We were miles apart even then, me in Himachal’s misty hills, buried in my master’s classes, the cold air a stark reminder of our separation, while Rakesh trained on the merchant navy’s ships, the ocean’s vastness echoing his isolation. Our calls, once filled with moans and promises, now echoed with his accusations, his voice cracking over the line. “Why, Sana? Why hide it?” he’d sob, and I’d cry into the phone, the distance amplifying our pain, no arms to hold each other, no touch to heal the wounds. The surprise of that revelation lingered like a ghost, haunting our dreams, turning our wild passion into a sad, fractured memory. I’d lie awake in my dorm, tears streaming, my body aching not just for his cock but for his forgiveness, the depth of our love tested by this cruel twist. He’d message late at night, his words raw: “Did he cum inside you like I do? Did you swallow him too?” Each query traumatized me anew, my heart breaking as I relived the past to soothe his present pain, our love hanging by a thread, sad and surprised in its fragility.
In those tear-soaked nights, I’d touch myself not with desire but with longing, my fingers circling my clit as memories of Rakesh’s gentle dominance flooded me, but the orgasms came laced with sorrow, my cries muffled in my pillow, a mix of pleasure and pain. The depth of our bond, once unbreakable, now felt fragile, the surprise revelation a chasm we struggled to bridge. I loved him fiercely, my heart bleeding with regret, but his heartbreak ran deep, his questions a sad echo of the trust we’d lost. And you, reading this, can you feel the ache? The way my tears mingled with the ghost of our passion, the surprise that turned our wild love into a tragic, emotional storm?
After that devastating revelation by the Ganga, where Rakesh’s tears mingled with mine under the weight of my lie, I pleaded for forgiveness like a woman drowning. Days turned into weeks of desperate calls from Himachal’s misty hills to his ship on the endless sea, my voice cracking with sobs as I begged, “Rakesh, please, it was a mistake. I love you more than anything—your cock inside me, your hands on my body, the way you make me scream. Don’t let the past ruin us.” I’d cry into the phone, my fingers slipping into my pussy as memories flooded me, fucking myself to the ghost of his growls, but ending in tears, my orgasms hollow without his forgiveness. He resisted at first, his voice laced with pain, “How can I trust you, Sana? You let me believe I was your first, that our fucks were sacred.” But my persistent pleas wore him down—the depth of my sorrow, the raw emotion in my voice, the way I’d describe how I’d suck his cock if he were here, swallowing every drop to prove my devotion. Finally, after months of this emotional torment, he relented. “Okay, Sana, I forgive you,” he whispered one night, his voice breaking, “but we rebuild slow. I still love you.” Relief washed over me like a monsoon rain, my tears of joy mixing with the ache in my heart, our calls turning steamy again, my fingers plunging into my wet pussy as he described fucking me senseless upon our reunion.