15-08-2025, 04:30 PM
(This post was last modified: 17-08-2025, 06:17 AM by DeviKamasutra. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 2: Revelation
The sudden knock at the door jolted all three of them like a crack of thunder. Munai’s breath caught in her throat, her body still slick with sweat and trembling from the relentless pounding she’d just endured. Through the thin curtains, the silhouette of a man stood tall—Hira, the milkman, his voice cutting through the tense silence.
“Munai Didi? Milk for today?”
Dipankar scrambled off the chair, his face pale, and quickly sat on the sofa, trying to compose himself. Mr. Singh grabbed the nearest bedsheet, dbanging it over his muscular frame as he settled into another seat, his expression a mix of amusement and irritation. Munai, still naked, pulled the curtain around herself, her heart racing as she forced her voice to steady.
“Uh… yes, Hira. Just… give me a moment.”
She peeked through the gap in the curtains, her eyes meeting Hira’s. He was mid-30s, with a lean build and a curious glint in his eyes that made her stomach churn. She couldn’t tell if he’d seen her naked or not, but the way his gaze lingered on her sent a shiver down her spine.
“Why are you hiding behind the curtain, Didi?” Hira teased, his tone light but probing. “Are you… naked?”
Munai’s cheeks burned, but she managed a nervous laugh. “Don’t be silly, Hira. It’s just cold inside.”
From the sofa, Dipankar let out an awkward chuckle, though his hands were clenched into fists. Mr. Singh smirked, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation.
“Cold, huh?” Hira replied, his voice dripping with mock suspicion. “Well, I hope you’re not getting sick. You need some medicines?”
Munai’s eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on the curtain. “No, no! I’m fine, really. Just… tired. Actually I forgot to tell you that I did not want the milk today.”
Hira tilted his head, his gaze sharp and probing as it lingered on the trembling curtain. His voice carried a teasing edge, but beneath it lay something more—a curiosity that bordered on suspicion. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You seem… flustered. And also sweating a bit in this chilling day.”
Munai’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on the fabric she held against her bare skin. The cool air from the open doorway brushed against her exposed legs, sending a shiver up her spine. She forced a laugh, though it sounded strained even to her own ears. “Everything’s fine, Hira. Just… a little busy right now.”
His eyebrows lifted, and he leaned slightly closer, as if trying to peer through the narrow gap in the curtains. “Busy, huh?” he drawled, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “At this hour? I thought you were stuck to the TV for your favorite daily soaps.”
Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing like a drum in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Singh, who lounged on the sofa with a lazy smirk, seemingly unbothered by the situation. Dipankar, on the other hand, looked like he might faint at any moment, his fingers twitching nervously on the armrest.
“It’s nothing,” Munai insisted, her voice firmer this time, though she couldn’t hide the slight tremor. “Just… some guests.”
Hira’s lips curved into a sly smile, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Some guests, you say? Well if you need any help...”
Munai’s cheeks burned, and she shook her head quickly and interrupted him. “No, no trouble at all. They’re just… leaving soon.”
From behind her, Mr. Singh let out a low chuckle, the sound reverberating through the room like a rumble of thunder. Hira’s eyes flicked toward the source of the noise, and his smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Leaving soon, are they?” he repeated, his tone light but laced with something darker. “Well, alright then. But if you need anything, you know I am always just a call away.”
As he turned to leave, Munai exhaled slowly, her body still tense. But before he could step away, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Munai Didi?”
“Yes?” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He gave her one last knowing look, his expression unreadable yet heavy with implication. “Don’t forget to lock your door next time. You never know who might be watching.”
With that, he sauntered away, his footsteps fading into the crisp winter air. Munai stood frozen for a moment, his words echoing in her mind like a warning. She glanced at Mr. Singh, who was already rising from the sofa with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Looks like we’ve got an audience,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
Her stomach tightened as she realized the gravity of the situation. Hira hadn’t just come to deliver milk—he’d come to see. And now, there was no telling what he might do with the knowledge he’d gained.
“Everything’s fine,” Munai insisted, her voice firmer now. “Please, just go. And make sure to close the gate on your way out.”
For a moment, Hira hesitated, his eyes scanning the room through the barely parted curtains. Then, with a shrug and a sly smile, he turned away. “Alright, Didi. Take care.”
As soon as his footsteps faded, the room exhaled in relief. Dipankar slumped back into the sofa, running a hand through his hair, while Mr. Singh let out a low, rumbling laugh.
“Close call,” Mr. Singh said, his voice thick with amusement. “But I wouldn’t mind if he’d walked in. Might have made things more… interesting.”
Munai shot him a glare, though her outrage was tempered by the lingering warmth pooling between her thighs. She could still feel the ghost of him inside her, the way he’d claimed her so completely.
As Hira was rushing outside, he bumped into Munai's neighbour, Sarla. Her voice cut through the quiet from outside. “Hira! Why are you running away like this? Did something happen?”
Hira’s reply was muffled but unmistakably teasing. “You should see for yourself, Sarla Didi.”
The sound of their voices faded as they walked away, leaving the three of them in stunned silence. Munai’s heart was pounding again, her mind racing with possibilities. What if Sarla came to investigate? What if Hira had seen everything?
Mr. Singh stood abruptly, letting the bedsheet fall to the floor. His cock was already hardening again, thick and heavy against his thigh. He strode over to Munai, yanking the curtain away and exposing her naked form to the cool air.
“Looks like we’re not done yet,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her flush against him.
Munai gasped, her hands instinctively braced against his chest. “What are you doing? Someone could—”
“Let them see,” he interrupted, his voice dark and commanding. “Let them all see what a greedy whore you are.”
Before she could protest further, he spun her around and bent her over the arm of the sofa. Her ass jutted out, round and full, her pussy glistening with the remnants of their earlier encounter. Dipankar’s camera clicked back on, capturing every detail—every tremor of her body as Mr. Singh spread her cheeks wide.
“Look at this,” Mr. Singh said, his voice rough with desire. “A perfect little fuckhole, begging to be used again.” The squelching sounds emanating from inside her pussy was making Mr. Singh lose control. He didn’t wait for a response. With one fluid motion, he pushed inside her, the stretch making Munai cry out. Her hands clawed at the cushions as he began to thrust, each stroke deep and deliberate.
“Such a good slut,” he praised, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
Munai’s moans filled the room, her body responding eagerly despite the humiliation simmering beneath the surface. Her tits bounced with every thrust, the erect and sensitive nipples brushing against the sofa as Mr. Singh’s fingers dug into her hips.
Dipankar watched helplessly from the corner, his camera trembling in his hands. The sight of his wife being taken so blatantly—so vulgarly—was both gut-wrenching and electrifying. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop himself from adjusting his straining erection through his shorts. His breaths came shallow and quick, his body betraying him despite the knot of anger and jealousy tightening in his chest. Every sound Munai made—every moan, every gasp—seemed to reverberate through him, a cruel reminder of how completely she had surrendered to Mr. Singh.
The camera lens captured every detail: the way her tits bounced with each thrust, the flush of her skin as it turned rosy under the strain and pleasure, the way her fingers clawed at the sofa cushions as if begging for something to hold onto. Dipankar’s eyes were glued to the viewfinder, his hands shaking so badly he worried he might drop it. This was wrong, he thought, but the throbbing between his legs told him otherwise. He wanted to look away, to storm out of the room and reclaim some shred of dignity, but he couldn’t. He was utterly transfixed.
“Look at her,” Mr. Singh growled, his voice rough and commanding as he gripped Munai’s hips tighter, spreading her ass wide for the camera. “Your wife—so fucking filthy, so desperate for my dark cock. She doesn’t even care that you’re watching.” The words cut like a knife, but they also stoked something primal in Dipankar. He hated how right Mr. Singh was. Munai was desperate, her cries growing louder, her body writhing as if she couldn’t get enough. And yet, there was no denying the raw beauty of her submission, the way she gave herself so completely to the moment.
Dipankar’s hand moved involuntarily, gripping himself through his shorts as he struggled to stay quiet. He wanted to intervene, to pull Mr. Singh off her and remind her who she belonged to, but the unspoken rule held him back. He wasn’t allowed to touch himself, let alone join in. All he could do was watch—watch and endure the humiliating ache building inside him. His jaw clenched as Mr. Singh fucked her harder, the sounds of their bodies colliding filling the room like a cruel symphony.
Munai’s head fell forward, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she moaned again, louder this time. “Yes! Don’t stop!” she cried, her voice breaking on the edge of ecstasy. Dipankar’s heart twisted painfully in his chest, but his cock twitched in response, throbbing almost painfully against the fabric of his shorts. He hated himself for it, hated how he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face—how he couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the one inside her instead.
But as much as it hurt, there was something undeniably erotic about seeing Munai like this—completely unhinged, lost in pleasure, her body a living testament to her insatiable hunger. Dipankar’s breathing hitched as he adjusted his shorts again, his hand lingering there longer than it should have. He knew he was crossing a line, knew he was betraying her in some way by indulging even this much, but he couldn’t help it. This was Munai—his Munai—but she wasn’t his right now. She belonged to Mr. Singh and the camera, and all Dipankar could do was stand by and document every filthy second of it.
"Fuck, you’re even tighter this time,” Mr. Singh grunted, his pace quickening. “ Do you like the thought of being exposed to your milkman or neighbours, Munai?”
Her only response was a strangled cry as he slammed into her, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and muffled curses. She kept feeling like her cervix would be split in two with the intense thrusts she's enduring.
“Come on, fuck me harder,” Munai pleaded, her voice breaking as she surrendered completely to the pleasure. She didn’t care who heard her anymore—didn’t care if anyone saw. All that mattered was the raw ecstasy coursing through her veins.
Mr. Singh obliged, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force as he drove into her one last time, his cock buried to the hilt. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex as their bodies crashed together in a frenzied rhythm. Munai's cries grew louder, more desperate, her nails digging into the sofa cushions as she arched her back, offering herself completely to his thrusts. "Yes, yes, harder!" she whimpered, her voice breaking as she teetered on the edge of oblivion.
The sound of skin against skin echoed like a drumbeat, each slap punctuating the raw intensity of their coupling. Mr. Singh’s breath came in ragged bursts, his muscles taut with exertion as he pounded into her with unrelenting force. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, leaving marks that would linger long after this moment was over. "That’s it, take it, you filthy slut," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "You love this, don’t you? Love being used like a common whore."
Munai could barely form coherent words, her mind consumed by the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her. "I do! I love it!" she cried out, her voice trembling with submission. Her body convulsed with each thrust, her pussy clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper. The thrill of possible exposure—of someone walking in and witnessing her degradation—only heightened her arousal, making her feel both filthy and exhilarated.
Mr. Singh wasn’t holding back now, his pace relentless and erratic, his movements almost savage. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back as he whispered harshly in her ear, "Your married cunt belongs to me, and I’ll fuck you whenever—wherever—I want." His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she moaned in agreement, her body responding to his possession with an eager surrender. Her tits bounced wildly with each thrust, the beauty spot above her left nipple catching the light like a cruel reminder of her desirability.
From the corner, Dipankar’s camera captured it all—the way her body trembled, the raw need etched across her face, the beads of sweat trailing down her back. His own desire burned like a wildfire, but he remained rooted in place, forbidden to act yet unable to look away. The sound of their passion filled the room, drowning out any other thoughts, any other concerns. There was only this: the primal rhythm of their bodies, the tension building to an almost unbearable peak.
Mr. Singh’s thrusts became erratic, his control slipping as he neared his climax. His grip on her hips tightened even more, his fingers leaving deep imprints in her flesh. "Come for me, you greedy little slut," he commanded, his voice rough and urgent. Munai obeyed without hesitation, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her cries echoed through the room, raw and unfiltered, as Mr. Singh followed her over the edge, his release spilling deep inside her with a guttural groan. For a moment, they stayed locked together, their bodies trembling as the aftershocks of their shared ecstasy coursed through them.
Meanwhile in their neighbour's home, another storm was brewing as Surya, Sarla's alcoholic husband, was starting a spree of verbal abuse because Sarla was 10 minutes late to serve the lunch. Her eyes filled with tears and with erratic breath she says, "I'm sorry but the man who regularly visits the neighbour's home in white SUV, is upto no good." Surya's anger took a halt to let his senses take the reign again. "What do you mean by no good?" And Sarla spun the tale as she witnessed from the door, hiding behind carefully to not let her presence give away. Surya's primal senses took over as his boner kept raging against the shorts he was wearing. "Looks like I was always right. That Bangalan is really a whore. And I know just the rightful punishment for tarnishing our colony's sanctity like that." With a wide grin like Cheshire cat, Surya sipped his whiskey and let his mind float into the devious plan he was cooking.
The sudden knock at the door jolted all three of them like a crack of thunder. Munai’s breath caught in her throat, her body still slick with sweat and trembling from the relentless pounding she’d just endured. Through the thin curtains, the silhouette of a man stood tall—Hira, the milkman, his voice cutting through the tense silence.
“Munai Didi? Milk for today?”
Dipankar scrambled off the chair, his face pale, and quickly sat on the sofa, trying to compose himself. Mr. Singh grabbed the nearest bedsheet, dbanging it over his muscular frame as he settled into another seat, his expression a mix of amusement and irritation. Munai, still naked, pulled the curtain around herself, her heart racing as she forced her voice to steady.
“Uh… yes, Hira. Just… give me a moment.”
She peeked through the gap in the curtains, her eyes meeting Hira’s. He was mid-30s, with a lean build and a curious glint in his eyes that made her stomach churn. She couldn’t tell if he’d seen her naked or not, but the way his gaze lingered on her sent a shiver down her spine.
“Why are you hiding behind the curtain, Didi?” Hira teased, his tone light but probing. “Are you… naked?”
Munai’s cheeks burned, but she managed a nervous laugh. “Don’t be silly, Hira. It’s just cold inside.”
From the sofa, Dipankar let out an awkward chuckle, though his hands were clenched into fists. Mr. Singh smirked, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation.
“Cold, huh?” Hira replied, his voice dripping with mock suspicion. “Well, I hope you’re not getting sick. You need some medicines?”
Munai’s eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on the curtain. “No, no! I’m fine, really. Just… tired. Actually I forgot to tell you that I did not want the milk today.”
Hira tilted his head, his gaze sharp and probing as it lingered on the trembling curtain. His voice carried a teasing edge, but beneath it lay something more—a curiosity that bordered on suspicion. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You seem… flustered. And also sweating a bit in this chilling day.”
Munai’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on the fabric she held against her bare skin. The cool air from the open doorway brushed against her exposed legs, sending a shiver up her spine. She forced a laugh, though it sounded strained even to her own ears. “Everything’s fine, Hira. Just… a little busy right now.”
His eyebrows lifted, and he leaned slightly closer, as if trying to peer through the narrow gap in the curtains. “Busy, huh?” he drawled, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “At this hour? I thought you were stuck to the TV for your favorite daily soaps.”
Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing like a drum in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Singh, who lounged on the sofa with a lazy smirk, seemingly unbothered by the situation. Dipankar, on the other hand, looked like he might faint at any moment, his fingers twitching nervously on the armrest.
“It’s nothing,” Munai insisted, her voice firmer this time, though she couldn’t hide the slight tremor. “Just… some guests.”
Hira’s lips curved into a sly smile, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Some guests, you say? Well if you need any help...”
Munai’s cheeks burned, and she shook her head quickly and interrupted him. “No, no trouble at all. They’re just… leaving soon.”
From behind her, Mr. Singh let out a low chuckle, the sound reverberating through the room like a rumble of thunder. Hira’s eyes flicked toward the source of the noise, and his smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Leaving soon, are they?” he repeated, his tone light but laced with something darker. “Well, alright then. But if you need anything, you know I am always just a call away.”
As he turned to leave, Munai exhaled slowly, her body still tense. But before he could step away, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Munai Didi?”
“Yes?” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He gave her one last knowing look, his expression unreadable yet heavy with implication. “Don’t forget to lock your door next time. You never know who might be watching.”
With that, he sauntered away, his footsteps fading into the crisp winter air. Munai stood frozen for a moment, his words echoing in her mind like a warning. She glanced at Mr. Singh, who was already rising from the sofa with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Looks like we’ve got an audience,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
Her stomach tightened as she realized the gravity of the situation. Hira hadn’t just come to deliver milk—he’d come to see. And now, there was no telling what he might do with the knowledge he’d gained.
“Everything’s fine,” Munai insisted, her voice firmer now. “Please, just go. And make sure to close the gate on your way out.”
For a moment, Hira hesitated, his eyes scanning the room through the barely parted curtains. Then, with a shrug and a sly smile, he turned away. “Alright, Didi. Take care.”
As soon as his footsteps faded, the room exhaled in relief. Dipankar slumped back into the sofa, running a hand through his hair, while Mr. Singh let out a low, rumbling laugh.
“Close call,” Mr. Singh said, his voice thick with amusement. “But I wouldn’t mind if he’d walked in. Might have made things more… interesting.”
Munai shot him a glare, though her outrage was tempered by the lingering warmth pooling between her thighs. She could still feel the ghost of him inside her, the way he’d claimed her so completely.
As Hira was rushing outside, he bumped into Munai's neighbour, Sarla. Her voice cut through the quiet from outside. “Hira! Why are you running away like this? Did something happen?”
Hira’s reply was muffled but unmistakably teasing. “You should see for yourself, Sarla Didi.”
The sound of their voices faded as they walked away, leaving the three of them in stunned silence. Munai’s heart was pounding again, her mind racing with possibilities. What if Sarla came to investigate? What if Hira had seen everything?
Mr. Singh stood abruptly, letting the bedsheet fall to the floor. His cock was already hardening again, thick and heavy against his thigh. He strode over to Munai, yanking the curtain away and exposing her naked form to the cool air.
“Looks like we’re not done yet,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her flush against him.
Munai gasped, her hands instinctively braced against his chest. “What are you doing? Someone could—”
“Let them see,” he interrupted, his voice dark and commanding. “Let them all see what a greedy whore you are.”
Before she could protest further, he spun her around and bent her over the arm of the sofa. Her ass jutted out, round and full, her pussy glistening with the remnants of their earlier encounter. Dipankar’s camera clicked back on, capturing every detail—every tremor of her body as Mr. Singh spread her cheeks wide.
“Look at this,” Mr. Singh said, his voice rough with desire. “A perfect little fuckhole, begging to be used again.” The squelching sounds emanating from inside her pussy was making Mr. Singh lose control. He didn’t wait for a response. With one fluid motion, he pushed inside her, the stretch making Munai cry out. Her hands clawed at the cushions as he began to thrust, each stroke deep and deliberate.
“Such a good slut,” he praised, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
Munai’s moans filled the room, her body responding eagerly despite the humiliation simmering beneath the surface. Her tits bounced with every thrust, the erect and sensitive nipples brushing against the sofa as Mr. Singh’s fingers dug into her hips.
Dipankar watched helplessly from the corner, his camera trembling in his hands. The sight of his wife being taken so blatantly—so vulgarly—was both gut-wrenching and electrifying. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop himself from adjusting his straining erection through his shorts. His breaths came shallow and quick, his body betraying him despite the knot of anger and jealousy tightening in his chest. Every sound Munai made—every moan, every gasp—seemed to reverberate through him, a cruel reminder of how completely she had surrendered to Mr. Singh.
The camera lens captured every detail: the way her tits bounced with each thrust, the flush of her skin as it turned rosy under the strain and pleasure, the way her fingers clawed at the sofa cushions as if begging for something to hold onto. Dipankar’s eyes were glued to the viewfinder, his hands shaking so badly he worried he might drop it. This was wrong, he thought, but the throbbing between his legs told him otherwise. He wanted to look away, to storm out of the room and reclaim some shred of dignity, but he couldn’t. He was utterly transfixed.
“Look at her,” Mr. Singh growled, his voice rough and commanding as he gripped Munai’s hips tighter, spreading her ass wide for the camera. “Your wife—so fucking filthy, so desperate for my dark cock. She doesn’t even care that you’re watching.” The words cut like a knife, but they also stoked something primal in Dipankar. He hated how right Mr. Singh was. Munai was desperate, her cries growing louder, her body writhing as if she couldn’t get enough. And yet, there was no denying the raw beauty of her submission, the way she gave herself so completely to the moment.
Dipankar’s hand moved involuntarily, gripping himself through his shorts as he struggled to stay quiet. He wanted to intervene, to pull Mr. Singh off her and remind her who she belonged to, but the unspoken rule held him back. He wasn’t allowed to touch himself, let alone join in. All he could do was watch—watch and endure the humiliating ache building inside him. His jaw clenched as Mr. Singh fucked her harder, the sounds of their bodies colliding filling the room like a cruel symphony.
Munai’s head fell forward, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she moaned again, louder this time. “Yes! Don’t stop!” she cried, her voice breaking on the edge of ecstasy. Dipankar’s heart twisted painfully in his chest, but his cock twitched in response, throbbing almost painfully against the fabric of his shorts. He hated himself for it, hated how he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face—how he couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the one inside her instead.
But as much as it hurt, there was something undeniably erotic about seeing Munai like this—completely unhinged, lost in pleasure, her body a living testament to her insatiable hunger. Dipankar’s breathing hitched as he adjusted his shorts again, his hand lingering there longer than it should have. He knew he was crossing a line, knew he was betraying her in some way by indulging even this much, but he couldn’t help it. This was Munai—his Munai—but she wasn’t his right now. She belonged to Mr. Singh and the camera, and all Dipankar could do was stand by and document every filthy second of it.
"Fuck, you’re even tighter this time,” Mr. Singh grunted, his pace quickening. “ Do you like the thought of being exposed to your milkman or neighbours, Munai?”
Her only response was a strangled cry as he slammed into her, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and muffled curses. She kept feeling like her cervix would be split in two with the intense thrusts she's enduring.
“Come on, fuck me harder,” Munai pleaded, her voice breaking as she surrendered completely to the pleasure. She didn’t care who heard her anymore—didn’t care if anyone saw. All that mattered was the raw ecstasy coursing through her veins.
Mr. Singh obliged, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force as he drove into her one last time, his cock buried to the hilt. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex as their bodies crashed together in a frenzied rhythm. Munai's cries grew louder, more desperate, her nails digging into the sofa cushions as she arched her back, offering herself completely to his thrusts. "Yes, yes, harder!" she whimpered, her voice breaking as she teetered on the edge of oblivion.
The sound of skin against skin echoed like a drumbeat, each slap punctuating the raw intensity of their coupling. Mr. Singh’s breath came in ragged bursts, his muscles taut with exertion as he pounded into her with unrelenting force. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, leaving marks that would linger long after this moment was over. "That’s it, take it, you filthy slut," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "You love this, don’t you? Love being used like a common whore."
Munai could barely form coherent words, her mind consumed by the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her. "I do! I love it!" she cried out, her voice trembling with submission. Her body convulsed with each thrust, her pussy clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper. The thrill of possible exposure—of someone walking in and witnessing her degradation—only heightened her arousal, making her feel both filthy and exhilarated.
Mr. Singh wasn’t holding back now, his pace relentless and erratic, his movements almost savage. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back as he whispered harshly in her ear, "Your married cunt belongs to me, and I’ll fuck you whenever—wherever—I want." His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she moaned in agreement, her body responding to his possession with an eager surrender. Her tits bounced wildly with each thrust, the beauty spot above her left nipple catching the light like a cruel reminder of her desirability.
From the corner, Dipankar’s camera captured it all—the way her body trembled, the raw need etched across her face, the beads of sweat trailing down her back. His own desire burned like a wildfire, but he remained rooted in place, forbidden to act yet unable to look away. The sound of their passion filled the room, drowning out any other thoughts, any other concerns. There was only this: the primal rhythm of their bodies, the tension building to an almost unbearable peak.
Mr. Singh’s thrusts became erratic, his control slipping as he neared his climax. His grip on her hips tightened even more, his fingers leaving deep imprints in her flesh. "Come for me, you greedy little slut," he commanded, his voice rough and urgent. Munai obeyed without hesitation, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her cries echoed through the room, raw and unfiltered, as Mr. Singh followed her over the edge, his release spilling deep inside her with a guttural groan. For a moment, they stayed locked together, their bodies trembling as the aftershocks of their shared ecstasy coursed through them.
Meanwhile in their neighbour's home, another storm was brewing as Surya, Sarla's alcoholic husband, was starting a spree of verbal abuse because Sarla was 10 minutes late to serve the lunch. Her eyes filled with tears and with erratic breath she says, "I'm sorry but the man who regularly visits the neighbour's home in white SUV, is upto no good." Surya's anger took a halt to let his senses take the reign again. "What do you mean by no good?" And Sarla spun the tale as she witnessed from the door, hiding behind carefully to not let her presence give away. Surya's primal senses took over as his boner kept raging against the shorts he was wearing. "Looks like I was always right. That Bangalan is really a whore. And I know just the rightful punishment for tarnishing our colony's sanctity like that." With a wide grin like Cheshire cat, Surya sipped his whiskey and let his mind float into the devious plan he was cooking.
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