06-09-2025, 02:01 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-09-2025, 02:06 AM by DeviKamasutra. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
Chapter 6: Birthday Celebration
The message from Dipankar was short and clipped, the way he always spoke when annoyed. Mother’s fever is worse. Taking the later train. Be back in a week. Don’t bother calling, the reception is terrible. Munai sighed, placing her phone face down on the kitchen counter. A week alone. The silence of the apartment pressed in on her, a heavy blanket of predictability. The ringtone that shattered the quiet was jarringly cheerful. Mr. Singh.
“Bhabhi! A very good evening to you!” His voice was a familiar boom, even through the tiny speaker.
“Good evening, Mr. Singh. How are you?”
“How can a man be when his birthday is here and his entire family has abandoned him?” he lamented, though she could hear the grin in his voice. “Radha and the boy are still at the village. This old house is too quiet. You must come. Help me celebrate. A piece of cake, some good company. What do you say?”
“Can't wait! How about a bit of an open space”
“My terrace is beautiful tonight. Full moon. I’ll order your favorite rasgullas from that Bengali sweet shop. A small party for two.”
“Bhabhi! A very good evening to you!” His voice was a familiar boom, even through the tiny speaker.
“Good evening, Mr. Singh. How are you?”
“How can a man be when his birthday is here and his entire family has abandoned him?” he lamented, though she could hear the grin in his voice. “Radha and the boy are still at the village. This old house is too quiet. You must come. Help me celebrate. A piece of cake, some good company. What do you say?”
“Can't wait! How about a bit of an open space”
“My terrace is beautiful tonight. Full moon. I’ll order your favorite rasgullas from that Bengali sweet shop. A small party for two.”
The invitation hung in the air, thick with implication. She knew his reputation, the way his eyes often lingered a moment too long on the swell of her blouse. A tremor, not entirely unpleasant, passed through her. A week alone. “Alright.”
His terrace was exactly as he’d promised. The moon was a perfect, luminous pearl in the vast inkwell of the sky. A cold breeze whispered through the city, carrying the distant hum of traffic, but up here, it felt isolated, a world apart. A low divan piled with cushions was arranged near the edge, a small table holding a half-eaten cake and two plates. Mr. Singh emerged from the stairwell, a bottle of oil in one hand. “There you are! You brighten up the whole night, Bhabhi.” The open collar of his shirt revealing a thatch of coarse chest hair, his smile bold and unapologetic. “Happy birthday,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. He gestured to the bottle. “This cold air is terrible for the joints. A little massage oil, warmed in the kitchen. My treat. For coming to keep an old man company.”
“Mr. Singh, I love how you still keep the formalities to enjoy our little game.”
“True that, Bhabhi! Always a perceptive one but you are always so tense, I can see it in your shoulders. Sit. The view is best from here.”
Readily, she lowered herself onto the divan, turning her back to him. The stone was cool through her sari. She heard the slick sound of oil being poured into his palm, the scent of sandalwood and almond filling the air between them. His hands were surprisingly skilled. Strong, warm palms pressed into the knots of her shoulders, working the tension away with a firm, circular motion. The oil was indeed warm, spreading a luxurious heat across her skin. She let her eyes fall closed. This is nice, she thought, a yearning concession.“See?” he murmured, his voice closer to her ear now. “God gave us bodies to feel pleasure, not just to carry burdens.” His thumbs dug deep along her spine, making her gasp softly. “You carry so much, Bhabhi. A woman like you… built for comfort. For worship.” His hands slid lower, down to the small of her back, his fingers skimming the top of her sari’s waistband. The touch was electric, a clear line being crossed. Her pulse, a frantic drum against her ribs, was a stark contrast to the slow, deliberate circles his hands were making. “Dipankar… he is a lucky, lucky man,” he continued, his voice a low rumble. “To have all this softness to come home to. A real woman. Not like my Radha—all bones and silence. A man needs something to hold on to.” One hand strayed from her back, coming to rest on the generous curve of her hip. His grip was possessive.
“Mr. Singh, I love how you still keep the formalities to enjoy our little game.”
“True that, Bhabhi! Always a perceptive one but you are always so tense, I can see it in your shoulders. Sit. The view is best from here.”
Readily, she lowered herself onto the divan, turning her back to him. The stone was cool through her sari. She heard the slick sound of oil being poured into his palm, the scent of sandalwood and almond filling the air between them. His hands were surprisingly skilled. Strong, warm palms pressed into the knots of her shoulders, working the tension away with a firm, circular motion. The oil was indeed warm, spreading a luxurious heat across her skin. She let her eyes fall closed. This is nice, she thought, a yearning concession.“See?” he murmured, his voice closer to her ear now. “God gave us bodies to feel pleasure, not just to carry burdens.” His thumbs dug deep along her spine, making her gasp softly. “You carry so much, Bhabhi. A woman like you… built for comfort. For worship.” His hands slid lower, down to the small of her back, his fingers skimming the top of her sari’s waistband. The touch was electric, a clear line being crossed. Her pulse, a frantic drum against her ribs, was a stark contrast to the slow, deliberate circles his hands were making. “Dipankar… he is a lucky, lucky man,” he continued, his voice a low rumble. “To have all this softness to come home to. A real woman. Not like my Radha—all bones and silence. A man needs something to hold on to.” One hand strayed from her back, coming to rest on the generous curve of her hip. His grip was possessive.
Munai’s breathing shallowed. She always missed the extensive foreplay warming her up. Dipankar never dived into the notion, whereas Mr. Singh always know her pulse. The warmth of the oil, the hypnotic motion of his hands, the heady scent, and the illicit thrill of the moon bearing witness kept her rooted to the spot. Her body warming up every moment to his touch. He shifted his position, moving to sit beside her on the divan, his thigh pressing against hers. His dark eyes gleamed in the moonlight, fixed unblinkingly on her face. “You have the most beautiful complexion. Like the moon herself decided to become a woman.” Before she could form a reply, his hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. The scent of sandalwood was overwhelming. “Dipankar… does he ever tell you this? Does he look at you like you are the only sweet worth tasting?” His face moved closer, his intention clear. Munai’s world narrowed to the space between their lips. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the undisguised hunger in his eyes. A small sound escaped her—a faint, tight exhalation that was neither a yes nor a no. It was all the permission he seemed to need. His mouth found hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was claiming, confident, flavored with the sweet frosting from the cake and something distinctly male. His free hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The coarse hair on his chest brushed against the thin fabric of her blouse, a rough, thrilling friction.
She felt herself responding, her lips parting under the insistent pressure of his. One of his hands tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head for a better angle. The other hand moved again, this time sliding around to her front, his palm coming to rest, heavy and warm, on the abundant swell of her boobs. The touch jolted through her. Through the layers of her sari and blouse, he kneaded the soft flesh, his thumb searching for and finding the peak of her nipple. It hardened instantly under his attention, a sharp point of sensation that made her arch into his touch despite herself. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His eyes dropped to where his hand possessed her. “This is what I live for,” he breathed, his voice husky with want. “So full. So heavy. A man could get lost here.” He fumbled with the folds of her sari, his fingers seeking the closure of her blouse. The hooks gave way with a soft pop. The cool night air hit her heated skin, followed a second later by the scorching heat of his palm on her bare stomach. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound from his chest. “Let me see,” he pleaded, his voice thick. “Just let me un-cage your trapped birds.” His fingers hooked into the edge of her bra, and with a practiced tug, the cup was pulled down. The moonlight cascaded over her pale skin, transforming it into a canvas of ethereal glow. Her boobs, now freed from its confinement, was a vision of lush decadence. The areola, wide and pale, was encircled by a taut, dusky peak that seemed to beckon him closer. Just above it was that single, perfect beauty mark—a dark speck that had pushed him to claim that boob as his. He gazed upon it with a reverence reserved for the divine. His breath hitched as he took in the soft, natural curve of her flesh, the way it seemed to cradle the moonlight like a precious jewel. His thumb traced the edge of her areola with a gentleness that belied the storm of desire raging within him. “God himself must have sculpted you,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Every curve, every line… perfection.”
Her nipple responded to his touch, hardening into a rigid peak that seemed to beg for his attention. He leaned in closer, his warm breath ghosting over her sensitive skin, sending shivers cascading down her spine. His lips hovered just inches from her boob, the anticipation a palpable force between them. “You have no idea,” he whispered, his voice trembling with barely restrained lust, “the lengths I would go to devour you whole.” His hand cupped her boob fully now, the sheer weight of it sending a jolt of pleasure through him. He marveled at how his big palm couldn't hold the whole of it, like an impossible dream. His thumb brushed against her nipple again, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips. “So responsive,” he murmured, his eyes darkening with desire. “Tonight I'm going to claim you again.” The beauty mark, that tiny, dark speck above her nipple, seemed to draw him in like a moth to a flame. He kissed it gently, a chaste press of his lips against her skin that felt anything but innocent. His tongue flicked out, tracing the mark with agonizing slowness, savoring the way she trembled beneath him. “You taste divine,” he breathed, his voice heavy with need. “Like sin and salvation all at once.” In that moment, under the watchful gaze of the moon and the cool caress of the night breeze, her body became his altar, and he its most devoted worshiper. Every touch, every kiss was an offering, a prayer to the goddess of forbidden desires that she had become in his eyes. And as he prepared to take her nipple into his mouth, he knew that this night would forever be etched in his memory—a moment of unbridled passion and untamed lust beneath the open sky. His gaze was rapturous, worshipful. “Perfect,” he whispered, his thumb reverently tracing the dark speck before circling the areola, making her shiver. He leaned down, his intentions clear, his warm breath ghosting over her sensitized skin.
His other hand found its way under her sari, sliding up the bare skin of her thigh. “Let me show you what a birthday treat can really be.” He leaned in again, his mouth hovering just inches from her nipple. “You have no idea the storm I am holding back for you.” His words painted a vivid, terrifying, thrilling picture. She looked down at him, at his utter fixation on her body, and managed a single, shaky question. “What… what kind of storm?”
His low chuckle vibrated against the nape of her neck. “You want to see the storm, Munai? You have to stand in the rain.” His hands, suddenly impatient, were at the clasp of her blouse. The delicate hook gave way with a sharp snap. The cool night air touched her damp skin, and she flinched. He didn’t pause, his fingers working with a rough urgency, peeling the silk blouse from her shoulders. The sari, its intricate weave suddenly feeling impossibly heavy, was unwound in a single, swift motion, pooling at her feet like a discarded flower. Her petticoat followed, then the final scrap of lace, her panties, tugged down her hips and kicked aside. She stood bathed in the moon’s silver glow, utterly exposed. The cold breeze, once a caress, now felt like a thousand eyes on her skin, raising goosebumps across her arms and making her heavy, naked boobs feel impossibly sensitive. “Look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. “Moonlight was made for a body like yours.” He stepped back, his own clothes joining hers in a heap before he kicked the entire bundle over the low terrace wall, sending her identity, her modesty, fluttering down into the dark garden below.
His low chuckle vibrated against the nape of her neck. “You want to see the storm, Munai? You have to stand in the rain.” His hands, suddenly impatient, were at the clasp of her blouse. The delicate hook gave way with a sharp snap. The cool night air touched her damp skin, and she flinched. He didn’t pause, his fingers working with a rough urgency, peeling the silk blouse from her shoulders. The sari, its intricate weave suddenly feeling impossibly heavy, was unwound in a single, swift motion, pooling at her feet like a discarded flower. Her petticoat followed, then the final scrap of lace, her panties, tugged down her hips and kicked aside. She stood bathed in the moon’s silver glow, utterly exposed. The cold breeze, once a caress, now felt like a thousand eyes on her skin, raising goosebumps across her arms and making her heavy, naked boobs feel impossibly sensitive. “Look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. “Moonlight was made for a body like yours.” He stepped back, his own clothes joining hers in a heap before he kicked the entire bundle over the low terrace wall, sending her identity, her modesty, fluttering down into the dark garden below.
He stood naked behind her, his body a stark contrast to hers. His skin was the color of dark earth, a canvas of coarse black hair that trailed down his chest and stomach. And there, jutting from that dark thicket, was his cock. It was thick, veined, and rigidly erect, the dusky head already glistening. It looked both brutal and magnificent, a weapon and an offering. He pressed against her, the heat of his torso searing her bare back. One arm banded around her waist, pulling her bubbly ass against him, while his other hand found the small bottle of scented oil they’d used for the massage. “Now we make you shine for me,” he murmured, pouring the slick, warm liquid between her shoulder blades. It cascaded over her skin in a golden river, catching the moonlight. He spread it with his palms, his rough hands smoothing over the plump curve of her waist, the soft folds of her love handles, worshiping every inch of her pale, ample flesh. He cupped the heavy, pendulous weight of her boobs from beneath, his dark hands stark against their moonlit paleness. He coated them thoroughly, the oil making them gleam, his thumbs finding her nipples with unerring accuracy. They were large, areolas the color of pale sand, the beauty spot just above the left one a dark, tantalizing secret. He circled them with a deliberate slowness, the pads of his fingers tracing the edges as if mapping every curve and dip. His touch was both reverent and possessive, a blend of worship and dominance that sent shivers down her spine. He pinched them gently at first, then with increasing pressure, rolling the stiffening peaks between his fingers until she gasped, her breath hitching in her throat.
“Such perfect tits,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Every man’s dream. So full, so soft, yet so eager to respond.” His hands moved to cup their weight, lifting them slightly, letting them spill over his palms. The moonlight caught the glistening oil on her skin, turning her boobs into shimmering orbs of desire. He squeezed them gently, feeling the heavy warmth, before bringing his mouth to one nipple, sucking it deeply into his mouth. She cried out, her hands fisting in his hair as he lavished attention on her sensitive flesh. His tongue swirled around the hardened peak, teasing it with a skill that made her hips buck involuntarily. He switched to the other boob, giving it the same treatment, his teeth grazing lightly over the nipple before tugging on it. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his breath hot against her skin. “You love having your tits played with, being treated like the whore you are.” His hands roamed down her body, squeezing and kneading her ample curves, before returning to her breasts. He took one in each hand, pressing them together, his thumbs rubbing over the nipples in unison. “Look at these beauties,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and lust. “I could spend hours here, worshipping them, making you writhe with pleasure.”
Munai moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his assault on her senses. His hands were relentless, alternating between gentle caresses and hard squeezes, keeping her on the edge of ecstasy. “You’re so responsive,” he said, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “Every touch makes you quiver. You’re made for this, made to be used and pleasured.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “And I’m going to make sure you never forget this night. Your tits will ache for days, reminding you of how I made them mine.” His hands tightened on her breasts, pulling on her nipples sharply, before releasing them with a soft slap that made her gasp. “Now, let’s see how much more you can take,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “These are not like my wife’s,” he growled into her ear, his voice a low rumble. “Hers are like two barren craters. But these… these are a feast. A man could get lost here. A man would go to war for these juicy tits.” He slid his oil-slick hand down her quivering stomach, through the neat thatch of dark hair, and into the wet heat between her legs. She cried out as his fingers parted her, finding her clitoris already swollen and eager. “And this… this is a temple. And I am a devoted man.” He withdrew his hand, using her own slickness, mixed with the oil, to coat his towering erection. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, filled the space between them. He positioned himself behind her, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing not at her entrance, but against the tight, oiled seam of her inner thighs, just nudging the outer lips of her pussy.
“Grind on it,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Show me how much your Bengali body wants this Bihari’s cock.” A tremor of pure, undiluted lust shook her. She pressed back against him, rocking her hips, rubbing her slick folds up and down the hard length of him. The friction was maddening. Every pass sent jolts of pleasure through her core. She could feel the ridge of his head catching on her sensitive nub, teasing it mercilessly.
“Oh god…” she moaned, the words torn from her.
“Tell me,” he insisted, his grip on her hip tightening. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m… I’m so wet for you,” she gasped, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate.
“Not enough. What are you, Munai? With your husband away and you rubbing on me like a bitch in heat under the moon? What does that make you?”
The vulgarity should have shamed her. It did the opposite. It unleashed something raw and hungry. She pushed back against him harder, driving his cock against her throbbing center.
“A slut,” she confessed, the word a breathy whisper. “I’m your slut.”
“Louder.”
“I’m a slut!” she cried out, her voice echoing faintly in the quiet night. “I’ve dreamed of this. Of a thick, dirty cock taking me, using me. I’ve dreamed of being a whore for a man who knows how to fuck!”
Her admission seemed to shatter the last of his control. With a guttural sound, he shifted his hips. The broad crown of his penis finally pressed against her entrance, parting her, stretching her. He didn’t thrust; he pushed, a slow, inexorable invasion that made her eyes roll back in her head. She was so incredibly full, stretched to a breathless limit around his girth. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was both punishing and exquisite. Each thrust rubbed his coarse pubic hair against her slickness, each retreat made her clench around him, trying to keep him inside. His hands were back on her breasts, kneading the oil-slicked flesh, pulling on her nipples in time with his thrusts.
“Whose whore are you?” he grunted, his pace quickening.
“Yours!”
“And what does this whore want?” He drove into her, a sharp,precise thrust that stole her breath.
She could feel the coiling tension in her belly, the promise of a shattering climax. But she wanted more. She wanted the ultimate surrender.
“I want you to breed me,” she begged, the words coming in ragged gasps. “Please… fill me up. I need to feel it. I need to feel all of your cum pumping into me. Please, give it to me!”
“Such perfect tits,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Every man’s dream. So full, so soft, yet so eager to respond.” His hands moved to cup their weight, lifting them slightly, letting them spill over his palms. The moonlight caught the glistening oil on her skin, turning her boobs into shimmering orbs of desire. He squeezed them gently, feeling the heavy warmth, before bringing his mouth to one nipple, sucking it deeply into his mouth. She cried out, her hands fisting in his hair as he lavished attention on her sensitive flesh. His tongue swirled around the hardened peak, teasing it with a skill that made her hips buck involuntarily. He switched to the other boob, giving it the same treatment, his teeth grazing lightly over the nipple before tugging on it. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his breath hot against her skin. “You love having your tits played with, being treated like the whore you are.” His hands roamed down her body, squeezing and kneading her ample curves, before returning to her breasts. He took one in each hand, pressing them together, his thumbs rubbing over the nipples in unison. “Look at these beauties,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and lust. “I could spend hours here, worshipping them, making you writhe with pleasure.”
Munai moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his assault on her senses. His hands were relentless, alternating between gentle caresses and hard squeezes, keeping her on the edge of ecstasy. “You’re so responsive,” he said, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “Every touch makes you quiver. You’re made for this, made to be used and pleasured.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, “And I’m going to make sure you never forget this night. Your tits will ache for days, reminding you of how I made them mine.” His hands tightened on her breasts, pulling on her nipples sharply, before releasing them with a soft slap that made her gasp. “Now, let’s see how much more you can take,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “These are not like my wife’s,” he growled into her ear, his voice a low rumble. “Hers are like two barren craters. But these… these are a feast. A man could get lost here. A man would go to war for these juicy tits.” He slid his oil-slick hand down her quivering stomach, through the neat thatch of dark hair, and into the wet heat between her legs. She cried out as his fingers parted her, finding her clitoris already swollen and eager. “And this… this is a temple. And I am a devoted man.” He withdrew his hand, using her own slickness, mixed with the oil, to coat his towering erection. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, filled the space between them. He positioned himself behind her, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing not at her entrance, but against the tight, oiled seam of her inner thighs, just nudging the outer lips of her pussy.
“Grind on it,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Show me how much your Bengali body wants this Bihari’s cock.” A tremor of pure, undiluted lust shook her. She pressed back against him, rocking her hips, rubbing her slick folds up and down the hard length of him. The friction was maddening. Every pass sent jolts of pleasure through her core. She could feel the ridge of his head catching on her sensitive nub, teasing it mercilessly.
“Oh god…” she moaned, the words torn from her.
“Tell me,” he insisted, his grip on her hip tightening. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m… I’m so wet for you,” she gasped, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate.
“Not enough. What are you, Munai? With your husband away and you rubbing on me like a bitch in heat under the moon? What does that make you?”
The vulgarity should have shamed her. It did the opposite. It unleashed something raw and hungry. She pushed back against him harder, driving his cock against her throbbing center.
“A slut,” she confessed, the word a breathy whisper. “I’m your slut.”
“Louder.”
“I’m a slut!” she cried out, her voice echoing faintly in the quiet night. “I’ve dreamed of this. Of a thick, dirty cock taking me, using me. I’ve dreamed of being a whore for a man who knows how to fuck!”
Her admission seemed to shatter the last of his control. With a guttural sound, he shifted his hips. The broad crown of his penis finally pressed against her entrance, parting her, stretching her. He didn’t thrust; he pushed, a slow, inexorable invasion that made her eyes roll back in her head. She was so incredibly full, stretched to a breathless limit around his girth. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was both punishing and exquisite. Each thrust rubbed his coarse pubic hair against her slickness, each retreat made her clench around him, trying to keep him inside. His hands were back on her breasts, kneading the oil-slicked flesh, pulling on her nipples in time with his thrusts.
“Whose whore are you?” he grunted, his pace quickening.
“Yours!”
“And what does this whore want?” He drove into her, a sharp,precise thrust that stole her breath.
She could feel the coiling tension in her belly, the promise of a shattering climax. But she wanted more. She wanted the ultimate surrender.
“I want you to breed me,” she begged, the words coming in ragged gasps. “Please… fill me up. I need to feel it. I need to feel all of your cum pumping into me. Please, give it to me!”
A guttural groan tore from Mr. Singh’s throat as Munai’s plea echoed in the moonlit air. But before he could respond, a metamorphosis overtook her. The submissive posture she had held, the desperate arch of her back against him, shattered. The raw, breeding-craving animal he had unleashed now turned on its master. With a strength that surprised them both, she pushed him towards the diwan, spinning on her heels to face him. Her oil-slicked body gleamed under the full moon, every generous curve a pale, tempting promise. Her heavy boobs, swaying with the sudden movement, captured the silvery light, their dark, expansive areolas and that tantalizing beauty mark just above her left nipple a focal point that made his mouth go dry. “My turn,” she whispered, her voice husky with a newfound power. Her eyes, dark and glittering, held his with an intensity that was more than just lust. It was possession.
She shoved his shoulders back against the cushions, her fleshy thighs straddling his hips in one fluid motion. The cold night air was a shock against his wet skin, but it was nothing compared to the furnace heat of her core as she positioned herself above his rigid cock. Her pussy lips, swollen and slick from their previous joining, glistened. He could see them, a dark, inviting flower poised over the throbbing length of him. “You wanted to breed me?” she purred, her round face tipping down to his. “Then watch me take what’s mine.” She didn’t lower herself slowly. She sank down onto him in one devastating, claiming plunge, her inner muscles clamping around him like a silken fist the moment he was fully sheathed. Mr. Singh’s head snapped back, a choked cry escaping him. It was a penetration of pure ownership, a complete and utter conquest. “Fuck, Bhabhi!” he rasped, his hands flying to her wide hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her love handles. She began to move, a wild, untamable rhythm that was all her own. Her hips rolled and pistoned, riding him with a ferocity that stole the air from his lungs. The diwan creaked in protest beneath their frantic bodies. With every downstroke, her magnificent boobs bounced and jiggled, a mesmerizing, heavy sway that drew his gaze like a magnet. He reached for them, his rough, dark hands engulfing their pale softness, his thumbs finding her nipples and rubbing rough circles over them. “These… fuck… these perfect tits,” he grunted, his voice thick with awe. “Made for a real man. Made for milking a real cock.”
She threw her head back, her dark hair whipping across her shoulders, a moan tearing from her throat as he mauled her boobs. Her own hands roamed over her body, one pinching and pulling at her other nipple, the other sliding down the slick plane of her stomach to where their bodies joined. Her fingers found her swollen clit, rubbing frantic circles as she rode him. “Yes! Look at you… look at this perfect cock stretching my perfect pussy,” she chanted, her voice rising with her building frenzy. “It’s so deep! I can feel you in my womb, Singh… I can feel you filling me up there!” Her inner muscles clenched around him again, a deliberate, pulsing contraction that was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn’t just a spasm of pleasure; it was a skilled, milking pressure that travelled the entire length of his shaft, pulling at him, demanding his very essence. “What are you doing?” he gasped, his own control beginning to splinter. His thrusts upward became more desperate, trying to match her chaotic tempo. “That… that feel….” “I evolved,” she moaned, her eyes fluttering open to look down at him, glazed with a potent mix of love and madness. “My pussy knows knows what it needs. It’s hungry for your cum. It wants to suck every last drop from you!” Another vicious contraction, longer and stronger than the last, ripped through her channel. His balls drew up tight against his body, a dangerous, tingling heat igniting at the base of his spine. He was a man known for his stamina, but this… this was a new kind of warfare. Her body was actively wrestling his orgasm from him, pulling it out with greedy, internal hands. “I’m not… I can’t hold…” he warned, his voice a strained whisper. His hips stuttered, losing their rhythm entirely, becoming shallow, frantic jerks. “No! Don’t hold back!” she begged, slamming down onto him with renewed force, her body absorbing his every twitch. “Give it to me! Fill my womb! I want to feel it flood me, I want to feel your child taking root inside me! Please! Breed me like the good whore I am for you! Only for you!”
Her words, her contractions, the sight of her magnificent body dominating his—it was all too much. The coil in his gut snapped. With a roar that was ripped from the depths of his soul, he surrendered. His orgasm wasn’t a release; it was an eruption, a primal explosion of need and desire that shattered any remaining semblance of control. The first jet of semen hit her deepest recesses with such force that her eyes flew wide open, a silent scream of ecstasy frozen on her lips. Her body arched, her pussy clamping down on him with a vice-like grip, as if determined to wring every drop from him. “Oh God!” she cried, her voice trembling with the intensity of the moment. Her hands flew to her stomach, feeling the pulsating heat as another thick, scalding rope of cum surged into her. The sensation was overwhelming, a potent mix of pleasure and surrender that made her quiver uncontrollably. Each spurt seemed to ignite a new wave of euphoria, her entire body convulsing in response.
He bucked beneath her, his hips jerking upward with each forceful release, driving himself even deeper into her slick, willing core. His fingers dug into her hips, leaving angry red marks as he held her down, ensuring she took every last drop of his essence. The sound of their bodies slapping together, slick with oil and sweat, filled the night air, mingling with their guttural moans and gasps. “Bhabh… Munai!” he groaned, his voice hoarse and ragged, each syllable punctuated by another violent pulse of his cock. His vision swam, the world narrowing down to the feel of her tight, milking walls and the sight of her perfect, bouncing boobs glistening under the moonlight. Her chest heaved with every breath, her nipples taut and begging for attention, but his hands were too busy keeping her locked in place. The torrent of his release seemed endless, each wave hotter and thicker than the last. Her pussy greedily accepted it all, her inner muscles working tirelessly to coax out every precious drop. She could feel it pooling deep inside her, a warm, liquid claim that left no doubt as to who she belonged to. Her moans turned into incoherent babbling, her mind drowning in the sheer intensity of the moment. “Yes… fill me… breed me…” she chanted mindlessly, her voice tinged with a desperate need. Her own orgasm crashed over her again, triggered by the relentless pounding of his seed into her womb. Her body spasmed wildly, her thighs clenching around his hips as she rode out the dual sensations of his release and hers.
When the final shuddering pulse subsided, they both collapsed, breathless and spent. Their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and oil, their hearts pounding in unison. The cool night air washed over them, a stark contrast to the fire that still burned between them. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the world reduced to just the two of them under the watchful gaze of the full moon. The intensity of the moment, the sheer overwhelming force of his release and the profound vulnerability of hers, shattered the last pretense between them. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over and tracing paths through the sheen of sweat and oil on her cheeks. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her heavy breasts pressing against him, her lips finding his ear. “I love you,” she breathed, the confession as shocking and inevitable as the moon in the sky. “I think I’ve always loved you.”
He gathered her shaking body into his arms, holding her tightly as the last few pulses of his spend filled her. “And I you….”
A sharp, shattered gasp cut through the heavy silence of the night, followed by the sharp clatter of something metal hitting the stone floor of the balcony. Their heads snapped toward the terrace door. Framed in the moonlight, their forms casting long shadows into the intimate space, stood Radha and a young man—Ankesh. Radha’s hand was clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with a horror so absolute it seemed to swallow her whole. The sound that finally broke from her wasn’t a word, but a piercing, soul-rending shriek that ripped through the night air.
She threw her head back, her dark hair whipping across her shoulders, a moan tearing from her throat as he mauled her boobs. Her own hands roamed over her body, one pinching and pulling at her other nipple, the other sliding down the slick plane of her stomach to where their bodies joined. Her fingers found her swollen clit, rubbing frantic circles as she rode him. “Yes! Look at you… look at this perfect cock stretching my perfect pussy,” she chanted, her voice rising with her building frenzy. “It’s so deep! I can feel you in my womb, Singh… I can feel you filling me up there!” Her inner muscles clenched around him again, a deliberate, pulsing contraction that was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn’t just a spasm of pleasure; it was a skilled, milking pressure that travelled the entire length of his shaft, pulling at him, demanding his very essence. “What are you doing?” he gasped, his own control beginning to splinter. His thrusts upward became more desperate, trying to match her chaotic tempo. “That… that feel….” “I evolved,” she moaned, her eyes fluttering open to look down at him, glazed with a potent mix of love and madness. “My pussy knows knows what it needs. It’s hungry for your cum. It wants to suck every last drop from you!” Another vicious contraction, longer and stronger than the last, ripped through her channel. His balls drew up tight against his body, a dangerous, tingling heat igniting at the base of his spine. He was a man known for his stamina, but this… this was a new kind of warfare. Her body was actively wrestling his orgasm from him, pulling it out with greedy, internal hands. “I’m not… I can’t hold…” he warned, his voice a strained whisper. His hips stuttered, losing their rhythm entirely, becoming shallow, frantic jerks. “No! Don’t hold back!” she begged, slamming down onto him with renewed force, her body absorbing his every twitch. “Give it to me! Fill my womb! I want to feel it flood me, I want to feel your child taking root inside me! Please! Breed me like the good whore I am for you! Only for you!”
Her words, her contractions, the sight of her magnificent body dominating his—it was all too much. The coil in his gut snapped. With a roar that was ripped from the depths of his soul, he surrendered. His orgasm wasn’t a release; it was an eruption, a primal explosion of need and desire that shattered any remaining semblance of control. The first jet of semen hit her deepest recesses with such force that her eyes flew wide open, a silent scream of ecstasy frozen on her lips. Her body arched, her pussy clamping down on him with a vice-like grip, as if determined to wring every drop from him. “Oh God!” she cried, her voice trembling with the intensity of the moment. Her hands flew to her stomach, feeling the pulsating heat as another thick, scalding rope of cum surged into her. The sensation was overwhelming, a potent mix of pleasure and surrender that made her quiver uncontrollably. Each spurt seemed to ignite a new wave of euphoria, her entire body convulsing in response.
He bucked beneath her, his hips jerking upward with each forceful release, driving himself even deeper into her slick, willing core. His fingers dug into her hips, leaving angry red marks as he held her down, ensuring she took every last drop of his essence. The sound of their bodies slapping together, slick with oil and sweat, filled the night air, mingling with their guttural moans and gasps. “Bhabh… Munai!” he groaned, his voice hoarse and ragged, each syllable punctuated by another violent pulse of his cock. His vision swam, the world narrowing down to the feel of her tight, milking walls and the sight of her perfect, bouncing boobs glistening under the moonlight. Her chest heaved with every breath, her nipples taut and begging for attention, but his hands were too busy keeping her locked in place. The torrent of his release seemed endless, each wave hotter and thicker than the last. Her pussy greedily accepted it all, her inner muscles working tirelessly to coax out every precious drop. She could feel it pooling deep inside her, a warm, liquid claim that left no doubt as to who she belonged to. Her moans turned into incoherent babbling, her mind drowning in the sheer intensity of the moment. “Yes… fill me… breed me…” she chanted mindlessly, her voice tinged with a desperate need. Her own orgasm crashed over her again, triggered by the relentless pounding of his seed into her womb. Her body spasmed wildly, her thighs clenching around his hips as she rode out the dual sensations of his release and hers.
When the final shuddering pulse subsided, they both collapsed, breathless and spent. Their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and oil, their hearts pounding in unison. The cool night air washed over them, a stark contrast to the fire that still burned between them. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the world reduced to just the two of them under the watchful gaze of the full moon. The intensity of the moment, the sheer overwhelming force of his release and the profound vulnerability of hers, shattered the last pretense between them. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over and tracing paths through the sheen of sweat and oil on her cheeks. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her heavy breasts pressing against him, her lips finding his ear. “I love you,” she breathed, the confession as shocking and inevitable as the moon in the sky. “I think I’ve always loved you.”
He gathered her shaking body into his arms, holding her tightly as the last few pulses of his spend filled her. “And I you….”
A sharp, shattered gasp cut through the heavy silence of the night, followed by the sharp clatter of something metal hitting the stone floor of the balcony. Their heads snapped toward the terrace door. Framed in the moonlight, their forms casting long shadows into the intimate space, stood Radha and a young man—Ankesh. Radha’s hand was clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with a horror so absolute it seemed to swallow her whole. The sound that finally broke from her wasn’t a word, but a piercing, soul-rending shriek that ripped through the night air.
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