“Look at this desi milf,” one kid hooted, 19 if he was a day, palming her tit roughly. “Tits like fucking pillows!” Maya bucked, her pride a roaring fire—”Don’t you dare touch me, you filthy pigs! I’m Maya Mohini, wife of Umesh Mohini— you’ll rot for this!”—but Gouda just laughed, shoving her thong aside and plunging two fingers into her dry pussy. She yelped, body arching, but he didn’t care. “Faithful wife, my ass. Bet you’ve been craving real dick while hubby’s out playing secretary.”They tied her wrists to the sofa’s ornate wooden arm with her own dupatta, arms stretched taut overhead, leaving her body a helpless arch—tits thrust up, ass grinding against the cushions in futile rage.
Gouda dropped his pants first, his thick, veiny cock—uncut, smelling of sweat and cheap bidis—slapping against her thigh. “Open wide, madam,” he mocked, but she clamped her lips shut, eyes like daggers. So he pinched her nose till she gasped, then rammed in, face-fucking her with brutal thrusts that made her gag and drool. Saliva bubbled down her chin, onto her heaving tits, as his friends cheered. “Chodo isko! Make the bitch swallow!”One by one, they took turns. Gouda went first on her mouth, then flipped her legs wide and buried his cock in her pussy—dry at first, tearing a scream from her throat, but her traitorous body slickened up quick, juices betraying her pious vows.
“No… Umesh… forgive me,” she whimpered between thrusts, but Gouda pounded harder, his balls slapping her ass, leaving red welts. His friend—a scrawny 18-year-old with a surprisingly fat dick—claimed her tits, tit-fucking the valley of her 42Es while biting her nipples raw, drawing blood-tinged spots. Another shoved into her ass, no lube, just spit and spite, stretching her virgin hole till she howled. The last kid jerked off over her hairy armpits, rubbing his cum into the curls like lotion, calling her “jungle whore.”They rotated for hours, it felt like—cocks swapping holes, hands mauling her curves, leaving bite marks everywhere: purple hickeys on her swollen tits, teeth imprints around her nipples like savage jewelry, her pussy lips puffy and bruised from the relentless railing, ass cheeks red and handprinted.
Cum leaked from every orifice—her mouth tasting salty for days, pussy a creamy mess, ass gaping slightly. They mocked her the whole time, snapping pics on their burners. “Smile for the family album, aunty!” By the end, as they zipped up and sauntered out, leaving her tied and dripping, Gouda tossed a mocking “ID card” on her belly—a laminated joke with her tear-streaked face photoshopped nude, labeled “High Class Slut No. 98 – Property of Gouda Gang.”Maya lay there till dawn, sobbing prayers for strength, her arrogance cracked but not broken. “Those animals… I’ll make them pay. For Umesh, for our honor.” She untied herself, showered off the filth—though the marks stayed, a map of her violation—and by morning, she was at the Bandra police station, clad in her armor: a crisp red salwar kameez that hugged her voluptuous frame like a glove, the dupatta draped modestly over her shoulder. Underneath? Red lace bra cradling her sore tits, matching thong wedged between her thicc cheeks. Her makeup was flawless, lips a defiant red, attitude dialed to eleven. “I demand to see the senior inspector! This is outrageous—invading a respectable home like mine!”The desk sergeant blinked at her fire, but soon enough, three inspectors sauntered in— all around 40, burly desi bulls in khaki, with mustaches like broom bristles and eyes that lingered a beat too long on her curves.