He bent me over the couch, slapping my ass hard, the sting making my pussy clench. “Spread for me,” he ordered, and I did, legs wide, feeling exposed and powerful. His cock—thick, veined, rock-hard—teased my entrance, then slammed in, the stretch intense, a burn that echoed my first time but felt new under his brutal pace. “Take it, my slut,” he growled, fucking me like a cheap whore, each thrust slamming my hips into the couch, his balls slapping my clit, my tits bouncing wildly. “Harder, Rakesh, fuck me harder,” I begged, my moans turning to screams as he rubbed my clit, driving me to a shattering orgasm, my juices squirting down my thighs. His fingers trailed to my asshole, circling the tight ring with my slickness. “This ass is mine next,” he promised, pushing one finger in, the burn making me gasp, a foreign fullness morphing into filthy pleasure as he worked it deeper, adding a second, pumping in rhythm with his cock. “I’ll fuck this hole soon, make you scream,” he growled, the dual penetration sending me spiraling into another orgasm, my pussy and ass clenching, my screams filling the room.
He pulled out, flipping me to my knees. “Suck me, my dirty girl,” he commanded, his cock glistening with my cum. I took him eagerly, lips stretching around his thickness, tasting my sweet-tangy juices mixed with his salty pre-cum. I sucked deep, tongue swirling, bobbing as he fisted my hair, fucking my mouth until tears streamed, the degradation making my pussy wetter. “Take it all, you slut,” he groaned, and I did, gagging as his cock hit the back of my throat. He tensed, groaning, and came hard, thick ropes of cum flooding my mouth—salty, musky, with a sharp bitterness that coated my tongue, warm and heavy like a forbidden secret. I swallowed every drop, savoring the taste, my eyes locked on his as he watched, panting, a possessive smirk on his face. “My perfect little virgin, drinking me down,” he murmured, oblivious to my past, the lie making the act filthier.
We collapsed, sweat-slicked, his arms wrapping around me tenderly. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, kissing my forehead, his support and passion intertwining. I didn’t correct him, letting the intensity of our connection—built on his devotion and our raw desire—carry us forward, promising more nights of wild, unbridled pleasure. And you, reading this, can you feel the heat of it? The way my pussy burned for him, the way my body craved his cock, the way I surrendered to the sensual storm he ignited in me?
We fucked like animals in every hidden corner—his apartment, empty classrooms, even under the stars by the Ganga, my legs wrapped around him as he pounded into me, my screams muffled against his shoulder, our bodies slick with sweat and cum. He’d take me from behind, slapping my ass until it stung, his cock stretching my pussy to its limits, his fingers teasing my clit until I came shuddering around him. Or I’d ride him, grinding down on his thick shaft, my tits bouncing as he pinched my nipples, growling, “You’re my slut, Sana, take every inch.” Those years were a haze of ecstasy, his support weaving through our raw desire—he’d hold me after, whispering promises, his hands gentle on my skin, making me feel cherished even as my body ached from our brutal fucks. We built dreams together, my theater ambitions fueled by his encouragement, his engineering pursuits steadied by my love. But life, that relentless bitch, had other plans, pulling us apart as I headed to Himachal for my master’s in theater, the mountains a stark contrast to Patna’s heat, while Rakesh dove into his merchant navy training, the sea calling him away. Distance tested us, but our calls kept the fire alive—steamy whispers of what we’d do when we reunited, my fingers fucking my pussy to the sound of his groans, his cock stroking to my moans.