04-02-2026, 09:57 PM
Beedaa’s gaze dropped lower as he held Divya pinned gently against the tiled wall — his thick fingers still buried inside her, thumb circling her swollen clit in slow, relentless strokes.
Her black bra had been pushed down under her breasts, the cups bunched beneath the soft, heavy swells. Her full breasts were fully exposed now: fair skin flushed pink with arousal, dark nipples erect and glistening from where he’d sucked them moments earlier.
His eyes lingered there — drinking in the sight of her mangalsutra resting between the deep valley of her cleavage. The gold chain and black beads gleamed against her sweat-slicked skin, rising and falling with every ragged breath she took.
The sacred symbol of her marriage to Ranjith — dangling there like a silent accusation while another man’s rough hands claimed what it was meant to protect.
Beedaa’s cock twitched hard against her thigh at the contrast. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear as he growled softly:
“Bahut sundar hain… yeh dono… aur yeh mangalsutra… saab ki nishani.”
Divya’s eyes fluttered open — glassy, dazed with lust and fear. She looked down between their bodies: his thick, veined cock pressed hot against her belly, dark and throbbing, the head leaking steadily now.
Then back to his face.
Her voice came out small, trembling, laced with genuine fear and unwilling fascination:
“Aapka… bahut bada hai…”
The words slipped out before she could stop them — half whisper, half confession.
Fear because it was bigger than Ranjith’s, thicker, more intimidating. Fear because saying it out loud made the reality sharper.
Fear because part of her body clenched around his fingers at the thought of it stretching her.
Beedaa let out a low, satisfied rumble — almost a chuckle — and pressed his forehead to hers.
“Dar mat, bhabhi… dheere se lunga… jab tu khud maangegi.”
His fingers curled inside her again, hitting that spot that made her hips jerk forward involuntarily. Another soft moan escaped her lips — “Ahh… Beedaa ji…”
But then — from the front of the house — the unmistakable sound of a bike engine cutting off. Footsteps on the porch. The latch of the front door turning.
Ranjith.
Beedaa didn’t flinch. He just stilled his hand — fingers still deep inside her — and tilted his head toward the half-open bathroom door.
In the hall: Ranjith stepped inside, cake box in one hand, helmet tucked under his arm. He called out cheerfully:
“Divya! Main aa gaya! Cake le aaya — extra cream wala!”
Ranjith’s phone rang — shrill, insistent.
He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, answered on speaker without thinking.
“Sir? Haan boliye.”
A tense voice from the other end — one of his gards:
“Sir, yahan ek theft ho gaya hai. Market ke paas jewelry shop mein. Chor abhi bhaaga hai. Aapko aana padega jaldi.”
Ranjith’s face changed instantly — birthday cheer gone, replaced by the hard lines of duty.
“Theek hai. Main abhi aa raha hoon. Location bhej do. Team ready rakhna.”
Divya — still pressed naked against the wall, Beedaa’s fingers buried inside her, breasts heaving, mangalsutra swaying —
Her black bra had been pushed down under her breasts, the cups bunched beneath the soft, heavy swells. Her full breasts were fully exposed now: fair skin flushed pink with arousal, dark nipples erect and glistening from where he’d sucked them moments earlier.
His eyes lingered there — drinking in the sight of her mangalsutra resting between the deep valley of her cleavage. The gold chain and black beads gleamed against her sweat-slicked skin, rising and falling with every ragged breath she took.
The sacred symbol of her marriage to Ranjith — dangling there like a silent accusation while another man’s rough hands claimed what it was meant to protect.
Beedaa’s cock twitched hard against her thigh at the contrast. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear as he growled softly:
“Bahut sundar hain… yeh dono… aur yeh mangalsutra… saab ki nishani.”
Divya’s eyes fluttered open — glassy, dazed with lust and fear. She looked down between their bodies: his thick, veined cock pressed hot against her belly, dark and throbbing, the head leaking steadily now.
Then back to his face.
Her voice came out small, trembling, laced with genuine fear and unwilling fascination:
“Aapka… bahut bada hai…”
The words slipped out before she could stop them — half whisper, half confession.
Fear because it was bigger than Ranjith’s, thicker, more intimidating. Fear because saying it out loud made the reality sharper.
Fear because part of her body clenched around his fingers at the thought of it stretching her.
Beedaa let out a low, satisfied rumble — almost a chuckle — and pressed his forehead to hers.
“Dar mat, bhabhi… dheere se lunga… jab tu khud maangegi.”
His fingers curled inside her again, hitting that spot that made her hips jerk forward involuntarily. Another soft moan escaped her lips — “Ahh… Beedaa ji…”
But then — from the front of the house — the unmistakable sound of a bike engine cutting off. Footsteps on the porch. The latch of the front door turning.
Ranjith.
Beedaa didn’t flinch. He just stilled his hand — fingers still deep inside her — and tilted his head toward the half-open bathroom door.
In the hall: Ranjith stepped inside, cake box in one hand, helmet tucked under his arm. He called out cheerfully:
“Divya! Main aa gaya! Cake le aaya — extra cream wala!”
Ranjith’s phone rang — shrill, insistent.
He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, answered on speaker without thinking.
“Sir? Haan boliye.”
A tense voice from the other end — one of his gards:
“Sir, yahan ek theft ho gaya hai. Market ke paas jewelry shop mein. Chor abhi bhaaga hai. Aapko aana padega jaldi.”
Ranjith’s face changed instantly — birthday cheer gone, replaced by the hard lines of duty.
“Theek hai. Main abhi aa raha hoon. Location bhej do. Team ready rakhna.”
Divya — still pressed naked against the wall, Beedaa’s fingers buried inside her, breasts heaving, mangalsutra swaying —
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