Saathiya (15) Part I

 

Adil's pov 

One year later

I hummed the same soft lullaby under my breath—the one Anisa sing to her—while gently rocking Ghazal in my arms. My daughter. Our tiny miracle. She was so beautifully chubby, her cheeks round and flushed like Anisa’s when she laughs, her little mouth pursed in that perfect pout that made my heart squeeze every single time. Those dark eyes—already so knowing, so deep—fluttered closed as sleep finally claimed her. I pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead, breathing in that sweet baby scent and warmth. 

Everything had changed. And somehow, against all odds, it had changed for the better.

I eased her into the crib, tucking the thin muslin blanket around her small body with the care of a man handling something infinitely precious. The AC purred quietly; I reached over and dropped the temperature another notch because in Jawahar heat was high. As soon as Ghazal settled, Aladdin and Kebab rose from their corner like silent shadows. They padded over in perfect unison, circled the crib once—noses twitching, ears alert—then dropped down on either side. Aladdin on the left, Kebab on the right. Guardians. Always.

I let out a quiet huff of laughter, wiping the bead of sweat from my temple. These two used to glue themselves to Anisa’s side the entire pregnancy. Her personal army. The second she whimpered over a craving—late-night imli ki chutney, extra-spicy keema at dawn, anything—they would growl low in their throats and fix me with those accusing stares, as if I’d personally betrayed her. More than once I’d had to raise both hands in surrender before daring to hand her the plate. 

Those were the days.

Shaking my head at the memory, a fond smile tugging at my lips, I stepped out of the nursery, leaving the door cracked open just enough to hear her smallest sound.

“Sayyid.”

Huda’s calm voice came from the threshold. My right-hand man. I nodded once and followed him into the open kitchen. 

The title still felt strange on my skin. Sayyid. Lord of Jawahar. Most of the old people had fled the week I burned the slave ledgers and declared the markets closed forever. The mines stood half-empty. Families vanished in the night. The few months were brutal—empty storehouses, unpaid workers walking away, rival clans circling like vultures. I’d barely slept. But Anisa… Anisa never wavered.

She stood beside me through every screaming council, every midnight strategy session, every time a village elder tried to shout us down. Rafiq sent men, money, engineers for the help. Zaid—infuriating, smug, loyal Zaid—sent trainers and kept trying to steal my wife back to Karachi for “just a weekend, send my sister to meet us.” He never invited me. I teased him mercilessly every call; he’d just smirk through the screen and say, “Fucker, you already stole her. Let me at least meet her once in a while.”

Huda slid the stack of papers across the low table. Supply lists, security rosters, water complaints from the eastern quarry, export permits for the new mineral vein we’d finally opened safely.

“Yeh sab sign kar dein.” (Please sign these.)

I sank onto the sofa, legs spread wide, one arm thrown over the backrest, pen moving almost on autopilot while my mind drifted. Ruling wasn’t romantic. It was exhaustion. Endless forms. The constant knot in my gut wondering if the next water tanker would arrive before someone’s child fell ill.

And yet.

Every time the front door opened and Anisa stepped inside—dust clinging to the hem of her dupatta from the mining tour, sleeves rolled to her elbows, speaking in that quiet, steel-edged voice she now used with the foremen—my heart slammed against my ribs all over again.

She had changed. Not softened. Sharpened. She sat with grieving widows in the new community hall, listened to their stories until the sun set, then came home and laid out plans with me until dawn—clear, ruthless, compassionate. She walked the hospital construction site in her worn chappals, asking questions the engineers hadn’t even thought of. She laughed with the children who ran up to her in the mills, but her eyes always scanned for danger first.

Watching her… it undid me.

The authority in her posture. The way her voice never wavered when she gave orders. The quiet ferocity in her eyes when she spoke of protecting what was ours. Every time I saw her like that—strong, unyielding, radiant—desire and pride and love crashed through me so hard I could barely breathe.

I finished signing the last page, handed the stack back to Huda.

“Anisa kahan hain?” (Where is Anisa?)

Huda inclined his head. “Sayyidati bahar hain. Javed unke saath hai.” (The Lady is outside. Javed is with her.)

I nodded. He left silently.

I threw my head back against the sofa, eyes closing for just a second. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the AC and the soft breathing of our daughter in the next room.

Anisa was happy now. Truly happy. Not the fragile, guarded happiness of before—but the deep, steady kind that came from ruling beside me, from building something real, from knowing she was safe and powerful in equal measure.

And every night when she finally came to bed, smelling of desert dust and sunlight, when she curled against me and whispered how much she loved this life we’d carved out—I fell for her all over again.

I knew it, bone-deep: everything good in my life—the peace, the laughter in our home, the tiny heartbeat that had become Ghazal’s sleepy sighs—existed because of Anisa. She was the anchor that kept me from drowning in the rage I still carried for my father. Sabria too. They had gone silent after the wedding, after the takeover. No calls. No messages. No grudging congratulations. It was as if we had never existed to them. And honestly? I welcomed the silence.

There were nights, early on, when the old fury would rise so hot I could taste blood. I wanted to drive to their doorstep and end it—kill him—for every scar he’d left on me, on Ammi. But then I’d look at Anisa, hand resting protectively on her swollen belly, eyes soft and pleading. “Let’s start new, Adil. Forget the poison. For us. For this child.” Her voice had trembled, but her resolve hadn’t. And because I loved her more than I hated him, I swallowed the violence. Locked it away.

I told myself: if they ever reach out, if they ever try to poison this new life again… I won’t hesitate. Not anymore.

My mother was different. At first, everything seemed fine. She smiled at Anisa, called her “beti,” helped with small things around the house during the pregnancy. But the cracks appeared the moment Anisa stepped fully into ruling beside me.

She started attending every council meeting. She walked the mines with the foremen, issued orders that made grown men straighten their spines. She sat at the strategy table and pointed out flaws in supply chains no one else had noticed. Jawahar listened to her—not because she was my wife, but because she was good. Ruthlessly competent. Compassionate in ways that made people want to follow her.

And my mother noticed.

She noticed Anisa’s absence from the house during the day. Noticed how I sometimes left for meetings while Anisa stayed behind to handle site inspections. Noticed how we only truly met at night—exhausted, dust-streaked, collapsing into each other’s arms just to sleep. She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“She’s working too much,” Ammi would say, voice tight. “A wife should be at home. Especially now.”

I’d try to deflect. “She’s happy, Ammi. This is what she wants.”

“She’s neglecting you. Neglecting the house.”

The arguments were quiet but sharp. I always stepped between them—calm words, gentle redirection, anything to keep the peace. I hated seeing the two women I loved most at odds.

In the end, we found a solution that hurt but worked. Ammi wanted the cooler air, the quieter life of Manwar. We couldn’t move the seat of power from Jawahar—not yet—so she went alone. She calls every single day now, voice warm over the line, asking about Ghazal first, then Anisa, then me. She visits sometimes; we visit her when we can steal a few days. The distance has been kind. The house is peaceful. It was better this way.

The soft clink of her sandals reached me before I even saw her—high alert, always, even in my own home. My ears had learned her rhythm long ago.

“Number 567 wali shipment ka status consistently check karein,” (Keep consistently checking the status of shipment number 567) her voice rang out, crisp and commanding. I stayed seated on the sofa, head tilted back, a slow smile already tugging at my lips. I knew that tone. Javed must have been trailing two steps behind.

“Aur neutral Z2 wali shipment ki payment received hote hi ussey currency exchange karein.” (And as soon as payment for the neutral Z2 shipment is received, exchange it to the required currency.)

“Jee, Sayyidati,” Javed replied instantly. I heard the soft tap-tap of his iPad stylus confirming the note.

She rounded the corner then—hair slightly mussed from the wind outside, dupatta slipping off one shoulder, cheeks flushed 

“Humein bhi koi order dein, Sayyidati,” (Give me an order too, my Lady) I rasped, voice low and teasing, letting the words drag just enough to make her freeze mid-step.

Her whole face bloomed red—cheeks, neck, even the tips of her ears. My baby. My Gulabo. Still so easy to fluster, even after everything we’d built together.

Javed caught my eye, gave a quick nod of silent understanding—professional as ever—and slipped out without a word, leaving us alone. 

“Aap mere order mane gey, Adil jee?” (You’ll follow my orders, Adil jee?) Her voice dropped from commanding to something softer, huskier, the authoritative mask cracking beautifully as she rounded the sofa and sank down beside me.

Her head found my bicep like it belonged there. I pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the crown of her head, breathing her in—jasmine, desert dust, and that warm, milky sweetness that was all her now. She melted against me instantly, body going boneless in the way that always made my chest ache with how much I loved her trust.

“Jee, begum jaan,” (Yes, my beloved wife) I murmured, lips brushing her hair.

She chuckled, the sound low and sweet, vibrating against my arm. “Apni begum jaan ka har hukum sar aankhon par rakhte hain hum.” (We place our beloved wife’s slightest command on our eyes and head.) I teased her. 

I grinned, teeth grazing her chubby cheek before I bit down gently—just enough to make her squeal and laugh, the sound bright and unguarded. My palm slid from the small of her back, slow and deliberate, until it cupped the generous curve of her ass. I molded it in my hand, squeezing possessively. God, she’d filled out so perfectly after pregnancy—soft, lush, every inch begging to be worshipped.

“Subah bhi aaram nahi hai aapko,” (Not even in the morning do you get any rest) she scolded playfully, swatting my hand.

I only groped her again, firmer this time, pulling her closer until her thigh pressed against mine. “Itni khubsurat hai begum aap… shauhar ka dil toh aayega na,” (You’re so beautiful, my wife… how can a husband can rest?)

I wrapped both arms around her, burying my face in the crook of her neck, kissing the sensitive skin there until she moaned—soft, needy, the sound shooting straight to my cock. Fuck, I’d missed her like this. My hand kneaded her ass harder, grinding her against me as I felt myself harden beneath her.

After the pregnancy she’d gained weight in all the right places—hips wider, breasts fuller, thighs thick and soft—and I loved every single changed curve. I wanted to bite, lick, claim every new inch of her.

Umm… Adil… bahut kaam hai…” (Umm… Adil… there’s so much work…) she murmured, voice breathy, protesting even as her head tilted to give me better access to her throat.

“Umm hmm… abhi aap aaram farmaye…” (Umm hmm… right now, you just relax…) I whispered against her skin, sliding my hand up to cup one heavy, milk-filled breast. I squeezed gently, feeling the warmth, the slight give. Her dark eyes met mine—lust swirling in their depths, pupils blown wide.

“Aur apne shauhar ko apna doodh pilaye,” (And feed your husband your milk) I said, voice rough, pinching her nipple through the fabric.

She gasped, body arching. A wet spot bloomed instantly across the pink suit, milk seeping through. The sight of it—her body responding so openly to me—sent a jolt of raw hunger through me.

“Ahhh… ummm, Adil…” Her moan was broken, desperate.

“Doodh aa raha hai meri begum jaan ka, hmm?” (Your milk is flowing, my beloved wife, hmm?) I kissed the damp patch through the material, tasting the faint sweetness even through cotton, tongue pressing flat as she whimpered and clutched my shoulders.

“Haath upar karo,” (Hands up) I ordered softly.

She obeyed instantly—arms lifting, trusting, needy. I peeled the top of her suit away in one smooth motion, letting it fall. Her black bra was soaked, lace clinging transparently to her swollen breasts, nipples dark and peaked beneath the wet fabric. Milk beaded at the tips, dripping slowly.

I groaned low in my throat, cock throbbing painfully against my pants.

“Ummm… meri baby ka doodh piyunga main,” (Ummm… I’m going to drink my baby’s milk) I growled, the words vibrating against her skin.

I didn’t give her time to breathe—I latched onto her left nipple immediately, sucking with firm, steady pulls. Warm, sweet milk flooded my mouth in rich spurts, coating my tongue, sliding down my throat like the most addictive nectar. Anisa gasped sharply, her whole body jerking upward, fingers flying to tangle in my hair.

“Ummm… ahhh… aaram se piyo… ummm… aapka hi hai… ahhh… uff…” (Ummm… ahhh… drink slowly… ummm… it’s all yours… ahhh… uff…) Her voice fractured into desperate little moans, hips rolling helplessly against the sofa as I drank from her.

I hummed in approval, the vibration making her whimper louder. I kept sucking—deep, rhythmic pulls—while my free hand came up to slap the soft underside of her breast lightly. Just enough sting to make it jiggle, to make milk bead faster at the tip. She cried out, thighs squeezing together instinctively.

I switched to the right nipple without warning, latching on hard, tongue swirling around the swollen peak as I drew more of her sweetness into me. Between pulls I murmured against her wet skin,

“Meri baby ke bade chhucho mein bahut saara doodh aa raha hai. So tasty, begum,” (There’s so much milk in my baby’s big breasts. So tasty, my wife…)

I lifted my head just enough to meet her eyes—hers were heavy-lidded, dark with lust and something softer, something vulnerable that only I ever got to see. Milk glistened on her lips where a stray drop had escaped; I leaned in and kissed her deeply, slow and filthy, pushing my tongue past her lips so she could taste herself on me.

She moaned into my mouth—long, broken, needy—her hands clutching my shoulders like I was the only thing keeping her grounded. The kiss turned messy, tongues sliding, sharing the faint sweetness of her milk, her breath hitching every time I nipped at her bottom lip.

When I finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva and milk connected our mouths for a heartbeat before it snapped. She was panting, chest heaving, nipples dark and glistening, breasts flushed and heavy with more.

“Adil…” she whispered, voice wrecked, fingers trembling as they traced my jaw.

I grinned—slow, predatory, utterly in love with the way she looked right now: undone, dripping, mine.

“Abhi toh shuruat hai, begum jaan,” (This is just the beginning, my beloved wife) I rasped, thumb brushing over her swollen lower lip. “Tumhara yeh sab… yeh doodh, yeh jism… sab mera hai. Aur main aaj raat bhar piyoonga.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, a fresh shiver running through her.

My fingers worked the drawstring of her salwar. One sharp tug and the knot gave way. I dragged the soft fabric down her hips in a hurry, impatient, letting it pool around her ankles before kicking it aside along with her drenched panties. Her thighs parted instinctively, skin flushed and glistening in the low light, the scent of her arousal hitting me like a drug.

“Apne kapde bhi utaaro… sirf main nangi hoon,” (Take your clothes off too… I’m the only one naked) she murmured, half-complaint, half-demand, voice husky and trembling with need.

I grinned against her mouth, gave one heavy breast a firm slap—watching it bounce, watching fresh milk bead at the tip—then yanked my own shirt over my head and shoved my pants down in one rough motion. Cock sprang free, thick and aching, already leaking at the sight of her spread out beneath me.

“Bahut zor se choduunga baby ab tumhe…” (I’m going to fuck you so hard now, baby…) I rasped, voice gravel-rough with promise.

I pushed her back flat against the sofa cushions, following her down, caging her with my body. She nodded frantically—eyes wide, dark, trusting—and opened her legs wider, knees falling apart in shameless invitation. Her pussy was soaked, folds swollen and shiny, clit peeking out, begging. The sight made my mouth water all over again.

“Ummm… geeli chut tumhari… phir se pregnant hona hai meri baby ko, huh?” (Ummm… your pussy is so wet… you want to get pregnant again, my baby, huh?) I rasped, voice thick with hunger as I fisted my cock, stroking slowly from base to tip, letting her watch every deliberate slide of my hand. Pre-cum beaded at the head, glistening in the dim light.

Her eyes darkened instantly—pupils swallowing the irises until they were pure black lust. She bit her lower lip hard, nodding once, then again, frantic little jerks of her head like she couldn’t find words fast enough.

“G… Ghazal?” she breathed, voice shaky, jerking her chin toward the open nursery door. Worry flickered through the haze of desire, protective even now.

I followed her gaze for half a second—Ghazal’s crib was still, the soft rise and fall of her tiny chest visible in the faint glow of the nightlight. Aladdin and Kebab lay like stone sentinels, ears relaxed, eyes half-closed. They hadn’t stirred. They never did when it was just us like this.

“Sleeping,” I murmured, leaning down to brush my lips against her temple. “Usse bhi koi bhai ya behen chahiye.” (She needs a little brother or sister too.)

Her breath hitched—half laugh, half moan—as I hooked my fingers in the waistband of her already-soaked panties and dragged them down her thighs in one smooth pull. The fabric clung wetly before coming free; I tossed them somewhere behind the sofa without looking.

I settled between her spread legs again, thick cock heavy in my hand. I rubbed the swollen head through her slick folds—slow, torturous circles—coating myself in her arousal until I was shining with it. Then I slapped the length against her clit once—sharp, wet smack—twice—harder—three times until her hips bucked and a broken whimper spilled from her throat.

“Pregnant hona hai meri baby?” (You want to get pregnant again, my baby?) I cooed, voice low and filthy-sweet, teasing her entrance with just the tip—pushing in the slightest inch, then pulling back, letting her feel the stretch and the denial in equal measure.

She nodded wildly, hands flying to my shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into my skin.

“Haan… haan… Adil please…” (Yes… yes… Adil please…)

Her voice cracked on my name—desperate, pleading, the same tone she used when she was commanding foremen in the mines, only now it was all for me. All surrender.

I grunted low in my throat and thrust forward in one deep, claiming stroke, burying myself to the hilt inside her slick heat. We both moaned at the same instant—loud, unrestrained. 

Being married and fucking your wife… it hits different. Every single time.  

No hesitation. No games. Just raw, bone-deep knowing that this body, this woman, this life—everything—was mine, and I was hers. The trust in the way she opened for me, the way her legs locked around my waist to pull me impossibly deeper… fuck, I lived for it. Craved it. Could never get enough.

“Zindagi ka best decision… ahhh… tumse nikaah karna… ahhh…” (The best decision of my life… ahhh… marrying you… ahhh…) I groaned, hips rolling slow and deep at first, savoring the drag of her wetness coating every inch of me.

She laughed breathlessly through a moan, the sound bright and wicked even as her nails raked down my biceps, leaving stinging red trails that only made me harder.  

“Roz… ahhh… sex karte ho… isliye na… ahhhh…” (You fuck me every day… that’s why, right… ahhhh…)

Her chuckle turned into a whimper as I picked up the pace—harder, faster—each thrust punching a cry from her throat. The sofa creaked under us, cushions shifting, but I didn’t care. Let it break. Let the whole damn house shake.

I leaned down, lips brushing her ear, voice rough and wrecked.  

“Haan, begum jaan… roz… har roz… apni biwi ko chodta hoon… uski geeli chut mein apna Lund daalta hoon… taaki woh meri aulaad se bhar jaaye…” (Yes, my beloved wife… every day… every single day… I fuck my wife… bury my cock in her wet pussy… so she can be filled with my child…)

She arched beneath me, breasts bouncing with every slam of my hips, milk leaking in thin streams down her sides. Her nails dug deeper into my arms—sharp little crescents of possession—as she gasped,  

“Ahhh… Adil… aur zor se… please… mujhe pregnant kar do phir se… ahhh…”

I growled, one hand sliding under her ass to lift her higher, angling deeper, hitting that spot that made her eyes roll back.  

“Le lo… pura le lo… meri pyari begum… mera sab kuch tumhari kokh mein daal doonga…” (Take it… take it all… my darling wife… I’ll put every drop inside your womb…)

Her laughter dissolved into broken moans, body trembling, walls starting to flutter again—already so close. I felt her clench, felt the hot rush of her arousal coating me, dripping down my balls.

“Adil… ahhh… main… main ahhhh rhi hoon…” (Adil… ahhh… I’m… I’m coming…)

“Come for me, baby,” I rasped against her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. 

She shattered—hard, sudden—crying out my name as her pussy clamped down like a vice, pulsing, gushing around me in hot waves. The feel of it—her coming so violently, so openly, just for me—tore my control to shreds.

I growled low, sliding two fingers past her lips without warning. “Muh kholo.” (Open your mouth.)

She obeyed instantly—lips parting wide, tongue brushing my fingertips as I pushed deeper, fucking her mouth in slow, deliberate strokes that matched the brutal snap of my hips. Her eyes rolled back a little, lashes fluttering, cheeks hollowing as she sucked around my fingers like they were something else entirely. Saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth; I smeared it across her chin with my thumb, possessive, filthy.

“Aur zor se chudna hai begum ko, huh?!” (You want to get fucked even harder, wife, huh?!)

She couldn’t speak with my fingers filling her mouth, but her muffled whimpers and the frantic nod said everything. Her nails raked down my back—hard enough to sting, hard enough to mark—and I rewarded her by driving deeper, faster, the angle hitting that spot inside her that made her whole body seize.

The sofa rocked violently beneath us now, heavy wood frame groaning in protest. I didn’t care. Let it splinter. Let the whole house know how thoroughly I was ruining my wife.

Her pussy clenched again—tighter this time, fluttering wildly—as another orgasm built fast on the heels of the last. She sucked harder on my fingers, eyes glassy and pleading, tears of pleasure gathering at the corners.

I pulled my fingers free with a wet pop, trailing them down her throat, between her heaving breasts, leaving a glistening path. Then I gripped her jaw gently, forcing her to look at me.

“Bolo na, baby… bolo do kitna pasand hai tumhe yeh… kitna pasand hai jab main teri chut bhar deta hoon…” (Say it, baby… tell me how much you love this… how much you love when I fill your pussy…)

She gasped, voice wrecked and trembling. “Bahut… bahut pasand hai… ahhh… Adil… mujhe roz aise hi chodo… roz meri kokh bhar do… ahhh fuck……”

(So much… I love it so much… ahhh… Adil… fuck me like this every day… fill my womb every day… ahhh fuck… …)

Those words—raw, broken, completely hers—shattered what was left of my control.

I thrust once more—deep, punishing, burying myself so far. 

She came again right after few thrusts again. Her legs trembled around my waist; her arms wrapped tight around my neck, holding on like I was her lifeline.

"fuck yesss… aaram se… uhhh… sofa hil raha hai…” (Ahhh fuck yesss… slowly… uhhh… the sofa is shaking…) 

She chuckled through the moan—breathless, wicked, even as the heavy teak sofa rocked beneath us like it was trying to escape. Every brutal thrust sent the frame creaking louder, cushions sliding, wood groaning in protest. The sound only made me harder, only made me want to wreck her more.

I didn’t wait.

I pulled out with a wet, obscene sound—her pussy clenching around nothing, trying to keep me inside—and flipped her over in one swift motion. Face down, ass up, knees spread wide on the sofa. Fuck. That view. Her ass—round, full, plush from the pregnancy and everything after—jiggled slightly as she settled. So big, so perfect, the kind of curves that made my mouth water and my hands itch to claim. 

I groaned low, palms sliding over the soft flesh, squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Meri baby ki badi gaand… ahhh… so beautiful, baby…”

My hand came down—hard, sharp crack—right across one cheek. The sound echoed. Her skin bloomed pink instantly.

“Ahh… ouch, Adil!” she cried out, half-laugh, half-whimper, hips jerking forward then pushing back instinctively, asking for more even as she protested.

I spanked the other cheek—harder this time—watching the ripple, watching the red bloom brighter. Then I leaned down and bit the soft curve of her ass—teeth sinking in just enough to mark, not break skin. She yelped, body arching, but the sound melted into a throaty moan when I soothed the bite with my tongue, licking slow circles over the reddening imprint.

“Adil… uff… kaato mat itna zor se…” (Adil… uff… don’t bite so hard…) she gasped, but her voice was thick with want, thighs trembling, pussy glistening and dripping down her inner thighs from how soaked she already was.

I bit the other cheek—harder—then pulled back to admire my work: twin red marks, my teeth clearly visible, her skin flushed and hot under my palms.  

“So fucking beautiful when you’re marked up for me,” I rasped, voice wrecked. “Yeh gaand sirf meri hai, begum… samjhi?”

She pushed back against my hands, arching her spine deeper, offering herself completely. “Haan… sirf aapki… ab chod do mujhe… please… andar daalo phir se…”

I growled, one hand fisting her hair gently to tug her head back so I could see her face—flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with lust. The cock slid between her legs, plunging into her dripping cunt without warning, curling to hit that spot that made her sob.

“Geeli ho gayi ho itni… meri randi begum… itna pasand hai na jab main tumhari gaand ko laal karta hoon?” (You’re so wet… my dirty wife… you love it so much when I mark your ass red, don’t you?)

She nodded frantically, moaning around my fingers as I fucked her with them—rough, fast—while my cock throbbed against her thigh, leaking pre-cum onto her skin.

“Bolo… bolo kitna pasand hai…” (Say it… tell me how much you love it…)

“Bahut… bahut pasand hai… ahhh… Adil… meri gaand aapki… meri chut aapki… sab kuch aapka… ab please… Lund daalo… bhar do mujhe…” (So much… I love it so much… ahhh… Adil… my ass is yours… my pussy is yours… everything is yours… now please… put your cock in… fill me up…)

I, then thrust in deep, burying myself in one brutal stroke. She screamed into the cushion, muffled but raw, walls clamping down like a vice as I filled her completely.

I didn’t give her time to adjust—hips snapping forward, hard and fast, the angle letting me go deeper, hitting places that made her whole body shake. My hands gripped her hips—fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass—pulling her back onto me with every thrust.

“Lo… pura lo… meri begum… tumhari yeh badi gaand hil rahi hai har dhakke pe… dekho kitni achhi lag rahi ho…” (Take it… take it all… my wife… your big ass is jiggling with every thrust… look how good you look…)

She pushed back to meet me, moaning nonstop, the sofa rocking so violently now I half-expected it to tip. I spanked her again—loud, echoing—right where I’d bitten, making her clench harder around me.

“Hilaao tumhari gaand bhi baby… ahhh… ab main zor zor se chut mein Lund daalunga apna… hhh ahhh fuck…” (Shake that ass too, baby… ahhh… now I’m going to slam my cock deep in your pussy… hhh ahhh fuck…)

She obeyed instantly—hips rolling back in slow, filthy circles, ass jiggling with every movement, the sight making my cock throb painfully against her thigh. I groaned low, primal, one hand sliding down the cleft of her ass while the other guided my cock back to her dripping entrance.

Without warning, I pushed two fingers into her tight back hole—slow at first, letting her feel the stretch, the burn—then curling them deeper as I thrust forward and buried my cock in her pussy in one rough, claiming stroke.

“Ohhh… ahhh… Adil… ummm… meri ched… ahhh fuck… dheere…” (Ohhh… ahhh… Adil… ummm… my hole… ahhh fuck… slowly…) Her voice cracked, body trembling between the dual invasion—fingers in her ass, cock pounding her pussy—overwhelmed, overstimulated, and so fucking wet she was dripping down my wrist.

I didn’t slow down.  

Couldn’t.

I fucked her hard—cock slamming deep with every snap of my hips, fingers thrusting in rhythm, stretching her, filling her completely. The wet sounds were obscene—sloppy, loud—skin slapping skin, her pussy squelching around me, her ass clenching greedily on my fingers.

“Ahhh fuck… shauhar ka Lund kaisa hai tumhari baby, huh? Maja aa raha hai na, batao,” (Ahhh fuck… feels like your husband’s cock belongs there, huh baby? Tell me you’re enjoying it…) I growled low against her ear, fingers curling deeper inside her tight anus—slow, deliberate pumps that matched the brutal rhythm of my cock slamming into her pussy.

She was shaking—whole body trembling, ass pushed high, thighs quivering with every thrust. My fingers stretched her back hole wider, scissoring gently while I pounded her front, filling both entrances completely. The dual sensation had her sobbing with pleasure, walls fluttering wildly around me.

“Yes… yes… bahut acha hai… ahhh… itna bada hai… ahhh… uff… bahut andar hai…” (Yes… yes… it feels so good… ahhh… so big… ahhh… uff… so deep…) she cried out, voice cracking into a high, desperate wail as she came again—third time already—her pussy gushing hot and slick around my cock, creaming me in thick, pulsing waves that soaked my balls, dripped down her thighs, and puddled on the sofa beneath us.

The sight of her—ass red from my bites and spanks, pussy stretched wide around me, anus clenching greedily on my fingers—sent a fresh surge of heat through my veins. I loved how she fell apart for me like this. Every. Single. Time.

.“Meri pyari begum… ahhh… aisi hi roz chudna pasand hai meri begum ko… ahhhh fuck… mere Lund ka paani lena pasand hai, huh?!” (My darling wife… ahhh… you love getting fucked like this every day… ahhhh fuck… you love taking my cum, huh?!)

I asked it rough, voice gravel and possessive, landing another loud, echoing spank right across her already-red ass. The crack rang out sharp in the quiet room—too loud, maybe. My eyes flicked instantly to the nursery threshold, heart kicking up for a split second. Ghazal’s crib was still, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm under the soft glow of the nightlight. Aladdin and Kebab hadn’t moved an inch—ears relaxed, eyes half-lidded, bodies sprawled like they were carved from stone. They knew. They always knew when it was just us like this. No growl. No alert bark. Just silent, loyal guardianship while their humans lost themselves.

I exhaled, tension melting back into raw hunger.

“Ahhh… yess… mere andar kariye shauhar… ahhh… apni begum ki chut… ahhh… bhar dijiye… uff ahhh…” (Ahhh… yes… fill me up, husband… ahhh… fill your wife’s pussy… ahhh… uff ahhh…) she pleaded, voice cracking into pure desperation, hips pushing back hard to meet my thrusts, trying to take me deeper, deeper, like she could swallow me whole.

No control left. None.

I slammed in one last brutal time—deep, grinding, hips stuttering—and came undone with a guttural roar. Hot, thick ropes flooded her, pulsing deep inside her fluttering walls, spilling so much it leaked out around my cock almost instantly, creamy white trails dripping down her thighs, soaking the cushions beneath us.

“Ahhhh… bhenchod… mera Lund… ahhhhh… chut bhar di baby tumhari… ahhhh…” (Ahhhh… fuck… my cock… ahhhhh… filled your pussy, baby… ahhhh…) I grunted loud, the words torn from my throat as aftershocks ripped through me, cock twitching with every last spurt.

“Fuck!” I hissed, boneless, collapsing sideways onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs. I pulled her with me—rolling so she landed on top, chest to chest, her heavy breasts pressed against me, nipples still leaking faint trails of milk onto my skin. My cock slipped free with a wet sound, cum immediately leaking from her swollen, well-fucked pussy, warm and sticky against my thigh.

She draped over me like liquid—limp, sated, breathing in shaky little pants against my neck. I wrapped both arms around her, one hand sliding down to cup her ass possessively, thumb brushing over the red handprints and bite marks I’d left like signatures.

For a long minute we just lay there—sweaty, wrecked, hearts hammering in sync. The house was quiet again except for our ragged breathing and the faint hum of the AC. Ghazal slept on. The dogs watched over us without a sound.

I pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along her temple, her cheek, the corner of her smiling mouth—soft now, lazy, full of that post-orgasm glow that made her look even more beautiful.

“Sofa ganda kar diya aapne,” (You’ve completely ruined the sofa) she complained, voice lazy and teasing, glancing down at the mess we’d made—cum, her wetness, faint milk stains, the cushions askew.

I chuckled low, pulling her tighter against my chest, our heartbeats still erratic, slamming against each other like they hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that we were done (for now).  

“New order kar denge, begum jaan,” (We’ll just order a new one, my beloved wife) I murmured, lips brushing her temple. “Yeh wala toh humare pyar ki nishani ban gaya hai.”

She huffed a laugh, nuzzling closer.

“Aapko doosra bacha… ladka chahiye ya ladki?” (Do you want the next child… a boy or a girl?) she asked quietly, cheeks flushing fresh—redder than before, the sex-flush still lingering like a brand.

I hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare back.  

“Ummm… tumhari jaise ek aur pyari bachi chahiye, begum,” (Ummm… another sweet little girl just like you, wife) I said softly, kissing the tip of her nose. 

“Ek aur Gulabo… jo bilkul tum jaisi ho—strong, beautiful, aur mujhe pagal karne wali.”

She chuckled, the sound vibrating against my chest, warm and happy.

Her eyes drifted then—distant, thoughtful—as I tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. I watched her face, the way her lashes fluttered when she was thinking deeply.

“Kya soch rahein hain aap, begum?” (What are you thinking, wife?) I asked gently.

She smiled—small, mischievous.  

“Bas yahi ki agar aap yunhi out of control hote rahe toh yahan bachchon ki line lag jayegi,” (Just that if you keep losing control like this, we’ll have a whole line of kids here) she said, slapping my chest lightly.

I threw my head back and laughed—loud, unrestrained—because she wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.

She pushed up then, hissing softly at the soreness between her thighs.  

“Ghar pura saaf chahiye mujhe shaam tak,” (I want the whole house spotless by evening) she declared, clutching the top of her kurta to her chest like a shield. Milk still dripped slowly from her breasts, dark wet patches blooming on the pink fabric.

My eyes stayed glued—helpless, hungry—watching the slow trails slide down her skin.

“Adil! Focus karein!” (Adil! Focus!) She slapped my shoulder, half-scolding, half-laughing.

“Focus hi hai, begum,” (I am focused, wife) I cooed, reaching up to pinch her nipple lightly—enough to make a fresh bead of milk appear. She yelped and slapped my shoulder again, harder this time.

“Uff! Kya karun main aapka! Bilkul behaya hai aap, shauhar miya,” (Uff! What am I going to do with you! You’re completely shameless, husband dear) she teased, eyes sparkling.

I grinned and tugged her back down—settling her across my lap, her thighs straddling mine.  

“Apni begum se haya nahi hai mujhe,” (I have no shame when it comes to my wife) I said, voice dropping low as I kissed her neck—slow, deliberate—sucking marks into the soft skin until purple blooms appeared.

She gasped, squirmed, then suddenly shoved me back with both hands.  

“Adil! Nooo! Zaid bhai dekhenge toh aap dono firse fight karoge,” (Adil! Nooo! If Zaid bhai sees, you two will fight again) she said, scrambling off my lap.

I huffed dramatically, flopping back against the cushions.  

Oh yeah. Zaid and Rafiq were coming today. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten.

“Bhool gaye aap toh,” (You forgot, didn’t you?) she teased, already gathering her discarded salwar.

I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face.  

“Begum… idhar aao… ek important baat hai,” (Wife… come here… there’s something important) I said, schooling my face into fake seriousness.

She furrowed her brows, concern flickering as she took my offered hand.  

“Kya hua?” (What happened?)

The second her fingers closed around mine, I yanked—pulling her forward and shoving her back onto the sofa. She shrieked in surprise, high and startled.

Kebab and Aladdin barked sharply from the nursery doorway—alert, protective—heads snapping toward us.

“Shaant!” (Quiet!) I ordered.

They huffed, gave us one long, judgmental look, then turned their backs and padded back to their posts beside Ghazal’s crib—like they’d seen this nonsense before and decided it wasn’t worth their energy.

“Kya kar rahe hain aap!” (What are you doing!) she slapped my chest again, laughing now.

I grinned down at her, already hardening again against her thigh.  

“Tumhari puri family aa rahi hai, begum… mujhe firse sex karne do… pata nahi wo zalad bhai tumhare paas bhi mujhe sone dega ya nahi,” (Your whole family is coming, wife… let me fuck you again… who knows if that cruel brother of yours will even let me sleep tonight.)

She burst out laughing—full, bright, the sound filling the room—even as I slid back inside her, slow this time, savoring every inch.  

We went three more rounds—lazy, laughing, filthy—until we were both boneless and breathless.

Afterward, we showered together—hands gentle now, soaping each other, kissing under the warm spray like we had all the time in the world.

She fed Ghazal while I cooked lunch—simple chicken-chawal, some sabzi, nothing fancy. Ghazal nursed contentedly, tiny fist curled around Anisa’s finger, while Anisa watched me move around the kitchen with that soft, proud look that still made my chest ache.

We worked through the afternoon—her handling calls and site updates from the dining table, me reviewing security reports and mineral permits—Ghazal napping between us in her crip, tiny snores the sweetest background music.

Every so often our eyes met across the room.  

She’d smile—tired, happy, mine.  

Because this—this messy, loud, loving chaos—was exactly what we’d fought for.

And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.