Hey, you, let me pull you into the steamy, pulsating heart of my world, where Patna’s mornings hum with the scent of chai and the Ganga whispers secrets older than time itself. I’m Sana, twenty-eight now, but let me take you back to when I was thirteen, a class 8th girl teetering on the edge of womanhood, my body and soul quivering with desires I was only beginning to name. My pussy was waking up, my heart pounding with a hunger I couldn’t yet voice, and every moment felt like it could ignite into something wild.
At home, I was the baby, Papa’s “Sona,” his ledger-sharp eyes softening when he looked at me, his smile wrapping me in warmth. Ma, with her knowing glances and hands warm from kneading dough, saw the woman blooming in me before I did, her eyes catching the way my hips swayed under my kurta. My two elder sisters and one elder brother teased me mercilessly—calling me “little dreamer” when I zoned out—but they’d have fought the world to keep me safe. My eldest sister, married and miles away, called every Sunday, her voice crackling through the phone to ask if I’d eaten her favorite aloo paratha, her love a tether across the distance. Being the youngest meant love came easy, but so did their endless advice, their voices a chorus I was learning to carve my own song from.
Puberty had reshaped me, turning my once-awkward frame into something lush, soft, and undeniably mine. My tits, now full and tender, pressed against my kurta, their weight a secret thrill when I caught my reflection in the mirror, my nipples stiffening at the sight. A soft line of hair had bloomed between my thighs, a private treasure my fingers traced in the steamy stillness of my bath, stirring a heat in my pussy that felt both foreign and deliciously familiar. My body was a map of new cravings, whispering promises of pleasure I hadn’t dared speak aloud, my fingers lingering longer each night, teasing the edges of my slit, learning its slick, pulsing secrets.
Boys, once just noisy classmates swapping cricket scores, now lit a fire in me. Their laughter, their careless swagger, sent a flutter through my belly, a wet ache pooling in my pussy. I’d watch Bollywood romances—lovers kissing under monsoon rains, hands brushing in slow, torturous motion—and my pulse would race, my nipples tightening under my blouse, my pussy throbbing with a need I couldn’t name. Alone in my room, I’d imagine a man’s touch, strong yet tender, tracing the curve of my arm, sliding lower to graze my thighs, the thought flushing my cheeks, my breath hitching. I’d slip my fingers under my skirt, brushing my clit, gasping at the sparks it sent through me, my pussy slick with want. It wasn’t just any touch I craved—it was Aakash’s, though I barely admitted it then, my heart whispering his name as my fingers danced.
Aakash crashed into my world like a monsoon storm, wild and unstoppable. He was twenty-two, in his final year of college, tall and lean, with a quiet intensity that made the air hum. His cricket games drew crowds, but it was his rare, fleeting smile—like sunlight breaking through clouds—that hooked me deep. I’d spot him in the college courtyard, sleeves rolled up, laughing with friends, his forearms flexing, and a raw pull stirred in my pussy, my body aching for something I didn’t yet understand. My friends would giggle, pointing him out, but I was already lost, my eyes tracing the line of his jaw, imagining his lips on mine, his cock pressing against me.