Chapter 15: Mud and Moans
The cool, sticky residue of Vishal's release had barely begun to dry on my breasts, a stark, cooling map of our transgression, when the silence shattered. Not with words, but with the violent buzz of his phone against the nightstand. A jolt went through him, a physical recoil as if burned. He snatched it, the screen’s glow illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the fading heat in his eyes instantly replaced by a cold, hunted look. "Swati." The name was a whisper, a curse.
Panic, cold and slick, coiled in my gut. The humid air, thick with sex and shame, suddenly felt suffocating. He glanced at me, sprawled naked and marked on the disheveled bed, his cum glistening on my skin. His expression wasn't regret; it was sheer terror. Of being caught. Of the life he stood to lose. "Get dressed," he hissed, already scrambling off the bed, grabbing his discarded pants. "Now, Nupur!"
The flight was a blur. Muted apologies choked out in the taxi ("My flight got moved up... sudden client emergency..."), his hand trembling slightly as he paid the driver. He dumped me at my apartment building curb without getting out, engine idling impatiently. "Go. We'll... talk later." The lie hung heavy in the predawn air. He peeled away before the building's glass doors slid shut behind me.
The silence in my apartment was deafening. The shower scalded my skin but couldn’t wash away the phantom ache between my legs, the echo of his invasion, the feel of his seed on my breasts – a brand that felt both shameful and perversely thrilling. Sleep was impossible. My mind replayed the raw sounds, the brutal pressure, the forbidden words screamed into the sheets. And the look on his face when Swati’s name lit up the screen. He was terrified. Of losing her. The thought shouldn't have stung. But it did. Deeply.
Days crawled by. The office was a haze of code and forced normalcy. My phone remained silent. No calls. No texts. The silence was a punishment, a confirmation of his retreat. He was erasing it. Erasing me. Anger simmered, low and dangerous, beneath the shame. He’d used me. Taken that final, forbidden step into my body’s most secret place, marked me outside and in, and now… silence.
Friday arrived, heavy with unspent rain and my own churning turmoil. The email popped up just before lunch: Project Delta Handover Meeting - Vishal Sharma - Conf Room C - 5:30 PM. My breath hitched. A business meeting. Of course. He’d retreated entirely behind the professional mask. The bastard.
He was already there when I walked in, impeccably suited, eyes fixed on his laptop screen. The air crackled with tension he pretended didn’t exist. "Nupur," he acknowledged, his voice detached, polite. "The revised API specs are in the shared folder." He didn’t look up.
I sat, the leather chair cold through my thin blouse. We talked code, deployment schedules, server loads. His tone was clipped, efficient. Distant. The professional veneer was flawless. The man who’d roared obscenities while buried inside me, who’d spat on my asshole, was utterly gone. It was infuriating. Pretending it didn’t happen. Pretending I don't exist. My fingers clenched around my pen.
"…so we need those endpoints secured by EOD Monday," he finished, finally looking up. His gaze met mine. Flat. Impenetrable. The eyes of a stranger.
"Understood," I said, my voice unnaturally steady. "Anything else, jiju?"
The title, deliberately chosen, deliberately weighted, landed like a slap. A flicker of something – anger, shock, maybe a sliver of that old heat – crossed his face before the mask slammed back down. "That's all," he said, standing abruptly. "Keep me updated." He gathered his things, moving towards the door, the very picture of the urbane executive leaving a routine meeting.
"Running back to Swati?" The words slipped out, low and venomous. I hadn't planned them. They just erupted, fueled by the weeks of silence and the unbearable sight of his indifference.
He froze, hand on the door handle. Slowly, he turned. His eyes weren't flat now. They were dark, dangerous pools. "What did you say?"
The dam broke. I stood up, facing him. "You heard me. Does she even know you're back? Or are you just warming her bed between using mine?"
He took a step towards me, his composure cracking. "Shut up, Nupur."
"Or what?" I stepped closer, the conference table between us. "You'll fuck me again? Pin me down? Spit on me? Fill me up?" The crude words felt like weapons, each one aimed to shatter his facade. "You seemed to enjoy it. Couldn't get enough of my virgin shithole, remember? Said it was tighter than Swati's." I saw him flinch. Got you. "Does she know how much you liked splitting me open? How you growled when you came?"
"Enough!" His voice was a low snarl. He closed the distance in two strides, gripping my upper arm, his fingers digging in. "You have no idea what you're playing with."
"Don't I?" I wrenched my arm away, the anger burning away the last vestiges of fear. "I know you ran. Like a coward. Used me, marked me, then ran back to your precious wife." The rain started then, a sudden deluge hammering against the building's windows, mirroring the storm inside the room. "You want it forgotten? Fine. But don't pretend I'm invisible."
His chest heaved. The professional armor was gone, replaced by raw, conflicted fury. He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since that hotel room. His gaze raked over me, not with detachment, but with a heat that was frighteningly familiar. "You think you know what I want?" he breathed, the sound barely audible over the drumming rain.
"I know what you took," I shot back. "What you craved."
Silence stretched, thick and electric. The only sounds were the rain and our harsh breathing. His jaw worked. His eyes, locked on mine, held a war – guilt, anger, and that undeniable, dark hunger. He took another step. Then another. Invading my space. The scent of his cologne, the heat radiating off him, it was overwhelming. He lifted his hand, not to grab me, but to brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch was shockingly gentle. A caress. A question.
My breath caught. The anger faltered, replaced by a treacherous surge of that old, forbidden need. His thumb traced my jawline, rough skin against my smooth cheek. His gaze dropped to my lips. The air crackled, heavy with unspoken violence and desperate yearning.
"Vishal..." His name escaped me, a whisper this time. A plea. An invitation.
He didn't hesitate. His mouth crashed down onto mine. Not gentle. Not questioning. Possessive. Hungry. A claiming. His tongue plunged past my lips, demanding, tasting. It wasn't the kiss of a husband, or a brother-in-law. It was the kiss of the man who’d owned me against the shower tiles, who’d conquered my ass. I kissed him back with equal ferocity, biting his lip, my hands fisting in his expensive suit jacket, crumpling the pristine fabric. The taste of him, the familiar heat, obliterated the weeks of silence, the anger, everything except the raw, pulsing need.
He broke the kiss, panting, eyes blazing. "Not here," he rasped, glancing at the glass walls of the conference room. Rain lashed against them, blurring the outside world. "My bike's in the garage."
We didn't speak in the elevator. Didn't look at each other. Just stood, breathing raggedly, the tension coiling tighter with each descending floor. In the stark fluorescent glare of the underground garage, he strode towards a powerful black motorcycle. He shoved a helmet into my hands, his own movements jerky with urgency. "Put it on."
The engine roared to life, a furious beast echoing the storm inside me. I climbed on behind him, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He didn't wait. He gunned the engine and we shot out into the downpour.
Rain slashed at my exposed skin beneath the helmet visor, cold and stinging. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon through the water. He drove fast, recklessly, weaving through traffic, taking corners so hard the tires screamed against the wet asphalt. The world narrowed to the vibration of the bike between my thighs, the hard press of his back against my breasts, the reckless speed that mirrored the freefall of my own inhibitions. Where were we going? It didn't matter. Only this mattered: the escape, the danger, the man.
He turned off the main highway, plunging onto a narrower road that quickly turned to gravel, then dirt, swallowed by dense, dripping woodland. The canopy overhead thickened, plunging us into premature twilight, the roar of the engine muffled by the trees. The air smelled of wet earth, decaying leaves, and ozone. He slowed, navigating a winding path deep into the forest until the path became impassable. He killed the engine. Sudden silence, broken only by the drumming rain on leaves and our own harsh breathing inside the helmets.
He swung his leg off the bike, pulling his helmet off. Rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead. His eyes, when he turned to me, were wild, intense. "Off."
I fumbled with the helmet clasp, my fingers numb with adrenaline and cold. I got it off, shaking my wet hair. The forest air was cool, damp, thick with the scent of the storm. He grabbed my hand, his grip bruising, and yanked me away from the bike, deeper into the woods, off the trail. Branches snagged at my work blouse, wet leaves slapped my face. We stumbled into a small, secluded clearing, surrounded by towering, moss-covered trees. The ground was soft, muddy.
He spun me around to face him. Rain streamed down his face, his shirt soaked through, clinging to his chest. His eyes raked over me, lingering on the damp silk of my saree blouse plastered to my skin, the outline of my bra. The hunger in his gaze was feral, untamed.
"Still think you know what I want?" he challenged, his voice rough over the rain's patter.
"I know what you couldn't resist," I fired back, meeting his gaze defiantly. The fear was still there, a flutter beneath my ribs, but it was drowned out by the roaring need, the anger, the sheer audacity of being here. "Even after you ran."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He stepped closer, closing the distance. His hands came up, not to my face this time, but to the waistband of my silk saree skirt. His fingers hooked into the fabric, rough against the wet silk. "Show me," he growled, his voice thick, guttural. "Show me what you think I couldn't resist."
He didn't wait. He shoved the skirt up violently, bunching the heavy, soaked silk around my waist. My thighs were instantly exposed to the cool, wet air and the spattering rain. He pushed me backwards. My back hit the rough, wet bark of a massive oak tree. The impact knocked a gasp from my lungs. He crowded me against it, his body hard and demanding, trapping me. One hand remained tangled in the bunched saree at my waist, holding it up. The other went to his belt buckle. The metallic rasp was shockingly loud in the dripping stillness of the forest.
He didn't bother with niceties. Didn't kiss me. Didn't touch me anywhere else. He just freed his cock, already thick and straining, flushed dark against the rainy gloom. He grasped himself, giving a few rough strokes as rainwater slicked his hand. His eyes never left mine, burning with a challenge and a desperate need I mirrored.
"Swati..." he started, his voice ragged. But I cut him off.
"Don't," I hissed, my own hand shooting down, past the bunched silk, past my damp panties. My fingers found my own wetness, slick and hot despite the rain, proof of my treacherous arousal. I guided him, my fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, feeling its pulsing heat, its rigid thickness. "She never fucks you like this, does she?" I asked, my voice low, dangerous. I positioned the swollen head at my entrance, already open, already slick and ready for him. "She never rides you in the rain. Never gets filthy for you."
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something – surprise, maybe raw desire – before they darkened further. He gripped my hips hard, his fingers digging into my flesh through the wet silk. "No," he admitted, the word a harsh exhale. "She doesn't."
"Then take it," I commanded, my voice trembling slightly but fierce. "Take what you keep coming back for."
I pushed down.
He thrust up.
The angle was awkward, jarring against the tree bark. But the sensation was immediate, overwhelming. He filled me in one brutal, claiming stroke, stretching me wide, seating himself to the hilt. A choked cry tore from both our throats – mine of shock and sudden, intense fullness, his a guttural groan of pure possession. The rough bark scraped the skin of my back through my thin blouse. Rainwater streamed down our faces, mingling. I could feel every ridge, every pulsing vein of him inside me.
"Fuck!" he gasped, his hips already beginning to move, short, sharp thrusts that pushed me harder against the unyielding tree. "Fucking hell, Nupur..."
I tightened my inner muscles around him, clenching down hard on his invading thickness. "Is this what you missed?" I panted, pushing back against him, rising slightly on my toes only to slam myself back down onto him, impaling myself deeper. "My needy little cunt?" The filthy words felt powerful in my mouth. "Tighter than Swati's? Hotter?" I did it again, riding him with deliberate force, using the tree for leverage, the wet silk of my saree bunched precariously high. The friction was intense, raw, the slickness of my arousal and the rain aiding the brutal rhythm.
"Shut up!" he snarled, but his hands clamped harder on my hips, helping me lift, pulling me down onto his cock with punishing force. His thrusts became more urgent, deeper, angling upwards, hitting spots that made stars burst behind my rain-blurred vision. "Fucking shut up and take it!"
He leaned in, his mouth finding my rain-slicked neck, biting down hard. Pain and pleasure merged into a single, white-hot spike. I cried out, arching against him, my own hands clawing at his back, tearing at his soaked shirt. "Tell me!" I demanded, gasping as he pounded into me, the wet slap of our bodies a rhythmic counterpoint to the downpour. "Tell me she never makes you feel like this! Tell me you only get this hard for my dirty cunt!" I rode him harder, faster, each downward plunge a deliberate act of defiance, of claiming him back. The storm raged around us, the trees swaying, the rain hammering down, washing over our joined bodies as we fucked like animals against the ancient oak.
He lifted his head from my neck, rainwater dripping off his chin. His eyes were wild, desperate, stripped bare. "Never," he groaned, the word ripped from him. "Fuck... never like this..." His rhythm faltered, became frenzied. His cock swelled impossibly larger inside me, throbbing with impending release. "Gonna come... gonna fill you... mark you inside again..."
He slammed into me one last, brutal time, burying himself to the root, grinding against my clit. His body locked, rigid. A hoarse, guttural roar tore from his throat as he erupted, hot jets pulsing deep into my core. I felt the scalding heat, the rhythmic throb of his release, and it tipped me over the edge. My own orgasm crashed through me, violent and all-consuming, ripping a scream from my throat that was lost in the roar of the storm and the relentless drumming of the rain on the leaves above
The scalding flood deep inside me triggered wave after wave of my own release, a brutal, clenching climax that locked me around his still-pulsing cock. My scream tore through the rain-lashed clearing, raw and primal, swallowed by the storm’s roar and the drumming water on the canopy above. My knees buckled, my body sagging against him, pinned between the unyielding tree trunk and the hard length of him buried to the hilt. He shuddered, a guttural groan vibrating in his chest under my palms as the last spurts pumped into my spasming cunt.
He stayed buried, breathing harshly, forehead pressed against the wet bark beside my head, rainwater streaming down both our faces. I could feel him softening inside me, the thick slide of his cum already starting to leak out, warm against my inner thigh despite the cooling rain. The heady scent of sex, sweat, and damp earth filled the small space between us. His grip on my hips, which had been like iron, loosened slightly, fingers flexing.
“Fuck,” he rasped, the word thick, almost lost. He pulled out slowly. The sudden emptiness was a shock, followed instantly by the thick trickle of his release and my own slickness mingling down my leg. He stepped back, stumbling slightly on the muddy ground. I slumped fully against the rough bark, gasping, my silk saree plastered to my skin, bunched obscenely around my waist, my legs trembling.
He looked down at himself, then at me, his expression unreadable for a moment – a mix of spent exhaustion, lingering fury, and something darker. Shame? Disgust? His cock hung heavy and softening, glistening with our combined fluids in the dim, wet light. He fumbled to tuck himself away, buttoning his soaked trousers with jerky movements, avoiding my eyes. He gestured roughly towards the motorcycle, barely visible through the dense undergrowth. “Move.”
The dismissal stung. After that raw claiming, after he’d filled me, marked me inside again, it was back to this? Cold distance? Anger, white-hot and immediate, burned through the post-coil haze. I pushed off the tree, my legs wobbling, feeling the sticky mess between my thighs. “That’s it?” My voice was hoarse, sharper than I intended. “Use me against a tree, dump your load, and ‘move’?”
He spun around, eyes blazing. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Nupur? A fucking thank you note?” He jabbed a finger towards my exposed thighs, the evidence glistening. “You got exactly what you asked for back in that conference room. You pushed, remember? Threw Swati in my face? Dared me?” He ran a shaking hand through his wet hair. “You want me to pretend this is anything other than a fucking disaster? A mistake we keep making worse?”
The word ‘mistake’ hit like a physical blow. It echoed his hotel dismissal. The rain felt suddenly colder. “Is that all it is to you?” I shot back, stepping closer, ignoring the mud sucking at my sandals. “Just another ‘mistake’? Like the hotel? Like my ass?” The crude words were weapons now. “Because it felt like more when you were grinding your cock into my cervix and roaring like an animal five minutes ago. Felt real when you said she never makes you feel like this.” I saw him flinch. “Or were you just talking shit while you fucked your wife’s little sister raw in the woods?”
His hand shot out, grabbing my upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Don’t,” he snarled, pulling me close until his rain-streaked face was inches from mine. His eyes were dark pits. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face. You have no fucking idea what this is. What it costs.”
“Then tell me!” I yelled, the sound swallowed by the rain. “Stop running! Stop pretending I’m invisible once you’ve gotten off! You wanted it! You craved it! Admit it! Admit you can’t stop thinking about my cunt, my ass, how tight I am! Admit you came hunting for me today!” I wrenched my arm, but he held fast. “Or are you too much of a coward?”
His other hand came up, not to strike, but to grab the back of my neck, forcing my gaze up to his. His breath was hot and ragged on my face. “Coward?” he echoed, his voice dangerously low. “You think this is bravery? This… filth?” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to where my wet blouse clung to my breasts, my nipples hard peaks against the fabric. The anger in his eyes flickered, overlaid by that same feral hunger I’d seen in the conference room, the hotel, the shower. The hand on my neck tightened, pulling my face closer. “You want bravery, Nupur?” His voice dropped to a raw whisper. “Bravery is walking away. Bravery is not giving in to this… this fucking poison between us.”
He was so close. The heat radiating from him battled the chill rain. His knuckles brushed the swell of my breast through the soaked silk. My breath hitched. The fight bled out of me, replaced by the treacherous, familiar pull low in my belly. My thighs were still sticky with him. “Then walk away,” I whispered, the challenge weak, my eyes locked on his. “Be brave, jiju. Show me you can.”
His gaze raked over my face, the conflict warring within him naked in his eyes. Guilt. Lust. Fury. Self-loathing. His grip on my neck tightened almost painfully, then suddenly shifted. His hand slid into my rain-slicked hair, fingers tangling roughly at the roots. He crushed his mouth to mine.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a brutal reclamation. His tongue plunged past my lips, demanding, tasting rain, blood from where I’d bitten him before, and the lingering salt of sweat. He kissed me like he was trying to devour the words, the accusations, the very oxygen from my lungs. His other hand released my arm only to grab my ass, pulling my hips hard against his, grinding his half-hard cock against the wet silk still bunched at my waist. I kissed him back with equal ferocity, biting his lip, my hands clawing at his back, tearing at his ruined shirt. The taste of him, the rain, the sheer, violent desperation of the kiss – it was oblivion.
He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead pressed to mine. “See?” he breathed, the word ragged, torn. “No fucking bravery here.” His hand in my hair tightened, pulling my head back sharply, exposing my throat. He looked down at me, his eyes burning with a dark, defeated hunger. “Just this… fucking need.” His other hand dropped between us, fumbling with his fly again. The buckle rasped, the zipper grated. “Turn around.”
The command, rough with unslaked desire and self-disgust, sent a fresh jolt of wet heat flooding my core. My body obeyed before my mind could protest. I turned, facing the gnarled oak again, its bark rough and cold against my cheek and palms. He shoved my skirt higher, the wet silk bunching under my armpits, leaving me completely exposed from behind. His fingers hooked roughly into the sides of my soaked panties and yanked them down to my knees. The cool air hit my bare ass, the rain spattering my exposed skin.
I heard him spit. Thick and wet. Felt the sudden, crude warmth land directly on my asshole, the same entrance he’d brutally violated in the hotel. His spit-slicked finger followed instantly, not circling, but pressing hard against the tight pucker still sensitive from his earlier invasion. My breath seized. I braced against the tree.
“Last time…” he started, his voice thick, his fingertip pressing insistently, finding me impossibly tight again. He spat once more, the warm glob landing directly on his probing finger and my clenched rim. “Last time I fucked this ass, you screamed. Said it hurt.” He worked the tip of his finger in, a burning, relentless pressure. I whimpered, tensing instinctively. “This time…” He pushed harder, the tip breaching the resistant ring, making me gasp. “…you’re gonna take it. Gonna take me like the greedy little anal slut you are.” He leaned over me, his chest pressed against my back, his hard cock sliding wetly against the cleft of my ass, bumping over his invading finger. “Aren’t you?”
The degradation, the memory of the hotel, the feel of his cock already hard again against me, the spit lubricating his probing finger – it ignited a desperate, conflicting fire. Humiliation warred with raw, illicit arousal. I pushed back slightly, impaling myself a fraction deeper on his finger, a strangled moan escaping me. “Yes,” I gasped, the word torn out. “Yes, jiju.”
“Louder,” he commanded, twisting his finger slightly inside me, the stretch burning.
“Yes!” I cried out, arching my back, presenting myself. “Fuck my ass! Please! Fuck your little sister’s tight asshole!”
He growled, a sound of pure, dark approval. He withdrew his finger. The blunt, slick head of his cock replaced it instantly, pressing with insistent force against the spit-slicked pucker. He gripped my hips hard, spreading my cheeks wider with his thumbs. “Breathe out,” he ordered, his voice strained. “And push back. Take it. Now.”
I took a ragged breath. I pushed. He thrust forward.