08-03-2026, 04:55 PM
We reached the basketball ground, Arjun’s small hand tight in mine, my saree pallu still slightly askew from the adjustment, brushing my ass cheeks over the petticoat. The coach stood at the edge of the court, whistle around his neck, tracksuit clinging to his chest from the morning humidity. His eyes locked on me the moment I appeared, dark and heavy, stripping me bare without a single touch.
He stepped forward, voice low and rough, pretending to speak to Arjun but never taking his gaze off my body.
"Good morning, madam. Brought him early today. Good. Let him watch the older boys first, then we’ll see if he wants to join."
His stare dropped immediately to my boobs, lingering on the way they pushed hard against the blouse, nipples poking prominently over the blouse, thick and dark through the thin material. His pupils dilated, breath deepening as he imagined grabbing them, squeezing them until they overflowed his palms, pinching my nipples until I gasped. He licked his lips once, unconsciously, eyes tracing the deep cleavage framed by the blouse neckline, the mangalsutra swinging heavily between my boobs like an invitation he wanted to rip away.
His gaze slid lower, slow and deliberate, to my bare stomach, fixing on my deep navel exposed below the low saree waist. He stared at the oval hollow as if he could taste it, tongue already flicking in his mind, circling the rim, plunging inside while his hands held my hips. His nostrils flared, breathing harder, cock visibly twitching in his tracksuit pants, the outline thickening as he pictured burying his face between my thighs, lapping at my pussy lips until they dripped for him.
Then his eyes moved to my hips, widening at the flare, imagining gripping them hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he pounded my pussy from behind. His stare dropped to my ass cheeks, the saree molding perfectly to the lush rounds, the gentleseam of the panties visible over the saree where it hugged the deep cleft. He swallowed thickly, cock now fully hard, straining against his pants, the head pushing against the material as he fantasized spreading my ass cheeks, sliding his tongue over my asshole, then forcing his cock deep inside while I moaned beneath him.
Every inch of me he fucked with his eyes—my boobs, my navel, my pussy hidden under the saree, my ass cheeks begging to be slapped and spread. His breathing grew ragged, hand twitching toward his crotch before he caught himself, adjusting his stance to hide the obvious erection tenting his pants. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the heat, but from the raw, filthy images he was building in his mind: me bent over the bench, saree pulled up, panties dragged aside, pussy lips parted as he rammed inside, my boobs bouncing free, nipples hard, ass cheeks rippling with each thrust.
I hated him. Hated the way his ugly face flushed with lust, hated the way his cock hardened just looking at me, hated that he thought he could mentally fuck me right there in front of my son and the other children. Rage burned in my chest, my pussy clenching in disgust inside the soaked panties, juices no longer from arousal but from fury. Yet for Arjun, I tolerated him. I forced a tight smile, voice cold and controlled.
"Thank you. He’ll watch for now. I’ll stay close."
The coach nodded, eyes still locked on my boobs, then dropping once more to my navel, then lower to my hips, his cock twitching visibly in his pants as he turned back to the game, pretending to focus on the children while his mind continued to fuck me raw.
"No problem, madam. You can sit on the bench if you want. I’ll keep an eye on him."
His voice dropped lower on the last words, eyes flicking back to my ass cheeks, imagining bending me over that very bench, spreading my ass cheeks, ramming his cock into my pussy while I gripped the wood. I felt his stare like a physical touch, violating every inch of me again. I hated him more with every second, but I stayed rooted, holding Arjun’s hand, body rigid with anger, nipples aching over the blouse from the unwanted attention, pussy throbbing with loathing, yet I tolerated every filthy glance—for my son, for the promise, for the voice that might one day break free. The coach continued to fuck me through his eyes, every glance a violation, and I hated every second of it.
slightly askew from the adjustment, brushing my ass cheeks over the petticoat. The coach stood at the edge of the court, whistle around his neck, tracksuit clinging to his chest from the morning humidity. His eyes locked on me the moment I appeared, dark and heavy, stripping me bare without a single touch.
He stepped forward, voice low and rough, pretending to speak to Arjun but never taking his gaze off my body.
"Good morning, madam. Brought him early today. Good. Let him watch the older boys first, then we’ll see if he wants to join."
His stare dropped immediately to my boobs, lingering on the way they pushed hard against the blouse, nipples poking prominently over the blouse, thick and dark through the thin material. His pupils dilated, breath deepening as he imagined grabbing them, squeezing them until they overflowed his palms, pinching my nipples until I gasped. He licked his lips once, unconsciously, eyes tracing the deep cleavage framed by the blouse neckline, the mangalsutra swinging heavily between my boobs like an invitation he wanted to rip away.
His gaze slid lower, slow and deliberate, to my bare stomach, fixing on my deep navel exposed below the low saree waist. He stared at the oval hollow as if he could taste it, tongue already flicking in his mind, circling the rim, plunging inside while his hands held my hips. His nostrils flared, breathing harder, cock visibly twitching in his tracksuit pants, the outline thickening as he pictured burying his face between my thighs, lapping at my pussy lips until they dripped for him.
Then his eyes moved to my hips, widening at the flare, imagining gripping them hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he pounded my pussy from behind. His stare dropped to my ass cheeks, the saree molding perfectly to the lush rounds, the gentleseam of the panties visible over the saree where it hugged the deep cleft. He swallowed thickly, cock now fully hard, straining against his pants, the head pushing against the material as he fantasized spreading my ass cheeks, sliding his tongue over my asshole, then forcing his cock deep inside while I moaned beneath him.
Every inch of me he fucked with his eyes—my boobs, my navel, my pussy hidden under the saree, my ass cheeks begging to be slapped and spread. His breathing grew ragged, hand twitching toward his crotch before he caught himself, adjusting his stance to hide the obvious erection tenting his pants. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the heat, but from the raw, filthy images he was building in his mind: me bent over the bench, saree pulled up, panties dragged aside, pussy lips parted as he rammed inside, my boobs bouncing free, nipples hard, ass cheeks rippling with each thrust.
I hated him. Hated the way his ugly face flushed with lust, hated the way his cock hardened just looking at me, hated that he thought he could mentally fuck me right there in front of my son and the other children. Rage burned in my chest, my pussy clenching in disgust inside the soaked panties, juices no longer from arousal but from fury. Yet for Arjun, I tolerated him. I forced a tight smile, voice cold and controlled.
"Thank you. He’ll watch for now. I’ll stay close."
The coach nodded, eyes still locked on my boobs, then dropping once more to my navel, then lower to my hips, his cock twitching visibly in his pants as he turned back to the game, pretending to focus on the children while his mind continued to fuck me raw.
"No problem, madam. You can sit on the bench if you want. I’ll keep an eye on him."
His voice dropped lower on the last words, eyes flicking back to my ass cheeks, imagining bending me over that very bench, spreading my ass cheeks, ramming his cock into my pussy while I gripped the wood. I felt his stare like a physical touch, violating every inch of me again. I hated him more with every second, but I stayed rooted, holding Arjun’s hand, body rigid with anger, nipples aching over the blouse from the unwanted attention, pussy throbbing with loathing, yet I tolerated every filthy glance—for my son, for the promise, for the voice that might one day break free. The coach continued to fuck me through his eyes, every glance a violation, and I hated every second of it.
Arjun joined the younger group on the basketball court, small hands clutching the ball, eyes wide as older boys shouted and ran. I stood at the edge, saree pallu dbangd over my left shoulder, boobs rising and falling inside the blouse with each breath, nipples still poking hard over the blouse from the earlier adjustment and the coach’s filthy stare. My pussy lips remained swollen inside the soaked panties, clit throbbing quietly against the crotch seam, juices leaking slowly down my inner thighs as I watched my son.
People began arriving for morning walks along the park path that circled the basketball ground. Women in simple sarees and salwar kameez walked briskly, arms swinging, some chatting in low voices, others listening to music through earphones. Men in tracksuits and t-shirts jogged past, sweat already beading on their foreheads, breaths steady and rhythmic. Elderly couples strolled slowly hand in hand, while young mothers pushed strollers, babies gurgling softly. The path filled with movement: feet hitting gravel, saree hems brushing ankles, salwar legs swishing, thighs flexing under leggings, boobs bouncing lightly under kurtis, ass cheeks jiggling with each step. The sight reminded me of a reel I had watched last week on my phone—short clips of people explaining the importance of daily morning walks.
The reel had shown how walking early in the day boosted metabolism, burned fat faster when the body used stored energy, strengthened heart muscles, lowered blood pressure, improved lung capacity, reduced stress hormones, released endorphins for better mood, sharpened focus and memory, helped regulate blood sugar, strengthened bones and joints, improved digestion, and even enhanced skin glow from better circulation and oxygen flow. The voiceover had emphasized consistency: thirty minutes every morning could change health, energy, and confidence over months. I had watched it twice, nodding to myself, feeling the pull of something simple yet powerful.
Now, seeing these people move along the path—hips swaying, thighs pumping, boobs shifting under blouses and kurtis, ass cheeks flexing under sarees and leggings—I felt the same pull. My own body needed it. My boobs felt heavy from sitting too much, my thighs soft from lack of movement, my pussy always wet from pent-up desire and grief but my energy low. Walking would wake my body, make my ass cheeks firm again, help my hips sway with purpose, clear my mind while Arjun played.
I decided then. From tomorrow, while Arjun played basketball, I would walk the park path every morning. Thirty minutes, maybe more, breathing fresh air, feeling my boobs bounce lightly, thighs working, ass cheeks moving, pussy tingling from the motion, navel exposed to the breeze. It would honor my promise to my husband—not just for Arjun’s voice, but for my own strength to keep fighting. I stood straighter, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs, watching Arjun chase the ball, already feeling tomorrow’s walk calling to me like a quiet, necessary release.
Practice ended with the coach blowing his whistle long and sharp, children scattering toward their parents, balls rolling to a stop. My son ran back to me, face flushed, small chest heaving, a tiny smile breaking across his silent mouth. I crouched to his level, saree pleats shifting over my thighs, boobs pushing forward inside the blouse, nipples still poking hard over the blouse from the morning’s lingering tension. I hugged him briefly, feeling his warm body against my boobs, then stood, taking his hand.
We walked toward the parked SUV, my hips swaying with each step, ass cheeks jiggling under the saree layers over the petticoat. The ugly dark-skinned young man still sat on the same bench, legs spread wide, elbows on knees, eyes already fixed on my body like a starving dog. As we approached the car, he leaned forward slightly, gaze dropping straight to my ass cheeks, watching every jiggle, every shift of the saree fabric that molded to the lush rounds.
I opened the passenger door for my son first. He climbed in and sat on the front passenger seat beside where I would drive, small legs swinging. I closed his door gently, then moved to the driver side. As I opened my door and bent slightly to slide in, the motion pulled the saree and petticoat tight across my ass cheeks, outlining them perfectly. My ass cheeks stood out full and round, two plump, high globes that filled the saree so completely the saree stretched just enough to show the exact juicy shape, the deep cleft between them clearly defined, the ass cheeks jiggling softly with the bend, soft yet firm, the kind of ass cheeks that looked made to be slapped red, spread wide, and fucked hard from behind. The pantyline became sharply visible over my ass cheeks over the saree, the thin seam running straight down the center of the cleft, digging slightly into the divide, hugging the deep crack so tightly it looked like it was painted on, accentuating the perfect separation of my lush ass cheeks, making them appear even more fuckable, more obscene, the pantyline disappearing deep between the plump rounds like an invitation to rip everything aside and plunge in.
The ugly young man’s eyes glued to my ass cheeks, breath hitching audibly even from the bench. His hand moved to his crotch again, pressing down on the thick bulge in his shorts, fingers squeezing through the shorts as he stared at the pantyline visible over my ass cheeks over the saree. His dark face flushed deeper, sweat rolling down his scarred cheeks, eyes never leaving my ass cheeks or the pantyline, cock now fully erect, tenting his shorts obscenely, head pushing against the shorts as he rubbed harder.
I hated him. Hated the way he ogled my ass cheeks and pantyline like a filthy animal, hated how his ugly hand pressed on his cock openly while staring at my body in broad daylight, hated that he thought he could sit there and get hard looking at me without consequence. Rage boiled in my chest, my pussy clenching in disgust inside the soaked panties, juices no longer from any thrill but from pure loathing. My cheeks burned with anger, lips pressing into a thin line, eyes narrowing as I glared at him over my shoulder. He met my stare for a second, then looked away, but his hand kept pressing, cock still hard, still twitching.
I slid into the driver seat, slamming the door harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet lot. I started the engine, the rumble vibrating through my pussy and ass cheeks again, but this time it only fueled my fury. I gripped the wheel, boobs heaving inside the blouse, nipples aching from rage, and drove away, refusing to look back at the bench where the ugly young man still sat, hand on his cock, eyes burning holes into my retreating ass cheeks. I hated him completely, the fire inside me now one of pure contempt, my body alive with disgust yet still pulsing with the unwanted heat his stare had forced upon me.
He stepped forward, voice low and rough, pretending to speak to Arjun but never taking his gaze off my body.
"Good morning, madam. Brought him early today. Good. Let him watch the older boys first, then we’ll see if he wants to join."
His stare dropped immediately to my boobs, lingering on the way they pushed hard against the blouse, nipples poking prominently over the blouse, thick and dark through the thin material. His pupils dilated, breath deepening as he imagined grabbing them, squeezing them until they overflowed his palms, pinching my nipples until I gasped. He licked his lips once, unconsciously, eyes tracing the deep cleavage framed by the blouse neckline, the mangalsutra swinging heavily between my boobs like an invitation he wanted to rip away.
His gaze slid lower, slow and deliberate, to my bare stomach, fixing on my deep navel exposed below the low saree waist. He stared at the oval hollow as if he could taste it, tongue already flicking in his mind, circling the rim, plunging inside while his hands held my hips. His nostrils flared, breathing harder, cock visibly twitching in his tracksuit pants, the outline thickening as he pictured burying his face between my thighs, lapping at my pussy lips until they dripped for him.
Then his eyes moved to my hips, widening at the flare, imagining gripping them hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he pounded my pussy from behind. His stare dropped to my ass cheeks, the saree molding perfectly to the lush rounds, the gentleseam of the panties visible over the saree where it hugged the deep cleft. He swallowed thickly, cock now fully hard, straining against his pants, the head pushing against the material as he fantasized spreading my ass cheeks, sliding his tongue over my asshole, then forcing his cock deep inside while I moaned beneath him.
Every inch of me he fucked with his eyes—my boobs, my navel, my pussy hidden under the saree, my ass cheeks begging to be slapped and spread. His breathing grew ragged, hand twitching toward his crotch before he caught himself, adjusting his stance to hide the obvious erection tenting his pants. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the heat, but from the raw, filthy images he was building in his mind: me bent over the bench, saree pulled up, panties dragged aside, pussy lips parted as he rammed inside, my boobs bouncing free, nipples hard, ass cheeks rippling with each thrust.
I hated him. Hated the way his ugly face flushed with lust, hated the way his cock hardened just looking at me, hated that he thought he could mentally fuck me right there in front of my son and the other children. Rage burned in my chest, my pussy clenching in disgust inside the soaked panties, juices no longer from arousal but from fury. Yet for Arjun, I tolerated him. I forced a tight smile, voice cold and controlled.
"Thank you. He’ll watch for now. I’ll stay close."
The coach nodded, eyes still locked on my boobs, then dropping once more to my navel, then lower to my hips, his cock twitching visibly in his pants as he turned back to the game, pretending to focus on the children while his mind continued to fuck me raw.
"No problem, madam. You can sit on the bench if you want. I’ll keep an eye on him."
His voice dropped lower on the last words, eyes flicking back to my ass cheeks, imagining bending me over that very bench, spreading my ass cheeks, ramming his cock into my pussy while I gripped the wood. I felt his stare like a physical touch, violating every inch of me again. I hated him more with every second, but I stayed rooted, holding Arjun’s hand, body rigid with anger, nipples aching over the blouse from the unwanted attention, pussy throbbing with loathing, yet I tolerated every filthy glance—for my son, for the promise, for the voice that might one day break free. The coach continued to fuck me through his eyes, every glance a violation, and I hated every second of it.
slightly askew from the adjustment, brushing my ass cheeks over the petticoat. The coach stood at the edge of the court, whistle around his neck, tracksuit clinging to his chest from the morning humidity. His eyes locked on me the moment I appeared, dark and heavy, stripping me bare without a single touch.
He stepped forward, voice low and rough, pretending to speak to Arjun but never taking his gaze off my body.
"Good morning, madam. Brought him early today. Good. Let him watch the older boys first, then we’ll see if he wants to join."
His stare dropped immediately to my boobs, lingering on the way they pushed hard against the blouse, nipples poking prominently over the blouse, thick and dark through the thin material. His pupils dilated, breath deepening as he imagined grabbing them, squeezing them until they overflowed his palms, pinching my nipples until I gasped. He licked his lips once, unconsciously, eyes tracing the deep cleavage framed by the blouse neckline, the mangalsutra swinging heavily between my boobs like an invitation he wanted to rip away.
His gaze slid lower, slow and deliberate, to my bare stomach, fixing on my deep navel exposed below the low saree waist. He stared at the oval hollow as if he could taste it, tongue already flicking in his mind, circling the rim, plunging inside while his hands held my hips. His nostrils flared, breathing harder, cock visibly twitching in his tracksuit pants, the outline thickening as he pictured burying his face between my thighs, lapping at my pussy lips until they dripped for him.
Then his eyes moved to my hips, widening at the flare, imagining gripping them hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he pounded my pussy from behind. His stare dropped to my ass cheeks, the saree molding perfectly to the lush rounds, the gentleseam of the panties visible over the saree where it hugged the deep cleft. He swallowed thickly, cock now fully hard, straining against his pants, the head pushing against the material as he fantasized spreading my ass cheeks, sliding his tongue over my asshole, then forcing his cock deep inside while I moaned beneath him.
Every inch of me he fucked with his eyes—my boobs, my navel, my pussy hidden under the saree, my ass cheeks begging to be slapped and spread. His breathing grew ragged, hand twitching toward his crotch before he caught himself, adjusting his stance to hide the obvious erection tenting his pants. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the heat, but from the raw, filthy images he was building in his mind: me bent over the bench, saree pulled up, panties dragged aside, pussy lips parted as he rammed inside, my boobs bouncing free, nipples hard, ass cheeks rippling with each thrust.
I hated him. Hated the way his ugly face flushed with lust, hated the way his cock hardened just looking at me, hated that he thought he could mentally fuck me right there in front of my son and the other children. Rage burned in my chest, my pussy clenching in disgust inside the soaked panties, juices no longer from arousal but from fury. Yet for Arjun, I tolerated him. I forced a tight smile, voice cold and controlled.
"Thank you. He’ll watch for now. I’ll stay close."
The coach nodded, eyes still locked on my boobs, then dropping once more to my navel, then lower to my hips, his cock twitching visibly in his pants as he turned back to the game, pretending to focus on the children while his mind continued to fuck me raw.
"No problem, madam. You can sit on the bench if you want. I’ll keep an eye on him."
His voice dropped lower on the last words, eyes flicking back to my ass cheeks, imagining bending me over that very bench, spreading my ass cheeks, ramming his cock into my pussy while I gripped the wood. I felt his stare like a physical touch, violating every inch of me again. I hated him more with every second, but I stayed rooted, holding Arjun’s hand, body rigid with anger, nipples aching over the blouse from the unwanted attention, pussy throbbing with loathing, yet I tolerated every filthy glance—for my son, for the promise, for the voice that might one day break free. The coach continued to fuck me through his eyes, every glance a violation, and I hated every second of it.
Arjun joined the younger group on the basketball court, small hands clutching the ball, eyes wide as older boys shouted and ran. I stood at the edge, saree pallu dbangd over my left shoulder, boobs rising and falling inside the blouse with each breath, nipples still poking hard over the blouse from the earlier adjustment and the coach’s filthy stare. My pussy lips remained swollen inside the soaked panties, clit throbbing quietly against the crotch seam, juices leaking slowly down my inner thighs as I watched my son.
People began arriving for morning walks along the park path that circled the basketball ground. Women in simple sarees and salwar kameez walked briskly, arms swinging, some chatting in low voices, others listening to music through earphones. Men in tracksuits and t-shirts jogged past, sweat already beading on their foreheads, breaths steady and rhythmic. Elderly couples strolled slowly hand in hand, while young mothers pushed strollers, babies gurgling softly. The path filled with movement: feet hitting gravel, saree hems brushing ankles, salwar legs swishing, thighs flexing under leggings, boobs bouncing lightly under kurtis, ass cheeks jiggling with each step. The sight reminded me of a reel I had watched last week on my phone—short clips of people explaining the importance of daily morning walks.
The reel had shown how walking early in the day boosted metabolism, burned fat faster when the body used stored energy, strengthened heart muscles, lowered blood pressure, improved lung capacity, reduced stress hormones, released endorphins for better mood, sharpened focus and memory, helped regulate blood sugar, strengthened bones and joints, improved digestion, and even enhanced skin glow from better circulation and oxygen flow. The voiceover had emphasized consistency: thirty minutes every morning could change health, energy, and confidence over months. I had watched it twice, nodding to myself, feeling the pull of something simple yet powerful.
Now, seeing these people move along the path—hips swaying, thighs pumping, boobs shifting under blouses and kurtis, ass cheeks flexing under sarees and leggings—I felt the same pull. My own body needed it. My boobs felt heavy from sitting too much, my thighs soft from lack of movement, my pussy always wet from pent-up desire and grief but my energy low. Walking would wake my body, make my ass cheeks firm again, help my hips sway with purpose, clear my mind while Arjun played.
I decided then. From tomorrow, while Arjun played basketball, I would walk the park path every morning. Thirty minutes, maybe more, breathing fresh air, feeling my boobs bounce lightly, thighs working, ass cheeks moving, pussy tingling from the motion, navel exposed to the breeze. It would honor my promise to my husband—not just for Arjun’s voice, but for my own strength to keep fighting. I stood straighter, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs, watching Arjun chase the ball, already feeling tomorrow’s walk calling to me like a quiet, necessary release.
Practice ended with the coach blowing his whistle long and sharp, children scattering toward their parents, balls rolling to a stop. My son ran back to me, face flushed, small chest heaving, a tiny smile breaking across his silent mouth. I crouched to his level, saree pleats shifting over my thighs, boobs pushing forward inside the blouse, nipples still poking hard over the blouse from the morning’s lingering tension. I hugged him briefly, feeling his warm body against my boobs, then stood, taking his hand.
We walked toward the parked SUV, my hips swaying with each step, ass cheeks jiggling under the saree layers over the petticoat. The ugly dark-skinned young man still sat on the same bench, legs spread wide, elbows on knees, eyes already fixed on my body like a starving dog. As we approached the car, he leaned forward slightly, gaze dropping straight to my ass cheeks, watching every jiggle, every shift of the saree fabric that molded to the lush rounds.
I opened the passenger door for my son first. He climbed in and sat on the front passenger seat beside where I would drive, small legs swinging. I closed his door gently, then moved to the driver side. As I opened my door and bent slightly to slide in, the motion pulled the saree and petticoat tight across my ass cheeks, outlining them perfectly. My ass cheeks stood out full and round, two plump, high globes that filled the saree so completely the saree stretched just enough to show the exact juicy shape, the deep cleft between them clearly defined, the ass cheeks jiggling softly with the bend, soft yet firm, the kind of ass cheeks that looked made to be slapped red, spread wide, and fucked hard from behind. The pantyline became sharply visible over my ass cheeks over the saree, the thin seam running straight down the center of the cleft, digging slightly into the divide, hugging the deep crack so tightly it looked like it was painted on, accentuating the perfect separation of my lush ass cheeks, making them appear even more fuckable, more obscene, the pantyline disappearing deep between the plump rounds like an invitation to rip everything aside and plunge in.
The ugly young man’s eyes glued to my ass cheeks, breath hitching audibly even from the bench. His hand moved to his crotch again, pressing down on the thick bulge in his shorts, fingers squeezing through the shorts as he stared at the pantyline visible over my ass cheeks over the saree. His dark face flushed deeper, sweat rolling down his scarred cheeks, eyes never leaving my ass cheeks or the pantyline, cock now fully erect, tenting his shorts obscenely, head pushing against the shorts as he rubbed harder.
I hated him. Hated the way he ogled my ass cheeks and pantyline like a filthy animal, hated how his ugly hand pressed on his cock openly while staring at my body in broad daylight, hated that he thought he could sit there and get hard looking at me without consequence. Rage boiled in my chest, my pussy clenching in disgust inside the soaked panties, juices no longer from any thrill but from pure loathing. My cheeks burned with anger, lips pressing into a thin line, eyes narrowing as I glared at him over my shoulder. He met my stare for a second, then looked away, but his hand kept pressing, cock still hard, still twitching.
I slid into the driver seat, slamming the door harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet lot. I started the engine, the rumble vibrating through my pussy and ass cheeks again, but this time it only fueled my fury. I gripped the wheel, boobs heaving inside the blouse, nipples aching from rage, and drove away, refusing to look back at the bench where the ugly young man still sat, hand on his cock, eyes burning holes into my retreating ass cheeks. I hated him completely, the fire inside me now one of pure contempt, my body alive with disgust yet still pulsing with the unwanted heat his stare had forced upon me.
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