19-09-2026, 09:12 PM
I stood in my yellow blouse and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, the yellow chiffon saree already gone, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking sat on my face first, then on the front of my yellow blouse, then on the line of my white petticoat at my waist. It made me uneasy. I could not see his eyes and I still knew they were travelling. I crossed my arms once and dropped them. The room felt smaller because of that look.
His hands rose to my yellow blouse. I felt him find the front hooks between my breasts, the same hooks I had closed in front of the cupboard that morning. I lifted my own hands and put them over his so he would not fumble in the dark I was wearing. Together we opened the first hook. The yellow blouse eased. I felt my breasts settle a little inside my white bra, heavier now that the yellow blouse had given them room. The second hook was tighter. My fingers shook and his did not. We opened it. The third hook came free and the yellow blouse parted down my front. His knuckles brushed the valley between my breasts only as the hook needed. Air went into that valley and found the sweat that had been trapped under the yellow blouse all morning.
I turned my shoulders so he could take the yellow blouse off. I pushed the first sleeve down my arm myself. The sleeve clung at my underarm where the yellow blouse was damp, then gave way. He took the other sleeve. The yellow blouse left my back and my waist. For a second it hung at my wrists and I shook it off into his hands. I heard it fall near the chair, on top of my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in my white bra and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, blind. Without the yellow blouse my breasts sat in only the white bra, the cups holding them, the nipples tight against the inside of the cups, scbanging when I breathed. Cool air found my underarms and the damp skin there stung. I could smell him closer without the yellow blouse between us, sweat and sun and the slum.
I felt that he was enjoying it. He did not put his hands on me again. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my white bra and on my waist. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word.
“Do you like it? My blouse is off. Tell me if this is what you wanted.” I said.
He said no word. He leaned in and I felt him nod near my forehead, once, firm, his breath on my face. The same short sound sat in his throat, like yes. I took that as his answer. I was doing this for my husband. I waited for him to take the next thing I was still wearing.
I stood in my white bra and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking again. The looking had left my yellow blouse on the chair and come down to the string of my white petticoat, to my hips, to the place where the white petticoat hid my maroon panties. It made me uneasy in a different way. Without the yellow blouse my waist felt more open. I put my hands on the string myself so the looking would have something to follow besides my breasts.
His palms came to my waist and covered my fingers. The string of my white petticoat sat low below my navel, the way I had tied it in the morning. Together we found the knot. My fingers shook. His did not. We pulled. The knot gave and the string slipped through the hem, a long whisper around my hips, and the white petticoat loosened and dropped a finger’s width. Air found the skin above my maroon panties. I felt the waistband of my maroon panties then, no longer fully hidden.
I helped him take the white petticoat down. I pushed it over my hips while his hands guided it, and the white petticoat slid over my ass cheeks, over my maroon panties, over my thighs. It caught at my knees. I bent a little and he took it the rest of the way, down my calves, off my feet. I lifted one foot, then the other. The floor was uneven under my bare soles. I heard the white petticoat fall near the chair, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in my white bra and my maroon panties only. Cool air ran up my inner thighs and found the damp of my maroon panties on my pussy. I could smell him closer still, sweat and sun and the slum. I felt that he was enjoying this too. He did not put his hands on my ass or on my pussy. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my maroon panties and on the bare skin of my thighs. His breath was heavier. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word.
I stood in my white bra and my maroon panties, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking sat on the bra cups of my white bra until I could feel it on my nipples through the bra cups, then it went to the valley between my breasts, then to the bra straps on my shoulders. Heat climbed my neck. I wanted to cover myself and I kept my hands at my sides because I had promised I would not go stiff. This would be the first time another man saw my breasts. My mouth had gone dry inside the kerchief.
His hands came up my sides. I flinched when they reached the front hooks of my white bra, a small shy pull of my shoulders in, not away. He opened the first hook himself. My breasts shifted and I felt them settle heavier against the loosening bra cups. He opened the next. The bra cups gave. My breasts came forward, bare, into the room, and the air found my nipples at once and pulled them tight. I turned my face as if there was somewhere to hide. There was not. He drew the first bra strap down my arm. The bra strap scbangd a line of heat over my shoulder. He took the other bra strap. The white bra left my back and my wrists. I heard it fall near the chair, on my white petticoat, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in only my maroon panties, blind, my breasts bare. Cool air sat on them. My nipples stood so hard they ached. I crossed my arms over my breasts, shy, holding them the way I hold them when someone enters a room I have not locked. Then I dropped my arms because I had promised pleasure, and because I could feel him enjoying the moment I uncovered them again. He did not put his hands on my breasts. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see moved from one breast to the other, slow, as if he was taking them in for later. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word. I could smell him, sweat and sun and the slum, and my maroon panties were damp on my pussy from standing like this.
I stood in only my maroon panties, my breasts bare, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking had left my breasts and come down my waist, over the skin below my navel, and stopped on the waistband of my maroon panties. Heat climbed my face until my ears burned. This was the last thing. After this there would be nothing between another man and my pussy. Embarrassment sat in my throat. Excitement sat under it, lower, where my maroon panties were already wet. I kept my hands at my sides and my thighs close and still I wanted the maroon panties off.
His fingers hooked the waistband of my maroon panties at my hips. I flinched, a shy tightening of my thighs, not a step back. He drew the maroon panties down. The waistband scbangd my ass cheeks. The front of my maroon panties peeled off my pussy, wet, sticking for a second to the hair and to the skin, then leaving me with a cool line where the wet had been. I was embarrassed that he would feel how wet the maroon panties were. I was excited that he would feel it. I turned my face into the dark. He took the maroon panties down my thighs, over my knees, down my calves. I lifted one foot, then the other. I heard the maroon panties fall near the chair, on my white bra, on my white petticoat, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood naked except the blindfold and my mangalsutra. Air touched my pussy. I felt how wet I was on my inner thighs and the shame of that wetness made my stomach pull in, and the excitement of it made me want to open my thighs. I crossed one hand over my breasts and the other over my pussy, shy, holding myself from him, then I dropped both hands because I had promised pleasure, and because I could feel him enjoying the moment I stood uncovered. He did not put his palm on me. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my breasts and on my pussy until my skin there felt burned. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word. I could smell him, sweat and sun and the slum.
He came in close and put his arms around me while I stood naked except the blindfold and my mangalsutra. He was only in his underwear. His chest hair scbangd my bare breasts and his stomach sat damp against my waist, and with that closeness the stink arrived fully, sweat and old sun and unwashed underwear, a sour heat that filled my nose inside the blindfold until turning my face did nothing. Disgust sat on my tongue. For a breath I wanted to change my mind, I wanted my yellow chiffon saree on my body again and the door open behind me, and then Santosh’s face came back, and my husband’s crying in my lap came back with it, and the promise I had made held me where the smell wanted me to run.
He held me nicely. One palm stayed on my lower back as if to keep me from folding, and the other went down over my ass and took both ass cheeks without hurting them, only holding their weight, his fingers resting in the dip between my ass cheeks. When he pulled me in, my pussy touched the front of his underwear and I felt him hard behind his underwear, and the smell of him was stronger at that distance. The sound I made into his shoulder was half a flinch and half something I did not want to name. His hand left my lower back, found my waist, then rose and covered my breast, thumb passing over my nipple until it stood tighter, then the other breast the same way, and after that he felt me the way a man feels a body he has been allowed to have, slow, from my breasts to my waist to my ass to the wet on my pussy, his fingers sliding through that wet and returning as if to confirm it. Shame went through me because my hips followed his hand even while my throat wanted to close, and under the shame there was excitement I hated, first time, another man’s underwear against my pussy, another man’s stink in my mouth.
He walked me backward by the waist until the edge of the cot touched my calves. I sat because my knees had no other choice. The wood caught my ass and I felt the grain. He came down with me and laid me back, one hand behind my shoulder, and the cot took my shoulders and the back of my head. The blindfold pressed my lashes. I could not see the roof. I could smell him over me, sweat and old sun and unwashed underwear, and I turned my face and the smell followed.
I heard him push his underwear down. His knee opened my left thigh, then my right, and he settled between my thighs until the insides of my knees held his hips. His cock touched my pussy first on the outside, hot, thick, sliding through the wet that had been sitting there since the maroon panties came off. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down my pussy, over my clit, then down to where I opened, and each pass spread me a little more. Disgust and heat lived in the same breath. For a second I wanted my yellow chiffon saree and the door. Santosh’s face held my thighs apart. My husband’s crying held them apart.
He put the head of his cock at my pussy and pushed. I was tight. This was the first cock other than my husband’s, and my pussy did not want to remember a new shape. He worked himself in with short pushes, half in, then back, then in again, stretching me until the stretch became a full ache. I held his shoulders. His skin was damp. His chest hair scbangd my nipples as he came down. He pushed until his stomach sat on my stomach and his cock was all the way inside my pussy, and I was full of him, full of the stink, full of the first time.
He stayed there for a moment as if he was enjoying the fact of being inside me. A sound sat in his throat without becoming a word. Then he started to fuck me with short thrusts, not kind, not cruel yet, testing how my pussy closed on his cock each time he drew back. I felt every inch leave and come back. My breasts moved under his chest. My mangalsutra lay trapped between us. I bit the inside of my mouth and still a sound came out of me. I was doing this for my husband. I was also wet around another man’s cock, taking him, waiting for him to enjoy the rest of me.
The short thrusts did not last. His hips found a harder rhythm and he fucked me as if the waiting in the room had been for this only. Each thrust slapped his stomach against my pussy and the front of my thighs, a wet hit I could hear under the cot knocking the wall. His chest hair scbangd my breasts until my nipples burned and stayed standing against that scbang. He put his mouth on my neck without a kiss, only open heat and sweat, and the stink of him filled the blindfold until I had to breathe through my mouth.
He held my waist with both hands and pulled me onto his cock every time he drove in, so I met him whether I lifted or not. My breasts shook toward my chin and fell back. My ass slid on the wood and he dragged me under him again by the waist, his thumbs pressing the soft place beside my navel. I felt his cock hitting deep, the head of it at the end of me, and my pussy had to open for that depth again and again, stretching around him on the way in, clinging on the way out.
“Ah… wait… ah—” I said, and the rest broke into a moan I could not hold.
He enjoyed that sound. I felt him enjoy it in the way his next thrust came faster, in the way his fingers dug into my waist and then left my waist for my ass cheeks. He spread my ass cheeks and held me open so he could go deeper, his fingers in the dip between my ass cheeks, his cock using the extra room until I felt him against a place that made my thighs jump. I thought of my husband on the sofa. I thought of Santosh at the gate. I still lifted my hips because I had promised I would not go stiff, and because my pussy had started taking him with a wet sound I could hear under his breathing, a sound that told me how much of him I was giving.
“Mm… Ravi…” I said, only that, and then I closed my mouth on another moan.
He fucked through that wetness like an animal that had been allowed a body and meant to use all of it, his stomach slapping my clit now and then, his balls against my ass, his breath broken on my neck. I held his back and felt the sweat run under my palms, down the groove of his spine, onto my wrists. First time. Another man’s cock. Another man’s stink. I stayed open for him.
He pulled his cock out of my pussy and the empty feeling made me grab the cot. He turned me by the hip, first onto my side, then onto my knees, and I went where his hands put me because I had said I would cooperate. My cheek found the wood. My breasts hung and my nipples touched the cot. I was blind, on my knees, my ass in the air, and I felt him looking at that before he touched me again.
He put the head of his cock at my pussy from behind and pushed in on one long stroke. The new angle opened a deeper place. I gasped into the wood.
“Ah—” I said, and bit the cot.
He held my hips and fucked me in long strokes, drawing almost out so I felt the ridge of his cock leave me, then filling me until his stomach slapped my ass. He enjoyed that slap. I felt him enjoy it in the way he kept finding it, in the wet sound my pussy made each time he came home. My yellow chiffon saree was on the chair and I was here. I pushed back onto his cock because my brother outside the tin had told me to make sure this man enjoyed it, and because revenge needed this body to work. Each time I pushed back he took more of me.
His right hand left my hip and came around my waist, down over the skin below my navel, and found my pussy from the front while he was still fucking me. His fingers rubbed my clit in time with his cock, slow at first, then surer, until my thighs shook and I could not keep my knees still. The stink of him hung over my back. Sweat from his stomach ran down the dip between my ass cheeks.
“Mm… like that… please…” I said, and hated that I had said please.
I gave him everything I had promised in the auto. My back arched. My breasts swung on the cot. My pussy held his cock and his fingers at once. First time on my knees for another man. For my husband. For Santosh. I stayed on my knees and let him use both.
He pulled out and turned me onto my back again as if the cot belonged to him. The wood took my shoulders. He lifted my knees and folded them toward my breasts, and I held my own knees because my hands needed somewhere to go. I was open to him in a way I had only ever been open to my husband. He put his cock at my pussy and went in to the root in one push. I felt him watch me even behind the blindfold, the looking sitting on my face and on my breasts and on the place where his cock stretched my pussy.
He fucked me deep from there, using my pussy as if it belonged to these minutes only. Each thrust pinned my knees to my breasts. Sweat from his chest dripped onto my nipples and ran into the valley between my breasts. The stink and the pleasure mixed until I could not separate them. I held his ass and pulled him in, ashamed of my own fingers on him, and I did not let go.
My pussy started to clench his cock in waves I could not order. I was close, first time with another man, the closeness coming whether I invited it or not.
“Ah… I can’t… Ravi… ah—” I said, and the rest went into a broken moan.
He fucked through those waves like an animal that would not stop to be kind, enjoying every clench, enjoying every sound I made into the dark, his stomach slapping my clit, his hands keeping my knees where he wanted them. I shook under him and still took him. I thought of my husband and the thought did not close my pussy. I thought of Santosh and the thought made me hold his ass harder. He used me through it, deep, wet, silent except for the sound in his throat, and I stayed on my back and let him have the rest of the minutes.
I felt him change inside my pussy before I understood the change. His cock grew thicker, the easy long strokes broke into shorter ones that went deeper instead of kinder, and the head of him stayed at the end of me as if he had found a place he did not mean to leave. Panic cut through the heat. I let go of my knees. My palms found his damp stomach and pushed.
“Don’t come inside me, please, not inside, pull out, I am asking you, I cannot take that home to my husband, I did everything you wanted, don’t leave it in me.” I said.
He was not in the mood to pull out. I felt that in the way his body became heavier, in the way he took my wrists and put them back beside my head and held them there, in the way his hips kept working. He fucked me vigorously through the asking, deeper than before, as if my please had only shown him I was close enough to finish. Each thrust slapped his stomach on my clit. My breasts shook toward my chin. The cot knocked. The stink of his sweat filled the blindfold. I turned my face and his cheek followed mine.
“Please… pull out… ah… I can’t… Ravi—” I said.
He fucked me through the please. My pussy started to warn me in small clenches around his cock, then stronger ones, my thighs shaking against his sides, my back lifting off the wood. I was at the edge and I knew if he stayed I would go over with him inside me. Shame and hunger lived in the same breath. I had come for Santosh. I had come for my husband. My body was no longer listening to either of them. My hips lifted to keep his cock where it was.
“All right… do it… I can’t stop… I’m yours… ah—” I said, surrendering, my wrists turning in his hands so I could hold him instead of pushing.
He buried his cock to the root and came inside my pussy, hot, pulse after pulse, filling me, his stomach locked to mine, his mouth open on my neck.
“Ah… ah—” he moaned, only that, torn out of his throat as his cum pumped into me.
The very next moment I came all over his cock while his cum was still going into me. The pleasure ran from my pussy through my belly to my nipples and back, long waves I could not order, my thighs locked on his hips, my wetness mixing with what he was leaving in me, and I enjoyed it, I hated that I enjoyed it, I came anyway.
“Ah… I’m coming… ah… Ravi… mm—” I said.
He left himself in me until both of us finished, still moaning low against my neck, enjoying the way my pussy milked his cock for the last of it. When he pulled out, I felt his cum follow, thick, down the inner skin of my thigh, onto the cot, mixed with how wet I had come. I kept my thighs together too late. Guilt arrived with the enjoyment and did not cancel it. I had asked him to stop and then I had asked him to stay. I had another man’s cum in my pussy and I had come on that cock the moment after he filled me.
He did not get off me at once. He stayed over me, his chest hair sticking to my breasts, his breath on my lips, so close I could taste the sweat on his mouth without touching it. I lifted my chin a little in the dark, guilty, satisfied, still shaking, my mouth open under his, and I did not lift the blindfold.
I lifted my chin in the dark and his mouth found mine. He did not ask. The kiss was wet from the start, his lips opening mine with his tongue, the taste of his sweat going into my mouth, sour and hot, the same stink I had been breathing all evening now sitting on my tongue. I turned my face and he followed and kissed me deeper. I had another man’s cum in my pussy and now I had his mouth.
It was filthy. His spit ran to the corner of my lips. He sucked my lower lip and then pushed his tongue in again, slow, then hungry, as if the fucking had not finished what he wanted from my face. My hands left the cot and held his head. I kissed him back. I was guilty while I did it. I was still shaking from coming. My breasts stuck to his chest hair. My thighs were wet with him. I opened my mouth wider and let him take it.
He kissed me like an animal that had already used my pussy and still wanted the rest of me, his nose against my cheek, his breath broken, a sound in his throat going into my mouth. I thought of my husband’s mouth and the thought made the kiss worse and I did not stop. I sucked his tongue once, shy, then not shy. He pressed me into the cot with the kiss until I had no air and then he gave me a little and took it again.
When he lifted his mouth I could still feel it. My lips were wet. My chin was wet. I lay under him with the blindfold on and his taste in my mouth and his cum in my pussy, first time finished, kissed like that, my chin still lifted, waiting for his mouth to come back.
When he lifted his mouth I did not let him go far. I pulled his head down by the hair and found his lips again, shameless, my tongue in his mouth first this time, licking the sweat off his upper lip before I kissed him properly. A giggle came out of me into the kiss, surprising me, the kind of giggle I had never made on a cot in a slum. My wet thighs opened around his hips. I could still feel his cum sitting in my pussy, warm, leaking when I moved, and I pressed that pussy up against his naked cock and rubbed myself on him, using the wet we had made.
“Mm. This cock. Ravi, this cock finished me. I have never been fucked like that, I am not lying.” I said, and I giggled against his mouth. “I came on you while you were still coming in me. I enjoyed it. Listen to me, I enjoyed it. I can still feel you inside, thick, the way you stayed when I said pull out. Bad man.” I said.
I kissed his mouth, then the corner of his mouth, then the wet place on his neck where the sweat collected, little shameless kisses, and another small laugh shook my breasts across his chest hair. My hand went down between us and found his cock, slick from my pussy and from his own cum, and I closed my fingers around it and stroked it along my pussy as if I was playing with a thing I already owned.
“This cock I want again. You held my wrists and kept fucking me, you took me to the edge until I said all right do it, and I am not sorry. Call me and I will come. Any time you want this pussy I will come running. Don’t send me home and forget how I opened. I have fallen for this cock. I have fallen for how you took me.” I said, and I giggled again, low, dirty, into his throat.
I kissed him open, spit and all, my words going into his mouth between the kisses, my hips still working his cock against my clit. He did not speak. He answered with his tongue, with that sound in his throat, with his hand closing on my ass cheek and pulling me tighter. I took the sound as yes and kissed him harder, shameless, giggling when I had to break for air, already asking with my mouth and my pussy for the next time.
My phone rang. The sound came from the bag on the chair beside the cot. I reached out blind, found the bag, took the phone out, and kept the bag aside on the floor. I sat up only as much as I had to. His cum was still in my pussy. I answered.
“Where are you? I have been calling.” my husband said.
His voice put the house in the room. I swallowed.
“I am at the market. What happened?” I said.
“Santosh is dead. They found him with a pulse and took him to the hospital. At the hospital they said brought dead. Heart attack.” my husband said.
For a moment I could not speak. Santosh’s face at the gate went empty.
“Heart attack? You are sure?” I said.
“I am sure. He is gone.” my husband said.
“I am coming.” I said.
I cut the call and put the phone aside with the bag. For a moment I thought if that bastard had died a couple of hours earlier I would not be here, I would not be naked on this cot, I would not have another man’s cock and another man’s cum and another man’s spit on my mouth. The thought was sharp and then it left.
He moved first. He came down on top of me and slept on me, his full weight, and took me into his complete embrace, both arms under my back, his chest on my breasts, his stomach on my stomach, his thigh between my thighs, hugging me so tight the blindfold pressed my lashes and his smell filled me again. That was when I realized what I had been missing all these days, this hold, this body, this cock still wet against my pussy, a man who took me until I surrendered. I needed this man. I put my arms around him and hugged him tight, my nails on his back, my face in his neck, Santosh dead in the hospital and this hug alive on the cot, and I did not lift the blindfold.
His hands rose to my yellow blouse. I felt him find the front hooks between my breasts, the same hooks I had closed in front of the cupboard that morning. I lifted my own hands and put them over his so he would not fumble in the dark I was wearing. Together we opened the first hook. The yellow blouse eased. I felt my breasts settle a little inside my white bra, heavier now that the yellow blouse had given them room. The second hook was tighter. My fingers shook and his did not. We opened it. The third hook came free and the yellow blouse parted down my front. His knuckles brushed the valley between my breasts only as the hook needed. Air went into that valley and found the sweat that had been trapped under the yellow blouse all morning.
I turned my shoulders so he could take the yellow blouse off. I pushed the first sleeve down my arm myself. The sleeve clung at my underarm where the yellow blouse was damp, then gave way. He took the other sleeve. The yellow blouse left my back and my waist. For a second it hung at my wrists and I shook it off into his hands. I heard it fall near the chair, on top of my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in my white bra and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, blind. Without the yellow blouse my breasts sat in only the white bra, the cups holding them, the nipples tight against the inside of the cups, scbanging when I breathed. Cool air found my underarms and the damp skin there stung. I could smell him closer without the yellow blouse between us, sweat and sun and the slum.
I felt that he was enjoying it. He did not put his hands on me again. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my white bra and on my waist. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word.
“Do you like it? My blouse is off. Tell me if this is what you wanted.” I said.
He said no word. He leaned in and I felt him nod near my forehead, once, firm, his breath on my face. The same short sound sat in his throat, like yes. I took that as his answer. I was doing this for my husband. I waited for him to take the next thing I was still wearing.
I stood in my white bra and my white petticoat and my maroon panties, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking again. The looking had left my yellow blouse on the chair and come down to the string of my white petticoat, to my hips, to the place where the white petticoat hid my maroon panties. It made me uneasy in a different way. Without the yellow blouse my waist felt more open. I put my hands on the string myself so the looking would have something to follow besides my breasts.
His palms came to my waist and covered my fingers. The string of my white petticoat sat low below my navel, the way I had tied it in the morning. Together we found the knot. My fingers shook. His did not. We pulled. The knot gave and the string slipped through the hem, a long whisper around my hips, and the white petticoat loosened and dropped a finger’s width. Air found the skin above my maroon panties. I felt the waistband of my maroon panties then, no longer fully hidden.
I helped him take the white petticoat down. I pushed it over my hips while his hands guided it, and the white petticoat slid over my ass cheeks, over my maroon panties, over my thighs. It caught at my knees. I bent a little and he took it the rest of the way, down my calves, off my feet. I lifted one foot, then the other. The floor was uneven under my bare soles. I heard the white petticoat fall near the chair, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in my white bra and my maroon panties only. Cool air ran up my inner thighs and found the damp of my maroon panties on my pussy. I could smell him closer still, sweat and sun and the slum. I felt that he was enjoying this too. He did not put his hands on my ass or on my pussy. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my maroon panties and on the bare skin of my thighs. His breath was heavier. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word.
I stood in my white bra and my maroon panties, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking sat on the bra cups of my white bra until I could feel it on my nipples through the bra cups, then it went to the valley between my breasts, then to the bra straps on my shoulders. Heat climbed my neck. I wanted to cover myself and I kept my hands at my sides because I had promised I would not go stiff. This would be the first time another man saw my breasts. My mouth had gone dry inside the kerchief.
His hands came up my sides. I flinched when they reached the front hooks of my white bra, a small shy pull of my shoulders in, not away. He opened the first hook himself. My breasts shifted and I felt them settle heavier against the loosening bra cups. He opened the next. The bra cups gave. My breasts came forward, bare, into the room, and the air found my nipples at once and pulled them tight. I turned my face as if there was somewhere to hide. There was not. He drew the first bra strap down my arm. The bra strap scbangd a line of heat over my shoulder. He took the other bra strap. The white bra left my back and my wrists. I heard it fall near the chair, on my white petticoat, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood in only my maroon panties, blind, my breasts bare. Cool air sat on them. My nipples stood so hard they ached. I crossed my arms over my breasts, shy, holding them the way I hold them when someone enters a room I have not locked. Then I dropped my arms because I had promised pleasure, and because I could feel him enjoying the moment I uncovered them again. He did not put his hands on my breasts. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see moved from one breast to the other, slow, as if he was taking them in for later. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word. I could smell him, sweat and sun and the slum, and my maroon panties were damp on my pussy from standing like this.
I stood in only my maroon panties, my breasts bare, and even with the blindfold I felt him looking. The looking had left my breasts and come down my waist, over the skin below my navel, and stopped on the waistband of my maroon panties. Heat climbed my face until my ears burned. This was the last thing. After this there would be nothing between another man and my pussy. Embarrassment sat in my throat. Excitement sat under it, lower, where my maroon panties were already wet. I kept my hands at my sides and my thighs close and still I wanted the maroon panties off.
His fingers hooked the waistband of my maroon panties at my hips. I flinched, a shy tightening of my thighs, not a step back. He drew the maroon panties down. The waistband scbangd my ass cheeks. The front of my maroon panties peeled off my pussy, wet, sticking for a second to the hair and to the skin, then leaving me with a cool line where the wet had been. I was embarrassed that he would feel how wet the maroon panties were. I was excited that he would feel it. I turned my face into the dark. He took the maroon panties down my thighs, over my knees, down my calves. I lifted one foot, then the other. I heard the maroon panties fall near the chair, on my white bra, on my white petticoat, on my yellow blouse, on my yellow chiffon saree.
I stood naked except the blindfold and my mangalsutra. Air touched my pussy. I felt how wet I was on my inner thighs and the shame of that wetness made my stomach pull in, and the excitement of it made me want to open my thighs. I crossed one hand over my breasts and the other over my pussy, shy, holding myself from him, then I dropped both hands because I had promised pleasure, and because I could feel him enjoying the moment I stood uncovered. He did not put his palm on me. He stayed in front of me, close, and the looking I could not see sat on my breasts and on my pussy until my skin there felt burned. His breath hit my collarbone, heavier than before. A sound sat low in his throat without becoming a word. I could smell him, sweat and sun and the slum.
He came in close and put his arms around me while I stood naked except the blindfold and my mangalsutra. He was only in his underwear. His chest hair scbangd my bare breasts and his stomach sat damp against my waist, and with that closeness the stink arrived fully, sweat and old sun and unwashed underwear, a sour heat that filled my nose inside the blindfold until turning my face did nothing. Disgust sat on my tongue. For a breath I wanted to change my mind, I wanted my yellow chiffon saree on my body again and the door open behind me, and then Santosh’s face came back, and my husband’s crying in my lap came back with it, and the promise I had made held me where the smell wanted me to run.
He held me nicely. One palm stayed on my lower back as if to keep me from folding, and the other went down over my ass and took both ass cheeks without hurting them, only holding their weight, his fingers resting in the dip between my ass cheeks. When he pulled me in, my pussy touched the front of his underwear and I felt him hard behind his underwear, and the smell of him was stronger at that distance. The sound I made into his shoulder was half a flinch and half something I did not want to name. His hand left my lower back, found my waist, then rose and covered my breast, thumb passing over my nipple until it stood tighter, then the other breast the same way, and after that he felt me the way a man feels a body he has been allowed to have, slow, from my breasts to my waist to my ass to the wet on my pussy, his fingers sliding through that wet and returning as if to confirm it. Shame went through me because my hips followed his hand even while my throat wanted to close, and under the shame there was excitement I hated, first time, another man’s underwear against my pussy, another man’s stink in my mouth.
He walked me backward by the waist until the edge of the cot touched my calves. I sat because my knees had no other choice. The wood caught my ass and I felt the grain. He came down with me and laid me back, one hand behind my shoulder, and the cot took my shoulders and the back of my head. The blindfold pressed my lashes. I could not see the roof. I could smell him over me, sweat and old sun and unwashed underwear, and I turned my face and the smell followed.
I heard him push his underwear down. His knee opened my left thigh, then my right, and he settled between my thighs until the insides of my knees held his hips. His cock touched my pussy first on the outside, hot, thick, sliding through the wet that had been sitting there since the maroon panties came off. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down my pussy, over my clit, then down to where I opened, and each pass spread me a little more. Disgust and heat lived in the same breath. For a second I wanted my yellow chiffon saree and the door. Santosh’s face held my thighs apart. My husband’s crying held them apart.
He put the head of his cock at my pussy and pushed. I was tight. This was the first cock other than my husband’s, and my pussy did not want to remember a new shape. He worked himself in with short pushes, half in, then back, then in again, stretching me until the stretch became a full ache. I held his shoulders. His skin was damp. His chest hair scbangd my nipples as he came down. He pushed until his stomach sat on my stomach and his cock was all the way inside my pussy, and I was full of him, full of the stink, full of the first time.
He stayed there for a moment as if he was enjoying the fact of being inside me. A sound sat in his throat without becoming a word. Then he started to fuck me with short thrusts, not kind, not cruel yet, testing how my pussy closed on his cock each time he drew back. I felt every inch leave and come back. My breasts moved under his chest. My mangalsutra lay trapped between us. I bit the inside of my mouth and still a sound came out of me. I was doing this for my husband. I was also wet around another man’s cock, taking him, waiting for him to enjoy the rest of me.
The short thrusts did not last. His hips found a harder rhythm and he fucked me as if the waiting in the room had been for this only. Each thrust slapped his stomach against my pussy and the front of my thighs, a wet hit I could hear under the cot knocking the wall. His chest hair scbangd my breasts until my nipples burned and stayed standing against that scbang. He put his mouth on my neck without a kiss, only open heat and sweat, and the stink of him filled the blindfold until I had to breathe through my mouth.
He held my waist with both hands and pulled me onto his cock every time he drove in, so I met him whether I lifted or not. My breasts shook toward my chin and fell back. My ass slid on the wood and he dragged me under him again by the waist, his thumbs pressing the soft place beside my navel. I felt his cock hitting deep, the head of it at the end of me, and my pussy had to open for that depth again and again, stretching around him on the way in, clinging on the way out.
“Ah… wait… ah—” I said, and the rest broke into a moan I could not hold.
He enjoyed that sound. I felt him enjoy it in the way his next thrust came faster, in the way his fingers dug into my waist and then left my waist for my ass cheeks. He spread my ass cheeks and held me open so he could go deeper, his fingers in the dip between my ass cheeks, his cock using the extra room until I felt him against a place that made my thighs jump. I thought of my husband on the sofa. I thought of Santosh at the gate. I still lifted my hips because I had promised I would not go stiff, and because my pussy had started taking him with a wet sound I could hear under his breathing, a sound that told me how much of him I was giving.
“Mm… Ravi…” I said, only that, and then I closed my mouth on another moan.
He fucked through that wetness like an animal that had been allowed a body and meant to use all of it, his stomach slapping my clit now and then, his balls against my ass, his breath broken on my neck. I held his back and felt the sweat run under my palms, down the groove of his spine, onto my wrists. First time. Another man’s cock. Another man’s stink. I stayed open for him.
He pulled his cock out of my pussy and the empty feeling made me grab the cot. He turned me by the hip, first onto my side, then onto my knees, and I went where his hands put me because I had said I would cooperate. My cheek found the wood. My breasts hung and my nipples touched the cot. I was blind, on my knees, my ass in the air, and I felt him looking at that before he touched me again.
He put the head of his cock at my pussy from behind and pushed in on one long stroke. The new angle opened a deeper place. I gasped into the wood.
“Ah—” I said, and bit the cot.
He held my hips and fucked me in long strokes, drawing almost out so I felt the ridge of his cock leave me, then filling me until his stomach slapped my ass. He enjoyed that slap. I felt him enjoy it in the way he kept finding it, in the wet sound my pussy made each time he came home. My yellow chiffon saree was on the chair and I was here. I pushed back onto his cock because my brother outside the tin had told me to make sure this man enjoyed it, and because revenge needed this body to work. Each time I pushed back he took more of me.
His right hand left my hip and came around my waist, down over the skin below my navel, and found my pussy from the front while he was still fucking me. His fingers rubbed my clit in time with his cock, slow at first, then surer, until my thighs shook and I could not keep my knees still. The stink of him hung over my back. Sweat from his stomach ran down the dip between my ass cheeks.
“Mm… like that… please…” I said, and hated that I had said please.
I gave him everything I had promised in the auto. My back arched. My breasts swung on the cot. My pussy held his cock and his fingers at once. First time on my knees for another man. For my husband. For Santosh. I stayed on my knees and let him use both.
He pulled out and turned me onto my back again as if the cot belonged to him. The wood took my shoulders. He lifted my knees and folded them toward my breasts, and I held my own knees because my hands needed somewhere to go. I was open to him in a way I had only ever been open to my husband. He put his cock at my pussy and went in to the root in one push. I felt him watch me even behind the blindfold, the looking sitting on my face and on my breasts and on the place where his cock stretched my pussy.
He fucked me deep from there, using my pussy as if it belonged to these minutes only. Each thrust pinned my knees to my breasts. Sweat from his chest dripped onto my nipples and ran into the valley between my breasts. The stink and the pleasure mixed until I could not separate them. I held his ass and pulled him in, ashamed of my own fingers on him, and I did not let go.
My pussy started to clench his cock in waves I could not order. I was close, first time with another man, the closeness coming whether I invited it or not.
“Ah… I can’t… Ravi… ah—” I said, and the rest went into a broken moan.
He fucked through those waves like an animal that would not stop to be kind, enjoying every clench, enjoying every sound I made into the dark, his stomach slapping my clit, his hands keeping my knees where he wanted them. I shook under him and still took him. I thought of my husband and the thought did not close my pussy. I thought of Santosh and the thought made me hold his ass harder. He used me through it, deep, wet, silent except for the sound in his throat, and I stayed on my back and let him have the rest of the minutes.
I felt him change inside my pussy before I understood the change. His cock grew thicker, the easy long strokes broke into shorter ones that went deeper instead of kinder, and the head of him stayed at the end of me as if he had found a place he did not mean to leave. Panic cut through the heat. I let go of my knees. My palms found his damp stomach and pushed.
“Don’t come inside me, please, not inside, pull out, I am asking you, I cannot take that home to my husband, I did everything you wanted, don’t leave it in me.” I said.
He was not in the mood to pull out. I felt that in the way his body became heavier, in the way he took my wrists and put them back beside my head and held them there, in the way his hips kept working. He fucked me vigorously through the asking, deeper than before, as if my please had only shown him I was close enough to finish. Each thrust slapped his stomach on my clit. My breasts shook toward my chin. The cot knocked. The stink of his sweat filled the blindfold. I turned my face and his cheek followed mine.
“Please… pull out… ah… I can’t… Ravi—” I said.
He fucked me through the please. My pussy started to warn me in small clenches around his cock, then stronger ones, my thighs shaking against his sides, my back lifting off the wood. I was at the edge and I knew if he stayed I would go over with him inside me. Shame and hunger lived in the same breath. I had come for Santosh. I had come for my husband. My body was no longer listening to either of them. My hips lifted to keep his cock where it was.
“All right… do it… I can’t stop… I’m yours… ah—” I said, surrendering, my wrists turning in his hands so I could hold him instead of pushing.
He buried his cock to the root and came inside my pussy, hot, pulse after pulse, filling me, his stomach locked to mine, his mouth open on my neck.
“Ah… ah—” he moaned, only that, torn out of his throat as his cum pumped into me.
The very next moment I came all over his cock while his cum was still going into me. The pleasure ran from my pussy through my belly to my nipples and back, long waves I could not order, my thighs locked on his hips, my wetness mixing with what he was leaving in me, and I enjoyed it, I hated that I enjoyed it, I came anyway.
“Ah… I’m coming… ah… Ravi… mm—” I said.
He left himself in me until both of us finished, still moaning low against my neck, enjoying the way my pussy milked his cock for the last of it. When he pulled out, I felt his cum follow, thick, down the inner skin of my thigh, onto the cot, mixed with how wet I had come. I kept my thighs together too late. Guilt arrived with the enjoyment and did not cancel it. I had asked him to stop and then I had asked him to stay. I had another man’s cum in my pussy and I had come on that cock the moment after he filled me.
He did not get off me at once. He stayed over me, his chest hair sticking to my breasts, his breath on my lips, so close I could taste the sweat on his mouth without touching it. I lifted my chin a little in the dark, guilty, satisfied, still shaking, my mouth open under his, and I did not lift the blindfold.
I lifted my chin in the dark and his mouth found mine. He did not ask. The kiss was wet from the start, his lips opening mine with his tongue, the taste of his sweat going into my mouth, sour and hot, the same stink I had been breathing all evening now sitting on my tongue. I turned my face and he followed and kissed me deeper. I had another man’s cum in my pussy and now I had his mouth.
It was filthy. His spit ran to the corner of my lips. He sucked my lower lip and then pushed his tongue in again, slow, then hungry, as if the fucking had not finished what he wanted from my face. My hands left the cot and held his head. I kissed him back. I was guilty while I did it. I was still shaking from coming. My breasts stuck to his chest hair. My thighs were wet with him. I opened my mouth wider and let him take it.
He kissed me like an animal that had already used my pussy and still wanted the rest of me, his nose against my cheek, his breath broken, a sound in his throat going into my mouth. I thought of my husband’s mouth and the thought made the kiss worse and I did not stop. I sucked his tongue once, shy, then not shy. He pressed me into the cot with the kiss until I had no air and then he gave me a little and took it again.
When he lifted his mouth I could still feel it. My lips were wet. My chin was wet. I lay under him with the blindfold on and his taste in my mouth and his cum in my pussy, first time finished, kissed like that, my chin still lifted, waiting for his mouth to come back.
When he lifted his mouth I did not let him go far. I pulled his head down by the hair and found his lips again, shameless, my tongue in his mouth first this time, licking the sweat off his upper lip before I kissed him properly. A giggle came out of me into the kiss, surprising me, the kind of giggle I had never made on a cot in a slum. My wet thighs opened around his hips. I could still feel his cum sitting in my pussy, warm, leaking when I moved, and I pressed that pussy up against his naked cock and rubbed myself on him, using the wet we had made.
“Mm. This cock. Ravi, this cock finished me. I have never been fucked like that, I am not lying.” I said, and I giggled against his mouth. “I came on you while you were still coming in me. I enjoyed it. Listen to me, I enjoyed it. I can still feel you inside, thick, the way you stayed when I said pull out. Bad man.” I said.
I kissed his mouth, then the corner of his mouth, then the wet place on his neck where the sweat collected, little shameless kisses, and another small laugh shook my breasts across his chest hair. My hand went down between us and found his cock, slick from my pussy and from his own cum, and I closed my fingers around it and stroked it along my pussy as if I was playing with a thing I already owned.
“This cock I want again. You held my wrists and kept fucking me, you took me to the edge until I said all right do it, and I am not sorry. Call me and I will come. Any time you want this pussy I will come running. Don’t send me home and forget how I opened. I have fallen for this cock. I have fallen for how you took me.” I said, and I giggled again, low, dirty, into his throat.
I kissed him open, spit and all, my words going into his mouth between the kisses, my hips still working his cock against my clit. He did not speak. He answered with his tongue, with that sound in his throat, with his hand closing on my ass cheek and pulling me tighter. I took the sound as yes and kissed him harder, shameless, giggling when I had to break for air, already asking with my mouth and my pussy for the next time.
My phone rang. The sound came from the bag on the chair beside the cot. I reached out blind, found the bag, took the phone out, and kept the bag aside on the floor. I sat up only as much as I had to. His cum was still in my pussy. I answered.
“Where are you? I have been calling.” my husband said.
His voice put the house in the room. I swallowed.
“I am at the market. What happened?” I said.
“Santosh is dead. They found him with a pulse and took him to the hospital. At the hospital they said brought dead. Heart attack.” my husband said.
For a moment I could not speak. Santosh’s face at the gate went empty.
“Heart attack? You are sure?” I said.
“I am sure. He is gone.” my husband said.
“I am coming.” I said.
I cut the call and put the phone aside with the bag. For a moment I thought if that bastard had died a couple of hours earlier I would not be here, I would not be naked on this cot, I would not have another man’s cock and another man’s cum and another man’s spit on my mouth. The thought was sharp and then it left.
He moved first. He came down on top of me and slept on me, his full weight, and took me into his complete embrace, both arms under my back, his chest on my breasts, his stomach on my stomach, his thigh between my thighs, hugging me so tight the blindfold pressed my lashes and his smell filled me again. That was when I realized what I had been missing all these days, this hold, this body, this cock still wet against my pussy, a man who took me until I surrendered. I needed this man. I put my arms around him and hugged him tight, my nails on his back, my face in his neck, Santosh dead in the hospital and this hug alive on the cot, and I did not lift the blindfold.
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