He became my rock, steadying my world. During play auditions, when nerves choked me, he was there, running lines late into the night, his voice calm and fierce. “You’re a fucking queen on that stage, Sana,” he’d say, eyes blazing. “Own it.” His belief set my pussy on fire, my nipples peaking, my core aching as I imagined rewarding him with my body. He attended rehearsals, cheering from the shadows, and afterward, we’d steal kisses in the auditorium wings, his lips hungry, hands roaming my waist, pulling me against his hardening cock. “I want you so bad,” he’d whisper, his cock straining against his jeans, promising so much more. He pushed me to submit scripts to theaters, editing with me over voice calls that turned filthy. “What’s under that skirt, baby?” he’d tease, voice low and dangerous, and I’d describe my lace panties, fingers circling my clit as he groaned, stroking his cock. “Fuck, I’m so hard for you,” he’d rasp, our mutual masturbation building unbearable tension, his support deepening our bond, his desire for his “virgin” muse making me drip.
Our touches grew bolder, a slow burn to a blaze. He’d pin me against a wall during campus walks, his mouth on my neck, hand cupping my tit, pinching my nipple until I moaned, my pussy clenching. I’d grind against his thigh, feeling his cock strain against his jeans, thick and eager. “You’re killing me, Sana,” he’d growl, his fingers slipping under my skirt, teasing my soaked panties until I begged. In empty classrooms, we pushed further—my hand stroking his cock through his pants, his fingers plunging into my pussy, fucking me until I came, my juices dripping down his wrist. “Not yet,” he’d murmur, thinking he was preserving my “virginity,” but his restraint only made me crave his cock more.
The day everything changed was a sultry afternoon, monsoon clouds heavy with promise. Rakesh texted: “House empty. Come over. Now.” My heart thundered as I slipped away, claiming a study group, my pussy buzzing with anticipation. His apartment was a chaos of books and trophies, the air thick with incense and his cologne, making me dizzy. He answered shirtless, shorts slung low, his sculpted body stealing my breath—abs rippling, thighs taut, his cock straining against the fabric. “Finally,” he growled, slamming the door and pulling me into a kiss that was pure fire—teeth clashing, tongues warring, desperation dripping from every movement. He thought he was taking a virgin, and I let him, the lie adding a filthy edge.
He didn’t hold back, his desire unleashed. “I’ve waited to make you mine,” he murmured, yanking my shirt open, buttons flying, exposing my lace bra. He shoved it down, his mouth latching onto my nipple, sucking hard, biting until I cried out, pain and pleasure twisting together. “Fuck, you’re so wet, my perfect little virgin,” he groaned, skirt hiked up, panties ripped aside, his fingers finding my soaking pussy. He plunged three fingers in, stretching me, curling to hit my G-spot while his thumb ravaged my clit. “You’re my slut now, aren’t you?” he growled, finger-fucking me against the wall, his other hand gripping my throat lightly, dominance in every touch. I moaned, hips bucking, shameless as my pussy clenched around him. “Yes, Rakesh, I’m yours,” I gasped, surrendering to the pleasure.