Fantasy The descent of young wife Priya

[vidyapriyaxx]

Let me tell you about myself—though sometimes, I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.


I’m Priya Sharma—well, Priya Malhotra now, though I still sometimes forget to respond to my married name. Twenty-six years old, junior architect at AB & Associates, and, according to the whispers that follow me through the office corridors, "that shy little thing with the dangerous curves."

I’ve always been curvy, as my mother would say—but never delicate. Not really. My body betrays me in ways I was never taught to control. My waist dips in sharply, a perfect hourglass that tailors always pause at, their fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long when they measure me. "Twenty-four inches," they murmur, as if they can’t quite believe it. My hips flare out, round and impossible to ignore, no matter how loose my salwars are. And my chest—God, my chest—always seems to strain against my blouses, no matter how modest I try to be.

Vikram used to trace the lines of my body in the dark, his calloused hands mapping the swell of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the softness of my thighs. "You’re perfect," he’d whisper, and for a while, I believed him. But now, with him gone for months at a time, I catch myself staring at my reflection in shop windows, at the way men’s eyes follow me when I walk by.

I wear my hair long—thick, dark waves that tumble down my back, always slipping free from the clips I try to tame them with. My lips are too full, my eyes too big—"like a deer’s," Mr. Malhotra told me once, his gaze lingering just a second too long. And my skin—golden and smooth—flushes too easily, betraying every flicker of embarrassment, every unwanted thrill.

I tell myself I don’t notice the way Rohan from Accounts stares when I bend over a blueprint, or how Mr. Kapoor’s fingers accidentally brush mine when he passes me files. I pretend not to see the way the chaiwalla’s gaze drops to my cleavage when I lean forward to take my cup.
But I do.

Today will be a busy day at office. The jasmine-scented Bangalore air clung to my skin as I hurried through the office parking lot, my silk dupata slipping from my shoulder for the third time that morning. I caught it absently, my fingers brushing against the delicate skin of my collarbone where my wedding chain lay heavy. The gold had left a faint red mark again - Vikram always said I had skin so soft it bruised like fruit.  

At the elevator, I pressed myself against the mirrored wall to make room for Mr. Kapoor. His eyes flickered over my reflection - my petite frame swallowed by the crisp linen of my peach kurti, the way the fabric strained just slightly across my chest when I reached to press the button for our floor.  

"Late again, Priya?" His voice was light, but his gaze wasn't.  

I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, feeling it immediately spring free. "The traffic near Koramangala was..."  

His chuckle cut me off. "No need to explain. Though I must say," his eyes dropped to my feet, taking in the strappy sandals that made my legs look longer than they were, "you're making quite the entrance regardless."  

The elevator dinged. My cheeks burned as I scurried out, his cologne - something expensive and woody - clinging to my clothes.  

My desk was a sanctuary of neat blueprints and sharpened pencils. I smoothed my palms over my thighs, willing the flush to fade. The office AC hummed to life, raising goosebumps on my arms that had nothing to do with the temperature.  

"Someone's getting special attention."  

I jumped. Meera from HR leaned against my cubicle wall, her smirk making my stomach twist.  

"It's not like that. He's just..."  

"Married? Twice your age?" She plucked a pencil from my desk, twirling it between manicured fingers. "Doesn't stop him from looking, does it?"  

I busied myself with organizing papers that didn't need organizing. My reflection in the computer screen stared back - wide dark eyes, lips still glossy from this morning's hurried application, the neckline of my kurti gaping slightly as I bent forward. I straightened immediately.  

The morning passed in a blur of meetings and revisions. At lunch, I escaped to the women's restroom, splashing cool water on my wrists. The mirror showed what everyone else saw - a young woman drowning in her own body. My waist nipped in dramatically, making my hips seem even rounder, my chest fuller. The tailor last week had clucked his tongue measuring me. "Twenty-four inch waist, thirty-six inch..." He'd trailed off, tape measure brushing the underside of my breasts. "You should wear better blouses, madam. This is a crime to hide."  

My phone buzzed. Vikram's smiling face flashed on screen.  

"Hi!" I answered too brightly.  

His voice came through tinny from thousands of miles away. "You sound out of breath."  

"I was just...walking. To get lunch." I twisted a curl around my finger, watching it spring back.  

"How's the Patel project going?"  

I hesitated. Mr. Kapoor had cornered me by the copier this morning, his hand lingering on my back as he "explained" the revisions. His breath had smelled of cardamom and something darker.  

"Fine," I said. "Everything's fine."  

The silence stretched. I could picture Vikram running a hand through his hair the way he did when he knew I wasn't telling him something.  

"Priya..."  

"I should go. Meeting soon."  

After the call, I stared at my untouched lunch. The office chatter buzzed around me, snippets of conversations about deadlines and divorces and the new restaurant on MG Road.  

"Priya?"  

I turned to find Rohan from Accounts looming over my desk, his crisp white shirt straining across broad shoulders. He set a stack of files down with exaggerated care.  

"Didn't want you straining yourself," he said, eyes crinkling.  

I forced a laugh. "I'm not that fragile."  

His gaze traveled from my face downward, slow as honey. "No," he murmured. "You're definitely not."  

The files suddenly seemed unimportant. My skin prickled where his fingers had brushed mine. The office felt too warm, the air too thick.  

At 5:30, I fled. The evening air was a relief against my flushed skin. I paused outside a shop window, adjusting my dupata. My reflection stared back - the way my kurta clung after a long day, the sweat-damp curls at my temples, the gold bangles slipping down my wrist. A man on a bike slowed as he passed. His eyes met mine in the glass.  

I looked away first.  

Home was a quiet apartment that still didn't feel like mine. I dropped my bag by the door, toes curling against the cool tile. The bedroom mirror showed what the day had done to me - smudged eyeliner, a button popped open at my chest without me noticing.  

I touched the spot absently. The skin there was warm.  

The shower ran hot, steam curling around my body. I scrubbed until my skin turned pink, but the memory of Mr. Kapoor's lingering touch, Rohan's appreciative glance, the stranger's hungry stare - they clung like the jasmine perfume I couldn't seem to wash off.  

Later, wrapped in a towel too small, I stood before the closet. My fingers hovered over tomorrow's outfit - a modest navy salwar. Then, without quite deciding to, I reached past it to the emerald green kurti Vikram had never liked. The one that fit just a little too well.  

I laid it out carefully.  

The balcony called to me. Bangalore glittered below, alive with possibilities. The night air kissed my damp shoulders as I leaned against the railing. Somewhere in the distance, music played. A woman laughed, low and throaty.  

*I'm happy,* I told the stars.  

The city lights winked back, as if they knew better.

[vidyapriyaxx]

Let me tell you about myself—though sometimes, I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.
I’m Priya Sharma—well, Priya Malhotra now, though I still sometimes forget to respond to my married name. Twenty-six years old, junior architect at AB & Associates, and, according to the whispers that follow me through the office corridors, "that shy little thing with the dangerous curves."

I’ve always been sexty, curvy, as my mother would say—but never delicate. Not really. My body betrays me in ways I was never taught to control. My waist dips in sharply, a perfect hourglass that tailors always pause at, their fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long when they measure me. "Twenty-four inches," they murmur, as if they can’t quite believe it. My hips flare out, round and impossible to ignore, no matter how loose my salwars are. And my chest—God, my chest—always seems to strain against my blouses, no matter how modest I try to be.

I wear my hair long—thick, dark waves that tumble down my back, always slipping free from the clips I try to tame them with. My lips are too full, my eyes too big—"like a deer’s," Mr. Malhotra told me once, his gaze lingering just a second too long. And my skin—golden and smooth—flushes too easily, betraying every flicker of embarrassment, every unwanted thrill.

The jasmine-scented Bangalore air clung to my skin as I hurried through the office parking lot, my silk dupata slipping from my shoulder for the third time that morning. I caught it absently, my fingers brushing against the delicate skin of my collarbone where my wedding chain lay heavy. The gold had left a faint red mark again - Vikram always said I had skin so soft it bruised like fruit.  

At the elevator, I pressed myself against the mirrored wall to make room for Mr. Kapoor. His eyes flickered over my reflection - my petite frame swallowed by the crisp linen of my peach kurti, the way the fabric strained just slightly across my chest when I reached to press the button for our floor.  

"Late again, Priya?" His voice was light, but his gaze wasn't.  

I tucked a loose curl behind my ear, feeling it immediately spring free. "The traffic near Koramangala was..."  

His chuckle cut me off. "No need to explain. Though I must say," his eyes dropped to my feet, taking in the strappy sandals that made my legs look longer than they were, "you're making quite the entrance regardless."  

The elevator dinged. My cheeks burned as I scurried out, his cologne - something expensive and woody - clinging to my clothes.  

My desk was a sanctuary of neat blueprints and sharpened pencils. I smoothed my palms over my thighs, willing the flush to fade. The office AC hummed to life, raising goosebumps on my arms that had nothing to do with the temperature.  

"Someone's getting special attention."  

I jumped. Meera from HR leaned against my cubicle wall, her smirk making my stomach twist.  

"It's not like that. He's just..."  

"Married? Twice your age?" She plucked a pencil from my desk, twirling it between manicured fingers. "Doesn't stop him from looking, does it?"  

I busied myself with organizing papers that didn't need organizing. My reflection in the computer screen stared back - wide dark eyes, lips still glossy from this morning's hurried application, the neckline of my kurti gaping slightly as I bent forward. I straightened immediately.  

The morning passed in a blur of meetings and revisions. At lunch, I escaped to the women's restroom, splashing cool water on my wrists. The mirror showed what everyone else saw - a young woman drowning in her own body. My waist nipped in dramatically, making my hips seem even rounder, my chest fuller. The tailor last week had clucked his tongue measuring me. "Twenty-four inch waist, thirty-six inch..." He'd trailed off, tape measure brushing the underside of my breasts. "You should wear better blouses, madam. This is a crime to hide."  

My phone buzzed. Vikram's smiling face flashed on screen.  

"Hi!" I answered too brightly.  

His voice came through tinny from thousands of miles away. "You sound out of breath."  

"I was just...walking. To get lunch." I twisted a curl around my finger, watching it spring back.  

"How's the Patel project going?"  

I hesitated. Mr. Kapoor had cornered me by the copier this morning, his hand lingering on my back as he "explained" the revisions. His breath had smelled of cardamom and something darker.  

"Fine," I said. "Everything's fine."  

The silence stretched. I could picture Vikram running a hand through his hair the way he did when he knew I wasn't telling him something.  

"Priya..."  

"I should go. Meeting soon."  

After the call, I stared at my untouched lunch. The office chatter buzzed around me, snippets of conversations about deadlines and divorces and the new restaurant on MG Road.  

"Priya?"  

I turned to find Rohan from Accounts looming over my desk, his crisp white shirt straining across broad shoulders. He set a stack of files down with exaggerated care.  

"Didn't want you straining yourself," he said, eyes crinkling.  

I forced a laugh. "I'm not that fragile."  

His gaze traveled from my face downward, slow as honey. "No," he murmured. "You're definitely not."  

The files suddenly seemed unimportant. My skin prickled where his fingers had brushed mine. The office felt too warm, the air too thick.  

At 5:30, I fled. The evening air was a relief against my flushed skin. I paused outside a shop window, adjusting my dupata. My reflection stared back - the way my kurta clung after a long day, the sweat-damp curls at my temples, the gold bangles slipping down my wrist. A man on a bike slowed as he passed. His eyes met mine in the glass.  

I looked away first.  

Home was a quiet apartment that still didn't feel like mine. I dropped my bag by the door, toes curling against the cool tile. The bedroom mirror showed what the day had done to me - smudged eyeliner, a button popped open at my chest without me noticing.  

I touched the spot absently. The skin there was warm.  

The shower ran hot, steam curling around my body. I scrubbed until my skin turned pink, but the memory of Mr. Kapoor's lingering touch, Rohan's appreciative glance, the stranger's hungry stare - they clung like the jasmine perfume I couldn't seem to wash off.  

Later, wrapped in a towel too small, I stood before the closet. My fingers hovered over tomorrow's outfit - a modest navy salwar. Then, without quite deciding to, I reached past it to the emerald green kurti Vikram had never liked. The one that fit just a little too well.  

I laid it out carefully.  

The balcony called to me. Bangalore glittered below, alive with possibilities. The night air kissed my damp shoulders as I leaned against the railing. Somewhere in the distance, music played. A woman laughed, low and throaty.  

*I'm happy,* I told the stars.  

The city lights winked back, as if they knew better.

[Dinesh5]

Nice start bro

[vidyapriyaxx]

Chapter 2

The morning sunlight spilled through the sheer curtains like liquid gold, painting stripes across the silk sheets that still smelled faintly of Vikram's cologne. I stretched like a cat awakening from a dream, my body arching into the emptiness beside me. The delicate lace hem of my nightgown rode up, exposing the creamy skin of my thighs to the cool morning air. A shiver ran through me - not from cold, but from the way the fabric whispered against my suddenly sensitive flesh.

I turned toward the full-length mirror, watching the way my body moved with feline grace. The thin silk clung to every curve, the deep V of the neckline revealing the shadowed valley between my breasts. My nipples peaked visibly beneath the fabric, hardened by the chill and something else - that restless, nameless hunger that had been growing in me for months.

My fingers trailed down my own body, tracing the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. When they brushed the inside of my thigh, I gasped at the electric jolt of sensation. The mirror reflected the flush spreading across my chest, the way my lips parted unconsciously.

"This is dangerous", whispered the voice of reason. But the voice of desire whispered louder.

Men had always looked. But lately...lately I'd begun to let them.

---

The coffee shop was crowded, the air thick with the rich aroma of freshly ground beans. I knew he'd be working today - the barista with the rough hands and slow smile who'd been watching me for weeks.

"Your usual, beautiful?" His voice was deeper this morning, rougher around the edges. His fingers brushed mine as he passed the cup, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The heat of his skin against mine sent an unexpected thrill straight to my core.

I glanced down. Scrawled across the sleeve in messy blue ink: "For the most beautiful customer."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn't pull away. Instead, I wrapped my fingers around the cup, letting him feel the deliberate slide of my skin against his. His breath hitched - a small, satisfying sound.

I took an excruciatingly slow sip, my lips wrapping around the rim in a way that made his knuckles whiten on the counter. The coffee was perfect as always, but it wasn't the caffeine that sent warmth pooling low in my belly.

"You always drink it so...slowly," he murmured, his gaze locked on my mouth.

I let my tongue dart out to catch a stray drop, watching his eyes darken. "I like to savor things," I purred, holding his stare as I took another deliberate sip.

The space between us crackled with tension. His gaze dropped to the way my blouse gaped slightly as I leaned forward, revealing just a hint of lace beneath. When I finally turned to leave, I could feel his eyes burning into me all the way to the door.

---

The office was its usual chaos, but today the air felt charged. Rohan from Accounts had been circling my desk like a predator for weeks, and today his attention was more intense than ever.

"Need help with those files?" His deep voice came from directly behind me, closer than professional courtesy allowed. Before I could answer, his broad chest pressed against my back as he reached for a folder. His cologne - something expensive and woodsy - wrapped around me like an embrace.

His hand settled on the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of my spine. "You really shouldn't be lifting these heavy boxes," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

I should have stepped away. Should have made some sharp remark about being perfectly capable. But the heat of his palm through the thin silk of my blouse sent a traitorous pulse of desire straight to my core.

Instead, I "accidentally" dropped a pen, bending slowly to retrieve it. I knew exactly how my blouse gaped when I leaned forward, exactly how much of my lace bra would be visible from his angle. The sharp intake of breath above me was all the confirmation I needed.

I took my time rising, letting my body brush against his as I straightened. His fingers flexed against my back, pressing just a little lower, just a little *firmer*.

"Careful," I murmured, though I made no move to pull away.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Or what?"

The challenge hung between us, thick with unspoken promise. For a breathless moment, I imagined what would happen if I turned in his arms, if I let him back me against the desk...

The ringing phone shattered the moment. I stepped away, but not before seeing the hunger in his eyes - and knowing it mirrored my own.

---

Vikram's call came late that night, his face pixelated on the laptop screen.

"You're wearing lipstick," he noted absently, barely glancing up from whatever document had his attention.

I touched my lips automatically, the deep plum stain long since faded. That he'd noticed at all sent a flicker of warmth through me - until his next words doused it.

"Client dinner?"

I twisted the hem of my nightshirt between my fingers. "No," I admitted softly. "Just...felt like it."

His smile was distracted, his gaze already drifting back to his work. "You look tired," he said absently.

The call ended too soon, leaving me in the suffocating silence of our bedroom. The mirror across from me reflected a woman bathed in blue light, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her fingers tracing the lace edge of the black bra Vikram hadn't noticed, hadn't *touched* in months.

My hands drifted lower of their own accord, skimming over the swell of my breasts, my thumbs brushing my nipples until they pebbled beneath my touch. A soft sigh escaped me as I imagined another man's hands there - Rohan's maybe, or the barista's - rough and demanding, pinching just hard enough to make me gasp.

But it was Vikram's name that trembled on my lips as I came, the bittersweet pleasure laced with guilt and longing.

---

"Wear something nice," Mr. Kapoor had said, his gaze skimming over my usual salwar with barely concealed disdain.

I chose the emerald kurti - the one that clung to every curve, the deep V of the neckline revealing just enough to tease. The silk whispered against my skin as I walked, the slit at the side flashing a glimpse of thigh with every step.

The restaurant was all low lighting and white tablecloths, the air thick with saffron and expensive perfume. Mr. Patel - silver-haired, with a watch worth more than my monthly salary - poured me a glass of wine before I could refuse.

"To new partnerships," he toasted, his fingers brushing mine as he pushed the glass toward me. His gaze lingered on my mouth as I took a reluctant sip, the wine rich and dark on my tongue.

By the third course, his hand had "accidentally" grazed my thigh three times. The first time, I stiffened. The second, I hesitated. The third, I didn't move away at all.

His pinky brushed the inside of my knee beneath the table, a whisper of contact that sent heat pooling low in my belly. The wine had made my limbs heavy, my inhibitions fuzzy at the edges. The way his eyes darkened when he looked at me - like he wanted to devour me - sent a thrill through me that I couldn't name.

His fingers trailed higher, skimming the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My breath hitched.

"You're trembling," he murmured, his voice rough with amusement.

I pressed my thighs together, trapping his hand there. His thumb stroked the seam of my panties through the silk, the friction maddening. How far would he go if I let him? How far would *I* let him?

The waiter's approach made him pull away, but the heat of his gaze promised this wasn't over.

---

The shower that night was scalding, the water sluicing over my skin in near-punishing waves. I scrubbed until my shoulders turned pink, but the memory of Mr. Patel's gaze - hungry, possessive - clung to me like the scent of his cologne.

My fingers slipped between my thighs before I could stop them, my back arching against the tiles as I imagined his hands on me, his mouth between my legs, his low voice murmuring filthy things in my ear. The pleasure was sharp and sudden, the guilt crashing over me only after.

I tore open my closet, searching for tomorrow's outfit - something high-necked, loose, *modest*. But my hands hesitated on the emerald kurti instead, the one that made my waist look impossibly small, my curves more pronounced.

Just for me, I told myself as I laid it out.

But the mirror caught my traitorous smile.

[vidyapriyaxx]

Chapter 3

The air in the office shifted the moment he entered—charged with something dark and electric, like the heavy stillness before a storm.  

I felt him before I saw him. The murmurs of conversation died mid-sentence. The rustle of papers stilled. Even the hum of the air conditioning seemed to quiet as every head turned toward the doorway. My pencil froze over my sketchpad, my breath catching as I lifted my gaze.  

Karan Malhotra.  

He stood framed in the conference room entrance, his broad shoulders filling the space effortlessly. The sleek cut of his navy suit clung to his powerful frame, the fabric straining slightly over his biceps as he tucked his phone into his pocket. His dark eyes swept the room with calculated disinterest—until they landed on me.  

Unlike Rohan’s clumsy groping or Mr. Kapoor’s leering stares, Karan’s gaze didn’t drop to my breasts or linger on the curve of my hips. No, he studied *me*—the nervous flutter of my pulse at my throat, the way my fingers tightened around my pencil, the instinctive hitch of my breath when his attention settled on me like a physical touch.  

It was unnerving.  

And it sent a slow, molten heat pooling between my thighs.  

The Meeting – A Dangerous Game 

Mr. Dhaval practically tripped over himself to greet him. "Mr. Malhotra! We weren’t expecting you until—"  

"I moved my schedule around." Karan’s voice was deep, smooth as aged whiskey, and it silenced the room without effort. His gaze never left mine as he added, "I wanted to see the team in person before finalizing plans."  

I swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how my blouse clung to my curves, the silk material tightening over my breasts with every shallow breath I took. The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken.  

The meeting passed in a haze. I sat stiffly in my chair, my legs pressed tightly together, my nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of my blouse. Karan lounged at the head of the table, his long fingers steepled under his chin as he listened to the senior architects drone on about cold, soulless designs.  

Then, in the middle of a presentation, he interrupted.  

"That one."  

His finger pointed—not at the screen, but directly at the sketchpad in my lap. A rough, sensual concept I’d been idly doodling—something curved and intimate, all sweeping arches and hidden alcoves, so unlike the sterile modern designs being proposed.  

Every head turned toward me.  

My face burned.  

"I—it’s just a rough idea," I stammered, my fingers instinctively covering the sketch. "Not part of the official—"  

"I like it." His voice was firm, final. Then, to Mr. Dhaval, with a tone that brooked no argument: "I want her on the project."  

The silence that followed was deafening.  

The First Touch  

After the meeting, as the others filed out with murmured confusion, I lingered, pretending to organize my papers. My pulse hammered in my throat, my skin prickling with awareness as Karan’s shadow fell over me.  

"You’re not like the others here, are you?"  

His voice was closer than I expected, a dark murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, finding him leaning casually against the table, his suit jacket open to reveal the crisp white shirt beneath. The top button was undone, exposing a hint of tanned skin and the strong column of his throat.  

His cologne—something rich and spicy, with notes of sandalwood and sin—wrapped around me, intoxicating.  

"I don’t know what you mean," I managed, though my voice trembled.  

He smiled—slow, knowing, *dangerous*. "Yes, you do."  

Before I could respond, he straightened, his body brushing against mine as he reached past me to pick up a stray pen. The contact was fleeting, but it burned—his forearm grazing the side of my breast, the heat of him searing through the thin silk of my blouse. My breath hitched, my nipples pebbling instantly under the accidental caress.  

He noticed. Of course he noticed.  

His gaze darkened, lingering on the hardened peaks visible through my blouse before meeting my eyes again. "We’ll discuss the project tomorrow. My penthouse. Seven o’clock."  

A beat of silence. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, arousal slicking my skin.  

"Bring your sketches," he added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre. Then, softer, as if sharing a secret: "I’d hate to see talent like yours go to waste."  

The Lie – And the Dream That Followed

That night, I lied to Vikram for the first time.  

"It’s just a team meeting," I said, staring at my reflection in the laptop screen instead of at him. My fingers twisted in the hem of my nightshirt, the fabric riding up my thighs. "For a new project."  

Vikram barely glanced up. "Good for you," he murmured absently, already distracted by something off-camera.  

I should have felt guilty.  

But all I could think about was the way Karan’s arm had brushed against my breast, the way his gaze had lingered on my body like he was already mapping every inch of me with his hands.  

The dream came just before dawn.  

The dream began with the whisper of fabric against my wrists, cool and smooth as Karan tied them to the wrought iron headboard. The black satin sheets beneath me were a sinful contrast to my bare skin, the material sliding like liquid against my thighs as I squirmed.

"You could be so much more," Karan murmured, his voice a dark caress against my ear. His hands—rough, demanding—trailed down my body, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips hard enough to leave marks. I gasped as his teeth scbangd my collarbone, the sharp sting making my back arch off the bed.

His mouth was relentless. He laved his tongue over my nipples, sucking until they were stiff and aching, then biting down just hard enough to make me cry out. His fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat as he kissed me—deep, filthy, his tongue claiming my mouth like he owned it.

I was already wet, my thighs slick with need, when his hand slid between my legs. A rough groan escaped him as he found my panties soaked through. "Look at you," he growled, hooking his fingers into the lace and tearing them aside. "Dripping for me before I’ve even touched you properly."

His fingers plunged into me without warning, thick and unrelenting, curling just right to make me sob. I clenched around him, my hips bucking, but he pinned me down with his free hand, his grip bruising. "Stay still," he commanded, his thumb circling my clit in slow, torturous strokes. "Take what I give you."

I whimpered, my body trembling as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter—until he suddenly withdrew, leaving me empty and gasping. Before I could protest, he flipped me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up until my ass was in the air. His palm cracked against my bare flesh, the sharp slap sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure-pain through me.

"Karan—!"

He didn’t answer. Just dragged me back onto his cock in one brutal thrust, filling me so deep I screamed. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging in as he fucked me with punishing strokes, each one driving me harder into the mattress. The headboard rattled with the force of it, my bound wrists straining against the silk scarves as pleasure tore through me in ragged waves.

"Come for me," he snarled, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. "Now."
I shattered, my body convulsing around him as he chased his own release, his hips slamming into mine with a final, devastating thrust—

I woke with a gasp, my skin damp and feverish, my core still pulsing with the ghost of him. The sheets were tangled between my thighs, my fingers already seeking the wet heat they found there.

I didn’t tease myself. Couldn’t. My touch was rough, desperate—two fingers plunging deep as my thumb circled my clit in harsh, rapid strokes. I imagined it was Karan’s hand, his voice growling in my ear, "That’s it, fuck yourself for me."

My back arched off the bed as I came, my thighs clamping around my wrist, my free hand fisting the sheets. A broken cry spilled from my lips—his name, like a prayer and a curse.

For a long moment, I lay there, breathless and trembling, the aftershocks still rippling through me.
Then I turned my face into the pillow, biting back another moan as my fingers, still slick, traced lazy circles over my oversensitive flesh.

This wasn’t enough.

I needed the real thing.


The Morning After – A Decision Made

I stood in front of my closet the next morning, my fingers trembling as they brushed over my usual modest suits.  

Then I reached for the emerald silk blouse instead—the one that dipped just low enough to tease, the fabric so thin it left nothing to the imagination. The matching pencil skirt hugged my ass like a second skin, the slit at the back revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh with every step.  

I applied my lipstick slowly, deliberately—a deep, sinful red that made my mouth look ripe for kissing.  

It’s just a business meeting, I told my reflection.  

But the woman staring back at me—her lips swollen from biting them, her eyes dark with anticipation—knew the truth.  

And I wouldn’t stop or he wouldn't let me?

[SubmissiveSwati]

very nice.. keep it up