his, their dynamic clear—Charlie’s love was open, his arousal tied to her pleasure, Arjun’s shadow a spice, not a threat.
They kissed, rough and hungry, his hands ripping her negligee, her small breasts exposed, nipples stiff, her panties shed, her pussy wet, glistening, her moans sharp as he pinned her to the bed. He fucked her hard, 15 minutes of primal rhythm, his cock—smaller than Arjun’s but eager—slamming her pussy, her legs wrapped around him, her ass bouncing, her moans rising, the headboard thumping, rose petals scattering. “Fuck, Ruby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his thrusts erratic, her pussy clenching, her clit sparking, but not enough—she needed more, her mind flashing to Arjun, his cock, his dildo. Charlie pulled out, his cum spurting, hot and thick, splattering her boobs, streaking her nipples, her skin glistening, her breath ragged, her pussy unsatisfied, her eyes on the gold dildo, its weight a promise.
Charlie grabbed it, grinning, his cock soft but his hands steady, the dildo heavy, solid gold, a strain to wield, its gleam hypnotic as he nudged it against her pussy, the cold metal a shock, her clit pulsing, her juices slicking it. “Let’s make you cum,” he panted, working hard, his arms flexing, the dildo’s weight a challenge, its life-sized shape—Arjun’s cock, thick, veined—stretching her pussy as he pushed it in, slow, deliberate, her walls gripping, her moans sharp, her realization dawning: it was Arjun, molded, real, her pussy soaking at the thought, her boobs still sticky with Charlie’s cum, her nipples throbbing. He pumped it, rough, deep, the gold heavy, her pussy gushing, her clit grinding the metal, her moans a crescendo—“Oh, fuck, Arjun, Charlie, yes!”—her orgasm crashing, her body convulsing, her juices flooding, the dildo slick, her thighs quaking, her breath ragged, Charlie’s effort a labor of love, his cuckold thrill clear, Arjun’s gift a bridge between them.
They collapsed, panting, the dildo gleaming, heavy on the sheets, Ruby’s pussy pulsing, her boobs cum-streaked, her heart racing—Arjun’s gesture, Charlie’s acceptance, her pleasure a tangled knot. She kissed Charlie, soft, grateful, her mind flickering to Arjun, his note, his cheque, his cock, her new life secure but his shadow lingering, her pussy sated but her heart curious. Charlie held her, his voice warm: “Arjun’s gift… it’s us now, too.” Ruby nodded, her body spent, her future bright, Arjun’s dildo a secret they’d keep, his reputation safe, her love for Charlie true.
Feel free to critique 
Leave a comment it gives writter the kick same as you get by reading the story.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)