05-07-2025, 02:20 PM
Part 8: Lines That Tremble
Scene: The Lecture Hall (Late Afternoon)
The lecture hall was large, tiered, and mostly empty after the day’s final session. Long rows of wooden benches faced the central whiteboard, where soft chalk dust clung to half-written equations. The sunlight filtering in through tall windows had turned gold — warm, tired, and thick with the quiet of late hours.
Swathi was alone, organizing papers at the lectern, dressed in a rich bottle-green saree with a black sleeveless blouse that hugged her torso perfectly. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, the nape of her neck glowing with a soft sheen of sweat.
She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her until they were too close.
Aditya.
He moved with quiet energy, as usual — not lurking, just… innocent.
“Ma’am?” he said gently.
She turned. “Aditya. You startled me.”
He held up a sheet. “You missed this. I found it on the last bench.”
She took it, fingers brushing his. That brush — it wasn’t supposed to last, but it did. Half a second too long.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice neutral.
Aditya didn’t move. He was looking at the whiteboard now, at her notes — but his eyes dipped once. Just once. To her blouse. To the curve of her waist.
He didn’t realize he had done it.
That’s what made it dangerous.
Swathi placed the paper on the lectern, calmly. “You’re always here when it’s just me.”
He blinked. “I’m not… I didn’t mean to be. I just—”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
Aditya stood awkwardly for a moment, then stepped forward to pick up one of the chalk sticks on the ledge. “Your handwriting’s really elegant,” he said softly. “You even make formulas look… nice.”
Swathi looked at him from the side — the outline of his arms under the thin shirt, his collar damp with sweat, his mouth slightly parted as he smiled without thinking.
She shouldn’t have felt it. That tight pull low in her belly. That rush.
“Flattery won’t help your grades,” she said, turning slightly, folding her arms — pushing her breasts subtly up in the process.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, then added, “I mean, I did. But… not for marks.”
Silence again.
Swathi took a step back — toward the edge of the dais — and leaned against the desk. Her saree pressed against her hip, revealing the gentle dip of her waist, a faint curve of exposed stomach where the pallu had slipped.
Aditya looked. Swallowed. Looked away.
That tension bloomed again — the one that couldn’t be spoken, couldn’t be admitted.
Just felt.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He looked up. “No, Ma’am. Sorry.”
He turned quickly, walking back up the steps.
Swathi watched him go — eyes lingering on the back of his neck, the way his spine moved under his shirt. Her thighs shifted unconsciously. Her body ached.
And it wasn’t just physical.
It was the not knowing — the innocence of his desire that made it feel all the more dangerous.
Scene: That Night – Swathi Alone
The house was quiet. Rahul was out late, a guest lecture in another city. Swathi sat at the edge of the bed in just a towel, skin still damp from her shower. The air was humid, the window open, the ceiling fan humming softly.
She reached down, peeled off the towel slowly, and lay back — bare.
She didn’t need to fantasize.
She could remember.
The way Ajay had stood too close.
The way Sai had stared too long.
The way Aditya had looked away after looking — ashamed, sweet, pure.
She spread her thighs, her fingers slipping between them — her clit already swollen, throbbing.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as she rubbed slow circles, hips rising, eyes fluttering shut.
Her other hand cupped her breast, then squeezed. She pinched her nipple, imagining Rahul’s mouth on it — then someone else’s. Someone younger. Hungrier.
Her fingers slid inside her pussy, soaked already, pumping slowly, rhythm building. Her thumb pressed harder against her clit as she thought about Aditya looking down, confused, curious.
What would he do?
Would he even know how to touch her?
She bit her lip, moaning louder like a bitch in heat now, fucking herself with fast, needy strokes, her juices slick and messy between her thighs.
Her orgasm hit sharp — sudden — her body jerking, mouth open in a silent cry.
And as her back arched off the bed, she whispered a name.
It wasn’t Rahul’s.
Part 9: Eyes That Linger
It was late Sunday morning. The house was quiet, fan blades spinning lazily overhead, and the scent of freshly brewed filter coffee clung to the walls. Swathi stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a white towel — a long one, but not wide enough to fully conceal her.
Her hair was wet, strands clinging to her shoulders. The towel hugged her breasts tightly, one curve threatening to spill, a pink nipple almost peeking through the corner where the tuck had loosened. Her thighs gleamed with water, the smooth skin catching light as she padded softly toward the laundry room.
She didn’t expect anyone.
Rahul had gone out early to fetch something for the week — she'd left the door slightly ajar to catch the breeze. She was alone.
Or so she thought.
The bell rang.
She paused.
Probably Rahul.
Still wrapped in her towel, she padded to the door, calling out without opening it fully.
"Coming!"
She unlocked and cracked it open, hiding behind the door.
But it wasn’t Rahul.
It was Sundar Uncle — their neighbor from the second floor. In his late 50s, he often dropped by with small grocery errands, a charger to borrow, a packet of salt, or sometimes just small talk with Rahul.
"Ah—Swathi!" he said, startled.
She blinked. “Uncle? I thought it was Rahul.”
He smiled awkwardly, eyes already dipping before he forced them back up. "No no, I was just wondering if you had half a packet of turmeric. We’re making sambhar and suddenly realized we’re out."
She nodded slowly, unsure whether to shut the door or let him wait.
“I’ll get it,” she said, turning around, still holding the door slightly open.
She didn’t notice how much he saw.
Her towel had risen slightly with her movement — one smooth, plump ass cheek peeked out just briefly as she walked toward the kitchen shelf.
He stood there silently — not speaking, not breathing. Watching.
The sway of her hips. The way the curve of her breast jiggled beneath the towel with every step. Her wet calves gleaming.
She came back quickly, handing him the packet with a smile — innocent, casual.
“Here. You can return it later.”
“Th-thank you, ma,” he said, voice catching.
He didn’t move.
Their eyes met for a split second too long.
And then, politely — but far too softly — he said, “You’re… glowing today.”
She paused.
“Must be the shower,” she replied, with a faint smile. “Don’t catch cold standing out there.”
He nodded, flushed, took the packet, and left.
Swathi shut the door gently.
Her back rested against it for a moment.
She looked down.
The edge of her towel had slid lower than she thought — just enough to reveal the full top of her breast, a drop of water clinging to her nipple.
She should’ve been embarrassed.
Instead, she felt… flushed.
Warm.
A little pulse between her legs that had no right being there.
Scene: Campus Vibes Still Simmering
Monday afternoon brought her back to the heat of the lecture hall, the whispered greetings, the not-so-subtle glances.
Sai winked at her when no one was looking.
Ajay ran his fingers along the edge of her table when passing by, as though daring to touch — and pulling back just in time.
Aditya smiled softly as always, unaware of the tension in the air.
And Swathi?
She taught like nothing had changed.
Except for the fact that her bra was thinner today.
And when she leaned forward to adjust the projector, she didn’t fix the gap in her blouse right away.
Not out of forgetfulness.
But because she wanted the silence to stretch longer.
She wanted someone’s breath to hitch.
Part 10: Seen, and Nearly Touched
Scene 1: Sundar Uncle — A Window Too Wide
Tuesday afternoon. The sun bore down hard, and the power had flickered off again, leaving the apartment warm and humid. Swathi was in the bedroom, changing out of her work saree — the same light yellow chiffon that had clung to her hips during her lectures.
The fan turned slowly above her. She stood near the wardrobe, the blouse already unbuttoned, the saree undone and pooling at her feet. Her skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat — her bra damp, translucent, nipples pressing hard through the lace.
She removed it.
Free now, her breasts sat full and heavy, rising with her breath as she reached up to tie her hair.
What she didn’t know — what she couldn’t have known — was that from the corner of the next building, Sundar Uncle was on his small balcony, just looking around while sipping tea.
His eyes caught the movement across the narrow gap.
And froze.
There she was — back to him at first. Hair lifted, back arched slightly, towel barely clinging to her waist now. Then she turned — casually — revealing everything.
Soft curves. Dusky nipples. Flat stomach. And a sensuality she hadn’t hidden… because she thought she was alone.
Sundar’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
He knew he should look away.
But he didn’t.
Swathi turned again, pulling a loose cotton house dress over her body, adjusting it slowly. Her breasts jiggled naturally as she moved. And then — just before walking away — she paused.
Her head turned slightly… just slightly. As if… she sensed it.
But she didn’t check.
She simply walked out of view, leaving behind a silence more powerful than words.
And Sundar stood there, motionless.
Tea going cold in his hand.
Scene 2: Ajay – The Stairwell Edge
That Friday, the staff was preparing for the internal paper review — half the building was in disarray, with classrooms being cleaned and schedules reshuffled.
Swathi stepped into the side stairwell near the old seminar hall — a shortcut she often used when moving between departments. It was usually empty, quiet, with sunlight filtering in through dust-smudged windows.
She didn’t expect Ajay to be there — but there he was, leaning against the railing with a phone in hand.
“Ma’am,” he said, straightening immediately.
Swathi paused, a few steps above him, the sunlight behind her making the sheer material of her green saree shimmer faintly.
She started past him. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping with seminar logistics?”
“I was looking for you,” he said — voice quiet, not cocky this time.
She stopped.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been doing my job,” she replied evenly.
Ajay took a step up — close. Too close. His eyes didn’t look away.
“You know it’s getting harder,” he said. “Being near you and… not touching.”
She stared at him. “And yet, you haven’t.”
His hand moved — slowly — to the railing beside her hip. Not touching her. Just near. His breath close now, his eyes darker than usual.
Swathi didn’t move back.
Her voice dropped. “This stairwell has terrible acoustics. Everyone can hear everything.”
“I’m not saying anything,” he whispered.
Her saree fluttered slightly with the breeze. He watched it — the edge of her pallu lifting, revealing the smooth dip above her navel.
He still didn’t touch her.
But his fingers clenched the railing like he wanted to.
“Go,” she said finally, voice a little breathless.
He stepped back — only slightly.
Then, looking her straight in the eye, he said:
“I’ll wait until you want me to.”
And walked away.
Swathi stood there for a long moment — heart pounding, thighs pressed together.
The worst part?
She wasn’t angry.
She was wet.
Part 11: When She Takes Control
That night, the house was quiet.
Swathi sat in the kitchen in silence, sipping wine, her mind replaying the image of Ajay in the stairwell — the way he had stared, the way his breath had hit her skin, the heat that had gathered between her thighs as he left.
She hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
And now, it needed to be burned out.
She walked into the bedroom where Rahul lay reading in a vest and shorts, unsuspecting. The moment he looked up, she straddled him — without a word — her saree still wrapped around her hips, blouse open, bare beneath.
He blinked. “Whoa—Swathi?”
She leaned in, her tongue dragging across his lips, then biting his lower one with a growl. “Don’t talk. Just take it.”
His cock thickened instantly beneath her, straining against the fabric. She ground against him slowly, her bare pussy slick and hot under the pallu of her saree.
“You’re soaked,” he gasped. “What’s gotten into—”
She reached down, pulled his shorts off with one hand, and gripped his cock firmly — stroking it from base to tip, slow and punishing.
“I said,” she whispered, breath hot against his neck, “don’t talk.”
She slid lower, dragging her breasts down his chest — nipples hard, grazing his skin — and took his cock between her lips without warning.
Rahul moaned, fingers digging into the sheets.
Her mouth was wet, eager, commanding — taking him deep, then pulling back with a pop, tongue teasing the tip, lips tight and perfect. She looked up at him while sucking, eyes smoldering, hair wild.
When she was done tasting him, she crawled back up, unwrapped her saree, tossing it aside, her full breasts finally free — heavy, soft, deliciously jiggling as she hovered over him.
“Touch them,” she ordered.
He obeyed, cupping them in both hands, thumbs rubbing her nipples.
“Harder.”
He pinched gently — she slapped his chest.
“I said harder.”
He squeezed, twisted, and she hissed — loving the sting, the heat.
Then she grabbed his cock and guided him in — slowly lowering herself, inch by inch, until he was buried deep inside her.
Her eyes rolled back as she sank down, her hips starting to grind in slow, devastating circles.
Rahul moaned, hands on her thighs. “Fuck, Swathi…”
“I’m not your sweet wife tonight,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m everything they can’t have.”
She rode him — hard.
Her breasts bounced wildly with every thrust, her pussy clenching tight, wet, milking him. She leaned forward, slapped his cheek lightly, then kissed him hard — tongue deep, messy, claiming.
She turned him over mid-thrust, pushed him flat, and mounted him again in reverse — her ass on full display as she bounced on his cock, thighs slapping against him, moaning with abandon.
She looked back over her shoulder. “You like this view?”
He groaned. “Fucking love it.”
She spanked herself — sharp and loud — the shock jolting her harder onto his cock.
He grabbed her hips now, thrusting up into her, faster, rougher, as she screamed his name, lost in the wave crashing through her.
Her orgasm tore through her like lightning — her whole body shaking, thighs trembling, voice raw.
“Cum in me,” she gasped. “Now. Fill me.”
Rahul obeyed with a roar, his body bucking as he emptied deep inside her.
They collapsed — tangled, sweating, panting, her body sprawled over his like a storm that had finally passed.
She lay there, chest heaving, fingers tracing his collarbone.
And in her mind… somewhere behind the glow of afterglow and sweat… she saw a flash of Ajay’s eyes.
Hungry.
Waiting.
Scene: The Lecture Hall (Late Afternoon)
The lecture hall was large, tiered, and mostly empty after the day’s final session. Long rows of wooden benches faced the central whiteboard, where soft chalk dust clung to half-written equations. The sunlight filtering in through tall windows had turned gold — warm, tired, and thick with the quiet of late hours.
Swathi was alone, organizing papers at the lectern, dressed in a rich bottle-green saree with a black sleeveless blouse that hugged her torso perfectly. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, the nape of her neck glowing with a soft sheen of sweat.
She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her until they were too close.
Aditya.
He moved with quiet energy, as usual — not lurking, just… innocent.
“Ma’am?” he said gently.
She turned. “Aditya. You startled me.”
He held up a sheet. “You missed this. I found it on the last bench.”
She took it, fingers brushing his. That brush — it wasn’t supposed to last, but it did. Half a second too long.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice neutral.
Aditya didn’t move. He was looking at the whiteboard now, at her notes — but his eyes dipped once. Just once. To her blouse. To the curve of her waist.
He didn’t realize he had done it.
That’s what made it dangerous.
Swathi placed the paper on the lectern, calmly. “You’re always here when it’s just me.”
He blinked. “I’m not… I didn’t mean to be. I just—”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
Aditya stood awkwardly for a moment, then stepped forward to pick up one of the chalk sticks on the ledge. “Your handwriting’s really elegant,” he said softly. “You even make formulas look… nice.”
Swathi looked at him from the side — the outline of his arms under the thin shirt, his collar damp with sweat, his mouth slightly parted as he smiled without thinking.
She shouldn’t have felt it. That tight pull low in her belly. That rush.
“Flattery won’t help your grades,” she said, turning slightly, folding her arms — pushing her breasts subtly up in the process.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, then added, “I mean, I did. But… not for marks.”
Silence again.
Swathi took a step back — toward the edge of the dais — and leaned against the desk. Her saree pressed against her hip, revealing the gentle dip of her waist, a faint curve of exposed stomach where the pallu had slipped.
Aditya looked. Swallowed. Looked away.
That tension bloomed again — the one that couldn’t be spoken, couldn’t be admitted.
Just felt.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He looked up. “No, Ma’am. Sorry.”
He turned quickly, walking back up the steps.
Swathi watched him go — eyes lingering on the back of his neck, the way his spine moved under his shirt. Her thighs shifted unconsciously. Her body ached.
And it wasn’t just physical.
It was the not knowing — the innocence of his desire that made it feel all the more dangerous.
Scene: That Night – Swathi Alone
The house was quiet. Rahul was out late, a guest lecture in another city. Swathi sat at the edge of the bed in just a towel, skin still damp from her shower. The air was humid, the window open, the ceiling fan humming softly.
She reached down, peeled off the towel slowly, and lay back — bare.
She didn’t need to fantasize.
She could remember.
The way Ajay had stood too close.
The way Sai had stared too long.
The way Aditya had looked away after looking — ashamed, sweet, pure.
She spread her thighs, her fingers slipping between them — her clit already swollen, throbbing.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as she rubbed slow circles, hips rising, eyes fluttering shut.
Her other hand cupped her breast, then squeezed. She pinched her nipple, imagining Rahul’s mouth on it — then someone else’s. Someone younger. Hungrier.
Her fingers slid inside her pussy, soaked already, pumping slowly, rhythm building. Her thumb pressed harder against her clit as she thought about Aditya looking down, confused, curious.
What would he do?
Would he even know how to touch her?
She bit her lip, moaning louder like a bitch in heat now, fucking herself with fast, needy strokes, her juices slick and messy between her thighs.
Her orgasm hit sharp — sudden — her body jerking, mouth open in a silent cry.
And as her back arched off the bed, she whispered a name.
It wasn’t Rahul’s.
Part 9: Eyes That Linger
It was late Sunday morning. The house was quiet, fan blades spinning lazily overhead, and the scent of freshly brewed filter coffee clung to the walls. Swathi stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a white towel — a long one, but not wide enough to fully conceal her.
Her hair was wet, strands clinging to her shoulders. The towel hugged her breasts tightly, one curve threatening to spill, a pink nipple almost peeking through the corner where the tuck had loosened. Her thighs gleamed with water, the smooth skin catching light as she padded softly toward the laundry room.
She didn’t expect anyone.
Rahul had gone out early to fetch something for the week — she'd left the door slightly ajar to catch the breeze. She was alone.
Or so she thought.
The bell rang.
She paused.
Probably Rahul.
Still wrapped in her towel, she padded to the door, calling out without opening it fully.
"Coming!"
She unlocked and cracked it open, hiding behind the door.
But it wasn’t Rahul.
It was Sundar Uncle — their neighbor from the second floor. In his late 50s, he often dropped by with small grocery errands, a charger to borrow, a packet of salt, or sometimes just small talk with Rahul.
"Ah—Swathi!" he said, startled.
She blinked. “Uncle? I thought it was Rahul.”
He smiled awkwardly, eyes already dipping before he forced them back up. "No no, I was just wondering if you had half a packet of turmeric. We’re making sambhar and suddenly realized we’re out."
She nodded slowly, unsure whether to shut the door or let him wait.
“I’ll get it,” she said, turning around, still holding the door slightly open.
She didn’t notice how much he saw.
Her towel had risen slightly with her movement — one smooth, plump ass cheek peeked out just briefly as she walked toward the kitchen shelf.
He stood there silently — not speaking, not breathing. Watching.
The sway of her hips. The way the curve of her breast jiggled beneath the towel with every step. Her wet calves gleaming.
She came back quickly, handing him the packet with a smile — innocent, casual.
“Here. You can return it later.”
“Th-thank you, ma,” he said, voice catching.
He didn’t move.
Their eyes met for a split second too long.
And then, politely — but far too softly — he said, “You’re… glowing today.”
She paused.
“Must be the shower,” she replied, with a faint smile. “Don’t catch cold standing out there.”
He nodded, flushed, took the packet, and left.
Swathi shut the door gently.
Her back rested against it for a moment.
She looked down.
The edge of her towel had slid lower than she thought — just enough to reveal the full top of her breast, a drop of water clinging to her nipple.
She should’ve been embarrassed.
Instead, she felt… flushed.
Warm.
A little pulse between her legs that had no right being there.
Scene: Campus Vibes Still Simmering
Monday afternoon brought her back to the heat of the lecture hall, the whispered greetings, the not-so-subtle glances.
Sai winked at her when no one was looking.
Ajay ran his fingers along the edge of her table when passing by, as though daring to touch — and pulling back just in time.
Aditya smiled softly as always, unaware of the tension in the air.
And Swathi?
She taught like nothing had changed.
Except for the fact that her bra was thinner today.
And when she leaned forward to adjust the projector, she didn’t fix the gap in her blouse right away.
Not out of forgetfulness.
But because she wanted the silence to stretch longer.
She wanted someone’s breath to hitch.
Part 10: Seen, and Nearly Touched
Scene 1: Sundar Uncle — A Window Too Wide
Tuesday afternoon. The sun bore down hard, and the power had flickered off again, leaving the apartment warm and humid. Swathi was in the bedroom, changing out of her work saree — the same light yellow chiffon that had clung to her hips during her lectures.
The fan turned slowly above her. She stood near the wardrobe, the blouse already unbuttoned, the saree undone and pooling at her feet. Her skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat — her bra damp, translucent, nipples pressing hard through the lace.
She removed it.
Free now, her breasts sat full and heavy, rising with her breath as she reached up to tie her hair.
What she didn’t know — what she couldn’t have known — was that from the corner of the next building, Sundar Uncle was on his small balcony, just looking around while sipping tea.
His eyes caught the movement across the narrow gap.
And froze.
There she was — back to him at first. Hair lifted, back arched slightly, towel barely clinging to her waist now. Then she turned — casually — revealing everything.
Soft curves. Dusky nipples. Flat stomach. And a sensuality she hadn’t hidden… because she thought she was alone.
Sundar’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
He knew he should look away.
But he didn’t.
Swathi turned again, pulling a loose cotton house dress over her body, adjusting it slowly. Her breasts jiggled naturally as she moved. And then — just before walking away — she paused.
Her head turned slightly… just slightly. As if… she sensed it.
But she didn’t check.
She simply walked out of view, leaving behind a silence more powerful than words.
And Sundar stood there, motionless.
Tea going cold in his hand.
Scene 2: Ajay – The Stairwell Edge
That Friday, the staff was preparing for the internal paper review — half the building was in disarray, with classrooms being cleaned and schedules reshuffled.
Swathi stepped into the side stairwell near the old seminar hall — a shortcut she often used when moving between departments. It was usually empty, quiet, with sunlight filtering in through dust-smudged windows.
She didn’t expect Ajay to be there — but there he was, leaning against the railing with a phone in hand.
“Ma’am,” he said, straightening immediately.
Swathi paused, a few steps above him, the sunlight behind her making the sheer material of her green saree shimmer faintly.
She started past him. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping with seminar logistics?”
“I was looking for you,” he said — voice quiet, not cocky this time.
She stopped.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been doing my job,” she replied evenly.
Ajay took a step up — close. Too close. His eyes didn’t look away.
“You know it’s getting harder,” he said. “Being near you and… not touching.”
She stared at him. “And yet, you haven’t.”
His hand moved — slowly — to the railing beside her hip. Not touching her. Just near. His breath close now, his eyes darker than usual.
Swathi didn’t move back.
Her voice dropped. “This stairwell has terrible acoustics. Everyone can hear everything.”
“I’m not saying anything,” he whispered.
Her saree fluttered slightly with the breeze. He watched it — the edge of her pallu lifting, revealing the smooth dip above her navel.
He still didn’t touch her.
But his fingers clenched the railing like he wanted to.
“Go,” she said finally, voice a little breathless.
He stepped back — only slightly.
Then, looking her straight in the eye, he said:
“I’ll wait until you want me to.”
And walked away.
Swathi stood there for a long moment — heart pounding, thighs pressed together.
The worst part?
She wasn’t angry.
She was wet.
Part 11: When She Takes Control
That night, the house was quiet.
Swathi sat in the kitchen in silence, sipping wine, her mind replaying the image of Ajay in the stairwell — the way he had stared, the way his breath had hit her skin, the heat that had gathered between her thighs as he left.
She hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
And now, it needed to be burned out.
She walked into the bedroom where Rahul lay reading in a vest and shorts, unsuspecting. The moment he looked up, she straddled him — without a word — her saree still wrapped around her hips, blouse open, bare beneath.
He blinked. “Whoa—Swathi?”
She leaned in, her tongue dragging across his lips, then biting his lower one with a growl. “Don’t talk. Just take it.”
His cock thickened instantly beneath her, straining against the fabric. She ground against him slowly, her bare pussy slick and hot under the pallu of her saree.
“You’re soaked,” he gasped. “What’s gotten into—”
She reached down, pulled his shorts off with one hand, and gripped his cock firmly — stroking it from base to tip, slow and punishing.
“I said,” she whispered, breath hot against his neck, “don’t talk.”
She slid lower, dragging her breasts down his chest — nipples hard, grazing his skin — and took his cock between her lips without warning.
Rahul moaned, fingers digging into the sheets.
Her mouth was wet, eager, commanding — taking him deep, then pulling back with a pop, tongue teasing the tip, lips tight and perfect. She looked up at him while sucking, eyes smoldering, hair wild.
When she was done tasting him, she crawled back up, unwrapped her saree, tossing it aside, her full breasts finally free — heavy, soft, deliciously jiggling as she hovered over him.
“Touch them,” she ordered.
He obeyed, cupping them in both hands, thumbs rubbing her nipples.
“Harder.”
He pinched gently — she slapped his chest.
“I said harder.”
He squeezed, twisted, and she hissed — loving the sting, the heat.
Then she grabbed his cock and guided him in — slowly lowering herself, inch by inch, until he was buried deep inside her.
Her eyes rolled back as she sank down, her hips starting to grind in slow, devastating circles.
Rahul moaned, hands on her thighs. “Fuck, Swathi…”
“I’m not your sweet wife tonight,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m everything they can’t have.”
She rode him — hard.
Her breasts bounced wildly with every thrust, her pussy clenching tight, wet, milking him. She leaned forward, slapped his cheek lightly, then kissed him hard — tongue deep, messy, claiming.
She turned him over mid-thrust, pushed him flat, and mounted him again in reverse — her ass on full display as she bounced on his cock, thighs slapping against him, moaning with abandon.
She looked back over her shoulder. “You like this view?”
He groaned. “Fucking love it.”
She spanked herself — sharp and loud — the shock jolting her harder onto his cock.
He grabbed her hips now, thrusting up into her, faster, rougher, as she screamed his name, lost in the wave crashing through her.
Her orgasm tore through her like lightning — her whole body shaking, thighs trembling, voice raw.
“Cum in me,” she gasped. “Now. Fill me.”
Rahul obeyed with a roar, his body bucking as he emptied deep inside her.
They collapsed — tangled, sweating, panting, her body sprawled over his like a storm that had finally passed.
She lay there, chest heaving, fingers tracing his collarbone.
And in her mind… somewhere behind the glow of afterglow and sweat… she saw a flash of Ajay’s eyes.
Hungry.
Waiting.
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