"Riya Vyas" was the epitome of the modern Indian housewife with a body built for sin. At thirty-three, she had the kind of beauty that made aunties whisper behind their hands and men forget their wives. Warm, sun-kissed brown skin that glowed like fresh honey, long raven-black hair that cascaded down to her waist in thick, glossy waves, and large, expressive doe-eyes lined with kajal that sparkled with mischief and barely contained hunger. Her full lips were often painted a deep maroon, perfect for wrapping around cock. She possessed a voluptuous figure blessed by the gods—heavy, pendulous breasts (36D) that strained against every blouse, a narrow waist that flared into wide, child-bearing hips, and a plump, jiggly ass that swayed hypnotically when she walked in a saree. Her navel was deep and inviting, often left bare by low-waisted petticoats, and between her thick thighs hid a smooth, tight pussy that stayed perpetually wet and aching. She lived with her husband, Arjun Vyas, in a spacious apartment in a upscale gated society in Bangalore. Arjun was a tall, successful IT consultant—handsome in that clean-shaven, corporate way—with a good salary and frequent international business trips. To the outside world, Riya was the ideal *grihalakshmi*: she cooked delicious North Indian meals, kept the house spotless with fresh marigold garlands at the entrance, wore her mangalsutra proudly, and attended temple on Fridays. She draped herself in elegant silk sarees for parties, her pallu draped just low enough to tease the swell of her cleavage, her bindi perfectly placed on her forehead. But behind closed doors, Riya was a cock-starved slut who burned with insatiable lust. Her desperation was constant. The moment Arjun’s suitcase rolled out the door for another two- or three-week trip to the US or Europe, her body betrayed her. Her nipples hardened against her blouse, her pussy throbbed and leaked into her panties, and an empty ache settled deep in her core. She needed *cock*—thick, hard, pounding cock that stretched her and filled her completely. Masturbation wasn’t enough. She’d spend hours on their king-sized bed with her legs spread wide, fucking herself with a large dildo while moaning in Hindi, watching secret porn on her phone—rough desi videos of wives being dominated, creampied, and used. Yet no matter how many orgasms she had, the hunger only grew. Her favorite game was provoking Arjun into angry, brutal sex. Arjun was usually the patient, loving husband—respectful, providing, and affectionate. But Riya knew exactly how to flip the switch. She’d “forget” to prepare his favorite dal-chawal properly, wear a revealing low-neck blouse in front of his colleagues, or send him WhatsApp messages with photos of her dripping cunt and fingers buried inside while he was in meetings. She’d tease him mercilessly: “Arjun ji, you’re always so busy… maybe I should find someone else to satisfy me?” When his temper finally snapped, he’d become a beast. He’d shove her against the wall, rip open her saree, yank her mangalsutra aside, and fuck her raw—slapping her heavy tits, pulling her long hair like reins, choking her delicate neck while slamming his thick cock deep into her wet choot. He’d call her a “randi” and a “dirty slut” as he pounded her from behind, leaving bite marks on her shoulders and red handprints on her golden ass. Those were the nights Riya lived for—when he destroyed her pussy, filled her with hot cum, and left her shaking and leaking on the bedsheets. But when Arjun was away, Riya didn’t stay faithful for long. The laundry delivery boy was her regular fix. Young, muscular Raju from the local dhobi service would come to collect clothes, and Riya would answer the door in a thin, almost transparent nighty, her nipples clearly visible. “Arre, beta… my husband is not here. Help me with something?” Within minutes she’d be on her knees in the living room, sucking his hard desi lund with sloppy devotion—taking him deep into her throat while her mangalsutra swayed between her bouncing tits. He’d bend her over the sofa, lift her nighty, and fuck her hard from behind, the sound of his hips slapping against her juicy gaand echoing through the apartment. She loved when he called her “bhabhi” or “memsaab” as he filled her married pussy with his young seed. The society’s security guard, a strong, dark-skinned man in his forties, got his turn too. Riya would “accidentally” drop her pallu in front of him during evening walks, then invite him inside for water. Soon she’d be riding him on the balcony, her blouse open and breasts jiggling wildly under the night sky as his thick cock stretched her. The risk of neighbors seeing made her cum even harder. Even the vegetable vendor and the young plumber weren’t safe. She’d seduce the sabziwala with a low saree and lingering touches while bargaining, then pull him into the kitchen for a quick, sweaty fuck against the counter—his rough hands mauling her tits as he pumped her full. The plumber fixed more than just the leaky tap; he fixed her desperate cunt on the bathroom floor, making her scream in pleasure while water ran over their bodies. Riya kept her body temple-ready yet whore-perfect: regular waxing for a smooth, hairless pussy, oil massages that kept her skin silky, and tight blouses that accentuated her deep cleavage. She knew how to move—subtle hip sways in a saree, the way she’d bite her lip while talking, the soft moan when she “accidentally” brushed her breasts against a man’s arm. Every errand became a hunt. Deep down, she loved Arjun. She adored the life he gave her—the comfort, the status, the occasional gentle lovemaking. But her body demanded more. She craved the filth, the secrecy, the thrill of being a secret slut behind the respectable housewife facade. She fantasized about everything: getting gangbanged by Arjun’s office colleagues, seducing the temple priest after pooja, hosting a kitty party that turned into an orgy where multiple cocks used her married holes. Riya Vyas was the perfect Indian wife on the surface—devoted, graceful, traditional. Beneath the sindoor and sarees, she was a cock-hungry vixen who manipulated situations, spread her legs, and surrendered to her darkest desires whenever her husband’s plane took off. And she wouldn’t change a thing.