Chapter 10: Second like none
He collapsed onto my back, his weight a solid warmth as we both gasped for air.
Slowly, he pulled out, and I felt a sudden, empty ache followed by a slick, uncomfortable trickle.
He rolled onto his side, breathing heavily, and fumbled for something in his discarded pants. "Here," Vishal muttered, his voice rough but oddly gentle, pressing a soft cotton handkerchief into my hand. I trembled as I took it, the white fabric stark in the dim room. My thighs were sticky with a mix of fluids, and when I touched myself, my fingers came away smeared with dark, virginal blood. He took the handkerchief back from my shaking grip. "Let me," he said, his movements methodical now, almost tender. He parted my legs and began to wipe me, the cloth soaking up his cum leaking from my sore, well-used pussy. Each pass was careful, thorough, removing the evidence of our act from my swollen folds. I watched his face, his concentration absolute, as he cleaned me like something precious. Then he handed the damp cloth to me, his eyes avoiding mine. "Your turn," he said, his voice a low rumble. I held the cock which was my sister's by right, now coated in my virgin blood. It lay heavy and spent in my palm, still slick and incredibly sensitive to my touch. Using the clean corner of the handkerchief, I began to wipe him, watching his flesh twitch under the soft fabric. Oh, I had fallen in love with it, this part of him that had claimed me so completely. After cleaning it properly, to my very own surprise, I bent down and took it back into my mouth. The taste was metallic and salty, uniquely his. Jiju shuddered, a full-body flinch that echoed his earlier power. "Nupur, no—not ready," he gasped, but his hips gave a faint, involuntary thrust. He had forced me some time back, now my chance. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked, reclaiming this intimacy for myself.
He collapsed against me, his weight a solid, sweaty reality, his softening cock still lodged deep within my sore, trembling body. We stayed like that for what felt like hours, breathing in ragged unison, the air thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and the sour tang of spilled whiskey. "Fuck," he finally exhaled, the word a puff of warm air against my neck. "Fucking hell, Nupur." He pulled out slowly, the sudden emptiness a shocking, cool violation. I winced, feeling the sticky, aching throb he left behind.
"We're a mess," he muttered, his voice clearer now, laced with a dawning, horrific realization. He looked at me, really looked, his eyes scanning the red marks his hands had left on my hips, the tear-tracks on my face. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Shower." It wasn't a suggestion. He stood, his movements stiff, and offered a hand. I took it, my legs gelatinous and weak. "Come on," he said, his tone softer, pulling me gently towards the bathroom. The light was harsh, clinical, exposing everything the lamplight had kindly hid.
He adjusted the water, steam beginning to fog the mirror and tile. "Turn around," he instructed, his voice low. I obeyed, presenting my back to him, my skin pebbling in the humid air. He pushed the shower curtain aside and guided me under the spray. The hot water was a shock, then a relief, sluicing down my spine, over the ache between my legs. I heard the rustle of his clothes, then he was behind me, his solid frame pressing against my back.
His hands, slick with soap, began at my shoulders. He kneaded the tension there, his thumbs digging into the tight muscles with a surprising, therapeutic pressure. "You're all knots," he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. The soap smelled clean, citrusy, a stark contrast to the animal scent we were washing away. His palms slid down the length of my arms, then back up, his touch deliberate, almost reverent. He soaped my back in slow, expansive circles, paying careful attention to the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist.
He turned me gently to face him. His eyes were dark, unreadable, as his soaped hands moved to my breasts. He cupped them, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, which tightened instantly under the slick, firm caress. "So beautiful," he said, not looking at my face, but watching his own hands worship my body. He spent a long time there, lathering and rinsing, his touch transitioning from clinical to sensual. Then his hands journeyed lower, over the swell of my belly, through the coarse, dark curls below.
He knelt before me under the spray, the water plastering his hair to his skull. "Lift your foot," he said, his voice husky. He washed each of my legs with the same thorough attention, his hands gliding over my calves, behind my knees, along the sensitive inner skin of my thighs. His proximity, his focused intensity, was its own kind of possession. My earlier soreness was fading, replaced by a fresh, liquid heat coiling in my core. He looked up, water streaming down his face, his gaze locking with mine. "Clean," he stated, but his eyes promised everything but.