Chapter 5: Oral like none
The admission echoed in the silent, jasmine-scented room, a truth so vile it stole the air from my lungs. I loved the brutal efficiency of his pleasure, the way he’d dismantled my pain and reassembled it into something shamefully bright. His weight lifted off me, the cool air hitting the wet trails on my breasts and chin. I kept my eyes shut, listening to his movements—the soft rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle.
“Open your eyes, Saumya.” His voice was calm, conversational, as if discussing the weather. I didn’t move. The mattress dipped as he sat beside my hip. A thumb, surprisingly gentle, wiped a streak from my chin. “Look at what we did.”
I forced my eyelids open. He was watching me, his expression one of detached appraisal. He held his thumb up, showing me the glistening proof. Then he slowly smeared it back across my bottom lip. The act was so possessively intimate, so deliberately degrading, that a fresh tear escaped. “It’s a mess,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
“A beautiful mess.” He leaned over and retrieved a discarded linen napkin, probably from the untouched champagne tray. He dampened it in the melting ice bucket. The cold sting on my overheated skin made me flinch. He began cleaning my chest with slow, methodical strokes, like a groom currying a prize horse. “See? Vikram is still downstairs, drinking bad whisky with his uncles. He thinks his wedding night is still to come.” He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “He has no idea what his bride can do. What she likes.”
“Stop,” I breathed, but there was no force behind it.
“Why?” He dabbed at the sensitive skin between my breasts, his touch clinical. “You said it yourself. You loved it.” He tilted my chin up, making me meet his gaze. “That first climax, just from my mouth? The one that shocked you? That was real. This,” he gestured at the room, at us, “is real. Your carefully arranged marriage, the shy smiles for the priest… that’s the performance.”
He tossed the soiled naplet onto the floor. His hand, now warm again, settled on my bare stomach, his fingers splayed. “Your body doesn’t lie to me. It speaks a much more interesting language.” His thumb traced a slow circle around my navel. “It says ‘more’. It says ‘again’.”
“I don’t want to,” I said, the protest automatic, hollow.
He just smiled, that infuriating, knowing smile. His hand slid down from my stomach, his fingers hooking into the soaked lace of my panties. “Your body disagrees.” He gave a soft tug. “Lift your hips.”
“No.”
“Lift them.” The command was quiet, absolute. My body obeyed before my mind could rally another weak refusal. I arched, feeling the last scrap of fabric slide down my thighs, over my knees, gone. The air was cool on my completely bared skin, a shocking finality. He tossed the panties over his shoulder, not even looking where they landed.
He settled between my legs, pushing my thighs wider with his shoulders. I squeezed my eyes shut, a last, futile defense. I heard his low chuckle. “Look at me, Saumya. Watch what happens to you.” I shook my head, pressing it back into the pillow. “Fine,” he murmured. “We’ll start blind.”
His first touch wasn’t his mouth. It was the warm, damp press of his lower lip against my inner thigh, a kiss that felt almost reverent. Then he moved inward. His tongue touched me, a slow, flat stroke from bottom to top. My entire body jolted. A sharp gasp tore from my throat. It was nothing like the frantic sucking through the lace. This was deliberate, lush, an exploration.
“You taste different here,” he mused, his voice a vibration against my most sensitive skin. “Cleaner. Sweeter. Like fear and honey.” He did it again, that long, devastating lick. My hands fisted in the sheets. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“See?” he said. “You’re guiding me already.” He focused then, his mouth finding the center of every trembling nerve. His tongue was a magic I had only heard whispered about in embarrassed giggles, a myth I never believed my shy, earnest Vikram would know how to wield. Vishal knew. He circled my clit with a lazy, maddening precision, then flattened his tongue against it, applying a steady, perfect pressure.
A broken sound, half-sob, half-moan, escaped me. My resistance was ashes. It was vain. It was pointless. My legs fell open wider, a silent, screaming invitation. “There,” he breathed, hot against my wet skin. “That’s it. Now tell me. What is my tongue on?”
I shook my head, frantic. He stopped immediately. The loss was an agony. “Say it,” he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Hindi. What am I kissing?”
“Meri… meri chut,” I whimpered, the crude word a burn on my tongue.
“Again. Louder.”
“Meri chut!” The admission echoed, vulgar and true. He rewarded me with a slow, penetrating stroke of his tongue inside, and I cried out, my back bowing off the bed. “Wahin… andar…” I babbled. “There… inside.”
He retreated to my clit, sucking it gently between his lips, flicking it with the very tip of his tongue. The sensation was so acute, so blindingly good, it felt like a direct wire to my spine. “And this? What is this little thing that makes you shake?”
“Ch… chiti,” I moaned, using the childish, filthy word for clit. “Meri chiti.”
“Your little bird,” he translated, his voice thick. “And is it singing?”
“Yes! God, yes!”
“Then make it sing louder.” His mouth descended again, but this time it was hungry, consuming. He ate me with a single-minded intensity that shattered thought. He licked my folds, he probed inside, he returned to my clit to suck and circle until my thighs trembled. The pleasure was a rising tsunami, obliterating everything—shame, guilt, the man waiting downstairs.
“Hands,” he ordered, pulling back for a breath. “On my head. Show me what you want.”
My fingers dove into his thick hair, clumsy and desperate. I pulled him back down. I held him there. When the sensation became too much, a sharp, bright pain inside the pleasure, I tried to push him away. He gripped my thighs, pinning them open, and drove his tongue deeper. He was relentless. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside me in a slow, twisting rhythm that matched the work of his mouth.
“Talk to me,” he grunted against me. “Tell me. Is it better than your fingers? Those shy little touches in the dark?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!”
“How much better?” He sucked hard.
“I’ve… I’ve never… my own fingers are nothing!” The confession spilled out, frantic and true. “This is… this is like dying! You’re killing me!”
“Then die,” he commanded. “But die loud. Scream my name. Call me every filthy thing you know.”
The coil snapped. The orgasm didn’t build; it detonated. It was a raw, seismic rupture that tore a scream from my very core. “Vishal! Haah… bahinchod! Saale!” I shrieked, the abuses ripping out of me as my body convulsed, clamping around his fingers, my hands fisting in his hair to hold his mouth exactly there. “Mat chhod! Eat me! Khaa le mujhe!” Don’t stop! Eat me!
He didn’t. He rode out every violent spasm, his tongue a constant, ruthless pressure until I was sobbing, begging him to stop from the sheer overload. My body was a live wire, sparking and jerking without my control. Finally, I collapsed, utterly spent, my limbs liquid.
He rose above me, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were dark with triumph. He looked utterly debauched, and utterly in control. “Details,” he said, his voice rough. “Describe exactly what that was. Now, while you’re still shaking from it.”
I was shuddering, tiny aftershocks wracking my hips. I could barely speak. “It was… a quake. Inside my bones.” I took a gulping breath. “Your tongue… it was like a live wire on my clit. And your fingers… they touched a place that made my vision go white. I saw stars. I screamed curses I didn’t know I knew.”
“And your own fingers? Compared to that?”
“A matchstick,” I whispered, the truth humiliating and exhilarating. “A tiny, scared matchstick next to a forest fire.”
He nodded, satisfied. He leaned down and kissed me, deep and slow, letting me taste my own devastation on his tongue. From the world below, the faint, joyful strains of the wedding song “Sajanji Vari Vari” finally began to play. The wedding was reaching its peak.
My husband’s celebration had begun. And in this silk-draped prison, mine was complete.
And in this silk-draped prison, mine was complete. For a long moment, there was only the sound of my ragged breathing and the distant, cheerful melody of the wedding band. Vishal watched me, a scientist observing a fascinating, volatile reaction. He traced the line of my collarbone with a single finger.
“You’re a quick study,” he said, his voice almost approving. “But a true education requires reciprocity.” He shifted, kneeling up between my splayed legs. His erection, which had softened only slightly, was back, rigid and demanding. “You have three holes, Saumya. I will take each one before this night is over.”
The blunt declaration hung in the air. My mind, still fuzzy with spent pleasure, scrambled to parse the words. Three. My breath hitched, a sharp, panicked sound. The reality of what he meant—the final, terrifying threshold—was a cold wave that nearly pulled me under. My vision spotted at the edges.
“Don’t worry,” he said, catching the faintness in my eyes. He leaned forward, bracing a hand by my head, his face close to mine. His smile was all teeth. “We’ll start with the easiest. We’ll start with your mouth.”
“No.” I twisted my face away, a weak, instinctive denial. “I can’t.”
“You can. You will.” He said it with the calm certainty of a man discussing a settled fact. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me upright, then turned me, maneuvering my limp body until I knelt on the bed facing him. He arranged me like a doll, pulling my hair back from my face. “This is the proper position. It’s about control, and access. Mostly my control.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I tried to shrink back, but his hand was firm on the back of my head. “Please, Vishal sir, I don’t—”
“Hush.” His thumb brushed my lower lip. “It’s just a lesson. And I do love a lesson.” His tone was light, almost pedagogical. “Open. Not wide, just part your lips. Good. Now, the tongue is your friend. Keep it flat. The teeth are the enemy. Understand?”
I nodded, a tiny, terrified movement. He guided himself, the broad, smooth head pressing against my parted lips. It was warm, salty from my own skin. I recoiled, but his hand held me steady. “Relax your jaw,” he coached softly. “Let me in. Just the tip. There. See? It’s just flesh. Your clever mouth can handle it.”
He pushed forward, slowly, an inexorable invasion. I gagged, my eyes watering. He paused, letting me adjust. “Breathe through your nose. Good girl.” He slid deeper, the sensation of fullness foreign and choking. He began a slow, shallow rhythm. “Use your hand. Here.” He took my limp hand and wrapped it around the base of him, his own covering mine. “Feel it. This is what you’re working with. Now, the other hand. Cup my balls, gently. Yes. Like you’re weighing ripe fruit.”
The obscene instruction, delivered in that calm, teacherly voice, sent a bizarre thrill through my panic. My fingers, tentatively, complied. The weight of him in my hand, the texture of the soft skin beneath my fingertips, was strangely powerful. I felt him shudder. A low groan vibrated through him into my mouth.
His composure was cracking. The teacher was getting distractedly excited by his own subject. The realization was a lightning strike. My fear melted, replaced by that dark, gleaming thread of control. I relaxed my throat, taking him deeper. I experimentally swirled my tongue.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Just like that. Yes.”
I loved it. I loved the guttural, undone sound he made. I loved the power I had, here on my knees, to unravel this ruthless man with just my mouth and hands. I found a rhythm, guided by the tightening of his grip, the hitch in his breath. He started to move, more urgently now, losing his teacher’s patience. “Don’t stop. God, don’t you dare stop.”
It went on and on. My jaw ached. Tears of strain streamed down my face. I wanted him to finish, to end this, but I had no concept of how a man’s end might come. I just worked, lost in the paradox of my own power and my utter subjugation.
He suddenly pulled back, his whole body tensing. “Not in the mouth,” he gasped, his voice strangled. He tugged me off, his movement rough with urgency. “Look down. Watch.”
He directed himself at my breasts, still glistening from his earlier attention. His hand moved frantically over himself. “Touch them. Milk it onto them.”
Bewildered, I cupped my own breasts, pulling them together. He groaned, a raw, final sound, and his release shot onto my skin in hot, sudden stripes. I watched, mesmerized and horrified. It was pearlescent, sticky, a shocking violation of my flesh. More of it than I could have imagined.
He shuddered through the last pulses, then slumped slightly, breathing hard. He looked from his mess to my face. My hands hovered, instinctively wanting to wipe the wet heat away.
He caught my wrist. “No.” His voice was spent but firm. “Leave it. Let it dry there. A reminder.” He traced a finger through the mess on my sternum, painting my skin. “Your first lesson in completion. Look at it. That’s what you did.”
That’s what you did.
For a long minute, we just breathed. The only sounds were the fading music from below and the ragged symphony of our own lungs. The stickiness on my chest began to cool, tightening my skin. The high, screaming wire inside me had gone slack, leaving a hollow, buzzing silence.
He moved first. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, a study in casual power amidst the wreckage. “Get up,” he said, not looking at me. “Clean yourself. Get dressed.”
The ordinariness of the command was a shock. I stared, unmoving. He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Now, Saumya. Unless you want to explain that to your husband when he arrives.” He nodded toward the drying streaks on my skin.
That propelled me. I scrambled off the bed, my legs wobbling. I stumbled to the attached bathroom, a marble cavern of orchids and dim lights. I didn’t turn them on. I used a wet towel in the dark, scrubbing at my chest and between my legs with a frantic, shameful energy. The evidence was gone, but the feeling was tattooed underneath.
My clothes were a humiliating puzzle. The lehenga was a heap of heavy fabric and broken threads. I couldn’t. Instead, I found my simple, cotton traveling salwar kameez, folded neatly in my suitcase—a modest, high-necked tunic and loose trousers. It felt like a costume of my old self. My hands shook so badly the buttons took forever.
When I emerged, he was dressed too. His suit was immaculate again, not a hair out of place. He stood by the window, looking down at the glowing garden where the last guests were probably leaving. He held a fresh glass of water. He looked like a CEO after a long board meeting, not a man who had just torn a bride apart.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a velvet armchair. He took the one opposite. We waited. The clock on the mantle ticked. Five minutes. Ten. I folded my hands in my lap to hide their tremor. I studied the intricate pattern of the rug, the way a single petal had fallen from a garland.
He broke the silence, his voice conversational. “They’ll be bringing him up soon. Probably his friends will try to delay him, tease him. Give us another twenty minutes, maybe.”
I said nothing. My throat was sealed shut.
“He’ll be nervous,” Vishal continued, swirling the water in his glass. “He’ll have had too much to drink for courage, but not enough to actually know what to do. He’ll fumble with your pins. He’ll apologize for kissing you too hard, or not hard enough.”
The picture was so vivid, so painfully accurate, it made my stomach clench. I could see Vikram’s shy, earnest face, his clumsy hands.
“And you,” Vishal said, his eyes finally cutting to me. “You’ll lie there. You’ll think of this room. Of my mouth on you. Of the way you screamed.” He leaned forward, placing his glass on the table with a soft click. “And you’ll hate him for not being me.”
“Stop it,” I whispered.
He ignored me. He rose and crossed the small space between us. He knelt before my chair, his hands coming to rest on my knees. The touch was gentle, claiming. “Your body remembers what I taught it. It’s already forgetting his name.”
His hands began to move, a slow, firm massage up my thighs, over the cotton. I stiffened, pressing my knees together. “Don’t.”
“Shhh,” he murmured, his thumbs tracing circles on my inner thighs, a hair’s breadth from where I was most sensitive. “We’re just talking. Just remembering.” One hand slid up to my waist, tugging the hem of my kameez from the waistband of my salwar. Cool air touched my stomach.
I grabbed his wrist. “Vishal, please. He’s coming.”
“And you’re not ready for him,” he said calmly, prying my fingers loose. “You’re dry as a bone for him. Tense. A closed door.” His hand slipped under the fabric, his palm hot and flat against my belly. “I’m just oiling the hinges.”
His touch was incendiary. It ignited every nerve he’d mapped earlier. I shoved at his shoulder. “I said no!”
He caught my pushing hand, kissed the palm, then pinned it against the armrest. His other hand moved lower, cupping me through the thin cotton of my trousers. I jerked. “This,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, “this sweet little chut I just ate until you wept? It’s about to get the real thing. A thick, clumsy, wedding-night fuck from a boy who thinks a hole is a hole.”
His crude words were a weapon. They sliced through my last defenses, painting a future so bleak and pathetic it made his violation seem like a dark gift. His fingers pressed, rubbing in a slow, insistent rhythm. A traitorous pulse of heat answered him.
“He won’t know what to do with this,” he breathed, his face close to mine. “He’ll just push. It’ll hurt. You’ll bleed for him, and he’ll call it love.” His hand tugged at my drawstring. The knot gave way. “I want to see it again. Before he ruins it with his innocence.”
“No,” I whimpered, but it was the plea of a ritual, not a refusal. My body was arching into his hand. He yanked the salwar down my hips. The cool air hit my bare skin. He pulled the kameez up to my neck.
In seconds, I was exposed again, shivering in the chair, fully naked while he remained perfectly dressed. He leaned back on his heels, his gaze a slow, burning inventory from my flushed face down to my ankles. “Look at you,” he said, almost to himself. “Even covered in shame, you’re perfect.”
His hands followed his eyes. He traced my lips, parted in protest. “These lied for you all day. Smiled for the cameras.” He pinched my nipple, making me gasp. “These stood proud in your bridal blouse. All for him.” His palm smoothed over my stomach. “This clenched when I first touched you here.” His fingers slid through the dampness between my legs, and I cried out. “And this,” he said, his voice thick with dark triumph. “This is already weeping for me again. It knows its master. It’s waiting for the only cock that deserves it.”