Priya ki wo Barsaat – Monsoon Trap
The envelope slipped from Priya’s fingers, landing face-down on the marble floor. She didn’t notice. Her knuckles whitened around the edge of the kitchen counter. “He’s coming back early,” she said to the empty room. Her voice sounded thin. Brittle.
Downstairs, the gate buzzer shattered the silence. Priya jumped. A cold bead of sweat traced her spine beneath the silk blouse. She didn’t move. The buzzing stopped. Started again. Insistent. “Mrs. Sharma?” Malik’s voice crackled through the intercom speaker. “Delivery needs signing.”
She pressed the talk button. “One minute.” Her hand trembled. Malik. The building’s caretaker. Always efficient. Always watching with those dark, steady eyes. She smoothed her hair, pointless. Her husband was in Dubai. The flat felt too large. Too quiet.
She opened the door. Malik stood framed in the hallway light, holding a long cardboard tube. His usual crisp white shirt clung slightly to his shoulders in the afternoon heat. “Artwork, madam,” he said, his tone respectful, professional. His gaze flickered past her, into the dim living room. Lingered for a fraction too long on the fallen envelope near her feet. “Everything alright?”
Priya forced a smile. “Fine. Just clumsy.” She bent quickly to retrieve the envelope, feeling the stretch of her skirt across her hips. When she straightened, Malik was still there. Close. The scent of sandalwood and warm skin cut through the air-conditioned chill. His expression hadn’t changed. But something in his stillness felt different. Charged. “Do you need me to sign?” she asked. Her voice barely a murmur now. The corridor seemed narrower suddenly. The hum of the elevator down the hall faded away.
He stepped inside without waiting for invitation. The door clicked shut behind him. He laid the tube carefully on the marble console. Then he turned. Looked at her properly. The professional mask vanished. His eyes travelled down her throat, lingered on the pulse hammering there. “No signature needed,” he said quietly. The deference was gone. Replaced by something low. Certain. “But there is something else.” He moved closer. One slow step. Then another. Priya didn’t retreat. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched. The air thickened.
His hand brushed her cheek. Rough fingertips against smooth skin. A jolt went through her. “Don’t,” she whispered. Meaningless. Her body leaned into his touch. He slid his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up. His thumb traced her lower lip. “You’ve been watching me too,” he murmured. His voice was gravel. “Every time I pass your door.” Priya shivered. Denial died on her tongue. His other hand found her waist, pulling her flush against him. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into her stomach through the thin silk. Heat pooled low in her belly. A small, desperate sound escaped her.
His mouth crashed down. Not gentle. Hungry. Demanding. Priya gasped, opening for him. His kiss was deep, tasting of spice and dark coffee. One hand slid down, kneading her ass through the fabric. The other tangled in her hair, holding her still. She felt his hardness grind against her, igniting a raw ache. He broke the kiss, panting. His dark eyes burned into hers. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed, fingers already working the buttons of her blouse. She shook her head. Silent. Trembling. Consumed. His gaze dropped to her exposed cleavage. “Good.” The word was thick. Possessive.
He yanked the blouse open. Silk ripped. Buttons pinged onto marble. Priya gasped. His rough hand covered her breast, squeezing hard. She arched into the touch. His thumb circled her nipple through the lace bra. Then his mouth was there. Hot. Wet. He sucked hard through the lace, teeth grazing. She cried out, fingers clutching his hair. He growled against her skin. Her bra strap snapped. Cool air hit her bare breast. Then his hot tongue. His fingers pinched her other nipple. Sharp pleasure-pain shot through her. Her knees buckled. He held her up easily, lifting her against him. His erection pressed hard against her thigh. “Malik,” she whimpered. A plea. A surrender.
“Down,” he commanded. Rough. Urgent. He pushed her to her knees on the cool marble floor. His fingers fumbled with his belt. Priya looked up. His cock sprang free. Thick. Veined. Already slick at the tip. Her breath caught. He gripped the base. “Open,” he ordered. She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then leaned forward. Tentatively touched her tongue to the swollen head. Salt. Musk. Malik groaned. “Wider.” She opened her mouth. He thrust deep. Hard. Her throat spasmed. Tears sprang to her eyes. He gripped her hair tight. “Take it.” She choked. Gagged. He pulled back slightly, then plunged again. Deeper. Faster. Her jaw stretched. Her cheeks hollowed. The slap of flesh filled the silent apartment. He fucked her mouth relentlessly. Her tears mixed with spit. She moaned around him, the vibration making him thrust harder. Deeper. Until her nose pressed against his dark curls.
He pulled her off abruptly. Strings of saliva connected her lips to his glistening cock. He hauled her up. Turned her. Bent her over the cold marble console, her ripped blouse hanging open. One hand shoved her skirt up roughly. The other ripped aside her panties. She felt the humid air hit her wetness. His fingers plunged inside her, thick and demanding. Priya gasped into the polished stone. He worked her hard, curling deep, finding the spot that made her cry out and buck against his hand. “Already soaked,” he growled. “Waiting for it.” She whimpered, the sound muffled against the marble.
His fingers withdrew. The blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance. Priya braced herself. He thrust in one brutal stroke, filling her completely. She cried out, arching against the unforgiving console. It burned. Stretched. Then the friction ignited pure fire. He gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh. Pulled out almost completely. Slammed back in. Harder. Deeper. Priya gasped, pushing back against him instinctively. He set a relentless rhythm, driving into her with deep, powerful strokes. His hips slapped against her ass with each thrust. The sound echoed – sharp, wet slaps of skin on skin. Her breasts bounced freely against the cold marble beneath her.
His hand slid under her, fingers finding her swollen clit. He rubbed rough, fast circles. The double assault shattered her. Pleasure coiled tight, then exploded. Her muscles clamped down hard on his cock as she came with a choked scream, body shuddering uncontrollably against the console. He didn’t slow. Didn’t falter. His thrusts grew even harder, faster. “Again,” he commanded, grinding against her. His thumb kept working her clit ruthlessly. The peak hit her again, sharper this time, tearing another desperate cry from her throat. He groaned, deep and guttural, his rhythm faltering. “Feel that cock?” he rasped, pounding into her relentlessly. “Feel it fill you?”
His hand left her clit and clamped hard on her hip. His thrusts became frantic, shallow, urgent. A low roar ripped from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt. She felt the hot pulse deep inside her pussy, thick jets flooding her as he held her pinned, grinding against her ass. “Priya,” he gasped, her name sounding raw and unfamiliar on his tongue. She squeezed around him instinctively, milking every spurt, feeling the wet heat spread. Her own climax crested again, softer this time, a trembling aftershock that left her slumped against the console, breathing ragged.
Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breaths and the distant hum of Mumbai traffic far below. Malik slowly pulled out, the slick sound obscene in the quiet. Priya shuddered as his cum leaked down her inner thigh, warm against her cooling skin. He straightened her skirt roughly, then turned her to face him. His expression was unreadable – the raw hunger replaced by something darker, more complex. He traced the tear track on her cheek with a calloused thumb, no tenderness in the gesture, just assessment.
Priya’s legs trembled violently. She clutched the torn edges of her blouse, the silk damp with sweat. Her gaze flickered past him to the fallen envelope near the door – the airline confirmation showing her husband’s flight landing tonight. Reality crashed back, cold and sharp. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Only a choked breath. Malik picked up the cardboard tube he’d delivered, untouched. His eyes met hers, holding them for a beat too long. “The painting,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. He placed it deliberately on the console beside her, the thud echoing faintly.
He turned without another word, walked to the door, and opened it. The hallway light spilled in. Priya flinched. He paused on the threshold, looking back at her disheveled form against the marble, the wet stain darkening her skirt. His gaze lingered on the mess he’d made. Then he stepped out, pulling the door shut softly behind him. The click of the latch sounded deafening. Priya slid down the console onto the cold floor, the scent of sandalwood and sex thick in the air, her husband’s envelope crumpled in her fist.
Her fingers trembled as she touched her throat where Malik’s rough grip had left faint marks. Below, the wet warmth between her thighs was already cooling, his cum leaking onto the marble. She stared at the closed door, replaying the raw command in his voice, the brutal thrusts that filled her completely, the way she’d begged silently for more even as tears streaked her face. The silence now was suffocating. Only the distant horns from Marine Drive reminded her where she was who she was supposed to be.
Malik’s painting leaned against the console where he’d placed it, forgotten until now. She ripped open the tube’s end with shaking hands, pulling out a canvas. It wasn’t artwork. Inside was a single, grainy photograph: Priya entering a cheap hotel room two weeks ago, her face flushed, her sari slightly undone. Malik hadn’t delivered art. He’d delivered proof. Her breath hitched. This wasn’t passion. It was a trap sprung months in the making.
Jab Rupali ki Ajnabi se huyi Barish me mulakat
Outside, rain began hammering the windows, blurring the city lights. Priya pressed a hand to her sticky thigh, feeling the chill of betrayal seep deeper than Malik’s seed ever could. The intercom buzzed again sharp, impatient. Her husband’s voice crackled through, cheerful, oblivious: “Priya? I’m home early, darling. Open up.” She froze, the photograph slipping from her fingers, her ripped blouse gaping open, Malik’s cum still slick inside her.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. She scrambled for the photo, cramming it into the tube as her husband’s key turned in the lock. The door swung open to reveal Vikram, soaked from the rain, his smile fading as he took in her disheveled state torn silk, tear-streaked cheeks, the damp patch darkening her skirt. “What in god’s name happened here?” he demanded, dropping his suitcase with a thud that echoed in the heavy silence.
Priya clutched the tube behind her back. “Malik he delivered the painting,” she stammered, gesturing weakly at the canvas. Vikram’s eyes narrowed. He snatched the tube, yanking out the photograph. His face went slack, then hardened into cold fury. “You filthy whore,” he hissed, crumpling the photo. Outside, thunder boomed, rattling the windows as Vikram grabbed her arm, his grip bruising. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
The intercom buzzed once more. Malik’s voice, smooth as venom, filled the room: “Mr. Sharma? Forgot to mention the painting’s quite revealing.” Vikram shoved Priya aside, slamming his palm against the talk button. “You bastard,” he snarled. Malik’s low chuckle crackled back. “Come downstairs, sir. Let’s discuss your wife’s… performance.” Vikram stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Priya slid to the floor, Malik’s sandalwood scent clinging to her skin, the taste of his cock still sharp on her tongue. The trap had snapped shut.
Rain lashed the windows as Vikram returned, his suit soaked, eyes wild with betrayal. He threw Malik’s burner phone onto the marble screen cracked, gallery filled with grainy hotel shots. “How long?” he demanded. Priya flinched at the footage of her kneeling before Malik, her lips stretched around his thickness. “Two months,” she whispered. Vikram backhanded her, the slap echoing like gunfire. She tasted blood. “Filthy,” he spat, ripping her torn blouse open fully. “Let’s see what he paid for.”
His fingers dug into her breasts, pinching her nipples hard punishment, not pleasure. Priya cried out, but Vikram shoved her face-first into the console. He tore her skirt away, exposing Malik’s cum dripping down her thighs. “Still wet for him?” he growled. Without warning, he thrust into her from behind, dry and brutal. Priya screamed into the marble, the burn tearing through her. Vikram pounded harder, each thrust a hammer blow. “Scream louder,” he ordered. “Let the whole building hear his whore.”
Priya’s body convulsed not from climax, but shock. Vikram gripped her hips, drilling deeper. “He recorded everything,” he hissed. “Sent it to my flight email.” His climax hit, hot and furious, flooding her already-stuffed pussy. Priya sobbed, her tears mixing with rain streaking the windows. Vikram pulled out, zipping his trousers. “Clean yourself,” he ordered, tossing her a dish towel. “Then pack. You’re going back to your father’s village tonight.” The door clicked shut. Priya lay trembling, Malik’s seed and Vikram’s rage mingling inside her, the photograph of her shame staring up from the floor.
Malik waited in the lobby shadows, polishing the brass elevator panel. Vikram stormed past without a word, disappearing into the monsoon downpour. Malik smirked, pocketing Vikram’s dropped wallet payment secured. He pressed the penthouse intercom button. “Mrs. Sharma?” His voice dripped false concern. “Forgot the delivery receipt.” Silence. He buzzed again, insistent. Priya’s ragged breath crackled through the speaker. “Leave me alone.” Malik leaned closer, lowering his voice to a graveled whisper. “Or what? You’ll tell him I fucked you harder than he ever could? That you screamed my name?” The line went dead. Malik chuckled. One more move left.
Priya scrubbed her thighs raw in the shower, scalding water failing to erase Malik’s scent or Vikram’s violation. She wrapped herself in Vikram’s discarded robe too big, smelling of his cologne and stared at the burner phone. Gallery thumbnails flashed: her on her knees, mouth stretched; Malik’s hand fisting her hair; Vikram’s furious face. A new video pinged Malik, smirking into the lens. “Next time,” he murmured, “we film the ending.” Priya hurled the phone against the tiles. It shattered. Silence. Then, the apartment landline rang sharp, relentless. Her mother’s caller ID flashed. Guilt coiled like a knife.
She lifted the receiver, voice trembling. “Maa?” Her mother’s frantic words tumbled out Vikram had called, raging about betrayal, divorce papers drafted. Priya sank to the wet tiles, clutching the robe as her mother demanded answers. “Is it true, beta? Did you shame us?” Priya choked on the lie, tasting Malik’s salt and Vikram’s rage. Silence stretched. Then a soft click. Disowned.
Outside, Mumbai’s monsoon fury mirrored her chaos rain hammered the penthouse windows, wind howling through Marine Drive. Priya stumbled to the console, Malik’s sandalwood scent still clinging to the marble where he’d pinned her. She traced the cold surface, fingers brushing the torn silk of her blouse. Vikram’s suitcase lay abandoned by the door, his passport peeking from a pocket. Escape. But Malik’s burner phone lay shattered in the shower stall. Proof scattered, but not gone.
A sharp buzz ripped through the silence the service elevator, reserved for staff. Priya froze. Malik’s low chuckle echoed from the intercom. “Forgot something, Mrs. Sharma.” The elevator doors hissed open down the hall. Heavy footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate. Priya backed against the console, Vikram’s robe gaping open. Her pulse roared in her ears, louder than the storm.
The door handle turned. No knock. Malik filled the frame, rain-soaked shirt plastered to his chest, eyes dark as the churning Arabian Sea. He stepped inside, dripping onto the marble. “We’re not finished,” he murmured, kicking the door shut. His gaze dropped to her thighs, where Vikram’s cum had dried sticky and cold. “He left you messy.” Priya’s breath hitched as he stalked closer, the scent of wet pavement and sandalwood cutting through the storm’s damp.
He grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “You owe me,” he breathed, thumb tracing her bruised lip. Priya flinched. “For what?” Malik’s laugh was low, dangerous. “For the show.” He ripped Vikram’s robe open, exposing her nakedness. “Down.” She sank to her knees, trembling. His zipper rasped. His cock sprang free hard, thick, the head glistening. “Clean me,” he ordered. Priya hesitated, then leaned forward, tongue dragging along his shaft. Salt, rain, betrayal.
Malik tangled his fingers in her hair. “Deep,” he commanded. She opened wider, taking him in until her throat burned. He thrust hard, gagging her. Tears spilled as she choked, spit dripping onto her breasts. He fucked her mouth relentlessly, grunting with each plunge. “Good slut,” he rasped. “Know your place.” Her jaw ached, but she sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks until he groaned, pulling back.
He hauled her up, spun her to face the rain-lashed window, and bent her over the console same spot, same cold marble. His fingers plunged into her wetness. “Still dripping for me,” he growled. Priya gasped as he shoved inside her raw, cramming his thickness deep. “Scream,” he demanded, pounding harder. She cried out, the sound lost in thunder. Malik gripped her hips, slamming home. “This time,” he hissed, “you swallow everything.” He drove deeper, the rhythm brutal, final. Priya clawed the marble, waiting for the end.
Her climax ripped through her sharp, involuntary as he filled her completely. Malik shuddered, grinding against her ass, his release hot and endless inside her. He held her pinned, breath ragged. “Done,” he muttered. Priya slumped, trembling. Malik pulled out slowly, the wet sound obscene. He zipped his trousers, then tossed a crumpled wad of rupees onto the console. “For the ride,” he said flatly. The door clicked shut. Priya slid to the floor, his cum leaking down her thighs, Vikram’s robe soaked beneath her.
Outside, sirens wailed through the storm. Priya crawled to Vikram’s suitcase, fingers fumbling for his passport. She shoved it into Malik’s cash thin hope. The landline rang again sharp, relentless. She ignored it, staggering to the shower. Scalding water burned her skin, but couldn’t wash away the sandalwood, the salt, the shame.
Rain hammered the glass as Priya dressed in Vikram’s oversized shirt. She stared at the broken burner phone, Malik’s smirk frozen on the screen. One last buzz the service elevator ascending. Priya grabbed a kitchen knife, her knuckles white. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Slow. Certain. She pressed against the wall, blade raised. The door handle turned.
Malik stood silhouetted against the storm, rain dripping from his hair. “Expecting someone else?” he mocked, stepping inside. His gaze dropped to the knife. “Put it down.” Priya’s hand trembled. Malik lunged swift, brutal wrenching her wrist until the blade clattered. He pinned her against the wet window, cold glass biting her cheek. “You owe me,” he breathed, fingers digging into her hips. “For unfinished business.”
He spun her, shoving her face-first onto the console. The marble chilled her bare thighs as he ripped Vikram’s shirt open. No foreplay. No words. His cock drove into her raw, tearing a gasp from her throat. Priya clawed at the wood, sobbing as he pounded harder each thrust a punishment. Malik gripped her hair, yanking her head back. “Scream,” he snarled. Outside, lightning split the sky. Thunder drowned her cry.
His hand slid around her throat, squeezing just enough to terrify. Priya choked, tears blurring the rain-streaked city lights. Malik’s rhythm grew frantic, grinding deep. “Feel that?” he hissed. She did the brutal stretch, the heat coiling low despite the pain. Her climax ripped through her sharp and unwelcome, leaving her shuddering. Malik roared, plunging to the hilt. Hot pulses flooded her, thick and endless, as he held her pinned. “Done,” he spat.
He pulled out abruptly, leaving her slumped against the console. Malik straightened his soaked shirt, not looking back. He tossed a crumpled passport onto the marble beside Vikram’s wallet. “Don’t come back,” he muttered. The door slammed. Priya lay trembling, Malik’s cum dripping onto the floor, Vikram’s shirt hanging open.
Silence. Only the storm’s fury and the knife gleaming where it fell. Priya crawled toward the passport. Her fingers brushed its damp cover freedom, or another trap? The intercom buzzed, sharp and insistent. She froze. Malik’s voice crackled through, cold as the marble beneath her knees: “Final delivery, Mrs. Sharma. Open up.”
She stumbled to the door, legs trembling. Twisted the lock. Malik stood soaked, rain plastering his shirt to hard muscle, Vikram’s wallet in hand. “You forgot this,” he said, tossing it inside. It skidded across the floor, spilling rupees and a folded divorce decree. His eyes raked her torn shirt, the drying streaks on her thighs. “Leaving so soon?” He stepped closer, sandalwood and wet pavement choking the air. Priya backed away. “What more do you want?” Malik’s smile cut like glass. “An encore.”
He shoved her against the console, the edge digging into her hips. No preamble. His mouth crushed hers violent, tasting of rain and salt. Priya fought, nails raking his neck. He caught her wrists, pinning them behind her back. “Scream,” he growled against her lips. “Let the whole city hear.” His free hand ripped Vikram’s shirt open, buttons scattering. Fingers dug into her breast, pinching hard. She cried out pain, shame, unwanted heat pooling low. Malik laughed, low and dark. “Still tight for me.”
He spun her, bending her over the console. Cold marble burned her bare skin. His cock drove into her, dry and brutal. Priya gasped, arching against the agony. Malik gripped her hips, pounding deeper with each thrust. “This is your price,” he hissed. Her tears mixed with rain on the wood grain. She came suddenly, violently a betrayal of her own body, wracking sobs tearing from her throat. Malik roared, slamming home. Hot pulses flooded her, thick and endless. He held her there, grinding until she shook. Then he pulled out, zipping his trousers. “Paid in full,” he muttered. The door clicked shut.
Alone. Priya slid to the floor, Malik’s cum leaking down her thighs, Vikram’s decree sticky in her fist. The storm raged on. Somewhere below, a car alarm wailed a sharp, broken sound in the drowning city.
