[kalpanafan277]

EPISODE 11


A raw, primal instinct took over. The pretense of helping her, the charade of steadying her, all of it dissolved in the face of this overwhelming reality. Shankar Uncle couldn't just stand there and let her fall. He had to hold her.

Shankar Uncle leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, wrapping his free arm around her waist to support her full weight. The new position brought their bodies into full, slick contact. His hard, muscular frame was a hot, solid wall against her soft, yielding curves. He bent his knees slightly, lowering himself to better bear her weight, and as he did, he came face to face with them.

Her breasts, freed from gravity's pull, hung before him like perfect, ripe mangoes, heavy and full. The water streamed down the soft, creamy slopes, gathering in droplets on the hard, dusky peaks of her nipples. They were right there. So close he could see the intricate texture of her areolae, the tiny bumps that surrounded the turgid, begging points.

It was an invitation that transcended language, a sight that bypassed all thought and went straight to the most primitive, animalistic part of his brain.

He lunged.

His mouth closed over her left breast, not with the gentle reverence of a worshipper, but with the desperate, hungry greed of a starving man. He took as much of her into his mouth as he could, his lips sealing around the soft flesh, his tongue swirling and lashing against the hard nub of her nipple. He was tasting her, devouring her, a wet, hot, demanding suction that sent a bolt of pure, unadulterated lightning straight to her core.
At the same moment, the finger that was still deep inside her began to move. He was no longer passive, no longer accidentally pressing against that magic spot. He was deliberately, expertly working it. He curled his finger, pressing and stroking, a firm, rhythmic massage against her G-spot that sent shockwaves of intense, building pleasure radiating through her entire body.
And her hand, which had been a desperate clutch, now became an instrument of deliberate pleasure. She began to stroke him, her grip firm and sure. She slid her hand up and down the full, impressive length of him, from the thick, mushroomed head to the heavy base. The water, combined with the slickness of his own arousal, made the movement effortless, a silken glide that was both a tease and a promise.

He was so much bigger than Mani.

The realization crashed over her with the force of a tidal wave. The fantasy she and Mani had woven, the whispered words in the dark, the imaginary scenarios—it was all real. He was here. This was happening. His cock, thick and heavy and pulsing with a life of its own, was in her hand. His mouth was on her breast, sucking with a possessive hunger that stole her breath. His finger was inside her, stroking her in a way that was making her see stars.

The fantasy wasn't a fantasy anymore. It was a beautiful, terrifying, exhilarating reality. And as he sucked harder on her nipple, his finger curling deeper, stroking faster, her own hand matching his rhythm on his magnificent cock, Shoba felt the world begin to dissolve, a wave of pleasure so immense, so all-consuming, it was about to wash her away completely.