Chapter 15: Anal fun never ends
The white roar subsided, leaving in its wake a hollow, ringing silence. My body was a map of fire—a deep, throbbing blaze within, the skin of my backside a constellation of sharp, stinging points. Vishal’s weight remained atop me, his breathing a hot, ragged torrent against my spine. He was moments away, teetering on the edge of a final, cataclysmic release.
A hand snaked between our bodies. Not his. Swati’s.
Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, still buried inside me, and squeezed, hard. The effect was instantaneous. Vishal jolted as if electrocuted, a pained, frustrated gasp tearing from his throat. The impending eruption was forcibly dammed.
“Wait,” Swati’s voice was calm, authoritative. A general calling a temporary ceasefire. “Cool off. Let it simmer. I’m not done with her.”
She pulled him out of me. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold, aching void. Vishal groaned, rolling off me onto his back on the floor, his cock standing angrily, twitching, denied. He didn’t argue. He just lay there, chest heaving, watching through slitted eyes.
Swati nudged me with her foot. “Up. On your back. Now.”
I obeyed, moving like a marionette with cut strings. I collapsed onto the rug, the rough weave abrasive against my tortured skin. She stood over me, her figure backlit by the city lights, a voluptuous silhouette of power. Then she knelt, straddling my face, lowering herself until her chut was a breath away from my mouth. The scent was overwhelming—musky, rich, layered with the sweat of her efforts and his.
“You made a mess of his cock with your tight little gaand,” she said, looking down the length of her own body at me. “Now clean up mine. Lick it. Eat it. Make me forget he was ever inside you.”
She settled her full weight. There was no gentleness, no request. My world narrowed to the dark, wet triangle pressing against my lips. I opened my mouth and began.
I licked with the desperation of the damned. My tongue traced the swollen lips, probed the heated center, sought out the hard nub of her clit. The taste was complex—salt, sex, a faint bitterness, and uniquely her. I serviced her with a focus I had never applied to anything, drinking her in, my nose buried in the coarse curls.
“That’s it, you hungry little bitch,” she moaned, her hands coming to rest on her own thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “You finally found your true calling. Not a wife. Not a lover. A cunt-licker. A professional eater of pussy.”
Her words, filthy and sharp, spurred me on. I fucked her with my tongue, delving deep, then fluttering over her clit. I sucked the engorged flesh into my mouth. My own pain faded, becoming a distant thrum under the immediate mission of her pleasure.
“You love this, don’t you?” she taunted, her voice hitching as I found a rhythm. “You love the taste of my victory. This is the chut he comes home to. This is the chut he fucks when he’s happy, when he’s bored, when he’s angry. And now it’s dripping into your grateful little mouth. Swallow it. Swallow my superiority.”
I did. I swallowed everything. Her taunts became my scripture. My own voice, muffled by her flesh, rose to meet hers. “You taste like his everyday,” I gasped, coming up for air before diving back in. “You taste like comfort. I taste like stolen sin. Which one does he crave more?”
“He craves what I give him,” she asserted, grinding down onto my face, smothering me. “And right now, I’m giving him the sight of his ex-girlfried drowning in my juices. Do you think he’s hard again? Look. Look at him.”
I managed to twist my head, my cheek slick with her. Vishal was propped on his elbows, watching intently, his hand slowly stroking his cock. The sight sent a fresh bolt of submission through me. I redoubled my efforts, licking and sucking with fervent worship.
“Yes… right there, you clever rat… just like that…” Swati’s composure began to fracture. Her breath came in sharp pants. Her thighs trembled against the sides of my head. Her taunting dissolved into a stream of incoherent, vulgar praise. “Oh fuck, your tiny tongue… so precise… you’re a gifted little whore, I’ll give you that… don’t stop… make me come all over your desperate face!”
I was her instrument, perfectly played. Her climax built, a gathering storm I could feel in the tightening of her muscles, the change in her scent. When it broke, it was silent for a heartbeat, then a raw, guttural cry was ripped from her throat. Her back arched spectacularly, her full breasts thrust toward the ceiling. A hot flood pulsed against my mouth, and I drank it down, my eyes closed, committing to the depths of my degradation.
She shuddered through the waves, finally collapsing forward, catching herself on her hands above my chest. She was breathless, gleaming with sweat, a satisfied goddess. She looked at me, my face glistening, and smiled. A genuine, terrifying smile.
“Good,” she breathed. “Very good.” Then she shifted, sliding down my body. “My turn.”
Before I could process it, her head was between my thighs. There was no preamble. Her mouth, still wet from my own ministrations, covered my chut. But it was her fingers that spoke first. Two, then three, pushed into my sore, sensitized, neglected phuddi. The stretch was different—knowing, deliberate, curling just so.
A cry, wholly different from my previous ones, tore from me. This was not pain. It was a seismic unlocking. Her tongue worked my clit in firm, circular strokes while her fingers pumped, crooking to stroke a spot deep inside that Vishal’s cock had never found. The dual assault short-circuited my brain.
“Oh god… Swati…”
“Shut up and take it,” she mumbled against me, her words vibrating through my core. “This is a pity fuck from a real woman. A lesson in how it’s done.”
My hips bucked off the rug. My hands flew to her head, not to push away, but to hold her there. The earlier brutality had stripped me bare; this skilled, focused attention was rebuilding me into something purely sensation. The contrast was obliterating.
But my eyes were drawn upward, past her working head, to the magnificent swell of her breasts hanging above me. They were full, heavy, the nipples dark and erect. In my delirious state, they seemed like twin moons, the source of some celestial nourishment. I was compelled. I reached up, my hands cupping their incredible weight, the flesh warm and firm. I pulled them down to my face.
I took one nipple into my mouth, sucking greedily, my tongue laving the areola. The taste of her skin, clean salt and faint perfume, mixed with the primal scent from between her legs. I suckled like a starved thing, one hand kneading the other breast, as her fingers and mouth devoured me below.
The dirty talk returned, a duet of depravity. “Your chut is so hungry,” she said, lifting her mouth for a second. “It’s sucking my fingers in. It knows quality.”
“Your mammes… they’re magical,” I moaned, switching to the other nipple, biting gently. “They make me feel small. Safe. Like a baby. A very, very dirty baby.”
She laughed, the sound a hot puff against my wet flesh. “You are a baby. A needy, pathetic baby who can’t come unless a woman shows her how. Let me show you.”
She doubled her efforts. Her fingers hooked and pressed. Her tongue flicked mercilessly. I sucked her breast, the rhythmic pull mirroring the rhythm she built between my legs. The sensations fused—the soft, giving flesh in my mouth, the firm, insistent pressure inside me. The room, the city, Vishal watching—all of it blurred into a bright, humming point.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”
“Come,” she commanded, her voice iron. “Come all over my hand. Let me feel your cheap, divorced-woman orgasm. Do it.”
The command was the final key. It shattered me. The climax ripped through me with no grace, a convulsive, screaming release that locked my spine and blinded me. I screamed into the softness of her breast, my teeth clamping down as wave after wave of pure, electrical pleasure vaporized every thought, every memory, every shred of resistance. I pulsed around her fingers, a wet, endless surrender.
When I finally went limp, she slowly withdrew her hand. She crawled up my body, her breasts dragging across my skin, and kissed me deeply. I could taste myself on her lips, layered under her own unique flavor.
“See?” she whispered, breaking the kiss. “We’re not so different. We both just want to come. I’m just better at making it happen.”
From the floor, we heard a low, steady stroking sound. We turned our heads. Vishal was on his feet, his cock in his hand, slowly, deliberately fisting himself from base to tip. His eyes were clear now, the frantic edge replaced by a deep, simmering intent. The cooling-off period was over. The denied release had been banked into a hotter, more focused fire.
He was looking at Swati’s backside, at the generous, inviting curves he had praised just minutes before.
“On the bed,” he said, his voice gravel. “On your knees. Now.”
Swati grinned, a flash of white in the dimness. She gave me a final, lingering look—part pity, part triumph, part sisterhood—and pushed herself up. She moved to the bed with a languid, confident sway, getting on all fours in the center, presenting her gaand to him like a queen offering her crown jewels.
Vishal approached, his gaze fixed on the target. He paused only to run a hand, almost reverently, over the swell of one buttock, his fingers tracing the faint, pink marks he’d left earlier. He looked at me, still shattered on the rug.
“Watch,” he told me. “Watch how a masterpiece is meant to be used.”
He positioned himself behind her, his hands gripping her hips. There was no frantic urgency this time. Only the absolute certainty of ownership. He guided himself to her entrance, and with a single, powerful, seamless thrust, he buried himself to the hilt in Swati’s gaand.
Her head dropped forward, a long, satisfied “Ohhhhh…” pouring from her lips. This was not a taking. It was a reclaiming.
And he began to move.
And he began to move. His thrusts were deliberate, piston-perfect, each one driving a soft, wet sound from Swati’s core and a corresponding sigh from her lips. The bedframe tapped a gentle, steady rhythm against the wall. I watched, my cheek against the rough rug, my own body a map of fading tremors. This was his worship of her, a liturgy of possession. I was merely the congregation.
Swati braced on her forearms, arching her back to take him deeper, her magnificent hips meeting each push. “There you are,” she purred, glancing back over her shoulder. “That’s my Vishu. Claiming what’s yours.” Her eyes found mine, glinting in the low light. They held not malice, but a sharp, instructive command. “Don’t just lie there like a used rag, Isha. You want to serve? Then serve. Get over here. Service your god properly while he pleasures his wife.”
Her meaning sliced through my daze. I pushed myself up, my limbs aching. I crawled to the foot of the bed, the world narrowing to the view of him plunging into the shadowed cleft of her presented flesh. My mouth was dry, my heart a frantic bird. I hesitated.
“Now,” Swati snarled, the word cracking through her moan. “His gaand. Lick it. Clean it. Make it worship your tongue like the rest of you does.”
I moved. I positioned myself behind Vishal, my face inches from his lower back, the powerful muscles working as he drove into Swati. The scent here was musky, animal, uniquely his. I leaned in, my breath ghosting over him. He flinched, his rhythm stuttering for a single beat.
“What…?” he grunted.
“Shhh,” Swati soothed, pushing back against him. “Let the little cleaner do her job. Just feel.”
My tongue touched him. A tentative, flat stripe over the tight, wrinkled furl of his asshole. He went utterly still. Then a shudder, deep and visceral, rolled through him. A low, guttural sound, nothing like his earlier groans, escaped his throat. It was a sound of pure, unexpected surrender.
I committed. I forgot myself. My world became the taste of salt and skin, the texture under my exploring tongue. I was slow, sensuous, methodical. I traced circles around the tight bud, then flattened my tongue to lave broad, wet strokes. I teased the pucker with the very tip, applying gentle, insistent pressure until I felt it yield, just a fraction.
He loved it. His stillness broke. He began moving again, but the thrusts were different—slower, deeper, more resonant. Each push into Swati was now underscored by the soft, hot point of my attention. He was surrounded, consumed.
“Oh, fuck,” Swati gasped, and I knew she could feel it. The change in him. The way my service to him translated through every sinew, every vein, into the quality of his possession of her. “She’s licking your dirty chhed, isn’t she? And you’re melting. I can feel you melting inside me.”
Her head dropped, and her voice shifted into a torrent of obscene observation directed at me. “Look at you back there, you desperate kabari. Your nose buried in his sweaty ghaand. Your tiny body is knelt there like a beggar at a temple, but the temple is my husband’s asshole. Does my big, beautiful phuddi bouncing in your face make you jealous? Does it make your little nipples hard, knowing he’s splitting me open while you get the leftovers?”
I didn’t stop. I delved deeper with my tongue, my hands coming to rest on the backs of his trembling thighs. My own arousal was a sharp, returning thrum. Her words were gasoline on the fire of my shame.
“And you,” she taunted Vishal, her voice ragged with her own building pleasure. “Look at you. The mighty man. Having his ass eaten by a discarded, middle-aged chuha while he fucks a goddess. Is that what you need? You need to degrade yourself with her beggar’s body to truly enjoy the prize you have at home?”
He answered with a harder, deeper thrust that made her cry out. His hand snaked back, fingers tangling roughly in my hair, holding my face hard against him. Permission. Demand. I redoubled my efforts, my tongue fucking the tight ring now with a focused rhythm that matched his own.
The heat built. The space between the three of us crackled with a transferred energy. An idea, dark and thrilling, crystallized in me. As my tongue worked, I brought a hand around, my fingers slick from my own mouth. I traced the furled skin, now wet and relaxed from my attention. I pressed a single fingertip against it, applying the same gentle, inexorable pressure.
He tensed. A full-body rigidity. “Hey—” he started, his voice strained.
“Shhh,” Swati echoed, but her tone was wicked now. “She’s just exploring. She wants to know all of her master. Let her in.”
I pushed. A slow, deliberate invasion. The resistance was profound, then it gave way. The knuckle of my index finger slipped past the tight ring. Inside. He cried out, a strangled sound of shock and intense sensation. His thrust into Swati faltered.
“Oh, yes,” Swati moaned, feeling his sudden, overwhelming vulnerability. “She’s inside you, isn’t she? The little rat has her claw in the king’s fort. How does it feel? To be so full?”
He was panting, immobile, impaled on both ends. I curled my finger infinitesimally, searching. His sharp intake was my answer. A jolt went through him, from the base of his spine to the crown of his head. My other hand moved, cupping his balls, heavy and tight in their sac. I squeezed, just enough pressure to command attention.
“Don’t you dare cum,” I whispered against his skin, my voice hoarse but clear. “You don’t have permission.”
A broken sound escaped him. Swati laughed, a rich, delighted sound. She began to move her hips again, taking control of the rhythm, fucking herself on his now-hesitant cock. “You hear her? She’s fingering your gand and holding your eggs, and she’s telling you no. And you will listen. Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be our toy?”
I moved my finger within him, a slow, twisting probe, while my other hand massaged his balls, a warning and a promise. He was breathing in ragged, shattered gasps, utterly overwhelmed, completely at our mercy. The power was an electric current surging up my arm. I looked past his heaving form to Swati’s face. Her eyes met mine, blazing with a shared, ferocious delight.
We had him. Truly had him. Not just his body, but the very core of his control, unraveling between us.
“Talk to him, chuha,” Swati urged, riding him with slow, grinding rolls of her hips. “Tell the great Vishal what he is right now.”
“You’re a vessel,” I said, my finger curling again, feeling him clench around it. My thumb stroked his perineum. “You’re a hole for her pleasure and a handle for my curiosity. Your cock is just a plug keeping her happy while we play with the rest of you.”
“He’s our mutual project,” Swati sighed, paradise leaking around him as she leisurely pulled until half sucked the whole then shuddered building bunched grew sized slick forceful polishmental trap. “Our beautiful, broken toy.”
The vulgar commentary became a duet, our words weaving around his helpless form. We described his sounds, his tremors, the utter conquest of his masculinity. We compared our bodies—her lush abundance against my petite sharpness—and dissected what each part of him seemed to crave from each of us. He was the canvas upon which we painted our combined will.
His pre-cum leaked onto Swati’s inner thighs, a silent plea. I tightened my grip on his balls, a fraction more. “No.”
He sobbed. A real, ragged sob of frustration and surreal, unbearable pleasure. He was a bridge strung between two towers of sensation, and we were shaking him until his bones sang a tune we composed. On and on it went, a vicious, glorious cycle of words and deeds, of penetration and denial, of worship and abasement. The city outside forgotten, the candles burning low, the only reality the three of us, fused in this endless, exquisite, holding pattern.