Fantasy Unlishing Hell on My Auntie

[Abirkkz]

Part 3

I settled into a small one-bedroom flat on the edge of the city—a modest sanctuary with a single bedroom, a cramped dining area, and a tiny bathroom. My needs were few, and this space was enough to cradle my solitary existence. By day, I toiled in the office, my life a predictable rhythm of paperwork and routine. But when night fell, I retreated to my private world, where the walls seemed to pulse with the weight of my unspoken desires.
Living alone birthed a new habit, one that consumed me. As darkness enveloped the city, my mind grew restless, craving release. At first, I filled my evenings with movies, their flickering images a distraction from the void. But a colleague’s casual mention of porn sites—XVideos, Pornhub, and others—ignited a spark of curiosity. “Akash, you’re alone,” he teased, his voice low with mischief. “What’s the fun in life without indulging a little?” The names of those sites lingered in my mind, and in the quiet of my flat, I surrendered to temptation.
The first time I watched porn, it was as if lightning coursed through my veins. On the screen, a woman stripped bare, her body a canvas of curves, her moans a siren’s call as she writhed beneath a man’s relentless thrusts. Her full breasts bounced, her hips arched, and her cries of pleasure seared into my brain. My hand moved instinctively, gripping my hardening cock, stroking it as waves of heat surged through me. When I came, my body shuddered, the release washing away the weight in my chest. From that night, it became my ritual. Each evening, I’d lie in bed, phone in hand, lost in a world of naked flesh and primal lust. A dusky woman’s heavy breasts would set my pulse racing; a fair-skinned beauty’s round ass would make my cock iron-hard. I’d stroke myself, imagining my hands squeezing their flesh, my tongue tasting their slick heat, my cum painting their trembling bodies.
Sometimes, I explored my own body in the privacy of my bathroom. Standing before the mirror, I’d grip my cock, marveling at its hardness, testing how long I could tease myself before the pleasure became unbearable. One night, inspired by a video of a man slicking his cock with oil, I tried it myself. I poured coconut oil over my shaft, the slick warmth amplifying every stroke. My body trembled, every nerve alight with ecstasy, my cock pulsing as I pushed myself to the edge. But even in these moments of pleasure, a conflict gnawed at me. I was drowning in this world of lust, yet the thought of relationships—or worse, marriage—filled me with dread. To fuck a woman was one thing, but to be bound to her would chain my freedom. So I kept my desires confined to the screen, where there were no consequences, only endless nights of forbidden release.
My flat was my fortress, a place where I answered to no one. Days were spent in the office, nights in the glow of my phone, stroking myself to the rhythm of moans and flesh. One afternoon, a colleague, Ramesh, approached me with a request. “Akash, my cousin from the village is in town for work, but his lodging fell through. Can he crash at your place for a night?” I hesitated—my flat was small, my privacy sacred—but Ramesh was a friend. “Sure, one night’s fine,” I said. He grinned, relieved. “You’re a lifesaver! I’ll send him over this evening.”
At dusk, a knock rattled my door. I opened it to find a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a Tamil film’s villainous shadows. Mostafa, Ramesh’s distant cousin, was a towering figure, his skin a deep, inky black, his long hair falling to his shoulders, his face half-hidden by a scruffy beard. He was around forty, his eyes murky yet glinting with a predatory spark that sent a shiver down my spine. His smile was sly, as if he could read my every thought. Clad in a stained kurta and lungi, he carried a small bag, his muscular frame radiating a raw, animalistic energy. There was something unsettlingly magnetic about him, a dangerous allure that made my skin prickle.
Ramesh introduced us briefly. “This is Mostafa, my cousin. And this is Akash, my friend.” Mostafa’s grin widened, his voice a low rumble. “Hey, little brother, how’s it going?” I managed a nervous smile, caught off guard by his familiarity. Ramesh thanked me and left, promising Mostafa would join him in the morning. I led Mostafa inside, my small flat suddenly feeling smaller under his imposing presence.
Mostafa tossed his bag aside and disappeared into the bathroom, emerging in a tight vest and lungi. His dark, muscled body gleamed, his chest covered in a thick mat of hair that made him look like a beast carved from midnight. Yet his easy banter disarmed me. “Nice place you’ve got, little brother,” he said, sprawling on my sofa. “You live alone?” I nodded. “Yeah, just me.” His grin turned wicked. “Good. No one to disturb the fun, right?”
We chatted idly, but Mostafa’s conversation soon veered into dangerous territory. His eyes gleamed as he leaned closer. “Tell me, little brother, do you bring any girls here? You know, some hot piece to warm your bed?” My face flushed, words stumbling. “Uh, no, I… don’t do that.” He laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “Come on, don’t be shy! We’re men. At your age, a tight pussy feels like heaven, doesn’t it? Ever been to a brothel?” My cheeks burned hotter, and I stammered, “No, I don’t go to those places.” Mostafa roared with laughter. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Bet you jerk off to porn every night, though.” I looked away, shame and a strange thrill twisting inside me. His words were crude, but they stirred something primal, my cock twitching in my pants. “Back in my village,” he continued, “I fucked a widow a few times. Her ass was so round, it’d make your head spin. Got any girls like that here?” I mumbled, “No, I just… keep to myself.” His sly grin returned. “Alright, little brother. How about you show me the city? The night’s still young.”
I hesitated. It was nearly ten, and his intensity unnerved me. But his insistence won out. “Fine, let’s go for a walk,” I said, and we stepped into the neon-lit streets of Kolkata. The city pulsed with life—flickering signs, honking cars, and the hum of nightlife. Mostafa walked beside me, his long hair swaying, his grin a constant shadow. His presence made my skin tingle, a mix of unease and fascination. Suddenly, he stopped by a woman leaning against a wall. Her tight black top hugged her full breasts, her jeans clinging to her round ass, every curve screaming temptation. She smiled at us, and my body ignited, my cock stirring at the sight of her.
Mostafa approached her, his voice dripping with charm. “What’s a beauty like you doing out here alone?” She laughed, her eyes playful. “Just soaking in the city.” Mostafa glanced at me, winking. “Look at those tits, little brother. So fucking ripe. Imagine a night with her, huh?” My face burned, but I forced a laugh, too embarrassed to respond. The woman giggled at his boldness, her eyes daring him to continue. Mostafa leaned in, whispering something that made her blush and laugh harder. I couldn’t hear, but the heat in her gaze told me it was filthy. My cock throbbed, but shame kept me rooted a few steps away.
After a moment, Mostafa suggested we grab food. We stopped at a small kebab stall, the air thick with the scent of sizzling meat and spices. My stomach growled as we sat with plates of steaming kebabs. Mostafa’s crude talk resumed between bites. “These kebabs are hot, but nothing beats a woman’s body when she’s burning for you, right? Ever squeezed a pair of juicy tits?” I choked on my food, mumbling, “Stop it, man.” He laughed, undeterred. “In my village, I fingered a girl’s pussy once. Her juices soaked my hand. You telling me you’ve never done that here?” My cock stiffened, his words painting vivid images in my mind. I focused on my kebab, trying to ignore the heat pooling in my groin.
We walked on, and Mostafa struck up a conversation with another woman, her sheer saree revealing every curve of her body. He flirted shamelessly, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. She gasped, slapping him hard. “You filthy bastard!” she snapped, storming off. Mostafa laughed, rubbing his cheek. “City girls are so dramatic! In my village, my cock would’ve been in her pussy by now.” I stood frozen, torn between shock and a dark amusement, my body buzzing with arousal.
At a sweet shop, Mostafa’s charm targeted the woman behind the counter, her fair skin glowing under the lights, her kajal-lined eyes and pink lips a vision of allure. “Your smile’s sweeter than these rosogollas,” he teased. She laughed, playing along. “Less talk, how many do you want?” As we ate the syrupy sweets, Mostafa kept up his game, hinting at her “sweetness” beyond the counter. Her playful retorts only fueled my growing arousal, his magnetic vulgarity pulling me into his orbit.
By eleven, we returned to my flat, my mind a storm of his words and the images of the women we’d seen. We settled in—Mostafa on the sofa, me in my bedroom—but sleep wouldn’t come. My cock throbbed, my mind replaying the curve of that woman’s ass, Mostafa’s filthy stories, and the electric pulse of the city’s nightlife. I closed my eyes, but the heat in my body refused to fade, my hand itching to relieve the ache.
In the dead of night, I jolted awake, my breath catching. A hand was on my cock, stroking it softly, sending a shockwave of pleasure through me.