18-10-2025, 05:24 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-10-2025, 03:59 PM by tharkibudda. Edited 10 times in total. Edited 10 times in total.)
Chapter 25- April 25th and 26th
I watched the playback now, months later, with a hollow ache gnawing at my ribs. Just last Saturday, I'd jerked off furiously to this my sec video – the frantic thrusts, the groan of release, Dhristi’s choked gasp. Back then, it fueled a twisted fantasy of my prowess, my claim. Now? The screen mocked me. My technique was non-existent: clumsy fumbling, tearing fabric, frantic rutting like a starved animal. No finesse, no artistry. Just desperation. My cock? Small, thin, vanishing inside her slickness – a pathetic stub compared to Lakhan’s brutal girth. Stamina? two minutes. Maybe four. A frantic sprint ending in a whimpering collapse onto her unfulfilled body. I hadn't satisfied her. Not once. Not in months. Not ever. She hadn't even known what satisfaction was until Lakhan ripped it from her core with teeth and force, leaving her shuddering through multiple unwanted peaks. My "love-making" was just another chore she endured, another failure etched in her silent tears.
Slowly, I woke up from the chair. My neck cracked, stiff from hours slumped before the monitor. The grainy CCTV footage still played silently: Dhristi pinned beneath my sleeping form, tears drying on her temples. My entire life felt like a lie. Every "ji" from her lips, every hesitant touch, every morning smile – all meticulously crafted performances. A wife pretending to enjoy me in bed. Was it always like this? From our shy village wedding night? Or only after Lakhan showed her what a real man could force from her body? Worse – did she compare us? My frantic two-minute humping to Lakhan’s hour-long degradations? Did she lie there counting ceiling cracks while I snored, aching for the brutal fullness only he provided? The thought curdled my stomach. Would it ever come back to normalcy? Could I ever touch her without seeing Lakhan’s shadow flinch in her eyes? Or was I doomed to be the inadequate husband, forever failing to measure up to the monster who broke her?
I didn't know what to do. The Ahmedabad shipment files lay stacked neatly beside the Desktop. Javed Khan expected them by evening. Work. Order. Control. Things I understood. Things I could dominate. Unlike Dhristi’s shattered spirit. I checked the time on the CCTV playback screen: 1:30 PM. Sunlight glared outside, harsh and accusatory. The office. Yes. Drive to the office. Give Javed the files. Breathe air not thick with Dhristi’s silent disappointment and the phantom scent of Lakhan’s sweat. Maybe… maybe normalcy waited there. Amongst invoices and tile samples. Maybe I could pretend, for a few hours, that I wasn’t the man who made his wife cry silently after sex. I grabbed the files, my fingers digging into the cardboard edge. Purpose. Direction. Anything to escape the suffocating replay of my inadequacy on screen.
The Chand Tiles office hummed with an unfamiliar lightness. Javed Khan sat behind his desk, scrolling through his phone, a slight smile playing on his lips. He looked… relaxed. Unburdened. The usual tension that coiled around Lakhan’s presence was absent. Outside his glass door, the junior staff chatted freely, laughter bubbling over the clatter of keyboards. Someone had brought samosas; It felt… open. Like minds unfurling petals without the looming shadow of a predator. Javed looked up as I entered, his smile widening. "Manav ! Early bird catches the worm?" His voice was warm, lacking its usual guarded edge.
I slid the Ahmedabad shipment files onto his desk. "All done, sir. Quantities confirmed, transport routes optimized, supplier acknowledgments filed. Ready for dispatch Thursday." My voice sounded flat to my own ears, hollowed out by the grainy images still replaying behind my eyelids: Dhristi’s silent tears soaking into the pillowcase.
Javed Khan’s eyes scanned the top sheet. Not quickly—slowly, appreciatively. His finger traced a column of numbers. "Kota Grey… fifteen thousand square feet…" He looked up, genuine warmth crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Manav, this is meticulous. . Cleaner. Faster." He leaned back, the leather chair sighing. "Take the rest of the day. Go home. Relax. You’ve earned it."
The words hit like cold water. *Home*. Where Dhristi moved like a ghost through rooms thick with unsaid things. Where the CCTV recordings waited, whispering Lakhan’s name with every grainy frame. My knuckles whitened on the file edge. "Actually, sir…" The lie slipped out smooth as oiled tile. "The carpenters. They didn’t show up today. Promised yesterday. Useless fellows." I forced a chuckle, brittle. "Whole house echoing. Hammering would’ve started by now. Nothing." I gestured vaguely toward the door. "Might as well… take the Indore project files? Work from home. Quieter there now, anyway. Get ahead."
Javed Khan’s smile softened into understanding sympathy. "Ah, these *mistris*! Always promises, no punctuality. Go, go! Handle your home. Family first." He waved a dismissive hand. "Take the Indore files. Finish when you can. No hurry."
Relief flooded me—cold, sharp, temporary. Escape. Not home *to* Dhristi, just... away. Away from Javed’s warm approval that felt like sandpaper on raw skin. Away from the tile samples whispering comparisons I couldn’t bear. I grabbed the Indore project folder, its cardboard edge digging into my palm like an anchor.
My scooter coughed to life outside Chand Tiles, the familiar rumble vibrating up my thighs. Ahmedabad’s midday heat pressed down, thick and dusty, smelling of diesel fumes and frying oil from the street vendors near the crossroads. I gunned the engine harder than necessary, weaving through the sluggish traffic near Sardar Patel Marg. Auto-rickshaws belched smoke, cyclists wobbled precariously, and the sheer *normalcy* of it all felt like a punch. Everyone moving, oblivious. Didn’t they see the CCTV footage replaying behind my eyes? Dhristi’s rigid shoulders beneath my sleeping weight? The silent tears?
"Kya chahiye, saab?" The waiter’s voice cut through the clatter of steel plates and the drone of ceiling fans. *Shreeji Dhaba*. I slid into a corner booth, . "Ek plate aloo paratha," I ordered, voice rough. Then, on impulse: "Aur ek plate plain paratha pack kardo. Dinner ke liye.". The gesture felt hollow, pointless. Like stacking tiles while the house crumbled.
I ate mechanically. The paratha tasted like cardboard, the spiced potatoes like damp earth. Around me, men laughed, argued politics, slurped dal—oblivious. My phone lay face-down beside the thali, its screen dark but screaming. Those recordings. Hundreds of hours. Dhristi brushing her hair. Dhristi folding laundry. Dhristi staring blankly at the TV while my sleeping form filled half the frame. Dhristi getting fucked . Each file a tombstone marking a moment where I failed to see her drowning. The CCTV app mocked me—a neat calendar grid, dates blinking like accusing eyes. *April 24th. April 25th. May 3rd.* Each click a descent into hell. I gulped lukewarm water, washing down the bitterness. Paid cash and left.
The scooter ride home blurred. Heat. Horns. The oppressive weight of the Indore project file digging into my thigh. At home, silence greeted me—thick, watchful. The fridge hummed its lonely song as I shoved the takeaway parcel inside. The foil crinkled loudly in the stillness. . The computer monitor glowed accusingly from the study. My fingers trembled slightly as I tapped the trackpad, waking the beast. The CCTV interface loaded—a stark grid of camera feeds. Living room: empty. Kitchen: empty. Bedroom: empty. My eyes flicked to the date selector. *April 25th. Monday.* The file size was minuscule—.. Yet… my index finger hovered. *Click.*
The timestamp glowed **12:47 PM**. Living Room Camera. Dhristi sat rigidly on the edge of the faded floral sofa. Pink kurti too bright against the muted upholstery, black leggings clinging tautly. Her posture screamed tension—spine unnaturally straight, elbows locked at her sides, palms pressed flat onto her knees. Not reading. Not sewing. Not gazing out the window. Just… waiting. Utterly still. Only her foot betrayed her—a tiny, frantic tapping against the worn rug beneath the coffee table. *Tap-tap-tap-tap.* Like a trapped bird’s heartbeat against glass. Her gaze remained fixed on the front door, unblinking. The stillness wasn't peace. It was coiled wire.
I fast-forwarded. The digital clock on-screen jumped: **12:51 PM**. **12:58 PM**. **1:03 PM**. Her stillness grew more brittle. The tapping foot accelerated—a frantic drumroll against the silence. Once, she lifted a hand, fingers brushing the hollow of her throat where Lakhan’s teeth had left purple blooms just days before. A tremor ran through her. Her lips moved silently. Praying? Cursing? Begging? Then, abruptly, she stood. Paced three sharp steps towards the door. Stopped. Turned back. Sank onto the sofa again, knees pressed tight together. Her hands twisted in her lap now, fingers knotting and unknotting the thin cotton of her kurti. Her chest rose and fell visibly beneath the pink fabric—short, shallow breaths. The desperation radiated off the grainy image like heat shimmer. This wasn't just waiting. It was *hunger*. Raw, feral, terrifying. After my frantic, pathetic burst inside her Saturday night—leaving her cold and stranded—she wasn't flinching from touch. She was *starving* for his. Craving the brutal fullness, the degrading stretch, the unwanted peaks Lakhan ripped from her while I slept obliviously. She needed him to *undo* my failure. To fill the hollow I’d carved deeper.
**1:15 PM**. The tapping foot stopped. Froze mid-air. Her head snapped towards the door. Had she heard something? A scooter engine? Footsteps? Hope flared in her posture—a sudden, electric tension. She leaned forward, eyes wide, straining towards the peephole. Five seconds. Ten. Nothing. The tension bled out, leaving her slumped. Deflated. Her shoulders rounded inward. She pressed the heels of her palms against her closed eyes, hard. A shuddering breath escaped her lips—audible even through the muted CCTV audio. When she lowered her hands, her eyes were red-rimmed. Not crying. Bleak. Empty. The kind of emptiness that comes after hope dies. Her gaze drifted away from the door, landing blankly on the dusty vase atop the TV cabinet. Resignation settled over her like dust. *Nahi aaya.* He wasn't coming. Not today. The anticipation curdled into something colder, heavier. Disgust? At herself? At him? At the aching emptiness between her legs? Her hand drifted down, fingers brushing the waistband of her leggings. A fleeting touch. Then snatched away as if burned. Shame? Or just… futility?
I slammed the laptop shut. The plastic groaned. Fury—hot, sour, useless—burned through my ribs. I understood that hunger. That desperate, humiliating need gnawing at her core. After Saturday night… after my frantic, pathetic burst inside her… leaving her cold and stranded… *of course* she’d crave Lakhan’s brutal fullness. To feel *something*, anything, even pain, even degradation, to fill the hollow *I’d* carved deeper. To be *used* properly. To be stretched, filled, overwhelmed—not pitied and discarded after two clumsy minutes. I understood. **And I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.** My cock—small, thin, vanishing slickness—was a pathetic stub next to Lakhan’s remembered girth. My stamina? Two frantic minutes. My technique? Non-existent. Clumsy fumbling. Tearing fabric. Frantic rutting like a starved animal. No finesse. No artistry. Just desperation. How could I compete? How could I *satisfy* that ravenous need? The fury curdled into self-loathing, thick and choking. *Kitna bekar tha main.* How useless I was. My hands shook. Not from anger now. From helplessness.
My gaze snagged on the date grid. April 26th. Wednesday. The file size was bigger. Much bigger. Fat with data. Lakhan definitely came the next day. He’d answered her silent, desperate prayer. Answered it with a lot of thrusting i guess. My finger hovered—a trembling moth drawn to the flame. The cursor blinked over the date. *Click.*
**1:02 PM**. Living Room Camera. Yellow cotton saree, the pallu dbangd neatly over her shoulder. Green blouse bright against the dull sofa fabric. Dhristi sat perched on the edge, spine rigid as a steel rod. No tapping foot this time. Just absolute stillness. Hands folded primly in her lap. Eyes fixed on the door. Waiting. Not with yesterday’s frantic hunger, but with a chilling certainty. She knew. She *knew* he was coming. This wasn't hope. It was grim appointment. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. A tiny muscle pulsed beneath her left eye. *Thump-thump-thump.* Like a trapped heartbeat against bone. She didn't blink. Didn't fidget. Just sat there, radiating a brittle tension that made the screen feel cold. Monumental. Waiting for the avalanche.
**1:14 PM**. The doorbell rang. A sharp, electronic *brrrring!* Dhristi flinched violently. A full-body jerk, like she'd been jabbed with a cattle prod. Her eyes snapped wide—pure, unguarded terror flashing across her face. Gone in a nanosecond, replaced by that flat, guarded lake. She stood slowly, deliberately smoothing her saree pleats. Her hands trembled faintly. She took three measured steps to the door. Paused. Inhaled sharply through her nose. Then unlocked it. Pulled it open.
Lakhan stood framed in the doorway. Sunlight glared behind him, turning him into a hulking silhouette. He didn't look at her. Didn't greet her. Didn't acknowledge her existence. Just pushed past her shoulder like she was a curtain. He strode straight to the sofa, the worn springs groaning under his weight as he dropped onto it. He sprawled, legs wide apart, arms flung over the backrest. A king claiming his throne. His gaze fixed straight ahead on the blank television screen.
Dhristi remained frozen by the door, hand still clutching the knob. Her knuckles were bone-white. The silence thickened, curdled. Only the ticking clock and the ragged hitch of her breathing. Lakhan shifted, leather belt creaking. His thick fingers went to his fly. A sharp *zzzzip* ripped through the quiet. He didn't glance down. Didn't speak. Just shoved his dark grey office trousers and underwear down his thick thighs in one rough motion. The fabric pooled around his ankles like discarded snakeskin.
There it was. Thick, heavy, already half-hard against the coarse hair of his thigh. Eight inches of blunt, brutal power. Veins pulsed beneath the flushed skin. It lay there, exposed, a silent command carved in flesh against the faded floral sofa. Not triumphant. Not vulgar. Just... *there*. An undeniable fact. A tool waiting to be used. He rested his thick forearms on his knees, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen as if contemplating stock prices. Utter indifference radiating from every pore. The sheer *normality* of it was obscene.
Dhristi stared. Not with yesterday’s desperate hunger, but with a kind of horrified fascination. Her gaze locked onto it—wide, unblinking. Like seeing a cobra uncoil on your kitchen floor. Familiar, yet utterly alien every single time. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Yesterday, she’d gripped *mine*. Hesitant, clumsy fingers wrapping around my small, thin cock—barely four inches, vanishing slickness—trying to coax life into it like pumping a stubborn bicycle tire. A futile, awkward dance. Her touch had been... careful. Tentative. As if handling fragile, cheap glassware that might shatter. The memory flickered across her face—a tightening around her eyes, a minuscule flinch at the corner of her lips. The sheer *difference* wasn't just size. It was... presence. Mine felt like a nervous apology tucked away. His was a declaration of war. Heavy. Demanding. Utterly indifferent to her terror. A monument to pure, functional force.
Lakhan didn’t move. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t smirk. Just kept staring ahead at the blank television screen, thick fingers drumming a lazy rhythm on his knee. But his lips—oh, his lips betrayed him. A slow, serpentine curl crept upwards. Not triumphant. Cunning. Calculating. Like a chess player spotting the king’s exposed flank. He’d seen it. The shift. Yesterday, she’d recoiled—flinched violently when he’d shoved past her, shoulders hunched inward like a shield. Today? Her eyes weren’t darting away in panic. They were glued. Fixed. Drawn downwards against her will. The raw, primal magnetism of it—eight thick inches of brutal, veined flesh resting casually against his thigh. Her breath hitched, audible even through the CCTV’s tinny speaker. A tiny, involuntary gasp. Not disgust. Recognition. The horror was still there—tightening her jaw, blanching her knuckles—but beneath it... a flicker. A reluctant, terrifying acknowledgment. His submission tactics weren't just breaking her body. They were rewiring her hunger. Turning revulsion into a twisted kind of reverence. He knew. He fucking knew.
To his—and my—utter disbelief, Dhristi moved. Not stiffly. Not hesitantly. Fluidly. Like a sleepwalker drawn to a cliff’s edge. One foot slid forward. Then the other. Silent steps on the cool marble floor. Her gaze never left it—that thick, heavy cock resting against faded sofa fabric. Her lips parted slightly. A soft exhale escaped. Not a whimper. Almost... anticipation? Her knees hit the floor with a soft thud. No hesitation. No trembling. Just smooth descent. She knelt between his spread thighs, the yellow pallu of her saree pooling around her like fallen petals. Her small hands—the same hands that trembled slicing vegetables—reached out. Not jerky. Deliberate. Fingers brushed the hot, heavy shaft. A feather-light touch. Testing. Then wrapped around the base. Firm. Possessive. Like claiming a weapon she’d been forced to wield before. Her head dipped. Dark hair falling forward, obscuring her face. Then—slowly, purposefully—she leaned in. Her lips parted wider. Not a tentative peck. Not a clumsy fumble like with mine. She opened her mouth wide—stretching obscenely—and engulfed the swollen, purplish head in one smooth, practiced motion. Deep. Taking him halfway down her throat instantly. A wet, muffled *schlurp* echoed through the speakers.
Lakhan’s head snapped down. Genuine shock froze his features. His thick fingers stopped drumming mid-air. Eyes widened—real, raw disbelief. Mouth slightly agape. This wasn’t the script. Last Tuesday—April 19th—the footage was brutal. Him grabbing her hair, yanking her head down while she gagged, choked, vomited thin bile onto his trousers before he shoved her face back, snarling "Saali randi, kha!" until she sobbed through the humiliation. Now? No command. No threat. Just... submission. Deep-throating him like a seasoned whore servicing a favored client. Her throat worked visibly, swallowing around him, hollowing her cheeks with fierce suction. A low, involuntary groan rumbled from Lakhan’s chest—surprise morphing into dark pleasure. His hand lifted, hovering above her head, fingers twitching. Not to force. Almost... to touch? To confirm this was real? He caught himself. The serpentine smirk returned, wider, crueler. Triumphant. He leaned back against the sofa, spreading his thighs wider. "Aah... haan... bas aise hi chus, saali," he grunted, voice thick with satisfaction. "Teri aukaat yaad aa gayi akhir?" *That’s it... suck just like that, bitch. Remembered your place finally?* His hips gave a shallow thrust, fucking her mouth. She didn’t pull back. Didn’t gag. Just took it, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners—not from pain, but from the sheer, degrading *ease* of it. The surrender was absolute. Terrifying.
My own breath caught—sharp, ragged. Not fury now. Horror. Ice water dumped down my spine. This wasn’t just bang anymore. It was... conversion. Rewiring. Her body betraying her mind, craving the degradation that shattered her. The Dhristi who flinched from my hesitant touch was kneeling willingly, servicing the monster who broke her. The screen blurred. I blinked furiously, knuckles pressing hard against my lips to stifle the whimper threatening to escape. How good does she look sucking him? The vile whisper slithered through my mind, venomous and unwanted. Self-loathing curdled my stomach. I was watching my wife become Lakhan’s perfect, broken cocksleeve—and *I* had paved the way with my pathetic inadequacy.
Suddenly, Lakhan’s thick hand slammed down—not on her head, but gripping her shoulder. A sharp jerk upward. "Bas," he commanded, voice rough, gravelly. *Enough.* Dhristi froze instantly, lips still stretched obscenely around his slick, glistening shaft. Her eyes snapped open, wide and startled—wet with unshed tears, confusion flickering through the haze of submission. She pulled back slowly, saliva trailing in a thin, glistening strand from her swollen lips to his flushed tip. She knelt there, breathing hard through her nose, chest heaving beneath the thin green blouse. Waiting. Trembling faintly now. The abrupt halt seemed to fracture her grim trance.
"Ek nayi cheez sikhaunga aaj," he announced, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his spread knees. His gaze—dark, predatory—raked over her torso. Not her face. Her chest. The sheer focus pinned her like a butterfly. "Blouse utaar." *Take off the blouse.* Simple. Absolute. No please. No hesitation expected. Dhristi flinched as if struck. Her hands flew instinctively to her chest, fingers clutching the thin cotton fabric protectively. A choked gasp escaped her—half-protest, half-terror. Her eyes darted wildly towards the curtained windows, then back to Lakhan’s impassive face. The village modesty screamed inside her—*ghar mein, koi dekh lega?* But Lakhan’s stare brooked no argument. It was an order carved in stone. Slowly, mechanically, her fingers moved. Trembling violently now, she fumbled with the small plastic buttons of her blouse. One. Two. Three. Each tiny *pop* echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence. The green fabric gaped open, revealing the plain white cotton bra beneath, straining against the soft, heavy swell of her breasts.
knelt breathing hard nose chest heaving thin green blouse waiting trembling faintly abrupt halt fractured grim trance ek nayi cheez sikhaunga aaj announced leaning forward elbows resting spread knees gaze dark predatory raked torso face chest sheer focus pinned butterfly blouse utaar take blouse simple absolute please hesitation expected flinched struck hands flew instinctively chest fingers clutching thin cotton fabric protectively choked gasp escaped half-protest half-terror eyes darted wildly curtained windows Lakhan impassive face village modesty screamed inside ghar mein koi dekh lega stare brooked argument order carved stone slowly mechanically fingers moved trembling violently fumbled small plastic buttons blouse one two three tiny pop echoed gunshot tense silence green fabric gaped open revealing plain white cotton bra beneath straining soft heavy swell breasts.
Lakhan’s smirk deepened, a cruel twist of satisfaction. "Bra bhi," he commanded, voice low, gravelly. Dhristi froze, eyes squeezed shut. . Then, with jerky movements, she reached behind her back. The clasp snapped open. The bra straps slid down her shoulders. She peeled the damp cotton away, revealing herself fully. Her breasts spilled free—heavy, soft, impossibly large for her petite frame. 34C mounds of warm, yielding flesh, tipped with stiff, pinkish-brown areolas that stood taut against the cool air. They looked obscenely generous, disproportionate—a ripe fruit bursting from a slender vine. Lakhan’s gaze devoured them—not with lust, but with ownership. Appraising. Measuring. Humiliation washed over Dhristi’s face, staining her cheeks crimson. But she obeyed. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hands. Palms cupped the underside of each heavy breast, fingers splaying wide. She pushed them upwards, lifting them towards him—an offering. The soft flesh spilled over her fingers, the stiff nipples pointing accusingly at Lakhan’s face. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, burning with shame.
"Milao," Lakhan ordered, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. *Make them meet.* Dhristi hesitated. Her arms trembled visibly. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she pushed her breasts inward. The soft mounds collided, flesh yielding against flesh. They squeezed together, forming a deep, shadowed valley between them. The stiff peaks pressed tightly against each other, trapped in the warm cleft she’d created. Her knuckles whitened from the effort of holding them compressed. Lakhan leaned forward slightly. His thick cock, slick with her saliva, bobbed impatiently against his thigh. "Ghisa," he commanded, nodding towards his erection. *Rub.* Dhristi’s breath hitched. Her gaze flickered downwards, then away. Slowly, she leaned forward, angling her compressed breasts. She pressed the hot, soft canyon of flesh against the swollen head of his cock. A wet, slick sound filled the room as she dragged the trapped mounds slowly down his shaft. Lakhan groaned—a deep, visceral rumble of pleasure. "Haan... bas aise hi," he grunted, hips lifting slightly to meet the friction. "Teri chuchiyan hi kaam aayengi teri choot ke alawa." *Your tits will be useful besides your cunt.* Dhristi flinched as if struck, eyes squeezing shut tighter. Tears welled but didn’t fall. She kept moving, rubbing her trapped breasts up and down his length—a slow, rhythmic, degrading piston. The stiff peaks scbangd against his veined skin with each pass. Her shoulders shook silently. The valley between her breasts glistened with sweat and pre-come. Lakhan watched her, his expression impassive, predatory. A king receiving tribute from conquered land. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t guide her. Just let her work, his thick fingers drumming lazily on the sofa armrest. The silence was broken only by the wet, rhythmic *shlick-shlick-shlick* of flesh on flesh, and Dhristi’s ragged, suppressed breathing. Her submission was complete—a horrifying pantomime of service performed on the altar of her own humiliation.
![[Image: 20yearoldb-361491852040824-07-38-30-ezgi...timize.gif]](https://i.ibb.co/WN6WbdTt/20yearoldb-361491852040824-07-38-30-ezgif-com-optimize.gif)
Suddenly, Lakhan’s hand shot out—not to touch her breasts, but to grip her chin. His fingers dug into her jawbone, forcing her head up. Her eyes snapped open, wide with fresh terror. "Sookha ho raha hai," he stated coldly, his gaze dropping to where her breasts slid stickily against him. *It’s drying.*
![[Image: 20yearoldb-1029124021359998-07-48-26-ezg...timize.gif]](https://i.ibb.co/DDMS6qrk/20yearoldb-1029124021359998-07-48-26-ezgif-com-optimize.gif)
![[Image: 20yearoldb-61531881419589-09-42-03-ezgif...timize.gif]](https://i.ibb.co/99djhQPB/20yearoldb-61531881419589-09-42-03-ezgif-com-optimize.gif)
![[Image: 20yearoldb-371391840086815-09-41-16-ezgi...timize.gif]](https://i.ibb.co/PsV1wZTJ/20yearoldb-371391840086815-09-41-16-ezgif-com-optimize.gif)
Dhristi froze mid-stroke. Lakhan’s eyes locked onto hers. "Thook lagao," he commanded. *Spit on it.* Dhristi stared, uncomprehending for a second. Her lips parted slightly—a silent protest forming. Then, understanding dawned. Her eyes widened further, horror flooding her features. She shook her head minutely—a desperate, tiny refusal. Lakhan’s grip tightened viciously. Her jawbone creaked under the pressure. "Thook," he repeated, voice low and dangerous. "Ispe." *On it.* He jerked his chin towards his cock.
Dhristi whimpered—a choked, animal sound. Her gaze darted frantically around the room—the curtains, the ceiling, anywhere but the thick shaft glistening with her own saliva and the sweat from her breasts. Her throat worked convulsively. She couldn’t. The village girl screamed inside her—*thookna? Itna ganda?* Spitting? How vile? Her lips trembled, pressed tightly together. She shook her head again, a fraction harder this time. Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.
Lakhan’s eyes narrowed. Not anger. Disappointment. The slow-burning kind. His grip on her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. "Maine bola na?" he murmured, voice dangerously soft. *Didn’t I say?* He didn’t wait. His head tilted back slightly, gathering saliva thick and viscous at the back of his throat. Then—a sharp, wet *puhht!*—he spat directly onto her compressed cleavage. A heavy glob landed with a wet slap between her trembling breasts, warm and obscene against her flushed skin. Dhristi gasped—a sharp, ragged inhalation—eyes wide with utter disbelief. Humiliation scalded her face crimson. She flinched violently, trying to pull back, but his grip held her fast.
The message landed harder than the spit. *If you won’t lubricate it, I’ll do it.* Dhristi stared at the glistening mess pooling in the valley she’d created. Her breath came in shallow, panicked hitches. Lakhan’s thumb stroked her jawbone—a mockery of tenderness. "Ab?" he prompted, raising an eyebrow. *Now?* His meaning was clear: Spit, or worse comes. The threat hung thick—unspoken violence coiled beneath his stillness. Dhristi’s lips trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut. A choked sob escaped her. Then, reluctantly, her mouth opened. She gathered saliva, thin and reluctant, and let it dribble onto his waiting cock, mingling with his own spit on her skin. The sound was small, wet, utterly degrading.
Dhristi leaned forward again, pressing her slicked breasts tight around him. She moved slowly at first, dragging the heavy mounds up and down his shaft. The friction eased instantly—smooth, wet slides punctuated by the scbang of her stiff nipples against his veins. Lakhan sighed, leaning back, spreading wider.
"Haan... haan..." he murmured, eyes half-closed. *Yes... yes...* Dhristi kept working, her rhythm mechanical. Then, without warning, she dipped her head. Her lips brushed the swollen, purple tip peeking from her cleavage—a feather-light kiss. Lakhan’s eyes snapped open. Surprise flickered, replaced instantly by dark amusement.
"Achha?" he chuckled low. *Good?* Dhristi didn’t answer. She kissed it again, lingering this time—a soft press of lips against the slit. Then, gathering another thin stream of saliva, she spat directly onto the head. A small, precise *ptui*. The wetness gleamed. She rubbed faster, her breasts sliding slickly, trapping his cock in their soft vise. Kiss. Spit. Rub. A degrading rhythm born of terrified obedience.
Lakhan watched her, satisfied. "Bahut achha," he murmured approvingly. *Very good.* Her movements grew smoother, less jerky. She kissed the tip—wet, sucking kisses now—then spat again, coating him thickly. Her tears had stopped. Only a grim, focused stillness remained. The wet *shlick-shlick* filled the room, punctuated by her soft, wet kisses and the sharp little *ptui* sounds. Five minutes blurred. Ten. She didn’t falter. Her breasts glistened with spit and sweat, the valley between them slicked into a warm, obscene groove. She kept kissing—sucking lightly at the swollen head whenever it peeked free—then spitting more, ensuring the slide stayed effortless.
Suddenly, Lakhan’s breathing changed. A sharp inhale. His hips jerked upward involuntarily. His thick fingers dug into the sofa armrest, leather creaking. Dhristi froze mid-stroke, breasts still clamped tight around him. She glanced up, eyes wide—questioning, wary. Lakhan met her gaze. His own eyes were narrowed, intense. Not pleasure now. Command. "Bas," he grunted, voice tight. *Stop.* Dhristi instantly pulled back, releasing him. His cock sprang free, slick and flushed, bobbing angrily against his stomach. Pre-come glistened thickly at the slit. Lakhan didn’t hesitate. "Muh mein le," he ordered, nodding sharply towards it. *Take it in your mouth.* His tone brooked no delay. No room for the trembling hesitation of before.
Dhristi obeyed instantly. No flinch. No gasp. Her head dipped forward smoothly. Lips parted wide. She engulfed the swollen head in one swift motion—sucking hard, hollowing her cheeks. A wet, muffled *schlurp* echoed. Lakhan groaned—deep, guttural. His hand shot out, tangling roughly in her dark hair. Not forcing. Anchoring. Guiding. "Aur gehri," he commanded, pushing her head down gently but firmly. *Deeper.* Dhristi gagged softly—a tiny, choked sound—but didn’t pull back. Her throat worked visibly, muscles straining as she took more. Six inches. Seven. Almost to the coarse, wiry hair at the base. Tears welled instantly, spilling silently down her cheeks. Saliva pooled at the corners of her stretched lips, dripping onto his thighs. She breathed harshly through her nose, nostrils flaring with the effort.
Lakhan tightened his grip. Fingers knotted deep in her scalp. He began moving her head—slowly at first. A steady, rhythmic piston. Up and down. Up and down. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth each time she rose. The slick, wet sounds grew louder—*gluck-gluck-gluck*. Her throat convulsed visibly on each descent. A choked gag escaped her when he pushed particularly deep. But she didn’t resist. Didn’t claw at his thighs. Her hands stayed limp on her own knees, fingers twitching faintly. Her eyes squeezed shut. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with spit and sweat on her chin. She looked like a broken doll being used. Efficiently. Thoroughly.
Suddenly, his hips snapped upward. Hard. Brutal. The pace quickened. No longer guiding—forcing. Her head jerked violently under his control. Faster. Faster. *Gluck-gluck-gluck-gluck*. The sound became frantic, obscene. Her nose mashed against the coarse hair at his base each time he slammed her down. Breath whistled harshly through her nostrils. Her throat worked frantically—swallowing, gagging, fighting not to vomit. Saliva sprayed in thin arcs with each ragged pullback. His thighs tensed. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest—building. "Haan... aa raha hai..." he gasped. *Yes... coming...* His thrusts turned erratic. Jagged. Desperate. His fingers twisted tighter in her hair—anchoring her for the final, brutal shoves. Her body rocked violently with each impact. Eyes wide now—terrified, drowning—staring blankly at the ceiling fan above. Waiting for the flood.
But unlike last time, he didn't finish inside her throat. Not this time. With a sharp, choked roar—"Bas!"—he ripped her head backward. Yanked brutally. Her lips tore free with a wet, sucking *pop*. Tears flew sideways. Strands of hair ripped from her scalp. She gasped—a ragged, shuddering inhale—mouth gaping wide. Eyes streaming. Face slick with spit and tears. Disoriented. Blinking furiously. He didn't hesitate. Didn't let her recover. His thick cock pulsed angrily in his fist—purple, slick, swollen beyond belief. Pre-come glistened thickly at the slit. "Dekh!" he snarled. *Look!* His other hand shot out—fingers digging into her jawbone—forcing her face upward. Aiming her eyes straight at the throbbing head. She tried to duck—instinctively, desperately—twisting her neck sideways. "Nahi!" she choked out—half-protest, half-terror. His grip tightened instantly. Vicious. Cruel. Fingers like iron clamps digging into her jawbone. Holding her firm. Immobile. Trapped. Her eyes widened—pure animal panic—just as the first thick rope erupted.
A hot, viscous stream hit her right cheekbone—hard. Like flung paint. Thick. Creamy. White. It slapped wetly against her skin. Warmth bloomed instantly—sticky, alien. She gasped—shocked. Eyes squeezed shut instinctively. Her breath caught—a ragged, choked sound. More followed. Fast. Relentless. Another thick jet hit her forehead—splattering across her brow. Painting her hairline. Seeping into her scalp. Warmth trickled down her temple. Another—hotter, thicker—hit her eyelid. She flinched violently—tried to wrench away. His grip held. Iron. Unyielding.Her lips trembled—parted slightly—as another thick wad landed directly on her chin. Slid down her neck. Warm. Wet. Degrading. The smell hit her—salty, musky, thick—like defrosted prawns left in the sun. Her stomach lurched. She gagged—dry, painful heaves—but kept her mouth obediently open. Waiting. Terrified. Tears streamed freely now—mixing with the sticky mess on her face.
Lakhan watched her—eyes narrowed, predatory. Satisfied. Not done. His cock pulsed angrily in his fist—still thick, slick, swollen. Pre-come glistened thickly at the slit. He shifted his grip. Not releasing her jaw. Aiming lower. Purposefully. Deliberately. Dhristi froze. Eyes wide—understanding dawning. Horror flooding her features. She shook her head minutely—a desperate, tiny refusal. "Nahi..." she choked out—half-protest, half-terror. His grip tightened instantly. Vicious. Cruel. Fingers digging deeper into her jawbone. Holding her firm. Immobile. Trapped. Her gaze flickered downwards—towards her own exposed breasts—heavy, soft, glistening with sweat and spit. The valley between them slicked into a warm, obscene groove. His eyes locked onto hers. Dark. Commanding. She obeyed. Slowly. Reluctantly. Her eyes lowered—staring at her own trembling flesh.
The next jet hit her collarbone—a thick, viscous stream—hotter than the last. Slapping wetly against her skin. Warmth bloomed instantly—sticky, alien. She gasped—shocked. Eyes squeezed shut instinctively. Her breath caught—a ragged, choked sound. More followed. Fast. Relentless. Another thick rope landed directly on her left breast—splattering across the soft swell. Painting the stiff nipple. Creamy white against flushed pink-brown. Warmth trickled down her ribcage. Another—hotter, thicker—hit the valley between her breasts—pooling in the groove she'd created for him. She flinched violently—tried to wrench away. His grip held. Iron. Unyielding. Her lips trembled—parted slightly—as another thick wad landed directly on her sternum—sliding downwards towards her navel. Warm. Wet. Degrading. The smell intensified—salty, musky, thick—like defrosted prawns left in the sun. Her stomach lurched. She gagged—dry, painful heaves—but kept her mouth obediently open. Waiting. Terrified. Tears streamed freely now—mixing with the sticky mess on her skin. The jets became weaker—less forceful—but still insistent. A thin dribble spattered across her right nipple. Another landed messily on her abdomen. The final spurts were barely more than thick droplets—landing softly on the slick mess already coating her upper body—like paint splatters on a ruined canvas. Warmth seeped everywhere—sticky, clinging, impossible to ignore.
Lakhan finally released her jaw—fingers unclenching slowly—leaving deep red imprints on her bone. Dhristi collapsed instantly—like a puppet with its strings cut. Her upper body slumped forward—face pressed into the sticky pool forming between her breasts—hair matting against her semen-slicked forehead. She didn't move. Didn't make a sound. Only the frantic rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her ragged breathing—shallow, panicked gulps of air. Semen coated her—from her hairline down to her navel—a thick, drying glaze. White streaks painted her cheeks—pooled in the hollow of her throat—dripped sluggishly from her chin onto her thighs. Her breasts shone obscenely—glistening under the overhead light—nipples stiff and painted pale. Like an animal marked—claimed—territory staked with brutal finality. The smell hung thick—heavy—unmistakable—in the silent room.
He leaned back—sprawled deeper into the sofa—elbow resting casually on the armrest. His gaze travelled slowly—deliberately—over the canvas he'd created. Down her spine—the knobs visible beneath her thin blouse—to the curve of her hips—the trembling dip of her waist—the ruined landscape of her back—smooth skin interrupted only by the strap of her discarded bra. His smirk deepened—a slow, satisfied curve—as his eyes lingered on a thick droplet clinging stubbornly to her eyelash—another sliding down the delicate ridge of her collarbone—into the dark valley between her breasts. Speechlessly, he watched—lord be praised—as a lone housefly—drawn by the scent—buzzed lazily near her shoulder—landing briefly on a drying streak—before lifting off—unsettled—repelled—perhaps—by the sheer intensity of the degradation. His thumb rubbed idly against his own lower lip—appreciating the utter stillness—the complete surrender—the silence broken only by her choked, wet sniffles muffled against her own skin. No weeping—just the raw scbang of breath—like sandpaper on wood. Perfect.
Dhristi didn't move. Didn't flinch. Her breath hitched—a tiny, trapped sob—lost against the sticky mess coating her sternum. He didn't expect a reply. Didn't need one. The visual—the smell—the utter stillness—was its own answer. His gaze drifted lower—past the ruin of her breasts—to the small puddle of thick, pearly fluid pooling on the polished marble floor beneath her knees—the droplets that had dripped from her chin—her elbows—her trembling thighs. Like spilled milk—but infinitely fouler. He inhaled deeply—savoring the dense musk hanging heavy—a mixture of sex and salt and something uniquely *him*—marking the air—marking *her*. His territory. His victory.
Then—just like the other days—Lakhan shifted. A grunt—low and satisfied—as he pushed himself upright from the sofa cushions—leaving deep indentations in the leather. His thick fingers worked mechanically—pulling up the crumpled trousers pooled around his ankles—zipping them closed with a metallic *shhhhk*. No glance at Dhristi—still slumped forward—her face buried in the drying filth on her chest—hair plastered to her temples—shoulders shaking silently. He buttoned his shirt—fingers thick and clumsy The fabric strained across his broad shoulders—tight—uncomfortable—but he didn't care. Efficiency. Purpose. He smoothed the front—a quick, dismissive swipe—as if brushing off lint—not the ghost of her touch—her tears—her degradation and then he calmly left the house.
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