Adultery Sheeba adventures

[biggun777]

I’m a 27-year-old Punjabi girl from Chandigarh, married to my 29-year-old husband. We were your everyday couple—cozy dinners, lazy Sundays, predictable intimacy—but 2 years ago, I landed in Australia for a receptionist gig at a luxury hotel. The salary was a game-changer, but my husband stayed behind, tangled in passport paperwork nightmares. Two years later, here’s my hidden world: the one where desperation unlocked a starving, shameless side of me.
The Raw Arrival: Survival Mode Kicks In
Touching down felt like a slap—chilly airport air biting my skin, the sterile scent of jet fuel mixing with my cheap perfume, suitcase wheels rattling over concrete like my racing heartbeat. No job, empty bank account, a dingy flat reeking of damp carpet and takeout grease. But I had assets: porcelain-fair skin that flushed pink under stress, a thick hourglass frame—plump ass, heavy D-cup breasts, hips that swayed hypnotically—and a pretty face with full lips that could pout or seduce on command. I weaponized it all.
Interviews turned seductive: silk blouses clinging to sweat-damp curves, buttons strained so cleavage spilled invitingly, pencil skirts hugging thighs as I crossed legs slowly, the fabric’s whisper drawing eyes downward. For this hotel front-desk role, I cornered the HR manager post-interview—his office stuffy with coffee breath and leather polish. Dropping to my knees on the scratchy carpet, I unzipped him, the metallic tang hitting the air. His cock pulsed hot against my tongue, veiny ridges bumping my lips, musky flavor flooding my senses. Thrusts quickened, grunts echoing off walls; his release erupted—thick, salty waves coating my throat, the viscous slide down as I swallowed every drop. A forbidden thrill sparked between my legs, panties slick with my own arousal. Job mine. Whispers rippled through hallways: “She sucked him off.” Shame burned at first, but the buzz ignited me—my dormant slut purring awake.
Husband-wise? Sex was a chore—his clumsy pumps, faint salty sweat, over in minutes, leaving me aching and unfulfilled. I’d masturbate in the dark afterward, fingers circling my swollen clit, the wet sounds muffled under blankets, chasing silent peaks to protect his pride. Now, oceans apart, I felt liberated. But I played smart: 2 months of cautious buildup. Shifts taught me guest patterns—the lobby’s marble chill under heels, hushed elevator dings signaling opportunity. I scrolled discreet forums on my glowing phone screen, hoarded mint-flavored condoms (cool tingle for extra fun), nailed timings—evenings post-5 PM, $500/hour baseline, vetted clients only. Cash funneled home as “shift extras”—he splurged on gadgets, home upgrades, clueless and grateful.
Workouts honed me: treadmill thuds, sweat trickling between breasts, mirrors reflecting a toned, irresistible glow. Lacy thongs from secret shopping trips—silk caressing freshly shaved skin. Then, that electric evening…
The Stud’s Arrival: Magnetic Pull
Lobby hummed with chatter, floral arrangements releasing sweet jasmine into the air-conditioned breeze. He strode in: Raj, towering and chiseled, warm brown skin sheen under golden lights, stubble framing a cocky grin. Grey sweats dbangd his V-shaped torso, the obscene bulge shifting—thick, coiled promise snaking down his thigh, fabric stretching taut with each step. Heat pooled low in my belly, a sudden throb making my thighs clench, the faint scent of my arousal mixing with hotel polish.
Serving him, I leaned over the counter—blouse dipping, breasts nearly spilling, nipples peaking against lace from the friction. “Anything else, sir?” I purred, voice husky, batting lashes while holding his gaze a beat too long. He smirked, eyes raking my curves, but checked in coolly. Frustration boiled—I needed that monster inside me. Tantrum mode: As he turned, I “accidentally” knocked his keycard off, bending dramatically to retrieve it, skirt riding high to flash thigh highs, ass cheeks peeking. Straightening, I pouted theatrically, lower lip trembling, eyes wide and pleading. “Oops, so clumsy… let me make it up. Personal escort to your room?” Colleagues snickered; he paused, intrigued by the drama queen act, that bulge twitching visibly.
He relented with a low chuckle: “Fine, lead the way, troublemaker.” Elevator ride: Tension thick, his cologne—woody spice—wrapping around me, our arms brushing, sparks igniting skin. In the hallway, I escalated—fake stumbling into him, pressing my soft breasts against his chest, the firm wall of muscle unyielding, his heartbeat thundering through fabric. “Carry me the rest?” I whined playfully, wrapping arms around his neck, legs dangling, grinding subtly against his growing hardness. His hands gripped my ass—strong fingers digging into flesh, the squeeze sending jolts to my core. Door clicked open; he scooped me inside, kicking it shut.
Suite Seduction: He Takes the Bait
Room lavish—plush rugs cushioning bare feet, city skyline twinkling through floor-to-ceiling windows, faint lavender from diffusers calming yet charging the air. He set me down, towering, eyes dark with hunger. “That little show downstairs? You want this bad.” I nodded, biting lip, tantrum shifting to sultry—trailing fingers down his chest, feeling ridges of abs through cotton. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me close, breath hot on my neck. Wallet emerged, bills crinkling as he tucked $6000 into my cleavage—paper cool against heated skin. “All night, whore. Earn it.”
Ignition: Sensory Overload Foreplay
Clothes vanished in a frenzy—his shirt peeled, revealing sweat-glistened torso, salty taste as I licked a trail down. My blouse ripped open, buttons scattering like rain, bra yanked down; breasts bounced free, cool air tightening nipples to aching peaks. His mouth latched—wet suction, teeth grazing, the sharp tug pulling moans from my throat. Hands everywhere: calluses rough on smooth skin, pinching thighs, slapping ass with stinging echoes.
Kneeled on soft carpet: Sweats dropped, cock unleashing—slap against my cheek, heavy heat, veiny girth throbbing, pre-cum’s glossy bead smearing my lips. Inhaled his raw musk; mouth engulfed him, tongue swirling salty ridges, gags wet and rhythmic as he fisted hair, thrusting deep—throat bulging, tears blurring vision, mascara streaks cool on cheeks.
Relentless Railing: Waves of Bliss
Condom snapped on—latex scent sharp—he lifted me effortlessly, legs wrapping his waist, wall slamming my back. Entry burned sweetly: inch by veiny inch stretching slick walls, the fullness overwhelming, my juices dripping down his balls. Pounds rhythmic—skin slapping, bedframe groaning, my cries echoing off walls. “Hubby ever fuck you like this?” Gritted tease; I clawed his back, nails drawing red lines, “Never… destroy me!”
Flipped doggy: Knees sinking into mattress, ass arched, cheeks spread—cool lube dribbling, then fiery plunge. Balls smacking clit, G-spot assaulted; pressure built, squirting release—warm flood soaking thighs, musky spray filling the room.
Riding him: Straddled, sinking deep, his hands bruising hips, upward thrusts jolting. Breasts in his face—sucked with sloppy pops, milk-like sweetness from nipples. Anal tease evolved: Fingers first, probing tight ring, then full breach—slow burn to explosive fullness, dual sensations shattering me into orgasmic shards.
Marathon Kinks: Dawn’s Exhaustion
Food break: Biryani delivered—spicy steam rising, flavors bursting on tongues mid-69, rice crumbs on sheets as he ate me out, tongue lapping creamy folds.
Shower: Hot water pounding, steam fogging mirrors, soap slicks—bent over, taken from behind, echoes amplifying slaps, cum swirling down drain.
Restraints: His tie silk-binding wrists, blindfold plunging into darkness—heights amplified: ice melting on clit, freezing trails; whips of belt leather stinging flesh red.
Rounds endless: Swallow loads—cum evolving thicker, nuttier; pussy pounded raw, anal filled with pulsing heat. Body a canvas of bites, bruises, sticky residues.
Morning Glow: Empowered Exit
Sunrise painted the room golden, sheets twisted and soaked, air heavy with sex’s tangy aftermath. Limbs jelly, pussy throbbing tenderly, throat hoarse. He slapped my ass goodbye, slipping extra $1000—crisp bills fluttering. Slipped out, mirror reflecting a ravaged, radiant woman—hickeys blooming like badges. Transferred funds home: “Huge tip wave!” His excited reply fueled me.

[PELURI]

great style and abdolute cocommand over language....skillful narration...appears we'll be treated to great erotica....good luck....keep situations realistic and emotions rule the characters..

[biggun777]

The Afterglow: A New Addiction Blooms
That morning after Raj, I floated back to my flat on wobbly legs, the city’s bustling streets a blur of honking taxis and coffee aromas that did little to ground me. My body was a map of conquests—purple hickeys dotting my neck like forbidden constellations, thighs sticky with dried cum and lube, my pussy still pulsing with aftershocks, a delicious ache that made every step a reminder of being utterly claimed. The $7000 burned in my purse, crisp Australian dollars whispering promises of more. I showered languidly, hot water cascading over sensitive skin, soaping my curves with deliberate strokes—fingers tracing the swollen lips of my labia, teasing my clit until a quick, shuddering orgasm washed away the fatigue. Dressed in fresh lingerie, a red lace set that cupped my heavy breasts like offerings, I checked my phone: Husband’s message glowed, “Baby, you’re amazing! Just bought that new TV with the extras. Miss you so much.” Guilt flickered briefly, a shadow in my chest, but it dissolved under the thrill—the power of my secret life funding our dreams, while I chased highs he could never provide.
Work that day was a haze; the hotel lobby’s polished marble reflected my flushed cheeks, and colleagues shot knowing glances, whispers of “Slut got laid” tingling my ears like foreplay. But I craved escalation. Two years in, my “side hustle” had evolved from desperate blowjobs to curated encounters, but Raj had cracked something primal—a hunger for the forbidden, the rough, the all-consuming. I upped my game: Updated my discreet online profile with teasing photos—me in a sheer negligee, ass arched high, breasts spilling over cupped hands, face obscured by shadows but lips parted in invitation. Bio: “Punjabi firecracker, 27, curves for days. $600/hour, overnights negotiable. Discretion assured, satisfaction guaranteed.” Inquiries flooded in—businessmen, athletes, even couples—but I vetted ruthlessly: Background checks via quick web searches, insisting on hotel meets only, my workplace a convenient cover.
That evening, post-shift, I snagged a high-roller: Marcus, a 45-year-old mining exec from Perth, silver-fox handsome with salt-and-pepper hair, a paunch hidden under tailored suits, but eyes sharp with predatory lust. He booked the penthouse suite—opulent with velvet dbangs, a king bed piled with Egyptian cotton sheets, and a jacuzzi bubbling like champagne. I arrived in a trench coat over nothing but stockings and heels, the coat’s belt loose enough to flash skin with each stride. The door swung open; his scotch breath hit me first, warm and peaty, mixed with expensive aftershave. “You’re even hotter in person,” he growled, pulling me inside, the door slamming with finality.
Foreplay Ignited: Tease and Torment We started slow, building tension like a storm. He poured champagne—bubbles fizzing golden in flutes—and we toasted on the balcony, city lights twinkling below like fallen stars. Wind whipped my coat open, exposing my naked form: breasts heaving with each breath, nipples hardening to pebbles in the cool night air, my shaved mound glistening under the glow. His eyes devoured me; hands followed, rough palms cupping my tits, thumbs circling areolas until they puckered, a low moan escaping my lips. “Dance for me,” he commanded, settling into a lounge chair, unzipping his pants to stroke his cock—thick but not monstrous, veiny with a slight curve, pre-cum already beading at the tip.
I obliged, hips swaying to imaginary music, the coat slipping off shoulders to pool at my feet. Turned away, bending at the waist to give him a view—ass cheeks parting slightly, pink pussy lips peeking, the faint scent of my arousal carried on the breeze. He groaned, fist pumping faster, the slick sounds rhythmic. I straddled his lap, grinding against his hardness through fabric, my wetness soaking his slacks. “Feel how wet you make me?” I whispered, nipping his earlobe, tasting salty skin. His fingers dipped between my thighs, parting folds—two digits plunging in, curling against my G-spot, the squelching wetness echoing as he finger-fucked me slowly, thumb pressing my clit in firm circles. Pleasure built like a wave, my hips bucking, breaths ragged; I came hard, juices squirting onto his hand, warm rivulets dripping down his wrist. He licked them clean, savoring the tangy sweetness, eyes locked on mine: “Sweet as honey, slut.”
Deep Dive: Oral Obsession Back inside, heat rising, he pushed me to my knees on the plush rug—fibers soft against my skin, contrasting the hardness of his cock as he fed it to me. I savored every inch: Tongue tracing the underside vein, pulsing hot under velvet skin, then engulfing the head—sucking with hollowed cheeks, the salty pre-cum coating my palate like fine wine. He fisted my hair, silky strands wrapped around knuckles, guiding deeper until his pubes tickled my nose, throat convulsing around him in rhythmic gags. Tears streamed, mixing with saliva that drooled down my chin, pooling on my breasts. “Choke on it,” he grunted, hips thrusting, balls slapping my chin with wet smacks. I hummed vibrations around him, hands massaging his sack—heavy orbs tightening, the musky scent intoxicating. When he pulled out, strings of spit connected us; I gasped for air, lungs burning, but begged for more.
He flipped roles: Hoisted me onto the bed, legs spread wide, cool air kissing my exposed core. His mouth descended—tongue flat and broad, lapping from ass to clit in long strokes, the scratch of stubble abrading inner thighs. He sucked my labia, pulling them gently with teeth, then plunged inside, tongue-fucking with fervor, nose buried in my mound. Fingers joined: One probing my pussy, another circling my asshole—slick with spit, pressing in knuckle-deep, the dual penetration sending electric shocks through me. I writhed, sheets bunching in fists, hips grinding against his face, coating his beard with my essence. Orgasm crashed—body arching, a guttural scream tearing from my throat, squirting again, this time arcing onto his chest, warm and sticky.
Pounding Peaks: Multi-Position Marathon Condom on—latex snapping taut—he entered missionary first: Slow, deep thrusts, his weight pinning me, cock stretching walls with each inch, the fullness making me gasp. Hips rolled in sync, clits grinding against his pubic bone, friction building heat. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered, sweat dripping from his brow onto my tits, salty drops I licked off. Pace quickened—bed creaking, skin slapping like applause, my nails raking his back, drawing welts that beaded blood.
Flipped to cowgirl: I rode him hard, breasts bouncing wildly, his hands slapping them with stinging echoes, red marks blooming. Leaned forward, he captured a nipple—sucking hard, teeth biting until milk-like fluid seeped (lactation kink from hormones? Who knows, but it drove him wild), the sweet taste on his tongue. I ground circles, clit rubbing his base, inner walls clenching like a vice.
Doggy next: Ass high, face buried in pillows muffling moans. He spread cheeks, spitting on my hole—warm glob sliding down—then plunged in, balls deep, the slap of flesh hypnotic. One hand fisted hair, yanking my head back; the other spanked rhythmically, each crack sending jolts to my core. “Take it, whore,” he barked, thumb pressing my clit. Pressure mounted—anal finger added, stretching both holes, the burn exquisite. I shattered, squirting profusely, soaking the sheets in a pungent flood.
Anal Ascent: Forbidden Depths He wanted more: Lube poured—cool and viscous, dribbling over my rosebud. Fingers prepped, scissoring gently, the intrusion turning from sting to crave. Then his cock: Head pressing, slow breach—ring yielding inch by inch, the fullness overwhelming, a deep ache blooming into bliss. He held still, letting me adjust, then thrust—slow at first, building to pounding, balls smacking pussy. I reached back, rubbing my clit furiously, the dual sensations colliding: Waves of pleasure-pain, body trembling, another orgasm ripping through, ass clenching around him like a fist.
Kink Cascade: Toys and Ties Midnight break: Room service—chocolate-dipped strawberries, sweet juice bursting as he fed me mid-fuck, crumbs on lips he licked clean. Then toys from his bag: Vibrator buzzing against clit while he railed, the hum amplifying every thrust to ecstasy. Blindfold next—silk darkness heightening senses: Ice cubes trailed over skin, melting rivulets cooling heated flesh; feather tickles turning to belt whips, leather cracking on ass, welts rising hot and throbbing.
Dawn’s Drain: Final Floods Rounds blurred: Swallowed his loads—cum thick and bitter after hours, coating throat in ropes; pussy filled again, creampie fantasy with condom off (trust built, tests shown); shower finale—water pounding, bent over tiles, taken rough, echoes of slaps and moans filling steam. Exhausted, we collapsed, bodies entwined in sticky sheets, air thick with cum, sweat, and satisfaction.
Parting: $8000 total, slipped into my bag with a wink. “Best night ever.” I left empowered, body sore but soul ignited. Funds wired home: “Bonus season!” Husband’s joy: “Love you, queen!” The cycle fueled my fire—next target already pinging my phone.

[biggun777]

Part 1: The Spark and the Scheme – Igniting the Chase
Back in Chandigarh, I’d dabbled in Khalistan sympathies—whispers in college cafes about Sikh pride, sharing memes on social media that poked at Indian unity, nothing too overt but enough to feel rebellious against my conservative upbringing. Landing in Australia amplified it; surrounded by expat Punjabis in Melbourne’s bustling suburbs, I joined casual rallies, waving flags with the Khalistan emblem under the harsh Aussie sun, my chants blending with the crowd’s fervor. It was empowering, a way to reclaim identity amid the isolation. And the clothing? Oh, it evolved. In India, I’d stuck to modest salwar kameez, but here, freedom beckoned—extra-deep V-neck tops that plunged daringly, framing my 34DDD breasts like treasures on display, the soft, porcelain skin flushing under admiring gazes. Short skirts or tight jeans hugged my thick hips and plump ass, heels clicking assertively on sidewalks. It wasn’t just fashion; it was armor, drawing clients for my secret hustle while flaunting my support—pins with Sikh symbols pinned right above my cleavage, a subtle “fuck you” to anyone who opposed.
One sweltering afternoon at a Khalistan solidarity event in a community park—grassy fields dotted with picnic blankets, the air thick with samosa spices and passionate speeches—I caught his eye. Vijay, a 42-year-old tycoon from Mumbai, now a Sydney-based importer of luxury goods, deeply entrenched in RSS circles. Tall, broad-shouldered with a salt-and-pepper beard framing a stern jaw, he exuded power in his crisp white kurta-pajama, gold watch glinting as he mingled with counter-protesters. RSS? To him, it was patriotism incarnate—organizing ***** unity events, funneling funds to pro-India causes abroad, viewing Khalistan as a terrorist splinter threatening Bharat’s integrity. But that day, his ideological fire met a carnal one. From across the divide, his gaze locked on me mid-chant: “Khalistan Zindabad!” My top, a scarlet halter with a neckline dipping to my navel, strained against my heavy breasts, the jiggle from my animated gestures hypnotic. Sweat beaded down my cleavage, tracing shiny paths that disappeared into the lace bra peeking out. He felt a surge—blood rushing south, his cock twitching in his pants, imagining those massive tits bouncing under him, that defiant mouth moaning his name instead of separatist slogans.
Vijay’s perspective: This wasn’t just lust; it was conquest. He’d bedded plenty—models, secretaries—but a Khalistan-supporting Punjabi bombshell? That was poetic justice, turning an enemy into a submissive devotee. He researched me discreetly post-event, snapping a photo from afar and running it through facial recognition apps tied to his network. Found my hotel job, my online profiles hinting at escort vibes. “Perfect,” he thought, stroking his beard in his opulent office overlooking Sydney Harbor, waves lapping like his plotting mind. Plan Phase 1: Infiltrate. He’d book a long stay at my hotel, posing as a neutral businessman, but weave in subtle pro-India talks. Gifts to soften—jewelry symbolizing unity, dinners laced with ideology. If she resisted, escalate: Leverage his wealth for “accidental” encounters, perhaps hire investigators for dirt, but ultimately, seduce her body to break her spirit. Goal: 15 days to make her chant “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” while cumming on his cock.
My side: I noticed him immediately—those piercing eyes undressing me amid the tension. Acted unaware, tossing my hair and amplifying my sway as I passed, but inside? A thrill. His aura screamed money, the kind that could dwarf my current hauls. And sex? My body betrayed me—nipples peaking under his stare, a dampness between thighs imagining his rough hands on my curves. Khalistan was passion, but survival was key; if he pursued, I’d play coy, letting desire and greed pull me under while feigning innocence.
Day 1-3: The Bait. Vijay checked in, requesting me specifically at the desk. “Miss, your service is impeccable,” he purred, eyes dipping to my cleavage as I leaned forward, breasts nearly spilling. I smiled demurely, “Anything for our guests, sir.” He tipped lavishly—$500 notes slipped with a card: “Join me for tea? Discuss cultural ties.” I declined politely, but kept the cash, wiring half home. His plotting: Evening calls to RSS contacts for background—discovered my forums posts supporting Khalistan. “She’ll break,” he smirked, jerking off that night to her photo, cum splattering as he envisioned her on knees, renouncing her cause.
Day 4-6: Escalation. “Accidental” lobby bumps—him “dropping” files, me bending to help, ass high, skirt riding to flash thong. He’d brush my arm, cologne lingering—sandalwood spice making me flush. Gifts arrived: A saffron scarf (RSS color) with a note, “For unity.” I wore it once, curiously, the fabric soft against my skin. His view: Her acceptance was a crack; he upped ante, inviting her to a “neutral” dinner at a rooftop restaurant, city lights twinkling. I went, acting oblivious, but chose a plunging dress, breasts heaving with each laugh. Over wine—rich, oaky—he wove tales of India’s glory, subtly decrying separatism. I defended lightly, but his hand on my thigh under the table sparked heat; I shifted, pressing closer unconsciously, pussy throbbing. That night, alone, I masturbated furiously—fingers plunging deep, imagining his cock, whispering “No…” but cumming hard.
Day 7-9: The Trap Tightens. Vijay’s plan deepened—hired a PI for her schedule, “bumping” into her at a gym. Me in sports bra, tits bouncing on treadmill; him spotting, hands “steadying” my hips. Sweat-slick skin touched, his bulge pressing briefly. “You’re strong, like India should be—united,” he murmured. I laughed it off, but later, in the shower, soapy hands cupped my breasts, pinching nipples, fantasizing surrender for stacks of cash. His perspective: She was weakening; time for ideology push. Sent articles via anonymous email—exposing Khalistan “myths,” promising “rewards” for open minds. I read them secretly, doubt seeding, but lust growing—his wealth evident in chauffeured cars, whispers of private jets.
Day 10-12: Psychological Warfare. He booked a suite, “inviting” me for room service oversight. Arrived to find champagne, dim lights. “Discuss your views,” he said, but hands roamed—tracing my cleavage as I poured. I pulled away, “I’m not like that,” but stayed, body humming. He shared “stories” of converted separatists, offering $10,000 “for a chat.” Greed bit; I listened, thighs clenching. His inner monologue: “She’s mine soon—break her pride.” That night, he plotted the clincher: A staged “threat”—fake Khalistan backlash emails to scare her, positioning himself as protector.
My internal conflict: I knew his game, the stares, touches—but wanted it. Khalistan felt distant; his money close. Body craved the dominance, the taboo of betraying my cause for pleasure.

[biggun777]

Part 2: The Surrender and the Sharing – Breaking Point to Boundless Submission
My name is Sheeba Randhawa—yes, that’s me, the once-fierce Khalistan supporter from Chandigarh, now tangled in a web of desire, ideology, and cold hard cash in the underbelly of Sydney’s expat scene. Those 15 days with Vijay weren’t just a seduction; they were a meticulously orchestrated psychological thriller, blending his cunning plots with my own hidden cravings. I’d always played the innocent card in my hustles—wide-eyed Punjabi girl abroad, batting lashes while calculating the payout—but this time, it was different. Deep down, I knew every move he made, yet I let it unfold, my body betraying my mind with every stolen touch, every whispered promise. The thrill of the taboo, the rush of forbidden surrender, it all mixed with the practical: His wealth could transform my life back home, funding renovations, gadgets, even a down payment on a house for my clueless husband. And the sex? God, it promised to shatter the monotony I’d endured for years.
From Vijay’s perspective, I was the ultimate prize—a voluptuous symbol of everything he fought against in his RSS world. Back in his high-rise apartment that overlooked the glittering harbor, waves crashing like his racing thoughts, he mapped it out like a military campaign. Day 10 had been the turning point: He’d already softened me with those “accidental” encounters—the gym spot where his hands lingered on my sweat-slicked waist, feeling the curve of my 34DDD breasts brush his arm as I “struggled” with weights. But now, he amped up the pressure. That evening, after my shift, a nondescript envelope slipped under my flat door—inside, printed articles from pro-India sites, highlighting alleged Khalistan atrocities, with a handwritten note: “See the truth, Sheeba. Dinner tomorrow? Let’s talk unity over butter chicken.” How did he know my name? His PI had dug deep, cross-referencing my hotel badge with social media scraps. He jerked off that night in his king-sized bed, silk sheets cool against his skin, imagining my full lips wrapped around his cock, chanting his slogans instead of mine. “She’ll break,” he muttered, cum spilling hot over his fist, the release fueling his resolve.
Day 11: I showed up to the dinner, acting oblivious in a deep-plunging emerald dress that hugged my hourglass figure, the neckline so low it framed my cleavage like a invitation card—breasts heaving with each nervous breath, nipples faintly outlined against the fabric from the air-conditioned chill of the Indian restaurant. Scents of cumin and garlic wafted, candles flickering like the doubt in my eyes. Vijay was waiting, suave in a tailored suit, his beard trimmed sharp, eyes locking on my tits before meeting my gaze. “You look stunning, Sheeba. That dress… it’s distracting.” I blushed, feigning surprise at his knowledge of my name, but inside, heat pooled between my thighs. Over naan dipped in creamy dal, he wove his narrative—stories of Sikh-***** harmony, how Khalistan was a divisive poison funded by foreign agendas. “Your beauty deserves a united India,” he said, his foot brushing mine under the table, sending sparks up my leg. I argued back softly, “But our pride…” yet let his hand rest on my knee, fingers inching higher, tracing the edge of my stocking. By dessert—sweet gulab jamun dripping syrup—he’d slipped a diamond bracelet into my palm, cool metal against heated skin. “A token of protection.” I accepted, wiring $2000 home later, telling myself it was just business. But alone in bed, fingers circling my swollen clit, wet sounds filling the quiet room, I came whispering his name, body arching in guilty pleasure.
His plotting intensified on Day 12: A staged “crisis.” Vijay’s network fabricated an anonymous email to my work address—threats from “Khalistan radicals” accusing me of betrayal for mingling with Hindus, complete with doctored photos from the rally. “Watch your back, traitor.” Panic hit, real or not; I called him in tears, voice trembling. “Sheeba, come to my suite. I’ll handle this.” His voice was calm, commanding, stirring something submissive in me. Arriving at the hotel—ironic, my workplace as his playground—the door clicked shut behind me, sealing my fate. Dim lights, soft jazz playing, a bottle of chilled Chardonnay on ice. He pulled me into a hug, his cologne enveloping me—musky sandalwood making my head spin. “You’re safe with me. But you need to choose sides.” Hands roamed, cupping my ass through the skirt, squeezing flesh that yielded eagerly. I pulled back half-heartedly, “I can’t…” but didn’t leave, my pussy already slick, betraying me.
Day 13: The psychological siege peaked. Over glasses of wine—tart on my tongue—he showed “evidence” on his laptop: Screenshots of my old posts, interspersed with RSS propaganda videos of unified India marches. “Say it with me: Khalistan Murdabad.” I hesitated, but his fingers traced my cleavage, dipping into the valley, thumb brushing a nipple that hardened instantly. “For your safety, Sheeba. And… for this.” He pressed a stack of $5000 cash into my hand, crisp bills crinkling. Greed and lust collided; I echoed faintly, “Khalistan… Murdabad.” Reward came swift—pushed against the wall, dress hiked up, his mouth on my neck, biting softly, marking territory. Panties yanked aside, fingers plunging into my wetness, curling against my G-spot with expert precision. “India Zindabad,” he growled, thumb circling my clit. I bucked, moaning, “India… Zindabad,” the words foreign yet thrilling, orgasm building like a storm.
By Day 14, resistance crumbled. Vijay’s view: She’d hooked—body responding before mind. He planned the finale: Full surrender in bed. Invited me back, this time with restraints hidden in drawers. I arrived in lingerie under a coat—red lace bra straining against my massive tits, thong soaked in anticipation. “Prove it,” he said, stripping me slowly, clothes pooling like shed convictions. On my knees, his cock unleashed—thick, veiny, pre-cum beading. I sucked hungrily, tongue swirling ridges, gagging as he thrust deep, tears streaming. “Bharat Mata Ki Jai,” he commanded, fisting my hair. I hummed it around him, vibrations sending him over—cum erupting salty down my throat, swallowing every drop while whispering the slogan.
The railing was relentless: Bent over the bed, ass arched, he entered my pussy—stretching walls with burning fullness, thrusts pounding, skin slapping echoes. “Hindustan Zindabad!” I cried, clit throbbing, squirting release flooding sheets as orgasm shattered me. Flipped missionary, legs wrapped around him, breasts bouncing wildly—he sucked nipples hard, teeth grazing, drawing whimpers. “Khalistan Murdabad!” I screamed mid-climax, body convulsing, the words amplifying the bliss. Anal came next—lube dribbling cool, his cock breaching slowly, the ache turning to ecstasy. “India Ek Hai!” I gasped, fingers rubbing my clit, dual peaks crashing, ass clenching around him.
Day 15: Dawn broke with me tied to the bedposts, silk bonds soft yet unyielding. Blindfolded, senses heightened—he teased with ice on clit, freezing trails melting into heat; feather tickles turning to belt slaps, stinging red welts on thighs. Final fuck: Riding him, tits in his face, he bit and sucked, my chants rhythmic with each bounce. “Bharat Mata Ki Jai! India Zindabad! Khalistan Murdabad!” Orgasms rolled like waves—squirting, screaming slogans, body a vessel of converted ecstasy. He recorded it discreetly, for his “collection,” cum filling me raw (tests exchanged, trust feigned).
Post-surrender, Vijay shared his triumph. “You’re ours now, Sheeba.” Introduced to his RSS circle at a lavish villa party—marble floors cool under heels, air thick with cigar smoke and anticipation. Wealthy ***** expats, all payers: $10,000 entry. I was the star—paraded in a sheer saree, tits spilling, chanting slogans on command. Gangbang ensued: Sucked cocks in a circle, loads coating face and breasts; double-penetrated on plush couches, pussy and ass filled, moans blending with “Hindustan Zindabad!” My 34DDD tits became infamous—tit-fucked relentlessly, cum-glazed like trophies, photos whispered in elite chats: “Sheeba Randhawa, the converted Khalistani slut.”
Funds poured in—$50,000 that month, wired as “consulting fees.” Husband gushed: “You’re a star, baby!” I smiled through video calls, body still aching, soul shifted. Khalistan a faded echo; now, pleasure and patriotism intertwined, my secret life a longer, darker episode of endless submission.


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