Thriller ADITYA & CHAITALI'S FUCK DATE IN A NIGHTCLUB

[Mohit.Kumar]

Chaitali arched off the vinyl as Aditya’s middle finger breached her, the sudden intrusion stretching her impossibly tight. A choked gasp tore from her throat—raw, guttural—as his knuckle dragged against her inner walls. The sensation was searing fullness, a brutal invasion that scbangd delicate flesh yet flooded her core with liquid heat. Her hips bucked involuntarily, grinding her clit against the heel of his palm. Dust from the upholstery mingled with her sweat, gritty against her splayed thighs. Aditya’s thumb pressed hard on her swollen bud, circling with rough precision as his finger withdrew slowly, only to plunge deeper on the next thrust. Each stroke dragged a whimper from her lungs, the rhythm syncopated with the bass vibrating through the booth’s frame.

Sunil Malhotra’s phone trembled as he zoomed on Aditya’s knuckles glistening with Chaitali’s wetness. "Fuck," he breathed, "see how her cunt sucks him back in? Like a hungry little mouth." Vikram Sharma’s lens captured the flutter of Chaitali’s inner thighs, the involuntary tremors as Aditya crooked his finger inside her. "Bengali bitch’s taking it deep," Vikram rasped, sweat dripping onto his screen. "Bet she’s tighter than those luxury flats she sells." Rajeev Kapoor focused on Chaitali’s face—eyes rolling back, lips parted in a silent scream—before panning down to the obscene glide of Aditya’s hand. "Record the sound," he urged, though the club’s din swallowed her ragged moans. "Hear that slick squelch? Widow’s cunt’s drowning in it."

Chaitali’s hips pistoned against Aditya’s hand, the vinyl scbanging raw against her bare buttocks. Each thrust of his fingers dragged against tender, swollen flesh—a searing stretch that bloomed into liquid fire radiating up her spine. His thumb ground relentless circles on her clit, the calloused skin chafing the hypersensitive bud until pleasure fused with pain into a single, blinding wire. Dust from the booth mingled with her sweat, gritty where her thighs strained wide apart. She tasted blood—her lip torn open—and smelled the musk of her arousal, thick and primal, cutting through the stale beer stench. Aditya’s breath hitched against her temple, his own hips jerking against her thigh as if seeking friction. "Faster," she gasped, the word ripped from her throat. "Harder."

Sunil Malhotra’s phone lens trembled, zooming on the obscene glisten coating Aditya’s knuckles each time he withdrew. "Look at her swallow him," he hissed, saliva thick in his throat. "That bald Bengali cunt’s sucking his fingers like a starving whore." Vikram Sharma filmed the rhythmic clench of Chaitali’s inner muscles, visible in the trembling hollows of her thighs. "Bet her hole’s clenching tighter than a fist," he rasped, adjusting his own straining trousers. "Widow’s hungry for that young bull’s cock. See how she’s grinding? Shameless." Rajeev Kapoor’s lens captured Chaitali’s head thrown back, tendons standing rigid in her neck as a silent scream contorted her features. "Record the wet slap," he urged, though the bass drowned the slick sounds. "Hear that? Her cunt’s weeping for it."

Chaitali’s nails dug crescent moons into Aditya’s shoulder as his fingers pistoned inside her—two now, stretching her with brutal efficiency. The scbang of his calloused knuckles against her swollen inner walls was a raw, searing counterpoint to the slick flood of arousal coating his thrusting hand. Her hips bucked wildly off the cracked vinyl, grinding her bare ass against the gritty upholstery, each desperate lift exposing her glistening folds to the cool, smoke-laden air. "Harder," she gasped, her voice shredded, "Finger fuck me properly," The forbidden endearment, thick with Bengali inflection, hung between them—a perverse spark that ignited Aditya’s groan. He obeyed, driving deeper, the heel of his palm grinding her clit in rough, relentless circles until white sparks danced behind her clenched eyelids. The scent of her own desperate musk, sharp and primal, mingled with dust and Aditya’s sweat, filling the booth  like a confession.

Sunil Malhotra’s phone zoomed impossibly tight on the obscene glisten where Aditya’s fingers vanished into Chaitali’s slick depths. "Look at that bald Bengali cunt swallow him," he hissed, saliva pooling thickly under his tongue. "Like a greedy little mouth sucking cock." Vikram Sharma filmed the rhythmic clench of Chaitali’s inner thighs, the visible tremor in her belly as Aditya’s thumb pressed brutally into her clit. "Bet her hole’s tighter than those penthouse contracts she drafts," Vikram rasped, shifting his own straining erection against damp trouser fabric. "Widow’s cunt hasn’t been stretched like this since her husband died." Rajeev Kapoor’s lens captured the raw agony-pleasure twisting Chaitali’s features—the bitten lip, the fluttering eyelids, the tendons standing rigid in her neck as a silent scream built. "Record the wet slap," he urged, though the bass thundered over the lewd squelch. "Hear that? Her pussy’s weeping for a real bull."

Rajeev leaned closer, whisky breath sour against Sunil’s ear. "Remember last Tuesday? At Vatika Heights?" His voice dropped to a guttural whisper. "She wore that stiff cotton saree—navy blue, prim as a collegemam." Sunil chuckled darkly, recalling the starched pleats, the demurely pinned pallu. "Spoke about ‘heritage aesthetics’ while her blouse gaped when she bent over the balcony model." Vikram licked his lips, filming Chaitali’s hips bucking wildly off the vinyl. "Saw the edge of her white bra strap. Starchy. Virgin-white." He zoomed on the discarded panties crumpled beside her bare thigh—the same stark white lace, now darkened and twisted. "Look at her now. Skirt around her waist, cunt wide open, taking finger-fucks like a cheap whore."

Sunil chuckled, the sound thick with contempt. "Prim Chaitali Ghosh." He mimicked her crisp professional tone: *‘The marble flooring enhances spatial harmony.’* His lens captured Aditya’s knuckles glistening as he withdrew, then plunged three fingers deep. "Harmony my ass. Bet she’s never been harmony-fucked like this." Vikram snorted. "Remember how she clutched her file folder to her chest? Like a shield." He panned to Chaitali’s hands clawing Aditya’s shoulders, her knuckles white. "Only shield she’s got now is that boy’s hand grinding her pussy."

Rajeev leaned in, his whisky breath sour. "Office Chaitali wore pearls." He zoomed on the sweat-damp hollow of her throat where no necklace lay. Sunil tracked a bead of sweat sliding between her breasts. "Bengali bitch’s melting like ghee on a hot stove." Vikram’s lens trembled as Chaitali’s back arched violently off the vinyl. "Look at her spine bow! Like she’s offering that cunt to the gods." He licked his lips. "Should’ve sent her our brochure—*Deep Penetration Luxury Suites*."

Sunil chuckled darkly. "Remember her lecturing us about ‘family values’?" His thumb traced the screen where Chaitali’s fingers clawed Aditya’s hair. "Bet she’s teaching the boy new values tonight." Rajeev hissed as Aditya’s thumb pressed Chaitali’s clit into a stiff, glistening peak. "Prim Chaitali’s clit’s harder than her office desk." Vikram groaned softly. "Imagine bending her over that desk—saree shoved up, those white panties ripped aside."

Rajeev leaned closer. "At Vatika Heights," he whispered hoarsely, "she wore starched cotton—navy blue, stiff as cardboard." Sunil mimicked her crisp tone: *‘The heritage cornices require preservation.’* His lens captured Chaitali’s spine bowing violently. "Preserve this, bitch." Vikram zoomed on her gaping entrance. "Office Chaitali clutched her pearls. Now?" He snorted. "Only pearls she’s got are sweat beads on her cunt lips."

Chaitali’s hips slammed down onto Aditya’s knuckles, the vinyl scbanging raw skin off her buttocks. Dust gritted against her sweat-slicked thighs as his thumb mashed her clit into a throbbing, oversensitized peak. Each brutal thrust stretched her unbearably—a searing, liquid tear deep inside that bloomed into white-hot agony-pleasure. She tasted blood and salt, smelled her own primal musk thick in the air. "Faster!" The command tore from her shredded throat, raw and guttural. Aditya’s groan vibrated against her temple as he obeyed, fingers pistoning with jackhammer force. The heel of his palm ground her swollen bud into the vinyl, friction burning like a brand.

Sunil Malhotra’s phone lens captured the obscene glisten coating Aditya’s wrist each time he withdrew. "Look at her swallow him to the fucking wrist," he hissed, saliva thick as glue in his mouth. Vikram Sharma filmed the rhythmic clench of Chaitali’s inner walls around Aditya’s buried fist—visible in the violent tremors wracking her splayed thighs. "Bengali cunt’s sucking his arm like a starving python," Vikram rasped, adjusting his own straining zipper. Rajeev Kapoor’s lens zoomed on Chaitali’s face—eyes rolled back, mouth a silent scream—before panning to the discarded white lace panties trampled under Aditya’s shoes. "Record the squelch," he urged, though the bass drowned the wet, meaty slap of flesh. "Hear that? Widow’s cunt’s drowning."