Chapter 4: boobs are trophy
The cold marble bit into my bare legs, the shock of it almost welcome after the trembling aftershocks still echoing through my core. Vishal stood there, silhouetted against the city’s glittering sprawl, buttoning his shirt with unhurried precision. His gaze, when it finally drifted back to me, wasn't on my face. It settled lower, heavy and appraising, on the swell of my breasts beneath the cheap lace bra I’d worn for the interview. A bra that felt utterly inadequate now.
He moved, not towards the exit, but back towards me, his steps silent on the polished stone. The air crackled, thick with the scent of sex and something else – a sharp, predatory interest. He stopped inches away, his shadow falling over me. His knuckles brushed the curve of my right breast, just above the lace. Not a caress. A claim. A slow, deliberate stroke that sent a jolt through me, entirely different from the shock downstairs. This was heat, pooling low and unexpected.
"These," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. His thumb found my nipple through the fabric, rubbing in a slow circle that made me gasp. "Rajat never appreciated these, did he?" It wasn't really a question. It was a statement, laced with contempt for my absent husband and a possessive hunger that made my skin prickle.
I swallowed, my throat tight. Honesty felt dangerous, but necessary fuel for whatever game this was becoming. "No. He... didn't." The admission was a whisper, laced with a bitterness I hadn't fully acknowledged until now. "Said they were... too much."
Vishal’s laugh was a short, harsh bark. "Idiot." His fingers slid beneath the lace cup, peeling it down roughly. Cool air hit my exposed nipple, tightening it instantly. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight. "Thrust them forward," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave. "Let me see what that fool ignored."
A wave of heat flooded my cheeks. Obscene. But the command, the raw appreciation in his stare... something primal responded. I arched my back, pushing my chest towards him. The movement felt wanton, vulnerable. "Like this?" My voice was embarrassingly breathy.
"Exactly like that." His hands were suddenly on me, large and warm, molding my breasts, squeezing the soft flesh. His thumbs rasped over my nipples, the friction sending sparks down my spine. He leaned down, his breath hot on my skin, and then his mouth was there. Not gentle. Possessive. He suckled hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing. The sharp sting made me cry out, but it was tangled with a surge of pure, electric pleasure. I’d never… Rajat had barely touched them. This intensity? It was overwhelming. Addictive.
His free hand slid down my stomach, over the curve of my hip, and pressed, palm flat, against the damp silk of my panties. Not inside, just firm pressure where I was throbbing. "Fuck," I gasped, my hips jerking involuntarily against his hand.
"That's it," he growled against my breast, biting down again, harder this time. The pain-pleasure mix was intoxicating. "Moan for me. Let me hear how much you need this." His fingers pressed rhythmically against my panties, the friction maddening through the thin fabric. I couldn’t stop the sounds escaping me – low whimpers, sharp gasps every time his teeth nipped my sensitive flesh. The heat between my legs was building, coiling tight, entirely separate from my will. It was terrifying. Humbling. To my utter humiliation, the pressure built not just from his touch there, but from the relentless assault on my breasts, from the sheer, degrading force of his desire for them. My back arched further off the cold floor, my fingers scrabbling against the marble. A high, keening cry tore from my throat as the wave crashed over me, shocking in its intensity, leaving me shuddering and gasping, Vishal’s mouth still latched onto my breast like a brand.
He finally lifted his head, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes burning. "Good girl," he rasped, his voice thick. He looked down at his own erection, straining against his trousers. "Now clean me up. Get it ready."
He unzipped slowly. The thick length of him sprang free. My mouth felt dry. "Use your hands first," he commanded. "Tell me what you're doing. In Hindi. Dhang se. Properly."
My cheeks flamed. Chap Hindi. The language of the street, crude and explicit. "M… Main aapka lund pakad rahi hoon," I stammered, my fingers wrapping around him hesitantly. The heat, the weight… it was still intimidating.
"Louder," he snapped. "And move it. Faster."
"Main aapka lund pakad rahi hoon!" I repeated, louder, my hand starting to pump. The vulgarity felt like stripping another layer of myself away. "Isse garam kar rahi hoon."
He groaned, his hips thrusting into my fist. "Keep talking. Tell me what you want to do with it."
"Main isse… apne boobs ke beech mein lena chahti hoon," I forced out, the words thick and clumsy on my tongue. I want to take it between my breasts. The admission sent another wave of heat through me.
In hindi, he demanded "Main isse… apne chucheon ke beech mein lena chahti hoon,"
He pulled my hand away. "Then make the valley," he ordered, his voice tight. "Push them together. Hard."
Still trembling from my own climax, I obeyed, squeezing my breasts together, creating a tight, warm channel between them. He guided himself, the head of his cock bumping against my sternum. "Wider," he grunted. "Tighter." I adjusted, my arms straining. He positioned himself and pushed forward, sliding his length slowly between the soft, yielding flesh. The sensation was bizarre, intimate, deeply carnal.
"Chus," he commanded, looking down at me. Suck. I craned my neck, catching the swollen head in my mouth as he began to thrust rhythmically, fucking the cleft I’d made for him. The dual sensation – the slide between my breasts, the taste of him on my tongue – was overwhelming. His thrusts grew faster, more urgent. I could feel the tension coiling in him.
"Not yet," I breathed, surprising myself. My free hand darted down, cupping his balls firmly, squeezing just enough to halt the building pressure. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, his hips stuttering. His eyes locked onto mine, furious and aroused. Then he bent his head and bit down hard on the upper curve of my left breast. The shock of pain made me cry out around him, but I held my grip.
He pulled back, panting. Thrust again, harder, deeper into the soft prison of my breasts. Again, the pressure built. Again, just before the point of no return, my fingers tightened on his sac. "Fucking kutiya " he snarled, and bit down again, this time drawing a bead of blood on my right breast. The sharp sting mixed with the ache and the overwhelming friction.
He pulled his cock free from my mouth and the valley, his breathing ragged. "Enough games," he growled. "Finish me. On them. Abhi. Now."
Understanding, I pushed my breasts together again, lifted them towards him. He fisted himself roughly, his strokes fast and brutal. His gaze was fixed on my chest, on the marks he’d left. "Cum for me," I whispered, hoarse, pushing my chest forward. "Gand mein dum hai? Nikal de mere chucheon pe!" Got the guts? Shoot it on my tits.
With a guttural roar that echoed in the vast room, he came. Thick, hot ropes spurted across my skin, striping my breasts, my collarbone, warm and sticky. I held my position, watching his face contort in release, feeling the wet heat spread. The sight, the sheer vulgarity of it, the possessive marking… a traitorous thrill shot through me. It wasn't just relief that the job was sealed. It was a dark, unexpected pulse of satisfaction. He emptied himself over me, the last pulses landing warm on my chin. He shuddered, spent.
Panting, he looked down at his handiwork. Cum glistened on my skin, stark white against the brown, mixing with the small beads of blood from his bites. He traced a finger through the mess on my breast, then brought it to his mouth, tasting. A slow, satisfied smirk curved his lips. He didn't offer a cloth, just turned and walked towards the sleek chrome sink in the kitchen area, leaving me lying there, sticky and marked, the city's cold lights reflecting in the wet trails on my skin. The gold necklace lay heavy against my throat, a cold counterpoint to the warm shame and the confusing, undeniable echo of pleasure thrumming beneath it. I loved it. And that terrified me most of all.