“How much for a full body massage?” Smita’s voice was low and sultry, the kind that could make a man’s heart race with just a single syllable. The beggar on the side of the road looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of her voluptuous figure. She was dressed in a simple sari, but it clung to her curves like a second skin, hinting at the passionate woman beneath.

The man, whose name she’d later learn was Raghu, took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding, “Fifty rupees, madam.” His eyes never left hers, and she could see the hunger in them. Smita knew that look—she’d seen it countless times from the men who frequented her salon, looking for more than just a hair cut or a shave. But this was different. This was raw and primal, and it sent a thrill down her spine.

“Fifty rupees for what?” she teased, leaning in closer to him. Her breasts, heavy and round, pushed against the fabric of her blouse, and she felt his gaze linger there. She knew he could feel the heat emanating from her, could see the way her nipples pebbled under his stare. “Is that all you’re willing to offer?”

Raghu’s smile grew broader, a hint of mischief playing on his lips. “Madam,” he said, his voice rough and thick with desire, “for fifty rupees, I will make you feel like a queen.”

The salon was empty that evening, the last customer having left an hour ago. Smita leaned back in her chair, her legs crossed, watching the rain outside the window. The sound of the droplets hitting the ground was hypnotic, a rhythm that matched the pulsing ache between her thighs. She thought about Raghu, the way his calloused hands had felt on her skin, the way he’d made her moan and beg. It had been so long since she’d felt that kind of primal pleasure, and she craved more.

Her thoughts drifted to the other men in town, the ones who saw her and lusted after her. The idea of having them at her mercy, of making them worship her body and give her the release she needed was intoxicating. She’d always had a taste for the forbidden, for the thrill of the unknown, and what could be more taboo than taking these lowly men into her bed?

The first time she approached one of them, a young rickshaw driver with muscular arms and a crooked smile, she felt a rush of excitement. She offered him a hundred rupees for his services, a sum that was more than he made in a week. His eyes grew wide with shock before they narrowed, and he took her hand, leading her to a secluded alleyway.

The alley was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of rain and lust. Smita’s pulse quickened as the driver pushed her against the wall, his mouth finding hers in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed her body, greedy and rough, tearing at the fabric of her sari. She didn’t resist, instead, she encouraged him, her own hands fumbling at his pants, eager to feel his hardness against her palm.

As he took her, she felt a sense of power and control she hadn’t experienced in years. She moaned his name, urging him to go deeper, faster, harder. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, making her toes curl and her nails dig into his back. When she came, it was with a scream that echoed off the wet cobblestone walls, and she knew she’d found something she never wanted to lose.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Smita became known as the charming, yet wild milf with a taste for low-class men. Her desires grew bolder, and her exploits more daring. Her employees whispered about her behind her back, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was the sweet release she found in the arms of these rough, uncouth men.

One evening, as she lay in bed, her body still thrumming from the latest encounter, she had an idea. Why stop at one man when she could have many? The thought of a gangbang, of being taken by an entire group of them, had her breath coming in short gasps. It was a risk, but one she was willing to take for the sake of her sexual appetite.