Sonia stood in the courtyard of their sprawling bungalow, the late afternoon sun painting the tulsi plants in golden hues, the air heavy with the scent of guavas and faint temple bells. Her sheer black camisole clung to her sweat-slicked skin, barely containing her 34DD breasts, which leaked milk in slow, steady streams, soaking the fabric and dripping onto the stone tiles. The “WHORE” collar gleamed around her throat, a bold declaration etched in silver, while the crystal butt plug nestled in her ass caught the light, its weight a constant, delicious pressure. Her pussy, shaved into a sharp arrow pointing downward, glistened with arousal, her clit throbbing with anticipation. She was a vision of shameless desire, her body a canvas of lust.Rohan stepped out from the house, his kurta crisp against his lean frame, his eyes dark with a hunger that matched hers. “We’re going to your parents’ place tomorrow,” he said, his voice low and commanding, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But tonight, I want you fucked—right here, in our home. I’ll find the guys, bring them to you. You’ll take their cocks, their money, everything. You’re my whore, Sonia, and I’m going to make it happen.” Her breath caught, her cunt clenching at the raw promise in his words. She straddled him on the courtyard bench, her pussy grinding against the thin fabric of his dhoti, milk seeping through, marking him. “You’ll watch?” she purred, her fingers tracing the bulge beneath her. “More than that,” Rohan growled, twisting the plug deeper into her ass, making her gasp. “I’ll control it. You fuck who I choose, how I say.”
Their children, Arjun and Nia, darted past, their laughter slicing through the charged air. “Mommy’s shiny!” Nia giggled, pointing at the plug’s glinting base. “Your jewel’s so pretty!” Arjun tilted his head, curious. “Why’s your shirt wet, Mommy?” Sonia smiled, her heart pounding with the thrill of their innocence against her depravity. “Just milk, sweetie,” she cooed, “Mommy’s special juice.” They hugged her sticky waist, oblivious to the storm brewing in her veins, their small hands brushing the cum-stained edge of her camisole from earlier that day.
The next morning, they piled into the car—Sonia, Rohan, Arjun, and Nia—and drove to her parents’ modest two-story home in a quiet neighborhood. The air there was thick with jasmine and the aroma of freshly cooked rotis, a stark contrast to the decadence Sonia carried with her. She wore a sheer red camisole, her milk-soaked breasts spilling out the sides, her pussy and plug exposed beneath a flimsy skirt she’d shed the moment they arrived. The “WHORE” collar shone defiantly. Her mother, Mrs. Patel, a wiry woman in her early 60s, froze at the doorstep, her dupatta clutched tightly. “Sonia, what is this?” she hissed, her voice trembling with disbelief. Sonia strutted past, her hips swaying. “My truth, Ma.” Her father, Mr. Patel, late 60s and stooped, averted his eyes, but Sonia caught the flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—in his gaze.