The evening shadows began to stretch across the Sharma household, painting the walls in cool, dim hues, but inside the kitchen, the temperature felt like a furnace.

Sarla stood before the black granite counter—the very same counter that had been the site of her absolute, mind-shattering degradation just hours before. The memory of the milkman’s rough hands, his massive, blunt cock stretching her open, and the hot, sticky weight of his cum plastered across her bare ass was seared into her brain.