English Sex
Sunita, 42, stands at the edge of a dusty construction site near her Delhi suburb, her heart pounding with a mix of nerves and anticipation. She’s a mother of two—a 19-year-old son, Rohit, and a 16-year-old daughter, Priya—living a quiet life as a homemaker. English Sex
At 5’5”, her 38-30-40 figure is voluptuous, softened by years but still striking. Her dusky skin glows under the faint streetlights, her long black hair tied in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She wears a faded red saree, the blouse tight around her heavy breasts, her deep navel exposed as the pallu shifts.
Her almond eyes flicker with a restless hunger, her full lips parted—she’s here because the monotony of her life has cracked, and a dark curiosity has taken root. It’s late, the site abandoned except for five laborers—rough, muscular men in their 30s, their bodies hardened by work, their skin dark and slick with sweat.
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They’ve been eyeing her for weeks, catcalling as she passes by with groceries, and tonight, she doesn’t walk away. “Aunty, akele kyun?” one calls, a stocky man with a scruffy beard, his voice thick with liquor. Sunita hesitates, then steps closer, her saree catching on a jagged pipe. “Just… looking,” she mutters, but her eyes betray her—a mix of fear and thrill.
The men circle her, their lungis tenting with arousal. The bearded one, the leader, grabs her arm, his grip bruising. “Chal, maza dete hain,” he growls, and before she can protest, they shove her into a half-built room, the concrete floor cold against her feet. Sunita’s mind races—What am I doing?
But her body responds, her nipples hardening under her blouse, her pussy tingling with forbidden excitement. They don’t wait. The leader yanks her pallu down, the red saree unraveling, pooling at her feet. Her blouse strains, and he rips it open, buttons scattering, exposing her black bra—worn, slightly frayed, barely containing her 38D tits.
“Kya doodh hai, aunty,” he laughs, slashing the bra with a rusty knife, her breasts spilling out—full, sagging slightly, dark nipples swollen and glistening with sweat. Another man, tall and wiry with a shaved head, tears her petticoat off, her matching black panties soaked with anticipation.
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He claws them down, the fabric ripping into her thighs, revealing her hairy pussy—wet, musky, lips parted. They throw her onto a pile of cement bags, her ass bouncing on the rough surface, legs dangling. The leader drops his lungi, his cock a thick eight inches—veiny, uncircumcised, pre-cum oozing from the tip.
He spits on her pussy, a thick gob splattering her clit, and rams into her, his girth stretching her tight, neglected cunt. “Le, randi,” he grunts, thrusting with brutal force, his hairy balls slapping her ass, her juices squirting onto the bags. Sunita gasps, her scream echoing, her tits jiggling wildly, sweat flying off her skin—It hurts, but I want it, she thinks, her mind surrendering to the rawness.
The wiry one climbs over her face, his cock—seven inches, thin, reeking of sweat and piss—shoved into her mouth. He grips her bun, yanking it loose, her hair spilling as he fucks her throat, his balls smacking her chin. “Chaat, aunty,” he snarls, slapping her cheeks red, her gags gurgling, saliva and pre-cum drooling down her neck. You read this sex story on HamariVasna.
A third man, short and stocky with a potbelly, kneels between her legs, sucking her clit with a slobbering mouth, teeth scraping her flesh, then shoves his fat, six-inch cock into her pussy alongside the leader’s. They double-penetrate her, their dicks grinding inside her, tearing her walls—blood and cum mixing as she thrashes, her muffled cries vibrating through the cock in her mouth. “Do lund, mazaa aa raha hai na?”
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The stocky one pants, his sweaty gut slapping her belly. The fourth, a lean man with a scar on his chest, flips her onto her stomach, her ass up, trembling. He spits a yellow wad onto her asshole, rubs it in with dirty fingers—nails black with grime—then rams his nine-inch cock inside, her anal ring splitting, blood gushing as he pounds her raw.
“Gaand phaad doonga,” he growls, yanking her hair back, her spine arching, shit and blood smearing his shaft. The fifth, a scrawny youth with wild eyes, straddles her back, jerking his six-inch cock—veiny, leaking—and cums first, blasting thick, sticky ropes across her face, into her eyes, her mouth, her hair matting with semen, the stench choking her.
They escalate, relentless. The leader pulls out, straddles her chest, and shoves his cock between her tits, crushing them together with bruising force, the head smacking her chin, pre-cum smearing her neck. “Chooche chodta hoon,” he grunts, fucking her cleavage until he unloads—a torrent of thick, rancid cum splattering her face, pooling in her collarbone, dripping into her mouth.
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The wiry one yanks her head up, ramming his cock down her throat, cumming a bitter, chunky load—she chokes, swallowing half, the rest spewing from her nose, snot and semen mixing. The stocky one keeps pounding her pussy, his fat dick pulsing, unloading a hot, creamy flood inside her, groaning, “Baccha banega ab.” The scarred one pulls out of her ass, his cock streaked with filth, jerks off, and sprays her back and ass, the cum thick and yellow, stinking of piss. The youth shoves into her pussy again, his thrusts frantic, cumming quick, his seed mixing with the mess inside her, her cunt a gaping, leaking ruin.
Sunita lies sprawled on the cement bags, a wrecked mother—her saree shredded, her body drenched in sweat, spit, cum, blood, and shit. It drips from her face, her tits, her pussy, her ass—pooling beneath her in a sticky, foul puddle. Her hair is a semen-soaked nest, her dusky skin bruised purple and black, scratched raw, smeared with grime. Her nipples bleed, her lips swell, her eyes glaze over. The men laugh, wipe their cocks on her torn blouse, and stumble off, leaving her panting, trembling—I’m alive, she thinks, a twisted satisfaction blooming in her chest. She staggers home, her secret safe, her mind alight with the thrill of her degradation.