I was only able to go half way, and the tip of his dick touched my back of my throat. I gagged, my body shaking and tears welling up in my eyes. I withdrew, gasping for breath, a line of spit from my lips to his shaft. I raised my eyes to his; I wanted to see the expression of disappointment or impatience. Rather his eyes were black with concern, his brow furrowed. Zeenat, he whispered his voice rough, "You don't have to..." But I did. I had to. For him. For me. I shook my head, and a resolute smile is on my lips. I whispered, "I want to," my voice raspy.
Again, I pulled in a breath and looked again, head angled different this time. I descended down again -- this time, on the thick head of the cock, that put its cock in my tight opening. My eyes were watering profusely, my jaw hurt from having to accommodate his size and my lungs began to burn for air. It was a fight against my own reflexes, it was a challenge, it was a fight.
I choked again, a wet, rough sound, and pulled back, coughing, my face wet with tears, my face flushed. I had a moment of irritation, of disappointment. But I then looked at his face. He wasn't impatiently waiting for what I was doing. It was his face of deep reverence, deep affection, that took my breath away. He cupped my face in his hands and touched my cheek with his thumb, and wiped a tear from my face. "You are... incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with the emotion he felt.
All I need was his encouragement. No more performance this time. It was the idea of vulnerability, of being vulnerable together. He was seeing and feeling my effort, and it was about me trying. I didn't think twice a third time. I took his shaft in my hand, gripping the bottom so that I can control the depth, and put my mouth back on him again. I took him deep and beyond the pain, taking in the burn of my throat, the pain of my jaw. I concentrated on his face, I concentrated on the face of undiluted, pure happiness that flooded over him as he finally got all the rest of him in my mouth.
I could feel his body tense, his legs tightening under me, his breathing quickening and becoming short and sharp. I didn't speed up. I continued at the same slow, leisurely pace, and I wanted to make him enjoy it, make it last. I wanted to be the one to make him this one, to make him all cantered in my hands, my mouth. "Zeenat... I'm...", he choked out in a warning. "You must put a stop to it..." I didn't stop. I tried that again, biting his head, my tongue playing with his sensitive, my hand stroking him faster, harder. I wanted all of it. With a loud, hoarse cry that was my name, he came. His body lifted off the bed, both of his hips jolting around, flooding my mouth. I swallowed it all, my throat working, my lips sealed around him, and there was a hot thick salty torrent. I drank him down, a primal act of acceptance, of taking his essence into myself.
He fell back on the bed, his chest rising and falling, his body unresponsive and exhausted. I carefully and gently let him go, licking him before I got up and lay next to him. I wrapped myself around him, my head resting on his chest, my hand on his tummy. He wrapped his arm around me, holding me tight. We didn't speak. We simply heard the waves and the frenzy of our heartbeats. He had been so solicitous with me, and I had been so loyal to him. It wasn't just sex. This was a discussion. I knew we would be just beginning our journey together.
We lay there for an eternity and his heartbeat was like a drum on my ear and his arm was heavy on my shoulder. The air was filled with the smell of sea and sweat. A boneless satisfaction I had, a peace that was new and profound. I had made him happy and, in the act, discovered what a power I had. But he wasn't done. I sensed his energy changing, his fire slowly returning. He was so tender and careful beside me, his fingers stroking my skin from my back down my spine, over the curve, down the swell of my thigh. Now his touch was light and tender, but it had a new purpose, a new intent.
He rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow and looked at me down. His eyes were dark, unfathomable pools of blackness in the dim light that could seep through the glass wall. I am not a man that leaves a debt unpaid, he said quietly, softly, so intimate, that it rumbled through me. I didn't have to respond before he moved. He moved and his strong body rolled over mine like a river, it was breathtaking. He did not plop down between my legs. But he knelt and put his knees on either side of me and looked down at me. He was a beautiful thing, his hard packed chops a study in shadows and muscle, his dethroned cock starting to perish from his thigh.
He leaned and kissed me, one deep slow searching kiss. I could taste his cum, a musky reminder of desire. It was a kiss of sharing, intimacy, a promise. Then he started to descend downwards, a slow, deliberate exploration. He kissed my throat, his lips and tongue on the sensitive hollow where my pulse jumped wild. He kissed my collarbones, his teeth grazed the sharp edges, sending shivers of pleasure through me. He moved to the bottom, his mouth kissing my boobs. He didn't just kiss them. He worshipped them. He took his time, his lips and his tongue lovingly kissing each one. With the tip of his tongue he circled my hardened nipples, making me gasp and arch my back. He sucked the one into his mouth, and with a bit more pressure, he cupped and kneaded the other, sucking gently.
He was reading me, tracing my reactions, reading me what makes me sigh, what makes me moan. So, he kept going downwards, and his lips explored the smooth surface of my belly. He pressed his tongue against my belly button again and I couldn't suppress the small whimper of my lips. He chuckled, and it was a consolation to hear the warm, deep sound that was teasing. Broad shoulders parting my legs as he shifted, moving down the bed. He nestled between my legs, his hands on my inner thighs, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin in that area. I was totally "naked" before him; open and vulnerable in a way I had never been with anyone. In a moment of self-consciousness, and a flash of old insecurities. It was as though he felt it.
He lifted his gaze to mine; his eyes locked on mine. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he said in a raw and a sincere voice. And then he lowered his head. The first time he put his tongue on my pussy lips, I knew something was very special. Not a hasty, clumsy lick. It was a slow, a deliberate, an exploring stroke. He began at the end of my opening, close to me, and began his way up in one long lazy movement, and parted my folds, and he tasted me. It was a slow, burning kind of fire, it was absolutely wonderful, it was exquisite; it caught all my nerve-ends. He repeated the process again and again, and as the long slow licks continued and the tension grew in my belly, I realized it was time to get ready. He repeated the process again and again, and the tension grew in my belly with each long slow lick, and I knew it was time to prepare. He was in no hurry. He was savouring me, like a connoisseur tasting a fine wine. He found every crease and every hollow. I felt his, tongue a soft, wet utensil of pure delight. He discovered my clit, but he didn't harm it. He slowly and teasingly encircled it, his touch so light as to be almost a torture.
My hands found their way into his hair, my fingers danced in the soft, thick strands. I didn't get to rest. My hips started to move, a slow, restless gait, they were reaching for his mouth asking for more. He did just that, and his tongue was now tracing my clit in a relentless, frantic pattern. At the same time, felt one of his thick, long fingers slipping inside me. He curved it upwards and discovered its tender, soft interior, and started to stroke it in rhythm with his tongue. The mix proved to be lethal. I felt a sharp, intense pleasure and I cried out of the bed, with my back arched. His other hand was holding me down as his forearm was crushing my hip, his mouth never leaving my sex. He added a second finger, stretching me, filling me, and his tongue now leaning at my clit with a focused and relentless intensity. The pressure was building up in my abdomen, but it suddenly released, and my cunt exploded like a bomb. It was a screaming frenzy of orgasm, my body wriggling and shaking under his skilled lips. But he didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. He continued to lick and lick and lick and lick, my fingers still stroking, sucking out my clit and giving it back, extending my climax, intensifying it, until I was a writhing, mindless, sobbing mess of pure sensation. As the waves started to die down, another even bigger wave started to rise.
I had lost any sense of time, of myself, of anything but the overpowering happiness he gave me. I came again and again, each orgasm more powerful than the last, until I was totally drained, limp and shaking, on the bed. When I wouldn't take another bite, when I was pleading with him to stop, he slowed his licks, took one final, slow, butterfly lick and lifted his head. He placed his cheek on my thigh, his eyes looking up at me, his lips smiling a slow smile, his face wet and sticky with my juices.
I was a wreck. My body was shaking with fear, my skin was sweating, my mind was blanked. I had been loved most of my life like I had never been loved before and had never been exquisitely loved before. He lingered, his cheek touching my shivering flesh, his breath a caress, a soothing warmth. He was giving me time, letting the aftershocks of my orgasms ripple through me, letting my body recover from the exquisite onslaught. I could sense the swirling of his desire, the slow, deliberate reawakening of it. He had been pleasing me with his mouth; now he was going to please me with his body.
He ascended, covering my body with his. He was like a mountain, the size of a mountain, the weight of a mountain, a crushing weight, but a very comforting weight. His skin was hot, smooth, his muscles a hard unyielding landscape. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at me, his face still glistening, his eyes dark and intense. His name was a low vibration on my lips, 'Alex'. He placed his head on my shoulder and kissed me and I tasted myself on his tongue on the musky, intimate taste of his love.
Then he moved his hips and I felt the heat and hardness of his dick against my inner thigh. He scooted forward between us and he guided the wide, flattened head to my entrance. He didn't force his way into my cunt. He merely placed it there; a weighty weight that pressed against my tender folds. His eyes fixed on mine, a silent query for one final permission, he looked down at me. My body was a compliant vessel for him to use for his pleasure and I was still shaking from all the orgasms he'd given me.
I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his neck, and kissed him passionately. It was my answer. My consent. My surrender. He started to move his dick in. The pain came on right away and was shocking. The pain was acute, burning, and over-arching as I had to take him in my cunt, which was too small. He was thicker than I'd thought, indomitable, surrendering pressure that might have ripped me apart. A loud, unrestrained gasp was torn from my lips, my eyes flying wide open. I felt him touch my body. He was calm, his body still, and was only an inch deep. He didn't pull out. He simply said nothing, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath in ragged pants. "Breathe," he whispered, his voice strained and urgent. "Just breathe with me Zeenat, relax, let me in." I tried. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying my best to make my body obey, make it unclench, make it accept him. He started to make some movement, a small, steady, imperceptible step forward. He shoved in another inch, and it was like a white-hot fire burning me. I cried out in a desperate cry of pure agony.
"Shhh, I've got you," he murmured, his voice a balm to the pain. He moved his hips, slightly angled, and the pressure subsided, by a little. He pulled his thumb between my legs and started to massage my clit, and he did it slow, gentle, and in a circle. Not a distraction, but it was a well-thought-out move. The pain became sharp and piercing, and was beginning to swim into the haze of the growing pleasure of his touch. My body opened up, took it all in and gave way in resistance. He felt it. He could see the change in my body, the moment I stop resisting and start accepting. He took a deep, calming breath and pressed forward once more, now in one long, slow, concentrated thrust, driving him to the hilt. I screamed. It was a raw sound, guttural, of shock and pain; and a sudden, breathtaking fullness, almost like a filling of the whole. So deep he was that he was an overbearing, intrusive presence, as if he touched my very soul.
I momentarily lost my breath. I was impaled, my body stretched to breaking point, it was his magnificent, brutal cock. He gave me a second, just a moment, to get used to his invasion. His pace was slow but not rushed, it was almost like he was bowing to his superior. He withdrew nearly all the way, and then he thrusted again as far as he could; a long, deep, powerful stroke, which drew a gasp from my lips. He wasn't fucking me. He was loving me. He was giving me time, he was letting my body get used to the pain, letting the pain transform. And it did. Slowly, miraculously, the terrible pain faded, becoming - or, becoming not quite pain anymore, but pleasure so sharp it was close to pain.
It was a symphony of fullness, symphony of stretch, of the deep probing pressure; it was a dark beautiful music my body learned to play. Stillness gave way at my hips, and began to rise, giving the impression that I was reaching out to him, silently asking for more. He was able to see it, feel it and his pace picked up, a little, a stroke's a little harder, a stroke's a little deeper. He was still in charge, still leading, but he was listening, to me, to what I wanted and couldn't keep from wanting.
He turned around, wrapped my legs in his strong arms, bent me over in half. From this new perspective, he struck me deeper, into a place none could ever strike before. That was it. That's what set the wheels in motion. My pussy was ripped away by a freight train orgasm. It was not a gentle wave but a violent wave, a convulsive explosion. I was able to take out the scream and it was a raw, guttural sound, pure, unadulterated ecstasy as my pussy clenched and spasmed around his thick, hammering cock. He didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. He just continued, his relentless pounding stretching my orgasm - making it last forever until I was a writhing mess underneath him. Then, as the first one faded away, another even stronger than the previous one began to rise. Now I lost track of time, I lost track of self, I lost track of anything but this magnificent, gentle giant, and I felt completely possessed.
He released my legs and started to kiss me, his tongue inside my mouth, his hips hitting me hard and steady. The sound of our bodies slapping together, the obscene squelching of my soaked pussy, his grunts and my unrestrained screams were a symphony of love and lust. I came again and again. I can't count how many times I had an orgasm. They merged into one rapturous wave that burst to a thousand pieces.
My body no longer belonged to me, but to him, and he was a violent and beautiful pianist. Lastly, with a roar like it came from the land, he thrust into me one more time, and even I thought he would split me apart. I could feel his cock thickening and pulsing and then a flood of hot, thick cum rushed into me, a liquid fire that produced another powerful orgasm that sent me limp and out of my mind. His chest rose and fell, and he was with me, a look of satisfaction on his face.
His hands touched my hair and it was tender, as though he were fondling my hair after the violent beautiful storm. He had pushed me to my breaking point, he'd cried out in agony and he made me feel the absolute best! While I was there, his dick was dripping through my already-use, broken pussy and a slow, happy smile on my face. I'd been thoroughly, completely, and romantically fucked. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was complete.
Things gradually cleared up, like a tide, rather than a shock. I knew the first thing, at least: the weight of Alex's arm on my waist, the warm weight of an anchor in the sea of soft sheets. The other was the ache--a soft, tender pain between my legs, a gorgeous visceral reminder that he had taken possession of me, that he had got his claws deep into me. I moved a little bit, and his arm snaked around me, yanking me into his sleeping body. I sighed, softly and contentedly. I felt safe. I felt cherished. I felt... loved.
That was the moment I recalled Danish in that post-coital bliss! My eyes opened, staring at the many shadows in the sprawling bedroom. He was always there, always in my consciousness, but I hadn't seen him since he left us on the terrace. It was his night, his night of orchestration, the puppeteer who pulled the strings. I would have thought him sitting in a corner with eyes glittering with victorious desire, waiting to be mine, to 'reclaim' me as he so rudely threatened.
The room was empty except for the two of us, however. I gingerly pulled myself away from Alex's arms, my body moving stiffly. I spotted his discarded shirt on the ground and put it on, the soft cotton a balm to my chill and exposed skin. I went to the door that was open, and went out on the terrace. He was there. Standing here on the rail, his back towards me, a silhouette in the moonlit sea. He was holding a half empty glass of Whiskey with his posture relaxed, almost contemplative. I didn't turn around when I approached, but I knew he knew I was coming.
His voice was soft, his tone gentle, and even of his sharpness had gone. "Yes," I whispered, my voice sounding foreign to me. We remained silent for a while, the only sound the beat of the waves. I had to get ready for the taunts, the leering comments, the command to come to him. But none came.
"He's beautiful," Danish said finally, but not looking at me. He wasn't talking about me. He was referring to Alex. "It's like some kind of rock, carved." I was at a loss for words. This wasn't the Danish I knew. He turned and in the dim light I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even lust. It was... curiosity. There was a curiosity of depth that was like watching a strange, unexpected chemical process, an analytical curiosity.
"I watched," he said matter-of-factly, "from the beginning." He had completed a drink of his whiskey. "I watched him undress you, my eyes on the dance floor, I watched him kiss you, in a way that was... surprising, I watched him make love to you."
My heart pounded in my chest. "You saw everything?" "Everything," he confirmed. His mouth twisted into a small wry smile. "I saw my pretty slut Zeenat fucked by a handsome stranger. I was expecting a show. I was expecting a performance." He stopped, his eyes wandering back towards the bedroom, towards the sleeping man inside. "But it did not happen that way." He gazed at me at that time, and his eyes pierced into me. "It wasn't fucking, Zeenat. I have seen you fuck and this was... different. He looked at you like you were the only woman on earth. He touched you like you were made of glass. He was in awe of you."
An awkward, unnatural sensation of unease was gnawing its way into my gut. "Why didn't you... why didn't you come in? To... reclaim me?" I heard bitter words come upon my tongue. Danish laughed briefly and without a single ounce of humour in his voice. "And do what? Interrupt that?" He shook his head. "You can't piss on a bonfire, Zeenat. You can't compete with that.
You can't compete with that. What you two had in there... pure. Real. Love."
He came closer, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't take this the wrong way, I really loved the show, you were amazing, a goddess." He extended his hand and smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear. "But I'm not a fool, I know its temporary like a dream."
He gestured with his glass towards the ocean. "He's a tourist, Zeenat. A beautiful, romantic, perfect-for-a-weekend tourist. He'll go back to his life in London or Berlin or wherever he came from, and he'll remember the beautiful girl that he loved under the Goa moon. He'll remember it fondly, and then he'll move on."
Then he turned to me and his eyes met mine, and his expression grew just a little stiffer, and the old, calculating Danish came back into his eyes. "But YOU, however, you are here. You are with me. And this... this little chapter... is not the whole story." He leaned into me and kissed my forehead, the gentle, possessive kiss. "Try and get some sleep," he whispered. You'll need it, you'll need it because when he is gone, you're still mine.
I was alone on the terrace and he turned to walk back in the villa. I gazed down at the ocean, huge and cold. He was right. Alex was the epitome of a dream come true. However, my reality was Danish. The truth was, the dream would come to a close with the dawn.
...to be continued...