Maya Mohini was the epitome of Mumbai’s elite desi housewife—curvy as hell, with those killer measurements that turned heads even in the stuffy lanes of Bandra: 42E tits that strained against any blouse she wore, a 36-inch waist that flared out into a 44-inch ass so thicc it could make a rickshaw driver swerve. At 40, she carried her voluptuous frame like a queen, her skin a warm caramel glow from all those lazy afternoons by the Arabian Sea balcony.
Her armpits were a wild, untamed bush of dark curls—she never shaved there, calling it “natural womanhood” in that haughty tone she reserved for the neighborhood aunties. But down below? Her pussy was Brazilian-waxed smooth, a deliberate choice for her husband Umesh, the devoted secretary to a big-shot local politician. Maya was pious to her core, whispering prayers under her breath every dawn, fasting on all the right days, and faithful like a locked vault. Umesh was her world; she’d die before letting another man so much as graze her.
Arrogant? Oh, she wore it like a diamond necklace—snapping at servants, lecturing gossips, and strutting through society parties with her nose so high, you’d think she owned the damn city.But that night, everything shattered. It started casual, like any humid Mumbai evening. Umesh was late from some shady meeting with the boss, leaving Maya alone in their sprawling sea-facing flat. She lounged on the living room sofa in her favorite nightgown—a flimsy white cotton thing that hugged her curves like a second skin, no bra underneath because why bother when the AC hummed cold? Just a simple black thong riding up her ass crack. She’d dozed off scrolling Insta, her hairy armpits exposed as her arms draped lazily overhead.
The door burst open like a thunderclap. Gouda— that slimy goon from the slums, barely 20, with a scar across his cheek and eyes like a street dog in heat—stormed in with three of his punk friends, all half her age, wiry little shits with tattoos snaking up their arms and grins that screamed trouble. They’d been tailing Umesh for weeks, some extortion gig gone wrong, but tonight?
They saw the empty flat as payback central. “Auntyji,” Gouda sneered, his voice a gravelly mix of Marathi slang and broken English, “your hubby’s been a bad boy. Time to collect.”Maya shot up, her massive tits jiggling under the gown, eyes blazing with that trademark arrogance. “Who the fuck are you slum rats? Get out of my house before I call the cops and have you dragged to Arthur Road jail like the dogs you are!” She grabbed her phone, dialing furiously, but Gouda lunged like a panther, slapping it from her hand. It shattered against the marble floor.
His friends circled, laughing that hyena cackle, their cocks already tenting their cheap track pants.”You think you’re too good for us, huh? High-society bitch,” Gouda growled, grabbing a fistful of her thick black hair and yanking her back onto the sofa. Maya thrashed, spitting curses—”Harami! I’ll have your balls for this, you worthless gutter trash!”—but they were too many, too quick. One punk pinned her kicking legs, another clamped her wrists above her head, stretching her arms up like she was offering herself to the ceiling fan. Gouda’s knife flashed—snick!—and he sliced through the nightgown’s straps, ripping it down the front in one savage tear. The fabric parted like butter, exposing her naked glory: those 42E melons spilling free, dark nipples already hardening in the shock, her smooth-waxed pussy lips peeking from the thong’s edge, and yeah, those hairy armpits on full display as her arms stayed locked high.