Namaste and salaam, you delicious devils — it’s Shanaya Rathore, 36, married, mom of three,
living the picture-perfect bahu (daughter in law) life in a joint Hindu family in Mumbai, India. But Eid?
Eid is when I give myself completely [along with many other days, but nothing like this]—I’ve offered
my 36-28-36 curves as a secret Eidi to six jaw-dropping, dangerously well-hung Muslim hunks—
each one made to wreck good Hindu wives, moms and daughters like me. It’s raw, sweaty, feral—no
condoms, all RAW.
Eid Morning
I wake before sunrise on the fourth floor, heart pounding. I slip into the shower—hot water sliding
down every curve, slick with scented oil. Then the golden chiffon saree: pallu low, blouse deep—no
bra, no panties—like always. Sindoor on my maang, kundan earrings brushing my neck, toe rings,
anklets. Desi. Dressed to gift, myself.
My three kids – teens, all charm and mischief. 14, 16, and 18, still sprawled on their beds, no school
and college since its Eid, no clue how hard their mum will be working on their holiday. Downstairs,
mummyji and papaji are setting up for Navratri*.*
Weeks of teasing in our WhatsApp group chat, Vikram (my husband, yes he knows, yes he helps)
arranging snacks and lube like we’re planning a shaadi baraat, not a gangbang. Eid + Navratri collided
this year. And Goddess, I was the battlefield. I am supposed to fast all day for the 9 days of Navratri,
one of which was the day of Eid – Eid Gangbang, and I did it all. You may ask, “How did you observe
your Hindu fast while guzzling your Muslim hunks’ cum and spit all day and night and the next
morning?”, hmmm, its better you don’t ask.
The Six Hunters Arrive
By 10 a.m. , Zahid, one of my hunks for the day [who is also my husband’s business partner] is at
the side door—tall, kurta crisp, the thick bulge visible from over his clothes. I greet him, joining
hands, “Namaste, Eid Mubarak” tease him with a curtsy, letting the pallu slide off one shoulder. “Your
Eidi (gift) is wrapped and ready,” I purr. “Ready to be unwrapped, jaan?” he grins. One by one, five
more slip in—each greeted with a fresh bit of tease, each traced from navel to neck.
By the time all of them arrive, I glided through the house like a 18 y.o. girl or a bird who just learnt to
fly, doing all my morning chores like the dutiful daughter, mother and wife I am, woke up the kids,
did the morning aarti and rituals with my family, cooked, and served. Once my hunks arrived, I had
more duties to fulfill, and I told my in-laws that I will be staying in for the day, as I don’t feel so good,
just like on every Eid, every year. I kiss my kids’ foreheads and murmur, “Mumma will be resting
upstairs, not well today, okay?”, In reality, I was anything but “resting”, I was anything but “not well
today”. And just like that, my secret playground begins.
Upstairs, it begins. My saree? stripped, torn. My silk bedsheets? Destroyed. My moans? from a pin
drop to a loudspeaker.. I was surrounded, pinned, licked, stretched. They don’t take turns. They take
me together. Mouth full. Ass full. Pussy dripping. My gold bangles clink as I grip the bed. One man
buries his face between my thighs while another fills my mouth with his hunger.
The washroom’s next — hot water fogging the glass as one presses me to the tiles, the other rinses
me only to re-dirty me. Living room? My saree’s flung over the sofa. I’m bent over, muttering “Ya
Allah” between moans I’m not supposed to say. The balcony? one hunk gripping my waist while
another cups my mouth from behind. “Log dekhenge (people will see)” I whisper. “Toh dekhen (let
them)” he growls, pushing in deeper.. I was bent over, hair tossed over.
Afternoon [yes all that was still in the morning]
My mouth’s full, my thighs are trembling, my sindoor and teeka smudge on the pillow as I’m taken
again and again. They don’t let up. They don’t go gentle. One moment I’m on all fours with my hair
yanked back, next I’m bent over the dresser, legs shaking, cum dripping down my thighs and chin.
They tease me “Maa h tu kisi ki?” (You are someone’s mother?).
Mid-afternoon, Vikram arrives, the door was locked, but he had the keys, just walked in, as expected.
He stands just inside the open door, watching me draped across their laps—skin flushed, sheets
tangled, sweaty, moaning, getting filled — smirks, grabs the files from the shelf, leaves. My husband.
My enabler. My secret keeper.
Evening and Aarti
Seven hours in, I’m fasting—no food, just thriving on their cum and spit, my body dripping, pussy,
stomach, and ass full. I’m sprawled across the bed, buzzing, playful, tossing sultry glances despite the
marathon. My husband comes again, this time to get me for the evening Navratri Aarti [evening
prayer] which I under no circumstances wanted to miss, he unlocked the door, leans against the
frame, eyes dancing over me, mid-pound, the men’s commanding presence filling the room. “Aarti’s
(Prayer) in an hour, Shanaya, family will be waiting” he says, smirking, “don’t look too wrecked.”
His voice is cheeky, our lovely marriage sparkling in his wink. The men grin, naughty and bold,
purring, “Hurry back, our devi, we’re not done claiming you.” Another brushes his fingers across my
lips, whispering, “Your prayers won’t keep us waiting long.” I giggle, caught in their grip, my body
quivering, but I quip, “Can’t keep the gods waiting, can I?” with a defiant, kinky wink. My husband
and the hunks exchange glances and smirk at the state I am in, or the state the hunks and put me in
They don’t let go easy, one pinning me down, his touch teasing, making me squirm as I beg for a
moment to freshen up. I wriggle free, legs wobbly like jelly from hours slung over the hunks’
shoulders. In the washroom, I lick cum off my face and body, rinse my mouth, brush my teeth, douse
myself in jasmine perfume, tie my hair and put sindoor. Slipping into a fresh red kurti -no bra, no
panties—I’m still dripping, my pussy, stomach, and ass still full of their cum and spit, a secret heat
pulsing under my skin. Vikram offers a shoulder as we descend the stairs, my shaky legs betraying my
day.
Downstairs, the family gathers for Navratri aarti. Mummyji’s preparing, and my kids sit cross-legged,
faces lit by the diya. I join in—back straight, smile sweet while i feel the warmth in me. My voice
cracks when I try to chant the mantras— my throat raw from fasting, deep-throating all day and from
all the moans.
Back to my Gods
The aarti ends. I bow, a teeka is put on my forehead and I take blessings, which I really needed with
the evening, night and morning that were still ahead of me. My sons dash for sweets, oblivious. I
don’t wait for Vikram’s arm this time. I fly away back to my hunks.
Upstairs, the men are waiting—hungry grins and damp sheets. I climb onto the nearest lap with a
playful grin, whisper, “Miss me?”
Their hands find me again, rough and eager. We dive back into the sin we love—because Eid isn’t
over until the hunks say so. The first thing they do? Cum all over my face, forehead and ‘maang’,
where the sindoor sits.