It started with glances—his dark eyes catching mine across a crowded corridor, holding a heartbeat too long, setting my skin ablaze. A soft “hi” near the library, where I lingered with a book, hoping he’d notice, my kurta clinging to my tits, my dupatta slipping just enough to show the curve of my neck. My body felt alive, my pussy pulsing with every look, my heartbeat loud enough to drown out the world. “What are you doing here all alone?” he’d ask, leaning close, his voice low, teasing, his scent—sweat and sandalwood—making my head spin. I’d stammer something about history notes, my cheeks burning as I smoothed my skirt, the fabric hugging my thighs, my pussy wet with the thrill of his nearness. It wasn’t just his looks—it was his quiet confidence, the way he listened like my words were the only ones that mattered, making my body hum with want.
I saw him everywhere, like he was stitched into my world. In college assemblies, his voice carried, warm and steady, sending shivers down my spine. On the field, his ease with a cricket bat felt like my own small victory, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, outlining muscles I wanted to trace with my tongue. At night, I’d replay those moments, my fingers slipping under my nightie, circling my clit as I imagined his hands on me, his breath hot against my ear, whispering, “Sana, baby, what do you want?” The thoughts sent my pussy into a frenzy, my body arching off the bed, moans stifled as I fucked myself with my fingers, chasing the heat of his imagined touch.
We found excuses to talk—small, stolen moments between classes. “How’s history going?” he’d ask, leaning against a wall, his smile teasing, his eyes flicking to my lips, then lower, lingering on the swell of my tits. I’d ramble about lectures or my brother’s latest prank, my words spilling faster than I meant, my pussy throbbing with every word he spoke. “Slow down, Sana,” he’d laugh, his voice a warm caress, “I’m not going anywhere.” That laugh became my addiction, my heart skipping each time, my pussy aching to feel him closer.
One humid afternoon by the campus fountain, Aakash offered me his water bottle when mine ran dry. Our fingers brushed, and the contact—brief, electric—set my skin on fire, my pulse racing where his touch lingered. “You’re always running out of water,” he teased, his dark eyes locking onto mine, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I like sharing with you,” I shot back, bold, my cheeks flushing as I smoothed my skirt, the fabric clinging to my thighs, my pussy pulsing with desire. “Oh? How much do you like it?” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice low, husky, his gaze dropping to my lips, then my tits, making my nipples harden against my kurta. I wanted to grab him, pull him into me, feel his cock against my thigh, but I just smiled, letting the tension simmer, my body screaming for more.
We couldn’t stay away. After cricket practice, he’d linger, adjusting his gear with deliberate slowness, while I dawdled with friends, stealing glances at his lean frame, sweat glistening on his skin, his shorts hinting at the bulge of his cock. At a college fest, he bought me cotton candy, his fingers grazing mine as he handed it over, the contact sending a jolt to my pussy. “Careful, it’s sticky,” he said, his voice a low growl, his eyes tracing my lips, then lower, lingering on the way my shirt hugged my tits, my nipples betraying me through the fabric. “Then you clean it up,” I teased, bolder than I felt, my heart pounding as his smirk deepened, promising things that made my pussy throb. We stood close, the crowd fading, his scent wrapping around me, my body aching to feel his hands, his mouth, his cock.