Lusty Feminist Wife: Mishti ki masti (Scene 9)

[ashuezy2]

Scene 10: The VIP Safe House

Next day, I had taken sick leave from the office. My body was still aching, my ribs throbbing from where Sangram had kicked me the previous evening, but the pain in my chest was nothing compared to the slow death of my mind.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed in our bedroom. Mishti was getting ready in front of the large mirror. She was wearing a tight, see-through blue tube top and a very short black skirt. She hadn't bothered to wear a bra. I could clearly see the dark, wide outline of her big, swollen nipples pressing hard against the thin blue fabric. They looked raw and sensitive from yesterday's brutal usage.

I kept looking at her. She was humming a song, applying dark red lipstick. I knew either she was going out somewhere, or somebody was coming in. After last night's horror and the warning, I dared not ask her anything. I was just a ghost in this house now.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Mishti smiled at her reflection, sprayed some expensive perfume over her deep cleavage, and walked out of the bedroom, her hips swaying confidently. I got up slowly and stood near the dark hallway, hiding in the shadows to see who it was.

Yash entered the scene. But he wasn't alone. With him was an older, heavy-set man wearing a crisp white kurta-pajama. The man had a thick gold chain around his neck and a massive luxury watch on his wrist. He carried an aura of absolute power and arrogance. He looked exactly like a politician.

Yash was bowing slightly, rubbing his hands together like a cheap servant. "MLA sir," Yash kept saying to him, "anything for you. This is the best girl I have... only for you, Sir."

The politician, Charan Singh, looked around my living room. He inspected the expensive Kashmiri carpet, the flat-screen TV, the beige curtains. He nodded approvingly. "You have a nice place, Yash," he said in a heavy, commanding voice. "Very safe. No media, no hidden cameras in a family society. I like it."

Then Mishti walked into the living room.

She didn't greet him formally. She didn't offer him water. She walked straight up to the politician and sat directly in his lap as he took a seat on my sofa. The politician was surprised but incredibly happy with the welcome he got from Mishti. He wrapped his thick, hairy arms around her slim waist immediately, his hands resting on her amazing ass.

Yash smirked and stepped back. "Sir, this is all yours. Do whatever you feel like. Take your time."

The politician started getting very comfortable with Mishti. Both were smiling. He was squeezing her waist, his thumbs tracing the edge of her see-through top.

"You are getting hard so fast, Sir," Mishti whispered loudly, a shameless, naughty giggle escaping her lips.

Charan Singh let out a dirty, deep laugh. "Come close to me," he commanded, pulling her face towards his. He sticked out his thick, wet tongue, fully expecting Mishti to take it.

I looked at Mishti, waiting for a fraction of hesitation. There was none. She took out her tongue as well, and it swirled around his tongue in the open air before they smashed their lips together. Both took each other in a filthy, wet kiss.

I watched Mishti now turning her body. She got on top of Charan Singh on the sofa, straddling his lap completely. She was grinding her heavy ass into his crotch, kissing him with her tongue completely out, saliva shining on their mouths. Charan Singh's hands went up and grabbed her breasts roughly through the blue tube top. He squeezed them hard, pinching her stiff nipples through the fabric. Mishti moaned into his mouth, not caring that Yash was standing right there, not caring that I was in the hallway.

I just could not watch it anymore. I backed away quietly, went inside the bedroom, and shut the door silently.

I sat back on the bed and put my hands on my head, digging my fingers into my hair. I was thinking again, going crazy in the silence of the room. Why should I not just buy a revolver? The thought echoed in my head, dark and tempting. Just get this over quickly. I should buy a silencer as well. Shoot Yash in the head. Shoot the MLA in his heart. Shoot Mishti. All of them dead in a single day, and I will figure out how to get rid of the bodies later. It was a dangerous, desperate fantasy. Yash had officially transformed my house into a safe house for the elites. My living room was a VIP brothel.

Suddenly, over the muffled sounds of Mishti's moans, I heard the politician shouting to Yash from the living room. "Yash! You promised me two girls. Where is the other one?"

Heavy footsteps approached the hallway. Yash opened my bedroom door and walked right in. He didn't even look at me sitting there holding my head. He pulled out his smartphone and dialed a number.

He called Shweta Bhabhi right in front of me.

"Hello, Shweta?" Yash said into the phone. "Come to the flat immediately. VIP client."

"Coming in ten minutes," Shweta Bhabhi's voice replied cheerfully from the speaker. Yash cut the call, turned around, and walked out of my bedroom.

I was paralyzed. Within ten minutes. She must have been already ready and waiting at her house, right under Amit's nose.

Exactly ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. I heard the door open, followed by Shweta's high-pitched, giggling voice. "Hello, Sir," she cooed.

What followed was thirty minutes of pure, torture. I didn't need to see it; the sounds painted a graphic, horrifying picture in my mind. The passion, the love, the absolute naughtiness of Mishti and Shweta Bhabhi with the politician echoed through the walls of my flat.

I heard the tearing of fabric. I heard the wet, slapping noises of flesh hitting flesh.

"Ah, Shweta, your tits are so massive," Charan Singh groaned loudly, his voice echoing in the hallway. "They are dripping..."

"Suck them, Sir," Shweta Bhabhi moaned, her voice thick with lust. "Drink my milk. All of it."

Then came Mishti's voice, wild and uncontrollable. "Fuck me harder, Sir! Put it deep!"

Through the slight gap under my door, I could hear them completely abandoning all shame. I could hear the wet slurping sounds as they took turns on his hard cock. I heard them kissing each other, my wife and my best friend's wife, their tongues swirling together, sharing the politician's sweat and saliva, giggling as they double-teamed him on my Kashmiri carpet.

The complete act lasted 30 brutal minutes until Charan Singh let out a roaring grunt that shook the walls, followed by the breathless panting of the two women.

I sat there in the dark, my eyes wide open, feeling my soul detach from my body. I was completely dead inside.

After about ten minutes, things quieted down. I heard the heavy footsteps of the politician leaving, Yash escorting him out.

Then, the handle of my bedroom door turned.

The door pushed open slowly. It wasn't Mishti.

It was Shweta Bhabhi.

She came into my room wrapped only in a white cotton bedsheet, my bedsheet, pulled straight from the guest room. She looked entirely used. Her hair was a messy, sweaty nest. Her makeup was ruined, kajal smudged under her big, expressive eyes. The sheet was tucked loosely over her chest, but it was slipping, revealing the deep, sweaty cleavage of her massive, lactating breasts. The dark, wet outline of her hard nipples was pressing against the white cotton.

She closed the door behind her softly. She didn't say a word. She just leaned against the wooden door and watched me silently sitting up on the bed.

I expected her to mock me. I expected her to laugh and call me a coward, a cuckold hiding in the dark.

But as she looked at me, her expression changed. Instead of finding me pathetic, her eyes darkened with a strange, twisted hunger. She looked at my clenched jaw, my blank stare, my absolute introverted silence.

She found it intensely attractive.

A heavy breather, a man who just watches, obeys, and keeps dark secrets... it turned her on. In a world of loud, aggressive men like Yash and Charan Singh, my broken, silent submission was a new kink for her.

Shweta Bhabhi slowly took a step towards me. She let out a soft breath, and as she did, she intentionally let the white sheet drop an inch lower, exposing the upper half of her heavy, milk-swollen left breast, the blue veins pulsing under her warm skin. She bit her lower lip, staring at me not as Amit's friend, but as her new, silent toy.