Thriller ADITYA & CHAITALI'S FUCK DATE IN A NIGHTCLUB

[Mohit.Kumar]

Then his mouth crashed onto hers again—not a kiss, but a devouring. His tongue thrust past her lips, rough and demanding, tasting salt and desperation. Chaitali’s moan vibrated against his palate, swallowed whole. Her hips bucked harder against his thigh, seeking friction, grinding the cheap leather deeper into the vinyl. The underwire bra gouged her ribs with each gasp. His fingers, still trapped beneath her skirt, pressed the damp lace so hard against her swollen flesh it bordered on pain. Heat pooled, liquid and urgent, between her legs. She felt the ridge of his erection straining against his jeans, a hard line against her belly. Time dissolved into the wet slide of tongues, the scbang of teeth, the frantic pulse thundering in her ears. Her thighs trembled, clamping tighter around his wrist. The world narrowed to the slick friction of his thumb, the suffocating press of his body, the velvet ropes swaying like a tattered curtain to their shame.

Chaitali tore her mouth away with a ragged gasp, her chest heaving. Sweat plastered stray hairs to her temples. "Enough," she choked out, voice raw. Her palms pressed flat against his chest, pushing with surprising force. Aditya stumbled back half a step, his eyes wide, pupils blown black with lust and confusion. His hand slipped from beneath her skirt, leaving the soaked lace clinging coldly to her skin. Cool air rushed into the space between them, sharp against her damp midriff. She saw his lips, slick and swollen, his breathing ragged. The sting on her neck throbbed where his teeth had marked her. Without breaking his burning gaze, her fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of her white panties. Her knuckles brushed the damp leather skirt bunched high on her hips. "Take these off," she commanded, her voice low, trembling but clear. "Now." Her eyes flickered toward the velvet ropes, a flicker of defiance.

Sunil Malhotra’s phone jerked as Chaitali shoved Aditya back. He zoomed frantically, capturing the sudden space between them—Chaitali’s flushed face, her smeared lipstick, the wild desperation in her eyes. Vikram Sharma hissed, "Look! Look!" as her fingers dug into the waistband of her panties, the stark white elastic stark against her flushed hip flesh. Rajeev Kapoor crouched lower, angling his lens upward. He caught the precise moment Chaitali’s lips formed the command: "Take these off." The damp patch on her lace panties was a dark, undeniable stain against the white fabric, perfectly framed by the bunched leather skirt. Sunil’s thumb trembled over the zoom control, focusing on Aditya’s stunned expression, then back to Chaitali’s hand gripping the elastic. The red recording light pulsed steadily. Rajeev’s breath rasped in his throat; he could almost smell the musk radiating from the alcove.

Aditya froze, his gaze locked on Chaitali’s fingers hooked into the flimsy panties. The abrupt shift—from devouring possession to this raw command—left him momentarily shocked. His lips still burned from her kiss, tasted of salt and desperation. His cock throbbed painfully against his zipper. Slowly, almost reverently, his hands moved. One palm settled on the feverish skin of her hipbone, fingers splaying possessively. The other slid beneath the bunched leather skirt, rough fingertips tracing the damp elastic band where it dug into her flesh. He felt the tremor run through her thigh muscles, the involuntary clench as his knuckles brushed the soaked lace shielding her core. The scent—musky, intimate, trapped beneath cheap leather—flooded his senses. His thumb pressed hard against the wet fabric, eliciting a sharp gasp from Chaitali. Her eyes never left his, defiant, challenging. With a deliberate tug, he peeled the panties down her trembling thighs.

Sunil Malhotra’s phone lens captured every excruciating detail: the slow descent of white fabric over Chaitali’s hips. Vikram Sharma zoomed in on the discarded panties, a crumpled, damp wad tossed carelessly onto the cracked leather booth beside Chaitali’s bare thigh. Rajeev Kapoor’s breath hitched as he filmed Chaitali’s expression—eyes wide, lips parted, a flush deepening across her chest where her underwire bra dug angry red lines. He saw the goose bumps erupting on her exposed skin as cool air hit dampness, the way her knees pressed together instinctively only for Aditya’s hand to wedge between them, forcing her thighs apart. The velvet ropes swayed, offering fragmented glimpses of the obscene intimacy: Chaitali’s skirt bunched at her waist, her nakedness stark against the grimy upholstery, Aditya’s possessive grip on her hip.

"Look at that," Sunil hissed, his voice thick with voyeuristic glee. "Clean shaved. Bald as a fucking baby." He zoomed closer, capturing the glistening folds exposed by Aditya’s insistent fingers. "Bet that Bengali cunt’s steaming hot. See how wet she is?" Vikram chuckled darkly, filming Chaitali’s trembling belly. "Like a fresh pussy. Ready for the bull. Wonder how many years since she’s been spread like this?" Rajeev’s lens focused on Aditya’s erection straining against his jeans. "Kid’s gonna wreck her. Look at him sizing her up. Bet she’s clenching already, imagining that young cock splitting her open." Their whispers dissolved into choked laughter, drowned by the bass but vibrating with raw anticipation.

Chaitali gasped as cool air kissed her exposed flesh, a shocking contrast to the humid heat trapped beneath her bunched skirt. Aditya’s thumb pressed hard against her clit, calloused skin dragging roughly over the swollen bud. The sensation was electric—painful, undeniable—sending liquid fire radiating up her spine. Her thighs trembled where his fingers dug into her hipbone, forcing her wider. The cracked vinyl upholstery scbangd against her bare ass, each shift grinding dust into her skin. She tasted copper—her own bitten lip—and smelled the musk of her arousal mingling with smell of stale beer and Aditya’s expensive aftershave. His eyes, dark and predatory, held hers. "Wider," he commanded, his voice rough. His knuckles brushed her slick entrance, a teasing promise that made her clench around emptiness.

Sunil Malhotra’s phone lens captured the glistening folds Chaitali’s bald pussy, zooming in until the image trembled slightly. "Fuck, look at that slit," he hissed, sweat beading on his upper lip. "Shaved smooth as marble. Bet it’s tighter than a virgin’s purse." Vikram Sharma filmed Aditya’s fingers spreading her, the wetness shining under the club’s erratic strobes. "Bengali bitch’s dripping like a leaky tap," he rasped, shifting uncomfortably in his trousers. "See how her hole winks? Begging for that young bull’s cock." Rajeev Kapoor angled his phone lower, capturing Chaitali’s flushed face, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack. "Record her moan when he rams it home," he urged, his own breath ragged. "Widow’s cunt hasn’t seen action like this in years. Bet she screams."