The Mercedes purred into the porte-cochère just before 11 a.m. Mansi stepped out looking every inch the respectable widow again: peach salwar-kameez neatly pressed, dupatta draped modestly, dark-brown hair in a loose plait, only the faint hickeys peeking above her collar and the satisfied glow in her eyes giving any hint of the weekend’s debauchery.

She let herself in quietly with her key.

The moment the door opened, the unmistakable sounds hit her: wet flesh slapping flesh, loud feminine moans, the rhythmic creak of the living-room sofa, and Ashraful’s low growls.

Mansi slipped off her mojris, padded barefoot down the hallway, and leaned against the archway with an amused smile.

There, in broad daylight on the huge L-shaped sofa, was the exact scene she had expected, and secretly hoped for.

Pushpa, completely naked, was riding Ashraful in cowgirl position like a woman possessed. Her wheatish body glistened with sweat, heavy 38DD breasts bouncing wildly with every downward slam, nipples dark and hard. She had both hands braced on Ashraful’s chest, head thrown back, mouth open in a continuous stream of moans: “Aaah… Ashraful… haan… aur zor se… teri lund meri chut phaad rahi hai… choos mere doodh… zor se choos!”

Ashraful lay beneath her, hands gripping her hips, guiding her up and down his thick 12-inch cock, his mouth latched onto one swinging breast, sucking greedily, milk dripping down his chin as he growled around the nipple. The sofa was already soaked beneath them; Pushpa’s juices ran freely down his shaft and balls.

They hadn’t even noticed her yet.

Mansi cleared her throat softly, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and a playful smile. “Lagta hai ghar mein full service chal raha tha.”

Both froze mid-thrust.

Pushpa’s eyes flew open, cheeks flushing crimson even as her pussy clenched involuntarily clenched around Ashraful’s cock. Ashraful released the nipple with a wet pop, milk still on his lips, and grinned sheepishly.

“Welcome home, memsaab…” he panted. “Aa jao na… Pushpa akeli nahi sambhal pa rahi.”

Pushpa, still impaled and breathing hard, managed a breathless laugh. “Didi… aap bhi aa jao… teeno milkar mazaa karenge…”

Mansi laughed, low and fond, and shook her head. “Nahi darlings… weekend mein bahut ho gaya. Aaj bank ka kaam hai, nikalna padega. Tum dono apna session khatam karo… aur mujhe breakfast ready kar do. Bread, butter, do eggs sunny-side up, aur fresh juice. Theek hai?”

Ashraful gave a mock salute, still buried inside Pushpa. “Ji memsaab… order sar-aankhon pe. Par breakfast ke saath ek kiss toh banta hai?”

Mansi walked over, leaned down, and kissed him deeply, tasting Pushpa’s milk on his tongue, then kissed Pushpa just as thoroughly, fingers brushing her nipple. “Finish off jaldi… aur breakfast garam rakhna. Main nahaa ke aati hoon.”

She turned and walked toward the stairs, hips swaying just enough to tease, leaving them both staring after her.

Behind her, Pushpa giggled and started riding again. “Memsaab ne order diya hai… jaldi khatam karo, Ashraful… warna breakfast thanda ho jayega!”

Ashraful laughed, gripped her hips, and slammed up into her. “Thanda nahi hone dunga… dono cheez garam rakhunga!”

And Mansi smiled to herself on the way upstairs landing, already planning the private detective call she would make after breakfast.

The house was exactly as it should be: sex in every corner, breakfast on the table, and a very satisfied malikan pulling all the strings.