27-01-2026, 01:24 AM
Part 3:
His grunt vibrated against her breast. A sudden, sharp clarity cut through her numbness—if she had to be here, she would not just be taken. She would play. Tilting forward, she extended her tongue and slowly dragged the flat of it over the sweat-slicked crown of his head. The salt of his sweat was bitter, the skin surprisingly smooth under her hesitant stroke.
He froze for a second, then a choked, eager sound escaped him. “You filthy little learner,” he rasped, his voice muffled by her flesh, his hands gripping her hips tighter.
The words were a spark on dry tinder, igniting a reckless fire in her gut. She wanted to wipe that possessive grin off his face, even if it meant diving deeper into the filth. With a sharp, decisive twist of her hips and a kick of her legs, she yanked the loose salwar down past her knees and kicked the garment away entirely, the fabric slithering off the bed onto the stained floor.
Now completely naked from the waist down, she leaned forward, her bare thighs pressing against his ribs. She enveloped his entire bald head between her breasts, squeezing with her arms, smothering him in soft, warm flesh. Then she lowered her mouth to the crown of his head, planting a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses on his sweat-damp scalp, her lips moving with a perfunctory rhythm that felt like a strange, silent rebellion.
He groaned, a deep, gratified rumble that she felt through her chest. “Yeah, you fucking get it now,” he slurred, his hands sliding from her hips to grip the full, aching swell of her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “All that high-class pharmacy lady bullshit, just an act.” His words were hot and damp against her sternum. “This is what you are. A cheap, hungry cunt who gets wet for a real man.”
One of his thick fingers, calloused and insistent, found its way between her legs from behind, not entering her but pressing hard against her clit, rubbing rough, circular patterns. A jolt shot through her, a wire of pure sensation tripped despite her mind’s revolt. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, muffled against his skin. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, and the traitorous movement made her want to weep.
“See?” he chuckled darkly, the finger working her faster. “Your body’s smarter than you are. It knows its purpose.” His voice was a thick, satisfied rumble against her skin. Then, with a sudden heave of his shoulders, he pushed her off.
Kriti tumbled onto her back beside him, the mattress shuddering. The torn silk of her kameez was now a damp, open ruin across her chest. Hemant grunted as he sat up straight, his bulk creating a deep valley in the bed.
He reached over, his hand surprisingly not rough as it closed around her upper arm. He guided her up until she was sitting beside him, their naked hips touching. The contrast of their skin was stark—her smooth, honey-toned thigh against his pale, hairy leg.
His gaze held hers, a flicker of something beyond pure hunger in his small eyes. Then his hand moved, slowly, to the back of her head. His thick fingers tangled deep into the smooth, black strands of her hair, not pulling, but claiming.
He applied gentle, inexorable pressure, drawing her face toward his. Kriti didn’t resist. She let herself be pulled, her own breath catching, part of her marveling at this parody of tenderness.
Their lips met. His were surprisingly soft, but the taste was instantly familiar—bitter paan, stale tobacco, and power. He kissed her slowly, a deep, exploring pressure that demanded a response.
Kriti closed her eyes. A memory of Shikhar’s dry, perfunctory pecks flashed and shattered. She parted her lips. Her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, then with a deliberate, sliding curl.
She heard him inhale sharply through his nose, a sound of pure victory. Her hand, which had been limp at her side, rose of its own volition. It settled on his bare, sweaty shoulder, her fingers pressing into the solid, repellent flesh.
She kissed him back, opening her mouth wider, letting his tongue delve deeper. The sour taste filled her, and in that moment, she consumed her own complicity. It was not passion, but a cold, furious transaction, and her active, seeking tongue was the final, damning payment.
She let his tongue explore her mouth, her fingers now clutching at the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder as if she were drowning. Hemant broke the kiss with a wet sound, his breathing ragged, and used light force to bring Kriti even closer, wrapping one thick arm around her torso while his other hand remained tangled in the hair behind her head. "That's it, give it all to me," he grunted, his lips against her temple, the cloying scent of his pomade filling her nostrils.
The command in his voice, the smell of his hair, it all coalesced into a cage. Her compliance snapped. She shoved hard against his shoulder with a sudden, surprising force, breaking his grasp. "Wait," she said, her own voice sounding foreign, low and thick.
He blinked, his face slack with stupid surprise as she twisted away from his arm. She moved on the stained bedspread, positioning herself before he could react, and then lowered herself deliberately into his naked lap. His thick erection, hot and insistently hard, pressed against the back of her thigh. She felt the damp heat of his stomach against her spine.
Then she turned to face him, her movements deliberate and slow. She raised her hands, palms slick with her own sweat and his, and framed his jowly face. His skin was coarse with stubble, oily to the touch. She held him there, forcing his small, bewildered eyes to meet hers in the dim light.
She saw the flicker of irritation, then a dark, intrigued amusement. She didn’t give him time to speak. Leaning in, she covered his mouth with hers, but this was nothing like the kiss he had taken. This was possession. She kissed him harder, her lips forceful, her tongue plunging past his teeth without invitation, mapping the rotten landscape within. She tasted the decay, the paan, the cheap whisky, and she consumed it all, a bitter sacrament. A muffled grunt escaped him, a vibration against her mouth that was part shock, part arousal. His big hands came up and clenched around her bare waist, his grip tightening like a vise, but he didn’t push her away. He held on, letting her lead this brutal dance, his own hunger momentarily stunned into submission.
He held on, letting her lead this brutal dance, his own hunger momentarily stunned into submission. Her tongue was a ruthless invader now, and he yielded to it with a choked, approving groan. When she finally broke the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting their mouths, his eyes were glazed and eager. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands kneading the flesh of her waist. But the predatory focus had returned to his eyes, the brief spell of her control shattered. He gave her a rough squeeze, then shoved her off his lap with a grunt. “Enough playing. I can’t wait anymore.”
Kriti moved wordlessly, her body obeying before her mind could protest. She settled beside him on the creaking bed, the torn silk of her kameez hanging open. She knew what was expected. Taking a slow breath that tasted of him and stale air, she lowered her head into his lap.
The coarse, wiry thicket of his pubic hair scratched against her cheek. It was an unpleasant, prickling sensation. “Why don’t you shave these off?” she mumbled, her voice muffled against his skin, the question absurd and small in the heavy silence.
Hemant barked a short, derisive laugh. “What, and look like some hairless boy?” He patted her head, his fingers tangling in her hair possessively. “This is a man. You’ll take me as I am.”
Kriti shook her head slowly, a minute gesture of resignation. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of his swollen belly. She inhaled, her nose nearly touching the tip of him. The scent was musky, sharp with male sweat and a faint, sour tang she’d come to know. With her right hand, she gently grasped the base of his penis, feeling the hot, veined weight of it. The skin was surprisingly soft there, stretched taut.
She leaned in, her lips parting. Slowly, gently, she planted a series of soft, closed-mouth kisses on the swollen, ruddy tip. Each press of her lips was deliberate, a silent echo of the kisses she’d once imagined for a different life.
Hemant let out a satisfied sigh, his hand stroking her head playfully, as if petting a dog. “Good girl,” he rumbled, his hips shifting slightly. “Now get it wet.”
Kriti opened her eyes, focusing on the detailed landscape before her. She extended her tongue, flattening it against the salty slit. Then she dragged it slowly down the entire thick length of his shaft, from the flared head to the root buried in coarse hair. The taste was bitter and unequivocally male. She repeated the motion, a long, languid lick, coating him with her saliva, her own heartbeat a dull thud in her ears.
She repeated the motion, a long, languid lick, coating him with her saliva, her own heartbeat a dull thud in her ears.
“Wider,” he commanded, his voice a guttural push.
She opened her mouth, letting the broad, spongy head press against her lips, and took him inside. The immediate taste was a bitter, salty flood that made the back of her throat constrict. She relaxed her jaw, letting him slide deeper, the sensitive ridge of his crown hitting the roof of her mouth. She moved slowly at first, a shallow, tentative rhythm, her tongue pressed flat against the throbbing underside.
“Use your fucking hand, too,” he grunted, his hips giving a slight jerk. “Don’t be lazy.”
Her left hand, which had been braced on his hairy thigh, wrapped around the base of his shaft, her fingers barely meeting. She began to move her hand in time with the bobbing of her head, creating a tight, twisting tunnel of fist and mouth. The syncopated rhythm was clinical, a learned technique from countless other motel-room nights, and she fell into it with a detached precision. The wet, sucking sounds filled the stale air, obscene and rhythmic. Saliva dripped from her stretched lips, coating her chin and his fist where it met her mouth.
“That’s it, you fucking slut,” he moaned, one hand gripping the stained bedspread, the other returning to the back of her head. His fingers tightened in her hair, not guiding yet, just holding. “Just like that. Take it all.”
She pushed further, feeling the thick length nudge the entrance to her throat. Her eyes watered instantly, a reflexive burn. She pulled back, gasping softly for air, a string of spit bridging her lips to his glistening skin. The cool motel air felt sharp on her wet chin.
“None of that,” he snapped, his voice edged with impatience. He applied downward pressure on her head. “You know how to swallow it. Stop fucking around.”
She inhaled sharply through her nose, steeling herself, and took him in again. This time, when he hit that resistant barrier, she forced her muscles to relent, to open. The head of his penis pushed into her throat, a solid, insistent invasion that triggered a gag so violent her whole body clenched. She held it, tears streaming from her squeezed-shut eyes, the primal urge to vomit a roaring storm in her gut. She could feel the violent pulse of his heartbeat in the meat of him.
After a few seconds that stretched into a lifetime, he let her up. She dragged herself off him, coughing, saliva and tears mingling on her face. Oxygen burned back into her lungs.
“Wipe your face and get back to work,” he said, watching her dispassionately. “I’m not paying you to cry.”
Kriti swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the wetness. She looked at him, at his smug, expectant face glowing with sweat in the lamplight. A cold rage settled over her, clearer than the tears. She lowered her head again, but this time her approach was different. There was no tenderness, no exploratory licks. She took him back into her mouth with a sudden, engulfing hunger that made him gasp.
She worked him with a brutal, efficient rhythm, her head pistoning in his lap. Her hand twisted tightly at the base, her fingers a vise. She used her tongue aggressively, jabbing and swirling around the head each time she pulled back, focusing on the spot just beneath the crown that made his thighs tremble. The wet noises were louder now, sloppy and emphatic.
“Oh fuck, yes,” he choked out, his hands now both fisted in her hair, controlling the pace, forcing her deeper onto each downstroke. “Your husband ever get his dick sucked like this? Huh? That useless fuck ever make you gag on it?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Her world narrowed to the salt-and-skin taste flooding her mouth, the ache in her jaw, the scbang of his pubic hair against her nose, and the heavy, frantic weights of his hands on her skull. She breathed in ragged bursts through her nostrils, the air thick with the smell of him and the room’s perpetual decay.
He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips pumping up to meet her, thrusting past her lips with a force that stole her breath. Her throat opened and closed around him, a raw, used passage. The pressure built, a coiled tension in his groin and in the grunts tearing from his chest. His breathing became sharp, ragged saw-blades of air.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained and high. “Don’t you dare stop. You swallow every fucking drop, you understand me?”
Kriti’s rhythm didn’t falter. She increased it, her movements becoming a frantic, focused drill, her mouth a slick, punishing instrument. She wanted him to finish. She needed this part to be over.
His body went rigid. A guttural, shapeless roar erupted from him, and his hands clamped her head in a final, brutal lock, holding her impaled as he erupted. The first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the viscous fluid a shocking, warm rush. Another followed, and another, each contraction of his body forcing more into her. She kept swallowing, her throat working, until the pulses subsided into weak tremors.
He finally released his death-grip on her hair, his body collapsing back onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. Kriti pulled away slowly, her lips making a soft, wet sound of release. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, her mouth flooded with the lingering, acrid aftertaste. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the wall, at the peeling floral pattern, while he lay there panting, spent.
His grunt vibrated against her breast. A sudden, sharp clarity cut through her numbness—if she had to be here, she would not just be taken. She would play. Tilting forward, she extended her tongue and slowly dragged the flat of it over the sweat-slicked crown of his head. The salt of his sweat was bitter, the skin surprisingly smooth under her hesitant stroke.
He froze for a second, then a choked, eager sound escaped him. “You filthy little learner,” he rasped, his voice muffled by her flesh, his hands gripping her hips tighter.
The words were a spark on dry tinder, igniting a reckless fire in her gut. She wanted to wipe that possessive grin off his face, even if it meant diving deeper into the filth. With a sharp, decisive twist of her hips and a kick of her legs, she yanked the loose salwar down past her knees and kicked the garment away entirely, the fabric slithering off the bed onto the stained floor.
Now completely naked from the waist down, she leaned forward, her bare thighs pressing against his ribs. She enveloped his entire bald head between her breasts, squeezing with her arms, smothering him in soft, warm flesh. Then she lowered her mouth to the crown of his head, planting a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses on his sweat-damp scalp, her lips moving with a perfunctory rhythm that felt like a strange, silent rebellion.
He groaned, a deep, gratified rumble that she felt through her chest. “Yeah, you fucking get it now,” he slurred, his hands sliding from her hips to grip the full, aching swell of her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “All that high-class pharmacy lady bullshit, just an act.” His words were hot and damp against her sternum. “This is what you are. A cheap, hungry cunt who gets wet for a real man.”
One of his thick fingers, calloused and insistent, found its way between her legs from behind, not entering her but pressing hard against her clit, rubbing rough, circular patterns. A jolt shot through her, a wire of pure sensation tripped despite her mind’s revolt. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, muffled against his skin. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, and the traitorous movement made her want to weep.
“See?” he chuckled darkly, the finger working her faster. “Your body’s smarter than you are. It knows its purpose.” His voice was a thick, satisfied rumble against her skin. Then, with a sudden heave of his shoulders, he pushed her off.
Kriti tumbled onto her back beside him, the mattress shuddering. The torn silk of her kameez was now a damp, open ruin across her chest. Hemant grunted as he sat up straight, his bulk creating a deep valley in the bed.
He reached over, his hand surprisingly not rough as it closed around her upper arm. He guided her up until she was sitting beside him, their naked hips touching. The contrast of their skin was stark—her smooth, honey-toned thigh against his pale, hairy leg.
His gaze held hers, a flicker of something beyond pure hunger in his small eyes. Then his hand moved, slowly, to the back of her head. His thick fingers tangled deep into the smooth, black strands of her hair, not pulling, but claiming.
He applied gentle, inexorable pressure, drawing her face toward his. Kriti didn’t resist. She let herself be pulled, her own breath catching, part of her marveling at this parody of tenderness.
Their lips met. His were surprisingly soft, but the taste was instantly familiar—bitter paan, stale tobacco, and power. He kissed her slowly, a deep, exploring pressure that demanded a response.
Kriti closed her eyes. A memory of Shikhar’s dry, perfunctory pecks flashed and shattered. She parted her lips. Her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, then with a deliberate, sliding curl.
She heard him inhale sharply through his nose, a sound of pure victory. Her hand, which had been limp at her side, rose of its own volition. It settled on his bare, sweaty shoulder, her fingers pressing into the solid, repellent flesh.
She kissed him back, opening her mouth wider, letting his tongue delve deeper. The sour taste filled her, and in that moment, she consumed her own complicity. It was not passion, but a cold, furious transaction, and her active, seeking tongue was the final, damning payment.
She let his tongue explore her mouth, her fingers now clutching at the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder as if she were drowning. Hemant broke the kiss with a wet sound, his breathing ragged, and used light force to bring Kriti even closer, wrapping one thick arm around her torso while his other hand remained tangled in the hair behind her head. "That's it, give it all to me," he grunted, his lips against her temple, the cloying scent of his pomade filling her nostrils.
The command in his voice, the smell of his hair, it all coalesced into a cage. Her compliance snapped. She shoved hard against his shoulder with a sudden, surprising force, breaking his grasp. "Wait," she said, her own voice sounding foreign, low and thick.
He blinked, his face slack with stupid surprise as she twisted away from his arm. She moved on the stained bedspread, positioning herself before he could react, and then lowered herself deliberately into his naked lap. His thick erection, hot and insistently hard, pressed against the back of her thigh. She felt the damp heat of his stomach against her spine.
Then she turned to face him, her movements deliberate and slow. She raised her hands, palms slick with her own sweat and his, and framed his jowly face. His skin was coarse with stubble, oily to the touch. She held him there, forcing his small, bewildered eyes to meet hers in the dim light.
She saw the flicker of irritation, then a dark, intrigued amusement. She didn’t give him time to speak. Leaning in, she covered his mouth with hers, but this was nothing like the kiss he had taken. This was possession. She kissed him harder, her lips forceful, her tongue plunging past his teeth without invitation, mapping the rotten landscape within. She tasted the decay, the paan, the cheap whisky, and she consumed it all, a bitter sacrament. A muffled grunt escaped him, a vibration against her mouth that was part shock, part arousal. His big hands came up and clenched around her bare waist, his grip tightening like a vise, but he didn’t push her away. He held on, letting her lead this brutal dance, his own hunger momentarily stunned into submission.
He held on, letting her lead this brutal dance, his own hunger momentarily stunned into submission. Her tongue was a ruthless invader now, and he yielded to it with a choked, approving groan. When she finally broke the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting their mouths, his eyes were glazed and eager. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands kneading the flesh of her waist. But the predatory focus had returned to his eyes, the brief spell of her control shattered. He gave her a rough squeeze, then shoved her off his lap with a grunt. “Enough playing. I can’t wait anymore.”
Kriti moved wordlessly, her body obeying before her mind could protest. She settled beside him on the creaking bed, the torn silk of her kameez hanging open. She knew what was expected. Taking a slow breath that tasted of him and stale air, she lowered her head into his lap.
The coarse, wiry thicket of his pubic hair scratched against her cheek. It was an unpleasant, prickling sensation. “Why don’t you shave these off?” she mumbled, her voice muffled against his skin, the question absurd and small in the heavy silence.
Hemant barked a short, derisive laugh. “What, and look like some hairless boy?” He patted her head, his fingers tangling in her hair possessively. “This is a man. You’ll take me as I am.”
Kriti shook her head slowly, a minute gesture of resignation. She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of his swollen belly. She inhaled, her nose nearly touching the tip of him. The scent was musky, sharp with male sweat and a faint, sour tang she’d come to know. With her right hand, she gently grasped the base of his penis, feeling the hot, veined weight of it. The skin was surprisingly soft there, stretched taut.
She leaned in, her lips parting. Slowly, gently, she planted a series of soft, closed-mouth kisses on the swollen, ruddy tip. Each press of her lips was deliberate, a silent echo of the kisses she’d once imagined for a different life.
Hemant let out a satisfied sigh, his hand stroking her head playfully, as if petting a dog. “Good girl,” he rumbled, his hips shifting slightly. “Now get it wet.”
Kriti opened her eyes, focusing on the detailed landscape before her. She extended her tongue, flattening it against the salty slit. Then she dragged it slowly down the entire thick length of his shaft, from the flared head to the root buried in coarse hair. The taste was bitter and unequivocally male. She repeated the motion, a long, languid lick, coating him with her saliva, her own heartbeat a dull thud in her ears.
She repeated the motion, a long, languid lick, coating him with her saliva, her own heartbeat a dull thud in her ears.
“Wider,” he commanded, his voice a guttural push.
She opened her mouth, letting the broad, spongy head press against her lips, and took him inside. The immediate taste was a bitter, salty flood that made the back of her throat constrict. She relaxed her jaw, letting him slide deeper, the sensitive ridge of his crown hitting the roof of her mouth. She moved slowly at first, a shallow, tentative rhythm, her tongue pressed flat against the throbbing underside.
“Use your fucking hand, too,” he grunted, his hips giving a slight jerk. “Don’t be lazy.”
Her left hand, which had been braced on his hairy thigh, wrapped around the base of his shaft, her fingers barely meeting. She began to move her hand in time with the bobbing of her head, creating a tight, twisting tunnel of fist and mouth. The syncopated rhythm was clinical, a learned technique from countless other motel-room nights, and she fell into it with a detached precision. The wet, sucking sounds filled the stale air, obscene and rhythmic. Saliva dripped from her stretched lips, coating her chin and his fist where it met her mouth.
“That’s it, you fucking slut,” he moaned, one hand gripping the stained bedspread, the other returning to the back of her head. His fingers tightened in her hair, not guiding yet, just holding. “Just like that. Take it all.”
She pushed further, feeling the thick length nudge the entrance to her throat. Her eyes watered instantly, a reflexive burn. She pulled back, gasping softly for air, a string of spit bridging her lips to his glistening skin. The cool motel air felt sharp on her wet chin.
“None of that,” he snapped, his voice edged with impatience. He applied downward pressure on her head. “You know how to swallow it. Stop fucking around.”
She inhaled sharply through her nose, steeling herself, and took him in again. This time, when he hit that resistant barrier, she forced her muscles to relent, to open. The head of his penis pushed into her throat, a solid, insistent invasion that triggered a gag so violent her whole body clenched. She held it, tears streaming from her squeezed-shut eyes, the primal urge to vomit a roaring storm in her gut. She could feel the violent pulse of his heartbeat in the meat of him.
After a few seconds that stretched into a lifetime, he let her up. She dragged herself off him, coughing, saliva and tears mingling on her face. Oxygen burned back into her lungs.
“Wipe your face and get back to work,” he said, watching her dispassionately. “I’m not paying you to cry.”
Kriti swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the wetness. She looked at him, at his smug, expectant face glowing with sweat in the lamplight. A cold rage settled over her, clearer than the tears. She lowered her head again, but this time her approach was different. There was no tenderness, no exploratory licks. She took him back into her mouth with a sudden, engulfing hunger that made him gasp.
She worked him with a brutal, efficient rhythm, her head pistoning in his lap. Her hand twisted tightly at the base, her fingers a vise. She used her tongue aggressively, jabbing and swirling around the head each time she pulled back, focusing on the spot just beneath the crown that made his thighs tremble. The wet noises were louder now, sloppy and emphatic.
“Oh fuck, yes,” he choked out, his hands now both fisted in her hair, controlling the pace, forcing her deeper onto each downstroke. “Your husband ever get his dick sucked like this? Huh? That useless fuck ever make you gag on it?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Her world narrowed to the salt-and-skin taste flooding her mouth, the ache in her jaw, the scbang of his pubic hair against her nose, and the heavy, frantic weights of his hands on her skull. She breathed in ragged bursts through her nostrils, the air thick with the smell of him and the room’s perpetual decay.
He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips pumping up to meet her, thrusting past her lips with a force that stole her breath. Her throat opened and closed around him, a raw, used passage. The pressure built, a coiled tension in his groin and in the grunts tearing from his chest. His breathing became sharp, ragged saw-blades of air.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained and high. “Don’t you dare stop. You swallow every fucking drop, you understand me?”
Kriti’s rhythm didn’t falter. She increased it, her movements becoming a frantic, focused drill, her mouth a slick, punishing instrument. She wanted him to finish. She needed this part to be over.
His body went rigid. A guttural, shapeless roar erupted from him, and his hands clamped her head in a final, brutal lock, holding her impaled as he erupted. The first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the viscous fluid a shocking, warm rush. Another followed, and another, each contraction of his body forcing more into her. She kept swallowing, her throat working, until the pulses subsided into weak tremors.
He finally released his death-grip on her hair, his body collapsing back onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. Kriti pulled away slowly, her lips making a soft, wet sound of release. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, her mouth flooded with the lingering, acrid aftertaste. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the wall, at the peeling floral pattern, while he lay there panting, spent.
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