That kiss consumed me, its heat lingering as I walked home, my pussy still throbbing, craving his touch. At night, I’d lie in bed, fingers slipping beneath my panties, tracing where his had been, circling my clit until I came again, whispering his name into the dark, my body trembling with his memory. Our connection deepened through words and gestures. Late-night texts became our secret language, each message lighting up my phone and my pussy. “Saw you in that skirt today,” he’d write, “couldn’t stop staring.” I’d reply, “You’re trouble, Aakash,” my fingers trembling, my body flushing with heat. We wrote letters—handwritten notes slipped into books or tucked into my bag. His words were intoxicating: “Your smile is my favorite light, Sana. I dream of tasting you under Patna’s stars.” I’d read them alone, fingers tracing his handwriting, my tits tingling, my pussy aching. I’d reply with my own notes, bold and teasing: “Keep dreaming, Aakash. Maybe I’ll let you taste me soon.” Each word was a spark, stoking the fire between us.
Gifts followed—small, intimate tokens. A silver bangle that caught the light like my laugh, he said. A sketch of the Ganga, its curves mirroring mine. “It’s you,” he wrote on the back, “wild and unstoppable.” I gave him a cricket bat keychain, a leather-bound notebook for his photography ideas. “So you don’t forget me,” I teased, handing it over. “Impossible,” he said, his eyes locking with mine, sending a shiver through my pussy. Each gift was a vow, my skin burning when I wore his bangle, my dreams filled with his touch.
Months later, we found ourselves alone in his small apartment near college, a cluttered space filled with camera gear and the scent of monsoon air. The windows were open, rain humming in the distance as we sat on his couch, our hands brushing, my skirt riding up to expose my thigh, my shirt clinging to my tits, nipples faintly visible. The air was thick, electric. He looked at me, his eyes dark with raw hunger. “Sana, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, his voice low, urgent. I leaned closer, my heart pounding, my pussy screaming for him. “Then don’t,” I whispered, my lips finding his. The kiss was desperate, our bodies pressing together, my curves molding to his frame. “Is this okay?” he asked, his breath hot against my neck, his hands gripping my waist. “Yes,” I gasped, my voice thick with need. “I want you, Aakash.”
His hands moved fast, yanking my shirt open, buttons scattering as he exposed my tits, still cradled in my bra. He shoved the cups down, his mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the peak while his fingers pinched the other, making me cry out, my pussy throbbing. He pushed my skirt up to my hips, his hand diving between my thighs, finding my panties soaked. “Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he growled, ripping the fabric aside to stroke my slick folds, his fingers plunging deep into my tight pussy, curling to hit my G-spot while his thumb worked my clit in punishing circles. I moaned, loud and shameless, my hips grinding against his hand as he finger-fucked me into a frenzy, his mouth never leaving my tit, sucking and biting until I was trembling. “Aakash, please, I need more,” I begged, my voice hoarse, my pussy clenching around his fingers.
We stumbled to his bed, clothes tearing away in a haze of lust—my skirt bunched at my waist, my shirt and bra discarded, his jeans and shirt gone, revealing his hard, lean body, his cock thick and straining, glistening with precum. My body felt powerful under his gaze, bare and vulnerable yet burning with desire. He pushed me down onto the sheets, his mouth trailing fire down my body, nipping at my hips, my thighs, before he spread me wide, his tongue diving into my pussy. “God, you taste so fucking good,” he groaned, licking me with savage intensity, sucking my clit, his fingers thrusting deep, a third teasing my tight asshole, making me gasp at the filthy thrill. The wet sounds of his mouth on me filled the room, my moans turning to screams as I came hard, my juices flooding his tongue, my body convulsing under the onslaught of pleasure. “That’s it, baby, come for me,” he growled, lapping up every drop, his eyes locked on mine.