The clock ticked relentlessly. Riya’s mouth was working like a machine, her tongue swirling around her Sasur’s thick, oily organ, trying to suck every last bit of moisture. The spicy gravy burned her throat, and the smell of Pratap Singh’s raw masculinity was making her head spin.
"Time’s up, Bahu," Sumitra said coldly, looking at the vintage clock on the wall.






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