Chapter 9: Rituals!
His brutal strokes hit a crescendo, and I felt the hot, sudden flood of his release deep inside my ass, a claiming that sent a final, violent shiver through my own fading climax. I couldn’t move, impaled and trembling, my entire world reduced to the throbbing fullness and the smell of sweat and sex. Then, as his breathing began to slow, I reached back with a shaky hand, my fingers finding the hot, tight weight of his balls.
I squeezed, not hard, but with enough firm, sudden pressure to make him shout, a sharp, wounded sound that jerked his softening cock right out of me. “Aaah! Saali, kya kar rahi hai?” he gasped, his body going rigid behind me. I loved it. I loved the power in that tiny, vicious act, a perfect revenge for every stinging slap on my chuttad. “Shhh, Jijaji,” I whispered, turning slowly, wincing at the sore, stretched ache. “My turn.” I took his hands, still slick with lube and my own wetness, and placed them on my breasts. “For you, Jijaji. Enjoy. Love them like my sister’s.” His eyes, glazed with spent passion, sharpened with a new hunger. “Compare them for me,” I breathed, arching my back. “Didi ke mamme bade hain, par mere chote aur gol hain, zyada tight.” His thumbs rubbed my nipples raw as he looked, his gaze analytical, devouring. “Haan,” he grunted, his voice thick. “Tere zyada mazedaar hain. Chipak ke rehte hain.” Yes. Yours are more delicious. They cling.
I then guided his right hand down, past the sticky mess on my thighs, and pressed his palm flat against the swollen curve of my ass. “Yeh bhi compare karo, Jiju.” He kneaded the flesh he’d just beaten, his touch possessive. “Swati ka gaand…dheela pad gaya hai bacchon ke baad,” he murmured, his fingers digging in. “Tera…tera kamal hai. Jaise aam ka guthla.” Yours is a wonder. Like a ripe mango. The crude poetry of it made my phuddi weep. He pushed me onto the bed, onto my back, and knelt between my legs. His lund, already stirring again, dragged through the wetness leaking from my cunt, smearing it over my asshole while two of his fingers pushed inside my slit, curling hard. “Dekh,” he ordered, watching his own motions. “Teri behen ki tarah paani nikalta hai teri phuddi se bhi.” I couldn’t speak. He slapped my chuttad, right where his cock had just been, the sting a brilliant counterpoint to the deep, fingering pleasure. He bent and took my nipple into his mouth, biting down just as his fingers found a spot inside me that shattered all thought. My back arched off the bed, a broken sound tearing from my throat as I climaxed, possessed, water gushing around his pumping hand.
His weight collapsed onto me, a damp, shuddering anchor, as the last pulses of his climax faded inside me. We stayed like that for a long time, breathing in ragged unison, until he slipped out with a soft, wet sound that made me wince. In the heavy silence that followed, a resolve hardened within me, cold and clear. My Jijajee had taken care of me again. I had to return the favours.
I guided him onto his back, my body protesting every movement, and climbed astride his lap. His cock, still slick and half-hard, rested against my thigh. “My two bottom holes are yours,” I whispered, guiding his thick tip back to my sore, stretched entrance. “Now talk to me while I ride this gaand.” I sank down slowly, a searing, full sensation making my breath hitch. “Tell me everything.”
“Fuck, Nupur,” he groaned, his hands rising to squeeze my breasts. “In college, I’d watch girls in the library, their tight kurtas straining over their chuchis, wondering how their chut would feel.” I began to move, a slow, agonizing rise and fall. “Were they as tight as my virgin puddhi was?” I asked, rolling my hips. “Tighter,” he gasped, pinching my nipples. “But your didi’s chut on our suhagraat… it was so small, so frightened, just like yours.” I clenched around him, making him groan. “And her gaand? Was it this tight when you first took it?”
“No,” he grunted, thrusting up to meet me. “Hers was used, a slut’s hole. Yours is mine alone, brand new.” His words sent a thrill through me. “Did you spill your maal in her ass that night too?” I breathed, bouncing harder. “No, saali,” he smirked. “I saved that for your puddhi. But her chutad… rounder than yours.” I leaned forward, letting him suck a nipple into his hot mouth. “But my gaand is better, na, Jiju? Tell me my taang ka ched is the best you’ve had.” “The best,” he moaned. “So fucking tight, ripping my lund apart.”
“Remember the peeping?” I urged, riding him faster now, the pain a bright counterpoint to the pleasure. “That Punjabi girl in the hostel, her mammas bouncing as she changed?” “Her nipples were pink,” he recalled, his eyes glazed. “Yours are brown, like chocolate, and your areolas are bigger.” “You like that?” I demanded, slamming down. “I love it,” he grunted. “When I took Swati’s virginity, she bled on the sheets and cried.” “I didn’t cry when you broke my puddhi,” I said, pride sharp in my voice. “And I’m not crying now with your lund in my gaand.”
“True randi,” he praised, his fingers digging into my hips. “My personal randi.” The vulgar endearment coiled in my gut. “Say it in Hindi,” I panted, the pace becoming frantic. “Meri nangi raand,” he growled. “Meri saali ka khoon pasina ek karna.” My naked whore. The one who makes my sister-in-law sweat blood. The crude poetry of it undid me. My orgasm ripped through me, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clenched viciously around his invading length. “Yes, come on my cock, you dirty bitch,” he snarled, his own release following, a hot flood claiming the deepest, most forbidden part of me as his.