My name is Arjun, 25 years old, the only son of a rich businessman in South Delhi. Our house is massive — four bedrooms, servant quarters at the back, marble floors everywhere, and a constant stream of maids coming and going because Papa pays well but expects total obedience. Mummy passed away when I was young, so it’s just Papa, me, and sometimes my married sister who visits. I run the family’s real estate side business from home, which means I’m around the house all day, bored, horny, and with way too much power over the staff.
The new maid, Sunita, started three months ago. She’s 22, from a village in Bihar, dark-skinned, innocent wide eyes, but fuck — her body is made for sin. Massive 38DD chuchi that strain against her cheap blouses, a thin waist, and a round gaand that jiggles when she sweeps. She wears simple salwar kameez or sarees, but nothing hides those juicy boobs. From day one, I noticed how she’d blush and look down when I stared. The other servants warned her about me, but she needed the job — her husband is a drunk who beats her, and she sends money home to her kids.
At first, it was just watching. I’d sit in the living room pretending to work on my laptop while she mopped the floor, bent over, her pallu slipping, deep cleavage on full display. Those big chuchi hanging like ripe mangoes, swaying with every stroke. My lund would get rock hard under the table. One day, I called her over.
“Sunita, paani laao.”
She brought water, standing respectfully. I took the glass slowly, letting my fingers brush her hand. She flinched but didn’t pull away.
“Blouse tight hai tera aaj,” I said casually, eyes on her chest.
She turned red. “Saab… nahi… normal hai.”
I smirked. “Dupatta theek kar. Sab dikh raha hai.”
She adjusted quickly, but I saw the fear mixed with something else — submission. Maids like her know the deal: keep the young master happy, keep the job.
That evening, Papa was out on a business trip. Only the old cook and Sunita were in the servant quarters. I called her to my room on the pretext of cleaning.
“Saab, sab saaf hai,” she said nervously entering.
“Jhaadu lagi nahi bed ke neeche,” I lied.
She bent over to look, her gaand up in the air. I stood behind her, admiring the view. Then I stepped close, pressing my hard lund against her ass through my pants.
She froze.
“Saab… yeh kya…”
“Shhh,” I whispered, hands grabbing her hips. “Tu jaanti hai mujhe kya chahiye.”
She tried to stand, but I held her down. “Please Saab… main shadi-shuda hoon… bacche hain…”
“Exactly,” I said coldly. “Job chahiye na? Paise chahiye family ko bhejne? To chup chap cooperate kar.”
I turned her around, pushed her against the wall. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t scream. I pulled her pallu down roughly. Her blouse was tight, buttons straining. I ripped the top two open — pop pop — exposing her black bra stuffed with those massive chuchi.
“Kitni badi chuchi hai teri, randi,” I growled, squeezing them hard over the bra. They overflowed my hands, soft yet firm.
She whimpered. “Saab… dard ho raha hai…”
I slapped one boob lightly, watching it jiggle. “Abhi to shuruaat hai.”
I pulled the bra down, freeing her dark brown nipples, thick and erect from fear or cold. I pinched them hard, twisting. She bit her lip to stay quiet.
Then I buried my face between them, motorboating those juicy mangoes. The smell of cheap soap and sweat drove me wild. I sucked one nipple hard, biting, while mauling the other with my hand.
She was crying softly now, but her body betrayed her — nipples hard as pebbles, a soft moan escaping when I sucked harder.
I pushed her down to her knees. “Ab lund choos, maid.”
She looked up pleadingly. “Saab… maine kabhi nahi kiya…”
“Jhooth mat bol,” I said, unzipping my pants. My thick 8-inch lund sprang out, already leaking. “Village mein pati ke saath to karti hi hogi.”
She shook her head, but I grabbed her hair and pushed the head against her lips. She opened reluctantly. Her mouth was warm, inexperienced. She gagged immediately when I pushed deeper.
“Zubaan se chaat,” I ordered.
She licked timidly, tears streaming. I face-fucked her slowly at first, then harder, holding her head. Her big chuchi bounced with every thrust. Saliva dripped down her chin onto her exposed boobs.
“Good randi,” I praised, pulling out. “Ab bol — main Saab ki randi hoon.”
She sobbed. “Main… Saab ki randi hoon.”
Louder. I slapped her cheek lightly.
“Main Saab ki randi hoon!”
Satisfied, I pulled her up, bent her over my desk. Lifted her saree and petticoat, pulled her panty down to her knees. Her chut was hairy, village style, but already glistening.
“Kitni geeli ho gayi tu,” I laughed. “Pasand aa raha hai na?”
She didn’t answer. I rubbed my lund along her slit, then pushed in raw. She was tight — tighter than expected. She cried out as I stretched her.
“Dheere Saab… bohot mota hai…”
I didn’t listen. Grabbed her hips and slammed deep. Her chuchi swung wildly, hitting the desk. I reached forward, grabbing them like handles, squeezing hard while pounding.
The room filled with sounds — my balls slapping her ass, her muffled cries, my grunts.
“Le randi… apna chut mein saab ka lund,” I taunted.
She came first — unexpectedly, her body shaking, chut clenching around me. That pushed me over. I pulled out and came on her gaand, thick ropes painting her dark skin.
After, she fixed her clothes with shaking hands. I threw 500 rupees at her.
“Yeh bonus. Kal phir aana mere room. Samjhi?”
She nodded, taking the money. Job security.
That was the beginning. Sunita became my personal fucktoy. Every morning after Papa left for office, I’d call her to my room. She’d come obediently now, knowing resistance was pointless.
I trained her properly. Taught her blowjobs — how to deepthroat (she still gags but takes most now), how to lick balls, how to swallow cum. Mornings started with her kneeling under my desk while I worked, sucking slowly for an hour until I filled her mouth.
Afternoons were for full chudai. I’d fuck her in every position — missionary on my bed, watching those massive chuchi bounce; doggy while spanking her gaand red; cowgirl where I’d make her ride while I slapped and pinched her nipples.
I loved humiliating her. Made her call herself randi, beg for my lund, thank me after cumming.
“Dhanyavaad Saab… aapke mota lund ke liye,” she’d whisper, voice broken.
I bought her sexier clothes with my money — tight blouses that showed deep cleavage, thin sarees. Told her to wear them only when serving me. In front of Papa, she stayed modest.
Riskiest times were when the house was full. During family lunches, I’d make her serve food bending low so I could stare down her blouse. Once, under the table, I slipped my hand up her saree, fingering her chut while chatting with Papa. She served rotis with a straight face, but her legs trembled.
One evening, Papa was home watching TV. I texted Sunita to come to the store room. She came scared. I pushed her against sacks of rice, lifted her saree, and fucked her standing, one hand over her mouth. Her big chuchi pressed against my chest. We could hear Papa’s TV just outside. The danger made me cum harder inside her.
I started anal too. First time was rough — she cried a lot, begging no. But I used oil and forced in slowly. Now she takes it like a pro, her tight gaand milking me better than her chut. I love alternating holes — chut, then gaand, then back.
I made her shave her chut clean. Now it’s smooth, pink inside, looks obscene against her dark skin. I eat her sometimes — spread on the bed, legs wide, sucking her clit until she squirts (she didn’t know she could until I made her).
Roleplay became regular. I’d dress her in just an apron, make her cook naked, boobs swinging as she stirred. Then bend her over the counter and fuck while lunch burned.
Or I’d tie her hands with her own dupatta, blindfold her, and tease for hours — ice on nipples, vibrator (I bought one) on her clit until she begged like a whore.
“Dekh Sunita, tu village ki seedhi-sadhi aurat thi. Ab meri personal randi ban gayi,” I’d say while cumming on her face.
She’d nod, cum dripping. “Ji Saab… main aapki randi hoon.”
Money kept flowing — extra salary, gifts for her kids. She became dependent. Once tried to resist when her period came, but I made her give titjobs instead, my lund sliding between those oily massive chuchi until I painted her neck.
During festivals — like last Holi — everyone was playing outside. I pulled her into the bathroom, smeared colors on her naked body, sucked her colored nipples, fucked her against the mirror watching ourselves.
Papa almost caught us once. He came home early, called for tea. Sunita was in my room, naked, cum on her boobs. She hid in the bathroom while I distracted him. After he left, I fucked her harder for the thrill.
She opened up over time. Told me her husband never satisfied her, small lund, drunk fucks. I’m the first to make her cum multiple times. Sometimes she initiates now — slips into my room at night when servant quarters sleep, wakes me with a blowjob.
I’ve filmed us too — phone videos of her riding me, chuchi bouncing, moaning “Saab zor se chodo.” We watch together later, fucking again.
Three months in, she’s completely broken and rebuilt as my slave. Wears a collar I bought when alone with me. Crawls on the floor sometimes, begging to be used.
Papa plans to marry me off soon — some rich girl. But Sunita will stay my secret randi. Maybe even move her to my new house as “personal maid.”
Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Watching this innocent village maid turn into a cum-hungry slut because she has no choice — and eventually wants it — nothing beats that.
Every morning when she brings bed tea, dressed modestly, eyes down, I know later those same lips will be wrapped around my lund, those massive chuchi will be red from my slaps, that tight chut and gaand will be leaking my cum.
Sunita, my perfect maid servant randi.
The domination deepened in ways I never expected. One weekend, Papa was away for a wedding in Mumbai — three full days alone in the house with staff. I gave the cook and driver leave with extra pay. Just Sunita and me.
I locked her in my room the entire time. Made her strip the moment the others left. Kept her naked except for high heels I bought online and that leather collar with “Saab ki Randi” engraved.
Day one: Bondage. Tied her spread-eagle to the bed with my belts. Teased her for hours — feathers on nipples, ice cubes in chut, vibrator on low until she was sobbing for release. Only then did I fuck her, slow and torturous, stopping every time she neared orgasm. She came six times that day, screaming my name.
Day two: Humiliation play. Made her crawl around the house naked, eat food from a bowl on the floor like a pet. Spanked her gaand with a belt until red and welted. Then fucked her ass while she thanked me for each thrust.
“Dhanyavaad Saab… aur zor se maro apni randi ko.”
Day three: Total submission. I bathed her myself — soaping those massive chuchi, fingering her under the shower until weak-kneed. Then carried her to the terrace at night, fucked under the stars, her moans echoing in the empty neighborhood.
When Papa returned, she served dinner as usual — composed, modest. But I noticed the faint collar mark under her dupatta, the way she winced sitting from the spanking. Our secret.
She got pregnant once — scared shitless. I paid for abortion quietly, gave her extra money. After that, I use condoms or pull out, though I love cumming inside.
Her body changed too — boobs even bigger from all the squeezing, nipples darker and more sensitive. She cums from nipple play alone now.
I taught her dirty talk in Hindi — phrases she repeats like a mantra.
“Saab ka mota lund meri tight chut phaad raha hai…”
“Chooso apni maid ki chuchi… bana do inko laal.”
Sometimes tenderness creeps in. After rough sessions, I hold her, kiss forehead. She cries sometimes, confessing she hates how much she craves it now. Addiction.
Papa announced my engagement last month — girl from good family. Sunita overheard, cried in the kitchen. That night she sucked me with extra desperation, like marking territory.
The wedding will happen, but Sunita stays. I’ll set her up in my new flat nearby, visit daily. Or keep her in the house as head maid.
Because no rich wife will ever submit like this village randi does. No one will let me own their body and soul completely.
Sunita taught me the true meaning of power — not money, but breaking someone until they thank you for it.
And she thanks me every single day, with her mouth, her chuchi, her chut, her gaand.
My perfect, broken, devoted maid servant slave.
The cycle continues endlessly. Mornings: quick blowjob while she brings tea. Afternoons: full session in my room — titfuck, then missionary, then anal. Evenings: risky quickie somewhere in the house.
She’s learned to deepthroat fully now, no gagging. Swallows every drop like nectar. Begs for facials so she can wear my cum under her makeup.
I pierce her nipples secretly — small rings she hides under blouse. Pull them during sex, making her scream in pain-pleasure.
Introduced piss play once — made her drink a little. She did, crying but obedient. Too far maybe, but the power rush was insane.
She roleplays different characters — innocent village girl (her real self), high-class whore, even my wife sometimes.
“Pati dev, chodo apni patni ko,” she’ll say in saree and sindoor.
Then I rip it off and remind her she’s just the maid.
Her husband called once — drunk, demanding money. She sent double, paid from what I give her. Told him she’s happy in job. If only he knew his wife is getting pounded daily by a man twice as rich and thrice as endowed.
I’ve thought of sharing her — invite a friend over, make her serve both. But too risky. She’s mine alone.
For now.
This domination, this ownership — it’s my drug. And Sunita is the perfect supplier.
Forever my big-boobed, tight-chutted, submissive maid randi.
The new maid, Sunita, started three months ago. She’s 22, from a village in Bihar, dark-skinned, innocent wide eyes, but fuck — her body is made for sin. Massive 38DD chuchi that strain against her cheap blouses, a thin waist, and a round gaand that jiggles when she sweeps. She wears simple salwar kameez or sarees, but nothing hides those juicy boobs. From day one, I noticed how she’d blush and look down when I stared. The other servants warned her about me, but she needed the job — her husband is a drunk who beats her, and she sends money home to her kids.
At first, it was just watching. I’d sit in the living room pretending to work on my laptop while she mopped the floor, bent over, her pallu slipping, deep cleavage on full display. Those big chuchi hanging like ripe mangoes, swaying with every stroke. My lund would get rock hard under the table. One day, I called her over.
“Sunita, paani laao.”
She brought water, standing respectfully. I took the glass slowly, letting my fingers brush her hand. She flinched but didn’t pull away.
“Blouse tight hai tera aaj,” I said casually, eyes on her chest.
She turned red. “Saab… nahi… normal hai.”
I smirked. “Dupatta theek kar. Sab dikh raha hai.”
She adjusted quickly, but I saw the fear mixed with something else — submission. Maids like her know the deal: keep the young master happy, keep the job.
That evening, Papa was out on a business trip. Only the old cook and Sunita were in the servant quarters. I called her to my room on the pretext of cleaning.
“Saab, sab saaf hai,” she said nervously entering.
“Jhaadu lagi nahi bed ke neeche,” I lied.
She bent over to look, her gaand up in the air. I stood behind her, admiring the view. Then I stepped close, pressing my hard lund against her ass through my pants.
She froze.
“Saab… yeh kya…”
“Shhh,” I whispered, hands grabbing her hips. “Tu jaanti hai mujhe kya chahiye.”
She tried to stand, but I held her down. “Please Saab… main shadi-shuda hoon… bacche hain…”
“Exactly,” I said coldly. “Job chahiye na? Paise chahiye family ko bhejne? To chup chap cooperate kar.”
I turned her around, pushed her against the wall. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t scream. I pulled her pallu down roughly. Her blouse was tight, buttons straining. I ripped the top two open — pop pop — exposing her black bra stuffed with those massive chuchi.
“Kitni badi chuchi hai teri, randi,” I growled, squeezing them hard over the bra. They overflowed my hands, soft yet firm.
She whimpered. “Saab… dard ho raha hai…”
I slapped one boob lightly, watching it jiggle. “Abhi to shuruaat hai.”
I pulled the bra down, freeing her dark brown nipples, thick and erect from fear or cold. I pinched them hard, twisting. She bit her lip to stay quiet.
Then I buried my face between them, motorboating those juicy mangoes. The smell of cheap soap and sweat drove me wild. I sucked one nipple hard, biting, while mauling the other with my hand.
She was crying softly now, but her body betrayed her — nipples hard as pebbles, a soft moan escaping when I sucked harder.
I pushed her down to her knees. “Ab lund choos, maid.”
She looked up pleadingly. “Saab… maine kabhi nahi kiya…”
“Jhooth mat bol,” I said, unzipping my pants. My thick 8-inch lund sprang out, already leaking. “Village mein pati ke saath to karti hi hogi.”
She shook her head, but I grabbed her hair and pushed the head against her lips. She opened reluctantly. Her mouth was warm, inexperienced. She gagged immediately when I pushed deeper.
“Zubaan se chaat,” I ordered.
She licked timidly, tears streaming. I face-fucked her slowly at first, then harder, holding her head. Her big chuchi bounced with every thrust. Saliva dripped down her chin onto her exposed boobs.
“Good randi,” I praised, pulling out. “Ab bol — main Saab ki randi hoon.”
She sobbed. “Main… Saab ki randi hoon.”
Louder. I slapped her cheek lightly.
“Main Saab ki randi hoon!”
Satisfied, I pulled her up, bent her over my desk. Lifted her saree and petticoat, pulled her panty down to her knees. Her chut was hairy, village style, but already glistening.
“Kitni geeli ho gayi tu,” I laughed. “Pasand aa raha hai na?”
She didn’t answer. I rubbed my lund along her slit, then pushed in raw. She was tight — tighter than expected. She cried out as I stretched her.
“Dheere Saab… bohot mota hai…”
I didn’t listen. Grabbed her hips and slammed deep. Her chuchi swung wildly, hitting the desk. I reached forward, grabbing them like handles, squeezing hard while pounding.
The room filled with sounds — my balls slapping her ass, her muffled cries, my grunts.
“Le randi… apna chut mein saab ka lund,” I taunted.
She came first — unexpectedly, her body shaking, chut clenching around me. That pushed me over. I pulled out and came on her gaand, thick ropes painting her dark skin.
After, she fixed her clothes with shaking hands. I threw 500 rupees at her.
“Yeh bonus. Kal phir aana mere room. Samjhi?”
She nodded, taking the money. Job security.
That was the beginning. Sunita became my personal fucktoy. Every morning after Papa left for office, I’d call her to my room. She’d come obediently now, knowing resistance was pointless.
I trained her properly. Taught her blowjobs — how to deepthroat (she still gags but takes most now), how to lick balls, how to swallow cum. Mornings started with her kneeling under my desk while I worked, sucking slowly for an hour until I filled her mouth.
Afternoons were for full chudai. I’d fuck her in every position — missionary on my bed, watching those massive chuchi bounce; doggy while spanking her gaand red; cowgirl where I’d make her ride while I slapped and pinched her nipples.
I loved humiliating her. Made her call herself randi, beg for my lund, thank me after cumming.
“Dhanyavaad Saab… aapke mota lund ke liye,” she’d whisper, voice broken.
I bought her sexier clothes with my money — tight blouses that showed deep cleavage, thin sarees. Told her to wear them only when serving me. In front of Papa, she stayed modest.
Riskiest times were when the house was full. During family lunches, I’d make her serve food bending low so I could stare down her blouse. Once, under the table, I slipped my hand up her saree, fingering her chut while chatting with Papa. She served rotis with a straight face, but her legs trembled.
One evening, Papa was home watching TV. I texted Sunita to come to the store room. She came scared. I pushed her against sacks of rice, lifted her saree, and fucked her standing, one hand over her mouth. Her big chuchi pressed against my chest. We could hear Papa’s TV just outside. The danger made me cum harder inside her.
I started anal too. First time was rough — she cried a lot, begging no. But I used oil and forced in slowly. Now she takes it like a pro, her tight gaand milking me better than her chut. I love alternating holes — chut, then gaand, then back.
I made her shave her chut clean. Now it’s smooth, pink inside, looks obscene against her dark skin. I eat her sometimes — spread on the bed, legs wide, sucking her clit until she squirts (she didn’t know she could until I made her).
Roleplay became regular. I’d dress her in just an apron, make her cook naked, boobs swinging as she stirred. Then bend her over the counter and fuck while lunch burned.
Or I’d tie her hands with her own dupatta, blindfold her, and tease for hours — ice on nipples, vibrator (I bought one) on her clit until she begged like a whore.
“Dekh Sunita, tu village ki seedhi-sadhi aurat thi. Ab meri personal randi ban gayi,” I’d say while cumming on her face.
She’d nod, cum dripping. “Ji Saab… main aapki randi hoon.”
Money kept flowing — extra salary, gifts for her kids. She became dependent. Once tried to resist when her period came, but I made her give titjobs instead, my lund sliding between those oily massive chuchi until I painted her neck.
During festivals — like last Holi — everyone was playing outside. I pulled her into the bathroom, smeared colors on her naked body, sucked her colored nipples, fucked her against the mirror watching ourselves.
Papa almost caught us once. He came home early, called for tea. Sunita was in my room, naked, cum on her boobs. She hid in the bathroom while I distracted him. After he left, I fucked her harder for the thrill.
She opened up over time. Told me her husband never satisfied her, small lund, drunk fucks. I’m the first to make her cum multiple times. Sometimes she initiates now — slips into my room at night when servant quarters sleep, wakes me with a blowjob.
I’ve filmed us too — phone videos of her riding me, chuchi bouncing, moaning “Saab zor se chodo.” We watch together later, fucking again.
Three months in, she’s completely broken and rebuilt as my slave. Wears a collar I bought when alone with me. Crawls on the floor sometimes, begging to be used.
Papa plans to marry me off soon — some rich girl. But Sunita will stay my secret randi. Maybe even move her to my new house as “personal maid.”
Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Watching this innocent village maid turn into a cum-hungry slut because she has no choice — and eventually wants it — nothing beats that.
Every morning when she brings bed tea, dressed modestly, eyes down, I know later those same lips will be wrapped around my lund, those massive chuchi will be red from my slaps, that tight chut and gaand will be leaking my cum.
Sunita, my perfect maid servant randi.
The domination deepened in ways I never expected. One weekend, Papa was away for a wedding in Mumbai — three full days alone in the house with staff. I gave the cook and driver leave with extra pay. Just Sunita and me.
I locked her in my room the entire time. Made her strip the moment the others left. Kept her naked except for high heels I bought online and that leather collar with “Saab ki Randi” engraved.
Day one: Bondage. Tied her spread-eagle to the bed with my belts. Teased her for hours — feathers on nipples, ice cubes in chut, vibrator on low until she was sobbing for release. Only then did I fuck her, slow and torturous, stopping every time she neared orgasm. She came six times that day, screaming my name.
Day two: Humiliation play. Made her crawl around the house naked, eat food from a bowl on the floor like a pet. Spanked her gaand with a belt until red and welted. Then fucked her ass while she thanked me for each thrust.
“Dhanyavaad Saab… aur zor se maro apni randi ko.”
Day three: Total submission. I bathed her myself — soaping those massive chuchi, fingering her under the shower until weak-kneed. Then carried her to the terrace at night, fucked under the stars, her moans echoing in the empty neighborhood.
When Papa returned, she served dinner as usual — composed, modest. But I noticed the faint collar mark under her dupatta, the way she winced sitting from the spanking. Our secret.
She got pregnant once — scared shitless. I paid for abortion quietly, gave her extra money. After that, I use condoms or pull out, though I love cumming inside.
Her body changed too — boobs even bigger from all the squeezing, nipples darker and more sensitive. She cums from nipple play alone now.
I taught her dirty talk in Hindi — phrases she repeats like a mantra.
“Saab ka mota lund meri tight chut phaad raha hai…”
“Chooso apni maid ki chuchi… bana do inko laal.”
Sometimes tenderness creeps in. After rough sessions, I hold her, kiss forehead. She cries sometimes, confessing she hates how much she craves it now. Addiction.
Papa announced my engagement last month — girl from good family. Sunita overheard, cried in the kitchen. That night she sucked me with extra desperation, like marking territory.
The wedding will happen, but Sunita stays. I’ll set her up in my new flat nearby, visit daily. Or keep her in the house as head maid.
Because no rich wife will ever submit like this village randi does. No one will let me own their body and soul completely.
Sunita taught me the true meaning of power — not money, but breaking someone until they thank you for it.
And she thanks me every single day, with her mouth, her chuchi, her chut, her gaand.
My perfect, broken, devoted maid servant slave.
The cycle continues endlessly. Mornings: quick blowjob while she brings tea. Afternoons: full session in my room — titfuck, then missionary, then anal. Evenings: risky quickie somewhere in the house.
She’s learned to deepthroat fully now, no gagging. Swallows every drop like nectar. Begs for facials so she can wear my cum under her makeup.
I pierce her nipples secretly — small rings she hides under blouse. Pull them during sex, making her scream in pain-pleasure.
Introduced piss play once — made her drink a little. She did, crying but obedient. Too far maybe, but the power rush was insane.
She roleplays different characters — innocent village girl (her real self), high-class whore, even my wife sometimes.
“Pati dev, chodo apni patni ko,” she’ll say in saree and sindoor.
Then I rip it off and remind her she’s just the maid.
Her husband called once — drunk, demanding money. She sent double, paid from what I give her. Told him she’s happy in job. If only he knew his wife is getting pounded daily by a man twice as rich and thrice as endowed.
I’ve thought of sharing her — invite a friend over, make her serve both. But too risky. She’s mine alone.
For now.
This domination, this ownership — it’s my drug. And Sunita is the perfect supplier.
Forever my big-boobed, tight-chutted, submissive maid randi.