When we couldn’t be together, our nights turned to voice calls—raw, whispered symphonies of desire that left me sprawled across my bed, thighs parted, fingers delving into the slick heat of my pussy. “Touch yourself for me, Sana,” Aakash’s voice would growl, a low, primal rasp vibrating through the phone, his breaths ragged as he stroked his thick cock miles away. I’d paint vivid pictures with my words—my nipples stiff and aching under my pinching fingers, my clit pulsing as I rubbed it in frantic circles, dipping into my dripping pussy to fuck myself deeper, imagining his cock splitting me open. “I’m so fucking wet for you,” I’d moan, voice fracturing as pleasure coiled tight, his grunts about ravaging me senseless driving me to the edge. “Fuck, Sana, I’d pound that tight pussy until you scream,” he’d rasp, his voice thick with lust. My orgasms crashed like monsoon rains, screams muffled into my pillow as my pussy spasmed around my fingers, his guttural roar of release echoing in my ears, a primal bridge across the distance that left me aching for more.
But fate is a cruel bitch, isn’t it? Aakash chased his photography dreams to Mumbai’s chaotic heart, leaving me with a goodbye that seared my soul—a final, desperate fuck in his apartment, my legs locked around his waist as he thrust into me with feral intensity, our tears mingling with sweat and cum. “Sana, I don’t want to stop fucking you,” he growled, his cock slamming into me, my pussy clenching around him as he filled me, our bodies trembling in a storm of passion and loss. We tried to hold on through calls and texts, but distance fucked us over, arguments flaring like wildfires until our love crumbled in a haze of heartbreak. I was shattered, curling into my bed, sobbing into the void, my pussy still throbbing with memories of his cock, my heart a raw, bleeding wound that wouldn’t heal.
Life didn’t give a damn about my pain, though. I threw myself into my studies, graduating high school and diving into college in Patna, chasing my theater dreams through lectures and rehearsals. My days were a whirlwind of books, coffee-fueled nights, and laughter with friends—picnics by the river, gossiping about crushes and exams, the sun kissing our skin as we dreamed big. But my nights? They were a secret inferno. Alone in my room, I’d strip naked, fingers tracing my tits, my hips, my thighs, as I dove into porn on my phone—videos of couples fucking wildly, women riding cocks with abandon, or solo sessions where fingers and toys plunged into dripping pussies. I’d mimic them, my hand slipping between my thighs, circling my clit in slow, teasing builds before finger-fucking myself hard, imagining faceless lovers pinning me down, taking me roughly. “Fuck me harder,” I’d whisper to the darkness, my fingers plunging deep, my pussy clenching as orgasms ripped through me, my body arching off the bed, moans stifled against my arm as my cum slicked my fingers. But it was never enough to fill the void Aakash left. Porn became my escape, my nights drenched in fantasy, chasing a high to drown the loneliness clawing at my heart.