05-11-2025, 02:59 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-11-2025, 03:40 PM by anus24. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
27. Threads of Defiance and Desire
The apartment complex buzzed with the mundane rhythm of daily life, but for Anjali, every step outside her door was now a calculated performance. The amulet's whispers had woven deep into her psyche, reshaping her world around Vinay's preferences like clay under a sculptor's hands. He was her center, her universe—Rajesh's opinions, Priya's glances, the neighbors' stares—all faded into irrelevance if they didn't align with what pleased her thammudu. She splurged on his behalf, dipping into Rajesh's credit cards for designer pieces that hugged her voluptuous body like lovers' grips. Tight jeans that molded to her thick thighs and round ass, sleeveless t-shirts cropped to bare her navel and the soft dip of her waist, high heels that clicked with authority, and oversized sunglasses that shielded her eyes while amplifying her aura of untouchable allure. Underneath, only the finest bras and panties—lace-trimmed confections in black, red, and nude that cradled her massive breasts and framed her shaved pussy like treasures.
Anjali adjusted her walk in the mirror each morning, practicing the sway that made her hips roll hypnotically, her ass cheeks shifting under the denim with each stride. Men in the complex— the burly watchman, the young IT guy from 4B, even the elderly uncle on the bench—would pause, eyes tracing her curves, cocks stirring in their pants at the sight of her milky cleavage peeking from unbuttoned shirts or the way her t-shirt stretched taut over her heavy tits, nipples faintly outlined on cooler days. She knew it, felt the power in their mesmerized gazes, and it fueled her arrogance, a sharp edge to her sweetness that she reserved for those who dared challenge her.
Rajesh noticed immediately, of course. The conservative man, with his starched shirts and rigid routines, came home from his accounting job to find his wife transformed into a vision that screamed modern temptress. Their first quarrel erupted over breakfast, just days after Anjali's shopping spree.
'Anjali, what is this?' Rajesh's voice cracked with disapproval as she sauntered into the kitchen, tight blue jeans encasing her legs like a second skin, a white sleeveless t-shirt riding up to expose her navel piercing—a new addition, glinting like a secret invitation. Her black high heels elevated her already towering frame, and she slipped on her sunglasses even indoors, perching them on her head like a crown. Under the t-shirt, a designer push-up bra lifted her breasts into perfect, jiggling orbs that strained the fabric.
She poured coffee, hips cocked in that mesmerizing sway, ignoring him at first. 'What do you mean, Rajesh? My outfit?'
'Outfit? You look like... like one of those city girls from the movies. Sleeveless, tight pants—it's not decent for a married woman. What will people say?'
Anjali's lips curled into a slight sneer, the arrogance bubbling up as the amulet's command echoed: Irritation at his words, compare to Vinay's approval. 'People? Let them say what they want. I'm comfortable this way. And if you had half the sense Vinay does, you'd understand that a woman has the right to dress as she pleases.'
Rajesh's face reddened. 'Vinay? Always Vinay! He's not your husband, I am. And this spending—thousands on clothes? My money!'
She slammed the mug down, her breasts bouncing with the motion. 'Your money? You've neglected me for years, Rajesh. Impotent in bed, buried in your work. I'm a supermodel of a woman—voluptuous, beautiful—and you treat me like some village bride. Vinay appreciates me. He sees me as independent, bold. You're just jealous because every man in this complex stares at me, wants me, and you can't even satisfy your own wife.'
The argument escalated, voices rising until Priya knocked on the door, drawn by the noise. Vinay arrived minutes later, 'checking in' as he often did. He took Rajesh's side at first, fueling the fire just to watch Anjali's defiance spark brighter. 'Rajesh has a point, akkayya. Maybe tone it down a bit for his sake.' But his eyes devoured her, cock hardening at the way her jeans cupped her pussy mound, the t-shirt clinging to her sweat-dampened skin.
Anjali shot him a glare, but inside, the amulet purred: Vinay's words are tests; please him above all. She stormed out, heels clicking furiously, leaving Rajesh fuming and Vinay smirking.
That evening, the quarrels had become routine. Anjali wore a button-down shirt over her jeans, the top three buttons undone to reveal the lacy edge of her red designer bra, cleavage spilling like an invitation. Rajesh confronted her in the living room. 'You're parading around like a slut! Close those buttons!'
'Arrogant prick,' she muttered under her breath, but aloud: 'Slut? I'm your wife, Rajesh, but you make me feel like a prisoner. Vinay would never say that—he loves my boldness.'
Vinay, overhearing from the hallway, stepped in. 'Come on, Anjali, he's right. A little modesty—'
But she whirled on him, eyes flashing, though her pussy throbbed at his nearness. 'Modesty? You like me like this, thammudu. Don't pretend.' The tension crackled, Rajesh sputtering, Priya watching from the kitchen with a mix of envy and arousal—her own outfits paled next to Anjali's posh allure.
Priya felt the slight arrogance directed at her too. During a shared lunch, Anjali adjusted her sunglasses, crossing her legs so her jeans tightened over her thighs. 'Pass the salt, Priya. And maybe try some heels; they do wonders for a figure.' The words dripped with superiority—Anjali knew she was prettier, sexier, her curves a league above Priya's slimmer form. Priya bristled, but her bisexual gaze lingered on Anjali's cleavage, pussy wetting at the thought.
Yet in private with Vinay, Anjali melted into demure devotion. Their stolen moments—after Rajesh left for work, or late nights when Priya slept—were sanctuaries of intimacy. The amulet ensured she compared everything to him: Rajesh's impotence versus Vinay's thick cock that stretched her pussy perfectly; his restrictions versus Vinay's praise.
One such afternoon, Anjali slipped into Vinay's apartment, her tight black jeans hugging her ass like a glove, a cropped green t-shirt baring her navel and the underside of her bra. High heels discarded at the door, she padded in barefoot, but her walk retained that sway. Vinay lounged on the couch, eyes lighting up as she approached.
'Akkayya,' he growled, pulling her onto his lap. His hands roamed her thighs, squeezing the denim-clad flesh. 'Fuck, you look incredible. That walk of yours—mesmerizing. Every man in the complex wants to bury their cock in you.'
She straddled him, grinding her pussy against his growing bulge, demure smile on her lips. 'Only for you, thammudu. Rajesh yelled again this morning—called me indecent. But I thought of you, how you love my boldness.'
Vinay's fingers traced her navel, dipping under the t-shirt to thumb her bra. 'He's a fool. Look at these tits—massive, milky, begging to be sucked. He should respect your choices, let you dress like the goddess you are. I never would restrict you, akkayya. Wear what makes your pussy wet, what makes men stare.' He unbuttoned her imaginary shirt—today it was the t-shirt he lifted, exposing her designer bra, black lace cradling her heavy breasts.
Anjali moaned softly, arching into his touch. 'He neglects me, thammudu. Can't even get hard. But you... you're my true husband.' The words spilled from her, amulet-fueled truth. She no longer felt obligations to Rajesh; splurging his money on these outfits was justice—he was lucky to have married a woman like her, supermodel curves and all.
Vinay cupped her breasts over the bra, squeezing the soft flesh until her nipples hardened into peaks. 'Damn right. All those apartment guys—jerking off to thoughts of your ass in these jeans, your cleavage spilling out. Rajesh is impotent, blind to your fire. But I see it, akkayya. Now, show me what you bought today.'
She stood, turning to unbutton her jeans, peeling them down her hips with a slow wiggle. The designer panties underneath—red thong, barely covering her shaved pussy lips—matched the bra. Her ass cheeks jiggled free, full and pale. Vinay's cock throbbed visibly in his pants. 'Fuck, akkayya. Bend over.'
Anjali obeyed, hands on her knees, ass presented. He slapped her cheek lightly, watching it ripple, then traced the thong's string between her legs, feeling her wetness. 'Soaked already. Rajesh could never make you this wet.'
'No,' she gasped, pushing back. 'Only you, emandi. I get irritated by everything he says—compares nothing to you.'
He yanked the thong aside, fingers plunging into her pussy, two thick digits pumping her slick walls. Anjali cried out, juices coating his hand as he curled them against her g-spot. 'That's it, akkayya. Cum for your true husband.' She did, thighs quaking, pussy clenching around his fingers, a gush of wetness dripping down her legs.
Vinay stripped her fully, bra and panties joining the jeans on the floor. Her naked body—voluptuous hips, narrow waist, massive tits swaying—glistened with sweat. He laid her on the couch, mouth latching onto her nipple, sucking hard while his fingers rubbed her clit. 'These tits are perfection. Rajesh doesn't deserve them.'
Anjali threaded fingers in his hair, demure whispers turning lewd. 'Suck harder, thammudu. Make me yours.' He switched nipples, biting gently, then trailed down her belly, tongue dipping into her navel before spreading her thighs. Her pinkish pussy lips parted, clit swollen. He licked flat-tongued from asshole to clit, savoring her musky taste.
'Oh god, yes!' She bucked, holding his head. His tongue plunged inside, fucking her hole while fingers pinched her clit. Anjali's arrogance vanished here; she was his, pliant and eager.
He rose, freeing his cock—thick, veined, precum beading. 'Ride me, akkayya. Show me how independent you are.' She mounted him, pussy swallowing his length inch by inch, walls gripping tight. Her tits bounced as she rode, hands guiding his to squeeze them. 'Harder, fuckboy. Milk my big tits.'
Vinay thrust up, balls slapping her ass, groaning. 'Fuck, your pussy's so tight. Rajesh's loss—impotent bastard neglecting this body. I love your sexiness, your fire. Dress however you want; it's all for me.'
She leaned down, kissing him deeply, tongue tangling as her hips ground. 'You're my center, thammudu. No one matters but you.' Orgasm built; she came with a scream, pussy spasming, milking his cock until he flooded her with cum, hot ropes painting her walls.
They collapsed, Anjali curled against him, demure and sweet. 'I love pleasing you, emandi. Even if it means fighting Rajesh.'
The pattern repeated daily. Mornings brought quarrels: Anjali in a white shirt over jeans, buttons open to flash her blue bra, cleavage deep and inviting. Rajesh: 'Button up! You're embarrassing me!' Her: 'Embarrassing? You're the embarrassment—can't handle a hot wife.' Vinay interfering: 'Maybe he's right, akkayya,' smirking as she stormed off, her walk mesmerizing the hallway oglers.
Afternoons with Priya showed Anjali's slight arrogance. 'Priya, that top—it's so plain. Try something tighter; though, with your figure...' Priya flushed, attracted yet slighted, her love for Vinay making her compete subtly.
Evenings were Vinay's. One night, after a heated row where Rajesh accused her of infidelity—'You're dressing for other men!'—Anjali fled to Vinay's bed. She wore a sheer shirt, unbuttoned fully, jeans kicked off to reveal lacy panties. 'He thinks I'm a whore, thammudu.'
Vinay pulled her close, hands roaming. 'He's wrong. You're a queen. Let me worship you.' He stripped her shirt, bra next, burying his face in her cleavage, licking the milky skin between her tits. 'These are made for sucking.' His mouth captured a nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing as she moaned.
'Yes, thammudu... Rajesh never does this.' She pushed him back, unzipping his pants, taking his cock in hand. Stroking firmly, she leaned to lick the head, tasting salty precum. 'Your cock's so big, so hard. Not like his limp nothing.'
She sucked him deep, lewd slurps echoing, eyes locked on his in erotic devotion. Bobbing, gagging as she deepthroated, saliva dripping. Vinay groaned, fingers in her hair. 'Fuck, akkayya. Swallow every inch.'
Priya walked in briefly—tension flaring—but Anjali waved her off arrogantly. 'Not now, chelli. This is for him.' Priya retreated, pussy aching with jealousy.
Anjali mounted again, riding reverse, ass cheeks spreading to show his cock pistoning her pussy. 'Watch me fuck you, emandi.' Her hand reached back, fondling his balls. Vinay slapped her ass, thrusting up. 'All the men want this ass. Rajesh is a fool for not cherishing you.'
She came hard, pussy squirting, then turned to suck him clean, swallowing his load with a moan, showing the cum on her tongue before gulping. 'All for you, my true husband.'
Another day, Anjali splurged on a new outfit: red jeans skin-tight, black t-shirt cropped high, gold heels. Rajesh exploded: 'You're wasting my money on trash!' Her retort: 'Trash? It's luxury you can't afford to appreciate. Vinay loves it.' Vinay sided with him publicly: 'Save some cash, akkayya.' But privately, in his bedroom, he fucked her against the wall, jeans around her ankles, cock slamming her pussy.
'God, these jeans make your ass pop,' he grunted, hands gripping her hips. 'Wear them everywhere. Let them stare—I own this body.'
Anjali pushed back, moaning. 'Yes! Rajesh irritates me so much—always comparing to you, he's nothing.' Cum leaked down her thighs as he filled her, her arrogance toward Rajesh fueling her submission to Vinay.
Weeks blurred in this cycle: Tensions with Rajesh escalating—yells about her walk, her spending, her 'flirting' with eyes. 'You're changing because of him!' Rajesh accused. Anjali: 'Him? Yeah speak like that and then see what happens. You're just my obligation—no more.'
With Priya, barbs like: 'You could learn from my style, chelli. Vinay prefers curves like mine.' Priya's tension simmered, her arousal for Anjali mixing with rivalry.
But with Vinay, intimacy deepened. One marathon session: Anjali in lingerie under her posh outfit, stripping slowly. He ate her pussy for an hour, tongue lapping her folds, fingers pumping, until she came thrice, thighs clamped on his head.
Then she blew him, lewd sounds—gurgles, slurps—while fingering his asshole. 'Cum in my mouth, thammudu.' She swallowed, praising his potency against Rajesh's failure.
They fucked in every position: Missionary, her legs over his shoulders, pussy stretched wide; doggy, ass jiggling; spooning, his hand squeezing her tit. Dialogues wove through: 'I love your independence, akkayya. Rajesh never deserved you.' 'You're my soulmate, emandi. I'll dress for you forever.'
In afterglows, she demurely confessed: 'I justify it all—Rajesh was lucky. But you're my everything.' Vinay kissed her forehead, cock stirring again. 'And you're mine.'
The chapter of their lives unfolded in defiance and desire, Anjali's posh transformation a banner of her devotion, tensions weaving tighter around her true husband's cock.
The apartment complex buzzed with the mundane rhythm of daily life, but for Anjali, every step outside her door was now a calculated performance. The amulet's whispers had woven deep into her psyche, reshaping her world around Vinay's preferences like clay under a sculptor's hands. He was her center, her universe—Rajesh's opinions, Priya's glances, the neighbors' stares—all faded into irrelevance if they didn't align with what pleased her thammudu. She splurged on his behalf, dipping into Rajesh's credit cards for designer pieces that hugged her voluptuous body like lovers' grips. Tight jeans that molded to her thick thighs and round ass, sleeveless t-shirts cropped to bare her navel and the soft dip of her waist, high heels that clicked with authority, and oversized sunglasses that shielded her eyes while amplifying her aura of untouchable allure. Underneath, only the finest bras and panties—lace-trimmed confections in black, red, and nude that cradled her massive breasts and framed her shaved pussy like treasures.
Anjali adjusted her walk in the mirror each morning, practicing the sway that made her hips roll hypnotically, her ass cheeks shifting under the denim with each stride. Men in the complex— the burly watchman, the young IT guy from 4B, even the elderly uncle on the bench—would pause, eyes tracing her curves, cocks stirring in their pants at the sight of her milky cleavage peeking from unbuttoned shirts or the way her t-shirt stretched taut over her heavy tits, nipples faintly outlined on cooler days. She knew it, felt the power in their mesmerized gazes, and it fueled her arrogance, a sharp edge to her sweetness that she reserved for those who dared challenge her.
Rajesh noticed immediately, of course. The conservative man, with his starched shirts and rigid routines, came home from his accounting job to find his wife transformed into a vision that screamed modern temptress. Their first quarrel erupted over breakfast, just days after Anjali's shopping spree.
'Anjali, what is this?' Rajesh's voice cracked with disapproval as she sauntered into the kitchen, tight blue jeans encasing her legs like a second skin, a white sleeveless t-shirt riding up to expose her navel piercing—a new addition, glinting like a secret invitation. Her black high heels elevated her already towering frame, and she slipped on her sunglasses even indoors, perching them on her head like a crown. Under the t-shirt, a designer push-up bra lifted her breasts into perfect, jiggling orbs that strained the fabric.
She poured coffee, hips cocked in that mesmerizing sway, ignoring him at first. 'What do you mean, Rajesh? My outfit?'
'Outfit? You look like... like one of those city girls from the movies. Sleeveless, tight pants—it's not decent for a married woman. What will people say?'
Anjali's lips curled into a slight sneer, the arrogance bubbling up as the amulet's command echoed: Irritation at his words, compare to Vinay's approval. 'People? Let them say what they want. I'm comfortable this way. And if you had half the sense Vinay does, you'd understand that a woman has the right to dress as she pleases.'
Rajesh's face reddened. 'Vinay? Always Vinay! He's not your husband, I am. And this spending—thousands on clothes? My money!'
She slammed the mug down, her breasts bouncing with the motion. 'Your money? You've neglected me for years, Rajesh. Impotent in bed, buried in your work. I'm a supermodel of a woman—voluptuous, beautiful—and you treat me like some village bride. Vinay appreciates me. He sees me as independent, bold. You're just jealous because every man in this complex stares at me, wants me, and you can't even satisfy your own wife.'
The argument escalated, voices rising until Priya knocked on the door, drawn by the noise. Vinay arrived minutes later, 'checking in' as he often did. He took Rajesh's side at first, fueling the fire just to watch Anjali's defiance spark brighter. 'Rajesh has a point, akkayya. Maybe tone it down a bit for his sake.' But his eyes devoured her, cock hardening at the way her jeans cupped her pussy mound, the t-shirt clinging to her sweat-dampened skin.
Anjali shot him a glare, but inside, the amulet purred: Vinay's words are tests; please him above all. She stormed out, heels clicking furiously, leaving Rajesh fuming and Vinay smirking.
That evening, the quarrels had become routine. Anjali wore a button-down shirt over her jeans, the top three buttons undone to reveal the lacy edge of her red designer bra, cleavage spilling like an invitation. Rajesh confronted her in the living room. 'You're parading around like a slut! Close those buttons!'
'Arrogant prick,' she muttered under her breath, but aloud: 'Slut? I'm your wife, Rajesh, but you make me feel like a prisoner. Vinay would never say that—he loves my boldness.'
Vinay, overhearing from the hallway, stepped in. 'Come on, Anjali, he's right. A little modesty—'
But she whirled on him, eyes flashing, though her pussy throbbed at his nearness. 'Modesty? You like me like this, thammudu. Don't pretend.' The tension crackled, Rajesh sputtering, Priya watching from the kitchen with a mix of envy and arousal—her own outfits paled next to Anjali's posh allure.
Priya felt the slight arrogance directed at her too. During a shared lunch, Anjali adjusted her sunglasses, crossing her legs so her jeans tightened over her thighs. 'Pass the salt, Priya. And maybe try some heels; they do wonders for a figure.' The words dripped with superiority—Anjali knew she was prettier, sexier, her curves a league above Priya's slimmer form. Priya bristled, but her bisexual gaze lingered on Anjali's cleavage, pussy wetting at the thought.
Yet in private with Vinay, Anjali melted into demure devotion. Their stolen moments—after Rajesh left for work, or late nights when Priya slept—were sanctuaries of intimacy. The amulet ensured she compared everything to him: Rajesh's impotence versus Vinay's thick cock that stretched her pussy perfectly; his restrictions versus Vinay's praise.
One such afternoon, Anjali slipped into Vinay's apartment, her tight black jeans hugging her ass like a glove, a cropped green t-shirt baring her navel and the underside of her bra. High heels discarded at the door, she padded in barefoot, but her walk retained that sway. Vinay lounged on the couch, eyes lighting up as she approached.
'Akkayya,' he growled, pulling her onto his lap. His hands roamed her thighs, squeezing the denim-clad flesh. 'Fuck, you look incredible. That walk of yours—mesmerizing. Every man in the complex wants to bury their cock in you.'
She straddled him, grinding her pussy against his growing bulge, demure smile on her lips. 'Only for you, thammudu. Rajesh yelled again this morning—called me indecent. But I thought of you, how you love my boldness.'
Vinay's fingers traced her navel, dipping under the t-shirt to thumb her bra. 'He's a fool. Look at these tits—massive, milky, begging to be sucked. He should respect your choices, let you dress like the goddess you are. I never would restrict you, akkayya. Wear what makes your pussy wet, what makes men stare.' He unbuttoned her imaginary shirt—today it was the t-shirt he lifted, exposing her designer bra, black lace cradling her heavy breasts.
Anjali moaned softly, arching into his touch. 'He neglects me, thammudu. Can't even get hard. But you... you're my true husband.' The words spilled from her, amulet-fueled truth. She no longer felt obligations to Rajesh; splurging his money on these outfits was justice—he was lucky to have married a woman like her, supermodel curves and all.
Vinay cupped her breasts over the bra, squeezing the soft flesh until her nipples hardened into peaks. 'Damn right. All those apartment guys—jerking off to thoughts of your ass in these jeans, your cleavage spilling out. Rajesh is impotent, blind to your fire. But I see it, akkayya. Now, show me what you bought today.'
She stood, turning to unbutton her jeans, peeling them down her hips with a slow wiggle. The designer panties underneath—red thong, barely covering her shaved pussy lips—matched the bra. Her ass cheeks jiggled free, full and pale. Vinay's cock throbbed visibly in his pants. 'Fuck, akkayya. Bend over.'
Anjali obeyed, hands on her knees, ass presented. He slapped her cheek lightly, watching it ripple, then traced the thong's string between her legs, feeling her wetness. 'Soaked already. Rajesh could never make you this wet.'
'No,' she gasped, pushing back. 'Only you, emandi. I get irritated by everything he says—compares nothing to you.'
He yanked the thong aside, fingers plunging into her pussy, two thick digits pumping her slick walls. Anjali cried out, juices coating his hand as he curled them against her g-spot. 'That's it, akkayya. Cum for your true husband.' She did, thighs quaking, pussy clenching around his fingers, a gush of wetness dripping down her legs.
Vinay stripped her fully, bra and panties joining the jeans on the floor. Her naked body—voluptuous hips, narrow waist, massive tits swaying—glistened with sweat. He laid her on the couch, mouth latching onto her nipple, sucking hard while his fingers rubbed her clit. 'These tits are perfection. Rajesh doesn't deserve them.'
Anjali threaded fingers in his hair, demure whispers turning lewd. 'Suck harder, thammudu. Make me yours.' He switched nipples, biting gently, then trailed down her belly, tongue dipping into her navel before spreading her thighs. Her pinkish pussy lips parted, clit swollen. He licked flat-tongued from asshole to clit, savoring her musky taste.
'Oh god, yes!' She bucked, holding his head. His tongue plunged inside, fucking her hole while fingers pinched her clit. Anjali's arrogance vanished here; she was his, pliant and eager.
He rose, freeing his cock—thick, veined, precum beading. 'Ride me, akkayya. Show me how independent you are.' She mounted him, pussy swallowing his length inch by inch, walls gripping tight. Her tits bounced as she rode, hands guiding his to squeeze them. 'Harder, fuckboy. Milk my big tits.'
Vinay thrust up, balls slapping her ass, groaning. 'Fuck, your pussy's so tight. Rajesh's loss—impotent bastard neglecting this body. I love your sexiness, your fire. Dress however you want; it's all for me.'
She leaned down, kissing him deeply, tongue tangling as her hips ground. 'You're my center, thammudu. No one matters but you.' Orgasm built; she came with a scream, pussy spasming, milking his cock until he flooded her with cum, hot ropes painting her walls.
They collapsed, Anjali curled against him, demure and sweet. 'I love pleasing you, emandi. Even if it means fighting Rajesh.'
The pattern repeated daily. Mornings brought quarrels: Anjali in a white shirt over jeans, buttons open to flash her blue bra, cleavage deep and inviting. Rajesh: 'Button up! You're embarrassing me!' Her: 'Embarrassing? You're the embarrassment—can't handle a hot wife.' Vinay interfering: 'Maybe he's right, akkayya,' smirking as she stormed off, her walk mesmerizing the hallway oglers.
Afternoons with Priya showed Anjali's slight arrogance. 'Priya, that top—it's so plain. Try something tighter; though, with your figure...' Priya flushed, attracted yet slighted, her love for Vinay making her compete subtly.
Evenings were Vinay's. One night, after a heated row where Rajesh accused her of infidelity—'You're dressing for other men!'—Anjali fled to Vinay's bed. She wore a sheer shirt, unbuttoned fully, jeans kicked off to reveal lacy panties. 'He thinks I'm a whore, thammudu.'
Vinay pulled her close, hands roaming. 'He's wrong. You're a queen. Let me worship you.' He stripped her shirt, bra next, burying his face in her cleavage, licking the milky skin between her tits. 'These are made for sucking.' His mouth captured a nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing as she moaned.
'Yes, thammudu... Rajesh never does this.' She pushed him back, unzipping his pants, taking his cock in hand. Stroking firmly, she leaned to lick the head, tasting salty precum. 'Your cock's so big, so hard. Not like his limp nothing.'
She sucked him deep, lewd slurps echoing, eyes locked on his in erotic devotion. Bobbing, gagging as she deepthroated, saliva dripping. Vinay groaned, fingers in her hair. 'Fuck, akkayya. Swallow every inch.'
Priya walked in briefly—tension flaring—but Anjali waved her off arrogantly. 'Not now, chelli. This is for him.' Priya retreated, pussy aching with jealousy.
Anjali mounted again, riding reverse, ass cheeks spreading to show his cock pistoning her pussy. 'Watch me fuck you, emandi.' Her hand reached back, fondling his balls. Vinay slapped her ass, thrusting up. 'All the men want this ass. Rajesh is a fool for not cherishing you.'
She came hard, pussy squirting, then turned to suck him clean, swallowing his load with a moan, showing the cum on her tongue before gulping. 'All for you, my true husband.'
Another day, Anjali splurged on a new outfit: red jeans skin-tight, black t-shirt cropped high, gold heels. Rajesh exploded: 'You're wasting my money on trash!' Her retort: 'Trash? It's luxury you can't afford to appreciate. Vinay loves it.' Vinay sided with him publicly: 'Save some cash, akkayya.' But privately, in his bedroom, he fucked her against the wall, jeans around her ankles, cock slamming her pussy.
'God, these jeans make your ass pop,' he grunted, hands gripping her hips. 'Wear them everywhere. Let them stare—I own this body.'
Anjali pushed back, moaning. 'Yes! Rajesh irritates me so much—always comparing to you, he's nothing.' Cum leaked down her thighs as he filled her, her arrogance toward Rajesh fueling her submission to Vinay.
Weeks blurred in this cycle: Tensions with Rajesh escalating—yells about her walk, her spending, her 'flirting' with eyes. 'You're changing because of him!' Rajesh accused. Anjali: 'Him? Yeah speak like that and then see what happens. You're just my obligation—no more.'
With Priya, barbs like: 'You could learn from my style, chelli. Vinay prefers curves like mine.' Priya's tension simmered, her arousal for Anjali mixing with rivalry.
But with Vinay, intimacy deepened. One marathon session: Anjali in lingerie under her posh outfit, stripping slowly. He ate her pussy for an hour, tongue lapping her folds, fingers pumping, until she came thrice, thighs clamped on his head.
Then she blew him, lewd sounds—gurgles, slurps—while fingering his asshole. 'Cum in my mouth, thammudu.' She swallowed, praising his potency against Rajesh's failure.
They fucked in every position: Missionary, her legs over his shoulders, pussy stretched wide; doggy, ass jiggling; spooning, his hand squeezing her tit. Dialogues wove through: 'I love your independence, akkayya. Rajesh never deserved you.' 'You're my soulmate, emandi. I'll dress for you forever.'
In afterglows, she demurely confessed: 'I justify it all—Rajesh was lucky. But you're my everything.' Vinay kissed her forehead, cock stirring again. 'And you're mine.'
The chapter of their lives unfolded in defiance and desire, Anjali's posh transformation a banner of her devotion, tensions weaving tighter around her true husband's cock.
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