All characters are above 18 and this story is a work of fiction. It is based on real events woven together into a story. With names and other details changed.
Anchal was crying. Tears flowed from behind her spectacles, tracing the subtle curve of her nose before flowing into her lips. I sat staring.
Why don't the tears flow down to her chin like everyone else? I thought.
She wiped her tears. But still it glistened on the side of her mouth.
What makes her face different? I wondered all the while she looked at me expecting some consoling.
It is fucking difficult being a sociopath while trying to live a normal life. FUCK.
This brown skinned girl with big breasts was fucking me over. Like she had done to a lot of other men, like most Indian women do. With manipulation. She was the kind of girl whose lust flowed from her looked at others and the way she walked. Guys in school used to follow her gait with focused eyes. Her thick thighs in her short skirt were made guys hard, and the curve of her ass swelled and fell with every step.
I reached out and took her face in my hands. Her skin was warm. I leaned in and kissed. The flavor of her tears filled my tastebuds along with that of NIVEA cold cream. Oh, I loved that smell. It triggered arousal in me. Maybe because so many Indian girls wore it in the cold months--a scent tied to forbidden fruit and closeness.
She broke the kiss. "This breakup is rough" she chirped, "I never thought it would be so painful."
"I know yr bt you are now in Bangalore while I am here. This is something you wanted. Long distance and all. You wanted to date other guys. I have now met Pooja," I said, terribly failing at making a re-assuring smile. And I know I felt like a terrible douche saying this but this is what situation demanded I say.
She sobbed and cried some more before calming down. I then ordered some sandwiches from the local shop (this was before the time of Zomato and Swiggy so local shops were all we had). We ate in a heavy quiet, knowing that the situation could not be changed now, the only sounds was of our chewing.
Then, as we had always done, the inevitable of meeting her, we fucked.
It was not lovemaking. It was hard desire.
Her body was used to mine as I entered her. My mind narrowed its focus to the sway of her heavy 36D breasts. Her big, dark areolas on her light brown skin--skin that matched my own. As she moved beneath me, her breasts followed a mesmerizing, lagging rhythm, swinging up as her body dipped, then falling as she rose to meet me. I remembered, all over again the countless days we had spent.
Her hands and her legs wrapped around my waist with a familiarity, pulling me deeper into her pussy. Her legs opened wider, and she adjusted the angle of her hips to let me move without resistance. I moved inside her with a detached rhythm. My focus on her breast, my own need for orgasm and her vagina around my cock. The scent of Nivea rising from her made it better.
She cried out in pleasure, her eyes rolled back and her moans became unstoppable.
I removed her legs from my back and told her to turn around. She hurried onto her knees, her back arching. My saliva-wet finger circled her tight black asshole, the muscle flinching under my touch before I pushed it in. She bent forward further, spreading her thighs wider, knowing full well what was coming. I guided the tip of my cock into her with a single push--past the initial tight clamp, into the rough skin of her ass. The sensation was familiar, a tight glove of muscle. I fucking loved it. She had gotten me used to anal sex.
As I began to move, I noticed a single stray hair, a few inches big on her asshole muscle. Clinging for its dear life, an anomaly in the bald neighborhood. Without breaking my rhythm, I plucked it my fingers. An intimate grooming only lovers do.
I finished inside the coarse-tight walls of her ass with a groan, my cum emptying from my balls as my mind froze along with the wheezing fan on the ceiling. I fucking loved sex.
Afterward, I dropped her off in an auto to Anand Vihar, the first leg of her journey back to Muzaffarnagar. She hugged me tightly, her body now relaxed. "Promise me we'll stay in touch," she said close to my ears.
"Yes," I gave in.
All this stupidity began a month ago when she messaged me saying she missed me. And like a good person I strive to be, I had told her that I had a new gf. I told her I don't want her in my life and I was now dating Pooja. She knew her. After all of us were from the same 12th class in Muzaffarnagar.
And then the jealousy started.
The crying. The reminders of past intimacy. The 'I miss you' texts. Then, drunk one night, she bombarded my phone with her nudes. Ten pics, maybe more sent without warning. Her breasts in her own hands. The round curve of her ass tilted towards the mirror. The dimpled cheeks stretched as she bent forwards. Close-ups of her, showing face and all, meant to tempt me back to be her plaything, her fuckboy.
Now this was before the age of proper smartphones like today, back then we didn't really put passcodes on our phones. And I lived with three other guys in that apartment. I didn't want them seeing her nudes. I am a fucking shitty person but a woman's dignity is where I draw the line of my narcissism.
And so, I had to call her back before her stupidity could mean she became an object of masturbation for our common friend circle. But her reckless exhibitionism successfully blackmailed me into this meeting. (Leaking of nudes was and still is a big issue in conservative India)
She left, making me promise her that we would meet again and always be close friends no matter what. Her jealousy and narcissism bigger than my own.
Let me giving you some context. SHE was the one who fucking broke up. She was the one who was like let us see other people because long distance wouldn't work. She went to Bangalore and fucked three guys in 3 months and told me proudly. And suddenly when I started dating Pooja, Anchal started crying about her loss.
Well, what can you do? This is women. Indian women. Their emotional dependence and stupidity bigger than Everest.
I did what every decent guy with self-respect does. I let out a long sigh and moved on with my life, trying to fuck Pooja. My mind kept getting fixated on her, to the thought of her soft skin and her shy demeanor, to the unfinished business between us.
Pooja and I had been together for a month. A month of burning desires, lingering touches and near-sex chats--of everything but actual sex. I was waiting for my apartment to empty, waiting for my roommates to leave. But waiting is a kind of torture, and torture makes you reckless.
Which led us to steal our moments elsewhere. Like parks, movie halls and cafes. Like that afternoon in the café bathroom in South Campus.
The washroom was a cramped, fluorescent-lit cell that reeked of stale urine. We didn't care. The moment the flimsy door locked behind us, I pinned against the cold tile wall. My mouth was onto hers, tasting of bitter coffee and her sticky lip gloss. I yanked her light cotton top over her head and tossed it onto the damp, dirty floor. I remember the sharp click of her bra clasp giving way after a few moments of fumble. Then she was bare from the waist up, her skin glowing under the white light. Her breasts were small and perky, fitting perfectly in my palms, her nipples dark pink which got hard as soon as I touched them. I bent took one into my mouth, sucking firmly, my tongue circling the nipple until she gasped, her head thumping back against the tiles. Her fingers twisted in my hair, pulling me closer, holding me there. I switched to the other nipple and she moaned--a low whisper. Sound that vibrated to my throbbing cock.
"MMMMM," she breathed, her voice thick.
I unbuckled my jeans, shoved them and my trunks down just enough to free my cock. Her hand found it--tight unsure fingers, unfamiliar with a men's rod, her fingers wrapping the base, while the wet tip awaited her touch. She stroked me slowly, once, twice, her thumb finally moving over the wet tip, sending a jolt of pure electricity up my spine. Then, without breaking eye contact, she sank gracefully to her knees on the grimy floor, just as we had chatted the previous night.
Outside, the world went on. As usual no customers in the afternoon but still a clatter of dishes her and there, the murmur of conversations--all of it muffled and unimportant.
Her tongue touched me before her lips--a slow exploratory lick to the tip. My hips jerked involuntarily as she moved back a bit, taken aback by a new taste. She looked up at me through her lashes, winked, before parting her lips and taking me fully into her wet mouth. It felt perfect and so warm, I saw dizzy. Her head began to move up and down, her tongue swirling clumsily. So, I fisted her hair, a bit strong and guided her rhythm, setting a steady and demanding pace. My own breath came in bursts, fogging the cold tiles. Her free hand crept to her inner thighs, and I could her trying to her herself over her denims but failing.
And as finally her tongue found the perfect soft spot slit of my cock, came the knocking-hurried and harsh.
"Sir... Sir, what are you doing. This is not allowed. Please get out"
We froze. My cock was still buried still in her mouth. Her eyes, wide and shocked, met mine. A sly laugh vibrated from me reassured her. We broke apart, scrambling. She wiped her mouth with her hand as I pulled my jeans up, my cock hard and wet, protesting being tucked back. We dressed frantically, a silent rush as the knocking continued. She struggled back into her bra, and I tucked in my t-shirt, both of us avoiding each other's eyes, vibrating with adrenaline and shame.
When we stumbled out, the manager's face was a tight, a frown perched deep. His disapproval apparent. We paid under the weight of his judgment and fled out into the sweltering Delhi heat. Grateful that he hadn't called the cops.
Later, in the auto, her hand crept back to my thigh.
"We were nearly in trouble," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear.
I kissed her as the traffic buzzed. "You don't have to worry when I am there," I said.
I knew I would be in her soon. That I would make her mine.
Soon.
At night I dreamt of her symmetrical and perfect face behind her plain specs kissing me. Her perfectly sculpted jaw moving around my cock. Her slim waist, 5'4 tall frame, round hard breasts 32C squirming under my palms. Her full lush black hair mine to twist and pull. But I got stuck on the fucking glasses. I don't know why--something about the contrast made me crazy. The studious personality exploring her urges with me.
The opportunity to be naked with her came soon. I fucked her. Really fucking made love. The second girl I'd ever been inside at that point.
Though there were initial problems.
The first try was a mess. She was tight--virgin-tight, full of fear--and no matter how I pushed, I couldn't get in. We ended up frustrated, she blaming herself. Which I thought was sad and cute. Though she did take me into her mouth afterward, her mouth warm and willing to please, until I came against her tongue. She nearly barfed and threw it all out.
It was good, but it wasn't enough.
The second time, I was ready. I had taken advise from my seniors on how to be with a virgin.
It was a hot July morning. Maybe two months into college. She came to my apartment in the South Campus refuge colony--third floor, cheap paint that stuck to clothes. I'd bribed my roommate with half a bottle of Royal stag to disappear for the afternoon. He took the whiskey and left happy.
I remember her walking in. Dark green top stretched over her breasts. Her breasts held firm and the roundness of her under-boob clearly visible. Pointed like she was aiming them proudly at onlookers. Tight jeans clung to every curve of her hips and thighs. Later, I learnt about push-up bra--her cheat code. But then, all I focused on was skin so fair her veins were visible underneath, half her dark hair tied up, glasses framing beautiful curved eyes.
I didn't speak. I locked the door, looked into her eyes and my hand found her waist, pulling her towards me firmly. As she looked at me with surprise and admiration. Her soft body pressed to my hard torso. I lowered my head as my tongue found her lip. I kissed her, my tongue pushing past her lips. When I bit her lower lip, she gasped--a soft sound--and pulled back just enough to smile. A sly smile.
Then she broke away and walked toward the mattress on the floor--my bed in this three-room apartment I shared with three other guys from my hometown.
The apartment was a cheap 3BHK for 11k. Full of dust. Stale food. Cigarette smoke and spilled beer--alcohol layered over stench (which is good because it masked the smell of garbage we disposed once a month.) Typical guys apartment, laziness was something we prided ourselves in. The walls were baby pink with white trim, a cruel joke for four men, but we didn't care. It was a cheap apartment. Our first step into Delhi.
But that day, the apartment was spotlessly clean. I'd mopped the floor, scrubbed the bathrooms. Paid to get all the trash removed. So much effort because I did not want her to know me for my roommate's habits. So that she didn't judge me before knowing me.
I sat beside her on the thin mattress. She perched delicately, knees together, hands in her lap like a prim schoolgirl.
"Would you like some water?" I asked, my voice softer now, playing the part of a good boyfriend.
"Yes," she said quietly. The air heavy with what was to follow.
I stood, fetched a Bisleri bottle, handed it to her. She sipped, her throat moving as she swallowed. I didn't take my eyes off her.
When she put the bottle down, I didn't wait. She was in my arms and my mouth on her neck as I reached for the hem of her cotton top and pulled it up and over her head. The push-up bra was lace, pale pink, almost translucent with transparent plastic straps. Her breasts swelled above the cups, flushed and full, the tops dusted with a faint sheen of sweat. I unfastened it with one hand, the clasp giving way with a soft snick-- my fingers remembering what they'd learned in the café bathroom.
Her bra fell away. Her nipples were already hard. I bent and took one into my mouth, sucking deeply, my tongue circling the peak as I had been taught by Anchal. The scent of her cold cream flooded me. She moaned, her hands coming up to hold me there. She moaned, a low sound as my hand wandered down from her ribs, over the dip of her waist, to the soft curve of her ass over her jeans, her fingers tightened in my hair.
"Wait," she said. "I should..."
She pushed me back gently and stood. Her fingers went to the button of her jeans, then the zipper. She pushed them down, along with her panties, in one slow movement. She stepped out of them, naked now except for her glasses. I noticed her utilitarian, ugly brown panties she had chosen, bunched on the floor. As big as men's trunks.
I forgave her, she was a nerd after all, an introvert who didn't understand the depths of sex. She was ravishingly perfect but didn't know it herself. Much evident from her lack of confidence and her submissiveness.
So, I chose to ignore it but she should have worn something more delicate. Everyone knows that you wear your comfortable but ugly underwear after a few months of fucking. It is a stepping stone before you start pissing Infront of each other (Except for me, I take a piss shamelessly on the second love making. It makes the women open up more easily to filthier acts of pleasure.)
I stripped quickly, my own clothes in a pile on the floor. My cock stood thick, its tip curved slightly to right from years of masturbation. I guided her to lie back, then knelt between her open thighs. I could see the bare pussy, smooth as rolling cheese. Her pink slips shining bright around her smooth white skin. Her pinkness was a sweet contrast to what I was used to, Anchal's black lips. I could see more details.
Lowering my head, I tasted her for the first time--a hesitant lick along her outer lips, then deeper, my tongue finding the soft, wet folds and her sticky fluids within before drawing up to circle her clit. She jolted, her body arched a bit and sharp gasp escaping her, and her hands fisted in the bedsheet.
I moved, coming over her, settling my weight between her parted thighs. She was wet--I could feel it against the head of my cock as I pressed against her entrance. I looked down into her eyes, wide and ocean-deep behind her lenses. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink from embarrassment.
"Go slow," she whispered, her voice thin with a mix of fear and anticipation.
I pushed, but her body resisted. I kissed her neck in wet, open-mouthed strides, tasting her floral cream, while I held steady pressure at her entrance. I felt her tense, saw a tear escape the corner of her eye and trace a path down her temple into her hair--the first cock is always painful.
I wiped away that tear, my lips moving to her ear as my fingers found her breasts again, kneading gently, fingers rolling her nipples. Slowly, I felt her body soften, a surrendering sigh leaving her lips as her muscles relaxed and my cock entered her a bit. I pushed more, in one slow, deep motion, burying myself to the hilt. She cried out a shriek. Then a sob. I am sure the neighbors heard her.
I went still, letting her body stretch and accommodate me, feeling the incredible softness holding me.
Then I began to move.
It started as a slow, grinding rhythm, but it didn't stay that way. Soon, I was driving into her, the slap of wet skin against skin, the mattress moving on the floor beneath us. Her moans grew louder, less about pain and more about pleasure. Her legs stayed firmly planted on the mattress but opened wider.
Her breasts bounced with the force. I took one back into my mouth, sucking hard, grazing the nipple with my teeth until she arched off the bed with a broken cry.
"It feels good," she managed in her voice broken. "Please...."
I fucked her harder, faster as my own pleasure started to build up. Her tightness, the way her inner muscles clenched around me felt good. My whole mind just became a machine focused on sex. I felt her begin to tremble beneath me, her body tensing, her first proper orgasm.
"I'm coming," she gasped, her head thrashing side to side.
I felt it--the rhythmic pulsing grip of her pussy milking my cock. I didn't stop; my movements became shorter, harder. I pulled out just before I came, and pressed my cock against her stomach.
My mouth found hers as I came, my cum pulsing in thick stripes between our bodies. Sticking us together temporarily. It is difficult to master the pull-out method let me be honest. It's your ape brain fighting your logical brain. But I always tried to tell myself that morning after pill is not good for health, which was my trick for impregnation free sex.
I collapsed onto her afterward, both of us breathing in sync.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our gasping breaths and the distant traffic from below.
Then she shifted beneath me, her hand coming up to stroke my damp hair.
"Thank you," she whispered. And we shared an acknowledging smile.
This was my first time with a virgin. Anchal had been with plenty of guys before me, experienced and commanding--a perfect anal slut. But with Pooja, everything was new. I wasn't following someone; I was writing the creator of my every move.
After that, we stayed in the room for a few hours. Lost in our own world. Chatting and flirting endlessly. We made out and made love again, this time our bodies joined effortlessly.
Afterwards, I changed the bedsheet stained with her blood.
I ordered her some cheese grill sandwiches when she got hungry.
She was happy to lose her virginity with me. But she was still shy in some ways. When she got up to use the bathroom, she turned away from me, hiding her ass from view as I pleaded for it. Even after everything we'd done, she never showed me her bare ass, keeping that last bit of modesty. Probably her insecurity.
I even told her that it is meaningless as in a few days it would become common between us. But she didn't relent.
As evening fell, I helped her get an auto to her aunt's home where she was staying in Delhi.
By night, our apartment was back to its usual rhythm. All four of us sat around on the mattress, kingfisher cans in our hands as we played teen patti (Indian poker). One by one, they'd step out to the balcony to call their parents. I stayed put, having no one to call. But my phone buzzed beside me. Our string of WhatsApp chat not ending. She called me before sleep, just to talk about sweet nothings, her voice a soft eager murmur in my ear.
And I was... grateful for it. Grateful for the distraction from the hollow feeling of loneliness.
She was a homely, nice girl. Uncomplicated. Not playing the ego games that most Indians play.
For a few hours in that silent room, and every day forth with her late-night calls, she became my companion. I was happy being with just her. And for some time, I preferred it that way.
Before my cock talked me into finding more caves.