01-10-2026, 02:58 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-10-2026, 07:26 PM by shellyshalini. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
EPISODE 3-First Opportunity with our own Driver
The morning air feels different today. Lighter. Charged with something electric that hums beneath my skin as I stand at my bedroom window, watching the empty street below. The local strike means no cars will be rented, no passengers to shuttle around city's chaotic roads. And my brother, Rohan, left for his office at exactly nine, the sound of his motorcycle fading like a promise into the distance.
I hear Bikram's voice from the living room, speaking to someone on the phone. "Yes, no bookings today... whole day free." The words settle in my chest like warm honey. Whole day. Free. Just him and me in this house.
I slip into my shortest skirt—black, barely covering the curve of my ass, its hem riding high on my thighs. I pair it with a loose white top that falls off one shoulder, revealing the strap of my bra. No, not a bra. I remove it, letting my nipples brush against the thin fabric. I want him to see everything.
I grab a broom from the corner and begin sweeping the living room floor, swaying my hips deliberately with each stroke. The TV is on, some sports channel, but Bikram isn't watching. His eyes follow me, dark and heavy, as I bend low near the coffee table, letting the skirt ride up and expose the bare curve of my ass. I wear nothing underneath. The thought makes my thighs clench.
"You been busy this morning," he says, his voice low, rough like gravel. I glance over my shoulder, meeting his gaze. A slow smile curves my lips.
"Just cleaning, Bikram. Someone has to keep the house tidy."
I sweep closer to the sofa where he sits, legs spread wide, one arm dbangd over the backrest. He looks relaxed, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten on the cushion. I let the broom brush against his knee as I pass, then turn to sweep in the opposite direction, bending deeply, giving him a full view of my exposed flesh.
His hand shoots out, catching my wrist. The broom clatters to the floor. He pulls me toward him, and I stumble, falling into his lap, my skirt riding up to my waist. His other hand cups my cheek, fingers rough and warm, and he tilts my face toward his.
"You know what you're doing," he growls, his breath hot against my lips. "All morning, teasing. Bending over. Showing me that tight little ass."
I don't answer. I just look at him, my eyes half-lidded, my lips parted. He takes that as permission. His mouth crashes onto my neck, kissing hard, biting the sensitive skin where my pulse pounds. I gasp, my fingers gripping his shoulders. His lips trail down, wet and hungry, leaving a burning trail to my collarbone, my shoulder.
He yanks my top down, exposing my bare breasts. The air hits my nipples, making them tighten into hard peaks. He doesn't wait. His mouth closes over one, sucking fiercely, his tongue flicking against the sensitive tip. I moan, arching into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"More," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "Please."
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same rough attention, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue. I feel the wet heat pooling between my legs, soaking the inside of my thighs. I grind against his lap, needing friction, needing him.
He pulls back, looking at me with dark, hungry eyes. Then he slides off the sofa, kneeling before me. His hands grip my thighs, parting them wide. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along my inner thigh, each one drawing closer to my aching center. I can feel my own arousal, slick and warm, trickling down.
"So wet," he mutters against my skin. "And I haven't even touched you yet."
He leans in, and I feel his breath on my pussy, hot and teasing. Then his tongue drags through my folds, slow and deliberate, collecting my wetness. I cry out, my hips bucking against his face. He grips my hips, holding me still, and begins to lick me in long, languid strokes, tasting every inch of me.
His fingers find my entrance, and he pushes two inside me, deep and sudden. I gasp, my walls clenching around him. He curls them, stroking that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, while his thumb presses firmly on my clit, circling in rhythm with his thrusts.
"That's it," he growls against my skin. "Ride my fingers shelly. Let me feel you come."
I obey, for the first time he called me Shelly instead of Shalini Madam. My hips move against his hand, fucking his fingers, chasing the pleasure that builds in my core. The sounds of my wetness fill the room, mixing with my moans and his heavy breathing. The pressure builds, tighter and tighter, until I shatter, my body convulsing, my cry loud and raw as waves of pleasure crash through me. He keeps pumping, drawing out every spasm, until I collapse against him, trembling and breathless.
He pulls his fingers out, glistening with my release, and brings them to my lips. I open my mouth, tasting myself—sweet and salty, the taste of my own desire. I suck them clean, my eyes locked on his, the hunger in his gaze telling me this is far from over.
The morning air feels different today. Lighter. Charged with something electric that hums beneath my skin as I stand at my bedroom window, watching the empty street below. The local strike means no cars will be rented, no passengers to shuttle around city's chaotic roads. And my brother, Rohan, left for his office at exactly nine, the sound of his motorcycle fading like a promise into the distance.
I hear Bikram's voice from the living room, speaking to someone on the phone. "Yes, no bookings today... whole day free." The words settle in my chest like warm honey. Whole day. Free. Just him and me in this house.
I slip into my shortest skirt—black, barely covering the curve of my ass, its hem riding high on my thighs. I pair it with a loose white top that falls off one shoulder, revealing the strap of my bra. No, not a bra. I remove it, letting my nipples brush against the thin fabric. I want him to see everything.
I grab a broom from the corner and begin sweeping the living room floor, swaying my hips deliberately with each stroke. The TV is on, some sports channel, but Bikram isn't watching. His eyes follow me, dark and heavy, as I bend low near the coffee table, letting the skirt ride up and expose the bare curve of my ass. I wear nothing underneath. The thought makes my thighs clench.
"You been busy this morning," he says, his voice low, rough like gravel. I glance over my shoulder, meeting his gaze. A slow smile curves my lips.
"Just cleaning, Bikram. Someone has to keep the house tidy."
I sweep closer to the sofa where he sits, legs spread wide, one arm dbangd over the backrest. He looks relaxed, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten on the cushion. I let the broom brush against his knee as I pass, then turn to sweep in the opposite direction, bending deeply, giving him a full view of my exposed flesh.
His hand shoots out, catching my wrist. The broom clatters to the floor. He pulls me toward him, and I stumble, falling into his lap, my skirt riding up to my waist. His other hand cups my cheek, fingers rough and warm, and he tilts my face toward his.
"You know what you're doing," he growls, his breath hot against my lips. "All morning, teasing. Bending over. Showing me that tight little ass."
I don't answer. I just look at him, my eyes half-lidded, my lips parted. He takes that as permission. His mouth crashes onto my neck, kissing hard, biting the sensitive skin where my pulse pounds. I gasp, my fingers gripping his shoulders. His lips trail down, wet and hungry, leaving a burning trail to my collarbone, my shoulder.
He yanks my top down, exposing my bare breasts. The air hits my nipples, making them tighten into hard peaks. He doesn't wait. His mouth closes over one, sucking fiercely, his tongue flicking against the sensitive tip. I moan, arching into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"More," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "Please."
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same rough attention, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue. I feel the wet heat pooling between my legs, soaking the inside of my thighs. I grind against his lap, needing friction, needing him.
He pulls back, looking at me with dark, hungry eyes. Then he slides off the sofa, kneeling before me. His hands grip my thighs, parting them wide. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along my inner thigh, each one drawing closer to my aching center. I can feel my own arousal, slick and warm, trickling down.
"So wet," he mutters against my skin. "And I haven't even touched you yet."
He leans in, and I feel his breath on my pussy, hot and teasing. Then his tongue drags through my folds, slow and deliberate, collecting my wetness. I cry out, my hips bucking against his face. He grips my hips, holding me still, and begins to lick me in long, languid strokes, tasting every inch of me.
His fingers find my entrance, and he pushes two inside me, deep and sudden. I gasp, my walls clenching around him. He curls them, stroking that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, while his thumb presses firmly on my clit, circling in rhythm with his thrusts.
"That's it," he growls against my skin. "Ride my fingers shelly. Let me feel you come."
I obey, for the first time he called me Shelly instead of Shalini Madam. My hips move against his hand, fucking his fingers, chasing the pleasure that builds in my core. The sounds of my wetness fill the room, mixing with my moans and his heavy breathing. The pressure builds, tighter and tighter, until I shatter, my body convulsing, my cry loud and raw as waves of pleasure crash through me. He keeps pumping, drawing out every spasm, until I collapse against him, trembling and breathless.
He pulls his fingers out, glistening with my release, and brings them to my lips. I open my mouth, tasting myself—sweet and salty, the taste of my own desire. I suck them clean, my eyes locked on his, the hunger in his gaze telling me this is far from over.
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