13-04-2025, 04:58 PM
The MP’s chamber was a gilded inferno, the chandelier’s amber light spilling over Rukhsar’s cum-slicked body, her small frame trembling on the Persian rug, its fibers soaked with her juices, his semen, and their sweat. The air was a primal haze—sandalwood incense choking with whiskey’s bite, her musky sweetness, and the raw stench of sex, the sitar’s hum drowned by her soft pants and his guttural breaths. Rukhsar’s collegegirl uniform was wreckage—skirt crumpled, blouse shredded, her bare breasts glistening, cum flaking off her nipples, her braids tangled, her face streaked with mascara and semen, lips swollen from his cock and their desperate kisses. She knelt before him, her lips brushing his knuckles, her voice a cracked vow: “Rukhsar Sharma. Yours, sir.” The name—Sharma—hung heavy, a claim she’d offered, assuming it his, a spark that lit his eyes with something wild—lust, pride, obsession.
The MP’s grin split wide, a predator’s delight, his bulk rising from the divan, naked and slick, his belly heaving, his cock stirring anew despite its earlier drain. “Sharma, huh?” he rasped, voice thick with glee, his small eyes glinting as he towered over her. “My name on you—fuck, that’s good.” He reached down, his hands—thick, calloused—grabbing her shoulders, lifting her like she weighed nothing, her small body a feather in his grip. She gasped, her thighs slick, her pussy dripping as he hugged her tight, his chest matting her cum-streaked breasts, his beard scbanging her cheek, his lips crashing into hers. His tongue plunged, tasting her cum, her tears, her whiskey-laced submission, a growl rumbling as he kissed her, hard and claiming, her braids swinging, her nails digging into his arms.
Her feet dangled, her toes brushing the rug, her body pressed to his, his cock nudging her thigh, hot and heavy. He carried her, effortless, her 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, fragile but fierce—molding to his bulk, her wetness smearing his skin as she clung, her moans muffled against his mouth. “My little granddaughter,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, his lips trailing her jaw, her throat, biting softly, leaving red marks on her pale skin. The chocolate cake, gold bracelet, and cash stack sat ignored on the cart, her birthday gift dwarfed by this moment—her name, his claim, her choice to stay, to escape Salma’s hell, to seize a shred of control over her orphanage-born, kidnapped life.
He moved to the teak table, its surface polished to a mirror, scattering papers—some GST memo, a relic of Salma’s deal—as he set her down, her ass hitting the wood, her thighs parting instinctively. “On your knees,” he growled, spinning her, his hands rough but reverent, bending her forward, her breasts flattening against the cool table, her braids pooling, her cum-slick skin reflecting the chandelier’s glow. Her ass lifted, pale and red from his slaps, her asshole winking tight, exposed as he spread her cheeks, his thumbs pressing the flesh, a hungry groan escaping him. “Fuck, this hole,” he muttered, his finger circling her rim, teasing, the puckered skin twitching under his touch, her breath hitching, her pussy glistening below, dripping to the table.
Rukhsar tensed, her mind racing—she knew what he wanted, the dark hunger in his eyes, his obsession with her body, maybe her, maybe a look-alike ghost from his past. Her life had been hell—Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse where he’d taken her virginity a month ago, her pussy bleeding as he fucked her raw, her cries lost in silk pillows. She’d survived by bending, not breaking, and now, with Salma gone, Mumbai hers to audit, Rukhsar held power here, a sliver of control. She wouldn’t give him her asshole—not yet, not without her terms. Her lips curved, a cunning spark in her eyes, and she arched back, her voice a sultry purr, dripping with seduction. “Grandpa,” she breathed, the word a taboo tease, her pussy pulsing as she wiggled her hips, “fuck my pussy instead. Please—fill my love hole, make me yours.”
His groan was primal, his finger pausing on her asshole, his cock jumping, fully hard now, veined and thick, glistening with pre-cum. “You little minx,” he growled, charmed, his hands sliding to her hips, flipping her onto her back, her legs splaying wide, her pussy open, pink and swollen, juices pooling on the table. Her breasts bounced, cum flaking off, her nipples stiff as he leaned in, his mouth closing over one, sucking hard, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing, her moan sharp as she arched, her braids fanning out. His fingers plunged into her pussy, three thick digits stretching her, curling, pumping, her juices squelching, her thighs quaking, her clit throbbing under his thumb’s rough flick. “This cunt’s mine,” he rasped, pulling his mouth free, a wet pop, her nipple red and glistening, his beard leaving prickly burns.
She nodded, submissive but sly, her hands gripping the table’s edge, her pussy clenching his fingers, her voice a plea laced with power. “Yours, Grandpa,” she gasped, her hips bucking, her cum-slick breasts heaving, her eyes locked on his, daring him to take her. He pulled his fingers out, slick and dripping, smearing her juices across her lips, her chin, her breasts, mixing with his cum, her skin a canvas of their filth. His cock nudged her pussy, the tip teasing her folds, her wetness coating him as he thrust—slow at first, then deep, a wet squelch as he filled her, her tight walls gripping, her moan a cry, her thighs wrapping his waist, pulling him closer.
He fucked her hard, the table creaking, papers sliding, her pussy gushing, her breasts bouncing, cum flaking to the wood, her braids swinging, her nails clawing his arms. “Fuck, Rukhsar Sharma,” he panted, his belly slapping her thighs, his cock hitting deep, her clit grinding his pelvis, her orgasm building, her moans rising—sharp, desperate, alive. “My girl, my name.” His hands gripped her ass, lifting her higher, his thrusts brutal, her pussy pulsing, her juices soaking his balls, dripping to the table, the chamber echoing with their rhythm—flesh, moans, power.
She came, a shuddering scream, her pussy clamping his cock, her body convulsing, her breasts heaving, cum and sweat mixing, her eyes tearing—not pain, but release, control seized in surrender. He followed, groaning, his cum flooding her, hot and thick, spilling out, streaking her thighs, pooling on the table, her pussy milking him dry. He slumped over her, panting, his hands stroking her braids, her lips, her cum-slick skin, his obsession—her, or that look-alike shadow—burning brighter, the farmhouse memory now a chain binding them.
The MP’s grin split wide, a predator’s delight, his bulk rising from the divan, naked and slick, his belly heaving, his cock stirring anew despite its earlier drain. “Sharma, huh?” he rasped, voice thick with glee, his small eyes glinting as he towered over her. “My name on you—fuck, that’s good.” He reached down, his hands—thick, calloused—grabbing her shoulders, lifting her like she weighed nothing, her small body a feather in his grip. She gasped, her thighs slick, her pussy dripping as he hugged her tight, his chest matting her cum-streaked breasts, his beard scbanging her cheek, his lips crashing into hers. His tongue plunged, tasting her cum, her tears, her whiskey-laced submission, a growl rumbling as he kissed her, hard and claiming, her braids swinging, her nails digging into his arms.
Her feet dangled, her toes brushing the rug, her body pressed to his, his cock nudging her thigh, hot and heavy. He carried her, effortless, her 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, fragile but fierce—molding to his bulk, her wetness smearing his skin as she clung, her moans muffled against his mouth. “My little granddaughter,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, his lips trailing her jaw, her throat, biting softly, leaving red marks on her pale skin. The chocolate cake, gold bracelet, and cash stack sat ignored on the cart, her birthday gift dwarfed by this moment—her name, his claim, her choice to stay, to escape Salma’s hell, to seize a shred of control over her orphanage-born, kidnapped life.
He moved to the teak table, its surface polished to a mirror, scattering papers—some GST memo, a relic of Salma’s deal—as he set her down, her ass hitting the wood, her thighs parting instinctively. “On your knees,” he growled, spinning her, his hands rough but reverent, bending her forward, her breasts flattening against the cool table, her braids pooling, her cum-slick skin reflecting the chandelier’s glow. Her ass lifted, pale and red from his slaps, her asshole winking tight, exposed as he spread her cheeks, his thumbs pressing the flesh, a hungry groan escaping him. “Fuck, this hole,” he muttered, his finger circling her rim, teasing, the puckered skin twitching under his touch, her breath hitching, her pussy glistening below, dripping to the table.
Rukhsar tensed, her mind racing—she knew what he wanted, the dark hunger in his eyes, his obsession with her body, maybe her, maybe a look-alike ghost from his past. Her life had been hell—Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse where he’d taken her virginity a month ago, her pussy bleeding as he fucked her raw, her cries lost in silk pillows. She’d survived by bending, not breaking, and now, with Salma gone, Mumbai hers to audit, Rukhsar held power here, a sliver of control. She wouldn’t give him her asshole—not yet, not without her terms. Her lips curved, a cunning spark in her eyes, and she arched back, her voice a sultry purr, dripping with seduction. “Grandpa,” she breathed, the word a taboo tease, her pussy pulsing as she wiggled her hips, “fuck my pussy instead. Please—fill my love hole, make me yours.”
His groan was primal, his finger pausing on her asshole, his cock jumping, fully hard now, veined and thick, glistening with pre-cum. “You little minx,” he growled, charmed, his hands sliding to her hips, flipping her onto her back, her legs splaying wide, her pussy open, pink and swollen, juices pooling on the table. Her breasts bounced, cum flaking off, her nipples stiff as he leaned in, his mouth closing over one, sucking hard, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing, her moan sharp as she arched, her braids fanning out. His fingers plunged into her pussy, three thick digits stretching her, curling, pumping, her juices squelching, her thighs quaking, her clit throbbing under his thumb’s rough flick. “This cunt’s mine,” he rasped, pulling his mouth free, a wet pop, her nipple red and glistening, his beard leaving prickly burns.
She nodded, submissive but sly, her hands gripping the table’s edge, her pussy clenching his fingers, her voice a plea laced with power. “Yours, Grandpa,” she gasped, her hips bucking, her cum-slick breasts heaving, her eyes locked on his, daring him to take her. He pulled his fingers out, slick and dripping, smearing her juices across her lips, her chin, her breasts, mixing with his cum, her skin a canvas of their filth. His cock nudged her pussy, the tip teasing her folds, her wetness coating him as he thrust—slow at first, then deep, a wet squelch as he filled her, her tight walls gripping, her moan a cry, her thighs wrapping his waist, pulling him closer.
He fucked her hard, the table creaking, papers sliding, her pussy gushing, her breasts bouncing, cum flaking to the wood, her braids swinging, her nails clawing his arms. “Fuck, Rukhsar Sharma,” he panted, his belly slapping her thighs, his cock hitting deep, her clit grinding his pelvis, her orgasm building, her moans rising—sharp, desperate, alive. “My girl, my name.” His hands gripped her ass, lifting her higher, his thrusts brutal, her pussy pulsing, her juices soaking his balls, dripping to the table, the chamber echoing with their rhythm—flesh, moans, power.
She came, a shuddering scream, her pussy clamping his cock, her body convulsing, her breasts heaving, cum and sweat mixing, her eyes tearing—not pain, but release, control seized in surrender. He followed, groaning, his cum flooding her, hot and thick, spilling out, streaking her thighs, pooling on the table, her pussy milking him dry. He slumped over her, panting, his hands stroking her braids, her lips, her cum-slick skin, his obsession—her, or that look-alike shadow—burning brighter, the farmhouse memory now a chain binding them.
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