Characters
Maya Mohini: 40, local activist, curvy voluptuous thicc bombshell with 42E tits, 36 waist, 44 ass; trimmed bikini-haired pussy, shaved armpits, pierced nose & navel; arrogant, proud, pious pativrata wife.
Jayaram: 45, Maya’s husband, local counselor; tiny 3-inch cock, clueless voyeur type
Khan: 50, ruthless drug gang leader; thick 9-inch veiny cock, scarred brute
Raju: 22, Khan’s young thug; 7-inch girthy cock, street punk
Vikram: 21, Khan’s young thug; 8-inch curved cock, tattooed bad boy
Sunny: 20, Khan’s young thug; 6.5-inch thick cock, eager rookie.
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Oh, darlings, gather ’round because your filthy little storyteller Maya Mohini is about to spill the juiciest, cock-throbbingly real tale of how my pristine, arrogant world got turned into a cum-soaked gutter. I’m Maya Mohini, that high-class pativrata queen—forty years of pure, untainted devotion to my darling Jayaram, my local counselor hubby with his pathetic three-inch prick that barely tickles my pious pussy on our sacred anniversary nights. Picture me: a voluptuous goddess carved from Mumbai’s humid dreams, my 42E melons straining against every blouse, my 36-inch waist flaring into a 44-inch ass that sways like a forbidden temptress, even though I’d slap any leering bastard who dared stare. Shaved armpits smooth as silk, my bikini line trimmed just neat enough for that rare peek under my saree, pierced nose glinting with gold pride, navel ring winking like a secret I keep only for Jayaram’s fumbling fingers.
I’m the local activist bitch everyone fears and worships—organizing rallies against filth like drugs, all while quoting scriptures in my mind to stay that extreme faithful wife, too proud to even glance at another man’s shadow. Arrogance? Honey, it’s my crown; I walk into rooms and lesser women curtsy without me saying a word.It started with that smug satisfaction buzzing in my veins after I marched straight to the DGP’s office, my red salwar kameez hugging my thicc curves like a second skin—crimson dupatta draped modestly over my heaving 42E tits, the matching red bra peeking just a hint at the edges because, fuck it, even pious queens like me know how to tease without sinning. I’d heard the whispers: Khan, that fifty-year-old drug-peddling monster with his gang of gutter rats, turning our pristine neighborhood into a haze of white powder and broken dreams. Me? I couldn’t stomach it. As the self-appointed guardian of morality, I laid it all out for the top cop—detailed logs of their shady deals, license plates I’d memorized from my high perch of arrogance.
“Sir, this filth ends now,” I declared, chin up, voice like velvet-wrapped steel, my pierced navel pressing against the kameez fabric as I leaned forward, proud that my words alone could crush empires. The DGP nodded, all respectful
“Yes, Madam Mohini,” because who wouldn’t bow to a woman like me? I left that station feeling invincible, my red thong riding up my plump ass cheeks just a tad from the thrill, but I’d never admit how my pious pussy clenched at the power rush. Jayaram was out schmoozing voters, his tiny cock probably twitching uselessly in his pants, so I sauntered home alone, dreaming of the medal they’d pin on my proud chest.The sun had dipped low, painting my luxurious flat in golden hues, when I slipped into our bedroom—still in that red salwar, the kameez top clinging to my sweat-glistened cleavage, red bra cups overflowing with my heavy E-cups like ripe mangoes begging to be plucked, though only Jayaram’s unworthy lips ever got near them. I was humming a devotional tune, fingers tracing my navel piercing absentmindedly, when the door crashed open like thunder from hell. There he was: Khan, that scarred beast of fifty, eyes burning with the rage of a cornered hyena, flanked by his three young wolves—Raju at twenty-two, all lean muscle and smirks; Vikram, twenty-one, tattoos snaking up his arms like venom; and Sunny, the twenty-year-old pup with eyes wide as his cock must be. They half my age, these street scum, but twice the savagery, bursting in without a knock, reeking of cheap booze and desperation. “You pious cunt,” Khan growled, his voice gravel scraping my arrogance raw, “thought you could snitch on me to your fancy cop friends?