Devansh's possessive revenge

Imagine a indian bride with a saree and her husband some kind of jealous interaction about how someone else touched her and then she is reluctant but his neck kisses and sucking is just too much to bear after he turns her to towards the mirror and continues his magic then he sits her on the dressing table and asked her how wet she will be in between sucking and biting making her a moaning mess and continues to work his magic. Gurl is Aisha and man is devansh.He then pulled out took his fingers away made her look suprised and asked her to stand while he continued his slaughter of kisses and removing saree admist she almost moan out his name and ignoring her crys he just kept of going deeper but not fulfilling herHe continued to listen to her misn while fingering her gently and roughly and changing his pace as soon as she reached high. She was desperate and he was not don't. He even froungIdeas for your next story Imagine an Indian bride named Aisha, adorned in a shimmering saree, who discovers her husband Devansh's jealousy stemming from an innocent dance with a cousin at the wedding reception. Back in their lavish suite, she hesitates at first, feeling guilt, but his possessive whispers and soft caresses along her exposed midriff ignite a fire she can't resist. He guides her to the full-length mirror by the balcony, where the city lights twinkle below, and unleashes a trail of feather-light kisses down her neck, each one punctuated by bites that make her gasp and arch. Lifting her onto the ornate dressing table, he teases her with slow, deliberate fingers, asking how badly she craves him amid her breathless protests. Aisha's moans fill the room as he alternates between gentle strokes and rough thrusts, edging her relentlessly while whispering tales of his envy, only granting release when she begs in desperate abandon. Picture Aisha, a radiant Indian bride draped in a traditional saree, whose husband Devansh's jealousy flares after overhearing a flirtatious compliment from a family friend. In the privacy of their cozy honeymoon villa by the beach, she tries to charm her way out of the tension, but his intense gaze pins her against the wall. He spins her to face the ocean-view window, where moonlight streams in, and plants searing neck kisses that weaken her resolve. Hoisting her onto a sturdy beachside table, he explores her body with a mix of sucking bites and tender licks, commanding her to admit her desires between moans. Devansh's fingers work a masterful rhythm, teasing her most sensitive spots, deliberately bringing her to the brink before withdrawing, fueled by his possessive fire, until she writhes and confesses her loyalty in ecstasy. Envision Aisha, an elegant Indian bride in a flowing saree, who playfully ignites her husband Devansh's jealousy by recounting a harmless encounter with an old crush from their college days. Retired to the opulent bedroom of their ancestral home, she feigns reluctance as he pulls her close, but his sultry neck caresses, laced with gentle nips, unravel her composure. Positioning her in front of an antique mirror reflecting flickering candlelight, he sits her on the carved dressing vanity and interrogates her

Aisha’s golden bangles clinked as Devansh twisted her wrist, his grip just shy of painful. "That cousin of yours," he growled against her ear, "thought he could touch what’s mine?" The silk of her crimson saree whispered against her thighs as he spun her toward the floor-length mirror, the intricate embroidery catching the dim light. Her protest died in her throat when his teeth grazed the nape of her neck. A gasp. A shiver. His lips trailed lower, sucking a bruise into her collarbone while his fingers slipped beneath her blouse, calloused pads teasing the swell of her breast. "Look at yourself," he commanded, voice rough. The Aisha in the mirror was flushed, lips parted—nothing like the composed bride from an hour ago. Devansh lifted her onto the dressing table with a thud, scattering perfume bottles. The cold wood bit into her thighs as he slid his palm up her bare leg. "Tell me," he murmured, biting her earlobe, "how wet are you for me?" His fingers found her through the thin fabric of her petticoat, rubbing slow circles. She arched, a moan building—until he yanked his hand away. "No," he smirked at her whimper, dragging her upright. The saree pooled at her feet as his mouth reclaimed her skin, relentless. Every nip, every lick drove her higher, his fingers plunging in and out of her at a maddening pace. "Devansh—*please*—" He chuckled darkly, twisting his fingers inside her just as her hips jerked. "Not yet."

The silk of her discarded saree tangled around her ankles like a whisper, but Devansh’s mouth eclipsed all other sensation. His tongue lashed the pulse at her throat; each suck sent heat pooling lower, her skin alive with the scrape of his stubble. When his teeth clamped down on her nipple through the sheer fabric of her blouse, her back bowed off the mirror with a gasp. His fingers curled inside her, relentless, thumb pressing tight circles against her clit. The stretch burned deliciously, every thrust hitting that spot that made her toes curl. But he denied her the rhythm she craved, slowing when she tensed, speeding up just to leave her trembling on the edge. “Feel that?” he growled, biting her shoulder as his free hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. “Every shiver, every fucking twitch—” He dragged his tongue up her neck, lapping at the salt on her skin. “Mine.” Aisha’s nails scratched the mirror as he added a third finger, the stretch sharp and perfect. Her moan fractured when he suddenly withdrew, leaving her clenching around nothing. “*Dev*—” “Beg properly,” he ordered, dragging his wet fingers down her stomach, “and maybe…” His palm smacked her inner thigh, the sting blooming into a throb. “Maybe then.”

**Continuation:** Aisha’s breath came in ragged bursts as Dev's hand retreated, leaving her trembling. The air felt cooler where his fingers had been, and the emptiness was nearly unbearable. She squirmed against the dressing table, the hard edge biting into her thighs, only amplifying the ache between them. His grip on her hip tightened, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the hard length of him pressed against her back. Heat radiated from his body, searing through the thin fabric of her blouse as his other hand dragged up her ribs, teasing the underside of her breast before pinching her nipple—sharp enough to make her cry out. "*Devansh*—" she gasped, her voice breaking. He silenced her with a deep, bruising kiss, his tongue claiming her mouth with the same ruthless rhythm his fingers had worked between her legs. Every thrust of his tongue mirrored what she needed—what he refused to give. When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened with her. "Say it," he murmured, dragging his teeth over her bottom lip. Her thighs trembled, slick with want. "*Please*—let me come." A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest as his fingers circled her clit again—light, teasing. "Louder." She arched, nails scraping the mirror as his touch burned through her. "*Fuck*, please—I need it!" His fingers plunged back inside, curling just right, and this time he didn’t stop.

The mirror fogged with their heat, her reflection blurred into streaks of gold and sweat-slick skin. The dressing table dug into her thighs, its cool edge a sharp contrast to the molten ache between them. Perfume bottles rattled with every thrust of Dev’s fingers, the clinking glass a brittle counterpoint to her choked moans. His free hand fisted in the damp silk still tangled around her hips, yanking it tighter—a silken noose anchoring her to his rhythm. The air smelled of jasmine oil and salt, her own arousal thick on Dev’s fingers when he dragged them over her lower lip. She sucked them clean without breaking eye contact in the misted mirror, his growl vibrating through her spine. The carved wood frame bit into her palms as he bent her forward, exposing the reddened marks his teeth had left on her shoulder. "Look at you," he rasped, thrusting deeper. "Dripping all over my hand like you’re made for this." Aisha’s knees threatened to buckle. Every flick of his thumb, every curl of his fingers—*hurts so good—* until the room dissolved into white-hot need.

He curls and finds her spot and goes on a brutal rhythm and stops and asks her is it still only ur cousin and she is hot in need so he with full jealousy puts 2 fingers again and tortures her while his mouth dirty talks her

Dev’s fingers curled hard inside her, striking that sweet, deep spot with ruthless precision. The rhythm turned brutal—no mercy in the way he pistoned into her, his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. She sobbed, hips jerking, but he *stopped*—fingers still buried to the knuckle—and dragged his mouth along her sweat-slick neck. “Still just your cousin you think about when you touch yourself?” His voice was rough, dark with jealousy. Aisha whimpered, clenching around him. “*No*—fuck, *Dev*—” He shoved two fingers back in, twisting, stretching her wider. “Liar.” His teeth scraped her earlobe as his thumb circled her clit in slow, punishing strokes. “Tell me who makes you come.” She arched, trembling, her reflection a mess of flushed skin and desperate hunger. His free hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. “*Say it*.” “Y-you,” she gasped. “Only—*ah!*—only *you*—” He rewarded her with a sharp, relentless rhythm, fingers driving deeper. “Good girl. Now *scream* it.”