At home, Rohan knelt before her, his tongue lapping the cum from her thighs, clit, and face, savoring the bitter tang of strangers. The plug ground inside her as he fucked her against the kitchen counter, her moans echoing through the bungalow, the scent of cardamom mixing with their sweat. Her reputation spread like wildfire among neighbors. One afternoon, with Rohan watching cricket on TV, Sonia met a stranger, mid-20s, on the apartment stairwell, arranged through Anil’s network. Naked save for the “WHORE” collar and plug, milk streaming down her breasts, she fucked him against the concrete wall, his cock plunging into her pussy, cum erupting over her clit, milk splattering the steps. He slipped ₹2000 into her collar, the notes brushing her skin. Mrs. Sharma, watching from her doorstep, gasped, her eyes wide as Sonia pocketed the cash, cum trickling down her thighs. Another day, Mr. Patel caught her on the stairs with another man, his cock in her mouth, cum painting her face, ₹1500 tucked into her hand. Whispers flew: “Sonia’s a whore, selling her body!” Neighbors sneered in the elevator, some snickering, others shunning her. Sonia reveled in the shame, her pussy wet at their condemnation, her pride as a whore burning brighter.
Rohan, ignorant of her secret lovers, licked her clean, assuming spontaneous trysts, her betrayals fueling her thrill. One evening, he challenged her to an art gallery opening, the air thick with incense and the clink of wine glasses. She wore a sheer black camisole, milk leaking, her clit exposed, the “WHORE” collar gleaming, the plug sparkling with every step. Art patrons in crisp kurtas and sarees gawked as she glided past canvases, her camisole riding up, pussy and plug on brazen display. Some snapped photos, others muttered disapproval, but Sonia’s arousal peaked, her body humming with defiance. In a storage room, she lured an artist, late 20s, his hands stained with paint. She bent over, the plug glinting, as he fucked her pussy, his cum splashing her clit, milk pooling on the floor. A curator, mid-40s, joined, his cock in her mouth, cumming across her face in thick ropes, the plug amplifying her orgasm. The artist pressed ₹2000 into her hand, the notes sticking to her cum-slicked skin. She returned to the gallery, cum dripping, the plug’s pressure relentless, posing beside a sculpture, her cum-soaked body a living exhibit. A woman hissed, “Disgrace,” but Sonia laughed, “Jealous?” her clit throbbing at the public shame.
Sonia’s affair with Anil teetered on exposure. One day, with Rohan stringing fairy lights at home, Sonia took Anil to the rooftop deck, claiming to check decorations. Naked but for the “WHORE” collar and plug, milk oozing, she fucked him against the railing, his cock slamming into her pussy, then her ass, cum flooding inside, milk spraying the concrete. Anil growled, “I saw you kissing that guy after fucking someone. Is your husband just a cuck?” Sonia deflected, her voice sultry, “He loves my whoring, don’t worry,” but Anil’s eyes narrowed. Arjun and Nia, playing hide-and-seek, burst onto the roof, giggling, “Mommy’s with that man!” Nia pointed at Anil, “Fixing lights?” Sonia pulled him behind a planter, her cum-stained body hidden, the plug glinting. “He’s helping, sweetie,” she lied, her heart racing. Arjun frowned, “Why’s he mad?” Sonia giggled, “Just work stuff, secret!” They scampered off, unaware. Anil stormed off, confronting Rohan in the lounge, “Your wife’s fucking everyone! You okay with that?” Rohan laughed, unruffled, “She’s free, man. You enjoyed her, didn’t you?” Anil retreated, muttering, “Weird setup.” Sonia, overhearing, kissed Rohan, “Just a jealous guy, babe,” her secret safe for now. Rohan licked her clean, the plug grinding, fucking her until her moans shook the walls.