04-06-2025, 03:48 PM
That ghanti, saali, been chup for hours, but still, every tik-tik of the clock makes my body tight, like bc spring. Even when its getting dark, every haramzada corridor in this ma ka bhosda college echoes. One wrong sound, and by morning, every randi bitch in the staff room will be talking about us.
I'm bent over my own chod desk, hands flat for balance, navy-blue sari bunched up. My gaand, nangi and shining, is ready for that madarchod who ain't even half my age. Behenchod, I dont give a fuck about the risk. Makes it better, samjha?
His mouth is on my neck, desperate, teeth scbanging my skin like some janwar in panic. I feel his heart beating against my spine, the heat of his lund as he tries to shove it between my gaand, muttering curses in that chutiya English he thinks sound cool. I'd slap him if I could move my hands, but he is holding them down. "Not so fast, babu," I hiss. He just grunts, and his hips jerk forward trying to get it in.
Feels like a sting when his lund gets in, no warning, just raw muscle and the smell of booze. He promises it will be over before the watchman finishes his chai. The desk moves a little. Ma ki chut, I bite my lip hard. My bhudi is tight around his lund, angry, still not ready even after doing worse things in shittier places. He's pumping, awkward at first, then finding rhythm, his balls slapping my thighs as he gets faster.
He's making these stupid sounds—moaning, almost crying when I squeeze him, stopping the sound like he is ashamed. I laugh, dry and mean. "You fuck like a collegeboy, you know that?" He covers my mouth, nails sharp on my cheek. "Shut up, Maya," he says. "You love it".
I do.
I move back on him, making sure he feels everything, and I know what he wants. I give him my bhudi, wet and greedy, and when his hand goes down to my breast, I shove it lower, into the sweat of my cleavage, the place where my heart used to be. He squeezes hard, leaving bruises, and his finger finds my nipple, pinching until I gasp.
His other hand is below me, trying to find my clit. He's chutiya at it, but he don't stop, and after a bit, the feeling is good enough that I'm panting, my head full of the smell of floor polish and old books. I slam my hand back, grab his wrist, dig my nails in, and he yelps, then bites my shoulder to hide it.
I want to call him a randi ka bachha, but my mouth is full of my sari and deodorant. My bhudi is so wet, with juices running down my thigh, making a puddle on the floor. I want him to know what he's doing to me, so I move my hips, milking him, and he almost blows right there, a loud noise in my back.
He's saying my name now—my real name, not the one I use with the others. " oh behenchod—" He never lasts, but I let him think he's some hot shit. I squeeze down hard and he shudders, stops, but I'm not finished. I pull up, make him go deeper, scratch his arm with my teeth, leaving a mark just above the bone. "C'mon," I say, "don't waste time. Give it to me."
He does. Fucking explodes inside, hot and thick, and coming out around his lund as he jerks, then falls against me, sticky with sweat. The desk shakes with our breathing. My legs are numb and my head is buzzing, but my bhudi is alive, throbbing with every beat.
We stay like that, a mess of limbs and spit and hair, until he pulls out. His cum drips down my thigh, warm at first, then cooling as it goes toward my knee. I don't wipe it away. I want to remember.
He drops to the floor, pants around his ankles, just staring at me—at the way I lean over the desk, still open for him, wanting him to try again. He's young, he could get hard in five minutes if he wanted, but he's got a train to catch. "I love you," he says, quiet. I laugh again, dry and sharp.
"Yeah, right," I tell him. "Love is for girls who don't know better."
He gets dressed quietly. I roll the sari back down, smooth my hair, make sure everything is right. There's a trick to hiding the fuck--shine—little powder, pinch of the cheeks, lipstick just right. I see myself in the glass, and she's a whore, who tricked a boy into thinking he had power.
I watch him go, down the corridor, footsteps in the empty college. My thighs stick together as I walk to the window and open it, let the night air take away the smell of sex. I light a cigarette, slow and careful, and blow the smoke out over the dark playground.
The feeling is gone fast. I sit on the desk and stare at my own hand—scarred, knuckles swollen. The old pain is back, the one that never leaves, even when I'm being fucked stupid by a kid who thinks he invented chodna. I squeeze my thigh, feel the heat, the wetness. For a second, I'm dizzy, and my mind stumbles.
I see morning, bright and full of anger—the staff room, sunlight on the walls, a girl's voice making a joke about my gaand. I blink, and the memory grows teeth, pulling me backward into the day I thought I'd escaped.
I'm bent over my own chod desk, hands flat for balance, navy-blue sari bunched up. My gaand, nangi and shining, is ready for that madarchod who ain't even half my age. Behenchod, I dont give a fuck about the risk. Makes it better, samjha?
His mouth is on my neck, desperate, teeth scbanging my skin like some janwar in panic. I feel his heart beating against my spine, the heat of his lund as he tries to shove it between my gaand, muttering curses in that chutiya English he thinks sound cool. I'd slap him if I could move my hands, but he is holding them down. "Not so fast, babu," I hiss. He just grunts, and his hips jerk forward trying to get it in.
Feels like a sting when his lund gets in, no warning, just raw muscle and the smell of booze. He promises it will be over before the watchman finishes his chai. The desk moves a little. Ma ki chut, I bite my lip hard. My bhudi is tight around his lund, angry, still not ready even after doing worse things in shittier places. He's pumping, awkward at first, then finding rhythm, his balls slapping my thighs as he gets faster.
He's making these stupid sounds—moaning, almost crying when I squeeze him, stopping the sound like he is ashamed. I laugh, dry and mean. "You fuck like a collegeboy, you know that?" He covers my mouth, nails sharp on my cheek. "Shut up, Maya," he says. "You love it".
I do.
I move back on him, making sure he feels everything, and I know what he wants. I give him my bhudi, wet and greedy, and when his hand goes down to my breast, I shove it lower, into the sweat of my cleavage, the place where my heart used to be. He squeezes hard, leaving bruises, and his finger finds my nipple, pinching until I gasp.
His other hand is below me, trying to find my clit. He's chutiya at it, but he don't stop, and after a bit, the feeling is good enough that I'm panting, my head full of the smell of floor polish and old books. I slam my hand back, grab his wrist, dig my nails in, and he yelps, then bites my shoulder to hide it.
I want to call him a randi ka bachha, but my mouth is full of my sari and deodorant. My bhudi is so wet, with juices running down my thigh, making a puddle on the floor. I want him to know what he's doing to me, so I move my hips, milking him, and he almost blows right there, a loud noise in my back.
He's saying my name now—my real name, not the one I use with the others. " oh behenchod—" He never lasts, but I let him think he's some hot shit. I squeeze down hard and he shudders, stops, but I'm not finished. I pull up, make him go deeper, scratch his arm with my teeth, leaving a mark just above the bone. "C'mon," I say, "don't waste time. Give it to me."
He does. Fucking explodes inside, hot and thick, and coming out around his lund as he jerks, then falls against me, sticky with sweat. The desk shakes with our breathing. My legs are numb and my head is buzzing, but my bhudi is alive, throbbing with every beat.
We stay like that, a mess of limbs and spit and hair, until he pulls out. His cum drips down my thigh, warm at first, then cooling as it goes toward my knee. I don't wipe it away. I want to remember.
He drops to the floor, pants around his ankles, just staring at me—at the way I lean over the desk, still open for him, wanting him to try again. He's young, he could get hard in five minutes if he wanted, but he's got a train to catch. "I love you," he says, quiet. I laugh again, dry and sharp.
"Yeah, right," I tell him. "Love is for girls who don't know better."
He gets dressed quietly. I roll the sari back down, smooth my hair, make sure everything is right. There's a trick to hiding the fuck--shine—little powder, pinch of the cheeks, lipstick just right. I see myself in the glass, and she's a whore, who tricked a boy into thinking he had power.
I watch him go, down the corridor, footsteps in the empty college. My thighs stick together as I walk to the window and open it, let the night air take away the smell of sex. I light a cigarette, slow and careful, and blow the smoke out over the dark playground.
The feeling is gone fast. I sit on the desk and stare at my own hand—scarred, knuckles swollen. The old pain is back, the one that never leaves, even when I'm being fucked stupid by a kid who thinks he invented chodna. I squeeze my thigh, feel the heat, the wetness. For a second, I'm dizzy, and my mind stumbles.
I see morning, bright and full of anger—the staff room, sunlight on the walls, a girl's voice making a joke about my gaand. I blink, and the memory grows teeth, pulling me backward into the day I thought I'd escaped.
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