In the cramped Mumbai flat, Neelam adjusted her silk saree, the fabric whispering against her curves as she stepped inside with the tiffin. Raj was nowhere to be seen, but Manav lounged on the couch, eyes gleaming. 'Neelam didi, you grace us again? That 36D blouse is fighting a losing battle today,' he quipped with a smirk. She arched a brow, hips swaying with confidence. 'Manav, your flattery is as thin as your excuses for staring. My gaand might be 40 inches of perfection, but it doesn't come with a free pass for boys like you.'
They bantered sharply as she set down the food—her wit slicing through his advances like a blade. 'You think a trap of compliments will work on a married woman? I've handled bigger egos than your cock could dream of,' she teased, yet her gaze lingered on the growing bulge in his pants. The air thickened; Manav stepped closer. 'Horny much, didi? Your eyes say what your words deny.' Neelam laughed, strong and unyielding, pushing him back but not away. 'I set the rules here, boy. Now drop those pants and show me if that hard cock matches the talk.'
She sank to her knees, taking his throbbing cock into her mouth for a slow, commanding blowjob, tongue swirling as he groaned. Her pussy grew wet, dripping with anticipation beneath the saree. Manav panted, 'Fuck, you're incredible—stronger than any fantasy.' She stood, shedding the pallu, ass exposed as she bent over. 'Fuck my pussy then, but remember—I ride first.' He thrust in hard, her walls clenching around him, both sweating and panting in rhythm. She came first, crying out wittily, 'That's how a real woman owns it,' before he exploded, cum spilling as their bodies tangled in explosive heat. The trap? It was hers all along.
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