Fantasy Priyanka and Sameek : Love, Lust and much more.

[cutekomal]

Act 6: Sameek’s Dark Fantasy – Rahul Between the Shadows

From Sameek’s Perspective

The first time I ever saw it was back in my second year of college. I had a cheap phone, a thin mattress in my hostel room, and far too much time on my hands. While the others snored or snuck off to smoke, I lay in the dark scrolling through porn. At first it was the usual girl-on-guy, the moans of strangers on tinny speakers. But then, one night, I stumbled onto something different. A woman bent forward, lips stretched around one cock, while another man drove into her from behind. Their bodies moved in sync, her muffled screams vibrating against the shaft in her mouth.

I watched, frozen, my hand tight around myself. Something about it — the way her body was claimed from both ends, the way she seemed overwhelmed, stretched, helpless but eager lodged deep in my brain. That night, I came harder than I ever had, and in the weeks that followed, I chased the same kind of videos, and later, the stories cuckold fiction, wife-sharing erotica, tales of women torn between lust and loyalty.

I never said a word of it to anyone. How could I? In real life, men pretended they only wanted their woman for themselves, and I knew most would brand me crazy for even thinking of sharing mine. But inside, the seed grew. Quietly. Secretly. I told myself I might never live it, but I wanted to taste that madness once before I died.

Then Priyanka happened.

She was nothing like the women in those videos. She was softer, more grounded, a city girl raised with rules but with enough curiosity to break them when she wanted. We spoke about everything our desires, our weaknesses. I even slipped hints of my fantasy once or twice into late-night chats. She would laugh, or shake her head, or type:

 “No, Sameek. I could never let another man touch me. Don’t even think of it.” 

She was firm, her tone final. And I respected that. I told myself it was enough to have her to feel her mouth, her breasts, her body that fit me as though sculpted for me alone. But somewhere, a part of me kept that fantasy alive, tucked away, waiting for a spark.

That spark came on an ordinary night.

Priyanka was on her knees before me, her hair falling in waves over her shoulders, my cock buried in her mouth. She had stripped naked like she always did, saying she wanted no barrier between us. I watched her lips stretch, her throat open, her tongue swirl as she swallowed me whole. God, she was perfect. She gagged, pulled back, drooled down her chin, then went again, faster, her hands pressing against my thighs.

Her eyes flicked up, glistening. She loved making me watch.

I leaned back, groaning, letting her set the rhythm. I thought of nothing else until she shifted slightly, arching her back as she bent deeper. And in that moment, I imagined what it would look like if someone else slid into her from behind, filling her ass while her lips worked on me.

The thought hit me like lightning. My fantasy. Right here. Right now.

I gripped her hair tighter, thrusting into her mouth, almost desperate. My breath grew ragged, and I felt the words trembling on my lips. God, I want to see you taken, Priyanka. I want another man behind you while you choke on me. 

Before I could say it, she pulled back suddenly, eyes wild, lips swollen. She wiped saliva from her chin and climbed onto me in one swift movement. Her legs spread wide, her wet pussy hovering over me.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, her voice husky, needy.

In a flash, she sank down, my cock filling her entirely. She cried out, head thrown back, hair whipping across her face. I grabbed her breasts, those perfect 36DDs, and squeezed, pinching her nipples until she moaned louder.

She rode me hard, hips slamming against mine, our bodies clapping in the dim light. Sweat slicked her skin, her breasts bouncing in my hands.

“Who are you fucking tonight?” I growled, my hands bruising her flesh.

Her eyes glazed. Her lips parted. And then, from somewhere deep in her subconscious, the name slipped out.

“Rahul…”

Time stopped.

The sound of it cracked through me like a whip. My chest tightened, my mind spun. Rahul. A real name. Not a fantasy, not a stranger. Rahul.

Jealousy and desire collided inside me, violent, intoxicating. I gritted my teeth, squeezed her tits harder, and thrust upward with all my strength. She gasped, shocked, but then she moaned again, louder, matching my rhythm.

“You’re fucking Rahul in your mind?” I snarled, pounding into her.

“Yes!” she cried, her nails digging into my shoulders. “But I feel you ! God, Sameek, I feel you!”

Her pussy clenched around me, milking me, pulling me deeper. I drove into her harder, the bed shaking, our sweat mixing. She rode me back with equal force, her tits slapping against my chest, her moans filling the room.

I was lost to anger, to lust, to the thrill of hearing that name. Every thrust became a battle, every squeeze of her nipples a punishment and a reward.

Her orgasm hit first. She screamed, clutching my hair, pulling my head against her breasts as she convulsed. Her pussy tightened, gushing around me, soaking my thighs.

I followed seconds later, growling, flipping her onto the bed, and pumping my cum across her belly in hot, thick streams. My chest heaved, my cock twitched, my vision blurred. She laughed breathlessly, watching the semen drip down her skin, her stomach glistening with my release.

“Look at you,” she teased, voice shaky. “Panting like a beast.”

I collapsed beside her, gasping, my heart hammering. But the name echoed in my head still. Rahul. Rahul. Rahul. Rahul. Rahul….

Later, I dragged myself into the washroom, splashing cold water on my face, trying to calm the storm inside me. My reflection stared back, flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes too bright.

The door creaked. Priyanka walked in, naked, her body glowing with sweat and cum. She sat on the toilet casually, peeing as though nothing had happened.

I turned, watching her, my heart still racing. “Priyanka,” I asked quietly, “were you ever… serious with Rahul? In the past?”

She flushed, wiped, and looked at me. Her eyes didn’t flinch. Her lips curved into a small, almost guilty smile.

“Yes.”

The word landed heavy, final.

I stared, stunned. A strange mix of rage and excitement twisted in my gut. The fantasy I’d carried for years suddenly had roots, flesh, history. Rahul wasn’t just a name in my imagination, he was real. He had touched her once. Maybe more.

She stood, washed her hands, and leaned against the counter. “Let me freshen up. Then I’ll tell you the story.”

I nodded slowly, my mind on fire. Part of me wanted to demand every detail immediately, to hear how he kissed her, how he fucked her, how she moaned for him. Another part of me wanted to punish her, to fuck her again until she forgot Rahul ever existed.

But above all, one truth pulsed through me: this was the high I had craved. The line between fantasy and reality was blurring.

And I was ready to fall.

He asked me to do something dangerous.

Not in the big, obvious wayno knife-edge choices, no life-or-death gambits. He wanted me to retell it all as if it were happening now: every kiss, every hand, every little sting of guilt and pleasure. Sameek’s voice had been soft when he said it, the kind of softness that felt like permission and hunger at once. “Relive it for me,” he had whispered into my ear as we lay tangled in sheets that still smelled of rain and sweat. “Tell me like it’s happening. I want to hear the sound of your breath change when you remember. Show me.”

There was a tremble in my chest the moment I agreed. Memory is a dangerous tool; it can cut you open or stitch you closed. I had always loved the idea of memories that held you like a warm shawl; I had never wanted to pull one off and present it as a raw thing. But this offering, this brutal honesty was how we were making ourselves whole. So I nodded and took a breath, letting the room around us recede until it was just me and the voice that began to speak.

“Sit up,” I told him, my voice calm but pressed with the pulse of what I was about to do. He obeyed, naked and steady, his eyes soft at first and then sharpening with curiosity. He sat cross-legged on the bed like a child waiting to be told a bedtime story, except there was desire burning behind that patience, and that made my confession both apology and arousal.

“This is going to sound stupid,” I started, and then I let myself be foolish. “Tinder. I swiped right.”

Sameek cracked a smile, incredulous, and the small sound made my throat ache with something like relief. “Of course you did,” he said, and the fondness in it steadied me. “What came next?”

“What came next was an ordinary kind of charm,” I said, remembering. As I spoke, I guided his hand to my waist and let him press there, where Rahu­l’s fingers had first found me. “His name was Rahul. He messaged quickly, charmingly. He was… confident in a way that looked practiced. We talked for a few days easy banter, jokes. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only one in the room.”

I watched him as he listened. He leaned in. He moved his palm across my hip in the exact tempo my words set. It was a small, intimate theft; he was learning the shape of my past with his present fingers.

“Our first date was casual,” I said. “A café near my office. I wore a skirt because it was warm and my thighs were showing and I wanted to feel something light for once. He was there early—he always liked to be the first, that was one of his habits. When he stood, his smile hit me like an offering. He hugged me like we’d known each other forever. His hand rested at the small of my back and didn’t move much, and that felt safe for a second.”

I inhaled a memory of cologne—strong, citrus with a bitter base—and the scent rose inside me like a tide. Sameek’s fingers found my collarbone and his thumb brushed, mimicking the brush of Rahul’s palm on my back. He watched my face for the flicker of shame, of nostalgia, and met it steady with his own claim.

“After coffee, he walked with me,” I continued. “We talked about music, about nothing. He was open in a way that made me drop walls without realizing. At the gate, he kissed me. It started soft—testing the water—but then his tongue found mine and his hand slid from my back down to my hip, then to my ass, cupping through the skirt. It was bold. I gasped, surprised, and he said, ‘You’re so beautiful when you’re surprised.’”

Sameek’s hand tightened where it rested on my hip. He kissed the place where I said Rahul’s palm had cupped me, and it sent a sharp current through me, a present reclamation layering over the story. “I can do that,” he murmured, his mouth hot and immediate against my skin.

I closed my eyes and let the images pour out. “We went back to his place that night. It was ‘just to watch a movie,’ he said, but he dimmed the lights before the film even started. His hands were everywhere on the couch slow on my thigh, tracing lines up my skirt, slipping past the seam of my top. He kissed me with more force than I expected and then, when I tensed, he smiled too smooth and slid his hand under the strap of my bra. He jerked it up hard enough that it stung.”

At the memory of the sting, I slid my fingers to the strap of the bra I’d worn that night, the one I still had tucked in the drawer and my palm brushed against him. “It hit like a note,” I told him. “An elastic sting. I flinched. He laughed and said I made a nice noise. He liked that I was told I sounded good. It made me feel seen. It made me feel small.”

Sameek’s mouth closed on my shoulder, slow and possessive. He kissed as if smoothing away the memory, pressing his tongue where the elastic had bitten. His breaths were shallow and hot. I felt him there present, anchoring. That was the point of the whole exercise: to turn the phantom into something my real man could touch and overwrite.

“He started taking pictures,” I said suddenly, and my voice snagged on the sound as if I were swallowing glass. I watched Sameek’s face change concerned knitting his brow, the faint edge of something like anger creeping into his jaw. But he stayed quiet, listening, handing me back the space to say it.

“At first they were little things,” I told him. “A selfie, cute angles. But the tone shifted. I was on the bed, just in my bra, and he said, ‘Hold that look. Just like that.’ He’d tell me to arch, to tilt my head, to bite my lip. He’d say, ‘Give me a shot for when I miss you,’ and I’d laugh and do it. Later he’d ask for more. ‘Lower your panties a little,’ he’d say, and I’d hesitate and then I’d let him. He told me it was because I was beautiful and that he wanted to remember me. In small moments, it felt flattering.”

I could feel the warmth of shame flush my face as the chronology unspooled. Sameek’s hand slid lower now, cupping the hollow of my hip, then moving to my thigh and resting there like a sentinel. “Then,” I went on, “one morning he texted me: ‘I jerked off to your pictures last night. I made a mess.’ He didn’t phrase it like a confession. He said it like a boast.”

A cold knot tightened under my ribs at the memory of that message. I had frozen in the kitchen, the mug clutched at my chest, the words small and impossible on my phone screen. I remembered telling myself I should feel flattered; a small, perverse part of me wanted to feel it. But mostly I felt used like I had become an object to be consumed and discarded.

“I cried,” I said, and the word trembled out of me. “Not in front of him not then. I cried later, in the shower, imagining how easy it must have been for him to reduce me to images, to take pleasure at night and then go to work in the morning like nothing had happened.”

Sameek’s voice was barely a whisper. “You told me last night that you felt cheap.”

“Yes,” I said. “Cheap, and angry, and small. And then one day he showed off a picture to a friend. He laughed about it. Something in me broke that day. I ended it.”

He cupped my face and drew me into a kiss that tasted like salt and apology and something rawer ownership. “Thank you,” he said when we came up for air. “Thank you for telling me like this.”

There was power in the telling. As if by speaking, I could take the hot iron of the memory and brand it as a lesson instead of a scar. So I kept going. I let my voice drop into the cadence of the room, of us.

“The bad part,” I admitted, “was that he did some things I liked, too. He knew how to find the perfect pressure. He kissed my throat and I liked the burn. He would bite the underside of my breast until the ache swelled into something that felt almost like courage. He could be tender and then he’d be sudden and I’d surprise myself by saying yes when my better judgment whispered no. I used to replay the way he touched me like an addict chasing a rush.”

As I spoke, my fingers moved of their own accord. I took his hand and pressed it to my breast, to the place Rahul’s thumbnail had dug into my skin. His palm spread there and warmed it. His thumb rubbed soft circles, assessing, learning, owning the map of the hurt in the same motion he was soothing it.

“Tell me how he kissed you,” Sameek demanded then, and there was no cruelty in ask only hunger.

“He kissed me like he was eating me,” I answered slowly. “Not all the time just in the best moments. He’d press his mouth against mine, tongue at work, and then for a second he’d pull away and bite the corner of my mouth, like marking me. His hands would roam, always returning to my breasts and then my neck. He loved the spot right below my ear; he’d blow there before a kiss that made my knees go weak.”

He leaned down and blew exactly where I described, a current of breath across my jaw that made every memory flash as present. We both laughed softly at the obviousness and the intimacy: the man I loved now practicing the small cruelty that used to make me bite my lip.

We had slid into a rhythm my words powering his hands, his hands answering my words with touch. It felt like translation. I would say a scene, and he would render it on my body, the present reclaiming the past in heated, tangible strokes.

There was one night I told him about that stuck in my throat for a long time.

“He wanted to make me feel special,” I said. “He said, ‘I want to show you how I want you.’ I was naïve. I let him, and then he told me to pose. ‘Tilt your face,’ he said. ‘Arch your back. Let your hands rest there, like you’re someone else.’ I felt ridiculous, and at the same time I did what he asked. He photographed me in ways that make me cringe now my breasts in full displayed, my legs spread in a way I would never do for anybody else. He said it was art.”

Sameek’s hand tightened around my wrist when I said that last part, not from anger more like steel to steady me. “He promised it was private?” he asked.

“He promised.” The memory flashed again, ugly and bright. “Then he posted them anonymously, later. He said it was to get more attention. I felt violated, beyond words. I felt like I had been taken advantage of in a way that laughed at me. He watched me as if my humiliation was a plot twist he enjoyed. That’s when I realized he hadn’t loved anything about me except the way I could be used for his nights.”

I began to cry when I said this. Not dramatic sobbing, just the small wetness I’d been carrying, finally spilling out. Sameek’s lips found mine and his mouth fit like a hand over a bruise. He kissed me like he meant to heal. “You are not any of that,” he said into my mouth. “Not art, not pixels. You are my face when I wake. You are my breath.”

We quieted for a moment, letting that be true. Then, softly, almost mischievously, he said, “Show me how he made you pose. Let me see your memory, and then let me make my own picture.” There was a question in it, an invitation, not a demand and the layered intimacy of it made my pulse thud in my throat.

“That’s how it began to become something else,” I said, feeling the heat of the moment shape itself into courage. “Telling you. Letting you touch me in the same ways but with a different intention. Where Rahul’s touch had been possessive and performative, yours was claiming. Rahul wanted proof; you want me.”

He pressed me back against the pillow and started slowly. “Tell me the way he took you out of yourself,” he murmured, the voice of a man who wants to learn the map of his woman.

I obliged. I began to speak of the small violences that were delivered like tenderness: how he would unzip my dress with a gentleness that felt deliberate; how he would slide a thumb along the seam of my panties and watch my breath hitch; how a pinch to the nipple could be both a statement and a question. With each recollection, Sameek’s hands moved—first to demonstrate the tenderness I had described, then to obliterate the memory with a better, truer version of the touch.

When I spoke of Rahul saying things like, “Pose for me, baby, just like that,” Sameek’s mouth moved in time to mine, shaping the words on my lips into something that belonged to us. He kissed me hard and then, with a grin, he whispered, “Now pose for me.” He guided my body into a flattened arch, my back on the mattress, my legs parted. It felt ceremonious and also utterly normal. The present folded over the past like warm hands covering a wound.

As I described how Rahul liked to tug and make the strap of my bra snap and sting, Sameek did it softly and then harder, watching my reactions like a scientist tracking a result. His actions were delicate and then demanding; he was a man who knew the difference between making me flinch and making me remember the sting as pleasure. He kissed every flare of red afterward, as if to anesthetize my skin with his mouth.

“Tell me of the worst,” he said then, voice small with something like reverence for my courage. “Tell me where it hurt the most.”

“It hurt here,” I said, cupping my sternum. “Where I’d look at myself and think of the pictures, of his comments, his taking something private and exposing it like he owned me. I’d wake and feel like a liar to myself.”

Sameek’s forehead pressed into mine then. The sliver of vulnerability between us felt sacred. “You are not a liar. You are a survivor,” he said simply. “And I love you.”

It was as if saying that aloud gave me permission to let the erotic thread through the confessional one. My voice softened and the admission found a sexiness of its own. I told him about the things that had felt good at the time the way Rahul’s hands could find an ache and soothe it; the way his mouth could learn the cadence of my breath until he could press the place just so and make me lose my composure. But I layered the memory with my reaction now: how those moments felt adulterated because they were bracketed by objectification and an absence of actual care.

While I spoke, I touched him. I ran my fingers along his ribs and let them dip lower, to the place where a man feels the echo of a kiss like a memory warming flesh. I traced where his muscles flexed when he tightened, and I watched how he absorbed the map I was making on him. Sometimes I would guide his palm to my thigh and whisper, “Like this,” letting him recreate those old touches but with the soul of a man who wanted to possess me wholly, righting the past.

We moved, gradually, toward something more immediate. His breath warmed the hollow of my ear as he asked, “Do you want me the way you wanted him? Rehabilitation, or more like revenge?”

I laughed soft, incredulous wanting both. “Repair me,” I whispered, “and then take pleasure in what you repair.” I wanted him to know that I craved restitution as much as desire.

He kissed my palm and his hands were careful but sure. He cupped me, pressing, pulling, exploring the places that had once been a battlefield and turning them into altars. The room filled with new sounds soft chuckles, gasps, the minimal symphony of two people reacquainting their bodies.

“You realize,” he murmured as his mouth trailed down my neck to the cup of my breast, “that I can keep you in my hands forever. I can photograph you with my eyes.”

“I know,” I said. And I believed it then the fierce certainty seizing my chest. “I want your picture to be the one I remember.”

He smiled against my skin and then did the thing I had been waiting for: he kissed the exact place Rahul had kissed me before. He kissed it not like a private trophy but like worship, pressing his teeth and then sucking gently, mapping the scar and healing it with his tongue. I arched into him, the sensation blurring memory and present until I could no longer tell which was which. The flashbacks pulsed into a present that felt better and truer.

By the time we were both undone breathing, slick and spent, a tangle of limbs and soft laughter my story felt like a thing I had offered up and received back, purified by love. We lay together, his arms a band across my ribs, my head cushioned against his shoulder. The silence afterward was thick and comfortable, and then he broke it with a declaration so simply fierce it could have been carved into the wood of the headboard.

“You belong to me, Priyanka,” he said. There was no command in it, only a claim wrapped in tenderness. “You belong to me in the way that matters your breath, your mornings, your messy, dizzy nights. And if the world comes with scars, I will kiss them until they stop hurting.”

I laughed, because suddenly everything felt lighter: the shame, the ache of being seen by a man who hadn’t existed for me anymore. “Then kiss me,” I said. “Not to make it disappear, but to make it mine again.”

He obliged, and we kissed until our mouths were clumsy and tender and the only language left was the press of lips and the soft scbang of stubble against lips. Then he took me again, slowly, deliberately, his hands charting a path of reassurance that ended inside me. I felt him fill me, not as an act of ownership but as a covenant an exchange of tenderness and insistence until I believed, fully, that there was no place for Rahul but the memory I had just narrated.

And when he came, spilling himself into me and across my skin, I felt every small historic indignity fold into a present that was unapologetically ours. My body, which had been a site of commerce and display in a way I hated, felt sovereign again anchored by a man who kissed each bruise and honored the truth beneath the ache.

We slept for a while after, and in the small hours when dawn smudged the sky gray, Sameek woke and wrapped his arms around me. He murmured my name and in the shy, sleepy hush I told him: “Thank you for listening. Thank you for touching my past into something different.” He answered with a kiss to my hair and then said, low and certain, “There’s nothing here for anyone else. Tell me what you want tomorrow. Tell me what you dream and I’ll try to give you pieces of it.”

That was the promise. Not a tidy erasure of what had happened but an honest, daily repairing. Not a denial of the past but a commitment to be a better present.

I let the memory of Rahul exist as I had just retold it no longer a blemish but a chapter I could close. I had given it language, and then I had let it be overwritten by the warmth of the man who had asked me to speak it. He took each painful fragment and made it tender with his breath and his palms.

When I finally drifted back into sleep, it felt different. Not empty, not luminous. Just right. Full of the hard, honest work of being loved after being hurt: telling the story, watching it change as you speak, and letting someone you trust prove, touch by touch, that you are not defined by what someone once used you for.

Sameek’s arms tightened around me in sleep, and I nestled into the curve of him, the soft weight of his body a punctuation that read: You are home. The storm was still a part of us, the rain a memory on the glass, but in the quiet after the retelling, everything felt recalibrated. I had relived the past and turned it into a tether to the future a future where my body belonged only to the man beside me, and where every look and touch had the kind of reverence Rahul had never known.

When morning came, it did so in the ordinary way: pale light, the distant hum of someone making tea in the building next door, the mild obligations of an ordinary day. But inside our bedroom the aftertaste of confession was warm, and the promise of belonging felt like a curtain drawn tight against the cold. I looked at Sameek in the half-light at the small scar on his wrist, at the way his breath stilled in sleep and thought, with a calm that had no sharpness left, that sometimes the hardest things to do were also the ones that re-made you.

I had told the story and it had returned to me different, made better by being witnessed and reclaimed. I had let myself remember Rahul with detail and then let Sameek taste those details and make them his. And in the process, I had learned the strange alchemy of confession: how saying something aloud can empty it of shame and fill it with something else—ownership, fidelity, and the slow, tender reclamation of what is truly ours.