20-03-2026, 11:21 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-03-2026, 08:17 AM by rockyy15. Edited 3 times in total. Edited 3 times in total.)
Chapter 6: Ambika’s Surrender to Rathore (A Flashback)
Rathore remained seated on top of her, straddling her chest with his full weight. His thick, muscular ass pressed down heavily on her soft stomach, pinning her completely to the mattress. His knees dug into the bed on either side of her ribs, spreading wide so his heavy, low-hanging balls rested warm and close against the underside of her chin.
His cock — still thick and half-hard — hovered just inches from her face, the musky, dirty smell of it filling her nose: raw sweat, sex, the lingering salt of his cum and her own juices.
Ambika lay beneath him, naked, breathing a little heavily, her body still trembling from the intensity. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just stared up at him — face sticky with drying cum, his spit and mangalsutra glistening obscenely between her breasts — while he looked down with lazy, possessive satisfaction, like a man admiring a prized possession he had just finished using.
He reached over to the nightstand for his phone.
Ambika’s eyes flicked up, wide with fresh panic.
“Hand it to me,” he said calmly.
Ambika obeyed without a word. She stretched her arm, sweat glistening in the hollow of her armpit as she passed the phone. Rathore noticed — the damp, intimate perfume of her armpit mixed with jasmine and fear — and his smile deepened.
“Raise both hands,” he ordered.
“Arms up. Pose for me.”Ambika hesitated for half a second.
Then she lifted her arms slowly, palms facing him, exposing the soft, damp hollows of her armpits and the sticky mess on her face and boobs.
Rathore angled the phone.
Click.
The shutter sound was sharp in the quiet room.
Ambika flinched. “No… please…” she whispered, voice faint, barely audible.
She tried to lower her arms.
Rathore’s free hand cracked across her boobs— not full force, but sharp pain enough to make her gasp and freeze.
“Shut up, bitch,” he murmured, looking at the photo.
“Your mangalsutra looks better like this — wearing my cum. Why didn’t I get this idea earlier? Thanks to your stupid bitch friend.
”He opened his gallery, scrolled to one of his hidden albums labeled simply Ambika slut, and then lied next to her, turned the phone toward her so she could see while he scrolled.
The first photo loaded — grainy, taken two months earlier in his private bar cabin.
Both of them sitting close, drinks in hand. Her face flushed, eyes nervous. His hand already resting high on her thigh.
Ambika’s breath caught.
The memory crashed over her like cold water.
Two months ago.They were having dinner — just her, Venkatesan, quiet conversation about his recent project and the problems in it
.The doorbell rang.Venkatesan opened it.Rathore stood there — tall, broad, polite smile. Two men stood silently behind him.
“Hello sir, how are you…”
“Please leave,” Venkatesan said firmly.
“Why sir? I need to talk about the project.
Tell me how much you want.”
Venkatesan’s face hardened and he shouted, “Get out. We have nothing to discuss.”
Rathore’s smile vanished. He was already irritated and lost his temper.He pushed Venkatesan back inside the house while his boys waited outside. His fist moved faster than anyone could react — once into Venkatesan’s jaw, then again. Blood sprayed. A tooth cracked and skittered across the floor.Venkatesan dropped.
Ambika screamed, ran forward, fell to her knees in front of the stranger, clutching his legs.
“Please… please don’t hurt him sir…”Rathore looked down at her — amused, calculating.
Then to Venkatesan: “Approve it, or someone will replace you to approve it.”
When he left, his visiting card fell from his pocket onto the carpet — face down, almost accidentally.
Later that night, after rushing Venkatesan to the hospital, Ambika picked up the card with shaking fingers. She stared at the number.
Next evening she called — to beg him to leave her husband alone.
Rathore picked up. “Who is it?”
"Ambika… Venkatesan’s wife…”
“Oh, that fucker’s wife. Is he okay or dead?”
Ambika cried. “Sir please don’t do anything… I…”
“See, I’m busy now. Come to my bar if you want to talk.”
“Sir please…”“If you want to talk, come there. Don’t waste my time.” He hung up.
They met at his bar in a private cabin exactly at 7 p.m.
Ambika arrived dressed in her own way — modern, confident, not the traditional saree she wore for family events. She had chosen a fitted black sleeveless blouse with a subtle shimmer, deep neckline that showed just enough of her full, firm breasts to catch attention without being vulgar, paired with a high-waisted black pencil skirt that hugged her wide hips and accentuated her rounded, shapely ass. The skirt ended just above the knee, showing off toned legs. Her hair was left loose in soft waves, a pair of small diamond studs in her ears, and light makeup — red lips, kohl-lined eyes, a touch of perfume that smelled expensive and feminine. She looked like a woman who knew she was beautiful, but tonight her confidence felt fragile, like thin glass.
Rathore was already there, sitting relaxed in the corner booth, a half-empty glass of Scotch in front of him. He looked up as she entered, eyes raking over her body slowly — from the swell of her breasts, down to the curve of her hips and ass, then back up to her face. His smile was slow, predatory.
She walked over and sat next to him on the leather seat — close, but not touching.
Before she could speak, he raised a finger to the server in the corner.
“Another Scotch for me,” he said, then looked at Ambika. “And for the lady… same. Neat.”
Ambika’s throat tightened.
Unlike Priya — who never drank and carried herself with quiet, unbreakable dignity — Ambika had always been more social. Younger than Venkatesan by twelve years, she had lived a freer life in college: a boyfriend she loved physically, secret nights, stolen kisses, sex that left her breathless. She had never told Venkatesan. That part of her life ended when she married him — for his position, his wealthy family name, his stability. She blocked her ex, deleted old messages, and became the perfect wife. She loved Venkatesan genuinely later, but a small part of her always wondered how Priya could be so completely devoted to a simple, middle-class man like Ravi — no wealth, no power, yet Priya seemed perfectly content.
Tonight, though, the old thrill flickered back — the one she hated admitting still existed.
She hesitated when the glass arrived.
Rathore noticed.
“Drink,” he said simply. Not a request.
She picked up the glass with slightly shaking fingers.
Because she had to convince him. No other choice.
Because she had seen how powerful he was — the way he had pushed Venkatesan inside, broken his face in seconds, and walked away untouched.
Because the memory of that violence — the raw, terrifying strength of him — gave her a strange, forbidden chill she despised herself for feeling.
She took a sip. Then another. The Scotch burned going down, warming her chest, loosening the knot of fear in her stomach.
They drank more.
His hand slid onto her thigh under the table — large, warm, possessive.
She flinched, shifted her leg away twice.
He didn’t remove his hand. Instead, he squeezed gently — not painful, but firm enough to remind her who was in control.
Ambika’s breath caught.
She felt it — the slow, shameful heat building between her legs. Not just fear anymore. Something darker. His power, his confidence, the way he had overpowered her husband without effort… it stirred something she had buried years ago.
She hated it.
She hated herself for it.
But her body didn’t lie.
Her nipples hardened under the thin blouse. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
Rathore noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned close, breath warm against her ear.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll transfer him. No more hitting. Just convince him. He won’t lose his job. I’ll even help with his promotion.”
Then he added, voice dropping lower:
“Can we go to a private room and drink from there?”
Before they left the cabin, he pulled her close — one arm around her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her ass — and took a selfie.
His face calm, smiling. Hers flushed from alcohol, fear, and something else she refused to name.
That was the first picture in the album.
The memory faded as Rathore’s hand cracked across her ass again — sharp, commanding.
“Bring me a drink, bitch,” he said casually. “Scotch. Neat.”
Ambika flinched, the sting blooming across her already red cheek.
She rose on shaky legs, still completely naked, cum drying on her face and chest.
She poured the drink with trembling hands, carried it back.
Rathore took the glass, sipped slowly, watching her over the rim.
“I have to go,” she said. “He would have reached home. I’ve avoided his call too…"
"it’s okay, let him wait for two hours. Tell him you’re shopping.”
He set the glass aside.
“Now clean me, bitch.”
Ambika knelt again.
She leaned in, lips parting, and began licking him clean — slow, careful strokes along the shaft, sucking gently at the head, tasting the bitter mix of his cum and her own juices.
Rathore leaned back, sipping his drink, completely relaxed.
In front of him, Ambika was cleaning him in a low doggy pose, ass raised slightly, back arched. He casually placed the half-empty drink glass on the curve of her ass.
“Be careful,” he said softly. “It shouldn’t spill.”
Ambika froze for a second, then continued — slower, more seductive, trying to keep her body steady so the glass wouldn’t fall.
Rathore watched, amused.
“See?” he said softly, almost conversational. “All this because of your stupid husband. Just one approval with some cash and he would have been happy. But now his wife is here — sucking another man’s cock while her mangalsutra hangs sticky with my cum.”
He slapped her ass cheek lightly — just enough to make the glass wobble.
“Don’t move. The glass shouldn’t fall.”
He continued, voice low and cruel.
“Is it really worth protecting him? I can see you love my cock now.”
Ambika’s tongue paused for half a second.
She knew he was right.
She had started this for Venkatesan.
But somewhere in the last two months, the reason had shifted.
She was no longer doing it only for her husband.
She was doing it because Rathore’s power, his cruelty, his dominance — terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure.
She couldn’t be satisfied by Venkatesan anymore.
His cock and stamina wasn’t enough.
But she stayed with Rathore for another reason too.
She knew how powerful he was.
She knew only he could help it fix— and of course, he made sure Venkatesan’s transfer went smoothly, that the damage didn’t spread.
But she had another reason for needing him—one she had been waiting for the right moment to reveal.
While sucking his balls gently, cleaning every inch, she looked up at him — strong, muscular, cunning, utterly without conscience.
Rathore noticed her gaze.
He took the glass from her ass.
He pushed her hair up — not gently — with his rough hand, while her tongue still traced the underside of his shaft. She left it with a wet sound.
Rathore finished his drink, set the glass aside.
He brought her face near his and licked her tears, then kissed her roughly.
“Why are you crying?” he asked mockingly.
She hesitated, voice small.
“Why are you like this…”
“Like how?”
“Like this… dominant and cruel… cant you be little soft ?”
He raised both arms above his head, stretching lazily, exposing the hard, defined muscles of his chest and the dark hair under his arms.
Ambika leaned in instinctively, nose brushing his armpit, inhaling the strong, masculine scent — sweat, power, dominance.
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured. “The smell of a real man. Not your weak husband’s soap-and-office stink.”
He lowered one arm, cupped the back of her head, and pushed her face deeper into his armpit.
“Breathe it in, bitch. That’s the smell of power.”
Ambika obeyed.
Her nose pressed fully into the damp, wiry hair. She inhaled deeply — the smell was filthy, overwhelming, intoxicating. Sweat, musk, dominance. Her pussy clenched involuntarily against his stomach. A fresh wave of shame washed over her, but her body responded anyway.
Rathore felt the small tremor in her hips. He chuckled softly, pleased.
“Good girl,” he said, tightening his grip on her hair. “Keep breathing. Let it fill you.”
Ambika’s tongue darted out, licking the salty skin tentatively while her hand slid between his thighs to gently massage his heavy balls.
Rathore closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her face buried there while she continued to stroke his cock slowly with her hand.
“Alright, bitch,” he said softly. “You want my story?” he said, voice low and lazy. Listen.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, in Anna Nagar, the small living room was filled with the gentle glow of oil lamps and the soft, sacred hum of mantras. Priya sat cross-legged in the center of the ladies’ circle, fresh jasmine garland in her braid releasing its clean, sweet fragrance with every small movement.
The air carried the pure, comforting aroma of camphor, sandalwood, and the faint turmeric scent still lingering on her skin from her morning ritual. Everything felt peaceful, blessed. The ladies smiled warmly as they passed the aarti thali, their voices blending in harmonious prayer.
Shoba, one of the older women, leaned closer during a brief pause and whispered with genuine admiration:“Priya, look at this house… always so fresh, so filled with good aroma. You maintain everything so beautifully — the pooja corner, the kitchen, even the air feels calm here. Truly blessed.”
In that exact same moment, across the city, Ambika stayed exactly where she was —face buried deep in Rathore’s armpit — inhaling the raw, heavy musk of his sweat, the overpowering smell of power and dominance. Her tongue traced the salty skin while her hands worked his cock and balls slowly , her own body trembling under the weight of shame and unwanted arousal, waiting to hear how the man who now owned her had become the monster he was.
Two completely different worlds.
Ambika soaked in filth, submission, and the thick, dirty scent of a man who owned her completely.
Priya sat blissful amid the soothing fragrance of jasmine, camphor, and sacred incense, utterly unknowing that soon—very soon—Rathore would come for her. His filthy, sweaty armpit stench might invade her nose instead of this pure, comforting aroma one day.
But unlike Ambika, Priya would not bend so easily, she won't swallow such kind of degradation by sacrificing her loyalty.
Would the legacy of Priya's unbreakable mangalsutra stand firm … or would Rathore’s ruthless cock will crack that iron loyalty into two !!! ?
Rathore remained seated on top of her, straddling her chest with his full weight. His thick, muscular ass pressed down heavily on her soft stomach, pinning her completely to the mattress. His knees dug into the bed on either side of her ribs, spreading wide so his heavy, low-hanging balls rested warm and close against the underside of her chin.
His cock — still thick and half-hard — hovered just inches from her face, the musky, dirty smell of it filling her nose: raw sweat, sex, the lingering salt of his cum and her own juices.
Ambika lay beneath him, naked, breathing a little heavily, her body still trembling from the intensity. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just stared up at him — face sticky with drying cum, his spit and mangalsutra glistening obscenely between her breasts — while he looked down with lazy, possessive satisfaction, like a man admiring a prized possession he had just finished using.
He reached over to the nightstand for his phone.
Ambika’s eyes flicked up, wide with fresh panic.
“Hand it to me,” he said calmly.
Ambika obeyed without a word. She stretched her arm, sweat glistening in the hollow of her armpit as she passed the phone. Rathore noticed — the damp, intimate perfume of her armpit mixed with jasmine and fear — and his smile deepened.
“Raise both hands,” he ordered.
“Arms up. Pose for me.”Ambika hesitated for half a second.
Then she lifted her arms slowly, palms facing him, exposing the soft, damp hollows of her armpits and the sticky mess on her face and boobs.
Rathore angled the phone.
Click.
The shutter sound was sharp in the quiet room.
Ambika flinched. “No… please…” she whispered, voice faint, barely audible.
She tried to lower her arms.
Rathore’s free hand cracked across her boobs— not full force, but sharp pain enough to make her gasp and freeze.
“Shut up, bitch,” he murmured, looking at the photo.
“Your mangalsutra looks better like this — wearing my cum. Why didn’t I get this idea earlier? Thanks to your stupid bitch friend.
”He opened his gallery, scrolled to one of his hidden albums labeled simply Ambika slut, and then lied next to her, turned the phone toward her so she could see while he scrolled.
The first photo loaded — grainy, taken two months earlier in his private bar cabin.
Both of them sitting close, drinks in hand. Her face flushed, eyes nervous. His hand already resting high on her thigh.
Ambika’s breath caught.
The memory crashed over her like cold water.
Two months ago.They were having dinner — just her, Venkatesan, quiet conversation about his recent project and the problems in it
.The doorbell rang.Venkatesan opened it.Rathore stood there — tall, broad, polite smile. Two men stood silently behind him.
“Hello sir, how are you…”
“Please leave,” Venkatesan said firmly.
“Why sir? I need to talk about the project.
Tell me how much you want.”
Venkatesan’s face hardened and he shouted, “Get out. We have nothing to discuss.”
Rathore’s smile vanished. He was already irritated and lost his temper.He pushed Venkatesan back inside the house while his boys waited outside. His fist moved faster than anyone could react — once into Venkatesan’s jaw, then again. Blood sprayed. A tooth cracked and skittered across the floor.Venkatesan dropped.
Ambika screamed, ran forward, fell to her knees in front of the stranger, clutching his legs.
“Please… please don’t hurt him sir…”Rathore looked down at her — amused, calculating.
Then to Venkatesan: “Approve it, or someone will replace you to approve it.”
When he left, his visiting card fell from his pocket onto the carpet — face down, almost accidentally.
Later that night, after rushing Venkatesan to the hospital, Ambika picked up the card with shaking fingers. She stared at the number.
Next evening she called — to beg him to leave her husband alone.
Rathore picked up. “Who is it?”
"Ambika… Venkatesan’s wife…”
“Oh, that fucker’s wife. Is he okay or dead?”
Ambika cried. “Sir please don’t do anything… I…”
“See, I’m busy now. Come to my bar if you want to talk.”
“Sir please…”“If you want to talk, come there. Don’t waste my time.” He hung up.
They met at his bar in a private cabin exactly at 7 p.m.
Ambika arrived dressed in her own way — modern, confident, not the traditional saree she wore for family events. She had chosen a fitted black sleeveless blouse with a subtle shimmer, deep neckline that showed just enough of her full, firm breasts to catch attention without being vulgar, paired with a high-waisted black pencil skirt that hugged her wide hips and accentuated her rounded, shapely ass. The skirt ended just above the knee, showing off toned legs. Her hair was left loose in soft waves, a pair of small diamond studs in her ears, and light makeup — red lips, kohl-lined eyes, a touch of perfume that smelled expensive and feminine. She looked like a woman who knew she was beautiful, but tonight her confidence felt fragile, like thin glass.
Rathore was already there, sitting relaxed in the corner booth, a half-empty glass of Scotch in front of him. He looked up as she entered, eyes raking over her body slowly — from the swell of her breasts, down to the curve of her hips and ass, then back up to her face. His smile was slow, predatory.
She walked over and sat next to him on the leather seat — close, but not touching.
Before she could speak, he raised a finger to the server in the corner.
“Another Scotch for me,” he said, then looked at Ambika. “And for the lady… same. Neat.”
Ambika’s throat tightened.
Unlike Priya — who never drank and carried herself with quiet, unbreakable dignity — Ambika had always been more social. Younger than Venkatesan by twelve years, she had lived a freer life in college: a boyfriend she loved physically, secret nights, stolen kisses, sex that left her breathless. She had never told Venkatesan. That part of her life ended when she married him — for his position, his wealthy family name, his stability. She blocked her ex, deleted old messages, and became the perfect wife. She loved Venkatesan genuinely later, but a small part of her always wondered how Priya could be so completely devoted to a simple, middle-class man like Ravi — no wealth, no power, yet Priya seemed perfectly content.
Tonight, though, the old thrill flickered back — the one she hated admitting still existed.
She hesitated when the glass arrived.
Rathore noticed.
“Drink,” he said simply. Not a request.
She picked up the glass with slightly shaking fingers.
Because she had to convince him. No other choice.
Because she had seen how powerful he was — the way he had pushed Venkatesan inside, broken his face in seconds, and walked away untouched.
Because the memory of that violence — the raw, terrifying strength of him — gave her a strange, forbidden chill she despised herself for feeling.
She took a sip. Then another. The Scotch burned going down, warming her chest, loosening the knot of fear in her stomach.
They drank more.
His hand slid onto her thigh under the table — large, warm, possessive.
She flinched, shifted her leg away twice.
He didn’t remove his hand. Instead, he squeezed gently — not painful, but firm enough to remind her who was in control.
Ambika’s breath caught.
She felt it — the slow, shameful heat building between her legs. Not just fear anymore. Something darker. His power, his confidence, the way he had overpowered her husband without effort… it stirred something she had buried years ago.
She hated it.
She hated herself for it.
But her body didn’t lie.
Her nipples hardened under the thin blouse. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
Rathore noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned close, breath warm against her ear.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll transfer him. No more hitting. Just convince him. He won’t lose his job. I’ll even help with his promotion.”
Then he added, voice dropping lower:
“Can we go to a private room and drink from there?”
Before they left the cabin, he pulled her close — one arm around her waist, fingers splaying over the curve of her ass — and took a selfie.
His face calm, smiling. Hers flushed from alcohol, fear, and something else she refused to name.
That was the first picture in the album.
The memory faded as Rathore’s hand cracked across her ass again — sharp, commanding.
“Bring me a drink, bitch,” he said casually. “Scotch. Neat.”
Ambika flinched, the sting blooming across her already red cheek.
She rose on shaky legs, still completely naked, cum drying on her face and chest.
She poured the drink with trembling hands, carried it back.
Rathore took the glass, sipped slowly, watching her over the rim.
“I have to go,” she said. “He would have reached home. I’ve avoided his call too…"
"it’s okay, let him wait for two hours. Tell him you’re shopping.”
He set the glass aside.
“Now clean me, bitch.”
Ambika knelt again.
She leaned in, lips parting, and began licking him clean — slow, careful strokes along the shaft, sucking gently at the head, tasting the bitter mix of his cum and her own juices.
Rathore leaned back, sipping his drink, completely relaxed.
In front of him, Ambika was cleaning him in a low doggy pose, ass raised slightly, back arched. He casually placed the half-empty drink glass on the curve of her ass.
“Be careful,” he said softly. “It shouldn’t spill.”
Ambika froze for a second, then continued — slower, more seductive, trying to keep her body steady so the glass wouldn’t fall.
Rathore watched, amused.
“See?” he said softly, almost conversational. “All this because of your stupid husband. Just one approval with some cash and he would have been happy. But now his wife is here — sucking another man’s cock while her mangalsutra hangs sticky with my cum.”
He slapped her ass cheek lightly — just enough to make the glass wobble.
“Don’t move. The glass shouldn’t fall.”
He continued, voice low and cruel.
“Is it really worth protecting him? I can see you love my cock now.”
Ambika’s tongue paused for half a second.
She knew he was right.
She had started this for Venkatesan.
But somewhere in the last two months, the reason had shifted.
She was no longer doing it only for her husband.
She was doing it because Rathore’s power, his cruelty, his dominance — terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure.
She couldn’t be satisfied by Venkatesan anymore.
His cock and stamina wasn’t enough.
But she stayed with Rathore for another reason too.
She knew how powerful he was.
She knew only he could help it fix— and of course, he made sure Venkatesan’s transfer went smoothly, that the damage didn’t spread.
But she had another reason for needing him—one she had been waiting for the right moment to reveal.
While sucking his balls gently, cleaning every inch, she looked up at him — strong, muscular, cunning, utterly without conscience.
Rathore noticed her gaze.
He took the glass from her ass.
He pushed her hair up — not gently — with his rough hand, while her tongue still traced the underside of his shaft. She left it with a wet sound.
Rathore finished his drink, set the glass aside.
He brought her face near his and licked her tears, then kissed her roughly.
“Why are you crying?” he asked mockingly.
She hesitated, voice small.
“Why are you like this…”
“Like how?”
“Like this… dominant and cruel… cant you be little soft ?”
He raised both arms above his head, stretching lazily, exposing the hard, defined muscles of his chest and the dark hair under his arms.
Ambika leaned in instinctively, nose brushing his armpit, inhaling the strong, masculine scent — sweat, power, dominance.
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured. “The smell of a real man. Not your weak husband’s soap-and-office stink.”
He lowered one arm, cupped the back of her head, and pushed her face deeper into his armpit.
“Breathe it in, bitch. That’s the smell of power.”
Ambika obeyed.
Her nose pressed fully into the damp, wiry hair. She inhaled deeply — the smell was filthy, overwhelming, intoxicating. Sweat, musk, dominance. Her pussy clenched involuntarily against his stomach. A fresh wave of shame washed over her, but her body responded anyway.
Rathore felt the small tremor in her hips. He chuckled softly, pleased.
“Good girl,” he said, tightening his grip on her hair. “Keep breathing. Let it fill you.”
Ambika’s tongue darted out, licking the salty skin tentatively while her hand slid between his thighs to gently massage his heavy balls.
Rathore closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her face buried there while she continued to stroke his cock slowly with her hand.
“Alright, bitch,” he said softly. “You want my story?” he said, voice low and lazy. Listen.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile, in Anna Nagar, the small living room was filled with the gentle glow of oil lamps and the soft, sacred hum of mantras. Priya sat cross-legged in the center of the ladies’ circle, fresh jasmine garland in her braid releasing its clean, sweet fragrance with every small movement.
The air carried the pure, comforting aroma of camphor, sandalwood, and the faint turmeric scent still lingering on her skin from her morning ritual. Everything felt peaceful, blessed. The ladies smiled warmly as they passed the aarti thali, their voices blending in harmonious prayer.
Shoba, one of the older women, leaned closer during a brief pause and whispered with genuine admiration:“Priya, look at this house… always so fresh, so filled with good aroma. You maintain everything so beautifully — the pooja corner, the kitchen, even the air feels calm here. Truly blessed.”
In that exact same moment, across the city, Ambika stayed exactly where she was —face buried deep in Rathore’s armpit — inhaling the raw, heavy musk of his sweat, the overpowering smell of power and dominance. Her tongue traced the salty skin while her hands worked his cock and balls slowly , her own body trembling under the weight of shame and unwanted arousal, waiting to hear how the man who now owned her had become the monster he was.
Two completely different worlds.
Ambika soaked in filth, submission, and the thick, dirty scent of a man who owned her completely.
Priya sat blissful amid the soothing fragrance of jasmine, camphor, and sacred incense, utterly unknowing that soon—very soon—Rathore would come for her. His filthy, sweaty armpit stench might invade her nose instead of this pure, comforting aroma one day.
But unlike Ambika, Priya would not bend so easily, she won't swallow such kind of degradation by sacrificing her loyalty.
Would the legacy of Priya's unbreakable mangalsutra stand firm … or would Rathore’s ruthless cock will crack that iron loyalty into two !!! ?
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