But forgiveness was a fragile illusion, a bandage over a festering wound. Distance gnawed at us, my master’s in Himachal isolating me in lectures and rehearsals, while Rakesh’s merchant navy training tossed him on waves of loneliness. We tried—steamy video calls where I’d strip for him, spreading my legs to finger-fuck my pussy on camera, moaning his name as he stroked his cock, cum shooting across his chest—but cracks formed. Then came the surprise that shattered me anew, a betrayal so deep it left me traumatized, curled in my dorm bed, sobbing uncontrollably for days. One evening, my phone buzzed with a video from Rakesh, my heart leaping with anticipation—perhaps a clip of him jerking off for me. But as I pressed play, horror gripped me: there he was, in some dim-lit cabin, fucking a younger girl—barely twenty, her lithe body writhing under him, her perky tits bouncing as he slammed into her pussy. “Take it, you little slut,” he growled, his voice the same one that once commanded me, his cock—thick and veined, the one I’d worshipped—stretching her tight hole, her moans echoing as he pinched her nipples, his hips thrusting relentlessly. She rode him next, grinding down on his shaft, her ass cheeks clapping against his thighs, and he slapped her ass hard, leaving red marks, just like he did to me. The video ended with him pulling out, cum spraying across her belly and tits, her fingers scooping it up to taste, giggling as he laughed. A message followed: “See what you made me do, Sana? She’s tighter, younger—fucks without lies.”
The world blurred through my tears, a sob ripping from my throat as I hurled my phone across the room, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of agony. Surprise hit like a tidal wave—how could he, after forgiving me, after our promises? Sadness engulfed me, deep and unrelenting, my chest heaving with cries that echoed in the empty dorm, my body shaking as trauma took hold. “Why, Rakesh? Why?” I wailed into my pillow, the image of him inside her burning into my mind, twisting my love into a knife of pain. I broke up with him that night, my message a torrent of hurt: “We’re done. You broke me.” Months blurred into a haze of depression—I barely ate, skipped classes, my theater dreams fading as I lay in bed, tears soaking my sheets, reliving the video in nightmares, my pussy untouched, desire soured by betrayal. Friends tried to help, but the depth of my sorrow isolated me, a sad shell of the woman who’d once burned with passion. It took therapy, long walks in Himachal’s crisp air, and the slow mending of my heart to collect myself, piecing together fragments of my shattered soul.
Reborn from the ashes, I moved to Mumbai, the city’s chaotic pulse mirroring my turbulent desires. Modeling called to me—a world of lights, cameras, and bodies on display. I dove in headfirst, my curves and dark eyes landing me gigs, but success came at a price. Directors and photographers demanded more than poses; they wanted my body. I fucked them without hesitation—bent over casting couches, my pussy stretched by their cocks as they promised roles, their hands gripping my hips, thrusting deep while I moaned, “Yes, fuck me harder, give me the part.” One producer took me in his office, his thick cock slamming into me from behind as I braced against his desk, papers scattering, my tits bouncing wildly until he came inside me, hot and thick, sealing the deal. Movies followed—bit roles turning into steamy scenes where I’d ride co-stars on set, their cocks filling me under the guise of “art,” my screams real as orgasms ripped through me, the crew watching with hungry eyes.