Chapter 14: Commentry
The cold hostel floor bit into my bare knees, a familiar ache. The single bulb overhead threw our distorted shadows against the wall—me kneeling, Vishal slumped in Priya’s desk chair, Priya herself a naked, casual silhouette perched on the edge of my bed, one hand idly tracing circles on her inner thigh. The silence was a physical thing, thick with the smells of the theater still clinging to us: stale popcorn, sweat, sex, and the faint, metallic ghost of my own blood.
I couldn’t look at him for long. My eyes kept catching the faint, red scratches on his shoulders from her nails. The memory of his roar as he filled her was a ice pick in my gut. Priya broke the quiet, her voice lazy.
“Your cock looks sad, bhaiyya. All soft and used up. Pathetic.”
Vishal glanced down at himself, a flicker of annoyance crossing his exhausted face. “What do you expect, Priya? You drained me.”
“She drained you,” Priya corrected, nodding at me. “That other rand just got the overflow.” She leaned back on her elbows, making her small, pert breasts tilt upward. “So, bhaiyya. Be honest. Whose pussy felt better? Her tight, clean little fuck-hole? Or Isha’s messy, bloody cunt?”
The question hung in the air, vulgar and brutal. Vishal’s jaw tightened. He looked at me, finally, and I saw the conflict there—the residual thrill, the shame, the exhaustion.
“Tell her,” I said, my voice hollow. “Tell me.”
“It’s… different,” he mumbled, repeating his sin.
“Different how?” I pressed, the hollow filling with a sudden, sharp heat. “Was she tighter? Did she moan prettier? Did her clean pussy taste better than my bloody one?” The words were filth in my mouth, but I pushed them out, needing the wound.
“Fuck, Isha,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“Answer,” Priya commanded, a delighted voyeur.
“She was… tighter, yes,” Vishal admitted, the words dragged out of him. “Fresh. It was… exciting.”
“And me?” I asked, my heart a frantic bird in my ribs.
“You’re…deeper. Hotter. You feel like… home.” He said ‘home’ like it was a curse.
“Home,” I repeated, a bitter laugh escaping. “A worn-out, broken-in place. Comfortable. Not exciting.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” I crawled forward on my knees until I was between his legs. The musky, spent scent of him was overpowering. “You came in her. Did you even think about me?”
He was silent.
Priya laughed. “He was thinking about her cervix, randi. Not your feelings.”
I reached out, wrapping my fingers around his softness. It was warm, heavy, vulnerable. He flinched but didn’t stop me. “You said I’m your bloody whore. Your rag.” I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. “So use your rag. Get hard for me. Let me taste where you’ve been.”
I didn’t wait for permission. I took him into my mouth, all of him, soft and yielding. My tongue worked, flattening against his length, tasting the salt of his sweat, the faint, lingering tang of her juices. I hated it. I devoured it. I sucked with a desperation I didn’t know I possessed, hollowing my cheeks, my hand cupping his balls, gently rolling the tender weight of them. A low groan vibrated in his chest.
“See how hungry your rag is?” Priya mused. “She’s eating another girl’s pussy off your dick. That’s dedicated service.”
I sucked harder, my jaw aching, my own wetness gathering between my legs at the sheer degradation of the act. I was reclaiming him through filth. His flesh began to stir, thickening on my tongue, filling my mouth. I pulled off with a wet pop, staring at his now half-hard cock. “It’s getting there,” I whispered, my voice rough. “Thinking of her tight cunt? Or my hungry mouth?”
“Both,” he breathed, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust.
“Whose mouth is better? Hers would have been clean. Neat. Mine’s… what?” I challenged, taking him deep again, making myself gag slightly.
“Messy,” he grunted, his hand tangling in my hair. “Sloppy. Perfect.”
I worked him relentlessly, bobbing my head, using my hand in a tight twist, until he was fully, arrogantly hard again, a vein pulsing angrily along the shaft. I released him, a string of saliva connecting my lip to his glistening head. “Good,” I panted. “Now, you’re going to return the favour.”
He blinked, dazed. “What?”
“You heard me.” I stood up, my legs shaky, and walked backward toward my bed, never breaking eye contact. I pushed Priya’s legs aside and lay down, spreading my own. The room’s air felt cold on my exposed skin. “You’re going to eat my pussy. Now.”
Vishal stared from the chair, a flicker of his old defiance showing. “Isha… I’m tired. It’s been a long night.”
“Tired?” The laugh that bubbled out of me was harsh. “You weren’t too tired to fuck a stranger. You weren’t too tired to come in her. You have energy for that, but not for me?” I hooked my fingers inside the waistband of my torn leggings and panties, shoving them down my thighs. “Get over here. Now.”
Priya watched, her eyes gleaming. She shifted to make more room, her thigh now pressed against my shoulder. “Do it, bhaiyya. The rag is giving orders. You should listen. She’s earned it.”
“Earned it?” Vishal scoffed, but he was getting up from the chair. The protest was weak, perfunctory.
“Yes, earned it!” I snapped, the dam breaking. “I took your dick in my mouth when I was bleeding. I took it in my ass in a fucking movie theater. I watched you fuck another girl and didn’t scream the place down. I sucked your filthy cock clean just now. So yes, you lying, cheating bastard, you will get on your knees and put your fucking mouth on me, or you can walk out that door and never come back.”
The ultimatum crackled in the air. He hesitated for a long, terrible second. Priya held her breath.
Then, with a resigned sigh that was somehow more humiliating than a refusal, he crossed the room. He knelt on the hard floor between my splayed legs. He didn’t look romantic or passionate. He looked like a man performing a chore. The sight sent a fresh pang through me, which only hardened my resolve.
“Look at it,” I commanded, my voice trembling. “Look at the ‘home’ you’re so familiar with. Look at the mess you helped make.”
He looked. In the cruel overhead light, I knew what he saw: the swollen lips, the residual soreness, the faint, drying traces of blood and his own spend from earlier. A complex map of the night’s violations.
“Touch it.”
His fingers, those same fingers that had been inside another girl hours ago, parted me. I shuddered.
“Now taste it.”
He closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to watch himself, and lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue was tentative, a flat, apologetic stroke. Rage boiled in me. “No,” I hissed, my hand fisting in his hair. “Not like that. You don’t get to be gentle. You don’t get to be sorry. Eat it like you mean it. Like you hunger for it. Like it’s the only cunt you’ll ever need again.”
I yanked his head forward, grinding myself against his face. A muffled sound escaped him, but then his tongue changed. It became pointed, desperate, seeking. He licked a firm stripe from my opening to my clit, circling the swollen bud with a pressure that made my back arch.
“Yes,” I moaned, the anger fracturing into blinding sensation. “Just like that. You remember how, don’t you? This is the pussy that loves your tongue. The one that comes for you. Not hers.”
He was fully engaged now, his earlier reluctance drowned in the physical act. He ate me with a starved intensity, his tongue plunging inside, then flicking my clit, his nose buried in my flesh. I could hear the wet, obscene sounds, could feel his stubble scraping my sensitive inner thighs. Priya’s hand found my breast, pinching and twisting my nipple in time with his tongue’s rhythm.
“He’s good, na?” she whispered, her own breath coming faster. “When he’s motivated.”
I couldn’t answer. The climax was building, a tight, angry coil in my lower belly, fed by jealousy, humiliation, and raw, undeniable pleasure. I was using his face, claiming my due, forcing a confession from his body that his words would never give.
“You’re mine,” I gasped, riding his tongue. “Say it. Say whose pussy this is.”
His mouth was too occupied, so he groaned against me, the vibration pushing me closer.
“Say it!” I shouted, pulling his hair.
He pulled back, just enough, his chin gleaming. “Yours,” he panted, his eyes dark and wild. “It’s yours. Fuck, Isha.”
That was all I needed. The coil snapped. My orgasm tore through me, violent and shuddering, a silent scream locked in my throat as my hips bucked against his anchoring mouth. Waves of intense sensation, bitter and sweet, washed me into a numb, trembling void.
When I could see again, he was looking up at me, his expression unreadable. I released my death-grip on his hair, my fingers aching.
“Good,” I breathed, every ounce of strength gone. “Now we’re even.”