02-12-2025, 10:49 AM
The knife paused mid-air above the coriander, a single green drop trembling on the blade like a secret that had decided not to fall. Priyanka’s phone buzzed again on the marble counter, insistent.
Sameek: 2A, Lower Berth 63 & Side Lower 64. Tatkal. Confirmed.
Two PDFs attached. Two strangers’ names: S. Ahmed & P. Sen.
Her stomach flipped so violently she had to grip the edge of the counter. The kitchen smelled of cumin and onions for her husband’s dinner, but all she could smell was the phantom sandalwood-citrus of Sameek’s skin.
Priyanka: You actually did it.
Sameek: I told you I keep promises, Devil Partner.
Priyanka: My husband thinks I’m visiting Mitali di in Bhubaneswar. I feel sick with excitement.
Sameek: Good. Keep that sickness for twenty-two nights. I want you trembling when you board.
Priyanka: And you? Will you tremble when you see me pretending not to know you?
Sameek: I’m already hard in office remembering how your voice cracked when you said “thank you, stranger” in the mirror room.
Priyanka: Stop. I’m wet and I still have to cook.
Sameek: Don’t wipe. Let it stay till he falls asleep. Then finger yourself thinking of the berth curtain brushing your cheek while I’m inside you. Send me the taste.
She locked the phone, pressed her thighs together so hard the seam of her salwar bit into her, and finished dinner with the smell of coriander and her own arousal mixing in the air like a confession she would never make out loud.
Three weeks later, seven minutes in the South City Mall car park was all they allowed themselves. Engines running, windows fogged by July heat and breath.
Sameek passed a tiny indigo cloth pouch through the gap in the window. Inside: a brand-new red silk scarf and a cheap silver payal with four tiny bells that looked almost childish until you imagined them singing against an ankle in the dark.
“For your left ankle,” he said, voice low enough to bruise. “I want to hear you coming before I see you.”
Her fingers closed around the cool metal. “And the scarf?”
“Gag. Blindfold. Or whatever I decide when the lights go off. Your choice ends the moment you tie it.”
She swallowed. “Safe word?”
“Lotus. Same as the red room.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, possessive. “But I don’t plan on letting you speak much.”
Seven minutes felt like seven seconds. The air between them crackled.
“I’m scared I’ll chicken out on the train,” she admitted, the words scbanging her throat.
Sameek’s eyes were black in the sodium light. “You won’t. Because you want my cum leaking down your thighs in front of sixty sleeping strangers more than you want to be good.”
She laughed, shaky, wet. “I hate that you’re right.”
He leaned in, kissed her once (hard, claiming, tasting of coffee and danger), then pulled back.
“Tomorrow night, 21:45, Howrah station, Platform 21. Black cotton saree with the thin silver border. No bra. No panties. I want to see your nipples against the blouse the moment you step into the coach.”
Her breath stuttered. “Yes, Master.”
The word slipped out unbidden. His eyes flared. He cupped her jaw roughly.
“Careful, Devil Partner. Keep calling me that and I’ll make you crawl the length of the sleeper coach on your knees.”
She pressed her thighs together again. “Promise?”
He released her, started the engine. “Go home. Pack light. And Priyanka?”
“Yes?”
“Dream of the exact moment the train lurches and I push all the way in. Dream of biting that red scarf so no one hears my name when you come.”
She did dream. She woke twice in the night soaked, thighs slick, husband snoring gently beside her, and had to bite her own wrist to keep from moaning Sameek’s name into the dark.
The next evening Howrah station smelled of diesel, fried luchis, and wet monsoon concrete. Priyanka walked slowly, the silver payal singing softly with every step (tink-tink-tink) under the pallu. The black saree clung to her hips; the blouse was backless, two strings barely holding it together. No one could see her nipples yet, but she felt them like hot coins against cotton, aching.
She found Coach A1, Berth 63. An old uncle was already snoring on the lower berth opposite. A young couple argued in whispers on 61-62. Perfect cover.
She hoisted her small suitcase, bent just enough to let the saree ride an inch higher on her calf, knowing Sameek was watching from the shadows near the door.
He boarded last, anonymous in a faded blue kurta, stubble heavier than usual, a small backpack slung over one shoulder. Side Lower 64 (directly opposite her, separated by nothing but two feet of aisle and a half-drawn green curtain).
Their eyes met for the first time in public as strangers.
Sameek’s gaze dropped to her left ankle, to the tiny bells, then dragged slowly up the saree, pausing where her nipples pressed obviously against the blouse now that the AC had hit her. His lips curved (barely a smile, more a promise).
He lifted his bag to the upper luggage rack, muscles flexing under the kurta, then sat on his berth facing her, legs spread wide, knees almost touching hers.
The train hadn’t moved yet, but Priyanka’s heart already rocked on invisible tracks.
22:15. The coach lights dimmed to blue night-lamps. The TT did his round, punched tickets, didn’t even glance twice at the two “unrelated” passengers.
Sameek took out his phone, typed without looking at the screen.
Sameek: Show me you obeyed.
Priyanka’s fingers trembled as she opened the camera, switched to front, angled it down under the blanket, lifted the saree just enough. A flash of bare thigh, the shadow between her legs, the glisten already there.
She sent the photo.
Sameek’s reply was instant.
Sameek: Good girl. Now put the scarf in your mouth. Knot it. I want teeth marks on silk by Kharagpur.
She glanced around. Uncle snoring. Young couple asleep, curtain drawn. She pulled the red scarf from her vanity pouch, folded it twice, pressed it between her teeth, tied it behind her head. The taste of new silk and her own anticipation flooded her tongue.
She looked across the aisle.
Sameek’s eyes were black in the blue light. He lifted two fingers, made a slow circle in the air (turn over, face the window).
Priyanka obeyed, lying on her side, knees drawn up like a sleeping woman. The payal tinkled softly as she moved.
Sameek waited a full five minutes, letting the coach settle into the rhythmic snoring of sixty strangers.
Then he moved.
Silent. Barefoot. He slid the green curtain half-shut behind him, knelt on the edge of her berth, and the world narrowed to the space of a thin foam mattress.
His hand found her ankle first (warm, possessive). He traced the payal bells with a thumb, then slid up the smooth calf, pushing the saree higher inch by inch. Cool AC air kissed the back of her knees, her thighs.
Priyanka’s breath fogged the window glass. Outside, Howrah’s lights blurred as the train finally lurched forward.
Sameek leaned over her, chest brushing her back, lips at the shell of her ear.
“Listen,” he whispered, so low only she could hear above the clatter of wheels. “Every sound you make belongs to me tonight. If you moan too loud, uncle wakes. If you scream, the couple records. Understand?”
She nodded against the pillow, the scarf already damp between her teeth.
His hand reached the top of her thigh, found bare skin, then nothing. A low growl of approval.
He cupped her fully, one large palm covering her pussy possessively. She was drenched. Two fingers slid along her slit, parting her, gathering wetness, spreading it up to her clit in a slow, deliberate circle.
Priyanka’s hips jerked involuntarily. The payal jingled.
Sameek’s other hand clamped on her hip (warning). Still.
He played with her like that for station after station (Shalimar, Santragachi, Kharagpur), never more than a lazy stroke, keeping her trembling on the edge, the scarf turning soaked with muffled whimpers.
At 01:12 the train slowed for Khurda Road. Most passengers dead asleep.
Sameek moved.
He shifted the blanket higher over them both, creating a small cave of darkness. Then he freed himself (kurta lifted just enough, pyjama pushed down). His cock pressed hot and heavy against the back of her thigh.
Priyanka felt it like a brand. She pushed back instinctively.
Sameek caught her waist, pinned her still, and lined up.
The train rocked hard as it accelerated again (perfect timing). He waited for the next sway, then pushed in with one slow, inexorable thrust.
Her muffled cry was swallowed by silk. Her body stretched, opened, took all of him in a single breath. The angle was brutal (side-lying, knees drawn up, nowhere for her to escape the depth).
He stayed buried, letting her adjust, letting the train do the work (every jerk and sway driving him a fraction deeper).
His mouth found her ear again.
“Feel that, Devil Partner? That’s me inside you while sixty people dream. While your husband sleeps in Kolkata. While the ticket checker walks past any second.”
Priyanka’s eyes watered. She nodded frantically.
He began to move (tiny, shallow thrusts disguised as the train’s motion). To anyone glancing, they were just two passengers sharing a lower berth for space. But inside the blanket, he was fucking her with lethal patience.
Minutes bled into an hour. Sameek never hurried. He kept her stuffed full, occasionally pulling out almost all the way, letting her feel the loss, then sliding back in until his hips met her ass.
The payal bells sang softly with every rock of the coach.
Sweat gathered between her breasts, under the blouse, down her spine. The scarf was sodden; drool leaked from the corner of her mouth onto the pillow.
Sameek slipped a hand under her blouse, found a nipple, rolled it slowly, then pinched (hard).
Priyanka’s entire body clenched around him. A strangled whimper escaped the gag.
He soothed the nipple with soft circles, then pinched the other just as cruelly.
Over and over. Pleasure-pain, fullness-emptiness, silence-danger.
At some point he reached for his phone, opened voice memos, pressed record without a word. The tiny red light glowed under the blanket like a demon’s eye.
Priyanka’s eyes widened. She shook her head frantically.
Sameek leaned close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Shh. Just the wheels and your breathing and the wet sound of my cock inside you. Evidence, baby. For cold nights when we’re apart.”
He angled the phone lower, captured the slick push and pull, her muffled sobs, the soft jingle of the payal.
Then he slid it away, set it to keep recording on the luggage rack above, hidden.
His hand returned between her legs from the front now, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles.
Priyanka’s whole body went rigid. She clawed at the sheet, at his forearm, at nothing.
He did not slow. Did not give mercy.
“Come,” he whispered. “Come while the train takes us both to hell.”
The orgasm crashed over her like a wave against rocks. She bit down on the scarf so hard she tasted blood. Her pussy spasmed around him again and again, milking, begging.
Sameek groaned quietly, buried his face in her hair, and let go (hot pulses deep inside her, filling her exactly as he’d promised).
He stayed inside, plugging her, letting every drop settle.
After a minute he reached up, gently untied the scarf, pulled it from her mouth. She gasped, gulping air.
Sameek kissed the teeth marks on her lips, tender now.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She turned her head. In the blue night-lamp his eyes were soft and savage at once.
“You’re crying,” he said, thumbing away a tear.
“Because I’ve never felt this owned,” she breathed. “Not even in the mirror room. Not even in the red room. Here, with the whole world sleeping six inches away, I feel like your thing.”
He kissed her slow, tasting salt and silk. “You are my thing. And I’m yours.”
He pulled out carefully, tucked himself away, rearranged her saree like a gentleman tucking in a lover after ruining her. Then he kissed her forehead, stood, and slipped back to his berth as silently as he had come.
Priyanka lay curled on her side, thighs sticky, heart hammering, the payal still singing faintly every time the train swayed. She could feel his cum starting its slow journey down her inner thigh and did nothing to stop it.
Across the aisle, Sameek lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the underside of the upper berth, a small, feral smile on his lips.
The recording kept running until the battery died somewhere near Balasore.
Dawn crept in grey and humid. Priyanka woke to the sound of chai-w,.'s and the smell of wet iron. She sat up slowly, every muscle aching in the sweetest way. The saree clung to her skin; the blouse was twisted. She could feel the dried evidence of the night crusted between her thighs.
Sameek was already awake, pretending to read a newspaper, legs stretched out, bare feet almost touching her berth. He didn’t look at her, but his little toe brushed the edge of her mattress (once, twice), a secret Morse code.
She stood, adjusted her pallu, and walked past him toward the toilet, letting her hip graze his shoulder. As she passed, she let the pallu slip just enough for him to see the dark bruises blooming on the side of her breast where he had pinched her in the dark.
His sharp inhale was the only reward she needed.
In the stinking, swaying toilet she locked the door, lifted the saree, and looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her lips were swollen from the scarf. Her nipples dark and tender. Between her legs (his cum still there, mixed with hers, glistening). She touched herself once, brought the fingers to her mouth, tasted them both, and smiled at her own reflection a wicked, ruined smile.
She sent him a single photo: her fingers, shining.
Sameek: Breakfast?
She walked back through the coach, past sleeping bodies and early risers stretching, and paused at his berth.
“Excuse me,” she said loudly enough for the uncle to hear, “do you have water?”
Sameek handed her his bottle without meeting her eyes. Their fingers brushed. Electricity.
She drank, letting a drop slide deliberately down her chin, down her throat, disappearing into the neckline of her blouse. His jaw clenched.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, and returned to her berth.
He typed.
Sameek: You’ll pay for that drop later.
Priyanka: I’m counting on it.
The day passed in exquisite torture. They ate breakfast from the pantry (he bought two plates of alu paratha, passed her one without a word). She let her foot rest against his calf under the table, toes tracing slow circles. He fed her a piece of paratha from his plate with his fingers, eyes locked on hers, while the uncle dozed opposite.
Every touch hidden, every glance loaded.
By afternoon the coach had emptied a little; some passengers got off at Bhadrak. The young couple moved to the upper berths for a nap. Perfect.
Sameek stood, stretched, and walked past her berth toward the door (casual, normal). Thirty seconds later his message arrived.
Sameek: Door side. Now.
Priyanka’s heart slammed against her ribs. She waited a full minute, then followed.
The space between coaches was a narrow, swaying metal corridor, windows open, wind whipping her pallu. The noise of wheels on tracks was deafening (perfect cover).
Sameek was waiting, back against the locked door, arms folded.
The moment she stepped in he caught her wrist, pulled her flush against him, mouth crashing into hers, no gentleness, just hunger. The train lurched; they staggered together, her back hitting the vibrating wall.
His hand slid under her pallu, cupped her breast through the blouse, thumb flicking the nipple already hard.
“Missed these,” he growled against her lips.
“You had them six hours ago,” she gasped.
“Feels like six years.”
He spun her, pressed her front to the rattling door, lifted her saree from behind. The wind rushed up her bare legs, cooling the sticky mess he’d left.
“Hold the rail,” he ordered.
She gripped the metal bar as the train swayed. He entered her in one thrust, no warning, no teasing. She cried out (the wheels swallowed the sound).
He fucked her hard and fast, one hand over her mouth, the other bruising her hip. Thirty seconds, maybe forty (enough to make her come again, biting his palm, legs shaking so badly she almost fell when he pulled out).
He spun her back, kissed her once more, tasting her tears and the train’s dust.
“Go,” he said, voice rough. “Before someone needs the toilet.”
She straightened her saree with trembling fingers, walked back through the coach on jelly legs, cum now definitely sliding down both thighs.
Sameek followed two minutes later, face calm, newspaper folded under his arm like nothing had happened.
Evening brought the second night. The coach lights dimmed again. This time Priyanka didn’t wait for instructions.
She stood, walked to his berth, and simply climbed in beside him, pulling the curtain fully shut behind her.
Sameek’s eyes widened (half shock, half pride).
“Brave girl,” he murmured.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He did. Slow, filthy, tongues and teeth and saliva until they were both breathless. Then he pushed her down onto his narrow berth, head toward the aisle so her feet were against the window.
He knelt between her thighs, pushed the saree up to her waist, and ate her like a starving man (slow, deliberate licks from entrance to clit, sucking her folds into his mouth, tongue fucking her until she was sobbing into the pillow he’d pressed over her face).
When she came the second time that night, her entire body seized so hard the berth creaked. He didn’t stop until she was pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive, pleading.
Only then did he rise, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and slide into her again (this time face to face, blanket over them both, moving with the train’s rhythm like they were born to fuck on moving steel).
They came together, her nails digging into his shoulders, his mouth swallowing her scream.
Afterward they lay tangled, sweat cooling, hearts hammering against each other.
Sameek traced the bite mark he’d left on her collarbone.
“Tomorrow morning,” he whispered, “when we reach Bhubaneswar, you’ll walk past me on the platform. You’ll mouth ‘thank you, stranger’ exactly like we planned. And then you’ll go to your hotel room and wait for me to come ruin you properly for two straight days.”
Priyanka smiled against his chest, tasting salt and train dust.
“And after those two days?”
He kissed her hair. “After that we go home and pretend to be respectable again. Until the next time I book tickets.”
She laughed softly, the sound muffled against his skin.
“Book them soon.”
He squeezed her possessively. “Already did. December. Darjeeling Mail. Upper berth this time. I want you riding me while the mountains watch.”
She bit his shoulder to keep from moaning at the thought.
Outside, the train thundered through the Odisha night, carrying two strangers who belonged only to each other, carrying the taste of stolen cum and red silk, carrying the recording that would play on cold Kolkata nights when the city felt too small for the size of what they’d become.
Somewhere near Cuttack, Priyanka whispered into the dark, “Sameek?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
He kissed her slow and deep, the train rocking them together like a cradle built for sin.
“I know, Devil Partner. I’ve known since the first time you called me Master and meant it.”
And the wheels kept singing their endless metal lullaby, carrying them deeper into the life they could never live in daylight but would never, ever give up.
Bhubaneswar arrived at 06:47 under a sky the colour of wet steel.
The platform was already steaming, vendors shouting, coolies in red with effort. Priyanka stepped down first, suitcase in one hand, pallu slipping just enough to show the fresh bruise blooming beneath her collarbone like a violet signature. She did not look back.
Sameek followed thirty seconds later, anonymous among the crowd, but his eyes tracked her the way a hawk tracks a flame. She walked the length of the coach, hips rolling under the crumpled black saree, the payal still singing its tiny silver song. At the very end, just before the footbridge steps, she paused, turned her head a fraction, and mouthed the words exactly as rehearsed:
Thank you, stranger.
Then she disappeared into the river of bodies.
Sameek’s cock throbbed so hard he had to adjust himself behind his bag. He waited the full ten minutes they had agreed, then took an auto to the small boutique hotel in Old Town she had booked under her cousin’s name. He paid the driver, walked through the bougainvillea archway, and found her key waiting at reception in an envelope marked “Mrs Sen – Room 12, Top Floor, Do Not Disturb.”
He did not knock.
The door was ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the corridor like honey. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Priyanka was standing in the middle of the room, back to him, completely naked except for the payal and the red silk scarf knotted loosely around her throat like a collar. The curtains were drawn wide; morning light poured over her skin, turning the dried salt-tracks of last night’s sweat into faint silver rivers down her spine. Between her thighs his spend from the train still glistened, never cleaned, just as he had ordered.
She did not turn.
“I was starting to think you got lost, stranger,” she said, voice husky from screaming into pillows and palms.
Sameek let the door click shut, locked it, dropped his bag. The sound of the deadbolt was loud in the quiet room.
“I was watching you walk,” he said. “Counting every step you took with my cum sliding down your legs. I almost came in my pants on the platform.”
She shivered, shoulders rolling. “Good. I want you insane for the next forty-eight hours.”
He crossed the room in four strides, caught her by the hair, pulled her head back until her throat arched and the scarf tightened. His mouth found the pulse hammering beneath her jaw.
“Then insane you’ll get.”
He kissed her like punishment, teeth clashing, tongue forcing her lips apart, tasting train dust and sleep and herself still on her tongue. She moaned into him, hands flying to his kurta, clawing at buttons. He let her strip him, but only halfway; when the kurta was open he spun her, pushed her forward until her palms hit the wide teak desk that faced the window.
“Hands there. Don’t move them.”
She obeyed instantly, legs spreading without being told. The payal chimed.
Sameek dropped to his knees behind her.
The sight punched the air from his lungs: her pussy swollen, lips parted and shining, his cum dried in white streaks down both inner thighs, fresh wetness already gathering again at her entrance. He pressed his face between her legs and inhaled like a man possessed.
“You smell like train fuck and hotel soap and ruin,” he growled against her. “Perfect.”
His tongue dragged up one thigh, collecting the mess he’d left, then the other, slow, deliberate, until she was shaking so hard the desk creaked.
“Sameek… please…”
“Please what?”
“Put your mouth on me. Drink us.”
He did. One long, filthy lick from clit to hole, gathering their mingled taste, swallowing it down like communion wine. She sobbed, pushing back against his face.
He ate her without mercy, tongue fucking deep, nose pressed to her clit, cheeks slick within minutes. When she started to buck he pulled away, stood, and brought his hand down on her ass, sharp, loud crack that made her cry out and the payal sing wildly.
“Still,” he ordered.
She tried. She failed. He spanked her again, harder, until her skin glowed pink and her thighs trembled.
Only then did he rise, fist his cock (already painfully hard again), and rub the head through her soaked folds.
“Look out the window,” he said.
She lifted her head. Across the narrow lane an old woman was hanging laundry on a rooftop; a boy flew a kite two buildings over. Normal life, ten metres away.
Sameek pushed in to the hilt.
Priyanka’s moan was loud enough to rattle the glass. He clamped a hand over her mouth, started fucking her with deep, punishing strokes that shoved the desk forward an inch with every thrust.
“Watch them,” he snarled into her ear. “Watch them live their boring little lives while I breed you against this window like a whore.”
She came on the spot, sudden and violent, walls fluttering around him, knees buckling. He held her up by the hips and kept going, chasing his own release, spilling inside her again with a groan that sounded like surrender.
They stayed locked together, panting, sweat dripping down his chest onto her back. Finally he pulled out, turned her, lifted her onto the desk so her ass rested on the edge, legs wrapped around his waist.
He kissed her slow this time, tasting tears.
“You’re crying again,” he whispered.
“Because I’m happy,” she whispered back. “Because this is the only place I’m allowed to be completely fucking shameless.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “Then be shameless. We have forty-eight hours.”
She laughed, wet and broken. “Only forty-eight?”
“Greedy.”
“Starved.”
He carried her to the bed, laid her down, and spent the next two days proving that starvation could be cured only by excess.
They never left the room.
Food came on trays they ignored until it went cold. Showers were taken together, her back against the tile, his cock buried inside her while water sluiced over them and she begged him to bruise her hips harder. He tied the red scarf around her eyes and made her crawl across the floor to find his cock by taste alone. He bent her over the balcony railing at 3 a.m. while a thunderstorm raged, fucking her from behind as lightning flashed and rain soaked them both, her screams lost in the roar of the sky.
On the second afternoon he laid her on her stomach, oiled his hands, and massaged every inch of her until she was boneless, then slid into her ass slow and relentless while she sobbed his name into the pillow. When he came he stayed inside, plugged her with himself, and whispered filth about keeping her like that forever, a living sleeve for his cock.
They slept in snatches, woke with mouths already searching, hands already greedy.
At night he sat in the armchair, legs spread, and made her ride him reverse cowgirl facing the mirror on the wardrobe door so she could watch her own tits bounce, watch his cock disappear into her over and over while he told her exactly how obscene she looked taking him.
She came so hard she squirted for the first time in her life, soaking his thighs, the chair, the floor, and he laughed like a devil who had finally won.
On the last morning they showered slowly, washing each other with the reverence of people performing a ritual they knew was ending. He knelt in the steam, licked her clean one final time, gentle now, almost worshipful.
When they dressed she put on a simple green salwar kameez, respectable again, the payal tucked into her purse, the red scarf knotted loosely at her throat like an ordinary accessory.
They checked out separately.
In the auto back to the station she sat beside him for the return journey, hands folded primly in her lap, the picture of a married woman going home to her husband.
Sameek boarded five minutes after her, took the same side lower berth, eyes carefully forward.
The train pulled out of Bhubaneswar at 21:10.
At 21:47 the lights dimmed.
At 21:52 his message arrived.
Sameek: Scarf. Mouth. Now.
She obeyed, heart already racing again.
Some addictions, once fed, only grow hungrier.
And the train kept moving, carrying them back to lives that would never quite fit anymore, carrying the space between their bodies filled with the echo of bells, the taste of stolen cum, and the promise of the next set of tickets already waiting in his inbox.
Because forty-eight hours was never going to be enough.
Sameek: 2A, Lower Berth 63 & Side Lower 64. Tatkal. Confirmed.
Two PDFs attached. Two strangers’ names: S. Ahmed & P. Sen.
Her stomach flipped so violently she had to grip the edge of the counter. The kitchen smelled of cumin and onions for her husband’s dinner, but all she could smell was the phantom sandalwood-citrus of Sameek’s skin.
Priyanka: You actually did it.
Sameek: I told you I keep promises, Devil Partner.
Priyanka: My husband thinks I’m visiting Mitali di in Bhubaneswar. I feel sick with excitement.
Sameek: Good. Keep that sickness for twenty-two nights. I want you trembling when you board.
Priyanka: And you? Will you tremble when you see me pretending not to know you?
Sameek: I’m already hard in office remembering how your voice cracked when you said “thank you, stranger” in the mirror room.
Priyanka: Stop. I’m wet and I still have to cook.
Sameek: Don’t wipe. Let it stay till he falls asleep. Then finger yourself thinking of the berth curtain brushing your cheek while I’m inside you. Send me the taste.
She locked the phone, pressed her thighs together so hard the seam of her salwar bit into her, and finished dinner with the smell of coriander and her own arousal mixing in the air like a confession she would never make out loud.
Three weeks later, seven minutes in the South City Mall car park was all they allowed themselves. Engines running, windows fogged by July heat and breath.
Sameek passed a tiny indigo cloth pouch through the gap in the window. Inside: a brand-new red silk scarf and a cheap silver payal with four tiny bells that looked almost childish until you imagined them singing against an ankle in the dark.
“For your left ankle,” he said, voice low enough to bruise. “I want to hear you coming before I see you.”
Her fingers closed around the cool metal. “And the scarf?”
“Gag. Blindfold. Or whatever I decide when the lights go off. Your choice ends the moment you tie it.”
She swallowed. “Safe word?”
“Lotus. Same as the red room.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, possessive. “But I don’t plan on letting you speak much.”
Seven minutes felt like seven seconds. The air between them crackled.
“I’m scared I’ll chicken out on the train,” she admitted, the words scbanging her throat.
Sameek’s eyes were black in the sodium light. “You won’t. Because you want my cum leaking down your thighs in front of sixty sleeping strangers more than you want to be good.”
She laughed, shaky, wet. “I hate that you’re right.”
He leaned in, kissed her once (hard, claiming, tasting of coffee and danger), then pulled back.
“Tomorrow night, 21:45, Howrah station, Platform 21. Black cotton saree with the thin silver border. No bra. No panties. I want to see your nipples against the blouse the moment you step into the coach.”
Her breath stuttered. “Yes, Master.”
The word slipped out unbidden. His eyes flared. He cupped her jaw roughly.
“Careful, Devil Partner. Keep calling me that and I’ll make you crawl the length of the sleeper coach on your knees.”
She pressed her thighs together again. “Promise?”
He released her, started the engine. “Go home. Pack light. And Priyanka?”
“Yes?”
“Dream of the exact moment the train lurches and I push all the way in. Dream of biting that red scarf so no one hears my name when you come.”
She did dream. She woke twice in the night soaked, thighs slick, husband snoring gently beside her, and had to bite her own wrist to keep from moaning Sameek’s name into the dark.
The next evening Howrah station smelled of diesel, fried luchis, and wet monsoon concrete. Priyanka walked slowly, the silver payal singing softly with every step (tink-tink-tink) under the pallu. The black saree clung to her hips; the blouse was backless, two strings barely holding it together. No one could see her nipples yet, but she felt them like hot coins against cotton, aching.
She found Coach A1, Berth 63. An old uncle was already snoring on the lower berth opposite. A young couple argued in whispers on 61-62. Perfect cover.
She hoisted her small suitcase, bent just enough to let the saree ride an inch higher on her calf, knowing Sameek was watching from the shadows near the door.
He boarded last, anonymous in a faded blue kurta, stubble heavier than usual, a small backpack slung over one shoulder. Side Lower 64 (directly opposite her, separated by nothing but two feet of aisle and a half-drawn green curtain).
Their eyes met for the first time in public as strangers.
Sameek’s gaze dropped to her left ankle, to the tiny bells, then dragged slowly up the saree, pausing where her nipples pressed obviously against the blouse now that the AC had hit her. His lips curved (barely a smile, more a promise).
He lifted his bag to the upper luggage rack, muscles flexing under the kurta, then sat on his berth facing her, legs spread wide, knees almost touching hers.
The train hadn’t moved yet, but Priyanka’s heart already rocked on invisible tracks.
22:15. The coach lights dimmed to blue night-lamps. The TT did his round, punched tickets, didn’t even glance twice at the two “unrelated” passengers.
Sameek took out his phone, typed without looking at the screen.
Sameek: Show me you obeyed.
Priyanka’s fingers trembled as she opened the camera, switched to front, angled it down under the blanket, lifted the saree just enough. A flash of bare thigh, the shadow between her legs, the glisten already there.
She sent the photo.
Sameek’s reply was instant.
Sameek: Good girl. Now put the scarf in your mouth. Knot it. I want teeth marks on silk by Kharagpur.
She glanced around. Uncle snoring. Young couple asleep, curtain drawn. She pulled the red scarf from her vanity pouch, folded it twice, pressed it between her teeth, tied it behind her head. The taste of new silk and her own anticipation flooded her tongue.
She looked across the aisle.
Sameek’s eyes were black in the blue light. He lifted two fingers, made a slow circle in the air (turn over, face the window).
Priyanka obeyed, lying on her side, knees drawn up like a sleeping woman. The payal tinkled softly as she moved.
Sameek waited a full five minutes, letting the coach settle into the rhythmic snoring of sixty strangers.
Then he moved.
Silent. Barefoot. He slid the green curtain half-shut behind him, knelt on the edge of her berth, and the world narrowed to the space of a thin foam mattress.
His hand found her ankle first (warm, possessive). He traced the payal bells with a thumb, then slid up the smooth calf, pushing the saree higher inch by inch. Cool AC air kissed the back of her knees, her thighs.
Priyanka’s breath fogged the window glass. Outside, Howrah’s lights blurred as the train finally lurched forward.
Sameek leaned over her, chest brushing her back, lips at the shell of her ear.
“Listen,” he whispered, so low only she could hear above the clatter of wheels. “Every sound you make belongs to me tonight. If you moan too loud, uncle wakes. If you scream, the couple records. Understand?”
She nodded against the pillow, the scarf already damp between her teeth.
His hand reached the top of her thigh, found bare skin, then nothing. A low growl of approval.
He cupped her fully, one large palm covering her pussy possessively. She was drenched. Two fingers slid along her slit, parting her, gathering wetness, spreading it up to her clit in a slow, deliberate circle.
Priyanka’s hips jerked involuntarily. The payal jingled.
Sameek’s other hand clamped on her hip (warning). Still.
He played with her like that for station after station (Shalimar, Santragachi, Kharagpur), never more than a lazy stroke, keeping her trembling on the edge, the scarf turning soaked with muffled whimpers.
At 01:12 the train slowed for Khurda Road. Most passengers dead asleep.
Sameek moved.
He shifted the blanket higher over them both, creating a small cave of darkness. Then he freed himself (kurta lifted just enough, pyjama pushed down). His cock pressed hot and heavy against the back of her thigh.
Priyanka felt it like a brand. She pushed back instinctively.
Sameek caught her waist, pinned her still, and lined up.
The train rocked hard as it accelerated again (perfect timing). He waited for the next sway, then pushed in with one slow, inexorable thrust.
Her muffled cry was swallowed by silk. Her body stretched, opened, took all of him in a single breath. The angle was brutal (side-lying, knees drawn up, nowhere for her to escape the depth).
He stayed buried, letting her adjust, letting the train do the work (every jerk and sway driving him a fraction deeper).
His mouth found her ear again.
“Feel that, Devil Partner? That’s me inside you while sixty people dream. While your husband sleeps in Kolkata. While the ticket checker walks past any second.”
Priyanka’s eyes watered. She nodded frantically.
He began to move (tiny, shallow thrusts disguised as the train’s motion). To anyone glancing, they were just two passengers sharing a lower berth for space. But inside the blanket, he was fucking her with lethal patience.
Minutes bled into an hour. Sameek never hurried. He kept her stuffed full, occasionally pulling out almost all the way, letting her feel the loss, then sliding back in until his hips met her ass.
The payal bells sang softly with every rock of the coach.
Sweat gathered between her breasts, under the blouse, down her spine. The scarf was sodden; drool leaked from the corner of her mouth onto the pillow.
Sameek slipped a hand under her blouse, found a nipple, rolled it slowly, then pinched (hard).
Priyanka’s entire body clenched around him. A strangled whimper escaped the gag.
He soothed the nipple with soft circles, then pinched the other just as cruelly.
Over and over. Pleasure-pain, fullness-emptiness, silence-danger.
At some point he reached for his phone, opened voice memos, pressed record without a word. The tiny red light glowed under the blanket like a demon’s eye.
Priyanka’s eyes widened. She shook her head frantically.
Sameek leaned close, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Shh. Just the wheels and your breathing and the wet sound of my cock inside you. Evidence, baby. For cold nights when we’re apart.”
He angled the phone lower, captured the slick push and pull, her muffled sobs, the soft jingle of the payal.
Then he slid it away, set it to keep recording on the luggage rack above, hidden.
His hand returned between her legs from the front now, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles.
Priyanka’s whole body went rigid. She clawed at the sheet, at his forearm, at nothing.
He did not slow. Did not give mercy.
“Come,” he whispered. “Come while the train takes us both to hell.”
The orgasm crashed over her like a wave against rocks. She bit down on the scarf so hard she tasted blood. Her pussy spasmed around him again and again, milking, begging.
Sameek groaned quietly, buried his face in her hair, and let go (hot pulses deep inside her, filling her exactly as he’d promised).
He stayed inside, plugging her, letting every drop settle.
After a minute he reached up, gently untied the scarf, pulled it from her mouth. She gasped, gulping air.
Sameek kissed the teeth marks on her lips, tender now.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She turned her head. In the blue night-lamp his eyes were soft and savage at once.
“You’re crying,” he said, thumbing away a tear.
“Because I’ve never felt this owned,” she breathed. “Not even in the mirror room. Not even in the red room. Here, with the whole world sleeping six inches away, I feel like your thing.”
He kissed her slow, tasting salt and silk. “You are my thing. And I’m yours.”
He pulled out carefully, tucked himself away, rearranged her saree like a gentleman tucking in a lover after ruining her. Then he kissed her forehead, stood, and slipped back to his berth as silently as he had come.
Priyanka lay curled on her side, thighs sticky, heart hammering, the payal still singing faintly every time the train swayed. She could feel his cum starting its slow journey down her inner thigh and did nothing to stop it.
Across the aisle, Sameek lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the underside of the upper berth, a small, feral smile on his lips.
The recording kept running until the battery died somewhere near Balasore.
Dawn crept in grey and humid. Priyanka woke to the sound of chai-w,.'s and the smell of wet iron. She sat up slowly, every muscle aching in the sweetest way. The saree clung to her skin; the blouse was twisted. She could feel the dried evidence of the night crusted between her thighs.
Sameek was already awake, pretending to read a newspaper, legs stretched out, bare feet almost touching her berth. He didn’t look at her, but his little toe brushed the edge of her mattress (once, twice), a secret Morse code.
She stood, adjusted her pallu, and walked past him toward the toilet, letting her hip graze his shoulder. As she passed, she let the pallu slip just enough for him to see the dark bruises blooming on the side of her breast where he had pinched her in the dark.
His sharp inhale was the only reward she needed.
In the stinking, swaying toilet she locked the door, lifted the saree, and looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her lips were swollen from the scarf. Her nipples dark and tender. Between her legs (his cum still there, mixed with hers, glistening). She touched herself once, brought the fingers to her mouth, tasted them both, and smiled at her own reflection a wicked, ruined smile.
She sent him a single photo: her fingers, shining.
Sameek: Breakfast?
She walked back through the coach, past sleeping bodies and early risers stretching, and paused at his berth.
“Excuse me,” she said loudly enough for the uncle to hear, “do you have water?”
Sameek handed her his bottle without meeting her eyes. Their fingers brushed. Electricity.
She drank, letting a drop slide deliberately down her chin, down her throat, disappearing into the neckline of her blouse. His jaw clenched.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, and returned to her berth.
He typed.
Sameek: You’ll pay for that drop later.
Priyanka: I’m counting on it.
The day passed in exquisite torture. They ate breakfast from the pantry (he bought two plates of alu paratha, passed her one without a word). She let her foot rest against his calf under the table, toes tracing slow circles. He fed her a piece of paratha from his plate with his fingers, eyes locked on hers, while the uncle dozed opposite.
Every touch hidden, every glance loaded.
By afternoon the coach had emptied a little; some passengers got off at Bhadrak. The young couple moved to the upper berths for a nap. Perfect.
Sameek stood, stretched, and walked past her berth toward the door (casual, normal). Thirty seconds later his message arrived.
Sameek: Door side. Now.
Priyanka’s heart slammed against her ribs. She waited a full minute, then followed.
The space between coaches was a narrow, swaying metal corridor, windows open, wind whipping her pallu. The noise of wheels on tracks was deafening (perfect cover).
Sameek was waiting, back against the locked door, arms folded.
The moment she stepped in he caught her wrist, pulled her flush against him, mouth crashing into hers, no gentleness, just hunger. The train lurched; they staggered together, her back hitting the vibrating wall.
His hand slid under her pallu, cupped her breast through the blouse, thumb flicking the nipple already hard.
“Missed these,” he growled against her lips.
“You had them six hours ago,” she gasped.
“Feels like six years.”
He spun her, pressed her front to the rattling door, lifted her saree from behind. The wind rushed up her bare legs, cooling the sticky mess he’d left.
“Hold the rail,” he ordered.
She gripped the metal bar as the train swayed. He entered her in one thrust, no warning, no teasing. She cried out (the wheels swallowed the sound).
He fucked her hard and fast, one hand over her mouth, the other bruising her hip. Thirty seconds, maybe forty (enough to make her come again, biting his palm, legs shaking so badly she almost fell when he pulled out).
He spun her back, kissed her once more, tasting her tears and the train’s dust.
“Go,” he said, voice rough. “Before someone needs the toilet.”
She straightened her saree with trembling fingers, walked back through the coach on jelly legs, cum now definitely sliding down both thighs.
Sameek followed two minutes later, face calm, newspaper folded under his arm like nothing had happened.
Evening brought the second night. The coach lights dimmed again. This time Priyanka didn’t wait for instructions.
She stood, walked to his berth, and simply climbed in beside him, pulling the curtain fully shut behind her.
Sameek’s eyes widened (half shock, half pride).
“Brave girl,” he murmured.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He did. Slow, filthy, tongues and teeth and saliva until they were both breathless. Then he pushed her down onto his narrow berth, head toward the aisle so her feet were against the window.
He knelt between her thighs, pushed the saree up to her waist, and ate her like a starving man (slow, deliberate licks from entrance to clit, sucking her folds into his mouth, tongue fucking her until she was sobbing into the pillow he’d pressed over her face).
When she came the second time that night, her entire body seized so hard the berth creaked. He didn’t stop until she was pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive, pleading.
Only then did he rise, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and slide into her again (this time face to face, blanket over them both, moving with the train’s rhythm like they were born to fuck on moving steel).
They came together, her nails digging into his shoulders, his mouth swallowing her scream.
Afterward they lay tangled, sweat cooling, hearts hammering against each other.
Sameek traced the bite mark he’d left on her collarbone.
“Tomorrow morning,” he whispered, “when we reach Bhubaneswar, you’ll walk past me on the platform. You’ll mouth ‘thank you, stranger’ exactly like we planned. And then you’ll go to your hotel room and wait for me to come ruin you properly for two straight days.”
Priyanka smiled against his chest, tasting salt and train dust.
“And after those two days?”
He kissed her hair. “After that we go home and pretend to be respectable again. Until the next time I book tickets.”
She laughed softly, the sound muffled against his skin.
“Book them soon.”
He squeezed her possessively. “Already did. December. Darjeeling Mail. Upper berth this time. I want you riding me while the mountains watch.”
She bit his shoulder to keep from moaning at the thought.
Outside, the train thundered through the Odisha night, carrying two strangers who belonged only to each other, carrying the taste of stolen cum and red silk, carrying the recording that would play on cold Kolkata nights when the city felt too small for the size of what they’d become.
Somewhere near Cuttack, Priyanka whispered into the dark, “Sameek?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
He kissed her slow and deep, the train rocking them together like a cradle built for sin.
“I know, Devil Partner. I’ve known since the first time you called me Master and meant it.”
And the wheels kept singing their endless metal lullaby, carrying them deeper into the life they could never live in daylight but would never, ever give up.
Bhubaneswar arrived at 06:47 under a sky the colour of wet steel.
The platform was already steaming, vendors shouting, coolies in red with effort. Priyanka stepped down first, suitcase in one hand, pallu slipping just enough to show the fresh bruise blooming beneath her collarbone like a violet signature. She did not look back.
Sameek followed thirty seconds later, anonymous among the crowd, but his eyes tracked her the way a hawk tracks a flame. She walked the length of the coach, hips rolling under the crumpled black saree, the payal still singing its tiny silver song. At the very end, just before the footbridge steps, she paused, turned her head a fraction, and mouthed the words exactly as rehearsed:
Thank you, stranger.
Then she disappeared into the river of bodies.
Sameek’s cock throbbed so hard he had to adjust himself behind his bag. He waited the full ten minutes they had agreed, then took an auto to the small boutique hotel in Old Town she had booked under her cousin’s name. He paid the driver, walked through the bougainvillea archway, and found her key waiting at reception in an envelope marked “Mrs Sen – Room 12, Top Floor, Do Not Disturb.”
He did not knock.
The door was ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the corridor like honey. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Priyanka was standing in the middle of the room, back to him, completely naked except for the payal and the red silk scarf knotted loosely around her throat like a collar. The curtains were drawn wide; morning light poured over her skin, turning the dried salt-tracks of last night’s sweat into faint silver rivers down her spine. Between her thighs his spend from the train still glistened, never cleaned, just as he had ordered.
She did not turn.
“I was starting to think you got lost, stranger,” she said, voice husky from screaming into pillows and palms.
Sameek let the door click shut, locked it, dropped his bag. The sound of the deadbolt was loud in the quiet room.
“I was watching you walk,” he said. “Counting every step you took with my cum sliding down your legs. I almost came in my pants on the platform.”
She shivered, shoulders rolling. “Good. I want you insane for the next forty-eight hours.”
He crossed the room in four strides, caught her by the hair, pulled her head back until her throat arched and the scarf tightened. His mouth found the pulse hammering beneath her jaw.
“Then insane you’ll get.”
He kissed her like punishment, teeth clashing, tongue forcing her lips apart, tasting train dust and sleep and herself still on her tongue. She moaned into him, hands flying to his kurta, clawing at buttons. He let her strip him, but only halfway; when the kurta was open he spun her, pushed her forward until her palms hit the wide teak desk that faced the window.
“Hands there. Don’t move them.”
She obeyed instantly, legs spreading without being told. The payal chimed.
Sameek dropped to his knees behind her.
The sight punched the air from his lungs: her pussy swollen, lips parted and shining, his cum dried in white streaks down both inner thighs, fresh wetness already gathering again at her entrance. He pressed his face between her legs and inhaled like a man possessed.
“You smell like train fuck and hotel soap and ruin,” he growled against her. “Perfect.”
His tongue dragged up one thigh, collecting the mess he’d left, then the other, slow, deliberate, until she was shaking so hard the desk creaked.
“Sameek… please…”
“Please what?”
“Put your mouth on me. Drink us.”
He did. One long, filthy lick from clit to hole, gathering their mingled taste, swallowing it down like communion wine. She sobbed, pushing back against his face.
He ate her without mercy, tongue fucking deep, nose pressed to her clit, cheeks slick within minutes. When she started to buck he pulled away, stood, and brought his hand down on her ass, sharp, loud crack that made her cry out and the payal sing wildly.
“Still,” he ordered.
She tried. She failed. He spanked her again, harder, until her skin glowed pink and her thighs trembled.
Only then did he rise, fist his cock (already painfully hard again), and rub the head through her soaked folds.
“Look out the window,” he said.
She lifted her head. Across the narrow lane an old woman was hanging laundry on a rooftop; a boy flew a kite two buildings over. Normal life, ten metres away.
Sameek pushed in to the hilt.
Priyanka’s moan was loud enough to rattle the glass. He clamped a hand over her mouth, started fucking her with deep, punishing strokes that shoved the desk forward an inch with every thrust.
“Watch them,” he snarled into her ear. “Watch them live their boring little lives while I breed you against this window like a whore.”
She came on the spot, sudden and violent, walls fluttering around him, knees buckling. He held her up by the hips and kept going, chasing his own release, spilling inside her again with a groan that sounded like surrender.
They stayed locked together, panting, sweat dripping down his chest onto her back. Finally he pulled out, turned her, lifted her onto the desk so her ass rested on the edge, legs wrapped around his waist.
He kissed her slow this time, tasting tears.
“You’re crying again,” he whispered.
“Because I’m happy,” she whispered back. “Because this is the only place I’m allowed to be completely fucking shameless.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “Then be shameless. We have forty-eight hours.”
She laughed, wet and broken. “Only forty-eight?”
“Greedy.”
“Starved.”
He carried her to the bed, laid her down, and spent the next two days proving that starvation could be cured only by excess.
They never left the room.
Food came on trays they ignored until it went cold. Showers were taken together, her back against the tile, his cock buried inside her while water sluiced over them and she begged him to bruise her hips harder. He tied the red scarf around her eyes and made her crawl across the floor to find his cock by taste alone. He bent her over the balcony railing at 3 a.m. while a thunderstorm raged, fucking her from behind as lightning flashed and rain soaked them both, her screams lost in the roar of the sky.
On the second afternoon he laid her on her stomach, oiled his hands, and massaged every inch of her until she was boneless, then slid into her ass slow and relentless while she sobbed his name into the pillow. When he came he stayed inside, plugged her with himself, and whispered filth about keeping her like that forever, a living sleeve for his cock.
They slept in snatches, woke with mouths already searching, hands already greedy.
At night he sat in the armchair, legs spread, and made her ride him reverse cowgirl facing the mirror on the wardrobe door so she could watch her own tits bounce, watch his cock disappear into her over and over while he told her exactly how obscene she looked taking him.
She came so hard she squirted for the first time in her life, soaking his thighs, the chair, the floor, and he laughed like a devil who had finally won.
On the last morning they showered slowly, washing each other with the reverence of people performing a ritual they knew was ending. He knelt in the steam, licked her clean one final time, gentle now, almost worshipful.
When they dressed she put on a simple green salwar kameez, respectable again, the payal tucked into her purse, the red scarf knotted loosely at her throat like an ordinary accessory.
They checked out separately.
In the auto back to the station she sat beside him for the return journey, hands folded primly in her lap, the picture of a married woman going home to her husband.
Sameek boarded five minutes after her, took the same side lower berth, eyes carefully forward.
The train pulled out of Bhubaneswar at 21:10.
At 21:47 the lights dimmed.
At 21:52 his message arrived.
Sameek: Scarf. Mouth. Now.
She obeyed, heart already racing again.
Some addictions, once fed, only grow hungrier.
And the train kept moving, carrying them back to lives that would never quite fit anymore, carrying the space between their bodies filled with the echo of bells, the taste of stolen cum, and the promise of the next set of tickets already waiting in his inbox.
Because forty-eight hours was never going to be enough.
Komal.
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