15-02-2026, 07:16 PM
In the suffocating, sweat-soaked underbelly of Bengaluru—where Indiranagar's gyms throb like war drums at 5 AM and Koramangala's back alleys reek of desperation and diesel—Yash wasn't just another ripped fuckboy. He was a fucking force of nature, a 25-year-old predator sculpted from iron, rage, and unquenchable hunger.
He attacked the weights before dawn cracked, storming the 24-hour Gold's Gym on MG Road like it owed him blood. Six-foot-two, 98 kilos of veined, granite-hard muscle—shoulders wide enough to block doorways, traps rising like cobra hoods, forearms thick with cords that bulged when he gripped the bar. Every rep was war: deadlifts that made plates clang like gunshots, bench presses that left the bench groaning, veins exploding across his chest and biceps like lightning under bronze skin. He didn't train for aesthetics; he trained to dominate. Shirtless mirror selfies flooded his private stories—sweat dripping from razor-sharp abs, eyes burning with cold fire, captions sharp as switchblades: "Built to break. You next?" Women slid into his DMs with nudes and pleas; he picked the hottest ones, fucked them raw in club bathrooms or his car's backseat, then deleted their numbers mid-orgasm glow. Some begged for seconds—he let a few stay as rotating toys, marking their necks with bites, bruising their thighs, reminding them who owned the night.
But the gym was only his forge. The real empire burned in shadows: underground money lending that bled Bengaluru's underclass and over-ambitious alike. His "office" sat above a sleek Indiranagar vape lounge—black marble walls, dim red LEDs, a single heavy oak desk where debtors came to kneel. No contracts, no mercy: cash handed over in thick bundles, interest starting at 8% monthly and rocketing to 20% the moment a payment stuttered. Defaulters didn't just pay late—they paid in pieces.
One tech founder who burned through Series A begged for 15 lakhs to bridge payroll. Yash lent it with a smile, then watched him miss week one. By week three, the man's prized Porsche vanished from his gated community overnight—repossessed by Yash's silent crew, keys delivered in a bloody envelope with a single line: "Next it's your wife's jewelry. Then her." Another borrower, a desperate uncle-type drowning in medical bills, got the money but couldn't repay. Yash didn't send goons; he sent proof—photos of the man's daughter at college, timestamped, location-tagged. The debt cleared in 48 hours, the man broken forever. Yash kept dossiers: hacked bank statements, leaked nudes from "helpful" phone setups, voice recordings of begging calls. He ruined lives methodically, savoring the snap when pride shattered.
His penthouse overlooking Ulsoor Lake was a black-marble cathedral of conquest—floor-to-ceiling glass framing the city's glittering chaos, private gym with lake views, king-size bed that had seen more bodies than a morgue slab. Late nights he lounged shirtless, scrolling borrower ledgers on triple screens while some club girl from the weekend lay sprawled, cum still leaking, forgotten. Money poured in—crypto-washed, funneled through shell gigs—but the real rush was the power: watching grown men weep, women offer their mouths for extensions, families fracture under his thumb.
Yash wasn't a man anymore. He was hunger incarnate—muscles forged to pin, cock thick with intent, wallet heavy with chains. In Bengaluru's humid, merciless night, he didn't just survive. He devoured. One brutal, calculated thrust at a time.
In the sun-dappled lanes and modest middle-class colonies of Jayanagar, Bengaluru, Manjula was impossible to ignore—a 38-year-old masterpiece of feminine allure, the kind of gorgeous, faithful housewife who turned every mundane errand into a silent spectacle.
Manjula, a stunning 38-year-old faithful housewife, lives a life of quiet devotion while raising her 18-year-old daughter Priya—who is focused on her college studies—and enduring the neglect and drunken unhappiness inflicted by her 55-year-old husband, whose abusive failures have left her body and heart untouched for years.
Her beauty hit like a slow burn: flawless honey-gold skin that seemed to drink in the light, large almond eyes framed by naturally thick lashes and subtle kohl that made her gaze both innocent and devastating, full rose lips that parted in shy smiles, and long, glossy black hair that swayed like midnight silk whenever she moved. But it was her body that stopped traffic—voluptuous in the most sinful way: heavy, perfectly rounded breasts that strained against every blouse she wore, a surprisingly narrow waist, and hips that flared dramatically into thick, plush thighs. Her ass was the real weapon—full, high, heart-shaped, and impossibly firm despite two decades of homemaking; it swayed hypnotically with every step she took, the silk saree clinging and sliding over those generous curves like it was painted on.
When she walked to the local market for vegetables or stepped out to collect the milk packets, heads turned. Auto drivers slowed to a crawl, college boys on bikes nearly crashed staring, middle-aged uncles at tea stalls forgot their conversations mid-sentence, and even women whispered enviously. Construction workers paused their hammering, delivery boys lingered longer than necessary at her gate, and neighbors’ husbands found sudden excuses to step onto balconies or front porches. Crude jokes floated behind her back—“Manjula akka’s ass could start wars”—but she never acknowledged them, eyes downcast, pallu adjusted modestly, the picture of devoted fidelity.
For twenty years she had remained utterly faithful to her husband who is 15yrs older than her—cooking his favorite meals, enduring his drunken rages and neglect in dignified silence, never once entertaining the countless men who openly lusted after her. She turned down advances with polite deflection, ignored the lingering stares in crowded buses, and pretended not to notice the way shopkeepers gave her extra change or free mangoes just to watch her bend to pick up her bags. Her loyalty was ironclad, her sensuality locked away like a treasure no one had touched in years—leaving her ripe, neglected body radiating an almost painful, unspoken hunger beneath the surface of perfect housewife grace.
Manjula was Bengaluru’s most unattainable eye candy: a faithful, gorgeous woman whose swaying ass and lush curves invited endless fantasies, yet whose unwavering devotion made her the ultimate forbidden prize.
Yash's involvement began innocently enough. One rainy evening in February 2026, his phone rang. It was Manjula, her voice trembling. "Yash beta, please help. Ramesh... he's drunk again. He hit me, and we have no money for Priya's college fees. The landlord is threatening to evict us." Yash's heart raced—not just with concern, but with opportunity. He had always fantasized about Manjula, remembering her warm hugs from childhood that now stirred something primal in him.
Without hesitation, Yash drove to their modest apartment in Jayanagar. He found Manjula with a bruised cheek, tears streaming down her face, while Priya huddled in the corner, scared. Ramesh was passed out on the floor, reeking of cheap whiskey. "Aunty, don't worry," Yash said, pulling her into a comforting embrace. His hands lingered on her back, feeling the softness of her blouse. "I'll take care of everything. First, let's get you and Priya out of here for the night."
He booked a hotel room for them and paid off the immediate debts—rent, Priya's fees, and even some groceries. Over the next weeks, Yash's "help" became a lifeline. He transferred money monthly, fixed their leaking roof, and even bought Manjula new clothes. Ramesh, sensing his family's growing dependence on Yash, seethed but was too weak to protest. Yash exploited this, visiting often under the guise of checking in.
Yash escalated his plan with surgical precision, turning a simple "family outing" into the next layer of her unraveling.
One bustling Saturday afternoon in April 2026, he texted Manjula: "Aunty, Priya needs new books for college. Come with me to Gandhi Bazaar—I'll handle everything." He knew she'd obey; the last transfer had been delayed again, and Ramesh's latest bar tab had eaten the emergency cash.
She met him at the Jayanagar entrance to the market, dressed in a fitted maroon saree he'd gifted weeks earlier—the silk hugging her voluptuous curves, pallu dbangd modestly but unable to hide the hypnotic sway of her full, heart-shaped ass as she walked through the humid crowd. The market was chaos incarnate: vendors shouting prices for jasmine garlands and mangoes, autos honking, bodies pressing from every direction in the narrow lanes thick with the scent of flowers, sweat, and street food.
Yash stayed close—too close—his massive 6'2" frame in a tight black t-shirt and joggers cutting through the throng like a blade, one possessive hand occasionally on the small of her back to "guide" her. Each time the crowd surged, he used it: pressing forward so his rock-hard cock—already half-swollen from watching her ass sway—ground deliberately against the plush cleft of her cheeks through their clothes. The first "accidental" dry hump came when a vendor's cart blocked their path; Yash "stumbled" into her from behind, thick length nestling deep between her ass cheeks for a long second, letting her feel every veined inch as he murmured, "Careful, Aunty, it's crowded."
Manjula gasped, cheeks flaming, but the noise swallowed it. She tried to step away; he followed, another "push" from the crowd letting him grind slower this time—hips rolling subtly, the friction hot and insistent against her saree-covered ass. Her breath hitched; shame burned through her as her neglected body betrayed her with a shameful clench, wetness seeping into her panties despite the revulsion twisting her gut.
He didn't stop there.
Later, near a crowded flower stall, he "adjusted" his joggers while standing close behind her—pulling the waistband down just enough under the pretense of fixing a drawstring. For a split second—long enough for her to notice—his massive donkey dick sprang free partially: thick, veined, dark, and impossibly heavy, the fat head glistening before he tucked it back with casual slowness.
Manjula's eyes widened in shock; she turned away quickly, but the image seared into her mind—the sheer size, the brazen display in broad daylight amid the oblivious crowd. Her nipples hardened traitorously against her blouse; thighs pressed together instinctively.
Yash leaned in under the roar of haggling voices, breath hot on her ear: "See what you do to me, Aunty? Every time I look at that swaying ass of yours... it gets like this. Can't help it."
He groped her openly then—palm sliding down to cup one full cheek, squeezing hard under the cover of bodies, fingers digging into soft flesh as if claiming territory. Another "accidental" press of his bulge against her as they moved to the next stall, dry humping in short, grinding thrusts disguised as navigating the crowd.
By the time they left—bags of books for Priya, fresh vegetables, and a new set of gold bangles he'd "insisted" on buying—Manjula was a wreck: saree disheveled, thighs slick, heart pounding with equal parts terror, guilt, and the growing, hated heat he was stoking inside her.
In the car ride back, Yash drove one-handed, the other resting possessively on her thigh, thumb stroking higher inch by inch. His hunger had sharpened to a razor edge—no longer just fantasy, but a raging need to break her completely, to make her beg for the cock she'd glimpsed, to fill that neglected body until she forgot every vow she'd ever made.
The plan was working perfectly—her resistance crumbling one public grope, one flashed inch, one grinding press at a time.
In the quiet hush of midnight, as Ramesh snored beside her, Manjula drifted half-awake and let the forbidden memory surface again: Yash’s thick, veined donkey cock suddenly flashing free, heavy, glistening at the tip, impossibly bigger than anything she’d ever known—followed by every “accidental” grope in crowded markets, his rock-hard length grinding deep between her swaying ass cheeks, palms squeezing her full flesh until she gasped; the recollections flooded her neglected body with heat, nipples hardening, a shameful rush of wetness soaking her panties as she pressed her thighs together, craving the stretch and fullness of that monstrous cock she could still feel throbbing in her palm. Unable to resist, her hand slipped beneath the sheet, fingers finding her slick folds and circling her swollen clit in frantic, guilty strokes until a sharp, trembling orgasm ripped through her—silent tears mixing with release—leaving her spent, sated, and finally sinking into the deepest, most peaceful sleep she’d known in years.
Hope all of you liked the story….
Wait for the next part kindly give review comment and to contact insta:praju69_ email:satansidekick9;
He attacked the weights before dawn cracked, storming the 24-hour Gold's Gym on MG Road like it owed him blood. Six-foot-two, 98 kilos of veined, granite-hard muscle—shoulders wide enough to block doorways, traps rising like cobra hoods, forearms thick with cords that bulged when he gripped the bar. Every rep was war: deadlifts that made plates clang like gunshots, bench presses that left the bench groaning, veins exploding across his chest and biceps like lightning under bronze skin. He didn't train for aesthetics; he trained to dominate. Shirtless mirror selfies flooded his private stories—sweat dripping from razor-sharp abs, eyes burning with cold fire, captions sharp as switchblades: "Built to break. You next?" Women slid into his DMs with nudes and pleas; he picked the hottest ones, fucked them raw in club bathrooms or his car's backseat, then deleted their numbers mid-orgasm glow. Some begged for seconds—he let a few stay as rotating toys, marking their necks with bites, bruising their thighs, reminding them who owned the night.
But the gym was only his forge. The real empire burned in shadows: underground money lending that bled Bengaluru's underclass and over-ambitious alike. His "office" sat above a sleek Indiranagar vape lounge—black marble walls, dim red LEDs, a single heavy oak desk where debtors came to kneel. No contracts, no mercy: cash handed over in thick bundles, interest starting at 8% monthly and rocketing to 20% the moment a payment stuttered. Defaulters didn't just pay late—they paid in pieces.
One tech founder who burned through Series A begged for 15 lakhs to bridge payroll. Yash lent it with a smile, then watched him miss week one. By week three, the man's prized Porsche vanished from his gated community overnight—repossessed by Yash's silent crew, keys delivered in a bloody envelope with a single line: "Next it's your wife's jewelry. Then her." Another borrower, a desperate uncle-type drowning in medical bills, got the money but couldn't repay. Yash didn't send goons; he sent proof—photos of the man's daughter at college, timestamped, location-tagged. The debt cleared in 48 hours, the man broken forever. Yash kept dossiers: hacked bank statements, leaked nudes from "helpful" phone setups, voice recordings of begging calls. He ruined lives methodically, savoring the snap when pride shattered.
His penthouse overlooking Ulsoor Lake was a black-marble cathedral of conquest—floor-to-ceiling glass framing the city's glittering chaos, private gym with lake views, king-size bed that had seen more bodies than a morgue slab. Late nights he lounged shirtless, scrolling borrower ledgers on triple screens while some club girl from the weekend lay sprawled, cum still leaking, forgotten. Money poured in—crypto-washed, funneled through shell gigs—but the real rush was the power: watching grown men weep, women offer their mouths for extensions, families fracture under his thumb.
Yash wasn't a man anymore. He was hunger incarnate—muscles forged to pin, cock thick with intent, wallet heavy with chains. In Bengaluru's humid, merciless night, he didn't just survive. He devoured. One brutal, calculated thrust at a time.
In the sun-dappled lanes and modest middle-class colonies of Jayanagar, Bengaluru, Manjula was impossible to ignore—a 38-year-old masterpiece of feminine allure, the kind of gorgeous, faithful housewife who turned every mundane errand into a silent spectacle.
Manjula, a stunning 38-year-old faithful housewife, lives a life of quiet devotion while raising her 18-year-old daughter Priya—who is focused on her college studies—and enduring the neglect and drunken unhappiness inflicted by her 55-year-old husband, whose abusive failures have left her body and heart untouched for years.
Her beauty hit like a slow burn: flawless honey-gold skin that seemed to drink in the light, large almond eyes framed by naturally thick lashes and subtle kohl that made her gaze both innocent and devastating, full rose lips that parted in shy smiles, and long, glossy black hair that swayed like midnight silk whenever she moved. But it was her body that stopped traffic—voluptuous in the most sinful way: heavy, perfectly rounded breasts that strained against every blouse she wore, a surprisingly narrow waist, and hips that flared dramatically into thick, plush thighs. Her ass was the real weapon—full, high, heart-shaped, and impossibly firm despite two decades of homemaking; it swayed hypnotically with every step she took, the silk saree clinging and sliding over those generous curves like it was painted on.
When she walked to the local market for vegetables or stepped out to collect the milk packets, heads turned. Auto drivers slowed to a crawl, college boys on bikes nearly crashed staring, middle-aged uncles at tea stalls forgot their conversations mid-sentence, and even women whispered enviously. Construction workers paused their hammering, delivery boys lingered longer than necessary at her gate, and neighbors’ husbands found sudden excuses to step onto balconies or front porches. Crude jokes floated behind her back—“Manjula akka’s ass could start wars”—but she never acknowledged them, eyes downcast, pallu adjusted modestly, the picture of devoted fidelity.
For twenty years she had remained utterly faithful to her husband who is 15yrs older than her—cooking his favorite meals, enduring his drunken rages and neglect in dignified silence, never once entertaining the countless men who openly lusted after her. She turned down advances with polite deflection, ignored the lingering stares in crowded buses, and pretended not to notice the way shopkeepers gave her extra change or free mangoes just to watch her bend to pick up her bags. Her loyalty was ironclad, her sensuality locked away like a treasure no one had touched in years—leaving her ripe, neglected body radiating an almost painful, unspoken hunger beneath the surface of perfect housewife grace.
Manjula was Bengaluru’s most unattainable eye candy: a faithful, gorgeous woman whose swaying ass and lush curves invited endless fantasies, yet whose unwavering devotion made her the ultimate forbidden prize.
Yash's involvement began innocently enough. One rainy evening in February 2026, his phone rang. It was Manjula, her voice trembling. "Yash beta, please help. Ramesh... he's drunk again. He hit me, and we have no money for Priya's college fees. The landlord is threatening to evict us." Yash's heart raced—not just with concern, but with opportunity. He had always fantasized about Manjula, remembering her warm hugs from childhood that now stirred something primal in him.
Without hesitation, Yash drove to their modest apartment in Jayanagar. He found Manjula with a bruised cheek, tears streaming down her face, while Priya huddled in the corner, scared. Ramesh was passed out on the floor, reeking of cheap whiskey. "Aunty, don't worry," Yash said, pulling her into a comforting embrace. His hands lingered on her back, feeling the softness of her blouse. "I'll take care of everything. First, let's get you and Priya out of here for the night."
He booked a hotel room for them and paid off the immediate debts—rent, Priya's fees, and even some groceries. Over the next weeks, Yash's "help" became a lifeline. He transferred money monthly, fixed their leaking roof, and even bought Manjula new clothes. Ramesh, sensing his family's growing dependence on Yash, seethed but was too weak to protest. Yash exploited this, visiting often under the guise of checking in.
Yash escalated his plan with surgical precision, turning a simple "family outing" into the next layer of her unraveling.
One bustling Saturday afternoon in April 2026, he texted Manjula: "Aunty, Priya needs new books for college. Come with me to Gandhi Bazaar—I'll handle everything." He knew she'd obey; the last transfer had been delayed again, and Ramesh's latest bar tab had eaten the emergency cash.
She met him at the Jayanagar entrance to the market, dressed in a fitted maroon saree he'd gifted weeks earlier—the silk hugging her voluptuous curves, pallu dbangd modestly but unable to hide the hypnotic sway of her full, heart-shaped ass as she walked through the humid crowd. The market was chaos incarnate: vendors shouting prices for jasmine garlands and mangoes, autos honking, bodies pressing from every direction in the narrow lanes thick with the scent of flowers, sweat, and street food.
Yash stayed close—too close—his massive 6'2" frame in a tight black t-shirt and joggers cutting through the throng like a blade, one possessive hand occasionally on the small of her back to "guide" her. Each time the crowd surged, he used it: pressing forward so his rock-hard cock—already half-swollen from watching her ass sway—ground deliberately against the plush cleft of her cheeks through their clothes. The first "accidental" dry hump came when a vendor's cart blocked their path; Yash "stumbled" into her from behind, thick length nestling deep between her ass cheeks for a long second, letting her feel every veined inch as he murmured, "Careful, Aunty, it's crowded."
Manjula gasped, cheeks flaming, but the noise swallowed it. She tried to step away; he followed, another "push" from the crowd letting him grind slower this time—hips rolling subtly, the friction hot and insistent against her saree-covered ass. Her breath hitched; shame burned through her as her neglected body betrayed her with a shameful clench, wetness seeping into her panties despite the revulsion twisting her gut.
He didn't stop there.
Later, near a crowded flower stall, he "adjusted" his joggers while standing close behind her—pulling the waistband down just enough under the pretense of fixing a drawstring. For a split second—long enough for her to notice—his massive donkey dick sprang free partially: thick, veined, dark, and impossibly heavy, the fat head glistening before he tucked it back with casual slowness.
Manjula's eyes widened in shock; she turned away quickly, but the image seared into her mind—the sheer size, the brazen display in broad daylight amid the oblivious crowd. Her nipples hardened traitorously against her blouse; thighs pressed together instinctively.
Yash leaned in under the roar of haggling voices, breath hot on her ear: "See what you do to me, Aunty? Every time I look at that swaying ass of yours... it gets like this. Can't help it."
He groped her openly then—palm sliding down to cup one full cheek, squeezing hard under the cover of bodies, fingers digging into soft flesh as if claiming territory. Another "accidental" press of his bulge against her as they moved to the next stall, dry humping in short, grinding thrusts disguised as navigating the crowd.
By the time they left—bags of books for Priya, fresh vegetables, and a new set of gold bangles he'd "insisted" on buying—Manjula was a wreck: saree disheveled, thighs slick, heart pounding with equal parts terror, guilt, and the growing, hated heat he was stoking inside her.
In the car ride back, Yash drove one-handed, the other resting possessively on her thigh, thumb stroking higher inch by inch. His hunger had sharpened to a razor edge—no longer just fantasy, but a raging need to break her completely, to make her beg for the cock she'd glimpsed, to fill that neglected body until she forgot every vow she'd ever made.
The plan was working perfectly—her resistance crumbling one public grope, one flashed inch, one grinding press at a time.
In the quiet hush of midnight, as Ramesh snored beside her, Manjula drifted half-awake and let the forbidden memory surface again: Yash’s thick, veined donkey cock suddenly flashing free, heavy, glistening at the tip, impossibly bigger than anything she’d ever known—followed by every “accidental” grope in crowded markets, his rock-hard length grinding deep between her swaying ass cheeks, palms squeezing her full flesh until she gasped; the recollections flooded her neglected body with heat, nipples hardening, a shameful rush of wetness soaking her panties as she pressed her thighs together, craving the stretch and fullness of that monstrous cock she could still feel throbbing in her palm. Unable to resist, her hand slipped beneath the sheet, fingers finding her slick folds and circling her swollen clit in frantic, guilty strokes until a sharp, trembling orgasm ripped through her—silent tears mixing with release—leaving her spent, sated, and finally sinking into the deepest, most peaceful sleep she’d known in years.
Hope all of you liked the story….
Wait for the next part kindly give review comment and to contact insta:praju69_ email:satansidekick9;
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