It’s your reception. Organized at a upscale venue. The hall is teeming with people. The central AC is working well to keep the ambience comfortable, despite the night still being oppressively warm outside. You’re the centre of attention, of course, given the occasion and how stunning you look.
You’re on the stage. Sitting by yourself as the photographers are preparing their gears. The guests are still streaming in, and the function is yet to start in earnest.
I was one of the early arrivals. Wearing a tailored and ironed sky blue shirt and navy blue trousers, with lace-up shoes polished to sparkle. I’ve been peeking glances at you from a distance all through.
We both have known each other, of course. Known well, given there’s history. While we’ve never gone physical with each other, there have been little encounters that have got over before things could really develop.
Until tonight, maybe.
You’re aware that people are gawking at you. But among all those people, you’re also aware — call it a lady’s sixth sense — of a certain man boring into you with his eyes and his thumping, lusty heart.
I excuse myself from the other guests, people I’ve known here and there. Making as if to go on towards the loo, I instead slip behind the stage. I come to the right side of the stage, towards your left hand as you stand towards the audience. I’m hidden from the view of everyone.
Even you don’t notice me till I clear my throat a couple of times.
It’s then that your eyes fall on me. Standing there, locking my eyes on your sultry body.
I beckon you towards myself.
You stand there for half a moment, confused whether to come to me or not, wondering how I got there, and completely sure that I was the person your sixth sense was pinging you about, the man whose forbidden glances were sending signals to various zones of your body.
You eventually smile. It’s not taken more than 4 seconds, but a world has passed in that time.
You, your subconscious to be precise, is aware of what’s going to happen.
But the conscious mind is still mixed up in the thump of your heart and the glazed feeling coming over your eyes.
You walk towards me.
As you reach me, you smile in a quizzical fashion. You’re not ready to let go of control so easily.
“You look ravishing tonight, Chica,” I whisper. It’s a nickname I know you have. You aren’t aware how I know this. But beyond a moment’s surprise, you don’t dwell much on it.
“Thank you. Anything important?”
“Yes, of course. But I can’t tell you here. You need to come to the back for that.”
“Err, it’s my reception function. I’m supposed to be on the stage throughout.”
“Yes, I know. But this is important. You’ll see. C’mon.”
Your interest piqued, you follow me. I take you backstage where we enter a lift. The building is multi-storeyed, with 50 floors in total. The reception hall is on the 10th floor. Now you notice the lift zooming upwards.
“Say na, what’s it?”
“You’ve noticed how I look at you, don’t you?”
You’re taken aback.
You’re standing on one corner of the lift, while I’m standing diagonally across.
“That day at the corporate function, we had bursa escort a moment between us. I think we should extend that tonight.” I say, coming closer to you.
You’re aware of the butterflies that have suddenly started fluttering in your abdomen.
“That’d be right, don’t you think?” I ask, a whisper only, but reverberating in your mind.
“I…I don’t know. It’s my reception. I think we shouldn’t…”
“…waste our time wondering who will eat what and which colleague will gift what? Right. We ought not to waste our time on those petty things.”
Your head is down. I raise your face with my right index finger. You see the eyes, drilling into you as your chest heaves.
“What do you say we do some exploration instead?”
“Ye…yes, I guess we could…”
The lift stops at the 50th floor.
The top floor houses some office spaces, which are being refurbished. The whole floor is quiet, but some of the offices still have the lights on.
I take you into one of the corner offices. It is a spacious one with floor to ceiling windows.
We walk to the edge to the room. You are standing in front of me as we gaze down at the traffic. There’s complete silence in the room. There’s a lit bulb towards the far corner, but the area we’re in is almost dark. Almost, except we can see each other. But it’s dark enough so no one else in the world can see us.
I run my finger across the uncovered portion of the back of your neck and your back. I lean down, my breath heavy on your nape. My hands run across the front and back of your neck. And eventually, the fingers come to rest on the strings tying your choli (blouse).
I kiss the nape of your neck as I grizzle the area with my half-day stubble.
Sensations gallop up strange places in your body.
I pull the strings, untying the choli. It’s still held in place by the pallu you’ve draped across.
I take off the pins holding the pallu in place.
Suddenly, you feel cold wind blowing across your upper body. Just as suddenly, you’re aware of the large hands that have slid from behind to hold your gorgeous breasts. There are nipple patches in place, but they’re soon relieved of their duties.
You catch a partial glimpse of yourself in the window as a chartered jet crosses in the distance. Your ample boobs, holding the necklace between them, with your done-up hair and your jhumkas, your mehendi-clad and chooda-covered hands.
You feel vulnerable, but incredibly aroused, naked in the arms of a guy who desires every corner of your body.
I pick you up over my shoulder. You let out a shriek, but don’t really oppose me.
I lay you on a huge oblong glass conference table, on one side.
I slid my hands under the elastic bands of the ghaghra. In one swoop, you’re reduced to your Victoria’s Secret lace thongs.
It’s then that I notice that you have mehendi work done on your legs all over.
Right up to your inner thighs.
I grab your boobs and start mashing them, running my nose over the lace of your thongs and breathing in the fragrance of your pussy.
I go upwards, kissing your breasts all over but leaving the nipples completely untouched. I nuzzle on the bursa escort valley between your tits, before coming down and kissing lightly across different points on your abdomen.
You smell heavenly, of course. Like an angel.
I kissing the edges of your navel.
Your breath is ragged now and you’re shaking with excitement. There’s already substantial discharge from your vagina.
I blow air on your navel, and that sets you off.
You start making incoherent sounds.
You’re still not orgasming, but it’s close, *really* close.
I slide downwards and kiss below your navel, before taking off your thong. I keep kissing around the marvellous clean pubic area that you got waxed this very morning.
My chin is making contact with your clit and labia. Your legs and belly keep shaking. The vagina, flush with juice, is almost begging for touch.
I wet my tongue with saliva and dive right in, lapping up your juices.
A short, sharp discharge from your choot (pussy) signals a micro-orgasm. You don’t usually squirt, but things aren’t usual now by any yardstick.
I lay the top of my tongue flat across your pussy, picking up pace as I let it run from left to right and back.
In between, just to change the sensation, I run it top to bottom.
“Aaaaahhhhh,” you cry out in pleasure.
My right thumb is stroking your clit, while the left hand is roaming over your body.
“Why are you still dressed?”, you ask me between gasps.
“You tell me.”
You rise up to open the buttons of my shirt and run your hands across my chest and shoulders, feeling the taut muscles across your palm, and another wave of desire sweeping across your body.
As I disengage for a moment to throw away my shirt, your hands unbuckle my belt and open the hook of my trousers, which promptly fall to my ankles.
You rub your right palm over my undies as I lay you down on the table once again and kiss you, helping you taste your own juices.
You can’t be bothered at the moment with taboos though. You throw your lips across mine in a wrestling match and invade my mouth with your tongue, desperate to hold some command in a situation where you’ve lost all control.
We frantically kiss as our hands roam across each other’s bodies, tits, muscles, soft bellies, pussy and cock being pressed and grabbed.
“I want you inside me, boy.”
You whisper this in my ear as you finally take out my hard cock from my undies, clumsily jerking it for a moment.
“Rub it over your pussy. Drench it in your juices so it’s easy to pound your choot”, I whisper back.
Your right hand obliges, rubbing my dick over the wetland that’s your vagina right now.
This sets off another mini orgasm in your pussy, with another discharge, which helps lubricate my cock even more.
“Place it on your entrance”.
You oblige, without any protest.
“You’re going to take my dick in your pussy now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the right behaviour for the girl who has her reception 40 floors down?”
“Uunnnhhh,” you cry out as my cock starts its journey inwards.
“You were not supposed to get fucked by me right now, were bursa eskort you?”
Another half-groan, half-moan follows.
“But you couldn’t resist the sluttiness of the act. Haven’t you, Chica?”
“Aaaaahhh, aahhhh, yes, yes yes!” That’s your vagina expanding to take all of my cock in, as the moral questions drown in the tsunami of juices gushing out of your choot.
“You wanted to get fucked like a slut, didn’t you?”
“YEAHH! Harder!!! Please. Fuck me harderrrrr, mister”.
“I’m marking you, making you my own slut.” I start pounding you pussy hard, pulling you towards me.
Your hair, by now undone and splayed on the table, is wet with sweat, as is your body.
“Say it, say it. You are my slut, aren’t you?”
You cry out, the pulsating voice in your mind still conflicted to speak up and accept this degradation, this acceptance of your pussy’s wild desires.
You moan in between sobs as you feel a large O building up somewhere in the back of your choot.
I pick you up again.
This time, you’re made to stand up in your heels, with your jhumkas, your choodas and your necklace the only other things on your body, all proof of what a wanton slut you’ve become.
Ditching aside the prude arrogance of the girl who was posing for the cameras just 30 mins back.
I raise you up and take you to the window to the same space where we were standing.
You’re again facing the city. I’m behind you once again.
I push my cock inside your dripping wet choot from behind. You glance at our reflection in the glass, our eyes drenched in lust, locked in each other’s reflections.
I start pumping as hard as I can, feeling my own impending orgasm.
You are almost shrieking yourself.
“Are. You. My. Slut?” I exhale between short, forceful strokes.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Ohhhhhhhhhh God, yes, I’m your filthy slut, baby.”
We erupt in unison, me grunting as my cum splashes the walls of your pussy. I turn you around, still inside you, as we kiss each other full on the lips. It starts off frantically.
We are still on the high of the orgasm. Your body is still shaking. Gradually, we progress to a deeper, slower kiss, with my lower lips sucking on your upper lips.
Just as you feel it’s slowing down, I push my index and middle fingers inside your choot.
Before you can even reflexively close your legs, my fingers start pumping inside your pussy.
You cry out in a long wail. I keep pushing my fingers in and out in a lightning quick motion. Your pussy, already squishy with a combination of our juices, starts juicing up even more.
You can sense another big O coming. It’s there, right at the back of your cervix.
“Uuunnnnhhhhh…”
The orgasm keeps building, coming in as I leave your lips and go for the corner of your shoulder, biting and sucking for the inevitable hickey.
You erupt, with the sensory overload overpowering everything else.
I keep kissing your neck and breast as my fingers slow down the pumping.
Cum squirts out of your pussy, running down the legs.
With the last act of your active mind, you wonder how filthy it would be to go down to the reception again, dressed up with the cum sticky on your thighs and still slowly dripping from your choot.
Maybe you will wash yourself before you go down, or maybe you’ll keep it as is, a mark of your submission to me, a reminder for now and forever that you’re my slut, my bitch to pound and fuck.