The grinder sputtered coffee, but Sonali’s world was silent save for the wet, rhythmic pop of her lips around Papa-ji’s thick, veiny cock. She knelt on the cool stone floor, her heavy, rounded tits spilling from her teal blouse, the curve of her cleavage a deep, shadowed valley.

He grunted, his gnarled hands gripping her silky black hair. "That's it, my good girl," he rasped.

Her tongue swirled, tracing the bulging vein, tasting his salty pre-cum. She felt him stiffen against her palate, his whole body a knot of age-hardened desire. Every drop of need from their Sunday-morning tryst clung to her mouth. She increased her rhythm, her full, luscious breasts swaying, brushing against his thin, hairy thighs. He whimpered — a strangled sound.

"Maa! Topi kahan hai?" her son’s voice echoed from the hallway.

Sonali didn’t miss a beat. She gagged only slightly, letting the thick length slide deeper into her throat, her eyes locked on the old man’s blissful, watery gaze. The curtain nearly moved with his taut muscle. Sabzi sizzled on the stove.

Papa-ji groaned low, tugging her face closer, his balls contracting as a thick, hot wad of cum shot deep into her throat. She swallowed eagerly, each convulsion milking him, her own cunt getting wetter in the humid kitchen air. She licked him clean, savoring the bitter final shot, then wiped her glossy lips on the pallu