The Punjab morning had turned busy in the haveli. Upstairs, Aryan’s mother called for breakfast, grandparents chanted morning paath in the small mandir room, and the smell of aloo paratha frying drifted down from the tandoor in the courtyard. Downstairs, Anjali moved like a ghost—dupatta carefully draped to hide the fresh purple bite marks on her neck, kameez buttoned high to cover the swollen, bruised boobs that throbbed with every step. But the soreness between her thighs reminded her constantly: Aryan’s thick cum still leaked slowly from her pussy, soaking the fresh panties she’d put on just minutes ago.

Aryan watched her from the staircase landing, eyes dark and possessive. He waited until she carried a tray of chai toward the back veranda—away from the main family gathering. The moment she passed the narrow corridor connecting the kitchen to the old grain storage room, he moved.