Chapter 2: Oral like none
His fingers hooked into the lace of my panties, and with a slow, deliberate pull, he slid them down my thighs. I lifted my hips, a silent surrender, the cotton damp against my skin where my own curiosity had betrayed me. Then his head was between my legs, his breath hot on my inner thigh, and my entire world narrowed to that point of contact. His tongue, flat and warm, dragged a slow, wet line up my slit, and I gasped, my back arching off the bed.
“Oh god, Jijaji nahi…Not here”
He didn’t answer, just buried his face deeper, his tongue finding my clit with a precision that shattered me. It was a magic I’d never dreamed of, a flickering, relentless pressure that coiled a scream in my throat. My hands flew to his head, my fingers tangling in his hair, not to push him away but to hold him there, to beg without words. “Yes Jiju, right there, please,” I whimpered, my resistance dissolving into pure, aching need.
He growled against me, the vibration rippling through my core, and I guided him, grinding myself against his mouth. “Eat me,” I heard myself moan, the words filthy and perfect. “Lick my fucking pussy, Jiju.” He obeyed, his tongue plunging inside me, then circling back to suck my clit until my legs shook. “It’s so wet,” I babbled, “so much better than my fingers, than anything I imagined.”
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice thick.
“You taste different here,” he mused, his voice a vibration against my most sensitive skin. “Cleaner. Sweeter. Like fear and honey.” He did it again, that long, devastating lick. My hands fisted in the sheets. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. "Jija ji, aap kya kar rahe ho." I begged.
“See?” he said. “You’re guiding me already.” He focused then, his mouth finding the center of every trembling nerve. His tongue was a magic I had only heard whispered about in embarrassed giggles. My jiju Vishal knew. He circled my clit with a lazy, maddening precision, then flattened his tongue against it, applying a steady, perfect pressure.
A broken sound, half-sob, half-moan, escaped me. My resistance was ashes. It was vain. It was pointless. My legs fell open wider, a silent, screaming invitation. “There,” he breathed, hot against my wet skin. “That’s it. Now tell me. What is my tongue on?”
I shook my head, frantic. He stopped immediately. The loss was an agony. “Say it,” he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "My pussy", I purred. “Hindi. What am I kissing?”
“Again. Louder.”
“Meri chut!” The admission echoed, vulgar and true. He rewarded me with a slow, penetrating stroke of his tongue inside, and I cried out, my back bowing off the bed. “Wahin… andar…” I babbled. “There… inside.”
He retreated to my clit, sucking it gently between his lips, flicking it with the very tip of his tongue. The sensation was so acute, so blindingly good, it felt like a direct wire to my spine. “And this? What is this little thing that makes you shake?”
“Ch… chiti,” I moaned, using the childish, filthy word for clit. “Meri chiti.”
“Your little bird,” he translated, his voice thick. “And is it singing?”
“Yes! God, yes!”
“Then make it sing louder.” His mouth descended again, but this time it was hungry, consuming. He ate me with a single-minded intensity that shattered thought. He licked my folds, he probed inside, he returned to my clit to suck and circle until my thighs trembled. The pleasure was a rising tsunami, obliterating everything—shame, guilt, the man waiting downstairs.
“Hands,” he ordered, pulling back for a breath. “On my head. Show me what you want.”
My fingers dove into his thick hair, clumsy and desperate. I pulled him back down. I held him there. When the sensation became too much, a sharp, bright pain inside the pleasure, I tried to push him away. He gripped my thighs, pinning them open, and drove his tongue deeper. He was relentless. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside me in a slow, twisting rhythm that matched the work of his mouth.
"Tasty, just like your sister. Runs in the family. tasty chut" he mused.
“Talk to me,” he grunted against me. “Tell me. Is it better than your fingers? Those shy little touches in the dark?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!”
“How much better?” He sucked hard.
“I’m dying,” I cried out, my hips bucking. “Your tongue is making me come. I’m going to come on your face.” The orgasm hit me like a theft of breath, a raw, convulsing wave that tore a guttural shout from my lungs. I held him down, riding his mouth through the pulses, each one wringing a choked sob of pleasure from my chest. It was a joy so profound it felt like annihilation.
The coil snapped. The orgasm didn’t build; it detonated. It was a raw, seismic rupture that tore a scream from my very core. “Vishal! Haah… meri bahin ko chodte the, ab mujhe bhi ! Saale!” I shrieked, the abuses ripping out of me as my body convulsed, clamping around his fingers, my hands fisting in his hair to hold his mouth exactly there. “Mat chhod! Eat me! Khaa le mujhe!” Don’t stop! Eat me!
He didn’t. He rode out every violent spasm, his tongue a constant, ruthless pressure until I was sobbing, begging him to stop from the sheer overload. My body was a live wire, sparking and jerking without my control. Finally, I collapsed, utterly spent, my limbs liquid.
The shuddering subsided, leaving me hollowed out and trembling. He lifted his head, his chin gleaming with me, and looked at me with a dark, satisfied hunger. “Did you just call me ‘Jiju’ while you came on my tongue?” he asked, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet room.
I could only nod, my chest heaving, the aftershocks still twitching through my belly. “Now tell me exactly what you imagined,” he said, crawling up my body, his weight a delicious anchor. “Those nights alone in this flat, your own fingers—how did it compare?”
His erection pressed against my thigh, insistent and hot, as he waited. “It’s pathetic,” I whispered, shame and thrill mixing. “My fingers… they were just a faint echo.” He kissed me, letting me taste myself on his lips. “Your mouth,” I gasped into the kiss, “it’s like you know my body’s wiring.” I guided his hand between my legs, my own fingers pressing his against my swollen flesh. “Here,” I begged, “right here, make me feel it again.”
“My Didi…” I mumbled, the thought surfacing through the haze, but he cut me off with a low laugh. “Your turn now,” he said, his voice already thick with renewed intent. He rolled onto his back, pulling me up to straddle his face, but I shook my head, understanding. “I have to repay you,” I whispered, the concept foreign and thrilling.
“Now,” he said, rising to his feet so he loomed over me again. “You undress me.”
I blinked. My hands remained at my sides, numb.
“Your hands did such good work on yourself,” he continued, taking my right wrist and lifting it to the knot of his silk tie. “Now they work for me. Start here.”
I hesitated. "Your didi is expert in this. makes me almost cum just by rubbing her body." Somehow the comparison turned me on.
My fingers fumbled with the knot. They felt like foreign objects, clumsy and cold. The silk was slippery. I could smell him—cologne, sweat, and underneath, the faint, salty tang of my own body from his skin. The tie came loose. I pulled it slowly from his collar, the fabric whispering as it slid free.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now the buttons. And I want you to talk. Describe everything we’ve done in this room. From the moment I walked in.”
“Then you… you ate me.” The crude phrase felt more real than any delicate euphemism. “You licked my pussy. You made me say the words. You made me come with your tongue.” My fingers worked down his shirt, revealing the hard plane of his chest, dusted with dark hair. Each confession loosened something in me, each admission stoking a low, shameful fire in my belly. I felt his excitement, a palpable energy radiating from him. My words were doing this. My filthy, honest words were making this powerful man breathe harder. I loved it. The power was an illusion, but it was a drug.
His shirt hung open. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. My hands went to his belt buckle. The metal was cold. The click of the release was obscenely loud. “You fingered me,” I continued, my voice gaining a strange, steady rhythm. “You put your fingers inside me and curled them and I saw stars. You told me my own fingers were nothing. You were right.”
The belt slithered free. I undid the button of his trousers, then the zipper. The sound was a long, slow tear. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and briefs, and pushed them down in one motion.
He stepped out of the pooled fabric, completely naked.
And there it was.
I had felt it in my mouth, against my skin. But seeing it, erect and thick and intimidating in the soft light, was different. This was the instrument of my ending. My breath hitched. All the fleeting power I’d felt evaporated, replaced by a primal, dizzying fear. It looked like it would tear me apart. The memory of his fingers, the stretch of his tongue—they were nothing compared to this reality. The pain I’d heard about, dreaded, whispered about with anxious friends—it was standing right in front of me, embodied in him.
I took an involuntary step back. My thighs pressed together.
He closed the distance, his hands coming to my shoulders. “It’s just flesh and blood, Nupur. Same as yours.” He brought one hand down, taking my wrist and guiding it to him. “Touch it. Feel what you’ve been playing with. What your didi play with!”
My fingers wrapped around him. He was hot, silken and hard as stone, a prominent vein pulsing under my thumb. I felt him twitch in my grasp. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was tangled now with a dreadful fascination.
He led us to the edge of the bed. He sat down, pulling me to stand between his spread knees. His hands began to move over me again, re-mapping, re-claiming. One cupped my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple until it puckered tightly. The other hand slid down my stomach, through the damp thatch of hair, and found the slick, heated core of me.
“See?” he whispered, his fingers parting me, rubbing in slow circles. “Your body knows. It’s ready. It’s asking for it.”
I shuddered. He was right. Despite the terror, a low ache was building, a treacherous echo of the pleasure he’d wrung from me before. He leaned forward and took my nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply while his fingers worked me. The twin sensations short-circuited my thoughts. My head fell back. A moan escaped.
He guided me down his body. “You have three holes, Nupur,” he stated calmly, his hands firm on my hips. “I will take each one today.” The declaration froze the air in my lungs. “I have taken all three of your Didi, Swati,” he added, watching my eyes widen. A dizzying wave of betrayal and dark, illicit excitement washed over me, and the room tilted again.
“Don’t worry,” he soothed, his fingers threading into my hair. “We’ll start with your mouth. Same as your Didi.” I resisted, turning my head, but the comparison was a lit fuse. “She was reluctant too, at first,” he murmured, applying pressure. He was a teacher, and he loved this lesson. He guided his thick, renewed erection to my lips. “Open.”
I parted my lips, and he slowly fed the head past them, the taste of us both salty and stark on my tongue. “Use your tongue, like I did,” he instructed, his voice tight. I obeyed, licking the slit, and he groaned. “Now deeper.” He pushed forward, my throat convulsing as he filled my mouth. “Good girl. Now fondle my balls, squeeze them gently.” My trembling hand reached beneath him, cupping the heavy, tight sac as he began to move.
My trembling hand reached beneath him, cupping the heavy, tight sac as he began to move. “Just like that,” he grunted, his hips lifting off the bed to push deeper into my mouth, his fingers tightening in my hair. I loved this control, this power to draw such ragged sounds from him, to feel his entire body tense under my ministrations. He went on and on, a steady, punishing rhythm that made my jaw ache, a relentless slide over my tongue that left me drooling and desperate for air. I wanted him to end, this unfamiliar act stretching my limits, my inexperience a raw nerve. “You’re doing so well, Nupur,” he groaned, his voice strangled, “but I need more, fuck, I need to come.”
I loved it. I loved the guttural, undone sound he made. I loved the power I had, here on my knees, to unravel this ruthless man with just my mouth and hands. I found a rhythm, guided by the tightening of his grip, the hitch in his breath. He started to move, more urgently now, losing his teacher’s patience. “Don’t stop. God, don’t you dare stop.”
It went on and on. My jaw ached. Tears of strain streamed down my face. I wanted him to finish, to end this, but I had no concept of how a man’s end might come. I just worked, lost in the paradox of my own power and my utter subjugation.
His thrusts became erratic, a stuttering, urgent pulse against my lips. “I’m going to finish,” he warned, his body coiling like a spring, and I froze, unsure what that meant for me. He pulled himself from my mouth with a wet pop, his cock glistening and violently hard. “Here,” he commanded, his voice rough, guiding the throbbing head to my chest. “Milk it onto your tits.” He showed me how to wrap my hand around himself, stroking fiercely as I cupped my breasts together, with other hand. With a choked shout, he erupted. Thick, hot streaks splashed across my skin, white and shocking against my flesh, the first cum I’d ever seen. It was sticky, alien, pooling in the valley between my breasts and dripping onto my stomach.
“Look at it,” he breathed, his chest heaving. “Look at what you did.” I stared, mesmerized by the violation, the sheer physical proof of his pleasure painted on me. When my hand instinctively moved to wipe it away, his caught my wrist. “No,” he said, his eyes dark and possessive. “Leave it.” He smeared it with his fingers, marking me further, the scent musky and potent. “This is your lesson for today.” Outside, the city hummed, indifferent, as I lay there, cooling spend clinging to my skin, a fundamental line erased forever.
Outside, the city hummed, indifferent, as I lay there, cooling spend clinging to my skin, a fundamental line erased forever. We took a breath, the silence between us heavy and strange. I dressed hastily, my fingers fumbling with buttons, the cotton of my kurta feeling like a flimsy shield.
We waited for some time, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, not speaking. The classical melody had long ended, leaving only the faint drone of traffic. Then his hand, warm and inevitable, settled on my knee, his thumb tracing circles through the fabric.
“You can’t hide from it now,” he said, his voice low. His fingers crept upward, finding the hem of my dress. I placed a hesitant hand over his, a weak protest. “Please, Vishal, not again.”
“Your body is lying, Nupur,” he murmured, his other hand cupping my breast, his thumb flicking over the nipple already hardening beneath the cloth. He leaned in, his breath in my ear. “That untouched little pussy of yours is going to get the real thing now. It’s going to learn what it’s for.” I turned my face away, a shiver breaking over my skin, my resistance crumbling under his knowing touch.
His fondling broke me; his touches, his skilled rubbing unspooled the last of my pretense. He undressed me slowly this time, peeling the kurta off my shoulders, unveiling me like a gift he’d already unwrapped but wanted to admire again. I stood shivering before him, completely naked, while he remained clothed, his gaze a physical weight.
He reinspected me from top to bottom, his eyes lingering on the faint smear still on my stomach, on the curve of my hips, the dark triangle between my thighs. “So this is it,” he said, almost to himself, a calloused finger tracing the outer lips of my pussy, making me gasp. “The famous virgin cunt. It looks hungry.”
He switched to my other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. His fingers pushed inside, two of them, stretching me. It burned, a little, but the fullness fed the ache. He was opening me, preparing me, but I knew it was a futile gesture. Nothing could prepare me for him.
“Then feed it,” he said, his voice a low command. “Undress me. Now.” My hands trembled as they went to his shirt buttons, fumbling with the simple task. Each button released revealed more of his chest, a landscape of tense muscle and dark hair I’d never seen.
I pushed the shirt off his shoulders, my fingers tracing his skin, feeling the heat. “Tell me what you’re doing,” he ordered, his eyes locked on mine. “I’m undressing my Jiju,” I whispered, my own voice sounding foreign, thick with a want that shamed me.
“Louder.” I unbuckled his belt, the leather slipping through the loops with a hushed sigh. “I’m taking off your pants because you told me to,” I said, my voice gaining a strange strength. The zipper’s rasp was obscenely loud.
I pulled his trousers and briefs down together, his cock springing free, already fully hard again. “And I’m looking at your big dick,” I heard myself say, the vulgarity electric on my tongue. His hand wrapped around mine, guiding it to his shaft, forcing me to feel the solid, veined weight of him.
“Now tell me everything we did.” I stroked him slowly, my words tumbling out. “You ate my pussy until I came screaming. I sucked your cock. You came all over my tits.” Each confession made him twitch in my hand, his breath hitching. “Your sister’s husband marked me with his cum.”
“And?” he prompted, his hips pushing into my fist. “And I loved it,” I breathed, the admission tearing something loose inside me. “I loved your tongue and your taste and the mess you made.” His groan was pure gratification, a reward that pulsed through my own core. I understood then the power I held, that my debasement was my control.
He guided my hand to his belt again, his voice a graveled whisper. "Keep going." The buckle opened with a definitive click, a sound louder than the distant traffic. I worked his trousers and briefs down over his hips, the fabric catching for a moment on his rigid erection before springing free.
"My mouth was full of you," I said, the words leaving me in a rush as I knelt, my face level with his cock. I watched it jump at my voice. "I tasted your skin and your pre-come while you fucked my throat." My own boldness sent a shocking thrill through my cunt, which clenched, empty and aching.
"I came on your tits," he grunted, a statement, not a question.
"You painted me with it," I confirmed, my hand wrapping around his base, feeling the heat. "I’m still sticky with you." I leaned forward, letting my breath ghost over the slick head, but didn't take him in. "Your sister’s husband branded me with his load." A visible shudder ran through his thighs, and a fresh pearl of fluid welled from his slit. The proof of my power was wet and tangible, and I loved it.
He tangled his hands in my hair, not forcing, but cradling my skull. "Say it again."
"I wanted it," I breathed, then louder, "I wanted your cum on my skin." I finally took him into my mouth, not to suck, but to hold him there, a heavy, living weight on my tongue as I looked up at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes black with a need I had articulated into being. The city's hum faded beneath the raw sound of our breathing, a prelude to what we both knew was coming next.
The city's hum faded beneath the raw sound of our breathing, a prelude to what we both knew was coming next. He pulled me up from my knees, my body soft and compliant against his solid frame, and guided me backwards until my thighs hit the edge of my bed. "Lie back," he said, his voice stripped of all gentleness now, pure intention. I obeyed, settling against the pillows, watching as he positioned himself between my spread legs, his cock looming, thick and daunting in the low light.
A cold spike of primal fear shot through my belly. "Jiju wait, it's too big," I whispered, my hands coming up to press against his chest, a feeble barrier. "I'm scared." He caught my wrists, pinning them gently above my head with one strong hand, his other tracing down my stomach. "I know," he murmured, but his eyes were fixed on where our bodies would meet. "The fear is part of it. The pain is just a door."
He was a master of this. Instead of pushing inside, he leaned down, capturing my mouth in a deep, claiming kiss as his free hand found my breast, squeezing and teasing the nipple until it peaked into a hard point. He broke the kiss, his lips moving to my ear. "You'll scream for me twice tonight," he promised, his breath hot. "Once from hurt, once from pleasure." Then I felt him, the blunt, hot crown of his cock pressing not into me, but against my drenched slit, sliding through the slickness my fear couldn't prevent.
He rubbed himself up and down my pussy lips, coating his length in my wetness, the sensation so lewd and intimate it forced a choked moan from my throat. "See?" he growled, the movement a slow, tantalizing torture. "Your body is begging for it, even if your mouth is saying no." He increased the pressure, his cockhead catching against my tight, virgin entrance, nudging, but not breaking. My back arched, a traitorous response, my hips lifting to meet that insistent pressure, seeking friction he expertly denied.
"Please," I whimpered, but I didn't know what I was asking for anymore—relief from the aching emptiness or a end to the terrifying anticipation. His thumb found my clit, circling firmly as he continued to rut against my opening, the dual sensations pulling me apart. "You're so fucking tight, Nupur," he groaned, his own control fraying, his hips stuttering. "I can feel you squeezing nothing, trying to suck me in." The obscene truth of it, my own body betraying my fear, made me cry out.
"The obscene truth of it, my own body betraying my fear, made me cry out." This cry was different—it wasn’t a protest, but a raw admission of the war inside me. IT WAS PAINFUL. I WAS CONFUSED- BETWEEN WHAT I DESIRED. I WANTED TO BE A FULL WOMAN, BUT FEARED LOOSING MY VIRGINITY. I WAS TURNED ON MY THE COCK TOUCHING MY PUSSY, BUT MY OWN JIJU WAS A SIN.
He paused, sensing the shift, his gaze interrogating my tear-filled eyes. “What’s it going to be, Nupur?” he breathed, his cock a burning brand against my trembling entrance.
BUT THEN JIJU AGAIN BEGAN MASTERFULLY RUNNING HARD COCK ON MY CLIT. That relentless, perfect friction. A white-hot wire of pleasure shot through the confusion, melting the fear. I MADE MY DECISION. I WOULD BEAR THE PAIN! MY HYMEN NEEDED TO BE PUNCTURED.
“Do it,” I snarled, the words ripped from a place deeper than shame or sin. “Just fucking break it.” My hips surged upward in a brutal, final consent. He understood, his hand tightening on my wrists, his body shifting for leverage. There was no more gentle nudging, only a focused, relentless pressure that stretched me to a burning point of pure fullness.
A sharp, tearing sensation lanced through me—a clean, definitive snap. I gasped, my vision spotting, the pain a bright, shocking flare. He stopped immediately, buried to the hilt inside a tightness he had just shattered, his own face a mask of strained control. “Breathe,” he commanded, his voice gravel. “Just breathe through it.” I looked down between our joined bodies, seeing the proof: a vivid, shocking smear of my virgin blood on his shaft and the sheets beneath me. The pain ebbed, replaced by a profound, aching stretch, a fullness that rearranged me. He began to move, a slow, devastating withdrawal followed by an even slower, more certain thrust. A broken moan escaped me, not from hurt, but from the shocking revelation of that movement inside a place that had never been touched. “It’s done,” I whispered, more to myself than to him, feeling the last vestige of the girl I was tear away with that thin membrane. He leaned down, kissing the tear from my cheek, his next thrust deeper, claiming the space my decision had made.
The sting subsided, replaced by a slow, spreading heat that uncoiled deep in my belly. "Move," I heard myself whisper, my voice ragged against his shoulder. He complied, setting a rhythm that was careful at first, each thrust a deliberate exploration of my new tightness. I could feel every inch of him, a foreign, thrilling fullness that made my breath catch.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his lips brushing my ear. "Less," I gasped, my hips beginning to match his pace instinctively. "It's... different." The friction sparked something low and urgent, a building pressure that had nothing to do with pain. I remembered his tongue on my clit, the magic of it, and now this deeper invasion felt like a completion. "Fuck me properly, Jiju," I said, the filthiness of the word energizing me.
He groaned, his control slipping, and his thrusts became harder, faster. Each drive buried him to the hilt, stretching me in a way that now felt delicious, not devastating. My nails dug into his back, marking him as he had marked me with his cum. "You're taking me so well," he praised, his breath hot and fast. "Your cunt is squeezing me like a fist." The crude words sent a jolt through me, and I felt a familiar coil tightening low in my pelvis.
I was close, the pleasure a rising wave obliterating the last echoes of pain. "I'm going to come," I warned, my voice a shaky mess. "Come on my cock," he demanded, his pace becoming ruthless. "Let me feel it." The orgasm ripped through me, a raw, convulsing thing that clenched around him with involuntary force. I cried out, a sound of pure surrender, as the pleasure washed every other thought away.