Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

The blowjob lasted exactly seven minutes—she knew because she counted, using the rhythm of her own heartbeat as a timer. Seven minutes of deep throating, of tongue work, of the kind of attention that made men forget their own names.
 
Singh did not forget his name. He was too controlled for that. But his breathing changed, became heavier, and his hand found its way to her hair, gripping it not quite gently.
 
"When you're close," she said, pulling her mouth off him just long enough to speak, "tell me. I don't swallow for just anyone."
 
Another murmur from the audience. Karthik laughed openly.
 
Singh's eyes narrowed. "I don't come in mouths. I come in cunts."
 
"Then we understand each other."
 
She took him back in her mouth and finished the job.
 
---
 
The condom went on with practiced ease—Singh had done this before, many times. Menaka lay back on the mattress, the rose petals crushing beneath her, her saree already pushed up to her waist, her petticoat discarded somewhere on the floor.
 
Singh knelt between her legs, his cock sheathed and ready. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
 
"Last chance," he said. "Say the word, and we stop."
 
Menaka reached down and guided him to her entrance.
 
"Burn with me, Colonel sahib."
 
He entered her in one smooth stroke.
 
---
 
"AAAAHHHHH—FUCK!"
 
The scream tore out of her throat before she could stop it. Singh was not the biggest man she had ever taken, but he knew exactly how to use what he had—the angle, the depth, the rhythm. He fucked her with the precision of a man who had spent his life learning to be effective, efficient, deadly.
 
Three strokes in, and she was already seeing stars.
 
"Shit, she's tight," Singh grunted, his hips slamming against hers. "How long since you've been fucked?"
 
"Twenty-four hours," Menaka gasped. "My husband—he's gentle now. Too gentle. He doesn't—he doesn't—"
 
"Doesn't fuck you like this?"
 
"NO. Fuck, no. HARDER."
 
Singh obliged. His strokes became deeper, faster, each one driving the air from her lungs. The mattress squeaked beneath them. The rose petals scattered. Somewhere in the background, she heard Sharma's breathless commentary—"Look at that, look at the way she takes it"—and Karthik's cooler assessment—"She's a natural, absolute natural."
 
Menaka stopped listening. She closed her eyes and let herself feel.
 
The stretch of her cunt around his cock. The slap of his thighs against her ass. The way his thumb found her clit and pressed, circled, pressed again. The coil of heat in her belly, winding tighter and tighter.
 
"I'm close," she warned.
 
"Good. Come with me."
 
"Give me—give me your hand—"
 
Singh wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed.
 
Not enough to choke. Enough to feel.
 
She came screaming, her body arching off the mattress, her cunt clenching around his cock like a fist. Singh followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his teeth gritted against the groan that tried to escape.
 
When it was over, he pulled out and sat back on his heels, breathing hard.
 
"Your turn, Sharma," he said.