Misc. Erotica Vikram's Porn Addiction comes true

[Mohit.Kumar]

This story is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are over 18 years of age.

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The screen flickers to life, revealing a sumptuous, dusky woman with a voluminous bottom. Her skin glows with the warmth of a freshly baked roti, each curve and contour a testament to her ample figure. She's bent over a chair, her plump breasts swaying with each forceful thrust from the hulky young man behind her. The woman's eyes are squeezed shut, and her mouth forms a perfect 'O' of pleasure, her teeth biting into her lower lip. Her moans fill the room, the name "Aditya" slipping out between gasps.

 

Vikram's heart skips a beat as he leans closer to the monitor. There's something eerily familiar about her. The way she arches her back, the jiggle of her soft belly, the mewling noises she makes as she's filled with cock. It's almost as if he's seen her before, somewhere in the distant recesses of his memory. His hand strays to his crotch, the fabric of his pants growing taut as his cock swells with interest.

 

He adjusts the angle of the laptop, his eyes never leaving the screen. The woman in the video is taking it like a champ, her round ass cheeks clapping together with each deep penetration. The camera zooms in, giving him a clear view of her gaping asshole, a ring of dark flesh around the base of the invading cock.

 

Vikram's cock hardens further, straining against the fabric of his briefs. He reaches down and pulls it out, stroking it gently as he watches. The young man in the video, presumably Aditya, grabs her hips with a ferocity that makes her squeal. She's begging for more, her voice thick with lust. "Harder, Aditya. Yes, just like that," she pants.

 

Her dark, wavy hair falls over her face, obscuring her features for a moment before she tosses her head back, exposing her neck, dotted with beads of sweat that glisten under the artificial light. Vikram's mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle. He's seen that neck before, those same sweat-kissed skin folds that now quiver with each impact of the man's pelvis against her round, plush ass.

 

He moves closer to the screen, his breathing quickening as he scrutinizes the scene. The woman's face is still mostly obscured, but he catches a glimpse of her profile—the tip of her nose, the fullness of her cheek. But he still can't put a finger on her.

 

The porn scene unfolds with a raw, carnality that mirrors the tumultuous rhythm of his own hand. Aditya's cock, thick and veiny, pulls out of her pussy and slams back in, painting her inner thighs with her own juices. The woman's eyes flash open, revealing a spark of recognition. It's a look of pure ecstasy, a look that sends a tremor through Vikram's core.

 

He gasps, his hand faltering on his cock as he finally sees her face fully. The resemblance is uncanny. It's definitely someone he knew. But who?

 

Her eyes are almond-shaped, fringed with thick lashes that fan out like miniature ravens' wings. Her nose is slightly upturned, giving her a look of perpetual surprise—or in this case, ecstasy. Her full lips are parted, and her teeth bite down on the corner of her mouth, a gesture that seems to be a silent scream of pleasure.

[Mohit.Kumar]

As the scene reaches its crescendo, the woman in the video cries out, "Oh, Aditya! Yes, yes, I'm coming!"

Vikram feels his own climax approaching, his balls tightening with every stroke of his hand.

The woman's cries of pleasure grow louder, more desperate, as the man behind her, this Aditya, shows no signs of relenting. He's pummeling her with a primal force that seems to echo in the very core of Vikram's being. The sound of their bodies slapping together is a symphony of passion, and he can almost feel the heat radiating from the screen.

Her breasts bounce in time with the relentless rhythm, the dark areolae puckering with each impact. Vikram's eyes are glued to the scene, his hand moving faster now, matching the tempo of their frenetic lovemaking. He can't believe what he's seeing, yet he can't tear his gaze away.

The woman's cries of "Aditya" grow more frantic, her body quaking with the force of her impending climax. It's as if she's calling out to him, beckoning him to join in her pleasure. The room is thick with the scent of his own arousal, mingling with the sweat that's starting to bead on his forehead.

He can almost feel her wetness, the way her pussy clenches around the man's cock. He imagines it's his own, plunging deep inside her, claiming her as he's always wanted. His strokes become more urgent, his hand a blur as he watches her succumb to the waves of pleasure washing over her.

Her ass ripples with each powerful thrust, her cheeks spread wide to reveal the pink, stretched star of her anus, winking at the camera. The sight of it sends a shiver of excitement down his spine, and he wonders what it would feel like to be the one to claim that untouched part of her.

The woman's voice rises in pitch, her cries now a series of sharp, staccato exhalations that punctuate the air like gunshots. Her eyes roll back in her head, and her whole body tenses as the orgasm crashes over her. It's a moment of pure, unbridled passion, captured in high definition for the world to see.

Vikram's hand is a blur now, his grip tight on his swollen shaft. He can feel his own release building, a tingling heat that starts in his balls and races up his spine. He watches, transfixed, as the woman's pussy contracts around the cock, her whole body shaking with the intensity of her climax.

Her cries of "Aditya" turn into a chant, a mantra of pleasure that resonates deep within him. The name alone is a trigger, sending bolts of electricity through his veins. It's all he can do to keep his eyes on the screen, to not to get lost in the haze of lust that's enveloping him.

The room feels like it's spinning, the walls closing in as he watches the woman's body convulse. She's lost to the world, a slave to her own pleasure, and it's a sight that's both mesmerizing and maddening. He's so close, so very close to his own release, and he knows that when it hits, it's going to be like nothing he's ever felt before.

The sound of Aditya's hips smacking against her ass is the only thing that grounds him, that keeps him tethered to reality. He focuses on that, letting it build within him until it's all he can hear. His hand moves in a blur, a silent testament to the years of practice he's had in the art of self-pleasure.

Her eyes finally open, and she looks directly into the camera, as if she's looking into his soul. Her gaze is hazy with desire, her pupils blown wide with the intensity of her climax. It's as if she knows he's there, watching, and she's performing just for him.

Vikram's breath hitches in his throat, and his hand moves even faster. The room seems to fade away around him, leaving only the pulsing light of the computer screen and the wet sounds of their lovemaking. His vision tunnels, the only thing he can see is the woman's face, contorted with pleasure.

Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are glazed over with lust. Her hair sticks to her forehead in sweaty strands, and her teeth are bared in a silent snarl as she rides the wave of ecstasy. He can feel his own orgasm approaching, a tightening in his gut that tells him he's almost there.

The man, this Aditya, shows no signs of slowing down. His hands are like vises on her hips, guiding her, holding her in place as he drives into her. The woman's tits are bouncing wildly, slapping against the chair with every thrust. Vikram's eyes dart to her nipples, which are so dark and hard they could cut glass.

He can see the sweat glistening on her body, the sheen of it making her skin look like it's been dusted with gold. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and with each exhale, her chest heaves, those beautiful tits jiggling in a way that makes his mouth water.

Vikram's cock feels like it's going to burst. He's so close, so unbearably close to coming. The woman in the video, his mysterious doppelgänger, starts to push back into Aditya's thrusts, meeting him halfway, her hips moving in a sinuous dance of wantonness.

Her pussy is a wet, pink cavern, swollen and eager for more. Each time Aditya pulls out, it grips onto his cock like a greedy mouth, desperate for the taste of him. The sight is intoxicating, and Vikram's breathing becomes ragged, matching the tempo of their fucking.

The room is a cocoon of sensation, the only sounds the slap of flesh and their mingled cries. The woman's eyes lock onto the screen, and for a moment, it's as if she's staring directly into his soul. Her gaze is a challenge, a silent invitation for him to come closer, to claim her himself.

Vikram can feel the warmth of his own release building, a pressure that's been building since the moment he clicked play. His hand is a blur on his cock, his thumb circling the head in time with the rhythm of their fucking. His hips buck in time with the thrusts on the screen, his body mimicking Aditya's as if they're joined in some primal dance.

The woman's eyes seem to bore into him, urging him to let go. Her moans grow louder, more demanding, and he feels his own orgasm building. It's as if she's begging him to fill her up, to claim her in the most carnally satisfying way possible.

Her breasts are a mesmerizing sight, jiggling in a hypnotic dance of desire with each powerful thrust. The way the light plays off her glistening skin, the way her nipples stand tall and proud, it's almost too much for him to handle. He squeezes them in his mind, imagines how they would feel between his teeth, the taste of her flesh on his tongue.

The sound of their fucking fills the room, a symphony of need and want that crescendos with every stroke of his hand. His cock is a hot, pulsing rod of flesh, desperate for release. He can feel the precum beading at the tip, a slippery promise of what's to come.

Her cries of "Aditya" are drawing him closer and closer to the edge. His eyes are glued to the screen, watching as she's claimed over and over again. The sight of her stretched asshole, the way it clenches around the base of the invading cock, sends a shiver down his spine. He wonders what it would be like to see that firsthand, to feel the heat of her body against his own, to hear her moan his name instead of Aditya's.

The room is a blur of shadows and light, the only focus the woman's voluptuous form and the relentless pounding she's receiving. Vikram can feel the tension in the air, a palpable force that seems to coil around him, tightening with every stroke of his hand. The head of his cock is slick with pre-cum, and he knows he won't last much longer.

The woman on the screen throws her head back, her cries of pleasure echoing through the small, enclosed space. Her eyes seem to bore into his very soul, a silent demand that sends shivers down his spine. "Fuck me, Aditya!" she screams, and something inside Vikram snaps.

[Mohit.Kumar]

With a growl, he gives in to the overwhelming need to climax. His hand moves in a frenzied blur, his hips bucking wildly. The image of her gaping asshole, her body trembling with each violent thrust, sends him hurtling over the precipice. His orgasm crashes over him like a tidal wave, a hot, wet explosion of white-hot pleasure that leaves him gasping for breath.

Vikram's vision blurs as ropes of cum spurt from his cock, painting his stomach in sticky arcs. He watches the video, the woman's eyes still locked onto his, as if she can feel his release through the screen. Her cries become his, their shared pleasure resonating through the room in a symphony of desire.

The intensity of his climax subsides, leaving him panting and weak, his hand still wrapped around his slowly softening cock. He can't believe what he's just experienced, the raw power of the woman's sexuality and the way it's consumed him. His heart is racing, his chest heaving with the exertion of his own orgasm.

As the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through him, he finally pulls his gaze away from the screen, his eyes blinking to clear the haze of desire. The room seems too bright, too stark in comparison to the shadowy embrace of the porn video. The sight of his own cum, a sticky mess on his stomach and chest, brings him back to reality with a jolt.

Vikram's hand lingers on his cock, now a limp testament to the frenzy he's just endured. His breathing is still ragged, his heart pounding in his chest as if it's trying to break free. He reaches for his phone, his thumbs moving almost of their own accord as he opens the camera app.

With trembling hands, he captures the essence of her orgasm, her face a canvas of raw, unfiltered pleasure. The screenshots are a frozen moment in time, her eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy. The way her features contort, the sheen of sweat on her skin, it's all so,familiar. He stares at the images, his mind racing. Who is she?

Her dark, wavy hair frames her face like a halo of sensuality, each strand a silent storyteller of the passion she's just experienced. He zooms in, scrutinizing the curve of her cheek, the tip of her nose, the way her eyebrows arch in the throes of pleasure. It's like looking into a mirror, yet the reflection is hauntingly different. The woman's eyes, so familiar and yet so foreign, seem to beckon him into the depths of the screen.

Vikram snaps the first shot, capturing the moment of her climax. The screen blurs with the speed of his hand, the digital camera shutter echoing the final beats of his own pulsing orgasm. Her face is a portrait of ecstasy, a masterpiece of desire that he can't help but immortalize. He takes another, and another, each one a little closer, a little clearer, until her features are burned into his retina.

He saves the images, his cock still pulsing with the aftermath of his release, and opens his Whatsapp. The groups light up with notifications as he sends the photos—his friends' eyes will surely widen when they see who he's been watching. The thrill of sharing this secret, this forbidden fruit, is almost as potent as the act itself. He selects a few of the most explicit ones, the ones where she's begging for it, where she looks the most like a wanton whore.

The first group chat is a bunch of his college buddies. They're always eager for a bit of naughty fun, sharing their latest conquests and porn finds. He sends the pic with a caption, "Who does she remind you of?" He knows the reactions will be explosive. The second group is from his old neighborhood, the guys he grew up with. They've seen it all, done it all, but even they might be surprised by this twist.

[Givemeextra]

Who was the woman?

[Mohit.Kumar]

The phone vibrates in his hand, the screen lighting up with notifications as the photos spread like wildfire through the digital ether. He can almost hear the collective gasp as they realize who it is. The first reply comes through, a shocked emoji followed by a string of unintelligible curses. It's Akash, his best friend from college, always the first to weigh in on anything controversial. Then, the deluge begins. Chat bubbles pop up like a rainstorm of shock and awe, the digital echoes of his friends' reactions.

"Bro, is that who I think it is?"

"Vikram, what the actual fuck?"

"Dude, no way. That's your...?"

"Oh, shit! She's fucking hot!"

The messages flood in, a cacophony of astonishment and lust. The screenshots of her face, contorted in ecstasy, light up the screens of his friends' phones like a series of car crashes they can't help but ogle. Each reaction sends a new thrill through him, a heady mix of shock and arousal that makes his spent cock twitch with renewed interest. He scrolls through the responses, his heart racing as he watches his little secret unfold before his eyes.

In the college group, Akash sends a video of himself slapping his own forehead, his mouth agape in disbelief. "Dude, that's your...sister?" His voice cracks with the last word, the question hanging in the digital void. Vikram smirks, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. "Well, she's definitely not my sister," he types back, the lie feeling strangely liberating. The banter continues, his friends sending a flurry of memes and lewd comments that only serve to fuel the fire burning in his loins.

The neighborhood group takes a little longer to catch on. The first few messages are confused, asking if it's a celebrity lookalike or a long-lost relative. But as the reality dawns on them, the tone shifts. "Vikram, you dirty bastard!" writes Rohit, who used to be the moral compass of the group. The screen fills with a flurry of messages, a cacophony of excitement and revulsion. It's like watching a train wreck, but the adrenaline rush is all his.

Raj, his childhood bestie, sends a series of flaming emojis. "Where did you find this gem?" His heart skips a beat as he considers the implications. Could he have known all along? The thought sends a shiver down his spine, a delicious mix of fear and arousal. He decides to play it cool, to see how far this rabbit hole goes.

"Just some random shit on the internet," he responds with a winking emoji, his pulse racing as he hits send. The replies come in fast and furious, a blur of emojis and lewd comments that only serve to heighten his excitement. He's never felt so alive, so connected to the primal instinct that fuels his every desire.

The woman on the screen, his doppelgänger in ecstasy, seems to be watching him even as he scrolls through the messages. Her eyes, glazed with passion, seem to follow his every move. He can't tear his gaze away, not even when the door to his apartment opens, and the sound of familiar footsteps echo through the hallway.

His heart jumps to his throat as he hastily taps out of the chat and closes the laptop. He tucks his now-flaccid cock back into his pants, wipes the evidence of his release off his stomach with the back of his hand, and sits up, trying to compose himself.

The door swings open, and his sister, Radhika, walks in, her eyes widening as she takes in the disheveled state of the room—the bed unmade, the rumpled blankets, and the faint scent of musk and sweat. She looks at him with a knowing smirk, the same smirk that's haunted his fantasies for years. "What have you been up to, Vikram?" she asks, her voice dripping with amusement.

Vikram's face reddens, his heart racing like a rabbit's. He tries to play it cool, casually leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Just watching a movie," he says, his voice a tad too nonchalant.

"Looks like a pretty intense movie," Radhika teases, raising an eyebrow.

[Mohit.Kumar]

Some days later, as Vikram sits in his favorite café, sipping his chai and scrolling through his phone, it buzzes to life in his pocket. He pulls it out, expecting another mundane message from work, but instead, he sees a name that makes his heart race: Gagan, his college buddy. The message reads, "Hey, that looks like Chaitali." He freezes, the chai scalding his tongue. Chaitali? The girl from his fantasies, the one whose face had haunted his every waking moment since that fateful night?

He tries to play it cool, his thumbs hovering over the screen. "Who's Chaitali?" he types back, feigning ignorance. His mind races with the possibility that Gagan had recognized the woman from the porn video. The lie feels heavy on his chest, but he needs to keep the truth buried deep.

The phone vibrates again. "The receptionist at our college. You know, the woman with the big... assets?"

Vikram's mind reels back to the dusty corridors of his alma mater, the cacophony of teenage voices, and the figure of Chaitali, the woman who had always greeted him with a smile that hinted at something more. The one with the hips that swayed like a Bollywood heroine and the breasts that seemed to whisper secrets of the flesh. He swallows hard, his hand trembling as he sets his chai down. "Chaitali?" The name feels like a hot brand on his tongue.

He opens the message again, staring at the screen as if it will reveal the hidden truth. The images of the woman in the video swirl through his mind, a kaleidoscope of lust and familial warmth. Could it be? Was it really her? The way she moaned, the way she moved, it was all too similar. The room seems to tilt, and he grips the edge of the table to steady himself.

With trembling fingers, he types out his response. "Do you have any contact for her?" The words hang in the digital ether, a silent confession of his desperate curiosity. He hits send and watches the message bubble vanish into the abyss, his heart racing in anticipation.

Gagan's reply is swift. "Why do you ask?"

Vikram's mind is racing. He needs to think fast. He can't let his friends know the truth, not yet. "Just wanna catch up," he types, his heart thudding like a drum. "It's been ages since we talked about old times. Remember the crushes?"

Gagan's response is immediate, his suspicion piqued. "Ah, yes, the good ol' days. But why Chaitali? Something on your mind?"

Vikram's throat tightens, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. "Just curious, man. She was always so... friendly." His voice trails off as he tries to keep his cool, the memory of her curves and the sound of her moans echoing in his mind.

Gagan's response is a smirking emoji followed by a knowing wink. "Ah, I see. Nostalgia can be a powerful thing. I'll see what I can do." The conversation lingers, the unspoken tension hanging in the air like a thick fog.

Days stretch into an eternity for Vikram, his mind consumed by the mystery woman from the porn video. He finds himself in a perpetual state of arousal, unable to shake the feeling that he's on the cusp of a revelation that could either shatter his world or fulfill his darkest desires.

The café's chai grows cold and forgotten beside him as he ponders over the name Gagan had mentioned—Chaitali. He recalls the way she'd greet him with a knowing smile at college, her eyes always lingering a beat too long, hinting at a secret that only the two of them shared. It was a silent promise of something more, a spark that had remained dormant within him until it had been rekindled by the woman on the screen.

He couldn't help but replay the porn scene in his head, her cries of "Aditya" echoing through his mind like a siren's call. The way she'd take it, so willingly, so wantonly, her body moving in perfect harmony with the man behind her—it was as if she was made for this, made to be watched. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, his cock stirring back to life in his pants.

The wait for Gagan's response feels like an eternity, the anticipation building like a dam about to burst. And then, finally, it arrives. A LinkedIn profile, with a name that seems to burn itself into his retina: Chaitali Ghosh. The same name that had been whispered through the hallowed halls of his college, the same name that had been the subject of countless locker room fantasies.

Vikram's hands shake as he clicks the link, his heart thudding in his chest. The profile picture that loads is of a woman with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with life. She's dressed modestly, but there's something about the way she holds herself, something that screams of hidden desires and unspoken allure. It's her, the woman from the video, the woman whose body had writhed with pleasure under the relentless pounding of a stranger's cock.

He reads through her profile, his eyes devouring every detail. Chaitali Ghosh, receptionist at their old college, had moved on to become an Training Manager at a nearby corporate training firm. She had a degree in business administration and was married. The word "married" hits him like a sledgehammer, but the thrill doesn't diminish. If anything, it amplifies it.

With trembling hands, he sends her a connection request, his heart pounding as he waits for her to accept. The minutes feel like hours, each tick of the clock echoing in his ears like a drumroll. .

But no reply.

The silence from Chaitali is deafening. Each tick of the clock echoes through the void, a stark reminder of his own audacity. He's sent a friend request to the woman who's become the center of his most depraved fantasies, the woman whose face had been a silent participant in his darkest moments. The weight of his own indecency presses down on him, suffocating him with every breath he takes.

He tries to distract himself, scrolling through the mundane updates of his other connections. But it's no use. Her profile looms over him, a digital specter that refuses to be ignored. He's seen her in the throes of passion, her body moving in a symphony of wantonness, and now she's just a name on a screen, untouchable and unresponsive.

With a sudden jolt of determination, Vikram decides he can't wait for her to respond. He needs to see her in person, to confirm that it's truly her. He needs to hear her voice, to smell her perfume, to feel the heat of her body. Taking matters into his own hands, he dresses in his best suit, a costume of respectability that feels like a second skin. He checks himself in the mirror, smoothing out any wrinkles, adjusting his tie, and practicing his most charming smile.

[Mohit.Kumar]

The drive to the corporate training firm is a blur of traffic and anticipation. His palms are sweaty, his heart racing like it's about to escape his chest. When he finally arrives, he takes a moment to compose himself in the parking lot, staring at the reflection of the towering building in the side-view mirror. This is it. This is where she's moved on to, leaving their shared past behind.

The lobby is cold and sterile, the scent of antiseptic cleaning products mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The reception desk is empty, a stark contrast to the warm, inviting image of Chaitali that has been etched into his mind. He approaches the desk, his eyes scanning the nameplate. It's not her. The woman behind the desk looks up at him with a practiced smile, her eyes glazed with boredom.

"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice a monotone drone that grates against the symphony of desire playing in his head.

"Yes," he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm looking for Chaitali Ghosh. Is she... available?"

The receptionist's eyes flicker to the computer screen before she looks back at him with a tight smile. "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Ghosh left the company five years ago. May I ask who's inquiring?"

Vikram's heart sinks like a stone in a deep well. "I'm an old college friend," he says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "Just wanted to catch up. Could you possibly tell me where she went?"

The receptionist's smile turns into a polite grimace. "I'm afraid I don't have that information. We respect our former employees' privacy."

Vikram nods, his mind racing. Five years—an eternity in the digital age. So much could have changed, and yet, she remained a constant in his most secret fantasies. He retreats to his car, the cool leather of the seat a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his skin. The engine purrs to life, the vibrations sending a shiver through his body. He needs to find her.

Back at his apartment, the laptop glows with a seductive light, the ghosts of his past online searches haunting the browser history. He opens a new tab and logs into his LinkedIn account. With trembling fingers, he navigates to Chaitali's profile again. Staring at her professional headshot, he can't help but imagine her naked, her body contorting in ecstasy. On a whim, he takes a screenshot of her profile picture and opens his WhatsApp.

He's a member of several groups, from old college friends to work colleagues to the neighborhood gossip gang. His thumb hovers over the send button, his heart racing with the thrill of potential exposure. The thought of all his acquaintances seeing her, knowing his dirty little secret, is exhilarating. With a deep breath, he presses down, sending the image to every group he's a part of.

The silence of his apartment is broken by the symphony of his phone's notifications. It's a cacophony of sounds, a digital echo of his own heartbeat. He watches, breath bated, as the little blue ticks slowly turn to gray. Each one a silent acknowledgment that his message has been delivered, a little piece of his soul laid bare for all to see.

The first reply is from a classmate, a guy he's barely spoken to since graduation. "Who's that?" It's followed by a series of emojis, some shocked, some questioning. The second reply is from a woman he had a fleeting fling with, her eyes wide with surprise. "Is this the Chaitali from college?" Her curiosity is palpable, even through the screen.

Vikram's phone buzzes with more messages, a mix of confusion, amusement, and a hint of arousal. The group chat comes alive with whispers of her name, a siren's call to his memories. He can almost feel the eyes of his past on him, judging, curious, and maybe a little bit jealous.

One message stands out, from a number not saved in his contacts. "I know where she is," it reads, the words a lifeline thrown into the tumultuous sea of his desire. His heart skips a beat, and he quickly responds, his thumbs dancing over the keyboard with a newfound urgency. "Where?"