03-12-2025, 06:32 AM
The first ray of dawn slipped through the gap in the curtains like a voyeur and landed directly on Paromita’s sweat-sheened skin.
She was still impaled.
Rahul lay flat on his back beneath her, chest heaving, cock buried so deep in her pussy that every breath he took nudged the head against her cervix. Samir knelt behind her, thighs spread wide over Rahul’s, his thicker, heavier shaft lodged to the absolute root in her ass. The stretch was obscene; she could feel them rubbing against each other through the thin, fluttering wall inside her, could feel the slick drag of their combined precum and her own endless wetness every time she flexed.
Her mangalsutra (the last symbol of the respectable Mrs Sahil Chatterjee) swung in slow, hypnotic arcs between her breasts, the black beads and gold pendant kissing the dried cum that already striped her chest like war paint. Her nipples were dark, swollen, almost purple from hours of pinching, sucking, and slapping. Her thighs trembled violently; the muscles in her calves and lower back had long since turned to liquid fire.
Paromita’s head was thrown back, throat exposed, mouth open in a silent scream that had no voice left. Her hair (once neatly pleated the night before) now clung to her shoulders and back in wet black ropes. She looked exactly like what she had become: a woman thoroughly, gloriously, irreversibly ruined.
Inside her, two cocks pulsed weakly, trapped by the rhythmic clench of her tenth (or eleventh, she had stopped counting) orgasm. The room reeked of sex so thick it coated the tongue: latex, cum, pussy, sweat, the faint metallic trace of blood where Samir’s girth had scbangd her raw.
Rahul’s voice cracked beneath her, half plea, half prayer. “Boudi… please… I can’t… I have nothing left…”
Samir’s laugh was a low, filthy rumble against the nape of her neck. “She decides when you’re empty, boy. Not you.”
Paromita lowered her chin slowly, as if her neck weighed a thousand kilos. Her eyes (black, glassy, utterly feral) found Rahul’s first, then flicked to Samir in the mirror across the room. She saw herself: thighs spread impossibly wide, both holes stuffed and leaking, breasts heaving, mangalsutra swinging like a pendulum counting down the last seconds of her old life.
She smiled. It was not a gentle smile.
“No,” she rasped, voice shredded from screaming both their names into pillows and palms. “Not empty. One more. I want both of you to flood me again. Raw. I want to feel it drip out of me while I stand at the stove frying luchis for the maid. I want to smell you on my skin all day.”
Rahul’s hips jerked helplessly at the words, driving himself a fraction deeper. A broken sob tore out of him.
Samir’s hands tightened on her waist (ten fingerprints that would bloom into bruises by evening). “You want us to breed you, Paromita Chatterjee?” he growled, using her married name like a slap. “You want your dewar’s cum mixing with a stranger’s inside that married cunt while your husband wires money from Dubai?”
“Yes,” she hissed, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle that dragged both cocks against every nerve ending she owned. “Say it louder.”
Samir obliged, voice booming in the quiet room. “Rahul, your bhabhi wants her womb painted white by two men who aren’t her husband. Give it to her.”
Rahul’s answer was a desperate, animal sound. His hands flew to her hips, nails digging in, and he began to thrust up into her with short, frantic jerks (no rhythm, just raw need).
Paromita leaned forward, braced her palms on Rahul’s chest, and took control. She lifted until only the heads of both cocks remained inside her, paused, let them feel the sudden emptiness, then slammed herself down so hard the bedframe cracked against the wall.
Both men shouted.
She set a merciless pace (up slow, down brutal). Each descent forced a wet, obscene sound from her body (pussy and ass squelching, cum from earlier orgasms forced out around their shafts in thick, creamy rings that coated their balls and dripped onto the already ruined sheet).
“Look at me,” she commanded again.
Rahul’s eyes were wet, pupils blown wide. Samir’s were black fire.
“Look at what you’ve done to me,” she said, voice shaking with effort and triumph. “Look at your boudi turned into a cock-hungry slut because her little dewar couldn’t keep his dick out of porn.”
She reached back without looking, found Samir’s thigh, dug her nails in. “And you (stranger I paid to touch me once) you turned me into this. Say thank you.”
“Thank you, Paromita,” Samir growled, snapping his hips so hard her breasts bounced painfully. “Thank you for the tightest, greediest holes I’ve ever wrecked.”
Rahul’s sob was pure devotion. “Thank you, Boudi… thank you for letting me inside you… thank you for letting him inside you while I watch…”
The words broke something open in her. Paromita’s rhythm faltered, then turned savage. She rode them like punishment and prayer, thighs burning, breath sawing in and out of her lungs. The mangalsutra slapped against her chest with every downward thrust, the gold pendant leaving tiny red marks on her breastbone.
“Together,” she gasped. “I want it at the same time. Fill me until I overflow.”
Rahul lasted four more strokes. On the fifth he arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream, cock jerking wildly as he pumped what little he had left straight into her womb. The heat of it (thin, desperate, endless) triggered Samir. He roared, buried himself so deep she felt him in her throat, and exploded (thick, heavy pulses flooding her ass in long, obscene ropes).
Paromita came with them, a violent, full-body seizure that tore a raw, guttural scream from her throat. Her vision whited out; for several seconds she was nothing but pulsing, clenching flesh, milking both cocks dry.
When awareness returned, she was trembling, collapsed forward onto Rahul’s chest, Samir still lodged in her ass, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted herself. The withdrawal was slow, filthy, deliberate. First Samir’s thick shaft slipped free with a wet pop, followed by a gush of cum that poured out of her gaping asshole and ran down to mix with what was already leaking from her pussy. Then Rahul’s softer cock slid out, and another flood followed, thick and creamy, coating her thighs, dripping in slow rivulets onto Rahul’s stomach.
She knelt between them, legs spread wide, and looked down at the mess.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
Then she reached for Rahul’s phone (still propped against the pillow, red light blinking), and turned the camera toward herself.
“Smile, boys,” she said, voice husky and ruined. “Memory for cold nights.”
Rahul whimpered. Samir just grinned, utterly unbothered.
Paromita hit record.
For the next twelve minutes the phone captured everything in merciless high definition:
- Paromita scooping cum from her pussy and ass with two fingers, painting it across her breasts like lotion, rubbing it into her nipples until they gleamed.
- Rahul, on his knees, licking his own spend from the inside of her thigh while tears ran down his face.
- Samir, behind her, spreading her cheeks wide for the camera and pushing two fingers into her still-gaping asshole, pulling out a thick strand of his own cum and feeding it to her open mouth.
- Paromita sucking those fingers clean, eyes locked on the lens, mangalsutra swinging with every swallow.
- Both men taking turns lapping at her holes until she was spotless (tongues delving deep, coming away shining, swallowing audibly for the microphone).
- Paromita’s final, shattered orgasm when Rahul’s tongue found her clit while Samir tongue-fucked her ass, her scream echoing off the walls as she squirted (actually squirted) across Rahul’s face and chest.
When it was over she stopped the recording, saved it under the filename “Mrs. Chatterjee – First Night Raw”, locked the phone, and tossed it onto the bedside table.
Samir was already moving, muscles gleaming as he stood. “Shower,” he said. “I smell like a brothel.”
Paromita rose on shaky legs, cum still sliding down the backs of her thighs in slow, obscene trails. She looked at Rahul (still kneeling, face dripping with her release) and crooked a finger.
“Both of you. Now.”
The bathroom was tiny, the shower smaller. They squeezed in anyway (three bodies slick with sweat, cum, and the remnants of ruined innocence).
Hot water cascaded over them. Paromita stood between them like a queen between two conquered kingdoms.
Rahul washed her hair with shaking hands, fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp while whispering “sorry” and “thank you” and “I love you” in the same breath. Samir soaped her breasts with deliberate slowness, thumbs circling her nipples until they stood painfully hard again, then sliding lower to wash between her legs with the same clinical thoroughness he used on clients (except this time his fingers lingered, slipping inside her, curling, making her knees buckle).
She returned the favor with devastating care.
First Rahul: she lathered his chest, traced every rib, then sank to her knees under the spray and took his soft, spent cock into her mouth (not to arouse, but to clean). She sucked gently, tongue swirling, tasting herself and Samir and him, until he was trembling and crying again.
Then Samir: she stood, pressed her cum-slick breasts against his chest, and washed his cock with both hands (slow, worshipful strokes from root to tip, thumb rubbing the sensitive underside until he was half-hard again despite everything). She looked up at him through wet lashes.
“Next time,” she said, “you come inside my pussy too. I want to compare loads.”
Samir’s laugh was dark. “Next time I bring a friend. You’ll need more than two cocks to satisfy you now.”
Rahul made a broken sound behind her.
Paromita just smiled.
They stayed under the water until it began to cool, until skin pruned and the mirror was a solid wall of steam. When they stepped out, Paromita wrapped a towel around herself for exactly four seconds (long enough to watch both men’s eyes track the movement like starving dogs), then let it fall.
“I’m not covering this body again until the maid rings the bell,” she declared. “I want to feel the air on every bruise, every bite, every place you marked me.”
Samir dressed slowly (black shirt clinging to wet skin, jeans zipped over a cock that still looked dangerous). Before he left he cupped her face with both hands, kissed her deep and filthy, tongue fucking her mouth while Rahul watched from the doorway, fists clenched.
“You,” Samir said against her lips, “are the best client I’ve ever had. And the most expensive one I’ll never charge full price for again.”
He slipped his private card into her hand (thick cream stock, only a number and the words “Full Body Relief – 24/7”), then turned to Rahul.
“Take care of her, boy. Women like this come once in a lifetime.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Rahul stood naked in the middle of the wrecked bedroom, eyes red, cock soft and bruised, chest heaving. He looked eighteen going on a hundred.
“Boudi…” His voice cracked like thin ice. “What have we done?”
Paromita walked to him slowly, hips rolling, breasts swaying heavily, mangalsutra catching the light. Cum still glistened on the insides of her thighs; fresh droplets formed and fell with every step.
She cupped his face, kissed him soft and slow, tasting herself and Samir and dawn on his tongue.
“We didn’t do anything, baby,” she whispered. “I did. I chose this. And I’m choosing it again tonight. And tomorrow. And every day until your brother comes home and I have to pretend to be his good little wife again.”
Rahul’s knees buckled. He sank to the floor in front of her, arms wrapping around her thighs, face pressed to her belly just above the mangalsutra.
“I’m scared,” he whispered against her skin. “And I’ve never been happier.”
Paromita threaded fingers through his wet hair, held him there.
“Good,” she said. “Fear keeps you hard. Happiness keeps you obedient.”
She glanced at the clock (6:27 a.m.).
“Shower again,” she decided. “Alone this time. I need to wash the evidence out of my hair before Leela comes. You (go make coffee). Then you sit at the dining table and open your Physics book. When I come out wearing nothing but this mangalsutra and an apron, you will not speak until I allow it.”
Rahul nodded against her belly, lips brushing the gold pendant.
Paromita stepped away, walked to the bathroom, paused in the doorway.
“One more thing,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “Tonight, when the maid leaves and the city goes quiet, you will tie me to this bed with my old sarees. You will edge me for three hours and not let me come until I’m begging in Bengali. Then you will call Samir and put him on speaker while you fuck my ass and he tells you exactly how to make me scream.”
Rahul’s cock twitched, already trying to rise again.
Paromita smiled (slow, filthy, radiant).
“The walk of shame is for women who regret what they did,” she said. “I’m not walking anywhere. I’m strutting.”
She disappeared into the bathroom. The shower started again.
Rahul stood alone in the wreckage of sheets and condoms and innocence, looked at the phone still blinking on the pillow, and smiled for the first time since the night began (small, terrified, utterly devoted).
Outside, Kolkata woke up.
Inside Flat 4B, Park Circus, Mrs Paromita Chatterjee began the first day of the rest of her new life.
And the mangalsutra (soaked, stretched, cum-stained) swung gently between her bare breasts like a medal she had finally earned.
She was still impaled.
Rahul lay flat on his back beneath her, chest heaving, cock buried so deep in her pussy that every breath he took nudged the head against her cervix. Samir knelt behind her, thighs spread wide over Rahul’s, his thicker, heavier shaft lodged to the absolute root in her ass. The stretch was obscene; she could feel them rubbing against each other through the thin, fluttering wall inside her, could feel the slick drag of their combined precum and her own endless wetness every time she flexed.
Her mangalsutra (the last symbol of the respectable Mrs Sahil Chatterjee) swung in slow, hypnotic arcs between her breasts, the black beads and gold pendant kissing the dried cum that already striped her chest like war paint. Her nipples were dark, swollen, almost purple from hours of pinching, sucking, and slapping. Her thighs trembled violently; the muscles in her calves and lower back had long since turned to liquid fire.
Paromita’s head was thrown back, throat exposed, mouth open in a silent scream that had no voice left. Her hair (once neatly pleated the night before) now clung to her shoulders and back in wet black ropes. She looked exactly like what she had become: a woman thoroughly, gloriously, irreversibly ruined.
Inside her, two cocks pulsed weakly, trapped by the rhythmic clench of her tenth (or eleventh, she had stopped counting) orgasm. The room reeked of sex so thick it coated the tongue: latex, cum, pussy, sweat, the faint metallic trace of blood where Samir’s girth had scbangd her raw.
Rahul’s voice cracked beneath her, half plea, half prayer. “Boudi… please… I can’t… I have nothing left…”
Samir’s laugh was a low, filthy rumble against the nape of her neck. “She decides when you’re empty, boy. Not you.”
Paromita lowered her chin slowly, as if her neck weighed a thousand kilos. Her eyes (black, glassy, utterly feral) found Rahul’s first, then flicked to Samir in the mirror across the room. She saw herself: thighs spread impossibly wide, both holes stuffed and leaking, breasts heaving, mangalsutra swinging like a pendulum counting down the last seconds of her old life.
She smiled. It was not a gentle smile.
“No,” she rasped, voice shredded from screaming both their names into pillows and palms. “Not empty. One more. I want both of you to flood me again. Raw. I want to feel it drip out of me while I stand at the stove frying luchis for the maid. I want to smell you on my skin all day.”
Rahul’s hips jerked helplessly at the words, driving himself a fraction deeper. A broken sob tore out of him.
Samir’s hands tightened on her waist (ten fingerprints that would bloom into bruises by evening). “You want us to breed you, Paromita Chatterjee?” he growled, using her married name like a slap. “You want your dewar’s cum mixing with a stranger’s inside that married cunt while your husband wires money from Dubai?”
“Yes,” she hissed, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle that dragged both cocks against every nerve ending she owned. “Say it louder.”
Samir obliged, voice booming in the quiet room. “Rahul, your bhabhi wants her womb painted white by two men who aren’t her husband. Give it to her.”
Rahul’s answer was a desperate, animal sound. His hands flew to her hips, nails digging in, and he began to thrust up into her with short, frantic jerks (no rhythm, just raw need).
Paromita leaned forward, braced her palms on Rahul’s chest, and took control. She lifted until only the heads of both cocks remained inside her, paused, let them feel the sudden emptiness, then slammed herself down so hard the bedframe cracked against the wall.
Both men shouted.
She set a merciless pace (up slow, down brutal). Each descent forced a wet, obscene sound from her body (pussy and ass squelching, cum from earlier orgasms forced out around their shafts in thick, creamy rings that coated their balls and dripped onto the already ruined sheet).
“Look at me,” she commanded again.
Rahul’s eyes were wet, pupils blown wide. Samir’s were black fire.
“Look at what you’ve done to me,” she said, voice shaking with effort and triumph. “Look at your boudi turned into a cock-hungry slut because her little dewar couldn’t keep his dick out of porn.”
She reached back without looking, found Samir’s thigh, dug her nails in. “And you (stranger I paid to touch me once) you turned me into this. Say thank you.”
“Thank you, Paromita,” Samir growled, snapping his hips so hard her breasts bounced painfully. “Thank you for the tightest, greediest holes I’ve ever wrecked.”
Rahul’s sob was pure devotion. “Thank you, Boudi… thank you for letting me inside you… thank you for letting him inside you while I watch…”
The words broke something open in her. Paromita’s rhythm faltered, then turned savage. She rode them like punishment and prayer, thighs burning, breath sawing in and out of her lungs. The mangalsutra slapped against her chest with every downward thrust, the gold pendant leaving tiny red marks on her breastbone.
“Together,” she gasped. “I want it at the same time. Fill me until I overflow.”
Rahul lasted four more strokes. On the fifth he arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream, cock jerking wildly as he pumped what little he had left straight into her womb. The heat of it (thin, desperate, endless) triggered Samir. He roared, buried himself so deep she felt him in her throat, and exploded (thick, heavy pulses flooding her ass in long, obscene ropes).
Paromita came with them, a violent, full-body seizure that tore a raw, guttural scream from her throat. Her vision whited out; for several seconds she was nothing but pulsing, clenching flesh, milking both cocks dry.
When awareness returned, she was trembling, collapsed forward onto Rahul’s chest, Samir still lodged in her ass, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted herself. The withdrawal was slow, filthy, deliberate. First Samir’s thick shaft slipped free with a wet pop, followed by a gush of cum that poured out of her gaping asshole and ran down to mix with what was already leaking from her pussy. Then Rahul’s softer cock slid out, and another flood followed, thick and creamy, coating her thighs, dripping in slow rivulets onto Rahul’s stomach.
She knelt between them, legs spread wide, and looked down at the mess.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
Then she reached for Rahul’s phone (still propped against the pillow, red light blinking), and turned the camera toward herself.
“Smile, boys,” she said, voice husky and ruined. “Memory for cold nights.”
Rahul whimpered. Samir just grinned, utterly unbothered.
Paromita hit record.
For the next twelve minutes the phone captured everything in merciless high definition:
- Paromita scooping cum from her pussy and ass with two fingers, painting it across her breasts like lotion, rubbing it into her nipples until they gleamed.
- Rahul, on his knees, licking his own spend from the inside of her thigh while tears ran down his face.
- Samir, behind her, spreading her cheeks wide for the camera and pushing two fingers into her still-gaping asshole, pulling out a thick strand of his own cum and feeding it to her open mouth.
- Paromita sucking those fingers clean, eyes locked on the lens, mangalsutra swinging with every swallow.
- Both men taking turns lapping at her holes until she was spotless (tongues delving deep, coming away shining, swallowing audibly for the microphone).
- Paromita’s final, shattered orgasm when Rahul’s tongue found her clit while Samir tongue-fucked her ass, her scream echoing off the walls as she squirted (actually squirted) across Rahul’s face and chest.
When it was over she stopped the recording, saved it under the filename “Mrs. Chatterjee – First Night Raw”, locked the phone, and tossed it onto the bedside table.
Samir was already moving, muscles gleaming as he stood. “Shower,” he said. “I smell like a brothel.”
Paromita rose on shaky legs, cum still sliding down the backs of her thighs in slow, obscene trails. She looked at Rahul (still kneeling, face dripping with her release) and crooked a finger.
“Both of you. Now.”
The bathroom was tiny, the shower smaller. They squeezed in anyway (three bodies slick with sweat, cum, and the remnants of ruined innocence).
Hot water cascaded over them. Paromita stood between them like a queen between two conquered kingdoms.
Rahul washed her hair with shaking hands, fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp while whispering “sorry” and “thank you” and “I love you” in the same breath. Samir soaped her breasts with deliberate slowness, thumbs circling her nipples until they stood painfully hard again, then sliding lower to wash between her legs with the same clinical thoroughness he used on clients (except this time his fingers lingered, slipping inside her, curling, making her knees buckle).
She returned the favor with devastating care.
First Rahul: she lathered his chest, traced every rib, then sank to her knees under the spray and took his soft, spent cock into her mouth (not to arouse, but to clean). She sucked gently, tongue swirling, tasting herself and Samir and him, until he was trembling and crying again.
Then Samir: she stood, pressed her cum-slick breasts against his chest, and washed his cock with both hands (slow, worshipful strokes from root to tip, thumb rubbing the sensitive underside until he was half-hard again despite everything). She looked up at him through wet lashes.
“Next time,” she said, “you come inside my pussy too. I want to compare loads.”
Samir’s laugh was dark. “Next time I bring a friend. You’ll need more than two cocks to satisfy you now.”
Rahul made a broken sound behind her.
Paromita just smiled.
They stayed under the water until it began to cool, until skin pruned and the mirror was a solid wall of steam. When they stepped out, Paromita wrapped a towel around herself for exactly four seconds (long enough to watch both men’s eyes track the movement like starving dogs), then let it fall.
“I’m not covering this body again until the maid rings the bell,” she declared. “I want to feel the air on every bruise, every bite, every place you marked me.”
Samir dressed slowly (black shirt clinging to wet skin, jeans zipped over a cock that still looked dangerous). Before he left he cupped her face with both hands, kissed her deep and filthy, tongue fucking her mouth while Rahul watched from the doorway, fists clenched.
“You,” Samir said against her lips, “are the best client I’ve ever had. And the most expensive one I’ll never charge full price for again.”
He slipped his private card into her hand (thick cream stock, only a number and the words “Full Body Relief – 24/7”), then turned to Rahul.
“Take care of her, boy. Women like this come once in a lifetime.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Rahul stood naked in the middle of the wrecked bedroom, eyes red, cock soft and bruised, chest heaving. He looked eighteen going on a hundred.
“Boudi…” His voice cracked like thin ice. “What have we done?”
Paromita walked to him slowly, hips rolling, breasts swaying heavily, mangalsutra catching the light. Cum still glistened on the insides of her thighs; fresh droplets formed and fell with every step.
She cupped his face, kissed him soft and slow, tasting herself and Samir and dawn on his tongue.
“We didn’t do anything, baby,” she whispered. “I did. I chose this. And I’m choosing it again tonight. And tomorrow. And every day until your brother comes home and I have to pretend to be his good little wife again.”
Rahul’s knees buckled. He sank to the floor in front of her, arms wrapping around her thighs, face pressed to her belly just above the mangalsutra.
“I’m scared,” he whispered against her skin. “And I’ve never been happier.”
Paromita threaded fingers through his wet hair, held him there.
“Good,” she said. “Fear keeps you hard. Happiness keeps you obedient.”
She glanced at the clock (6:27 a.m.).
“Shower again,” she decided. “Alone this time. I need to wash the evidence out of my hair before Leela comes. You (go make coffee). Then you sit at the dining table and open your Physics book. When I come out wearing nothing but this mangalsutra and an apron, you will not speak until I allow it.”
Rahul nodded against her belly, lips brushing the gold pendant.
Paromita stepped away, walked to the bathroom, paused in the doorway.
“One more thing,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “Tonight, when the maid leaves and the city goes quiet, you will tie me to this bed with my old sarees. You will edge me for three hours and not let me come until I’m begging in Bengali. Then you will call Samir and put him on speaker while you fuck my ass and he tells you exactly how to make me scream.”
Rahul’s cock twitched, already trying to rise again.
Paromita smiled (slow, filthy, radiant).
“The walk of shame is for women who regret what they did,” she said. “I’m not walking anywhere. I’m strutting.”
She disappeared into the bathroom. The shower started again.
Rahul stood alone in the wreckage of sheets and condoms and innocence, looked at the phone still blinking on the pillow, and smiled for the first time since the night began (small, terrified, utterly devoted).
Outside, Kolkata woke up.
Inside Flat 4B, Park Circus, Mrs Paromita Chatterjee began the first day of the rest of her new life.
And the mangalsutra (soaked, stretched, cum-stained) swung gently between her bare breasts like a medal she had finally earned.
Komal.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)