Chapter 8: Ass taken, life gived!
My climax was a brutal, unraveling thing, wracking my body as he kept pumping into that now-sore, used hole, his own release a hot flood inside me that felt obscenely intimate. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing me into the damp sheets, his softened cock slipping out with a wet, shameful sound. We lay there for a long time, just breathing, the reality of what we’d done settling over us like ash.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” he finally mumbled into my hair, his voice thick with sleep and regret. I didn’t answer, just let the words I love you hang in the air, a ghost between us. He shifted, pulling me against him, his hand possessively cupping my breast. “Sleep,” he murmured, and his breathing soon deepened into the steady rhythm of unconsciousness. I stared at the wall, feeling the sticky, cooling mess between my thighs, my body a map of new aches. His arm was heavy across my waist, a shackle I had no desire to break. Hours later, a faint grey light was seeping around the curtains when I felt him stir. His hand, still asleep on my breast, began to move, his fingers pinching and rolling my nipple to a stiff peak. He was hard again, his erection pressing insistently against the small of my back. “Morning,” he grunted, his voice raspy, and he nudged my thigh with his knee. “On your stomach.”
The command was quiet but absolute. My heart, which had settled into a numb rhythm, began to hammer again. I obeyed, turning over, the sheets clinging unpleasantly to my skin. He moved behind me, his hands spreading my thighs, his touch clinical. I felt the cold shock of more lube, then the thick, blunt pressure once more against that tender, bruised entrance. I winced, my whole body tensing in anticipation of the pain. “Relax,” he whispered, but it wasn’t a request. He pushed in, a slow, inexorable breach that made me gasp into the pillow. 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.
His climax ripped through him, hot and violent, as mine still shuddered through my own body. I felt each pulsing jet deep inside, a claiming that went beyond the physical ravishment of moments before. He collapsed against my back, his weight heavy and spent, his breath a ragged, wet roar in my ear.
Silence pooled in the room, thick and strange, broken only by our gulping breaths. The ache between my legs was a vast, hollow throb. He softened inside me and slipped out, followed by a slow, mortifying trickle. I didn’t move, my forehead pressed to the cool wood of the chair. His hand, surprisingly gentle, smoothed the sweat-damp hair from my neck. "Nupur," he started, his voice hoarse.
I didn't let him finish. A new, sharp heat was already coiling in my belly, a need that ignored the soreness. I turned, my movements stiff, and looked at him. His eyes were glazed, satiated. "Again," I said, the word scraped raw from my throat. He blinked, confusion replacing the lethargy in his face.
"Wha—"
"I said again." My hand reached down, wrapping around him. He was soft, spent, but my fingers began a ruthless, knowing rhythm, remembering every twist and stroke he'd used on me. "You made me come like a whore. Now you get hard for me." A dangerous light flickered in his eyes, a challenge met. I leaned close, my lips brushing his ear. "Or can't you keep up with your saali?" His body responded to the taunt, a twitch against my palm, then a gradual, stubborn thickening. I guided him back to my entrance, still wet and open from him. "Here. Not there." I lowered myself onto him, a slow, punishing descent that made us both gasp. "This cunt is yours, too. Finish what you started." His hands gripped my hips, his earlier gentleness gone, fingers digging into the fresh bruises he'd made. He thrust upward, filling me, and began to move.
I rode him with a fury that was entirely my own, each bounce a revenge for the pain, a claiming of my own. He watched me, a smirk playing on his lips, enjoying this wilder version of the girl he’d broken minutes before. “Such a greedy little slut now,” he grunted, his own hips meeting my downward strokes. The pace was frantic, a race toward something darker this time. I could feel his tension coiling, the familiar hardening deep inside me signaling his end. As he drove deep, grunting "Abhi nikalta hoon..." I'm coming now..., my hand shot back between my legs. My fingers, slick with my own sweat, found the heavy sac beneath his shaft. I grasped it firmly, squeezing just enough. Hard.
He froze. A strangled gasp tore from him. "Kya...? Chhod!" What...? Let go! His cock pulsed violently inside me, trapped on the edge. His hips jerked, trying to thrust, but my grip held him suspended, denying the climax clawing at him. The power was electric, dizzying. The tables turned, just for this brutal second. I controlled the beast.
His body went rigid, a final, shuddering thrust that emptied him deep inside that forbidden channel with a low, guttural groan. He slumped over me, his sweat-slick skin sticking to my back, his breath a ragged torrent against my shoulder. We stayed locked like that for a long minute, the only sounds our labored breathing and the faint, wet drip of our joining onto the chair.
I slowly disentangled myself, feeling the cool air sting the hot, used flesh between my legs as he slipped out. I turned to face him, my body trembling, and sank to my knees before he could move. His cock was still thick, glistening with a mixture of his release and mine. He watched me, dazed, as I took him into my mouth, not to clean him, but to taste our sin. I swirled my tongue slowly around his sensitive head, sucking gently, coaxing him back to life. He gasped, his fingers threading into my hair. "Nupur... fuck..."
I pulled off, my lips leaving him with a soft pop. I just looked at his swollen cock, holding it loosely in my hand, and waited. "What are you doing?" he whispered, his voice strained. I didn't answer. I just watched his breathing slowly even out, felt his pulse throb under my thumb. Two minutes. I let him hover there, on that aching edge between satiation and want. My edging drives my Jiju mad.
His hips twitched, a futile thrust into the empty air. "Stop playing," he growled, his patience fraying.
I looked up, meeting his desperate eyes. "I have learnt from my didi," I said quietly, my voice steady. "She told me how you beg for it when you're kept waiting." He becomes a statue, then a storm. His face, flushed with arousal, drained of color before flooding with a darker, more dangerous heat. His hand shot out, gripping my jaw with bruising force. "What did you say?" The words were low, lethal.
"You heard me," I breathed, unblinking. "Swati didi. She taught me how to handle you." A violent tremor went through him. The vulnerability I’d seen was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated fury. He yanked me up by my hair, throwing me onto the bed. "You lying little slut," he spat, climbing over me, his renewed erection prodding brutally against my tender thigh. "You think you can play her games?"
His body went rigid against mine, a strained, guttural "Fuck, Nupur, I'm gonna—" bursting from his lips as his thrusts became shallow, frantic jerks. But I moved faster, twisting out from under him with a slick, wet sound of separation, leaving him shuddering on the edge, his cock throbbing in the empty air. "Not yet," I whispered, my voice husky with a new, unfamiliar authority, and I pushed him onto his back against the damp sheets. He stared up, chest heaving, eyes glazed with desperate need. "Please, baby, let me finish," he begged, his hand reaching for his swollen length, but I caught his wrist, pinning it gently beside his head.
I started at his throat, tracing the frantic beat of his pulse with the flat of my tongue, tasting salt and the faint, fading scent of his cologne. My mouth traveled lower, over the tense planes of his chest, my tongue swirling around each nipple until they pebbled into hard peaks under my lips. I took my time, kissing a slow, wet path down the trembling midline of his abdomen, feeling his muscles jump and contract beneath my ministrations. "You're killing me," he groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair, not to guide me, but to anchor himself as I avoided the one place he ached for me most. I nipped at his hip bone, laved the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, my breath ghosting over the flushed, dripping head of his cock but never touching it. "For God's sake, put your mouth on it," he pleaded, his back arching off the bed.
I finally took him in, not with the desperate hunger he wanted, but with a slow, torturous suction, my tongue pressing firmly against the frenulum before pulling off with a pop. "You don't get to come until I say," I told him, my own need a sharp, coiling heat between my legs. He groaned in exquisite frustration, his control snapping, and he rolled me over with a force that stole my breath. His mouth was on me then, burying itself between my thighs with a frantic, starving intensity, his tongue plunging deep into my cunt before finding my clit. He sucked and licked with a raw expertise born of my own teasing, building a pressure so intense my vision speckled. I couldn’t stop the sounds tearing from my throat—broken moans, sharp cries, a final, shattered shout of his name as I came apart, my hips bucking against his relentless mouth.
He spilled inside me with a ragged, shuddering groan, his release a hot flood in that deepest, most forbidden channel. My own climax still pulsed around him, a raw, clenching echo that left me trembling and hollowed out. For a long moment, there was only the sound of our wrecked breathing and the wet, intimate sound of him slipping out.
A slow, trickling warmth traced a path down my inner thigh. He collapsed against my back, his weight heavy and damp. "Fuck," he whispered, the word slurry and spent against my damp skin.
His hand, which had been a vice on my hip, now moved with a startling tenderness over the sore, likely reddened flesh of my ass. "I got carried away," he mumbled, his fingers gently probing the tender rim he'd just brutalized. I winced, the touch a bright flare of aftermath.
He pulled away completely, the night air cold on my exposed skin. "You okay?" The question was quiet, almost lost. I couldn't answer, my face still pressed to the chair's fabric, smelling of sweat and sex and him.
He stood, and I heard the soft rustle of his clothes. "Look at me, Nupur." His voice was clearer now, stripped of its lustful growl. I slowly turned, my body protesting every movement, and looked up.
His expression was unreadable, a mask of fatigue and something darker—regret, or perhaps just satiation. He fastened his trousers, avoiding my eyes. "That shouldn't have happened," he stated, but it felt rehearsed.
"It did happen," I said, my voice a cracked whisper. He finally met my gaze, and I saw a flicker of the man who had whispered he loved me. It was gone in an instant.
"I should go." He ran a hand through his hair, looking towards the door as if salvation lay there. My body ached, a living testament to his possession, yet his dismissal was a colder violation.
His game of stop-start fucking was maddening, a deliberate edging that left me pulsing around nothing each time he withdrew. "Tell me what you are," he grunted, hovering at my entrance, the swollen head of his cock a hot, damp threat. "I'm your dirty little saali," I gasped, my fingers digging into his back, "with a virgin cunt just for you." He rewarded me with a single, shallow thrust, just enough to make me cry out, then stopped again, his eyes glazed with control. "And what does your virgin cunt want?" he murmured, biting my earlobe. "It wants your thick lund to wreck it," I moaned, the crude words tumbling out, "to stretch it raw like you did my ass." He sank deeper that time, a fraction more, the stretch a sweet agony. "Louder." "Fuck my tight chut, Jiju, please, I need your cum!" I shouted, and he drove home, sheathing himself fully in a stroke that stole my breath. "Good girl," he panted, beginning a rhythm, but it was still too slow, too controlled. "Now tell me what Swati's cunt feels like." The demand was a cold shock. "It's... used," I whispered, hating myself. He pinched my nipple, hard. "It's loose," I cried out, the betrayal a burn in my throat. "Yours is tight," he affirmed, pounding into me with sudden force, "mine." His rhythm finally broke into something desperate and hungry, our filthy dialogue dissolving into raw, animal sounds. I felt his control slip, his thrusts becoming erratic, signaling his end. This was my moment. As he shuddered, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, his body went limp, spent and vulnerable. I waited, feeling his weight grow heavy, his breathing slow into exhausted sleep. Then, with careful, silent movements, I extracted myself from his slack embrace. From the drawer of my bedside table, I retrieved the long, silken scarves I used for yoga and draped them across my pale shoulders. My Jiju, was always my nice caring Man2 Outside a misogunistAlways the Dom protector!
CONCISE IMPLEMENTATION:
I looked down at his sleeping form, at the powerful body that had so thoroughly dominated mine. A cold, clear focus settled over me, washing away the lingering heat of submission. Moving with a silence born of new purpose, I took the first silken scarf and looped it around his right wrist.
I pulled it taut, tying it securely to the heavy leg of my wrought-iron bedframe before he even stirred. The second scarf followed, binding his left wrist to the opposite bedpost with a firm, practiced knot. “Wha…?” he mumbled, brow furrowing as consciousness slowly returned. “Nupur, what are you doing?” His voice was thick with sleep and confusion, not yet alarm.
“Shhh, Jiju,” I whispered, crawling over him, my naked body a deliberate contrast to his sudden restraint. “My turn.” My fingers encircled his soft, sensitive cock, feather-light at first. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and his hips twitched. “Stop, that’s too… stop,” he pleaded, his voice strained. I ignored him, tightening my grip just slightly, my thumb swiping over the silken head. A full-body shudder wracked him, his back arching off the bed. “Please, Nupur, no, it’s too sensitive!”
His begging was a melody sweeter than any dirty talk he’d ever commanded from me. I lowered my head, my tongue tracing a slow, wet path from the base of his scrotum to the very tip of his now-stiffening shaft. He cried out, a raw, pained sound, his bonds pulling tight. “I’m begging you, stop!” I took him into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks, applying a steady, unrelenting suction. His pleas dissolved into choked, helpless sobs.
his stopping after each thrust was making it long and we were far from cumming, a drawn-out torture of heightened, unfulfilled sensation. I watched his face, glistening with sweat, his eyes dark with a focus that was no longer entirely on my body but on the game he was playing. "Tell me what you are," he grunted, burying himself to the hilt again, the thick invasion a familiar, aching stretch now. "I'm your tight little saali," I gasped, the crude title still sending a jolt through me. "Your personal randi." He didn't move, holding himself deep inside my sore, wet cunt. "And what do you have that she doesn't?" he prompted, his thumb digging into my hip bone. "A virgin gaand you just wrecked," I whispered, repeating the script, the words a hot coil of shame in my belly. He rewarded me with a slow, grinding withdrawal that made me shudder. "And what are you going to do with my cock the next time I'm here?" he asked, his voice a low rumble as he pushed back in, making me cry out. "Suck it, ride it, let you fuck whichever of my three holes you want," I chanted, the litany of promises both a surrender and a trap. He nodded, a faint, pleased smirk on his lips as he began to move again, establishing a deeper, more punishing rhythm that stole my breath. "Good girl," he panted, his control slipping as his own need began to overtake the game. His thrusts became less measured, more frantic, his dirty talk dissolving into guttural groans. I felt my own climax building again, a dark tide pulled by the relentless friction of him inside me. Just as his body tightened, his rhythm becoming erratic, I knew he was seconds away. With a strength that surprised us both, I pushed hard against his chest, rolling him onto his back so I straddled him, his cock still buried deep. "My turn," I breathed, my voice no longer a submissive whisper but something colder.
Before he could react, my hands were between his legs, my fingers finding the hot, tight sac that his patience had already made incredibly sensitive. I didn't cup or caress; I took his balls in a firm, unyielding grip, squeezing just enough to flood his system with a shock of sharp, overwhelming sensation. He gasped, his body seizing, his hips lifting off the bed. "Nupur, no, stop, that's too – ah!" His plea was raw, cut short as I increased the pressure, rolling the tender orbs in my palm. "You hurt me," I said calmly, watching his face contort, my thumb rubbing the super-sensitive skin behind his scrotum. "You tore me open and called me her name." I leaned down, my breasts brushing his stomach, and flicked my tongue over the head of his cock where it emerged from my body, tasting our mixed wetness. "Please," he begged, straining against my grip, his voice strangled, but his cock twitched violently inside me. I released his balls only to trap his wrists beside his head, using the silk tie from my robe I’d cleverly tucked under the pillow, looping it with a quick, practiced knot I’d only ever read about. His eyes widened, a flash of alarm and something darker, more complicit. "What are you–"
My revenge had begun. I took his painfully sensitive cock in my hand again, my grip tight at the base, and began to stroke him with a ruthless, twisting motion, my thumb pressing hard into the frenulum. He cried out, a sound that was pure, undiluted overstimulation, his body fighting the bonds. "I can't, it's too much, I'll–" I silenced him by lowering my chest, smothering his face with my breasts, rubbing my nipples over his lips, his stubble. "You love it," I murmured, my own power a dizzying, intoxicating drug. "You love your little saali making you beg." And as I took his straining cock back into my mouth, working him with my tongue while my hand tormented his balls, his agonized, thrilling groans told me I was right.