20-03-2025, 10:11 AM
(This post was last modified: 20-03-2025, 10:12 AM by Naruto411. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Imran lay still for a moment after the bathroom door slammed shut, the sting of Salma’s slap lingering on his cheek like a brand. Her cold dismissal echoed in his head, and beneath it, a quieter thought gnawed at him—a fleeting urge he’d buried before it could form words. He’d wanted to ask her, “Mommy, can you give me a bath?”—to feel her hands on him, firm but caring, washing away the mess he’d made on her thigh. But the idea died as quickly as it came. Salma’s sharpness, her unyielding edge, terrified him in a way his men or the syndicate never could. She’d laugh, or worse, punish him for the audacity, and he couldn’t bear that.
He sat up, rubbing his face, the sheets rustling beneath him, still warm from her body. The room smelled faintly of her—leather, sweat, and that sharp perfume she wore like armor—mingled with the stale musk of his own release. Disgust curled in his gut, not at her, but at himself. He needed to shake this off, to reclaim something, anything. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, his thumb hovering over the screen before dialing his right-hand man, Tariq.
“Get me a girl,” Imran said, his voice low and clipped, shedding the childish whine he’d used with Salma. “Busty, fit, veil on. Now. Before I’m out of the bath.” He hung up without waiting for a reply, trusting Tariq to deliver as always.
He hauled himself off the bed, his bare feet thudding against the cold floor as he trudged to the bathroom across the hall—Salma still occupied the other one, the faint hiss of the shower seeping through the door. He turned on his own water, lukewarm this time, stepping under the spray to scrub away the night. The soap smelled sharp, medicinal, cutting through the lingering scents of sex and shame. His hands moved mechanically, washing his chest, his thighs, his dick—still sticky from his unconscious lapse against Salma. The water pattered against the tiles, a steady drone that drowned out his thoughts, and he stood there longer than necessary, letting it rinse him clean.
When he emerged, towel slung low around his hips, the girl was already there. She lay sprawled across his bed, naked save for a black veil dbangd over her head and face, the fabric sheer enough to hint at her features but thick enough to obscure them. Her body was as he’d ordered—busty, curves spilling over a frame still taut and fit, her skin a warm bronze under the dim lamplight. She didn’t move as he approached, didn’t speak, just waited, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Imran didn’t bother with words either. He dropped the towel, his dick already stirring as he climbed onto the bed, his hands rough as he grabbed her hips and flipped her over. She complied silently, shifting onto her knees, her ass raised in a doggy-style arch that made his breath catch. He positioned himself behind her, the mattress dipping under his weight, and thrust in without preamble, a low grunt escaping his throat as he buried himself deep. The heat of her enveloped him, slick and tight, a stark contrast to the cool air brushing his back.
“Ammi,” he rasped, his voice cracking as he started fucking her, his hips slamming against her with a wet, rhythmic slap. The word tumbled out unbidden, raw and desperate, and once it started, he couldn’t stop. “Why’d you sleep with Abba, with Chacha, with your brother, but never with me?” His hands gripped her hips harder, nails digging into her flesh, leaving faint red crescents as he pounded into her. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard tapping the wall in time with his thrusts, a steady thud that echoed his growing frenzy.
Her body rocked forward with each stroke, her breasts swaying beneath her, brushing the sheets with a faint rustle. The veil slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of dark hair plastered with sweat, but her face stayed hidden, a blank canvas for his fantasy. “I saw you,” he growled, his voice thick with resentment, “naked beside me after they fucked you—sprawled out, dripping, stinking of them. But you never let me touch you, never let me have you. Why the partiality, Ammi?”
The air grew heavy with the scent of sex—her arousal, his sweat, the faint musk of the sheets mingling into a primal haze. His thrusts quickened, the sound of flesh meeting flesh louder now, wet and insistent, drowning out the faint hum of the city beyond the warehouse walls. He tasted salt on his lips, sweat trickling from his brow, bitter and sharp as his words spilled out. “You gave your holes to half the men in the village—sex-crazy bitch, spreading for anyone with a dick—but me? Nothing. Not even a blowjob when I begged you, when I cried for it.”
The prostitute moaned softly, a sound he barely registered, lost in his tirade. His hands slid up her back, fingers tangling in the veil’s edge, pulling it tighter as if to anchor the illusion. “Why’d you treat me like a stray?” he snarled, his pace faltering as anger and need twisted together. “Left me to watch, to want, while you fucked them raw and laughed about it?”
She shifted beneath him, her voice breaking through his rant—soft, accented, a little shaky from his roughness. “Sorry, beta,” she said, playing along, her tone laced with mock regret. “Tum madarchod nahi ho—it’s a sin. I couldn’t let you.” The words were absurd, a prostitute’s improvised script, but they hit him like a jolt, feeding the fantasy and the fury.
Imran groaned, a guttural sound that tore from his chest as he thrust harder, chasing release. “Sin?” he spat, his breath ragged. “You didn’t care about sin with them.” His hands clamped down on her hips again, bruising now, and he came with a shudder, spilling into her with a hot, messy rush that left him trembling. The sensation pulsed through him, sharp and fleeting, the wet heat of her mixing with his own as he slumped forward, panting against her back.
He pulled out slowly, the slick sound of their separation faint in the sudden quiet, his cum dripping down her thighs onto the sheets. The girl stayed still, breathing heavily, the veil askew but still covering her face. Imran rolled off her, collapsing onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaved. The room smelled of them now—sex, sweat, and a faint trace of her cheap perfume, floral and cloying.
“Get out,” he muttered after a moment, his voice flat, the fantasy spent. She didn’t argue, gathering herself silently and slipping off the bed, leaving the veil crumpled beside him as she padded out. The door clicked shut, and Imran lay there, alone again, the echo of “Ammi” still ringing in his ears, bitter and hollow.
Imran lingered on the bed, the damp sheets cool against his skin, the prostitute’s floral scent fading into the warehouse’s stale air. The veil lay discarded beside him, a crumpled relic of his latest indulgence, but his mind wasn’t on her anymore. Salma’s slap still burned on his cheek, her cold exit a fresh wound, and it dragged him back—back to the humid nights of his boyhood, to the bed he’d shared with his mother, Zarina. The memories flared up like a 70mm film unspooling before his eyes, wide and vivid, every frame a mix of shame and exhilaration that shaped him into the man Salma now owned.
He was tw**** again, tucked into the corner of his sagging bed, the room a haze of heat and shadows. The peeling yellow walls glowed faintly under a flickering bulb, its buzz a low hum beneath the chaos next door—his father and uncles partying, their laughter rough and slurred, the bedframe creaking in a relentless rhythm. The air reeked of hookah smoke, spilled rum, and the sharp, primal musk of sex, a thick cloud that seeped through the thin partition and coated his lungs. Then the door groaned open, a slow scbang of wood on wood, and Zarina stumbled in—naked, radiant, a goddess too spent to care.
Her skin shimmered with sweat, dusky and flushed, her heavy breasts swaying as she crossed the room, her thighs slick with the leavings of her lovers. Cum glistened on her body—white streaks smearing her stomach, a faint drip sliding down her leg from her swollen pussy, sometimes a darker trace glistening between her ass cheeks when the night had been brutal. Her hair hung in a wild tangle, sticking to her neck, framing a face lit with a lazy, satisfied smile—lips parted, eyes half-closed, smug and untouchable. She smelled of them—raw and salty, rosewater gone sour, a bitter edge of liquor on her breath that hit him as she collapsed onto his bed.
The mattress dipped with a squeak, the thin cotton sheets—already damp with humidity—shifting as she sprawled beside him. Her body radiated heat, her skin clammy where it brushed his arm, her ass nudging his hip as she settled in, unbothered. Imran’s dick stirred, young and desperate, pressing against her rear, the tip catching the slick warmth of her skin where cum still clung. She didn’t flinch, didn’t care—just sighed, a low, contented sound that vibrated in his ears, her breath hot and whiskey-sharp against his cheek.
He’d beg, his voice a cracked whisper in the dark. “Ammi, please—let me…” His eyes would dart to her body—her pussy leaking onto the sheet, a slow drip-drip that left a wet patch; her ass slack but marked with faint handprints; her breasts heaving with each breath, nipples dark and taut. She’d laugh, a throaty, mocking rumble that sliced through him, her smile twisting cruelly. “Not in me, beta,” she’d say, her tone thick with exhaustion but firm. “You can cum on me—go on, get it out. But don’t you dare cross that line.” Sometimes she’d slap him—sharp and loud, the crack echoing as her palm stung his cheek—when he pushed too hard, her hand wet with sweat or their leavings, leaving a hot welt. “Behave,” she’d snap, like she wasn’t dripping with sin, like she hadn’t just fucked half the house.
So he’d obey, his hands trembling as he stroked himself under the blanket, her nakedness a taunt beside him. He’d watch her—her smile, her sprawled limbs, the cum drying in sticky patches on her skin—and let loose, his release spilling hot and messy across her thigh, her stomach, sometimes her ass when she rolled over. The sensation was electric—warm, slick, splattering against her with faint pat-pat sounds, mixing with the men’s leavings as she slept on, unbothered, her snores soft and steady. He’d taste salt on his lips, sweat trickling from his brow, the air thick with her scent—sex and rosewater, tobacco and cum—a heady mix that fueled his quiet frenzy.
But there were nights—rare, sacred nights, six in all, burned into his memory like holy relics—when she’d give him more. Special occasions, she called them: his thirteenth birthday, the night his father won big at cards, a festival when the house overflowed with guests. She’d wake from her post-sex haze, catch him staring, and smirk, her eyes glinting with something softer, almost indulgent. “Alright, beta,” she’d murmur, her voice low and slurred. “In my mouth—just this once.” She’d shift, propping herself on an elbow, her breasts brushing his arm as she leaned down, her lips parting to take him.
He remembered every one of those six times in vivid 70mm detail:
His Birthday: The room spun with rum fumes, her breath hot and sweet as she sucked him slow, her tongue lazy but firm, cum from another man still smeared on her chin. He came with a shudder, the heat of her mouth swallowing him, her throat bobbing as she gulped it down, a faint gluck sound in the quiet.
Father’s Win: The bed creaked from next door, her lips swollen from use, tasting of salt and tobacco as she took him deep, her hair tickling his thighs. His release was sharp, spilling into her with a groan, her smirk wet and triumphant as she pulled back.
Festival Night: Lanterns flickered outside, her mouth warm and slick, the air thick with jasmine and sex. She hummed around him, vibrations buzzing through him, and he came hard, her tongue lapping it up as cum dripped from her pussy onto the sheet.
Rainy Evening: Thunder rumbled, her breath ragged from a rough session, her lips chapped but eager. He felt her teeth graze him, the sting heightening his release, a hot flood she drank down with a sleepy sigh.
New Year’s: Firecrackers popped outside, her mouth tangy with liquor, her hands guiding him as she sucked fast and messy. His cum hit her tongue, a burst she swallowed with a low moan, her eyes half-open, watching him.
Last Time: A quiet night, no party, just her and him. Her lips were soft, her pace deliberate, tasting of rosewater and sweat. He came slow, savoring it, her throat tightening as she took it all, her smile fading into sleep.
Each time, she’d wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, roll over, and doze off, leaving him trembling beside her, his dick brushing her ass again, the privilege fading back to denial. Six times—six perfect, rare moments he could count on one hand, etched in his mind with the clarity of a film reel he’d replay forever.
She’d sleep just like Salma did now—unbothered, dominant, her nakedness a fortress he could cum on but never conquer. He’d loved it, the way Zarina ruled him in that bed, her casual cruelty a thrill he chased in every slap, every “no,” every rare “yes.” Now Salma filled that space—sharper, colder, her body a mirror of his mother’s power, her slap a echo of Zarina’s, her thighs a canvas he’d marked tonight. He craved it, reveled in it, the domination that left him hard and helpless.
Imran’s hand drifted to his dick again, stirring at the thought, a slow grin spreading across his face. The sheets smelled of the prostitute, but in his mind, it was Zarina’s cum-slicked skin, Salma’s leather-and-sweat heat, a legacy of control he’d never escape—and didn’t want to.
He sat up, rubbing his face, the sheets rustling beneath him, still warm from her body. The room smelled faintly of her—leather, sweat, and that sharp perfume she wore like armor—mingled with the stale musk of his own release. Disgust curled in his gut, not at her, but at himself. He needed to shake this off, to reclaim something, anything. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, his thumb hovering over the screen before dialing his right-hand man, Tariq.
“Get me a girl,” Imran said, his voice low and clipped, shedding the childish whine he’d used with Salma. “Busty, fit, veil on. Now. Before I’m out of the bath.” He hung up without waiting for a reply, trusting Tariq to deliver as always.
He hauled himself off the bed, his bare feet thudding against the cold floor as he trudged to the bathroom across the hall—Salma still occupied the other one, the faint hiss of the shower seeping through the door. He turned on his own water, lukewarm this time, stepping under the spray to scrub away the night. The soap smelled sharp, medicinal, cutting through the lingering scents of sex and shame. His hands moved mechanically, washing his chest, his thighs, his dick—still sticky from his unconscious lapse against Salma. The water pattered against the tiles, a steady drone that drowned out his thoughts, and he stood there longer than necessary, letting it rinse him clean.
When he emerged, towel slung low around his hips, the girl was already there. She lay sprawled across his bed, naked save for a black veil dbangd over her head and face, the fabric sheer enough to hint at her features but thick enough to obscure them. Her body was as he’d ordered—busty, curves spilling over a frame still taut and fit, her skin a warm bronze under the dim lamplight. She didn’t move as he approached, didn’t speak, just waited, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Imran didn’t bother with words either. He dropped the towel, his dick already stirring as he climbed onto the bed, his hands rough as he grabbed her hips and flipped her over. She complied silently, shifting onto her knees, her ass raised in a doggy-style arch that made his breath catch. He positioned himself behind her, the mattress dipping under his weight, and thrust in without preamble, a low grunt escaping his throat as he buried himself deep. The heat of her enveloped him, slick and tight, a stark contrast to the cool air brushing his back.
“Ammi,” he rasped, his voice cracking as he started fucking her, his hips slamming against her with a wet, rhythmic slap. The word tumbled out unbidden, raw and desperate, and once it started, he couldn’t stop. “Why’d you sleep with Abba, with Chacha, with your brother, but never with me?” His hands gripped her hips harder, nails digging into her flesh, leaving faint red crescents as he pounded into her. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard tapping the wall in time with his thrusts, a steady thud that echoed his growing frenzy.
Her body rocked forward with each stroke, her breasts swaying beneath her, brushing the sheets with a faint rustle. The veil slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of dark hair plastered with sweat, but her face stayed hidden, a blank canvas for his fantasy. “I saw you,” he growled, his voice thick with resentment, “naked beside me after they fucked you—sprawled out, dripping, stinking of them. But you never let me touch you, never let me have you. Why the partiality, Ammi?”
The air grew heavy with the scent of sex—her arousal, his sweat, the faint musk of the sheets mingling into a primal haze. His thrusts quickened, the sound of flesh meeting flesh louder now, wet and insistent, drowning out the faint hum of the city beyond the warehouse walls. He tasted salt on his lips, sweat trickling from his brow, bitter and sharp as his words spilled out. “You gave your holes to half the men in the village—sex-crazy bitch, spreading for anyone with a dick—but me? Nothing. Not even a blowjob when I begged you, when I cried for it.”
The prostitute moaned softly, a sound he barely registered, lost in his tirade. His hands slid up her back, fingers tangling in the veil’s edge, pulling it tighter as if to anchor the illusion. “Why’d you treat me like a stray?” he snarled, his pace faltering as anger and need twisted together. “Left me to watch, to want, while you fucked them raw and laughed about it?”
She shifted beneath him, her voice breaking through his rant—soft, accented, a little shaky from his roughness. “Sorry, beta,” she said, playing along, her tone laced with mock regret. “Tum madarchod nahi ho—it’s a sin. I couldn’t let you.” The words were absurd, a prostitute’s improvised script, but they hit him like a jolt, feeding the fantasy and the fury.
Imran groaned, a guttural sound that tore from his chest as he thrust harder, chasing release. “Sin?” he spat, his breath ragged. “You didn’t care about sin with them.” His hands clamped down on her hips again, bruising now, and he came with a shudder, spilling into her with a hot, messy rush that left him trembling. The sensation pulsed through him, sharp and fleeting, the wet heat of her mixing with his own as he slumped forward, panting against her back.
He pulled out slowly, the slick sound of their separation faint in the sudden quiet, his cum dripping down her thighs onto the sheets. The girl stayed still, breathing heavily, the veil askew but still covering her face. Imran rolled off her, collapsing onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaved. The room smelled of them now—sex, sweat, and a faint trace of her cheap perfume, floral and cloying.
“Get out,” he muttered after a moment, his voice flat, the fantasy spent. She didn’t argue, gathering herself silently and slipping off the bed, leaving the veil crumpled beside him as she padded out. The door clicked shut, and Imran lay there, alone again, the echo of “Ammi” still ringing in his ears, bitter and hollow.
Imran lingered on the bed, the damp sheets cool against his skin, the prostitute’s floral scent fading into the warehouse’s stale air. The veil lay discarded beside him, a crumpled relic of his latest indulgence, but his mind wasn’t on her anymore. Salma’s slap still burned on his cheek, her cold exit a fresh wound, and it dragged him back—back to the humid nights of his boyhood, to the bed he’d shared with his mother, Zarina. The memories flared up like a 70mm film unspooling before his eyes, wide and vivid, every frame a mix of shame and exhilaration that shaped him into the man Salma now owned.
He was tw**** again, tucked into the corner of his sagging bed, the room a haze of heat and shadows. The peeling yellow walls glowed faintly under a flickering bulb, its buzz a low hum beneath the chaos next door—his father and uncles partying, their laughter rough and slurred, the bedframe creaking in a relentless rhythm. The air reeked of hookah smoke, spilled rum, and the sharp, primal musk of sex, a thick cloud that seeped through the thin partition and coated his lungs. Then the door groaned open, a slow scbang of wood on wood, and Zarina stumbled in—naked, radiant, a goddess too spent to care.
Her skin shimmered with sweat, dusky and flushed, her heavy breasts swaying as she crossed the room, her thighs slick with the leavings of her lovers. Cum glistened on her body—white streaks smearing her stomach, a faint drip sliding down her leg from her swollen pussy, sometimes a darker trace glistening between her ass cheeks when the night had been brutal. Her hair hung in a wild tangle, sticking to her neck, framing a face lit with a lazy, satisfied smile—lips parted, eyes half-closed, smug and untouchable. She smelled of them—raw and salty, rosewater gone sour, a bitter edge of liquor on her breath that hit him as she collapsed onto his bed.
The mattress dipped with a squeak, the thin cotton sheets—already damp with humidity—shifting as she sprawled beside him. Her body radiated heat, her skin clammy where it brushed his arm, her ass nudging his hip as she settled in, unbothered. Imran’s dick stirred, young and desperate, pressing against her rear, the tip catching the slick warmth of her skin where cum still clung. She didn’t flinch, didn’t care—just sighed, a low, contented sound that vibrated in his ears, her breath hot and whiskey-sharp against his cheek.
He’d beg, his voice a cracked whisper in the dark. “Ammi, please—let me…” His eyes would dart to her body—her pussy leaking onto the sheet, a slow drip-drip that left a wet patch; her ass slack but marked with faint handprints; her breasts heaving with each breath, nipples dark and taut. She’d laugh, a throaty, mocking rumble that sliced through him, her smile twisting cruelly. “Not in me, beta,” she’d say, her tone thick with exhaustion but firm. “You can cum on me—go on, get it out. But don’t you dare cross that line.” Sometimes she’d slap him—sharp and loud, the crack echoing as her palm stung his cheek—when he pushed too hard, her hand wet with sweat or their leavings, leaving a hot welt. “Behave,” she’d snap, like she wasn’t dripping with sin, like she hadn’t just fucked half the house.
So he’d obey, his hands trembling as he stroked himself under the blanket, her nakedness a taunt beside him. He’d watch her—her smile, her sprawled limbs, the cum drying in sticky patches on her skin—and let loose, his release spilling hot and messy across her thigh, her stomach, sometimes her ass when she rolled over. The sensation was electric—warm, slick, splattering against her with faint pat-pat sounds, mixing with the men’s leavings as she slept on, unbothered, her snores soft and steady. He’d taste salt on his lips, sweat trickling from his brow, the air thick with her scent—sex and rosewater, tobacco and cum—a heady mix that fueled his quiet frenzy.
But there were nights—rare, sacred nights, six in all, burned into his memory like holy relics—when she’d give him more. Special occasions, she called them: his thirteenth birthday, the night his father won big at cards, a festival when the house overflowed with guests. She’d wake from her post-sex haze, catch him staring, and smirk, her eyes glinting with something softer, almost indulgent. “Alright, beta,” she’d murmur, her voice low and slurred. “In my mouth—just this once.” She’d shift, propping herself on an elbow, her breasts brushing his arm as she leaned down, her lips parting to take him.
He remembered every one of those six times in vivid 70mm detail:
His Birthday: The room spun with rum fumes, her breath hot and sweet as she sucked him slow, her tongue lazy but firm, cum from another man still smeared on her chin. He came with a shudder, the heat of her mouth swallowing him, her throat bobbing as she gulped it down, a faint gluck sound in the quiet.
Father’s Win: The bed creaked from next door, her lips swollen from use, tasting of salt and tobacco as she took him deep, her hair tickling his thighs. His release was sharp, spilling into her with a groan, her smirk wet and triumphant as she pulled back.
Festival Night: Lanterns flickered outside, her mouth warm and slick, the air thick with jasmine and sex. She hummed around him, vibrations buzzing through him, and he came hard, her tongue lapping it up as cum dripped from her pussy onto the sheet.
Rainy Evening: Thunder rumbled, her breath ragged from a rough session, her lips chapped but eager. He felt her teeth graze him, the sting heightening his release, a hot flood she drank down with a sleepy sigh.
New Year’s: Firecrackers popped outside, her mouth tangy with liquor, her hands guiding him as she sucked fast and messy. His cum hit her tongue, a burst she swallowed with a low moan, her eyes half-open, watching him.
Last Time: A quiet night, no party, just her and him. Her lips were soft, her pace deliberate, tasting of rosewater and sweat. He came slow, savoring it, her throat tightening as she took it all, her smile fading into sleep.
Each time, she’d wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, roll over, and doze off, leaving him trembling beside her, his dick brushing her ass again, the privilege fading back to denial. Six times—six perfect, rare moments he could count on one hand, etched in his mind with the clarity of a film reel he’d replay forever.
She’d sleep just like Salma did now—unbothered, dominant, her nakedness a fortress he could cum on but never conquer. He’d loved it, the way Zarina ruled him in that bed, her casual cruelty a thrill he chased in every slap, every “no,” every rare “yes.” Now Salma filled that space—sharper, colder, her body a mirror of his mother’s power, her slap a echo of Zarina’s, her thighs a canvas he’d marked tonight. He craved it, reveled in it, the domination that left him hard and helpless.
Imran’s hand drifted to his dick again, stirring at the thought, a slow grin spreading across his face. The sheets smelled of the prostitute, but in his mind, it was Zarina’s cum-slicked skin, Salma’s leather-and-sweat heat, a legacy of control he’d never escape—and didn’t want to.
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