12-12-2025, 07:35 PM
Sir laughed, slapped my ass cheek over the panties, making it jiggle for the manager, and said, “See how ripe she is? This body is my guarantee. Sanction the loan today and maybe next time I let you touch.”
The manager licked his lips, leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on my pussy over the panties, the panties hugging my pussy mound under his stare. He adjusted his lungi, clearly hard, and stammered, “Of course, sir… full amount… no problem… papers ready by evening.”
Sir kept my saree and petticoat lifted for another full minute, letting both men feast on my panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, letting the clerk see every curve of my pussy lips and ass cheeks under the panties, then slowly lowered the saree back down.
He teased the manager all the way out: “Next time I bring her without panties, eh?” while the manager nodded eagerly and the clerk stood frozen, probably hard in his pants.
In the car on the way home Sir grabbed my boobs over the blouse, squeezed my nipples hard, and laughed, “You saw how easy it was? One flash of your panty-hugging pussy and the loan is yours. Men are dogs, Malini. Use it.”
I sat silent, thighs clenched, pussy still tingling from the humiliation, panties hugging my pussy lips damp with shame, shame and anger burning inside me.
But when the sanction letter came the next day, full amount, low interest, twenty-year repayment, I folded it carefully, slipped it between my boobs next to my mangalsutra, and whispered to Varun that night:
“Forgive amma, baby.
Your building is coming.
Floor by floor, no matter how many men stare at amma’s panties hugging amma’s pussy, no matter how many times amma has to lift her saree.”
Because a mother’s shame is nothing compared to her son’s sky-high future.
I will lift my saree a thousand times if it builds Varun a palace.
The construction started.
Cement mixer roaring, workers shouting, steel rods rising floor by floor on my little plot. Every stage needed money released from the bank, every release needed the manager’s signature, and every signature needed my pussy.
The bank manager and his attender started visiting the site after every moulding was complete.
They came in the afternoon when the sun was hottest, workers sweating, me in a simple daily-wear saree, usually cheap polyester that stuck to my boobs and ass cheeks with sweat, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs as I supervised.
The moment their car stopped, the manager stepped out, looked around at the workers, and ordered in a loud voice, “Take a two-hour break, everyone. Tea and snacks on me.”
Workers happily left, leaving me alone with the two men among half-built walls and piles of bricks.
The manager locked the temporary gate, turned to me with a filthy grin, and said, “Time to pay interest on your loan, Malini.”
He grabbed my saree pallu, pulled it off my shoulder, let it fall to the dusty ground.
Then he unhooked my blouse one by one, exposed my bra, grabbed both boobs over the bra, squeezed hard until my nipples poked against the cups.
His attender watched, already rubbing his cock through his pants.
The manager lifted my petticoat along with the saree, tied them in a knot at my waist, hooked his fingers into my panties, dragged them down my thighs, let them drop around my ankles.
I stepped out naked except for bra and the knotted saree bunch at my waist, pussy exposed, ass cheeks naked in the open air, mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
The manager went first.
He pushed me against a freshly moulded concrete pillar still rough and dusty, grabbed my ass cheeks, spread them wide, rubbed his hard cock between my pussy lips a few times, then slammed inside raw.
He fucked me standing, hands crushing my boobs over the bra, mangalsutra slapping my chest with every thrust, grunting, “This pussy pays better interest than any document.”
I bit my lip, stared at the rising walls, and thought only of Varun living in the finished house.
He pounded until his balls tightened, then roared and shot thick ropes of cum deep into my pussy, filling me until it dripped down my thighs.
He pulled out, wiped his cock on my ass cheek, and stepped aside.
The attender took his turn immediately.
Younger, rougher, he spun me around, bent me over a stack of cement bags, grabbed my boobs hanging under the bra, squeezed my nipples hard, and rammed his cock into my cum-slick pussy from behind.
He fucked faster, slapping my ass cheeks red, pulling my mangalsutra like reins, groaning, “Manager sir said I can use you too… thank you, amma.”
I closed my eyes, felt the second load building, and when he finally exploded inside my pussy, adding his cum to the manager’s, I stayed bent over, dripping from both men onto the construction dust.
They made me stay naked while they smoked, pussy leaking their mixed cum down my legs, boobs still in the bra, mangalsutra sticky with sweat.
Only when they finished their cigarettes did they allow me to pull up my panties (soaked now with cum), lower my saree and petticoat, hook my blouse, and dbang the pallu again.
The manager patted my ass cheek over the saree one last time and said, “Next moulding, same time. Keep the pussy ready.”
They left, and the workers returned none the wiser.
This became routine.
After every floor moulding, the two-hour break, my saree lifted or removed, blouse unhooked, bra pushed up or down, panties dragged off, my pussy and sometimes asshole used one after the other, filled with their cum, then dressed again.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the loan installments that kept the construction going.
But my pussy still got wet every time their car pulled up, knowing what was coming, knowing the building rose higher with every load they shot inside me.
Floor by floor, cum by cum, the house grew.
I touched my mangalsutra at night, felt the dried cum in my panties, and whispered to Varun:
“One day you will live in this palace, baby.
And you will never know how many cocks amma took to build every brick.”
Because a mother’s pussy is the strongest foundation any house can have.
I will spread my ass cheeks and open my pussy lips as many times as it takes to give my son the sky.
One evening after the workers left, I stood on the third-floor slab, dust on my saree, sweat making the blouse stick to my boobs, mangalsutra heavy between them.
My pussy still ached from the manager and attender’s latest visit, cum dried inside my panties, ass cheeks sore from slaps.
I broke.
I went to Sathiyamoorthy Sir that same night, fell at his feet in his living room, saree pallu slipping off my shoulder, boobs almost spilling from the blouse, and cried, “Sir, please… the bank manager and his attender are using me too much. After every moulding they send workers away, remove my saree, blouse, petticoat, bra, panties, and fuck my pussy one after the other. My pussy cannot take it anymore. Please stop them.”
He looked down at me, eyes soft for the first time in years, lifted me by my shoulders, sat me on the sofa, and wiped my tears.
“Enough, Malini. You told me now, it stops today. The loan is already sanctioned. They have no reason to touch you again. From tomorrow no one comes to the site except workers.”
He made one phone call right in front of me.
“Listen, the girl complained. The fun is over. Release the next installments without visiting the site. If I hear you went there again, I will transfer you to a village branch where even dogs won’t piss on you.”
He hung up, pulled me into a hug, grabbed my boobs gently over the blouse for comfort, not lust, and said softly, “No one will touch you for the loan again. Build your house in peace.”
From the next day the construction continued smoothly.
Workers came, poured concrete, tied steel, laid bricks, floor after floor rising without interruption.
No more surprise cars.
No more two-hour “breaks”.
No more lifted saree, removed panties, double cum loads dripping down my thighs in the dust.
The manager released money on time, scared of Sir’s threat.
The attender never showed his face again.
I supervised in peace, saree pallu in place, mangalsutra swinging freely between my boobs, pussy healing, ass cheeks no longer red from slaps.
Every evening I climbed the unfinished stairs, looked at the growing building, touched the fresh concrete still warm from the sun, and whispered to Varun in my heart:
“See, baby?
Amma stopped the dogs.
These walls are rising clean now.
No more cum payment for bricks.
Only amma’s sweat and love.”
The house kept growing taller, stronger, paid for, protected, and finally mine alone to give my son.
Because even a whore mother has a limit,
and when she speaks, real men listen.
My pussy rested,
my building rose, and Varun’s future stood safe at last.
The call came at dawn.
His wife’s voice shook on the phone, “Malini, come quickly. Sathiyamoorthy is on his death bed. He is asking for you. Manoj has not reached from America yet.”
I dropped everything, dbangd my everyday blue saree in a hurry, pallu nakedly pinned, blouse hooked crooked, mangalsutra swinging loose between my boobs, and rushed to their house.
The living room was full of relatives whispering, his wife surrounded by cousins and sisters, crying into her saree pallu.
I walked straight to the bedroom as directed.
He was alone.
The manager licked his lips, leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on my pussy over the panties, the panties hugging my pussy mound under his stare. He adjusted his lungi, clearly hard, and stammered, “Of course, sir… full amount… no problem… papers ready by evening.”
Sir kept my saree and petticoat lifted for another full minute, letting both men feast on my panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, letting the clerk see every curve of my pussy lips and ass cheeks under the panties, then slowly lowered the saree back down.
He teased the manager all the way out: “Next time I bring her without panties, eh?” while the manager nodded eagerly and the clerk stood frozen, probably hard in his pants.
In the car on the way home Sir grabbed my boobs over the blouse, squeezed my nipples hard, and laughed, “You saw how easy it was? One flash of your panty-hugging pussy and the loan is yours. Men are dogs, Malini. Use it.”
I sat silent, thighs clenched, pussy still tingling from the humiliation, panties hugging my pussy lips damp with shame, shame and anger burning inside me.
But when the sanction letter came the next day, full amount, low interest, twenty-year repayment, I folded it carefully, slipped it between my boobs next to my mangalsutra, and whispered to Varun that night:
“Forgive amma, baby.
Your building is coming.
Floor by floor, no matter how many men stare at amma’s panties hugging amma’s pussy, no matter how many times amma has to lift her saree.”
Because a mother’s shame is nothing compared to her son’s sky-high future.
I will lift my saree a thousand times if it builds Varun a palace.
The construction started.
Cement mixer roaring, workers shouting, steel rods rising floor by floor on my little plot. Every stage needed money released from the bank, every release needed the manager’s signature, and every signature needed my pussy.
The bank manager and his attender started visiting the site after every moulding was complete.
They came in the afternoon when the sun was hottest, workers sweating, me in a simple daily-wear saree, usually cheap polyester that stuck to my boobs and ass cheeks with sweat, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs as I supervised.
The moment their car stopped, the manager stepped out, looked around at the workers, and ordered in a loud voice, “Take a two-hour break, everyone. Tea and snacks on me.”
Workers happily left, leaving me alone with the two men among half-built walls and piles of bricks.
The manager locked the temporary gate, turned to me with a filthy grin, and said, “Time to pay interest on your loan, Malini.”
He grabbed my saree pallu, pulled it off my shoulder, let it fall to the dusty ground.
Then he unhooked my blouse one by one, exposed my bra, grabbed both boobs over the bra, squeezed hard until my nipples poked against the cups.
His attender watched, already rubbing his cock through his pants.
The manager lifted my petticoat along with the saree, tied them in a knot at my waist, hooked his fingers into my panties, dragged them down my thighs, let them drop around my ankles.
I stepped out naked except for bra and the knotted saree bunch at my waist, pussy exposed, ass cheeks naked in the open air, mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
The manager went first.
He pushed me against a freshly moulded concrete pillar still rough and dusty, grabbed my ass cheeks, spread them wide, rubbed his hard cock between my pussy lips a few times, then slammed inside raw.
He fucked me standing, hands crushing my boobs over the bra, mangalsutra slapping my chest with every thrust, grunting, “This pussy pays better interest than any document.”
I bit my lip, stared at the rising walls, and thought only of Varun living in the finished house.
He pounded until his balls tightened, then roared and shot thick ropes of cum deep into my pussy, filling me until it dripped down my thighs.
He pulled out, wiped his cock on my ass cheek, and stepped aside.
The attender took his turn immediately.
Younger, rougher, he spun me around, bent me over a stack of cement bags, grabbed my boobs hanging under the bra, squeezed my nipples hard, and rammed his cock into my cum-slick pussy from behind.
He fucked faster, slapping my ass cheeks red, pulling my mangalsutra like reins, groaning, “Manager sir said I can use you too… thank you, amma.”
I closed my eyes, felt the second load building, and when he finally exploded inside my pussy, adding his cum to the manager’s, I stayed bent over, dripping from both men onto the construction dust.
They made me stay naked while they smoked, pussy leaking their mixed cum down my legs, boobs still in the bra, mangalsutra sticky with sweat.
Only when they finished their cigarettes did they allow me to pull up my panties (soaked now with cum), lower my saree and petticoat, hook my blouse, and dbang the pallu again.
The manager patted my ass cheek over the saree one last time and said, “Next moulding, same time. Keep the pussy ready.”
They left, and the workers returned none the wiser.
This became routine.
After every floor moulding, the two-hour break, my saree lifted or removed, blouse unhooked, bra pushed up or down, panties dragged off, my pussy and sometimes asshole used one after the other, filled with their cum, then dressed again.
I never came for pleasure.
I came only for the loan installments that kept the construction going.
But my pussy still got wet every time their car pulled up, knowing what was coming, knowing the building rose higher with every load they shot inside me.
Floor by floor, cum by cum, the house grew.
I touched my mangalsutra at night, felt the dried cum in my panties, and whispered to Varun:
“One day you will live in this palace, baby.
And you will never know how many cocks amma took to build every brick.”
Because a mother’s pussy is the strongest foundation any house can have.
I will spread my ass cheeks and open my pussy lips as many times as it takes to give my son the sky.
One evening after the workers left, I stood on the third-floor slab, dust on my saree, sweat making the blouse stick to my boobs, mangalsutra heavy between them.
My pussy still ached from the manager and attender’s latest visit, cum dried inside my panties, ass cheeks sore from slaps.
I broke.
I went to Sathiyamoorthy Sir that same night, fell at his feet in his living room, saree pallu slipping off my shoulder, boobs almost spilling from the blouse, and cried, “Sir, please… the bank manager and his attender are using me too much. After every moulding they send workers away, remove my saree, blouse, petticoat, bra, panties, and fuck my pussy one after the other. My pussy cannot take it anymore. Please stop them.”
He looked down at me, eyes soft for the first time in years, lifted me by my shoulders, sat me on the sofa, and wiped my tears.
“Enough, Malini. You told me now, it stops today. The loan is already sanctioned. They have no reason to touch you again. From tomorrow no one comes to the site except workers.”
He made one phone call right in front of me.
“Listen, the girl complained. The fun is over. Release the next installments without visiting the site. If I hear you went there again, I will transfer you to a village branch where even dogs won’t piss on you.”
He hung up, pulled me into a hug, grabbed my boobs gently over the blouse for comfort, not lust, and said softly, “No one will touch you for the loan again. Build your house in peace.”
From the next day the construction continued smoothly.
Workers came, poured concrete, tied steel, laid bricks, floor after floor rising without interruption.
No more surprise cars.
No more two-hour “breaks”.
No more lifted saree, removed panties, double cum loads dripping down my thighs in the dust.
The manager released money on time, scared of Sir’s threat.
The attender never showed his face again.
I supervised in peace, saree pallu in place, mangalsutra swinging freely between my boobs, pussy healing, ass cheeks no longer red from slaps.
Every evening I climbed the unfinished stairs, looked at the growing building, touched the fresh concrete still warm from the sun, and whispered to Varun in my heart:
“See, baby?
Amma stopped the dogs.
These walls are rising clean now.
No more cum payment for bricks.
Only amma’s sweat and love.”
The house kept growing taller, stronger, paid for, protected, and finally mine alone to give my son.
Because even a whore mother has a limit,
and when she speaks, real men listen.
My pussy rested,
my building rose, and Varun’s future stood safe at last.
The call came at dawn.
His wife’s voice shook on the phone, “Malini, come quickly. Sathiyamoorthy is on his death bed. He is asking for you. Manoj has not reached from America yet.”
I dropped everything, dbangd my everyday blue saree in a hurry, pallu nakedly pinned, blouse hooked crooked, mangalsutra swinging loose between my boobs, and rushed to their house.
The living room was full of relatives whispering, his wife surrounded by cousins and sisters, crying into her saree pallu.
I walked straight to the bedroom as directed.
He was alone.
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