20-04-2025, 08:07 PM
The MP’s chamber was a haze of primal excess, the chandelier’s amber glow bathing Rukhsar’s small, trembling body in a sheen of sweat, cum, and defiance. The Persian rug was a sodden battlefield—streaked with her juices, his semen, their mingled filth, its fibers clinging to her knees as she lay sprawled across the teak table, her pussy still pulsing from his cock, her cum-slick thighs quivering. The air choked with sandalwood, whiskey, and her musky sweetness, the sitar’s hum lost under their ragged breaths. Rukhsar’s collegegirl uniform was a memory—skirt torn, blouse shredded, her small breasts bare, nipples red from his bites, braids matted, her face a canvas of mascara, semen, and sweat, lips swollen from his kisses. At barely five feet, her 18-year-old frame was a delicate weapon—frail yet fierce, her tiny stature a magnet for his obsession, her pussy and spirit unyielding despite her hellish past.
The MP loomed over her, his naked bulk slick with sweat, belly heaving, cock softening but still heavy, dripping their mingled cum onto the table. His hands roamed her tiny body, marveling at its compactness—her narrow waist, barely a handspan, her hips slight but curved, her ass small but plump, red from his slaps. “Fuck, you’re so little,” he growled, lifting her again, effortless, her 90-pound frame a toy in his grip. He hugged her tight, her cum-streaked breasts flattening against his matted chest, her braids brushing his shoulders, her thighs wrapping his waist, her pussy grinding his belly, leaving a slick trail. His lips crashed into hers, tongue plunging, tasting her cum, her pain, her cunning, his beard scbanging her chin raw as he kissed her, a possessive claim sparked by her vow: Rukhsar Sharma. Yours.
Her smallness drove him wild—her pussy tight, gripping his cock like a vice, her moans high and sharp, her body folding into his like a doll. He set her back on the table, spreading her thighs, her tiny feet dangling, her pussy open, pink and swollen, cum leaking out, streaking the wood. “Look at this,” he rasped, his fingers tracing her folds, two digits slipping in, stretching her, her juices squelching as she moaned, her hips bucking, her small breasts bouncing, nipples stiff. His other hand palmed her ass, lifting her slightly, his thumb circling her asshole again, teasing the tight ring, her gasp a shiver as she tensed, her tiny frame quaking under his touch. “So fucking small, but you take it all,” he muttered, his mouth closing over her nipple, sucking hard, teeth biting, her cry sharp, her braids fanning out, her hands clawing the table.
Rukhsar’s voice broke through, sultry, calculated, her eyes glinting with control. “Grandpa, my pussy—fuck it again,” she purred, redirecting him, her tiny hand guiding his cock back to her love hole, her wetness coating him as she arched, her small stature a weapon of seduction. He groaned, thrusting deep, her pussy clenching, her moans rising, her thighs trembling, her cum-slick breasts jiggling, the table creaking as he pounded, his balls slapping her ass, her juices gushing, pooling beneath her. Her orgasm hit, a piercing scream, her pussy milking him, her tiny body convulsing, her nails raking his arms, her braids swinging, cum and sweat mixing on her skin. He came again, a guttural roar, his cum flooding her, spilling out, streaking her thighs, the table a mess of their filth, her small frame shuddering under his weight.
He pulled back, panting, stroking her braids, her lips, her cum-slick skin, his obsession burning—her, or a look-alike ghost from that farmhouse night a month ago, when he’d taken her virginity, her blood and cries sealing her to him. “You’re coming home,” he said, voice rough but warm, wiping her face with a silk cloth, gentle despite his hunger. “My family’ll love you—Sharma’s yours now.” He dressed her in his oversized kurta, her tiny frame drowning in it, her thighs peeking out, cum still dripping, the gold bracelet glinting on her wrist, the cash and cake left behind for later.
The Sharma Household: A New Home
The MP’s Delhi bungalow was a fortress of old money—white walls dbangd in bougainvillea, marble halls echoing with history, chandeliers casting soft gold over teak furniture. Night had fallen, the air cool, scented with jasmine from the gardens. Rukhsar, showered and dressed in a borrowed salwar kameez—too big, cinched tight to fit her small frame—followed the MP into the drawing room, her braids neat again, her face scrubbed, but her eyes wary, her 18-year-old heart racing. Her life—orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse violation—had been hell, but here, claiming the Sharma name, she grasped a thread of control, her submission to him a calculated leap.
His family waited—his wife, a stern woman in silk, her gray bun tight; his son, a distracted lawyer scrolling his phone; and his granddaughter, Aditi Sharma, 18, in a college blazer, her ponytail bouncing, her eyes wide with curiosity. Rukhsar froze—Aditi was so young, 10th class, her innocence a stark mirror to Rukhsar’s scars. The MP introduced her, voice proud: “Rukhsar Sharma, adopted into our fold. She’s family now.” His wife nodded curtly, his son grunted, but Aditi leapt up, grabbing Rukhsar’s hand, her smile bright as the chandelier.
“You’re so pretty!” Aditi chirped, her voice a melody, her eyes scanning Rukhsar’s small stature, her delicate features. “Grandpa, can she share my room? Please?” She tugged Rukhsar closer, oblivious to the MP’s faint smirk, his eyes lingering on Rukhsar’s lips, remembering her pussy’s grip. Rukhsar blinked, stunned—Aditi’s warmth, her youth, her eagerness were a lifeline, a chance to rewrite her hell. “I’d love that,” Rukhsar said, her voice soft, her smile genuine, her heart thudding with hope and fear.
Aditi dragged her to her room—pink walls, posters of Bollywood stars, a desk piled with textbooks. “You’re like my sister now!” Aditi said, flinging open her wardrobe, pulling out jeans, kurtis, a scarf—all too big for Rukhsar’s tiny frame but offered with joy. “Try these! We’ll shop tomorrow, but these are yours.” She hugged Rukhsar, her arms tight, her excitement infectious, her chatter spilling—college, friends, her crush on a classmate. Rukhsar nodded, her throat tight, the Sharma name a shield she’d claimed, Aditi’s friendship a gift she hadn’t expected.
“Tell me about you!” Aditi said, flopping on the bed, her blazer off, her college tie loose. Rukhsar sat, her borrowed kameez slipping off one shoulder, her mind crafting a backstory—truth was too raw. “I’m… from a small town,” she lied, voice steady, her eyes on Aditi’s. “Parents died young, lived with relatives, studied art, poetry—Gulzar’s my favorite. Your grandpa… helped me, gave me a home.” She smiled, the lie smooth, her orphanage scars, Salma’s chains, the farmhouse’s blood buried deep. Aditi beamed, unaware, her hand squeezing Rukhsar’s. “You’re so cool! I’m so happy Grandpa adopted you—Sharma fits you!”
Rukhsar’s chest warmed, Aditi’s thrill—her clothes, her room, her surname—anchoring her. The MP’s obsession, his cock in her pussy, his hands on her small body, had bought this—her control, her escape from Salma, from Goa’s looming bash. Aditi’s friendship was a bonus, her 18-year-old innocence a mirror Rukhsar would protect, even as she navigated the MP’s hunger, his maybe-crazed fixation on her or a look-alike ghost. They settled in, Aditi sharing her earbuds, Lata Mangeshkar’s voice filling the room, Rukhsar’s tiny frame curled on the bed, the Sharma name hers, her hellish past fading, her future a fragile hope.
The Sharma bungalow’s evening glow filtered through Aditi’s bedroom, a teenage sanctuary of pink walls, Bollywood posters, and fairy lights twinkling like stars. Lata Mangeshkar’s soulful voice drifted from a Bluetooth speaker, weaving nostalgia into the air, scented with jasmine from the gardens below. Rukhsar perched on the edge of Aditi’s pink-canopied bed, her borrowed kameez slipping off one shoulder, her 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, with delicate, pronounced curves—dwarfed by the room’s opulence. Her small breasts, faintly bruised from the MP’s bites hours ago, pressed against the fabric, her plump ass tender from his slaps, her pussy still sore from his cock’s relentless thrusts on the teak table. Aditi, 16 and bursting with energy, sprawled beside her, her college blazer crumpled on the floor, her ponytail loose, her 10th-class textbooks strewn like petals. The Sharma name, claimed by Rukhsar’s cunning whisper—Save me from Salma, from Goa—bound her to this family, a fragile shield against her hellish past: the orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse where the MP took her virginity, her blood and cries staining silk.
Aditi’s laughter broke Rukhsar’s reverie, her eyes sparkling as she tossed a pile of clothes onto the bed—jeans, kurtis, a floral dupatta, all too big for Rukhsar’s tiny frame but offered with infectious joy. “You’re so small, like a doll!” Aditi giggled, holding a denim jacket against Rukhsar’s chest, her fingers grazing Rukhsar’s collarbone, innocent and warm. “We’re shopping tomorrow, but these are yours for now!” She bounced up, her college tie dangling, her energy pulling Rukhsar into her orbit. “Let’s make tonight epic—sleepover vibes, snacks, and a shower to unwind, like real sisters!” Her grin was a beacon, echoing the wholesome warmth of Jaipur’s lake-side chats or Sanjana’s house, where sisters shared laughter and trust, a world Rukhsar craved.
Rukhsar nodded, her throat tight, Aditi’s kindness a lifeline. “Sounds perfect,” she said, her voice soft, her smile hiding her scars—the farmhouse’s pain, Salma’s chains, the MP’s cum flooding her hours ago. Aditi grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the attached bathroom, a marble haven with a rainfall shower, glass walls etched with lotus patterns, steam already curling from the faucet, jasmine-scented soaps gleaming on a shelf. “We’ll share, it’s fun!” Aditi chirped, kicking off her college shoes, her fingers swift as she undressed. She tugged her white college shirt free, buttons popping softly, revealing a simple cotton bra, her soft, unscarred chest glowing in the dim light. Her navy skirt followed, pooling at her feet, her matching panties plain but snug, her teenage body—taller, softer than Rukhsar’s—radiating innocence. She unhooked her bra, tossing it onto a bench, her breasts small and perky, then slid off her panties, her movements carefree, her ponytail bouncing, her skin unmarred by the world’s cruelty.
Rukhsar watched, her heart aching for that lost purity, then followed, her fingers trembling as she shed the oversized kameez, the fabric catching on her small breasts, nipples red from the MP’s teeth, a faint bruise on her thigh from his grip. She stood naked, her petite frame a stark contrast—curves pronounced despite her smallness, her plump ass, her narrow waist, her pussy still tender, glistening faintly in the steam. Aditi didn’t notice the marks, her grin unwavering as she pulled Rukhsar under the shower, the water cascading hot and heavy, slicking their skin, steam veiling them in a soft, jasmine-scented world.
The rainfall shower drenched them, water streaming over Aditi’s soft shoulders, her ponytail heavy, her laughter echoing as she grabbed a sponge, lathering it with jasmine soap. “Your turn!” she said, scrubbing Rukhsar’s back, her hands gentle, bubbles sliding down Rukhsar’s spine, pooling at her ass, her small stature making every touch feel oversized, intimate yet pure. Rukhsar’s braids clung to her back, water beading on her curves, her breasts tingling as the soap rinsed away the MP’s cum, his sweat, her own shame. She returned the favor, soaping Aditi’s arms, her fingers small but steady, tracing the taller girl’s shoulder blades, bubbles dripping to her hips, their giggles blending with the water’s hiss. Aditi’s hands moved to Rukhsar’s hair, unbraiding it, her fingers massaging shampoo into the dark strands, water sluicing through, her touch a sisterly balm, erasing the chamber’s filth—his cock, his cum, his obsession.
Under the steam, Rukhsar caught her reflection in the glass—a heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, a delicate beauty mirroring someone else, a ghost fueling the MP’s crazed want. She froze, the truth crystallizing: his fixation wasn’t just her tight pussy, her tiny body, but a look-alike—a lost love, a memory tied to that farmhouse night when he’d fucked her raw, her virginity his trophy. Her small stature—90 pounds, curves popping—made her a living echo, every tank top and short a tease, her allure unconscious but potent. Aditi’s voice snapped her back, rinsing her hair, her hands gentle, oblivious. “You’re so quiet! Thinking about poetry?” Aditi teased, splashing her, water beading on her own breasts, her innocence a shield Rukhsar vowed to protect.
They stepped out, steam clinging to their skin, Aditi grabbing fluffy towels, wrapping Rukhsar first, her own towel loose around her hips as she dried her ponytail, her movements carefree, her body glowing. She dressed quickly, slipping into a loose tee and pajama pants, the cotton baggy, her teenage frame unassuming, her grin bright as she turned to Rukhsar. “Your turn! Let’s find something cute!” She rummaged through her wardrobe, tossing out a cropped tank top—white, ribbed, ending above Rukhsar’s navel—and high-waisted denim shorts—faded blue, snug, hugging her thighs. “These are basic, but you’ll make them pop!” Aditi said, her eyes sparkling, handing them over with a floral scrunchie.
Rukhsar dressed, the cropped tank top clinging to her small breasts, her nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric, her flat stomach exposed, her waist a delicate curve. The denim shorts molded to her plump ass, the hem cutting high, accentuating her thighs, her tiny stature—barely five feet—turning the simple outfit into something seductive, not skimpy but undeniably sexy. Her curves popped, her smallness amplifying every inch, the shorts’ waistband hugging her hips, the tank’s crop teasing her midriff. She tied her damp hair with the scrunchie, loose waves framing her face, her look-alike beauty glowing, the MP’s obsession now clear—her body, her face, a ghost he chased. Aditi clapped, oblivious to the allure, her own tee sagging, her pajamas hiding her frame. “You’re a total vibe!” she squealed, hugging Rukhsar, her arms tight, her warmth a lifeline.
They settled on the bed, sharing mango lassi from a tray, Aditi’s chatter spilling—college dramas, her crush, her dream to dance like Madhuri Dixit. Rukhsar listened, her heart full, the Sharma name a fortress, Aditi’s friendship a gift. “I’m so happy you’re here,” Aditi said, her voice soft, her hand squeezing Rukhsar’s. “Grandpa’s the best for adopting you—Rukhsar Sharma sounds perfect!” Rukhsar smiled, her cropped tank and shorts clinging, her small body a quiet power, her look-alike allure a tool she’d wield carefully. Aditi’s innocence was her anchor, her sisterly bond a light in her hellish past—Salma’s chains, the farmhouse, the MP’s cum—fading as she embraced her new life, the Sharma name hers, her future fragile but fought for.
The MP loomed over her, his naked bulk slick with sweat, belly heaving, cock softening but still heavy, dripping their mingled cum onto the table. His hands roamed her tiny body, marveling at its compactness—her narrow waist, barely a handspan, her hips slight but curved, her ass small but plump, red from his slaps. “Fuck, you’re so little,” he growled, lifting her again, effortless, her 90-pound frame a toy in his grip. He hugged her tight, her cum-streaked breasts flattening against his matted chest, her braids brushing his shoulders, her thighs wrapping his waist, her pussy grinding his belly, leaving a slick trail. His lips crashed into hers, tongue plunging, tasting her cum, her pain, her cunning, his beard scbanging her chin raw as he kissed her, a possessive claim sparked by her vow: Rukhsar Sharma. Yours.
Her smallness drove him wild—her pussy tight, gripping his cock like a vice, her moans high and sharp, her body folding into his like a doll. He set her back on the table, spreading her thighs, her tiny feet dangling, her pussy open, pink and swollen, cum leaking out, streaking the wood. “Look at this,” he rasped, his fingers tracing her folds, two digits slipping in, stretching her, her juices squelching as she moaned, her hips bucking, her small breasts bouncing, nipples stiff. His other hand palmed her ass, lifting her slightly, his thumb circling her asshole again, teasing the tight ring, her gasp a shiver as she tensed, her tiny frame quaking under his touch. “So fucking small, but you take it all,” he muttered, his mouth closing over her nipple, sucking hard, teeth biting, her cry sharp, her braids fanning out, her hands clawing the table.
Rukhsar’s voice broke through, sultry, calculated, her eyes glinting with control. “Grandpa, my pussy—fuck it again,” she purred, redirecting him, her tiny hand guiding his cock back to her love hole, her wetness coating him as she arched, her small stature a weapon of seduction. He groaned, thrusting deep, her pussy clenching, her moans rising, her thighs trembling, her cum-slick breasts jiggling, the table creaking as he pounded, his balls slapping her ass, her juices gushing, pooling beneath her. Her orgasm hit, a piercing scream, her pussy milking him, her tiny body convulsing, her nails raking his arms, her braids swinging, cum and sweat mixing on her skin. He came again, a guttural roar, his cum flooding her, spilling out, streaking her thighs, the table a mess of their filth, her small frame shuddering under his weight.
He pulled back, panting, stroking her braids, her lips, her cum-slick skin, his obsession burning—her, or a look-alike ghost from that farmhouse night a month ago, when he’d taken her virginity, her blood and cries sealing her to him. “You’re coming home,” he said, voice rough but warm, wiping her face with a silk cloth, gentle despite his hunger. “My family’ll love you—Sharma’s yours now.” He dressed her in his oversized kurta, her tiny frame drowning in it, her thighs peeking out, cum still dripping, the gold bracelet glinting on her wrist, the cash and cake left behind for later.
The Sharma Household: A New Home
The MP’s Delhi bungalow was a fortress of old money—white walls dbangd in bougainvillea, marble halls echoing with history, chandeliers casting soft gold over teak furniture. Night had fallen, the air cool, scented with jasmine from the gardens. Rukhsar, showered and dressed in a borrowed salwar kameez—too big, cinched tight to fit her small frame—followed the MP into the drawing room, her braids neat again, her face scrubbed, but her eyes wary, her 18-year-old heart racing. Her life—orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse violation—had been hell, but here, claiming the Sharma name, she grasped a thread of control, her submission to him a calculated leap.
His family waited—his wife, a stern woman in silk, her gray bun tight; his son, a distracted lawyer scrolling his phone; and his granddaughter, Aditi Sharma, 18, in a college blazer, her ponytail bouncing, her eyes wide with curiosity. Rukhsar froze—Aditi was so young, 10th class, her innocence a stark mirror to Rukhsar’s scars. The MP introduced her, voice proud: “Rukhsar Sharma, adopted into our fold. She’s family now.” His wife nodded curtly, his son grunted, but Aditi leapt up, grabbing Rukhsar’s hand, her smile bright as the chandelier.
“You’re so pretty!” Aditi chirped, her voice a melody, her eyes scanning Rukhsar’s small stature, her delicate features. “Grandpa, can she share my room? Please?” She tugged Rukhsar closer, oblivious to the MP’s faint smirk, his eyes lingering on Rukhsar’s lips, remembering her pussy’s grip. Rukhsar blinked, stunned—Aditi’s warmth, her youth, her eagerness were a lifeline, a chance to rewrite her hell. “I’d love that,” Rukhsar said, her voice soft, her smile genuine, her heart thudding with hope and fear.
Aditi dragged her to her room—pink walls, posters of Bollywood stars, a desk piled with textbooks. “You’re like my sister now!” Aditi said, flinging open her wardrobe, pulling out jeans, kurtis, a scarf—all too big for Rukhsar’s tiny frame but offered with joy. “Try these! We’ll shop tomorrow, but these are yours.” She hugged Rukhsar, her arms tight, her excitement infectious, her chatter spilling—college, friends, her crush on a classmate. Rukhsar nodded, her throat tight, the Sharma name a shield she’d claimed, Aditi’s friendship a gift she hadn’t expected.
“Tell me about you!” Aditi said, flopping on the bed, her blazer off, her college tie loose. Rukhsar sat, her borrowed kameez slipping off one shoulder, her mind crafting a backstory—truth was too raw. “I’m… from a small town,” she lied, voice steady, her eyes on Aditi’s. “Parents died young, lived with relatives, studied art, poetry—Gulzar’s my favorite. Your grandpa… helped me, gave me a home.” She smiled, the lie smooth, her orphanage scars, Salma’s chains, the farmhouse’s blood buried deep. Aditi beamed, unaware, her hand squeezing Rukhsar’s. “You’re so cool! I’m so happy Grandpa adopted you—Sharma fits you!”
Rukhsar’s chest warmed, Aditi’s thrill—her clothes, her room, her surname—anchoring her. The MP’s obsession, his cock in her pussy, his hands on her small body, had bought this—her control, her escape from Salma, from Goa’s looming bash. Aditi’s friendship was a bonus, her 18-year-old innocence a mirror Rukhsar would protect, even as she navigated the MP’s hunger, his maybe-crazed fixation on her or a look-alike ghost. They settled in, Aditi sharing her earbuds, Lata Mangeshkar’s voice filling the room, Rukhsar’s tiny frame curled on the bed, the Sharma name hers, her hellish past fading, her future a fragile hope.
The Sharma bungalow’s evening glow filtered through Aditi’s bedroom, a teenage sanctuary of pink walls, Bollywood posters, and fairy lights twinkling like stars. Lata Mangeshkar’s soulful voice drifted from a Bluetooth speaker, weaving nostalgia into the air, scented with jasmine from the gardens below. Rukhsar perched on the edge of Aditi’s pink-canopied bed, her borrowed kameez slipping off one shoulder, her 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, with delicate, pronounced curves—dwarfed by the room’s opulence. Her small breasts, faintly bruised from the MP’s bites hours ago, pressed against the fabric, her plump ass tender from his slaps, her pussy still sore from his cock’s relentless thrusts on the teak table. Aditi, 16 and bursting with energy, sprawled beside her, her college blazer crumpled on the floor, her ponytail loose, her 10th-class textbooks strewn like petals. The Sharma name, claimed by Rukhsar’s cunning whisper—Save me from Salma, from Goa—bound her to this family, a fragile shield against her hellish past: the orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse where the MP took her virginity, her blood and cries staining silk.
Aditi’s laughter broke Rukhsar’s reverie, her eyes sparkling as she tossed a pile of clothes onto the bed—jeans, kurtis, a floral dupatta, all too big for Rukhsar’s tiny frame but offered with infectious joy. “You’re so small, like a doll!” Aditi giggled, holding a denim jacket against Rukhsar’s chest, her fingers grazing Rukhsar’s collarbone, innocent and warm. “We’re shopping tomorrow, but these are yours for now!” She bounced up, her college tie dangling, her energy pulling Rukhsar into her orbit. “Let’s make tonight epic—sleepover vibes, snacks, and a shower to unwind, like real sisters!” Her grin was a beacon, echoing the wholesome warmth of Jaipur’s lake-side chats or Sanjana’s house, where sisters shared laughter and trust, a world Rukhsar craved.
Rukhsar nodded, her throat tight, Aditi’s kindness a lifeline. “Sounds perfect,” she said, her voice soft, her smile hiding her scars—the farmhouse’s pain, Salma’s chains, the MP’s cum flooding her hours ago. Aditi grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the attached bathroom, a marble haven with a rainfall shower, glass walls etched with lotus patterns, steam already curling from the faucet, jasmine-scented soaps gleaming on a shelf. “We’ll share, it’s fun!” Aditi chirped, kicking off her college shoes, her fingers swift as she undressed. She tugged her white college shirt free, buttons popping softly, revealing a simple cotton bra, her soft, unscarred chest glowing in the dim light. Her navy skirt followed, pooling at her feet, her matching panties plain but snug, her teenage body—taller, softer than Rukhsar’s—radiating innocence. She unhooked her bra, tossing it onto a bench, her breasts small and perky, then slid off her panties, her movements carefree, her ponytail bouncing, her skin unmarred by the world’s cruelty.
Rukhsar watched, her heart aching for that lost purity, then followed, her fingers trembling as she shed the oversized kameez, the fabric catching on her small breasts, nipples red from the MP’s teeth, a faint bruise on her thigh from his grip. She stood naked, her petite frame a stark contrast—curves pronounced despite her smallness, her plump ass, her narrow waist, her pussy still tender, glistening faintly in the steam. Aditi didn’t notice the marks, her grin unwavering as she pulled Rukhsar under the shower, the water cascading hot and heavy, slicking their skin, steam veiling them in a soft, jasmine-scented world.
The rainfall shower drenched them, water streaming over Aditi’s soft shoulders, her ponytail heavy, her laughter echoing as she grabbed a sponge, lathering it with jasmine soap. “Your turn!” she said, scrubbing Rukhsar’s back, her hands gentle, bubbles sliding down Rukhsar’s spine, pooling at her ass, her small stature making every touch feel oversized, intimate yet pure. Rukhsar’s braids clung to her back, water beading on her curves, her breasts tingling as the soap rinsed away the MP’s cum, his sweat, her own shame. She returned the favor, soaping Aditi’s arms, her fingers small but steady, tracing the taller girl’s shoulder blades, bubbles dripping to her hips, their giggles blending with the water’s hiss. Aditi’s hands moved to Rukhsar’s hair, unbraiding it, her fingers massaging shampoo into the dark strands, water sluicing through, her touch a sisterly balm, erasing the chamber’s filth—his cock, his cum, his obsession.
Under the steam, Rukhsar caught her reflection in the glass—a heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, a delicate beauty mirroring someone else, a ghost fueling the MP’s crazed want. She froze, the truth crystallizing: his fixation wasn’t just her tight pussy, her tiny body, but a look-alike—a lost love, a memory tied to that farmhouse night when he’d fucked her raw, her virginity his trophy. Her small stature—90 pounds, curves popping—made her a living echo, every tank top and short a tease, her allure unconscious but potent. Aditi’s voice snapped her back, rinsing her hair, her hands gentle, oblivious. “You’re so quiet! Thinking about poetry?” Aditi teased, splashing her, water beading on her own breasts, her innocence a shield Rukhsar vowed to protect.
They stepped out, steam clinging to their skin, Aditi grabbing fluffy towels, wrapping Rukhsar first, her own towel loose around her hips as she dried her ponytail, her movements carefree, her body glowing. She dressed quickly, slipping into a loose tee and pajama pants, the cotton baggy, her teenage frame unassuming, her grin bright as she turned to Rukhsar. “Your turn! Let’s find something cute!” She rummaged through her wardrobe, tossing out a cropped tank top—white, ribbed, ending above Rukhsar’s navel—and high-waisted denim shorts—faded blue, snug, hugging her thighs. “These are basic, but you’ll make them pop!” Aditi said, her eyes sparkling, handing them over with a floral scrunchie.
Rukhsar dressed, the cropped tank top clinging to her small breasts, her nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric, her flat stomach exposed, her waist a delicate curve. The denim shorts molded to her plump ass, the hem cutting high, accentuating her thighs, her tiny stature—barely five feet—turning the simple outfit into something seductive, not skimpy but undeniably sexy. Her curves popped, her smallness amplifying every inch, the shorts’ waistband hugging her hips, the tank’s crop teasing her midriff. She tied her damp hair with the scrunchie, loose waves framing her face, her look-alike beauty glowing, the MP’s obsession now clear—her body, her face, a ghost he chased. Aditi clapped, oblivious to the allure, her own tee sagging, her pajamas hiding her frame. “You’re a total vibe!” she squealed, hugging Rukhsar, her arms tight, her warmth a lifeline.
They settled on the bed, sharing mango lassi from a tray, Aditi’s chatter spilling—college dramas, her crush, her dream to dance like Madhuri Dixit. Rukhsar listened, her heart full, the Sharma name a fortress, Aditi’s friendship a gift. “I’m so happy you’re here,” Aditi said, her voice soft, her hand squeezing Rukhsar’s. “Grandpa’s the best for adopting you—Rukhsar Sharma sounds perfect!” Rukhsar smiled, her cropped tank and shorts clinging, her small body a quiet power, her look-alike allure a tool she’d wield carefully. Aditi’s innocence was her anchor, her sisterly bond a light in her hellish past—Salma’s chains, the farmhouse, the MP’s cum—fading as she embraced her new life, the Sharma name hers, her future fragile but fought for.
Feel free to critique 
Leave a comment it gives writter the kick same as you get by reading the story.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)