Chapter 4: Backdoor is main now
His weight collapsed onto me, a damp, shuddering anchor pinning me to the chair as he emptied himself deep inside, each pulse of his cock a startling, intimate invasion that wrenched another muted whimper from my throat. I felt utterly split open, raw and used, my body buzzing with the aftershocks of a climax that felt more like a seizure. “Jesus,” he slurred, his mouth wet and slack against my shoulder, his breathing ragged wreckage in the quiet room. He stayed sheathed inside me for a long minute, the throbbing fullness a constant, shocking reminder of where he was, a place I’d never imagined. Then, with a soft, wet sound that made me flinch, he slipped out. A cold, empty ache immediately flooded the space he left behind, followed by a sticky, trickling sensation down my thigh.
“Fuck,” he murmured, almost to himself, and I felt his fingers, tentative now, brush the sore, stretched skin of my asshole. I jerked away from the touch, the tenderness so acute it stole my breath. “Easy,” he said, his voice returning from some distant, brutal place to something resembling my Jiju. He turned me slowly in the chair, his eyes avoiding mine, focusing instead on the messy evidence of what we’d done glistening on my skin and his cock. The lamp’s glow now felt interrogating, laying bare the furious red marks his grip had left on my hips, the tear-tracks on my cheeks.
“Nupur,” he began, but his words faltered, drowned by the city’s indifferent hum outside the window. He reached for his discarded trousers, fumbling for his cigarettes, the casual routine of it feeling like a profound betrayal. The scratch of the lighter was absurdly loud. He took a long drag, the smoke curling between us, a hazy barrier. “You’re not... hurt?” he finally asked, the question so inadequate it was almost cruel. I just stared at the floor, at my clothes in a sad heap near the bookshelf, my body trembling with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The sharp, animal stink of sex and sweat and his cologne clung to the air, thick as the incense had been earlier. He exhaled, smoke pluming from his nostrils. “You should… clean up.” I didn’t move. My mind was a static hive, buzzing with the echo of his words—I love you—and the brutal physics of what had just happened. He stood there, half-dressed, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher, part shame, part satisfaction, all confusion. The momentum of the act was gone, leaving only this wreckage. Finally, I drew a shaky breath that felt like my first in an hour. “You called me your love,” I whispered, my voice a cracked thing.
He flinched, the cigarette freezing halfway to his lips. A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I know," he said, the words ground out like gravel. He didn’t offer an explanation. The silence stretched, taut and sickening. He just finished dressing with quiet, efficient movements, avoiding my eyes, the ghost of my sister now a palpable third presence in the room. He left without another word, the click of the door lock echoing in the hollow flat.
I didn't sleep. The ache between my legs was a dull, persistent throb, a physical ledger of the night. I lay in the dark, replaying the brutal mechanics of it, his hands, his mouth, the shocking fullness. My skin still smelled of him, a greasy, possessive scent I couldn’t scrub away. Dawn painted the room in pale, guilty light when I finally heard the soft creak of the sofa in the living room. My heart hammered against my ribs. He hadn't left. I put on a robe, my body stiff and protesting, and padded out.
Jiju was sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes, the grey dawn light etching the tired lines of his face. "You're still here," I said, my voice rough from disuse. He lowered his arm. His gaze was different now, stripped of last night's frenzy, but no less intense. It traveled over my body wrapped in thin cotton, and I felt a traitorous heat stir beneath the soreness. "Couldn't drive," he stated simply. Then his eyes darkened. "Come here."
I walked over, the silence screaming. He reached out, his fingers hooking into the belt of my robe. "I woke up hard," he said, his voice a low, sleepy rasp. "Thinking about you. About that tight little cunt." He pulled gently, and the robe fell open. The cool air hit my bare skin, tightening my nipples. His thumb brushed one, and a sharp bolt of desire, filthy and immediate, shot straight to my core. "See?" he murmured, his other hand palming the growing bulge in his pajamas. "You did this. Now fix it."
I knelt on the cushion beside him, my mind a riot of conflict, but my body was a traitor, pulsing with a need that overrode the ache. I fumbled with his drawstring. He watched me, his breathing already deepening. "Use your mouth first," he commanded, his voice thick. "Get it wet for where it's going." I bent my head, taking him into my mouth, the taste of him and last night salty and familiar. He groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Good girl," he muttered. "Now the other hole. The one we haven't used yet."
I froze, my mouth still around him. I pulled back, looking up. "What?" His grip tightened in my hair, not cruel, but undeniable. "Your three holes, saali," he said, the crude word a jolt. "Two are taken. Now the third." My stomach clenched. "Oh no, Jiju. Not there." A flicker of a smirk touched his lips. "Didi takes it," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "When she's drunk and begging for it. She loves how full it makes her feel. Says it’s the only thing that truly satisfies me." The confession was obscene, a vial of poison that seeped into my veins and heated my blood. My resistance melted under a sudden, shocking wave of competitive desire.
My resistance melted under a sudden, shocking wave of competitive desire. “She… she does?” I whispered, the question vile and thrilling. His eyes locked on mine, seeing the surrender. “Yeah,” he growled, pulling me up by my arms. “She begs for it. Says she loves feeling fucking stuffed.” He began peeling the robe from my shoulders, his hands rough and urgent. “Your turn now, saali. Say you want it.” His mouth crashed onto mine, biting my lower lip. “Say it.” I moaned into the kiss, my body arching. “I want it,” I breathed, the words burning my tongue. He shoved the robe completely off, his calloused palms scraping over my breasts, pinching my nipples hard. “Want what?” he demanded, his teeth grazing my neck. “Your cock,” I gasped, the explicit language fueling my shameful hunger. “In my ass.” He bit my shoulder, a sharp, possessive sting. “Good girl.” He pushed me back onto the cushions, his own pajamas now discarded. He loomed over me, his erection pressing against my inner thigh. I was exposed, trembling, every inch of my skin buzzing with anticipation. He spat thickly into his palm, the sound crude and practical in the quiet room. I flinched as his wet fingers found me there, probing the tight, forbidden pucker. “Relax,” he grunted, working the spit against me. “Think of Didi.” The vulgarity was a dark incantation. My hips lifted involuntarily, and he let out a low, approving laugh.
My hips lifted involuntarily, and he let out a low, approving laugh. “That’s my girl,” he rasped, but then his hands stilled. He guided me to turn around, to kneel facing him on the rumpled bed. He was half-hard again, his cock resting against his thigh. He took it in his hand, offered it to me. “Use your mouth. A good, wet, sloppy suck. Cover it.”
I hesitated. The act felt different now, more purposeful, less about passion and more about preparation. It felt medical. Degrading.
“It’s for your own good, love,” he said, his fingers tilting my chin up. His eyes were patient but unyielding. “Saliva’s not enough on its own, but it’s a start. It’ll help the lube. It’ll help you. Less friction. Less pain.”
I bent forward, taking the thick head past my lips, tasting salt and skin. I worked my tongue around him, coating his shaft in wet, hot swirls as he grew fully rigid in my mouth. “Yeah, just like that,” he groaned, his hips pushing up gently. “Get it dripping.” I pulled off, a string of spit connecting my lip to his glistening tip, and went down again, making obscene, slurping noises that sent a shock of humiliation right through my core. My own wetness gathered between my thighs, betraying me. “Good,” he breathed, pulling himself from my mouth with a pop. He reached for the small bottle on the nightstand, the lube cold against my heated skin. His slick finger returned, circling, then pushing slowly inside that impossibly tight ring of muscle. I gasped into the mattress, the stretch a bright, burning invasion. “Breathe through it,” he commanded, a second finger joining the first, working me open with a ruthless, clinical precision. “Think of Didi taking it.” And I did, the image a dark fuel that made me push back against his hand.
And I did, the image a dark fuel that made me push back against his hand.
Fuck. Look at her. My saali, Nupur, bent over and trembling, her round gaand in the air just begging for it. Last night her chut was so tight, virgin-tight, but this...this is the real prize. The second ass in this family. Her Didi’s I own every night, but this one’s fresh, untouched. “Kitni hot hai,” I mutter, squeezing the soft flesh of her mamme, feeling her nipple harden against my palm. My other hand slides down her stomach, fingers pushing through her curly hair to find her chut. Soaked. Absolutely dripping. “Saali, teri chut toh paani choor rahi hai,” I groan into her ear, biting the lobe. “You’re getting wet thinking about your didi’s favourite spot?” She whimpers, a hot, shameful sound that goes straight to my cock. I turn her face and crush my mouth against hers, tasting her, my tongue fucking her mouth like my dick is about to fuck her ass. I break the kiss, panting. “Ready?” I snarl, lining up my slick, thick head against that tight, crinkled hole. She holds her breath.
I stop.
I stop.
Then I push.
Just the thick, blunted crown of my cock breaches her, a violent, stretching invasion into that clenched, forbidden heat. A white-hot tear of pure feeling—not pleasure, not yet, but a shocking, full-body revolt—screams up her spine. She shrieks, a raw, animal sound I’ve never heard from her, and scrambles forward, my slippery grip on her hips failing as she practically launches herself off the bed.
“No, no, no, please, Jiju, no!” she sobbed, collapsing onto the cool floorboards, her body curling into a tight, shuddering ball of panic. “It hurts, it hurts too much, I can’t, I won’t!” Tears streamed down her face, genuine terror in her wide, glistening eyes as she looked up at me from the floor, clutching her stomach as if I’d stabbed her. “Please don’t make me.”
I knelt down, the anger and urgency melting away at the sight of her genuine distress. “Shhh, Nupur, shhh,” I murmured, gathering her up into my arms. She was trembling violently. I carried her back to the bed, sitting with her cradled in my lap. “Just breathe. We’ll go slow. I promise.” My mouth found her breast, sucking the tight, brown peak deep, swirling my tongue until her gasps of pain began to mix with shallow hitches of pleasure. “See? Just feel this. Only this.”
When her fingers stopped clawing at my back and instead tangled in my hair, I reached for the small bottle of proper lubricant on the nightstand. I squeezed a generous, cold dollop onto my fingers. “This will help,” I whispered, spreading the slick gel over her tight, pink pucker, working it in with gentle, insistent circles. She tensed, then sighed, her body accepting the invasive slide. “Now you,” I said, taking her hand and squeezing more lube into her palm. “Do me. Get me nice and slippery.” Her eyes held mine, dark with trust and residual fear, as her small, slick hand closed around my aching cock, pumping slowly, coating every thick inch until I shone in the low light. “Tell me what you’re doing,” I prompted, my voice rough. “I… I am making your lund wet, Jiju,” she whispered, the filthy words a sacred chant. “For my gaand.”
The cold gel shocked me, but his fingers, patient and slick, soothed the burn into a dull, stretching ache. “Wider,” he growled, his breath hot on my neck, and I obeyed, pushing back against his hand like the shameless thing I’d become. His knuckles pressed deep, and a filthy, full feeling bloomed inside me, a precursor to what his cock would do. “Now ask for it properly,” he whispered, withdrawing his fingers, leaving me empty and clenching at the air. I felt the blunt, insistent pressure of his lund, a hot, slick crown nudging against my forbidden hole. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This is it. He’s going to split me open there, where Didi takes him. The thought should horrify me, but a treacherous, liquid heat pooled between my legs instead. I wanted to feel what made him groan into her hair, to know the fullness that satisfied him completely. “Please, Jiju,” I heard myself whisper, the words thick with want. “Put it in my gaand. I need to feel you there.” He rewarded me with a low, approving rumble that vibrated through my back. Then he pushed, a slow, inexorable invasion that tore a gasp from my throat. The stretch was a bright, white fire, a rending burn that made me see stars. I buried my face in the sheets, my fists clenching the fabric as he sank deeper, inch by impossible inch, filling a space that had never known anything but denial. The pain was immense, a sharp, searing protest, but beneath it thrummed a dark, thrilling current of possession. He was claiming the last untouched part of me, and the vulgarity of it, the sheer wrongness, made my head spin. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, his hips meeting my ass, fully sheathed. The world narrowed to that singular, burning point of connection. I was stretched to breaking, stuffed with his cock, and a strange, shattered peace settled over me. He began to move.
He began to move. A shallow, testing withdrawal that made the stretched skin burn, then a pushing return that forced a choked sound from my throat. The rhythm was awkward, a brutal negotiation between his need and my body’s violent refusal. “KITNA TIGHT HAI SAALI,” he groaned, his voice strained with effort and perverse pleasure. He paused, buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against mine, pinning me. The fullness was unbearable, agonizing. I could feel every throb of him inside that impossibly intimate space. “RANDI… BILKUL SWATI JAISI.” Whore… just like Swati.
The comparison, the crude word, twisted through the pain. It was degrading. It was exhilarating. He started to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, each one a fresh agony, making me cry out against the door. “AAH! DARD HO RAHA HAI!” It hurts!
“JHEL,” he commanded, his breath hot on my neck. Bear it. His thrusts grew longer, harder. The bed frame had groaned; now the door rattled softly in its frame with each powerful drive of his hips. The pain was still there, a sharp, burning counterpoint, but beneath it, something else began to pulse. A deep, forbidden thrumming that echoed the brutal rhythm of his invasion. The sheer wrongness of it, the complete surrender, the knowledge that Swati loved this… it fed a dark, shameful fire in my gut.
Before I could gasp a reply, before the fresh wave of fear or anticipation could fully form, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a raw ache. He spun me around, shoving me backwards. My legs hit the edge of the bed and I fell, bouncing on the rumpled sheets smelling of us, of sweat and sex and shame. He stood over me, silhouetted by the sliver of moonlight, cock glistening, eyes blazing.
"Upar," he commanded, voice low and dangerous. On top. "Gaand upar." Ass up. He grabbed my ankles, yanking them apart, pulling me to the edge of the mattress. My cheek pressed into the damp cotton, my hips forced high. I heard him spit again, the wet sound loud, then felt the slick slide as he coated himself. The blunt head pressed back against that impossibly tight ring, still throbbing from the first brutal taking. "Ab koi rona-dhona nahi," he warned. No crying now. He pushed.
The initial breach was fire, a searing rip that tore a choked scream from my throat. But he didn't pause, didn't relent. He sank deep in one ruthless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. I arched, clawing at the sheets, the pain a white-hot brand inside me. "Ah! Bhagwan! Jujajee!" God! Vishal!
He groaned, long and low, his hands clamping onto my hips like vices. "Haah... kitni tight... Swati se bhi zyada." Haah... so tight... more than Swati. The comparison, even now, even like this, sent a jolt of dark pride through the agony. He began to move. Slow, at first. Deliberate, deep pulls almost out, then punishing drives back in. Each stroke reignited the burn, a brutal friction that scraped nerves raw. But beneath the tearing pain, a deeper thrum started, a forbidden vibration resonating with the relentless rhythm. "Chal, hila apni gaand," he snarled, smacking my ass hard. Move, shake your ass. "Dikha de Swati se achhi kutti hai tu." Show me you're a better bitch than Swati.
My Jiju’s words were gasoline on wood for me, taking me to hereto unknown heights. I started moving my gaand in tiny, desperate circles, taking him full in even though each entry was a grueling stretch of burning muscle. “Yes, just like that, you dirty little randi,” he growled, his thrusts settling into a brutal, pistoning rhythm that made my teeth rattle. The sharp, clean crack of his palm against my left buttock was a shock, a bright sting that made me yelp and clench tight around him. “Oh no, not this, please,” I pleaded automatically, the words thin and breathless, though in reality the sharp pain fused with the deep, throbbing fullness to create a terrifying new kind of pleasure. He spanked me again, harder, on the other side, the impact jolting through me and forcing a gasp from my lungs. “Beg me to stop,” he commanded, not breaking the deep, relentless drive of his hips. “Please, Jija jee, stop, it’s too much,” I whimpered, hiding my face in the sheet, my body alight with sensation. “Now beg me to do it again.” His voice was dark with amusement and control. My cheeks burned, but the heat between my legs was fiercer. “Hit me again, please,” I whispered, surprising us both. He obliged with a swift, hard smack that echoed in the room, then another, turning my skin to fire. “You like your gaand slapped while it’s stuffed, huh?” he grunted, his pace becoming ragged. “Just like your sister,” he panted, each word a hammer blow. “She gets so wet when I mark her.” The confession shattered me. “Don’t stop,” I begged, pushing back against him, wanting the sting, the ownership, the connection to her through this shared, secret degradation. “Spank me more, Jiju. Harder.” He laughed, a rough, approving sound, and his hand came down in a quick, sharp volley, making my mammes swing violently with each impact. I cried out, my body convulsing around his invading cock, the pain and the penetration becoming one unbearable, exquisite point of focus.
His body shuddered against mine as he finished, the hot pulse of his release a distant, internal echo of my own crashing climax. For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the dull hum of the city through the glass. Then, with a soft, wet sound, he slipped out, and the sudden, empty ache made me whimper. I slumped forward, my cheek pressed against the cool wood of the chair, my body trembling and utterly spent. He didn’t move away; instead, his hands, now surprisingly gentle, traced the curve of my spine.
“Turn around,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
I complied, wincing as my sore muscles protested, and found myself facing him. His gaze was dark, unreadable, but his fingers lifted my chin. “My turn to taste you,” he said, and before I could process the words, he lowered his mouth to mine. The kiss was deep, possessive, and I could taste the salt of my own skin, the faint, bitter trace of him. His hands slid down to my thighs, gripping firmly. “Up,” he commanded, guiding me to stand on shaky legs. “Now, get on the bed. On your back.”
I moved to the bed, the sheets cool and rumpled beneath me. He didn’t join me immediately. He just stood there, at the foot of the bed, his eyes drinking me in as I lay exposed. “Open your legs,” he said, his voice a low thrum. “Wider. Let me see all of you.” I obeyed, the vulnerability of the position making my heart pound anew. He knelt on the floor, his head level with my hips, and the first swipe of his tongue was so slow, so deliberate, it made me jump. “Jiju…” I breathed.
“Quiet,” he said, his breath hot against my sensitized flesh. “Just feel.” Then his mouth was on me, his tongue delving into the heart of me with a focused, relentless hunger that had nothing to do with the frenzy from before. This was slower, more intimate, and somehow more devastating. He lapped at the swollen, tender flesh, his fingers spreading me open for his thorough exploration. He found my clit and circled it with a maddening precision that had my hips lifting off the bed. “You taste like heaven and sin,” he muttered against me, the vibration shooting straight to my core. “And you’re all mine right now.”
He alternated between broad, flat strokes and sharp, pointed flicks, reading my body’s responses with a terrifying accuracy. One of his hands came up to palm my breast, his thumb rubbing my nipple in time with the rhythm of his tongue. The dual sensations coiled a tight, unbearable spring deep in my belly. “I’m going to…” I gasped, my hands fisting in the sheets.
“I know,” he said, and then he sucked my clit into his mouth, applying a steady, pulsing pressure while his tongue worked beneath it. The orgasm ripped through me without warning, a silent, seizing wave that locked my breath in my throat and arched my back clean off the mattress. He didn’t stop, gentling his movements but continuing to lap gently as I convulsed, prolonging the shocks until I was a boneless, shuddering heap. Only then did he pull away, resting his forehead against my inner thigh, his own breathing heavy. After a moment, he crawled up the bed, lying beside me, and pulled me into his arms. The silence felt different now, charged not with desperation, but with a spent, heavy intimacy. I could feel his heart hammering against my back. My own skin was damp, my mind blissfully empty. His lips brushed my shoulder. “Get some sleep,” he whispered, and for the first time that night, it sounded like care, not a command. The last thing I felt before oblivion took me was the rough pad of his thumb stroking my arm, a gesture so tender it made my throat tighten.