I’ve always been the queen of the canteen at our private university in Dhaka. The place is a chaotic symphony of sounds and smells—students shouting over each other, the sizzle of street vendors frying up fresh singaras just outside the open windows, the thick humidity clinging to everything like a second skin. That day, the air was heavy with the scent of monsoon rain threatening to break, mixing with the spicy tang of chaat and the earthy aroma of hot parathas being slapped onto griddles. I sauntered in, my vibrant teal shalwar kameez clinging just enough to my curves to feel empowering, the soft fabric whispering against my skin with every step. The dupatta draped over my shoulders swayed lightly, brushing my arms like a gentle caress, and my high heels clicked rhythmically on the tiled floor, drawing eyes without me even trying.
I caught my reflection in the polished metal of the serving counter as I grabbed a tray—my long, dark hair cascading in silky waves down my back, framing my heart-shaped face. My almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick lashes, sparkled with that mix of mischief and confidence I’d perfected over the years. I adjusted my small pierced ears, the simple studs catching the light, and flashed a subtle smile at myself, my full pouty lips glossed in a soft pink that made them look even more inviting. At 5’6”, I wasn’t towering, but the heels elongated my graceful stride, making my shapely thighs shift under the shalwar, my wide hips swaying just so. It was all part of the armor, the bold blend of traditional and modern that screamed femininity while hiding my secrets—my small, perky breasts pressing against the kameez, my narrow waist flaring out to those curvaceous hips, and lower, tucked away, my 3½-inch cock and tight, smooth balls, a private thrill that added to my confident swagger.
I made my way to our usual table, a cluster of mismatched chairs in the corner where the ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, stirring the humid air. My friends were already there—Rina, with her short bob and infectious giggle, always in jeans and tees; and Tariq, the lanky guy from Chittagong who thought he was a comedian. They waved me over, and I slid into my seat, the dupatta slipping slightly to reveal the smooth curve of my collarbones. “Nusrat apa, you look like you just stepped out of a Bollywood set,” Rina teased, eyeing my outfit. I laughed, tossing my hair back. “What can I say? A girl’s got to shine in this heat.”
We dove into the usual banter, plates of spicy chaat piled high with yogurt and tamarind chutney passing around. I was in the middle of spinning a hilarious tale about a disastrous family wedding back in Sylhet, my voice rising and falling with that slight lilt that made everything sound more enchanting. “So there we were, all dressed up in our finest saris and sherwanis, the air thick with the smell of jasmine garlands and frying puris from the outdoor kitchen. My auntie— you know, the one with the massive gold necklace that could sink a boat— she’s parading around like she owns the place. And then, bam! She trips over her own sari hem, spilling the entire bowl of payesh right into the groom’s lap!” I gestured wildly, my hands fluttering, the dupatta shifting with the motion. Laughter erupted from the table, Rina doubling over, Tariq slapping his knee. “Oh, Nusrat, you’re killing me! Payesh in the lap? That’s legendary!”
I basked in it, leaning back in my chair, feeling the fabric of my kameez pull taut across my small breasts. But inside, I was always calibrating—gestures soft and fluid, laughter light and melodic, nothing too sharp or revealing. Being trans in Bangladesh meant walking a tightrope every day, especially in a city like Dhaka where gossip spread faster than rickshaw traffic. The streets outside were alive with the honks of CNG autos, the calls of vendors hawking everything from fresh mangoes to bootleg DVDs, and the distant azan from a nearby mosque blending into the chaos. It was home, vibrant and unforgiving, where tradition clashed with the modern rush of university life.
That’s when he approached. I noticed him hovering at the edge of our table, tray in hand, looking a bit lost amid the crowd. Fahim—a senior I’d seen around campus, from one of those wealthy Dhaka families that owned half the high-rises in Gulshan. He was in his mid-20s, Bengali like most of us, tall with a lean build that spoke of gym sessions rather than hard labor, short tousled black hair, a sharp jawline that could cut glass, and warm brown eyes that always seemed a little too earnest. He was dressed casually in a button-up shirt and jeans, but there was an awkward charm to him, like he was trying too hard not to stand out.
“Uh, Nusrat?” he said, his voice cutting through the laughter, a slight stammer making it endearing. He set his tray down awkwardly, nearly knocking over a glass of lassi. “I just wanted to say... your eyeliner is on point today. Like, really sharp. It makes your eyes pop.”
The table went quiet for a beat, then Rina snorted into her hand. I couldn’t help but laugh—genuinely, my soft rounded cheeks flushing a bit as I met his gaze. “Thanks, Fahim Bhai. Coming from you, that’s high praise. Sit down, why don’t you? We’re not biting... much.”
He grinned, that goofy smile lighting up his face as he pulled up a chair. “Really? Cool. I’m Fahim, by the way—though I guess you knew that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks turning a shade pinker. We fell into easy chatter, the group warming to him quickly. He talked about his classes in business admin, how the traffic in Dhaka was a nightmare—“I swear, the rickshaws are out to get me every morning”—and I shared bits about my literature major, how I loved dissecting old Bengali poems but hated the humid lecture halls that made my hair frizz. Our eyes kept meeting, that spark igniting something warm in my chest. The canteen faded a little, the clatter of plates and shouts of orders becoming background noise as we leaned in closer.
By the time we wrapped up, the rain had started outside, a light drizzle pattering against the windows. Fahim walked me to the door, holding an umbrella he’d magically produced. “Hey, this was fun. Maybe... we could grab coffee sometime? There’s this cafรฉ near campus with killer lattes.”
I tilted my head, my dupatta catching a droplet as I stepped out. “Sounds good, Fahim Bhai. Text me.” I gave him my number, feeling that thrill of possibility as I dashed through the rain to my next class, my heels splashing in puddles, the shalwar kameez dampening against my thighs.
A few days later, we were on our first date at that trendy cafรฉ he’d mentioned, tucked away in a side street off Dhanmondi. The place was all exposed brick walls glowing under strings of fairy lights, the air scented with fresh-ground coffee and cinnamon from baked goods. Outside, the streets buzzed with evening life—families strolling, street kids selling balloons, the distant rumble of buses navigating the perpetual jams. I’d chosen a flowing red shalwar kameez for the occasion, the fabric silky and clinging in all the right places, my dupatta draped loosely over one shoulder. As I walked in, I felt the sway of my wide hips, my long legs carrying me with poise in those heels, my hair bouncing in waves.
Fahim was already there, at a corner table, fidgeting with his phone. He stood when he saw me, those brown eyes widening. “Nusrat, wow... you look stunning. That red—it’s like fire.”
I smiled, sliding into the seat across from him, my plump ass settling comfortably. “Thanks. You clean up nice yourself.” He was in a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up to show toned forearms, and we ordered—fancy lattes with foam art, a plate of pastries to share. He tried so hard to be suave, stumbling over compliments. “Your smile... it’s radiant. Lights up the whole room.” I laughed, touching his hand lightly across the table. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Fahim Bhai.”
We talked about everything and nothing—growing up in Dhaka versus Sylhet, how the city’s chaos was addictive but exhausting. “The markets here are insane,” he said, sipping his latte. “Last week, I got lost in New Market trying to buy a gift for my sister. Ended up with a fake Rolex instead.” I chuckled, sharing a story about bargaining for fabrics in Sylhet’s bazaars, the vendors shouting in that rapid dialect, the air thick with spices and sweat. Our conversation flowed, building that tension subtly—his knee brushing mine under the table, my fingers lingering on the rim of my cup as I met his gaze.
Then he shifted, looking a bit serious. “You know, my family’s visiting soon. They’re conservative types—dad’s in business, mom’s all about traditions. But I’d love for you to meet them. You’re... special, Nusrat.”
My heart jolted, a wave of panic surging through me. Meet his family? With my secret hidden beneath this feminine facade? I could picture it—the scrutinizing eyes, the questions about background, the risk of exposure in a society where being trans could mean isolation or worse. But I hid it behind a perfect smile, my full lips curving smoothly. “That sounds lovely,” I lied, my voice steady. Inside, my mind raced—how to deflect without hurting him?
Desperate to change the subject, he mentioned his persistent stomach issues, rubbing his abdomen with a wince. “It’s this nagging thing—probably from all the street food. Doctors say it’s nothing, but it flares up.”
Ah, common ground. Growing up in Sylhet, I’d heard endless remedies from my grandmother, her kitchen always brewing some herbal concoction. “You should try Gorom Masala No. 5,” I said confidently, leaning in. “It’s this potent mix—fennel seeds, cumin, ginger, black pepper, and some secret spices my nani swore by. Brew it strong, drink it hot. Cures everything from tummy aches to bad luck.” I exaggerated for effect, describing the foul smell like old socks mixed with chili, the bitter taste that made your eyes water. “But it works, trust me. Just don’t breathe it in too deep, or you’ll regret it.”
Fahim’s eyes lit up, that earnest smile returning. “Wow, Nusrat, you’re like a walking encyclopedia of cultural wisdom. I’m impressed. Sylheti secrets, huh? I’ll have to try that.”
We lingered over our coffees, the fairy lights twinkling like stars, the conversation turning flirtatious. “You know, your laugh is infectious,” he said, his hand covering mine. “Makes me want to hear it more.” I felt a spark, my soft rounded cheeks flushing again, but the panic from earlier lingered like a shadow.
That evening, back in my dorm room, I unwound. The space was my sanctuary—walls adorned with posters of Bollywood divas like Deepika and Priyanka, fairy lights strung across the ceiling casting a warm glow, my bed draped in soft silk sheets that felt luxurious against my skin. The building was in a quieter part of campus, but you could still hear the distant hum of Dhaka—motorbikes revving, a stray dog barking, the occasional call to prayer echoing. I slipped out of my heels, my elegant feet aching slightly, and padded around in bare feet, the cool floor soothing.
I was midway through changing, my red kameez halfway off, revealing the lacy bra cupping my small, perky breasts, when there was a knock at the door. I quickly adjusted, draping the dupatta back over my shoulders, and opened it. There stood Fahim, beaming like he’d won the lottery, holding a thermos that steamed with an unmistakable, overpowering scent—sharp, herbal, like a punch to the nose.
“I took your advice to heart!” he announced proudly, stepping in without waiting for an invite. “Tracked down the ingredients at the market—fennel, cumin, all that jazz—and brewed it myself. Gorom Masala No. 5, just like you said. For you, to show how much I appreciate your help.”
My stomach dropped. The smell was vile, filling the room like rotten spices mixed with regret. He’d made an entire pot? And brought it to me? I’d only mentioned it in passing, never expecting him to actually do it. Panic rose again—this was my bluff called, the casual chatter turned real.
“Oh, Fahim Bhai... that’s so thoughtful,” I managed, my voice steady despite the rising nausea. He poured a cup, the liquid dark and ominous, swirling with bits of spice. I took a tiny sip—burning hot, bitter as hell, my eyes watering instantly. It coated my tongue like tar, the flavors clashing in a way that made my throat burn. “Mmm, perfect,” I choked out, forcing a smile as he watched with those puppy-dog eyes, eager for approval.
He sat on the edge of my bed, chatting away about how he’d haggled with the vendor for the “secret spices,” describing the bustling market stalls piled high with sacks of herbs, the vendors shouting in rapid Bengali. I nodded along, pretending to savor sips, my mind plotting an escape. The tension was excruciating; the room felt smaller, the fairy lights suddenly too bright. Finally, in a “clumsy” move, I “accidentally” knocked the thermos over while gesturing, spilling a bit on the floor—the dark liquid spreading like an accusation.
“Oops! But really, thank you. It means a lot,” I said, mopping it up with a towel, the smell lingering stubbornly. Fahim looked worried, like he’d overdone it. “I didn’t make it too strong, did I? Sorry if it’s awful.” We laughed awkwardly, and he left soon after, promising to text, leaving the thermos behind like a relic.
I sank onto the bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin, my heart still racing from the close call. The dorm was quiet now, just the hum of the fan and the distant rain picking up again. I stripped fully, catching my reflection in the small mirror on the wall—my hourglass figure bare, small breasts with sensitive nipples perking in the air, narrow waist leading to those wide, curvaceous hips, my plump ass jiggling slightly as I moved. Lower, my 3½-inch cock hung soft, balls tight and smooth, a reminder of the layers I navigated daily. I slipped into a nightie, the fabric sliding over my toned legs, and tried to shake off the evening.
Later that night, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Fahim, calling to check on me. I answered, curling up under the sheets. “Was it too strong? I feel bad now,” he said, his voice sheepish.
We laughed about it—the absurdity of his gesture, how he’d boiled the spices for hours in his apartment kitchen, the neighbors complaining about the smell wafting through the halls. “It was like a biohazard,” he admitted, and I giggled, the tension easing. “You’re sweet, Fahim Bhai. Earnestly stupid, but sweet.” It was charming, breaking through my walls. The conversation turned softer, more intimate—him sharing about his family pressures, me opening up a bit about life in Sylhet, the green hills and tea gardens contrasting Dhaka’s concrete jungle.
“Come back over,” I said impulsively, my voice low. “We can... talk more.”
He arrived quickly, the soft knock at my door pulling me from my thoughts like a magnet. I padded over, my bare feet silent on the cool floor, and opened it to find Fahim standing there, his lean frame filling the doorway, those warm brown eyes already smoldering with intent. The faint spice aroma from the spilled tea still hung in the air, twisting into something strangely intoxicating, like a ridiculous aphrodisiac that made my skin tingle. My dorm room felt so cozy under the soft glow of the twinkling fairy lights strung across the ceiling, casting dancing shadows that played over the silk drapes on my bed, making it look even more inviting, a nest of luxury waiting to be tangled.
Fahim stepped close immediately, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, his presence filling the small space. His warm brown eyes locked on mine, holding me captive in that earnest gaze, and he murmured, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” his voice low and husky, sending a shiver straight down my spine. He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping firmly around my narrow waist, drawing me flush against him. I felt the solid heat of his body pressing into mine, my small, perky breasts squishing against his chest through the thin fabric of my nightie, my sensitive nipples already hardening at the contact, rubbing teasingly with every subtle shift. His scent enveloped me—clean soap mixed with a hint of the city’s night air, and underneath it, that lingering spice that made everything feel charged, erotic.
I melted into him, my hands sliding up his back, feeling the muscles tense under his shirt as our bodies aligned. The hug lingered, turning from comforting to heated as his hands roamed lower, cupping the curve of my wide hips, squeezing the soft flesh there possessively. “You feel so good in my arms, Nusrat,” he breathed against my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive lobe, making my breath hitch. I tilted my head, exposing my smooth, slender throat, and he took the invitation, pressing soft kisses along the column of skin, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of my sweat from earlier.
We moved toward the bed almost instinctively, our bodies never fully separating, his hands guiding me backward until the edge hit my calves. We sank down together onto the silk sheets, the fabric cool and slippery against my skin, cradling us like a lover’s embrace. Our lips met in romantic kisses that built slowly, starting with gentle presses that explored the shape of each other’s mouths. His was soft and eager against my full, pouty lips, tasting faintly of mint from the gum he’d chewed on the way over, a fresh contrast to the spicy air around us. I parted my lips first, inviting him in, and our tongues danced in a tentative rhythm, gentle flicks and swirls that sent electric shivers cascading down my spine, pooling heat between my legs.
His hands roamed my back, fingers tracing the delicate curve of my spine through the thin nightie, pulling me even closer until there was no space left between us. I could feel the growing hardness in his jeans pressing against my thigh, a promise of what was to come, making my own 3½-inch cock twitch in anticipation beneath my panties. “You’ve enchanted me, Nusrat,” he whispered between kisses, his breath hot and ragged on my smooth, slender throat as he trailed his lips lower, nipping gently at the skin, sucking lightly to leave faint marks that would remind me of this moment later.
I moaned softly, the sound vibrating in my chest, my hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm, taut skin of his chest, the light dusting of hair tickling my palms as I explored higher, thumbs brushing over his nipples, feeling them pebble under my touch. The passion escalated gradually, our kisses growing deeper, more urgent, tongues tangling with wet, sloppy fervor, saliva mixing as we devoured each other. His hands slipped under my nightie, pushing the fabric up my shapely thighs, exposing more of my toned legs, his fingers digging into the supple flesh, kneading it with a hunger that made my heart race.
We undressed in a haze of desire, his fingers hooking into the hem of my nightie, peeling it off slowly, inch by inch, his eyes darkening with raw lust as he revealed my lacy bra and panties underneath. My hourglass figure was on full display now—my perky tits heaving slightly with each quickened breath, the sensitive nipples hardening visibly under the sheer lace, straining against it like they begged for attention. “God, you’re beautiful,” he groaned, his voice thick with need, his hands sliding reverently over my shapely thighs, tracing the smooth curves up to my narrow waist, gripping it possessively, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above my hips, pulling me against him again.
I tugged his shirt off in return, my nails raking lightly down his lean torso, leaving faint red trails that made him hiss in pleasure, his muscles flexing under my touch. Then I worked on his jeans, unbuttoning them with trembling fingers, freeing him from the confines. His cock sprang out, already hardening, thick and veiny, about 7 inches long with a slight upward curve that promised to hit all the right spots inside me. During the heated groping that followed, our bodies grinding together on the sheets, his hand slipped boldly into my panties, fingers brushing lower over my smooth skin, expecting the slick folds of a pussy but instead encountering the semi-hard length of my 3½-inch cock and the tight, smooth balls beneath.
He froze for a heartbeat, his body tensing against mine, pulling back just slightly as his warm brown eyes widened in genuine surprise, his fingers lingering hesitantly on the unexpected warmth, tracing the shape tentatively as he processed the revelation. The air between us thickened, charged with uncertainty, the fairy lights twinkling mockingly overhead.
“Nusrat... you’re...?” he stammered, his voice a raw mix of shock and curiosity, his fingers pausing but not withdrawing, still cupping me gently, as if afraid to break the spell.
My heart raced wildly, pounding in my chest like a drum, vulnerability crashing over me like a tidal wave—this was the moment I’d dreaded all my life, the exposure that could shatter everything, leaving me bare and rejected in this city that already felt so unforgiving. I searched his face desperately, my almond-shaped eyes wide with fear, thick lashes fluttering nervously as I held my breath, waiting for the judgment, the recoil.
But then, miraculously, his expression softened, the initial shock melting away under that smitten nature of his, replaced by a goofy, affectionate smile that broke across his sharp jawline, lighting up his features. “It doesn’t change anything,” he said earnestly, his voice steady and warm, his thumb gently stroking along the length of my cock, making it twitch and harden further under his touch, sending a jolt of pleasure through me. “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. If anything... it’s hot.”
Relief washed over me in a sweet, overwhelming flood, turning the sharp edge of panic into a tender warmth that bloomed deep in my chest, making my eyes sting with unshed tears of gratitude. In that instant, the world narrowed to just us, the spice-scented air feeling less ridiculous and more like a shared secret. Reassured, emboldened by his acceptance, I kissed him deeper than before, our tongues tangling with renewed hunger, fierce and demanding, my hands pulling him closer as if to merge our bodies.
I shifted then, kneeling before him on the bed, my long, dark hair falling over my shoulders like a silky curtain, brushing against my skin and his thighs as I positioned myself. His cock was fully hard now, thick and veiny, the slight upward curve making it look even more inviting, the head glistening with pre-cum that called to me. I teased the tip first with my tongue, licking slowly, deliberately, savoring the salty tang that burst on my taste buds, swirling around the sensitive slit to draw out more, making him shudder. “Mmm, you taste so good,” I murmured against the hot flesh, my full, pouty lips wrapping around the swollen head, sucking lightly at first, my tongue pressing flat against the underside.
I took him deeper into my mouth, sucking rhythmically—up and down in a slow, torturous pace, my tongue swirling endlessly around the swollen head, tracing every throbbing vein along the shaft as he groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his body. His hands tangled in my silky waves, fingers threading through the strands, guiding me gently but firmly as I hollowed my cheeks, creating suction that made his hips buck involuntarily. “Oh, Nusrat... fuck, that feels amazing,” he gasped, thrusting gently into the wet heat of my mouth, the tip hitting the back of my throat with each careful push.
I gagged slightly on the thickness, the reflex making my eyes water, but I pushed on, relaxing my throat to take him deeper, my saliva coating him slickly, dripping down the shaft to his balls, the slurping sounds filling the room like obscene music, mixing with the faint spice in the air to heighten every sensation. His balls tightened under my touch as I cupped them, rolling the smooth orbs gently in my palm, massaging them while bobbing my head faster now, the rhythm building, my own cock throbbing hard in my panties, leaking pre-cum that soaked the lace, the friction against the fabric driving me wild.
I varied my technique, pulling back to lick long stripes from base to tip, my tongue flat and broad, then focusing on the head, sucking hard while my hand stroked the shaft in twisting motions, feeling the veins pulse under my fingers. He moaned louder, his grip in my hair tightening, not painful but possessive, urging me on as I deep-throated him again, my nose burying in the musky curls at his base, inhaling his scent—sweat and arousal mingled with that ever-present spice. My free hand roamed his thighs, nails digging lightly into the muscle, feeling them tense and release with each suck, each swirl.
Time stretched as I worshipped him, my jaw aching but the pleasure of his reactions spurring me on—his breaths coming in ragged pants, hips stuttering as he fought not to thrust too hard. I popped off briefly to catch my breath, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening cock, and I blew cool air over the wet skin, watching it twitch, before diving back in, sucking with renewed vigor, my head bobbing frantically now, the wet sounds echoing louder, my own arousal building to a fever pitch, my balls aching with need.
He pulled me up after what felt like an eternity of that delicious torment, his hands under my arms lifting me effortlessly, kissing me fiercely, his tongue invading my mouth to taste himself on my lips, the flavor mingling with mint and spice in a heady cocktail. “My turn,” he growled against my mouth, the sound primal, sending a thrill straight to my core as he pushed me back onto the silk sheets, the fabric rumpling under me, cool against my heated skin.
He kissed down my smooth throat slowly, savoring every inch, his lips soft but insistent, nipping at the tender skin, sucking harder now to mark me, the suction pulling blood to the surface in blooming bruises that made me gasp. His teeth grazed my collarbones, biting lightly, the sharp sting melting into pleasure as his tongue soothed the spots immediately after. Lower he went, to my small, perky breasts, his hands cupping them through the lace before he unclasped my bra with deft fingers, freeing them to the air. The sensitive nipples stood erect, begging, and his mouth latched onto one, sucking hard, the pull intense and rhythmic, while his hand pinched the other, rolling the hardened bud between thumb and forefinger, tugging until I arched off the bed, a moan ripping from my throat.
“Your tits are perfect, so pert and responsive,” he mumbled against my skin, his voice muffled as his tongue flicked the hardened bud relentlessly, circling it in tight spirals, then lapping broad and flat, the wet heat making my breasts ache with need. He switched sides, giving the other nipple the same treatment, biting gently to send jolts of pain-pleasure straight to my cock, which twitched against his thigh, leaking more pre-cum. His free hand roamed my body, tracing the dip of my narrow waist, fingers splaying wide to feel the flare of my wide hips, squeezing the curvaceous flesh there, his touch possessive and reverent.
His kisses trailed even lower, over the flat plane of my stomach, tongue dipping into my navel, making me squirm, then down to the edge of my panties. He hooked his fingers into the lace, peeling them off slowly, dragging them down my long, toned legs, his eyes feasting on every inch revealed—my 3½-inch cock springing free, fully hard now, the head shiny with pre-cum, my balls smooth and tight, drawn up with arousal. He didn’t hesitate, his acceptance complete and eager; instead, he dove in, his tongue lapping at my balls first, swirling around the sensitive skin in lazy circles, the wet heat making me gasp sharply, my hands fisting the sheets.
“Shit, Fahim... yes, just like that,” I breathed, my long legs spreading wider instinctively, thighs parting to give him better access, my heels digging into the mattress. He sucked one ball into his mouth gently, rolling it with his tongue, the suction light but insistent, then released it with a pop to lavish the same attention on the other, his hand wrapping around my cock meanwhile, stroking slowly from base to tip, thumb circling the head to spread the slick pre-cum.
He took my cock into his mouth then, sucking gently at first, his head bobbing in a steady rhythm, lips sealed tight around the shaft, tongue pressing against the underside as he hollowed his cheeks. The warmth enveloped me completely, making my hips buck up involuntarily, seeking more. His fingers teased lower while he sucked, circling my puckered entrance with a feather-light touch, gathering saliva from his mouth to slick the way before one digit pressed in slowly, breaching the tight ring of muscle.
The foreplay dragged on deliciously, endlessly, his mouth alternating between my cock and balls, slurping wetly with obscene noises that filled the room, his tongue tracing every ridge and vein on my shaft, dipping into the slit to taste my essence. All the while, his fingers probed my ass deeper, one slipping in fully now with spit as makeshift lube, stretching me slowly, curling to brush against my prostate in teasing grazes that made stars explode behind my eyelids. I writhed on the sheets, my plump ass grinding against the bed, waves of pleasure building in layers, each suck and thrust of his finger pushing me higher.
“Finger me deeper, you bastard,” I demanded, my voice husky and desperate, threading my fingers into his tousled hair to guide him, and he obliged without hesitation, adding a second finger, scissoring them apart to open me up wider, the stretch burning sweetly, his mouth never leaving my cock, sucking harder now, bobbing faster as his fingers pumped in and out in rhythm. He twisted them, searching until he found that spot again, pressing firmly against my prostate, rubbing in circles that made my whole body tremble, pre-cum flowing freely now, which he lapped up eagerly.
I lost track of time in that haze, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, building the heat until I was a moaning mess, my skin slick with sweat, the silk sheets sticking to my back. He added a third finger eventually, the fullness making me gasp, the burn intense but welcome, preparing me for what was to come, his tongue swirling around my cock head relentlessly, teeth grazing lightly for that edge of danger. The spice aroma in the air seemed to amplify everything, making the sensations sharper, more vivid, my balls tightening further as orgasm teased at the edges, but he pulled back just in time, leaving me panting and needy.
We transitioned seamlessly to the main event, the air thick with anticipation as Fahim reached for the Vaseline on my nightstand—I kept it there for nights like this, a silent promise of pleasure. He scooped a generous amount, slicking his thick cock thoroughly, the veiny shaft glistening under the fairy lights, every ridge and curve highlighted as he stroked himself slowly, his eyes locked on mine with dark promise. He teased my entrance first, rubbing the slick head against my hole in slow circles, pressing just enough to part the muscles without entering, making me whine pathetically, my hips lifting off the bed in invitation. “Please, Fahim... fuck me, I need it,” I begged, my voice breaking with desperation.
He positioned himself between my thighs, my back flat on the bed, long legs spread wide apart, heels digging deep into the mattress for leverage as he aligned his throbbing tip with my slicked, quivering entrance. He pushed in slowly, torturously, inch by thick inch, the stretch burning at first, a sharp, insistent sting that made me grit my teeth and clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin. “Fuck, you’re so tight, Nusrat, like you were made for this,” he groaned, his voice strained, hands gripping my shapely thighs tightly for leverage, spreading them wider to ease his way.
The fullness was exquisite, overwhelming, his curved cock filling me completely, pressing against my inner walls with every incremental advance until he bottomed out, his heavy balls slapping lightly against my plump ass, the contact sending a jolt through me. He paused there, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust, our breaths mingling as he leaned down to kiss me, tongues lazy now in contrast to the tension below. Then he began to thrust slowly at first, deep and steady, pulling almost all the way out, the drag of his veiny shaft against my rim making me whimper, before sliding back in smoothly, our bodies moving in perfect sync, like a slow dance of flesh.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him deeply, our tongues battling fiercely as he rocked into me, each thrust grinding his cock against my prostate in deliberate strokes that sent sparks of ecstasy radiating outward. My hands clutched his back, nails digging in lightly, leaving red trails down his skin, while my own cock twitched helplessly against his stomach, leaking pre-cum in sticky trails that smeared between us with every movement. “Deeper, shit... hit that spot harder,” I moaned into his mouth, and he adjusted his angle subtly, hips angling to grind even more precisely against my prostate with each measured thrust, the pressure building like a storm.
The pace built gradually, his hips snapping harder now, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, sharp and rhythmic, mixed with our heavy breaths and the lingering spice scent that clung to everything, somehow making the whole encounter feel more absurdly erotic, like we were fucking in a haze of forbidden incense. Sweat beaded on our skin, trickling down his chest to drip onto mine, my small tits heaving with each powerful impact, nipples rubbing raw against his chest hair, the friction adding layers of sensation. I hooked one long leg around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, the burn of entry long faded into pure, throbbing pleasure as he fucked me steadily, relentlessly, each thrust delving deep, stretching me wide, his balls slapping against my ass in a steady tattoo.
We lingered in this position for what felt like hours, his thrusts varying—slow and grinding to savor the fullness, then faster and shallower to tease the rim, making my asshole clench around him greedily. His hands roamed my body, squeezing my perky tits, pinching the nipples until I cried out, then sliding down to grip my narrow waist, holding me in place as he pounded deeper. My cock rubbed against his abs with every rock, the friction delicious, pre-cum slickening the way, my balls aching as they slapped against him. “You’re so fucking perfect, taking me like this,” he growled, his lips on my throat again, sucking hard, the suction pulling me closer to the edge.
The intimacy was intoxicating, our bodies slick and sliding, the silk sheets bunching under us as we moved. He kissed every inch he could reach—my shoulders, my collarbones, my tits—his tongue lapping at the sweat, tasting me as he thrust, the curved tip of his cock massaging my prostate in endless circles with each deep plunge. I raked my nails down his back harder, urging him on, my moans growing louder, filling the room with echoes of lust. The spice in the air seemed to seep into my pores, heightening the heat, making every nerve ending sing as he fucked me with passionate precision.
After an eternity of that enveloping rhythm, where every thrust felt like it unraveled me further, he eased us onto our sides without fully withdrawing, his thick cock still buried deep inside me, the movement fluid and seamless, our bodies twisting together like vines. Now he was behind me on the bed, his chest pressed to my back, his arm wrapping securely around my narrow waist, hand splaying possessively over my stomach, fingers pressing into the soft skin there. He re-entered fully from this new angle with a wet, satisfying squelch, thrusting deeper than before, the position allowing him to hit that sweet spot inside me with each deliberate roll of his hips, the curve of his cock perfect for it.
“You feel so good, Nusrat... so fucking tight around me,” he whispered hotly in my ear, his breath fanning over my neck, sending goosebumps racing across my skin, his free hand reaching around to gently stroke my cock, fingers wrapping loosely around the throbbing shaft, pumping slowly in time with his thrusts, the dual sensation making my head spin. I pushed back against him instinctively, my plump ass grinding into his groin, cheeks spreading around his base as I met every push, moans spilling uncontrollably from my pouty lips, the sound raw and needy.
The position was so intimate, his body molded perfectly to mine, enveloping me in heat and strength, his lips nipping at my shoulder as he ground passionately, hips circling to stir his cock inside me, stretching my walls in new ways. The friction on my prostate was relentless, a constant pressure that built waves of pleasure, cresting higher with each thrust, my balls tightening painfully as he jerked me off with expert strokes, his palm slick with my pre-cum. “Fuck, yes... stroke me harder, make me feel it,” I begged, my voice breathy and broken, and he complied immediately, his grip firming, thumb rubbing insistently over the sensitive head, smearing the slick fluid down the shaft.
We lingered here endlessly, his thrusts varying to draw out the torment—slow and deep plunges that filled me completely, holding still to let me feel the pulse of his cock against my prostate, then faster, shallower snaps that teased the entrance, making my asshole flutter around him. His hand alternated between stroking my cock in long, firm pulls and fondling my balls, rolling them gently in his palm, tugging lightly to send sparks shooting up my spine. My long hair stuck to my sweat-slicked back, matted and wild, and he brushed it aside tenderly with his nose, kissing my neck, sucking deep marks into the smooth skin, his teeth grazing for that bite of pain.
The room filled with our symphony of sounds—wet slaps of his hips against my ass, his grunts low and animalistic, my whimpers high and desperate as the pleasure mounted, coiling tight in my core. “You’re mine tonight, all mine,” he growled, his voice rough with possession, hips slamming harder now, the bed creaking rhythmically under our weight, the fairy lights blurring in my vision as ecstasy built. His arm around my waist tightened, holding me in place as he pounded deeper, his cock grinding mercilessly against my prostate, his hand on my cock pumping faster, twisting at the head to heighten the sensation.
Every inch of me was alive with him—the heat of his body behind me, the stretch in my ass, the slick slide of his hand, the spice-scented air thick with our musk. He nipped at my earlobe, whispering filthy praises—“Your ass grips me so tight, like it never wants to let go”—his thrusts turning more erratic, deeper, the curve hitting spots that made me see white. I ground back harder, my plump ass cheeks jiggling with each impact, the slap echoing louder, my cock throbbing in his fist as pre-cum dripped steadily.
Emboldened by the fire building inside me, I craved control, my body demanding it. “Let me take over,” I panted, my voice laced with urgency, and we shifted fluidly once more, his cock slipping out just enough for the movement as he rolled onto his back on the bed, pulling me with him. His thick cock stood proud and glistening with Vaseline and our combined juices, veins pulsing visibly under the lights. I straddled his hips facing him, my wide hips settling over him like a throne, knees digging into the silk on either side as I gripped his slick shaft firmly, guiding the throbbing head back to my entrance, the contact making us both groan.
I lowered myself slowly, savoring the renewed stretch, my asshole clenching greedily around him as I sank down inch by agonizing inch, the fullness returning in a rush until he was buried to the hilt once more, his cock filling me completely, pressing hard against my prostate from this angle. “Shit, you’re filling me up so good, stretching me wide,” I moaned, my hands pressing flat on his chest for balance, feeling his heart thunder under my palms as I adjusted, grinding down to feel him stir deep inside.
I rode him with bold, unapologetic confidence, bouncing up and down in a steady rhythm at first, my plump ass slapping loudly against his thighs with each descent, the impact sending ripples through my flesh. My small breasts jiggled slightly with the motion, pert and heaving, and he reached up immediately to squeeze them, thumbs circling my sensitive nipples in tight spirals, pinching hard until I cried out in ecstasy, the pain blooming into pleasure that shot straight to my core. His other hand gripped my hip firmly, fingers digging into the curvaceous flesh, guiding my movements, then slid forward to finger my cock more firmly, stroking in perfect time with my bounces, his fist tight and slick.
“Fuck, Nusrat, you’re incredible, riding me like a goddess,” he panted, his warm brown eyes locked intensely on mine, hips bucking up sharply to meet my downward thrusts, driving himself deeper with each collision. I varied the pace to prolong the bliss—grinding slow, deliberate circles with my hips, feeling his curved cock stir and press against every inner wall, massaging my prostate in lazy rotations that made my vision blur, then bouncing faster, harder, the friction igniting fireworks behind my eyes, my toned legs flexing powerfully, thighs quivering slightly from the effort as I rose and fell, my balls bouncing against his skin with wet smacks.
He spanked my ass lightly once, the sharp sting adding a layer of heat that made me gasp, the flesh jiggling under his palm, and I leaned forward in response, my long hair cascading over us like a veil as I kissed him sloppily, our tongues messy and desperate, saliva dripping as I rode him harder, faster, my ass clenching rhythmically around his shaft to milk him. His hand on my cock pumped relentlessly, twisting at the base, thumb pressing into the slit to draw out more pre-cum, the slick sounds joining the chorus of slaps and moans. Sweat poured down my back, trickling between my cheeks, making everything slicker, hotter, the spice aroma blending with our sex musk to create a heady fog.
I lost myself in the ride, hips undulating in waves, sometimes slow to tease, feeling every vein drag against my rim as I lifted almost off him, then slamming down to bury him deep, the impact jarring pleasure through me. His pinches on my nipples grew rougher, tugging them outward until I whimpered, my tits aching deliciously, and he bucked wilder beneath me, his free hand roaming to squeeze my thighs, nails biting in. “Take it all, you sexy bitch,” he groaned, his voice breaking, and I responded by grinding harder, my prostate throbbing under the assault, orgasm coiling tighter.
For even more intensity, the need building to a frenzy, he took charge subtly, his hands on my hips lifting me slightly as he maneuvered us, his voice rough with command: “Get on your hands and knees for me,” the words a growl that sent shivers racing. I complied eagerly, dismounting with a wet pop that left me aching empty for a split second before I positioned myself on all fours, ass up high in the air, presenting my plump cheeks to him like an offering, my long hair falling forward over my face, veiling my view as I arched my back deeply, my narrow waist dipping to accentuate the curve.
Fahim knelt behind me swiftly, his hands gripping my wide hips with bruising force, fingers digging deep into the soft, jiggling flesh as he aligned his throbbing cock with my entrance once more, the head nudging insistently. He thrust in vigorously, slamming home in one powerful go, the sudden fullness stretching me to my limits, making me yelp sharply, the burn reigniting but quickly dissolving into bliss as he filled me completely. “Take it, you slut, take every inch,” he groaned, his hips snapping forward with raw, unbridled power, setting a punishing rhythm from the start.
The skin-slapping echoed comically loud in the room, a frantic percussion mixed with the lingering spice aroma that clung to our sweat-slicked bodies, but it only heightened the passion, making every impact feel more primal, more urgent. He pounded me relentlessly, his thick shaft stretching my asshole wide open, grinding harshly against my inner walls with each brutal plunge, the curve hammering my prostate in explosive bursts that mixed pleasure and pain into electric waves coursing through my veins. I pushed back against him desperately, meeting every savage thrust, my moans louder now, raw and echoing off the walls like cries of surrender.
“Harder, fuck me harder, you bastard, destroy my ass,” I begged, my voice bouncing with each impact, and he obliged with fervor, one hand leaving my hip to spank my ass again, the sharp smack resounding, sending shivers racing up my spine, the flesh jiggling and reddening under his palm as he struck repeatedly, the sting fueling the fire. From this angle, he could go impossibly deeper, his curved cock hammering my prostate with precision, each brutal push sending shockwaves that made my arms tremble, threatening to buckle as I held myself up, reveling in the roughness that made me feel so alive, so feminine, so utterly desired.
His balls slapped against mine with every thrust, the contact wet and heavy, and he reached around occasionally to tug my cock, stroking roughly in time with his pounding, his fist tight and demanding, making pre-cum spurt with each pull. Sweat dripped down my back in rivulets, tracing paths over my skin, pooling at the base of my spine as he leaned forward slightly, his chest grazing my back, kissing my sweat-slicked skin sloppily while pounding away without mercy. “Your ass is so plump, so perfect for fucking, gripping me like a vice,” he grunted, squeezing the cheeks hard, spreading them wide with his thumbs to watch his cock disappear inside me, the sight spurring him to thrust even harder.
We dragged this out interminably, his thrusts varying to keep the edge—pulling out almost fully to tease the rim with shallow dips, making me gasp and beg for more, then slamming back in to the hilt, the force jarring my whole body forward, my tits swinging with the motion, nipples grazing the sheets for added friction. He spanked me rhythmically now, alternating cheeks, the heat building to a delicious burn that complemented the stretch in my ass, my moans turning to screams as the prostate assault intensified, pleasure coiling so tight it hurt.
I glanced back over my shoulder at one point, my almond-shaped eyes hooded with lust, thick lashes damp with sweat and tears of overwhelm, meeting his gaze—dark, possessive—and he leaned forward more, capturing my lips in a messy kiss over my shoulder, tongues tangling awkwardly but hungrily as he continued to pound, his hand on my cock stroking furiously now, the dual penetration of sorts driving me mad.
Finally, as the climax loomed unbearable, he pulled out briefly, the emptiness a cruel ache that made me whine until he eased me onto my back once more, his hands hooking under my knees to lift my long legs over his broad shoulders, folding me almost in half, my elegant feet pointing toward the ceiling, toes curling in anticipation, exposing my plump ass fully off the bed, my hole twitching and gaping slightly from the abuse. He aligned his slick, veiny cock with me again, pushing in slowly at first to savor the clench, then building immediately to unrelenting strokes, the new angle allowing him to plunge deeper than ever, hitting uncharted depths that made me scream.
“Fuck, this angle... you’re so deep, splitting me open,” I moaned, the penetration intense, his veiny shaft stretching me impossibly wide, grinding against my prostate with every passionate pound, his body slamming into mine with force that shook the bed. Sweat-slicked skin slid together, the friction hot and slippery, my hands roaming desperately—clutching the sheets in white-knuckled grips, then wrapping around my own cock, stroking furiously in time with his thrusts, the slick pre-cum making my fist glide easily.
“Jerk yourself off, yeah, come for me, show me how much you love this,” he encouraged, his voice frantic now, thrusts turning erratic, the bed shaking violently under us as he hammered away, his balls slapping my ass with wet force. The pressure built to a breaking point, my balls tightening unbearably, prostate throbbing under the relentless assault, every nerve screaming for release.
I climaxed first, crying out loud enough to echo through the dorm, hot spurts of cum spilling over my stomach in thick ropes, coating my skin in sticky warmth, my asshole clenching spasmodically around his cock, milking him. That sent him over the edge—he pulled out respectfully with a groan, stroking his slick shaft a few frantic times before his release shot hot and abundant across my heaving breasts, dripping down my stomach, and pooling onto my spent cock and balls, marking me as his. “Shit, Nusrat... fuck, so good,” he gasped, collapsing beside me, our bodies heaving.
We lay there in a tangle of limbs and laughter, bodies entangled in the rumpled silk sheets, his arm draping over my waist to pull me close, our breaths syncing gradually as we came down from the high. The absurdity of the night—the spilled tea, the discovery, the raw, unending passion—bound us closer, whispers of affection filling the air under the twinkling fairy lights, soft and sweet against the lingering heat.
The next morning, I woke first, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, casting golden patterns on the floor. The room still held a faint spice scent, mixed with the musk of sex. Fahim slept peacefully beside me, his tousled hair messy, sharp jawline relaxed, his arm still draped over my narrow waist, hand resting on my hip. I glanced at the empty thermos on my desk, a relic of his ridiculous affection, and a slow smile spread across my face, my full lips curving.
My secret was shared now, but not in disaster—embraced in warmth. The panic had faded, replaced by amusement and something deeper, like the first stirrings of connection in this chaotic city. Maybe love, or like, could come in unexpected packages, even a thermos of terrible tea. For the first time, I felt seen, not just as the Sylheti siren, but as me.
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