Ghar Mein Aag

Anita's body is a furnace. The thin pink nighty sticks to her sweat-damp skin as she straddles Vibhuti on the sofa, grinding her hot, wet cunt against his limp thigh. She grabs his hand, shoves it under her nighty, and presses his cold, reluctant fingers into her soaked folds. 'Suno na behenchod,' she hisses, her breath hot against his ear, her heavy breast shoved against his face. But his body is dead weight, his lund a soft, useless worm in his pajamas, and the TV's cricket commentary is louder than her panting.