Tripti got fucked by Ranbir’s black servants as a punishment for betraying him in Animal, damn what a wonderful fuck fest it would have been for these black servants to bang slutty bitch Tripti.Tripti Dimri enjoys being double teamed by 2 massive BBCs
Bollywood Actress Bollyxxx ultra HQ hardcore fakes of bollywood actresses
- Thread starter Bollyxxx
- Start date
Hindi actress fakes and nude edits from Bollywood movies
The Cannes Submission of Sara
Cannes was... extra.
Sara Ali Khan didn’t have a film screening here, no press interviews lined up, no premiere to walk into officially. She wasn’t even invited to half the private dinners. But she showed up anyway, with a suitcase full of tiny outfits and one clear purpose.
She was done being polite. She wasn’t here to smile next to indie directors or do dumb brand gifting campaigns. She was in Cannes to get noticed, get picked, and get paid, on her terms.
Her real target? Malik Dioré.
The founder of Noire Desir. French-African. Billionaire. Lingerie king. Mysterious. Known for scandalous ads and even more scandalous private castings.
They’d met at a rooftop mixer two nights earlier. Sara had been wearing a corset top with no bra, trying to look casual. Malik had been standing against the railing, silent, sipping dark liquor. Not mingling.
She walked up, said: “Nice view.”
He replied: “The dresses or the sea?”
She smirked. “Both. Though mine’s probably doing more work.”
He didn’t flirt. He evaluated. Said he was looking for a new brand face. Someone with international appeal. Not just a pretty puppet. Someone who could be provocative. Willing. Bold.
She said: “I tick all three. You just haven’t seen yet.”
Now, two nights later, she was outside his hotel suite. She wore a sheer black mesh bralette under a velvet shirt, short denim skirt, and no panties. Hair undone. Lip gloss slutty. Nipples hard. She looked like she was heading to the club or to confess her sins—maybe both.
She knocked once.
The door opened. Malik, shirtless, linen pants low on his hips, just stared at her for a moment.
“Hope I’m not too overdressed,” she said, brushing past him like she owned the room.
He closed the door behind her. The lights were dim. The air warm. His cologne spicy. The whole place smelled like expensive sweat and control.
He didn’t offer her a drink. Just sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her like she was an item he might return.
“Do you think you look like a brand ambassador?”
Sara shrugged. “I look like a PR scandal waiting to happen. Which is even better.”
“You look like someone begging to be humiliated.”
She smiled. “Not begging yet. But let’s see.”
He stood, opened a suitcase on the bed, pulled out a black mesh lingerie set. Corset. Straps. High-cut bottoms with a slit at the crotch.
She took it, held it up.
“Jesus. Is there even a front and back to this thing?”
“Put it on. Slowly.”
She stripped down without a word. Shirt off. Bralette tossed. Breasts free. Full. Heavy. Tight brown nipples already hard. Her skirt slid down her thick thighs. She bent to untangle it from her heels, her round ass flashing with no shame.
She walked to the bathroom, pulled the lingerie on in front of the mirror. It fit like it wasn’t meant to. Her tits bulged over the mesh. Her pussy was visible from the front and the back. She smoothed her hair, stared herself down.
She stepped out.
Malik said nothing. His eyes told her everything.
She stood there, arms at her sides, legs apart. No posing. Just offering.
Then, softly: “You like this?”
“No,” he said. “I liked what walked in earlier.”
She paused. Smiled. “You mean the trashy slut in denim and no shame?”
“Yes.”
She peeled the lingerie off, slowly. Every snap, every strap. Then put her shirt and skirt back on, no underwear.
Now she looked even filthier, bare under velvet. Nipples pressing against the fabric. Skirt barely covering her ass.
He sat back. Legs wide.
“Knees.”
She tilted her head. “No flowers? No wine?”
He didn’t blink.
She knelt. Unzipped him.
When she pulled his cock out, her eyes widened.
“Wow,” she muttered. “Okay. That’s... I’m gonna need a moment.”
He didn’t move.
She wrapped her fingers around it. Spit in her palm. Stroked it, then leaned forward and kissed the head lightly.
Then opened her mouth and slid it in.
She took it slow. In. Out. Saliva dripping. Gagging slightly. Her hands pumped as her head bobbed. She blinked tears away.
He grabbed her hair. Guided her. Not rough, just firm.
“Deeper.”
She coughed on it, pulled off, eyes wild. “Okay. Jesus. Give a girl a break.”
She took a breath, then dove back in. Sloppier. Slurping. Her tits jiggling as she worked her mouth. Her lipstick smeared. Her mascara running.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You suck like you mean it.”
She pulled off and laughed. “Well, you didn’t ask for subtle.”
He pulled her up, stood, pushed her toward the bed.
“Strip. Get on.”
She lay back, shirt half off, skirt bunched up. Legs apart. Dripping.
He knelt, rubbed his cock against her pussy lips, teased her with the head.
“Ready?”
“Fuck me. Now.”
He slid in slowly, thick and deep. Her whole body jerked.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered. “You’re tearing me open...don’t stop...just...fuck...”
He grabbed her hips, began thrusting up into her. She bounced on him. Her tits slapped against her chest. Her thighs shook.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Fuck me like I’m already on the billboard.”
He slapped her ass, left a red print.
“You’re loud.”
She laughed. “You are fucking massive.”
He flipped her...reverse cowgirl.
She sank back down. Rocked her hips. Her ass bounced.
He grabbed her cheeks, spread them. Watched his cock disappear into her again and again.
She looked over her shoulder, out of breath.
“This is porn. This is straight-up porn.”
“You regret it?”
“Fuck no. I want you deeper.”
He pulled out. Bent her over. Slammed back in doggy style.
She screamed. “Fuck yes...there...yes...keep fucking me...don’t stop...don’t stop...”
He gripped her hair. Her breasts swung beneath her, hitting the sheets.
He leaned down. Whispered: “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Say you’re my brand.”
“I’m your fucking brand. Your dirty desi brand. Use me.”
He pulled out, flipped her again, slid in missionary. Lifted one leg up.
She moaned louder. Deeper. Rawer.
He fucked her with heavy, focused strokes.
“Cum in me,” she whispered. “I don’t care. Do it.”
“Beg.”
“Please,” she gasped. “I want it. I’ll take all of it. I’ll leak it on the plane tomorrow, I don’t care.”
He groaned. Slammed in once. Twice. Then came...flooding her.
She gasped, legs wrapping around him, nails dragging down his back.
His body collapsed over hers. Breathing heavy. Skin soaked. Her pussy twitching with aftershocks.
He pulled out. Cum spilled down her thigh onto the bed.
They stood. Walked to the bathroom.
They stood in the bathroom, steam still hanging in the air. Sara wiped her smudged eyeliner with the back of her hand but didn’t bother fixing anything. Her body was flushed, thighs sticky with cum, her pussy raw and twitching. Malik stood behind her, also naked, his cock still heavy and half-hard, skin glistening.
She grabbed her phone from the sink, raised it in front of the mirror. Then, grinning, she reached her free hand behind her and wrapped her fingers around Malik’s cock.
She tilted her head, smiling into the lens, one hand holding the phone, the other stroking him, his tip brushing her hip.
Click.
She opened WhatsApp.
Family group:
“Amma. Abba. Ibu.”
Caption:
“New brand deal officially sealed 🖤 Don’t ask how. Just know it was… hands-on.”
She hovers… then adds another line.
P.S. Ibu, Abba, don’t zoom in. Or do. I’m not judging 😘
Sent.
She locked the screen, tossed the phone on the counter, and turned to Malik with a lazy grin.
“So… should I grab the hairdryer, or are we doing round two?”
I like sharing as much as you do and we should share Sara in many DP positions, no holes barred, no protection!
Fucking slutty nawabi rand sara following her stepmothers footsteps ♠️🍆✊️💦💦💦The Cannes Submission of Sara
Cannes was... extra.
Sara Ali Khan didn’t have a film screening here, no press interviews lined up, no premiere to walk into officially. She wasn’t even invited to half the private dinners. But she showed up anyway, with a suitcase full of tiny outfits and one clear purpose.
She was done being polite. She wasn’t here to smile next to indie directors or do dumb brand gifting campaigns. She was in Cannes to get noticed, get picked, and get paid, on her terms.
Her real target? Malik Dioré.
The founder of Noire Desir. French-African. Billionaire. Lingerie king. Mysterious. Known for scandalous ads and even more scandalous private castings.
They’d met at a rooftop mixer two nights earlier. Sara had been wearing a corset top with no bra, trying to look casual. Malik had been standing against the railing, silent, sipping dark liquor. Not mingling.
She walked up, said: “Nice view.”
He replied: “The dresses or the sea?”
She smirked. “Both. Though mine’s probably doing more work.”
He didn’t flirt. He evaluated. Said he was looking for a new brand face. Someone with international appeal. Not just a pretty puppet. Someone who could be provocative. Willing. Bold.
She said: “I tick all three. You just haven’t seen yet.”
Now, two nights later, she was outside his hotel suite. She wore a sheer black mesh bralette under a velvet shirt, short denim skirt, and no panties. Hair undone. Lip gloss slutty. Nipples hard. She looked like she was heading to the club or to confess her sins—maybe both.
She knocked once.
The door opened. Malik, shirtless, linen pants low on his hips, just stared at her for a moment.
“Hope I’m not too overdressed,” she said, brushing past him like she owned the room.
He closed the door behind her. The lights were dim. The air warm. His cologne spicy. The whole place smelled like expensive sweat and control.
He didn’t offer her a drink. Just sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her like she was an item he might return.
“Do you think you look like a brand ambassador?”
Sara shrugged. “I look like a PR scandal waiting to happen. Which is even better.”
“You look like someone begging to be humiliated.”
She smiled. “Not begging yet. But let’s see.”
He stood, opened a suitcase on the bed, pulled out a black mesh lingerie set. Corset. Straps. High-cut bottoms with a slit at the crotch.
She took it, held it up.
“Jesus. Is there even a front and back to this thing?”
“Put it on. Slowly.”
She stripped down without a word. Shirt off. Bralette tossed. Breasts free. Full. Heavy. Tight brown nipples already hard. Her skirt slid down her thick thighs. She bent to untangle it from her heels, her round ass flashing with no shame.
She walked to the bathroom, pulled the lingerie on in front of the mirror. It fit like it wasn’t meant to. Her tits bulged over the mesh. Her pussy was visible from the front and the back. She smoothed her hair, stared herself down.
She stepped out.
Malik said nothing. His eyes told her everything.
She stood there, arms at her sides, legs apart. No posing. Just offering.
Then, softly: “You like this?”
“No,” he said. “I liked what walked in earlier.”
She paused. Smiled. “You mean the trashy slut in denim and no shame?”
“Yes.”
She peeled the lingerie off, slowly. Every snap, every strap. Then put her shirt and skirt back on, no underwear.
Now she looked even filthier, bare under velvet. Nipples pressing against the fabric. Skirt barely covering her ass.
He sat back. Legs wide.
“Knees.”
She tilted her head. “No flowers? No wine?”
He didn’t blink.
She knelt. Unzipped him.
When she pulled his cock out, her eyes widened.
“Wow,” she muttered. “Okay. That’s... I’m gonna need a moment.”
He didn’t move.
She wrapped her fingers around it. Spit in her palm. Stroked it, then leaned forward and kissed the head lightly.
Then opened her mouth and slid it in.
She took it slow. In. Out. Saliva dripping. Gagging slightly. Her hands pumped as her head bobbed. She blinked tears away.
He grabbed her hair. Guided her. Not rough, just firm.
“Deeper.”
She coughed on it, pulled off, eyes wild. “Okay. Jesus. Give a girl a break.”
She took a breath, then dove back in. Sloppier. Slurping. Her tits jiggling as she worked her mouth. Her lipstick smeared. Her mascara running.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You suck like you mean it.”
She pulled off and laughed. “Well, you didn’t ask for subtle.”
He pulled her up, stood, pushed her toward the bed.
“Strip. Get on.”
She lay back, shirt half off, skirt bunched up. Legs apart. Dripping.
He knelt, rubbed his cock against her pussy lips, teased her with the head.
“Ready?”
“Fuck me. Now.”
He slid in slowly, thick and deep. Her whole body jerked.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered. “You’re tearing me open...don’t stop...just...fuck...”
He grabbed her hips, began thrusting up into her. She bounced on him. Her tits slapped against her chest. Her thighs shook.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Fuck me like I’m already on the billboard.”
He slapped her ass, left a red print.
“You’re loud.”
She laughed. “You are fucking massive.”
He flipped her...reverse cowgirl.
She sank back down. Rocked her hips. Her ass bounced.
He grabbed her cheeks, spread them. Watched his cock disappear into her again and again.
She looked over her shoulder, out of breath.
“This is porn. This is straight-up porn.”
“You regret it?”
“Fuck no. I want you deeper.”
He pulled out. Bent her over. Slammed back in doggy style.
She screamed. “Fuck yes...there...yes...keep fucking me...don’t stop...don’t stop...”
He gripped her hair. Her breasts swung beneath her, hitting the sheets.
He leaned down. Whispered: “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Say you’re my brand.”
“I’m your fucking brand. Your dirty desi brand. Use me.”
He pulled out, flipped her again, slid in missionary. Lifted one leg up.
She moaned louder. Deeper. Rawer.
He fucked her with heavy, focused strokes.
“Cum in me,” she whispered. “I don’t care. Do it.”
“Beg.”
“Please,” she gasped. “I want it. I’ll take all of it. I’ll leak it on the plane tomorrow, I don’t care.”
He groaned. Slammed in once. Twice. Then came...flooding her.
She gasped, legs wrapping around him, nails dragging down his back.
His body collapsed over hers. Breathing heavy. Skin soaked. Her pussy twitching with aftershocks.
He pulled out. Cum spilled down her thigh onto the bed.
They stood. Walked to the bathroom.
They stood in the bathroom, steam still hanging in the air. Sara wiped her smudged eyeliner with the back of her hand but didn’t bother fixing anything. Her body was flushed, thighs sticky with cum, her pussy raw and twitching. Malik stood behind her, also naked, his cock still heavy and half-hard, skin glistening.
She grabbed her phone from the sink, raised it in front of the mirror. Then, grinning, she reached her free hand behind her and wrapped her fingers around Malik’s cock.
She tilted her head, smiling into the lens, one hand holding the phone, the other stroking him, his tip brushing her hip.
Click.
She opened WhatsApp.
Family group:
“Amma. Abba. Ibu.”
Caption:
“New brand deal officially sealed 🖤 Don’t ask how. Just know it was… hands-on.”
She hovers… then adds another line.
P.S. Ibu, Abba, don’t zoom in. Or do. I’m not judging 😘
Sent.
She locked the screen, tossed the phone on the counter, and turned to Malik with a lazy grin.
“So… should I grab the hairdryer, or are we doing round two?”
She is the real prize the player winning Man of the match gets for RCB
Not just behind but milfy Kat must be doing this Infront of her pathetic cuck hubby
Thanks for the love!
If she's looking as slutty in a public diner there will be a line of people queuing up to fuck all her holes
Her whole body would become a cumdump
Thanks a lot for the love
Keep supporting!
Tripti got the real feel of how to be a top Bollywood slut and get big roles
By fucking everybody around her possible
I'd quite enjoy that
Sharing her nepo holes with another cock
Ramming her pussy and ass hard and filling them up together with our hot loads
Sara would quite enjoy that as well
Wont be surprised if the slut follows her mother's footsteps in being a fuck toy for Saif as well 😉😉
Alia Bhatt Kiara advani threesom blacked please sir 🙏🙏🙏The Cannes Submission of Sara
Cannes was... extra.
Sara Ali Khan didn’t have a film screening here, no press interviews lined up, no premiere to walk into officially. She wasn’t even invited to half the private dinners. But she showed up anyway, with a suitcase full of tiny outfits and one clear purpose.
She was done being polite. She wasn’t here to smile next to indie directors or do dumb brand gifting campaigns. She was in Cannes to get noticed, get picked, and get paid, on her terms.
Her real target? Malik Dioré.
The founder of Noire Desir. French-African. Billionaire. Lingerie king. Mysterious. Known for scandalous ads and even more scandalous private castings.
They’d met at a rooftop mixer two nights earlier. Sara had been wearing a corset top with no bra, trying to look casual. Malik had been standing against the railing, silent, sipping dark liquor. Not mingling.
She walked up, said: “Nice view.”
He replied: “The dresses or the sea?”
She smirked. “Both. Though mine’s probably doing more work.”
He didn’t flirt. He evaluated. Said he was looking for a new brand face. Someone with international appeal. Not just a pretty puppet. Someone who could be provocative. Willing. Bold.
She said: “I tick all three. You just haven’t seen yet.”
Now, two nights later, she was outside his hotel suite. She wore a sheer black mesh bralette under a velvet shirt, short denim skirt, and no panties. Hair undone. Lip gloss slutty. Nipples hard. She looked like she was heading to the club or to confess her sins—maybe both.
She knocked once.
The door opened. Malik, shirtless, linen pants low on his hips, just stared at her for a moment.
“Hope I’m not too overdressed,” she said, brushing past him like she owned the room.
He closed the door behind her. The lights were dim. The air warm. His cologne spicy. The whole place smelled like expensive sweat and control.
He didn’t offer her a drink. Just sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her like she was an item he might return.
“Do you think you look like a brand ambassador?”
Sara shrugged. “I look like a PR scandal waiting to happen. Which is even better.”
“You look like someone begging to be humiliated.”
She smiled. “Not begging yet. But let’s see.”
He stood, opened a suitcase on the bed, pulled out a black mesh lingerie set. Corset. Straps. High-cut bottoms with a slit at the crotch.
She took it, held it up.
“Jesus. Is there even a front and back to this thing?”
“Put it on. Slowly.”
She stripped down without a word. Shirt off. Bralette tossed. Breasts free. Full. Heavy. Tight brown nipples already hard. Her skirt slid down her thick thighs. She bent to untangle it from her heels, her round ass flashing with no shame.
She walked to the bathroom, pulled the lingerie on in front of the mirror. It fit like it wasn’t meant to. Her tits bulged over the mesh. Her pussy was visible from the front and the back. She smoothed her hair, stared herself down.
She stepped out.
Malik said nothing. His eyes told her everything.
She stood there, arms at her sides, legs apart. No posing. Just offering.
Then, softly: “You like this?”
“No,” he said. “I liked what walked in earlier.”
She paused. Smiled. “You mean the trashy slut in denim and no shame?”
“Yes.”
She peeled the lingerie off, slowly. Every snap, every strap. Then put her shirt and skirt back on, no underwear.
Now she looked even filthier, bare under velvet. Nipples pressing against the fabric. Skirt barely covering her ass.
He sat back. Legs wide.
“Knees.”
She tilted her head. “No flowers? No wine?”
He didn’t blink.
She knelt. Unzipped him.
When she pulled his cock out, her eyes widened.
“Wow,” she muttered. “Okay. That’s... I’m gonna need a moment.”
He didn’t move.
She wrapped her fingers around it. Spit in her palm. Stroked it, then leaned forward and kissed the head lightly.
Then opened her mouth and slid it in.
She took it slow. In. Out. Saliva dripping. Gagging slightly. Her hands pumped as her head bobbed. She blinked tears away.
He grabbed her hair. Guided her. Not rough, just firm.
“Deeper.”
She coughed on it, pulled off, eyes wild. “Okay. Jesus. Give a girl a break.”
She took a breath, then dove back in. Sloppier. Slurping. Her tits jiggling as she worked her mouth. Her lipstick smeared. Her mascara running.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You suck like you mean it.”
She pulled off and laughed. “Well, you didn’t ask for subtle.”
He pulled her up, stood, pushed her toward the bed.
“Strip. Get on.”
She lay back, shirt half off, skirt bunched up. Legs apart. Dripping.
He knelt, rubbed his cock against her pussy lips, teased her with the head.
“Ready?”
“Fuck me. Now.”
He slid in slowly, thick and deep. Her whole body jerked.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered. “You’re tearing me open...don’t stop...just...fuck...”
He grabbed her hips, began thrusting up into her. She bounced on him. Her tits slapped against her chest. Her thighs shook.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Fuck me like I’m already on the billboard.”
He slapped her ass, left a red print.
“You’re loud.”
She laughed. “You are fucking massive.”
He flipped her...reverse cowgirl.
She sank back down. Rocked her hips. Her ass bounced.
He grabbed her cheeks, spread them. Watched his cock disappear into her again and again.
She looked over her shoulder, out of breath.
“This is porn. This is straight-up porn.”
“You regret it?”
“Fuck no. I want you deeper.”
He pulled out. Bent her over. Slammed back in doggy style.
She screamed. “Fuck yes...there...yes...keep fucking me...don’t stop...don’t stop...”
He gripped her hair. Her breasts swung beneath her, hitting the sheets.
He leaned down. Whispered: “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Say you’re my brand.”
“I’m your fucking brand. Your dirty desi brand. Use me.”
He pulled out, flipped her again, slid in missionary. Lifted one leg up.
She moaned louder. Deeper. Rawer.
He fucked her with heavy, focused strokes.
“Cum in me,” she whispered. “I don’t care. Do it.”
“Beg.”
“Please,” she gasped. “I want it. I’ll take all of it. I’ll leak it on the plane tomorrow, I don’t care.”
He groaned. Slammed in once. Twice. Then came...flooding her.
She gasped, legs wrapping around him, nails dragging down his back.
His body collapsed over hers. Breathing heavy. Skin soaked. Her pussy twitching with aftershocks.
He pulled out. Cum spilled down her thigh onto the bed.
They stood. Walked to the bathroom.
They stood in the bathroom, steam still hanging in the air. Sara wiped her smudged eyeliner with the back of her hand but didn’t bother fixing anything. Her body was flushed, thighs sticky with cum, her pussy raw and twitching. Malik stood behind her, also naked, his cock still heavy and half-hard, skin glistening.
She grabbed her phone from the sink, raised it in front of the mirror. Then, grinning, she reached her free hand behind her and wrapped her fingers around Malik’s cock.
She tilted her head, smiling into the lens, one hand holding the phone, the other stroking him, his tip brushing her hip.
Click.
She opened WhatsApp.
Family group:
“Amma. Abba. Ibu.”
Caption:
“New brand deal officially sealed 🖤 Don’t ask how. Just know it was… hands-on.”
She hovers… then adds another line.
P.S. Ibu, Abba, don’t zoom in. Or do. I’m not judging 😘
Sent.
She locked the screen, tossed the phone on the counter, and turned to Malik with a lazy grin.
“So… should I grab the hairdryer, or are we doing round two?”
U have truly made Elli nova desi version which perfectly suits her... Nawabi holes are reserved for us only 🔥👌The Cannes Submission of Sara
Cannes was... extra.
Sara Ali Khan didn’t have a film screening here, no press interviews lined up, no premiere to walk into officially. She wasn’t even invited to half the private dinners. But she showed up anyway, with a suitcase full of tiny outfits and one clear purpose.
She was done being polite. She wasn’t here to smile next to indie directors or do dumb brand gifting campaigns. She was in Cannes to get noticed, get picked, and get paid, on her terms.
Her real target? Malik Dioré.
The founder of Noire Desir. French-African. Billionaire. Lingerie king. Mysterious. Known for scandalous ads and even more scandalous private castings.
They’d met at a rooftop mixer two nights earlier. Sara had been wearing a corset top with no bra, trying to look casual. Malik had been standing against the railing, silent, sipping dark liquor. Not mingling.
She walked up, said: “Nice view.”
He replied: “The dresses or the sea?”
She smirked. “Both. Though mine’s probably doing more work.”
He didn’t flirt. He evaluated. Said he was looking for a new brand face. Someone with international appeal. Not just a pretty puppet. Someone who could be provocative. Willing. Bold.
She said: “I tick all three. You just haven’t seen yet.”
Now, two nights later, she was outside his hotel suite. She wore a sheer black mesh bralette under a velvet shirt, short denim skirt, and no panties. Hair undone. Lip gloss slutty. Nipples hard. She looked like she was heading to the club or to confess her sins—maybe both.
She knocked once.
The door opened. Malik, shirtless, linen pants low on his hips, just stared at her for a moment.
“Hope I’m not too overdressed,” she said, brushing past him like she owned the room.
He closed the door behind her. The lights were dim. The air warm. His cologne spicy. The whole place smelled like expensive sweat and control.
He didn’t offer her a drink. Just sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her like she was an item he might return.
“Do you think you look like a brand ambassador?”
Sara shrugged. “I look like a PR scandal waiting to happen. Which is even better.”
“You look like someone begging to be humiliated.”
She smiled. “Not begging yet. But let’s see.”
He stood, opened a suitcase on the bed, pulled out a black mesh lingerie set. Corset. Straps. High-cut bottoms with a slit at the crotch.
She took it, held it up.
“Jesus. Is there even a front and back to this thing?”
“Put it on. Slowly.”
She stripped down without a word. Shirt off. Bralette tossed. Breasts free. Full. Heavy. Tight brown nipples already hard. Her skirt slid down her thick thighs. She bent to untangle it from her heels, her round ass flashing with no shame.
She walked to the bathroom, pulled the lingerie on in front of the mirror. It fit like it wasn’t meant to. Her tits bulged over the mesh. Her pussy was visible from the front and the back. She smoothed her hair, stared herself down.
She stepped out.
Malik said nothing. His eyes told her everything.
She stood there, arms at her sides, legs apart. No posing. Just offering.
Then, softly: “You like this?”
“No,” he said. “I liked what walked in earlier.”
She paused. Smiled. “You mean the trashy slut in denim and no shame?”
“Yes.”
She peeled the lingerie off, slowly. Every snap, every strap. Then put her shirt and skirt back on, no underwear.
Now she looked even filthier, bare under velvet. Nipples pressing against the fabric. Skirt barely covering her ass.
He sat back. Legs wide.
“Knees.”
She tilted her head. “No flowers? No wine?”
He didn’t blink.
She knelt. Unzipped him.
When she pulled his cock out, her eyes widened.
“Wow,” she muttered. “Okay. That’s... I’m gonna need a moment.”
He didn’t move.
She wrapped her fingers around it. Spit in her palm. Stroked it, then leaned forward and kissed the head lightly.
Then opened her mouth and slid it in.
She took it slow. In. Out. Saliva dripping. Gagging slightly. Her hands pumped as her head bobbed. She blinked tears away.
He grabbed her hair. Guided her. Not rough, just firm.
“Deeper.”
She coughed on it, pulled off, eyes wild. “Okay. Jesus. Give a girl a break.”
She took a breath, then dove back in. Sloppier. Slurping. Her tits jiggling as she worked her mouth. Her lipstick smeared. Her mascara running.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You suck like you mean it.”
She pulled off and laughed. “Well, you didn’t ask for subtle.”
He pulled her up, stood, pushed her toward the bed.
“Strip. Get on.”
She lay back, shirt half off, skirt bunched up. Legs apart. Dripping.
He knelt, rubbed his cock against her pussy lips, teased her with the head.
“Ready?”
“Fuck me. Now.”
He slid in slowly, thick and deep. Her whole body jerked.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered. “You’re tearing me open...don’t stop...just...fuck...”
He grabbed her hips, began thrusting up into her. She bounced on him. Her tits slapped against her chest. Her thighs shook.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Fuck me like I’m already on the billboard.”
He slapped her ass, left a red print.
“You’re loud.”
She laughed. “You are fucking massive.”
He flipped her...reverse cowgirl.
She sank back down. Rocked her hips. Her ass bounced.
He grabbed her cheeks, spread them. Watched his cock disappear into her again and again.
She looked over her shoulder, out of breath.
“This is porn. This is straight-up porn.”
“You regret it?”
“Fuck no. I want you deeper.”
He pulled out. Bent her over. Slammed back in doggy style.
She screamed. “Fuck yes...there...yes...keep fucking me...don’t stop...don’t stop...”
He gripped her hair. Her breasts swung beneath her, hitting the sheets.
He leaned down. Whispered: “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Say you’re my brand.”
“I’m your fucking brand. Your dirty desi brand. Use me.”
He pulled out, flipped her again, slid in missionary. Lifted one leg up.
She moaned louder. Deeper. Rawer.
He fucked her with heavy, focused strokes.
“Cum in me,” she whispered. “I don’t care. Do it.”
“Beg.”
“Please,” she gasped. “I want it. I’ll take all of it. I’ll leak it on the plane tomorrow, I don’t care.”
He groaned. Slammed in once. Twice. Then came...flooding her.
She gasped, legs wrapping around him, nails dragging down his back.
His body collapsed over hers. Breathing heavy. Skin soaked. Her pussy twitching with aftershocks.
He pulled out. Cum spilled down her thigh onto the bed.
They stood. Walked to the bathroom.
They stood in the bathroom, steam still hanging in the air. Sara wiped her smudged eyeliner with the back of her hand but didn’t bother fixing anything. Her body was flushed, thighs sticky with cum, her pussy raw and twitching. Malik stood behind her, also naked, his cock still heavy and half-hard, skin glistening.
She grabbed her phone from the sink, raised it in front of the mirror. Then, grinning, she reached her free hand behind her and wrapped her fingers around Malik’s cock.
She tilted her head, smiling into the lens, one hand holding the phone, the other stroking him, his tip brushing her hip.
Click.
She opened WhatsApp.
Family group:
“Amma. Abba. Ibu.”
Caption:
“New brand deal officially sealed 🖤 Don’t ask how. Just know it was… hands-on.”
She hovers… then adds another line.
P.S. Ibu, Abba, don’t zoom in. Or do. I’m not judging 😘
Sent.
She locked the screen, tossed the phone on the counter, and turned to Malik with a lazy grin.
“So… should I grab the hairdryer, or are we doing round two?”
The transition from nawabi slut to cheap roadside slut is complete
Please do one duo of Tamannaah and Kajal. Also trio of Jahnavi, Alia, & SaraShraddha and Kiara have some hardcore fun with a BBC
Horny milky long legs slutty petite cock hungry whore kriti can do anything to be fucked like a rand🍆✊️💦💦💦The Spot Boy’s Revenge on Kriti
The marble floors echoed faintly as Kriti Sanon stepped into her suite, the hem of her shimmering Abu Jani lehenga brushing her ankles, her heels clicking softly. She didn’t even glance at the crew trailing behind her, her stylist, her assistant, the photographer, and of course, the spot boys carrying racks, lights, and vanity cases.
It had been a long day. A brand shoot for an elite couture label, shot at a luxury heritage palace-turned-hotel in Jaipur. Kriti was the face of the campaign, graceful, poised, an icon of class. She’d posed in jewels worth crores, smiled through sun and sweat, and slipped into role after role like a professional. Everyone said she was sweet. Disciplined. Elegant. Some whispered she was distant. Cold. Untouchable.
She liked that. It kept things clean.
But even a queen can be tired. Even a queen can snap.
And that’s exactly what she did, at 5:12 PM, when a rough hand fumbled her phone while adjusting a silk trail.
“Are you fucking blind?” Kriti had hissed, eyes flashing as the iPhone hit the marble.
The man had frozen. Spot boy. T-shirt soaked in sweat. Dust on his hands.
“Get out of my fucking frame,” she’d added, brushing past him like he didn’t exist.
His name was Imran. 26. From Rewari. Spot boy for seven years. Worked hundreds of sets. Never had a star talk to him like a human. Definitely not Kriti. He’d watched her grow, Heropanti, Bareilly Ki Barfi, Mimi, Bhediya, always from the corner of the room. Always invisible. But always watching.
And today, for the first time, he saw something else: a crack. A moment. A real woman who lost her cool. A real woman who wasn’t better than him.
By 11:40 PM, Kriti was in her suite. The air-conditioning hummed softly in the oversized Jaipur suite as she poured herself a second glass of white wine. The shoot had ended hours ago, the crew long gone, but her adrenaline was still high. The room smelt faintly of roses and hair spray. She was sprawled across the bed, her long legs crossed casually, wearing nothing but a deep purple velvet lingerie set, strapless bra, tiny matching thong, and a sheer satin robe hanging open around her shoulders.
She scrolled through her phone with one hand and sipped with the other, absently checking comments on a behind-the-scenes reel her stylist had just posted.
Suddenly, the door swung open with a hard, sharp thud.
Kriti froze.
Imran stepped in, slightly staggering, reeking of country liquor and sweat. Still wearing his faded jeans and a stained white tee, he shut the door behind him hard, his bloodshot eyes locked on her.
“What the fuck...” Kriti sat up, wide-eyed. “Are you serious? How did you get in here?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at her body. Her long bare legs. The purple fabric cupping her breasts. The smooth skin of her stomach.
And him? A spot boy born in Old Delhi, who spent years being invisible unless someone needed chai or to wipe a sweat stain off a costume.
And now he was looking at Kriti fucking Sanon, barely dressed, staring him down like she couldn’t decide whether to scream or suck him off.
“Get the fuck out, Imran. You’re drunk.”
He took two heavy steps forward.
“Yeah, I am. And you? You’re not drunk. You’re just a bitch.”
She flinched. “Excuse me?”
He laughed. Bitter, low. “You talk to people like they’re your fucking maids. Throw orders. Yell. Throw your phone when someone makes a mistake. Like we’re fucking furniture to you.”
Kriti stood up now, robe sliding off one arm.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” she snapped. “Get the fuck out or I’ll call...”
“Call who?” he cut her off, stepping closer. “Your team? Your manager? You think they’d care that the great Kriti Sanon got walked in on by a spot boy she’s treated like shit for five years?”
Kriti stepped back slightly, her heart racing. But something in his stare, rage mixed with raw hunger, held her in place.
“You’re out of line, Imran.”
He stepped closer. “Of course I am. What did you expect from a spot boy, right? Just lower your voice and carry your bags?”
She blinked. The room felt suddenly hotter.
He looked her over again, slower this time. The robe slipped down fully, revealing her entire body.
“No,” he said flatly. “You’re out of line. Sitting here like you’re some goddess… in a fucking slutty outfit. Alone. Like you’re waiting for it.”
She didn’t speak. Something had shifted in the air. Tension so thick it wrapped around her throat.
“You think people don’t watch you?” he continued. “I’ve seen every inch of your body in person. Every saree slip, every panty line, every change between scenes. You’re not better than me. You’re just luckier.”
Kriti’s mouth was dry. She didn’t know what part of her refused to scream or run. She just stared at him.
Then, slowly, she stepped backward toward the bed and sat on the edge. Her voice low. Dry. “You came all the way in here drunk to jerk off to a fantasy?”
He reached for his belt.
“No,” he said. “I came to let you live it.”
Then his eyes dropped to her body, the deep purple velvet lingerie that hugged her curves, the robe hanging open, the lace barely covering anything.
Without warning, he grabbed the front of her bra and ripped it open, the fabric snapping, the strap tearing off her shoulder.
Kriti gasped. “What the fuck...”
“You think that cheap costume makes you holy?” he growled, grabbing the thin thong next. “Sitting here dressed like this, acting above everyone?”
He tore it down her hips, shredding the waistband in one angry motion. The thong snapped off her ankle and hit the floor.
“You think you’re untouchable?” he spat. “Not tonight.”
Kriti lay naked now, completely exposed. Her breath shallow. The air hit her skin. Her nipples hardened. And still, she didn’t stop him.
She just looked up.
“You think this is revenge?” she said, steady. “Then do it.”
When he yanked his cock free, she glanced down, her lips parting slightly.
It was thick. Veiny. Uncut, no, wait. Circumcised.
Of course it was. Her mind flicked for half a second to what that meant. And she swallowed hard.
Her eyes met his again, but she didn’t say a word. Just lay back and opened her mouth.
Imran grunted and stepped closer. Her fingers wrapped around the base of his shaft. She stroked him slowly, then opened her mouth and let the head slide over her lips.
She sucked him lying flat, one hand gripping his thigh as his cock filled her mouth. Her eyes stayed locked on his as she bobbed her head in rhythm, spit pooling at the corners of her lips.
quick foto app
Imran looked down at her, the golden girl of Hindi cinema, the sweet, delicate brand ambassador of virtue, now choking on the cock of a drunken spot boy from the crew. The irony made his balls tighten.
He growled, grabbing her hair. “Fucking hell… look at you. Miss fucking high-class taking dick like a street slut.”
Kriti moaned around his length, taking him deeper. Her thighs rubbed together. Her free hand slid up to cup her own breast.
“You’ve had this in your head for years, haven’t you?” she said between strokes. “Choking me. Owning me. Like a good little pervert.”
He watched her, the same face that had played Sita on screen, the same delicate mouth now stretched around a cock she wouldn’t have even acknowledged a few hours ago.
She gagged, spit trailing down her chin. And he felt it, not just lust, but power. A shift.
She used to walk past him like he didn’t exist. Now she was naked, slobbering on his cock.
He slapped her cheek lightly with his cock. “You got no idea how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about your mouth, you arrogant bitch.”
She smiled. “And now it’s in it.”
Imran gritted his teeth. “Shut the fuck up and take it.”
He shoved deeper, her head pushing into the mattress, hips lifting slightly to help the angle. Her eyes teared up. Spit coated her chin. But she didn’t resist, she moaned louder.
The sound of her gagging echoed in the suite. Her purple lingerie clung to her breasts, her nipples poking through. Her thong was soaked through.
Imran pulled out with a wet pop, panting.
“Turn the fuck around. Let’s see how Bollywood ass takes cock.”
Kriti didn’t speak.
She just rolled onto her stomach, then slowly pushed herself up on all fours, head low, ass high. The satin sheets rippled beneath her knees. The tiny purple thong clung to her cheeks, riding into the crack.
Imran stood behind her, breathing heavily, his cock glistening with her spit. He watched her spread for him, Kriti fucking Sanon, ass arched, silent, waiting to be used.
“Pull that down,” he ordered, voice hoarse.
She reached back and tugged the thong down her thighs, slow and quiet. Her bare ass came into full view, smooth, tight, round, the crease perfectly framed in the dim bedside lamp’s glow. Her asshole was tight, untouched, clenching with tension.
Imran spat directly on it.
She jolted.
“Fucking tense,” he muttered. “Loosen up. You’re the one who asked for it.”
He smeared the spit with two rough fingers, pressing lightly against her hole. She gasped and turned her head.
“That’s not lube.”
He grinned. “You didn’t say anything about lube, princess. You just said prove it.”
Then he pushed.
Just his tip, easing in, slow and deliberate. Kriti hissed through her teeth, gripping the sheets.
“Fuck...wait...fuck...”
He didn’t.
He held her hips and pushed further, inch by inch, until the head popped inside.
Kriti moaned sharply, eyes clenched shut. “Shit. That’s...fuck...”
“You ever had anything in there before?” Imran grunted, cock halfway in now, her asshole clenching tight around him.
“Finger, once,” she breathed. “Never this.”
“Good.”
He shoved the rest in.
Kriti’s back arched violently, her hands fisting the sheets as she gasped, the stretch overwhelming.
Imran held still for a second, letting her adjust.
Then he pulled back.
And slammed in.
Her cry was muffled by the sheets as he started pounding, hard, rough, deep, holding her by the waist like she was his personal fleshlight.
The bed rocked. The slap of his hips against her ass echoed through the room.
Kriti’s hair fell over her face. Drool slipped from her open mouth. Her words came in gasps.
“Oh my god....fuck...fucking hell...”
“You love this shit,” Imran growled, spanking her ass so hard it echoed. “All these years, acting so fucking proper. And now you’re getting ruined by the same guy who carries your bags.”
Kriti moaned harder. Her body shook with every thrust.
“Say it,” he barked, thrusting deep into her stretched hole. “Say who’s fucking your ass.”
“You are,” she gasped.
“Louder.”
“You are! Fuck....Imran...oh my god....”
“Who do you belong to right now?”
“You! Fucking you!”
As he slammed into her ass, he leaned down, voice dripping venom.
“This all that superstar training taught you? To take it like a cumdump? You think you’re too good to look at me, but now you’re nothing but a hole I’m using to empty years of fucking frustration.”
He spat again on her ass, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her head up roughly.
“You ever think your director would fuck you like this? Nah. They treat you like a goddess. I’m treating you like you deserve.”
He grunted, spit again on her asshole as he fucked it harder. She was crying now, eyes wet, voice broken, but not from pain. From release.
He suddenly pulled out.
Kriti collapsed forward, trembling, her ass red and gaping.
But he wasn’t done.
“Lie on your back,” he said, voice thick with need.
She rolled over, body limp, her lips parted, mascara smudged slightly. Her thighs trembled.
“Missionary?” she asked, voice weak.
“Still in your ass.”
She smirked. “Figured.”
Imran climbed onto the bed, grabbing her by the thighs and dragging her body toward him like she was a ragdoll. Kriti lay there on her back, long legs open, her thong still tangled around one ankle, purple velvet bra halfway slid off one shoulder. Her makeup was smudged now. Her hair messy. Her lips were wet and parted as she stared up at him, half in shock, half in disbelief at herself.
He didn’t waste time.
He shoved her knees back toward her chest, folding her up. Her ass lifted off the mattress, and her already-stretched hole came into view again, glistening from spit and sweat.
She moaned. “Don’t make me beg.”
“I don’t need you to,” he said.
And with one rough thrust, he was back inside her ass.
Kriti let out a sharp cry, her fingers digging into the sheets as he started fucking her in long, brutal strokes. Her thighs trembled with each impact, her entire body rocking beneath him. His weight pinned her down. His cock pounded into her ass like it belonged there.
“Fuck....Imran....slower,” she gasped.
“Why?” he sneered. “You wanted it. You’re gonna take all of it.”
She bit her lip, arched her back, and gave in.
He fucked her deeper.
Her tits bounced with every thrustt. Her head rolled side to side on the pillows, eyes fluttering. She was gasping, whimpering, her voice a mess.
“This isn’t what I....fuck....it’s so deep....”
“But you love it,” he growled. “Say it.”
Her eyes opened. Locked on him.
“I fucking love it.”
He looked down at her face, mascara streaked, lips swollen, arms thrown wide.
She still had that pride in her eyes, that unshakeable coldness.
Even now, he wasn’t her equal. He was just a cock. Just a tool she’d use to fuck the frustration out of her body.
But she didn’t stop him. She welcomed it.
He slammed harder. She screamed.
Her hands slid to her own breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples as he drilled into her ass over and over again.
The sound of skin slapping skin filled the suite.
Imran leaned down over her, hands beside her head, thrusting even deeper now.
“You know how many men would kill to be where I am right now?”
Kriti moaned, legs wrapping around his waist loosely.
“You know how many nights I’ve jerked off watching you smile on screen, imagining this exact fucking moment?”
She pulled his head down and kissed him, desperate, sloppy, filthy.
“Then don’t waste it,” she whispered against his lips. “Fucking ruin me.”
He did.
Imran finally pulled out, cock slick, her ass gaping and red, twitching slightly. Kriti lay there breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, arms limp above her head, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed.
She turned her head and looked at him with a fucked-out smile.
“That all you got?”
Imran grinned.
“You want more?”
She sat up slowly, wincing slightly, then rolled onto her knees and climbed over him as he leaned back against the pillows. Her body was flushed, glistening with sweat, makeup smeared under her eyes, her bra halfway off. She looked nothing like the poised red carpet version of herself, and she loved it.
She reached behind her, grabbed his cock, and positioned it at her asshole.
“I’m doing it now,” she whispered, voice raspy.
She slowly lowered herself down, hissing as the head pushed past her already sore rim.
“Shit…” she gasped. “Still so fucking big.”
He watched her, eyes locked on the way her ass spread wide as she impaled herself on his cock. Inch by inch, she took it, mouth open, sweat running down her chest.
She bottomed out with a loud groan.
And then she started riding.
Bouncing. Grinding. Taking every inch of him in her ass like she’d done it a hundred times.
Imran’s hands shot to her hips.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking possessed.”
Kriti threw her head back, hair flying, ass slapping down against his thighs again and again.
“You think I’m some princess, huh?” she panted, riding harder. “This is what I want. I want to be fucked like this. Used like this.”
Her hands moved to her tits, squeezing them roughly as she bounced up and down, making filthy squelching sounds every time his cock rammed into her ass.
As Kriti bounced on his cock, riding hard, Imran suddenly sat up, one hand gripping her throat.
“You used to walk past me like I was nothing. Now you’re bouncing on my dick like your life depends on it. Say it. Say you’re just a rich bitch getting ruined by the guy who carried her fucking makeup box.”
She didn’t flinch.
She moaned louder.
“Oh my god… this is insane…”
Imran was barely holding back. Her hole was gripping him tight, her motion wild, there was nothing elegant left.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re my fucking slut.”
She locked eyes with him, still bouncing.
“I’m your anal slut. Happy now?”
“Say it again.”
“I’m your fucking anal slut.”
She slammed down harder.
And then stopped.
Kriti slid off him slowly, her ass stretching as his cock slipped out with a wet, obscene sound. She was breathing heavily, face flushed, thighs slick with sweat, eyeliner smudged so perfectly it looked deliberate.
She turned around without a word.
Then climbed back on.
Her back to him now, she crouched low over his lap, reached between her cheeks, and guided his cock back to her hole, no hesitation.
“You better watch,” she said over her shoulder, voice low and hoarse. “Because this is the part you’re gonna jerk off to for the rest of your pathetic life.”
Imran didn’t respond. He was already staring, watching her asshole slowly swallow his cock again. Inch by inch, she sat back on him until he was buried deep inside, her ass stretched tight around him.
She started to ride.
Hard.
Aggressive.
Slapping down with each bounce, her back arching, her fingers in her hair, her thighs flexing with every grind.
Imran groaned. “Holy fuck....look at that ass.”
He smacked her ass, leaving red marks, then leaned up to spit between her cheeks again.
“You’re gonna go home tomorrow and post your perfect yoga reel while your ass is still loose from getting wrecked by the help.”
She looked back at him, sweat dripping down her spine.
“Keep your mouth shut and watch. That’s all you’re good for.”
He grabbed her hips and slammed up into her, matching her rhythm, her cheeks clapping against his thighs.
The view was unreal.
Her spine curving. Her ribs flaring. Her perfect actress body riding his cock deep into her ass like it was second nature.
She leaned forward slightly, changed her angle, and slammed herself down faster.
“Fuck fuck fuck....yes....this is what I needed,” she gasped. “No pussy. No slow shit. Just take my ass.”
Imran couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
His cock was buried in the ass of Kriti fucking Sanon, and she was riding him like a pornstar who’d gone completely off the rails.
Kriti bounced harder, back arched, her face distant like she wasn’t even here.
Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was just watching herself from the outside, a superstar actress, being used by someone she wouldn't even let inside her house, getting her ass split open by a spot boy she'd never even looked in the eye till tonight.
And yet she couldn’t stop. Her body was begging for more.
He slapped her ass hard.
She moaned louder and slammed down again.
“You ever show this side to your rich boyfriends?” he taunted, thrusting up into her.
“They don’t get my ass,” she spat back, twisting her hair into a messy ponytail.
Her tone was mocking, filthy, proud.
Kriti moaned louder, but her tone stayed clipped, cold.
“You’re not special, Imran. You’re just the first one I let do it.”
That pissed him off more. He grabbed her hips tighter and thrust up violently. He slapped her again, both cheeks this time.
“Then I’ll be the one you remember every time you sit down.”
She yelped and bounced harder.
Her voice broke into a mess of moans and curses as she ground her hips and fucked herself wild.
“You’re gonna cum?” she breathed.
“Close.”
She smiled.
“Then give it to me, dirty boy.” She dropped forward onto the bed, arching her back with his cock still deep in her ass, looking at him upside-down from between her own legs.
“All over my fucking face.”
Imran pulled out with a loud, wet slap, his cock twitching, soaked in spit and ass slick. Kriti collapsed forward onto the mattress, breathing like she’d run a marathon, her purple thong still tangled at her ankle, her bra pushed down around her waist, tits heaving.
She rolled over lazily, sprawled out on her back, her makeup wrecked, hair clinging to her damp forehead, a sheen of sweat over her entire glowing body.
She looked destroyed.
She looked perfect.
She spread her legs wide and looked at him from under half-lidded eyes.
“Come here,” she whispered, voice cracked. “Fucking do it. Finish it.”
Imran stood at the foot of the bed, stroking his cock fast, the muscles in his arms twitching. The sight of her, completely wrecked, makeup smeared, asshole red and leaking, was enough.
“Where do you want it?”
Kriti didn’t blink. She pushed her tits together, tilted her head back slightly.
“On my face. All of it.”
Then, after a pause: “Let everyone in your dirty little chawl imagine this tonight.”
That was it.
He groaned hard as the first rope of cum shot across her cheek, streaking into her hairline. The second hit her jaw. The third, thicker, splashed right across her lips and the bridge of her nose. More followed. Hot, messy, heavy.
By the time he was done, her entire face was glazed, cum dripping down her chin, a strand caught in her lashes, her mouth sticky and wet, lips parted, tongue half-out like she’d forgotten to close it.
Imran stepped back, breathing hard, cock twitching one last time.
And as she smeared the cum across her lips:
“You may still act like a queen, but tonight, you were my dirty fucking slut. That’s all you’ll ever be when you think of this.”
Kriti just lay there, completely motionless for a moment. Then slowly, she dragged a finger through the mess on her lips… and sucked it into her mouth.
She smiled.
“So…” she exhaled, still licking at the corner of her mouth. “That’s what revenge tastes like.”
Imran laughed dry, shocked, almost breathless.
She tilted her cum-slicked face toward him.
“Now pick up your pants, spot boy,” she murmured, smirking.
“And get the fuck out before I ask for round two.”
Make this slut wear a bunny girl black outfitAlia Bhatt Anal Pounding
Amazing story 👏🏻DEEPIKA's GOLDEN TRAP
The heat off the cracked pavement shimmered like smoke. It was the kind of industrial neighborhood Deepika Padukone had never stood in without a security perimeter, stylists, and a sprinter van within ten feet. Broken fences. Rusted containers. Potholes full of piss. A place meant for stray dogs and stolen copper, not Bollywood royalty.
But here she was.
The derelict factory was part of the location for an item number—some gritty Indo-American project trying to blend "realness" with box office bait. She didn’t even care about the plot. It was just another “strategic appearance.” Show face. Look hot. Leave.
She stood near the loading dock, breathing hard from the last take. Her body shimmered under studio oil. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady heaves, the sweat trickling down between her breasts under the harsh sunset.
Her outfit was obscene. A gold lingerie set custom-made in Milan: sculpted bra cups barely covering her dark nipples, shimmering gold panties held by razor-thin straps biting into her hips. She was barefoot—on purpose. Grit stuck to her ankles. Her dark brown hair, streaked with heavy blonde highlights, clung to her slick back and shoulders like wet silk.
She lit a cigarette with fingers still twitching from adrenaline. The crew was shouting about lights again. Delays. She didn’t care. She liked being out here, away from the spotlight, away from the handlers. Away from being polished.
Her mind was already gone—back to Mumbai. Back to Ranveer. The endless noise. The act. The fucking performative chaos of their public life. He hadn’t touched her right in months. All talk, no heat. All Instagram, no instinct.
God, I’m so tired of being worshipped. Someone just grab me. Use me. Fuck me. Break me.
She took another drag and closed her eyes.
Then—footsteps.
Not casual. Not accidental. Just heavy. Direct. Like they didn’t care if she heard.
She turned.
A man was coming straight at her. Black tank top. Baggy jeans. Black Timberlands. Broad as a doorway. Arms thick with ink. Eyes dead-flat. No smile. No question. Just approach.
“Yo,” he said. His voice was low. Flat. East Coast gravel. “You really out here wearin’ that like you safe?”
Deepika raised one eyebrow, shifting her weight. No smile. No step back—yet.
“Excuse me?”
He didn’t even flinch. His eyes raked her from head to toe. Her neck. Her oiled tits behind barely-there gold. Her ribs. Her waist. The razor straps digging into her hips. The triangle covering her pussy. Her thighs. Her bare, dirty feet.
Then he looked back up. Unimpressed. Or maybe just hungry.
“You look like a fuckin’ gift,” he said. “All that glitter. All that skin. Just walkin’ around like nobody’s gonna take it.”
jpeg to img
She stepped back, instinct rising.
“You need to go. This is a closed—”
She didn’t finish.
His hand came fast, brutal, slamming across her face and wrapping around her mouth in one motion. Her cigarette flew. Her scream caught in his palm. He grabbed the base of her skull with his other hand and shoved her body into his chest so hard her breath left her.
She kicked—hard—but he lifted her like a duffel bag, one arm hooked under her knees, the other around her shoulders. Her entire weight was nothing to him.
He didn’t whisper. Didn’t warn. Just moved.
He slammed her into the corner of a building, shoulder first, her cheek scraped brick. She thrashed but he drove a knee between her thighs and pinned her hard to the wall. She gasped against his palm.
She didn’t even see the truck until he threw her into it—a violent, spine-jarring toss that left her flat on her stomach across the torn leather seat. She scrambled, slipping on her own oiled skin.
He reached in, grabbed her ankle, and yanked her into the footwell. Then slammed the door so hard the whole truck shook.
She twisted upright just as he jumped into the driver’s side, the cab rocking under his weight.
“Let me the fuck go!” she snapped, slamming her fists on the locked door.
He didn’t even glance over.
“You walked through my block dressed like a joke,” he muttered, slamming the truck into gear. “Now you’re the punchline.”
She kicked at the window. It didn’t budge.
“You’re fucking insane!”
He chuckled under his breath. “Nah. I just take what’s already beggin’ to be taken.”
He didn’t punch her. Didn’t shout. But his calm was scarier than anything. One hand on the wheel. The other rested across his lap, fingers twitching—casual. Controlled. Coiled.
She stared at him. His arms flexed with each turn. His neck glistened with sweat. The veins ran thick down to his knuckles.
He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t care. Didn’t ask.
And that did something to her.
He doesn’t see Deepika Padukone. He sees a body. A sexy bitch. That’s it. That’s all. And that’s…
Her thighs squeezed.
…that’s what I want. I want to disappear. I want to be ruined.
She bit her lip, not from fear now—but from need.
The truck barreled up a dirt road, the tires coughing dust. The trees thickened around them, pine shadows slicing the sunset. No signs. No lights. No people. Just raw, endless woods.
Deepika sat curled in the passenger seat, pressed against the door. Her knees pulled up. Her gold panties dug into her hips. Her bra straps had shifted, leaving one nipple exposed. She didn’t fix it.
He hadn’t spoken since they left. He didn’t touch her again either. That scared her more.
He didn’t need to threaten her. The silence was the threat.
The truck screeched to a stop beside a weathered wooden cabin. One story. Tin roof. No porch light. No lock on the door. There were dents in the side. A broken generator rattled in the back.
He got out. Slammed the door. Came around.
She braced herself.
He yanked open the door, grabbed her by the elbow, and dragged her out like she was a sack of laundry. Her feet hit dirt. She stumbled. He didn’t wait. He hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her like nothing, hauling her against his chest as she kicked and fought.
“Let me—!”
He cut her off with a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding—tight enough to say, I could.
“Shut the fuck up.”
She did.
He shoved her toward the front door, her bare feet slipping on the cracked wood steps. When she didn’t move fast enough, he grabbed the back of her neck and steered her like a dog, fingers digging into her spine.
Inside was worse. Dark. Sparse. One stained mattress on the floor. A splintered table. A coil of rope hanging from a hook. Her breath caught.
He didn’t even pause.
He slammed through a second set of doors—the back. They burst open onto a wide balcony. The air turned cooler. Trees stretched below them. A mountain ridge cut the horizon. And in the middle of it all…
A white bed. Queen-sized. Thick linens. Mosquito netting pulled back and tied. Framed like it was waiting for her.
“Get up there.”
She blinked.
“What?”
He didn’t repeat himself. He grabbed her wrist, spun her, and shoved her forward. Her body hit the bed hard—chest down, ass up.
“Stand up on it,” he growled, voice low, heavy. “Now.”
She pushed up slowly, arms shaking. She turned around. Faced him.
Her chest rose and fell. Her hair stuck to her shoulders. Her legs trembled.
This is happening. He’s going to do it. Right here. Right now.
“Gonna stare or fuck?” she whispered, defiant.
He smirked and stepped forward. In one motion, he grabbed the front of her gold bra and ripped it clean off. Her tits bounced free—slick, round, marked from his grip.
She gasped.
He threw the torn bra off the edge of the balcony.
“Lose the rest,” he said. “Slow.”
Her fingers reached for the gold panties. Her hands shook. She turned around, bent over, and peeled them down inch by inch, giving him the view. Her ass bare. Her pussy slick. Her thighs trembling.
She stepped out of them and dropped them.
Then turned back around. Naked. Marked. Glowing in the last of the light.
He was already undoing his jeans. His cock swung out—half-hard and still longer than anything she’d seen, fat veins pulsing. It hung heavy and ready.
“On your knees,” he said, voice like gravel.
She dropped. Her knees landed hard. She didn’t complain.
He stepped forward. She didn’t reach for it.
He grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back, and slapped the thick shaft across her cheek.
“You suck this, you don’t stop until I cum. You choke, you keep going. Got it?”
She looked up, eyes wide, lips parted.
“Yes.”
He shoved his cock into her face.
Her lips parted, and Tyrese didn’t wait.
He drove the tip straight into her mouth, one hand tangled in her highlighted hair, the other gripping the back of her skull like a handle. No warm-up. No teasing. Just force.
She gagged instantly. Her throat spasmed. Saliva spilled from the corners of her mouth.
He didn’t stop.
“Yeah, take it,” he growled. “Don’t act like this ain’t what you came out here for. You dressed for this. Now suck like it matters.”
Deepika blinked up at him, eyes already watering. Her jaw stretched painfully around the thick head. His cock throbbed heavy on her tongue. Her nose buried in the trimmed hair at the base. He was in deep.
Her hands braced on his thighs, trying to control the angle. He slapped them away.
“Keep ‘em behind your back.”
She obeyed. Slowly folded her arms behind her. Surrendered.
He set the rhythm now—hips pumping with short, brutal thrusts. The wet sound of her sucking filled the quiet forest air. Her mascara ran. Her breath came in chokes and wheezes as she gagged and swallowed and tried to keep up.
Spit poured down her chin, coating her sweaty tits. Snot dripped from her nose, stringing down to her breasts. Her knees slipped slightly on the now-damp sheet.
I can’t breathe… fuck, I can’t even breathe… he’s going to tear my throat open…
But her pussy throbbed. Her thighs squeezed together. Her nipples stood harder than ever.
I’m a fucking mess… and I love it.
He gripped the base of his shaft, pulled out halfway, and slapped it across her tongue.
“Open wide. Stick it out.”
She obeyed. Tongue flat. Mouth drooling. Eyes raw.
He slapped her face with his cock once, twice, hard—leaving streaks of spit and pre-cum across her cheek.
“Pretty mouth don’t mean shit out here,” he muttered. “You earn your place.”
Then he shoved it back in.
Deeper. Harder. Rougher. He held her head steady now and fucked her throat like a pussy—fast, unforgiving. Her eyes rolled back. Her arms shook behind her. She let out a half-sob, but didn’t stop.
He moaned low. “Yeah, cry on it. That’s what this dick’s for. Bollywood tears down my shaft.”
She choked again, and this time he didn’t stop when she tried to pull away. He held her head in place, groaning as he stuffed her throat full, watching her gag around him, throat bulging, mouth stretched.
“Fuck yes. You’re gonna pass out on this dick.”
Her chest convulsed, her fists clenched, and then—
He pulled out.
A long, thick string of spit and cum-tinged drool clung from his cock to her lower lip. She coughed, gasped for air, mascara now fully smeared down both cheeks.
Her voice was shredded.
“I’m gonna ruin my lungs before I ruin my pussy.”
He smirked and slapped his cock against her lips again.
“Then shut the fuck up and flip over.”
She obeyed, trembling—her throat raw, her hair soaked, her chest rising and falling fast.
Deepika was still catching her breath when Tyrese grabbed her by the waist and flipped her face-down like she was nothing.
“Get your ass up.”
She grunted, trying to catch herself, but his palm landed hard across her ass—one slap, two, three, each one louder than the last. Her skin bloomed with red heat.
“Higher.”
She obeyed on instinct—knees wide, elbows down, back arched. Her thighs trembled.
He knelt behind her and grabbed both her hips like handles, digging his thumbs deep into her flesh. Then he spat right on her pussy, watched it drip, and smeared it in with two fingers, spreading her lips apart like he was inspecting meat.
“You soaked, bitch. Didn’t even need to fuckin’ touch you.”
She moaned, shame twisting in her gut—but not enough to stop the way she pushed back against his fingers.
He sucked his teeth, lined up, and in one savage motion, slammed his cock into her.
She screamed.
The sound punched out of her lungs—loud, raw, unfiltered.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t wait. He grabbed her braid, yanked her head back, and started pounding her like an animal. Every thrust made the bed creak, the sheet slide, the air split with wet smacks and choked sobs.
“Yeah, you feel that? That’s real dick. That’s what you’ve been beggin’ for in those shiny little panties.”
Her hands scrambled to find the edge of the mattress. Her knees slipped, but he pulled her back into place like she was furniture—adjusted her position mid-thrust to get deeper, harder.
Her body jolted forward with every thrust, her ass rippling from the impact.
She cried out again, face pressed into the mattress.
He’s splitting me open. He’s using me like I’m not even real. And I’ve never wanted anything more.
He slapped her ass again, this time with a low grunt.
“You make that noise every time, I’m gonna fuckin’ leave you leaking all over my truck.”
She moaned like an animal. “Yes… please… don’t stop… ruin me…”
“You don’t get to beg,” he growled. “You just get used.”
He changed angles, grabbing one of her thighs and yanking her open wider, spreading her until her hip popped. Then he drove in deeper, bottoming out, his balls slapping her clit loud and wet.
“Yeah, that’s the spot,” he growled. “You feel that, slut? That’s the spot your husband never found.”
She tried to nod, eyes blurred from tears. Her mouth opened but no words came—just sounds. Raw. Broken. Filthy.
Then—he pulled out.
She collapsed forward, sobbing into the sheet, her thighs sticky with spit and cum.
But Tyrese wasn’t done.
He grabbed her by the throat, hauled her upright, and shoved her onto her back.
“Round two,” he muttered. “Time to see what them hips can do.”
Tyrese shoved her down flat on her back.
Her spine hit the mattress hard. Before she could even blink, he grabbed both her ankles and yanked her downward, dragging her body so her hips met the edge of the bed with a bounce.
She gasped.
He stood over her, cock glistening with spit and slick. His eyes scanned her—legs spread, stomach rising and falling, tits heaving.
“Thought you said you could ride,” he muttered, jerking his cock slowly, watching it throb. “Let’s see if that mouth wrote a check your pussy can cash.”
Deepika pushed up on trembling elbows. Her skin was flushed, marked, red at the wrists and thighs. Her voice came hoarse:
“I ride better than anyone you’ve ever had.”
He grinned, dark and dismissive. “Yeah? Prove it.”
She rolled onto her hands and knees, straddling him as he fell back into the mattress. Her knees spread, her thighs already shaking. She reached back, gripped the base of his cock, and angled it up beneath her.
She didn’t lower herself slowly.
She slammed down—gritting her teeth as her pussy split open around his girth. She cried out loud, half in pain, half in disbelief.
“Fuck… you’re still so deep…”
“Keep goin’,” he barked, grabbing her hips tight. “I don’t give a fuck if it hurts.”
Her hands dug into his chest for balance. She lifted. Dropped. Again. The sound of their bodies clapping echoed off the mountain air.
Her tits bounced hard with every thrust. Her hair flew across her face as she started to grind harder, finding rhythm.
He leaned forward suddenly, bit her nipple, making her yelp.
She grabbed his face.
“You want a show?” she panted. “Watch this.”
She arched her back and rolled her hips, squeezing him inside her, drawing a moan from his chest.
His eyes narrowed. “Smart mouth for a bitch who’s barely holdin’ on.”
He sat up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and slammed her down harder, using his strength to bounce her on his cock like a toy.
“Thought this was your scene? Nah, bitch. You don’t ride. You get used.”
She clawed at his shoulders as he bounced her, her voice cracking:
“Oh god… oh fuck yes… yes—use me, fuck—”
He grabbed her ass and pulled her cheeks apart, spat down between them, then kept pumping.
She was moaning wildly now. Filthy. Loud.
“You feel that?” she cried. “You feel my pussy milking you?”
He growled, slapped her ass.
“I feel you losin’ your mind.”
And she was.
Her thighs shook uncontrollably. Her body seized up. Her moans turned high, frantic.
“I’m gonna cum—oh fuck I’m gonna—”
He let her.
He kept her bouncing, one hand on her throat. Her entire body spasmed in his grip as she came, pussy clenching around him like a vice.
But he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause.
Instead—he shoved her off, rolled her like she was weightless, and pulled her into his chest.
“Now let’s see what that pussy feels like when you ain't on top.”
He pulled her against him roughly—his arm hooking beneath her knee, yanking her sideways into a spooned position before she could catch her breath. Her back slammed into his chest, her soaked thigh thrown wide open over his leg.
She whimpered, her body limp.
Her pussy was still fluttering from orgasm, raw and wet, but he didn’t care.
He lined up and slammed into her from behind, hips snapping forward so hard her shoulder jerked off the mattress.
She cried out—loud, hoarse, wrecked.
“Fuck—wait—”
He grabbed her jaw mid-sentence and squeezed, hard enough to leave fingerprints.
“No. You don’t wait. You take what I give you.”
His other arm wrapped around her torso, gripping her tit like a handle, jerking her backward into each thrust. The force of his rhythm was pure dominance—deep, relentless, raw. Her entire body jolted with every stroke.
“You don’t get breaks,” he hissed in her ear. “You’re just a warm hole with a name I don’t give a fuck about.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered shut.
He doesn’t care who I am. He doesn’t care what I’ve done. I’m just a thing. A hole. A place for him to empty himself.
Her shame burned hot across her face… and made her even wetter.
He bit down on her neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and growled, “Say it.”
She moaned, breathless.
“Say what?”
“Say what you are.”
She choked. Then whispered:
“I’m yours.”
He slammed in deeper.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours,” she gasped. “All of me. Pussy… mouth… everything. Just take it.”
Her own voice sounded like someone else’s. Desperate. Shaky. Broken.
He didn’t let up.
He brought his hand between her legs and started rubbing her clit, fast, hard, without rhythm—not to please her, but to break her.
She arched, writhing.
“I can’t—oh fuck—I can’t—”
“You’re gonna cum again. And again. Until I say stop.”
And she did.
Her body convulsed violently, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her pussy clenched around his cock like it was trying to lock him in. She spasmed in his grip, her arms useless, her legs jerking.
He held her still through all of it. Never stopping. Never loosening his grip.
When she stopped shaking, he pulled out with a loud, wet slap. Her thighs twitched. She was leaking down onto the white sheets, ruined.
But he wasn’t done.
He grabbed her waist and yanked her upright like a ragdoll. She whimpered, no strength left to resist. He flipped her around and shoved her back down, this time facing away from him.
“Last one, slut. Bounce.”
She barely had control over her own legs, but she obeyed. She reached between them, guided his cock back into her soaked hole, and lowered herself, groaning loudly as she took every inch.
She started riding.
Her movements were messy now. Sloppy. Desperate. Her ass bounced unevenly, slick skin smacking down against his thighs. Her pussy made loud, lewd noises with every thrust.
Her hands trembled as she braced on his knees.
“Move,” he growled. “This ain’t a vacation.”
She picked up the pace, ass bouncing wildly now, her sweat spraying, her breath erratic.
He reached up, grabbed both her ass cheeks, and spread them wide. Spat on her asshole again. Watched himself disappear inside her pussy over and over, growling under his breath.
“You’re my favorite fuckin’ toy now. You realize that, right?”
She looked over her shoulder, face wrecked, cum and spit drying on her throat.
“Do it,” she begged. “Cum on me. Anywhere. Just—fucking—mark me.”
“Beg better.”
She dropped to her knees, spun around, tongue out, mouth open, hair stuck to her face.
“Please,” she gasped. “I want your cum. All over me. I want to smell like you. Look like you fucked me raw. Mark me. Ruin me.”
He stood over her, cock in hand, stroking fast.
“Don’t blink.”
He grunted—deep, animal—and let go.
Hot ropes of cum exploded across her face. One thick streak across her cheek. Another on her nose. A third landed right between her tits. Then more—splattering her lips, her chin, everything.
She didn’t move. Didn’t wipe.
She just sat there.
Covered.
Dripping.
Breathing.
Smiling.
“Fuck…” she whispered.
He looked down at her like he owned her.
“You look better now than you ever did on screen.”
Never gooned to this rand but after this post bro 💦💦 there no sense leftDEEPIKA's GOLDEN TRAP
The heat off the cracked pavement shimmered like smoke. It was the kind of industrial neighborhood Deepika Padukone had never stood in without a security perimeter, stylists, and a sprinter van within ten feet. Broken fences. Rusted containers. Potholes full of piss. A place meant for stray dogs and stolen copper, not Bollywood royalty.
But here she was.
The derelict factory was part of the location for an item number—some gritty Indo-American project trying to blend "realness" with box office bait. She didn’t even care about the plot. It was just another “strategic appearance.” Show face. Look hot. Leave.
She stood near the loading dock, breathing hard from the last take. Her body shimmered under studio oil. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady heaves, the sweat trickling down between her breasts under the harsh sunset.
Her outfit was obscene. A gold lingerie set custom-made in Milan: sculpted bra cups barely covering her dark nipples, shimmering gold panties held by razor-thin straps biting into her hips. She was barefoot—on purpose. Grit stuck to her ankles. Her dark brown hair, streaked with heavy blonde highlights, clung to her slick back and shoulders like wet silk.
She lit a cigarette with fingers still twitching from adrenaline. The crew was shouting about lights again. Delays. She didn’t care. She liked being out here, away from the spotlight, away from the handlers. Away from being polished.
Her mind was already gone—back to Mumbai. Back to Ranveer. The endless noise. The act. The fucking performative chaos of their public life. He hadn’t touched her right in months. All talk, no heat. All Instagram, no instinct.
God, I’m so tired of being worshipped. Someone just grab me. Use me. Fuck me. Break me.
She took another drag and closed her eyes.
Then—footsteps.
Not casual. Not accidental. Just heavy. Direct. Like they didn’t care if she heard.
She turned.
A man was coming straight at her. Black tank top. Baggy jeans. Black Timberlands. Broad as a doorway. Arms thick with ink. Eyes dead-flat. No smile. No question. Just approach.
“Yo,” he said. His voice was low. Flat. East Coast gravel. “You really out here wearin’ that like you safe?”
Deepika raised one eyebrow, shifting her weight. No smile. No step back—yet.
“Excuse me?”
He didn’t even flinch. His eyes raked her from head to toe. Her neck. Her oiled tits behind barely-there gold. Her ribs. Her waist. The razor straps digging into her hips. The triangle covering her pussy. Her thighs. Her bare, dirty feet.
Then he looked back up. Unimpressed. Or maybe just hungry.
“You look like a fuckin’ gift,” he said. “All that glitter. All that skin. Just walkin’ around like nobody’s gonna take it.”
She stepped back, instinct rising.
“You need to go. This is a closed—”
She didn’t finish.
His hand came fast, brutal, slamming across her face and wrapping around her mouth in one motion. Her cigarette flew. Her scream caught in his palm. He grabbed the base of her skull with his other hand and shoved her body into his chest so hard her breath left her.
She kicked—hard—but he lifted her like a duffel bag, one arm hooked under her knees, the other around her shoulders. Her entire weight was nothing to him.
He didn’t whisper. Didn’t warn. Just moved.
He slammed her into the corner of a building, shoulder first, her cheek scraped brick. She thrashed but he drove a knee between her thighs and pinned her hard to the wall. She gasped against his palm.
She didn’t even see the truck until he threw her into it—a violent, spine-jarring toss that left her flat on her stomach across the torn leather seat. She scrambled, slipping on her own oiled skin.
He reached in, grabbed her ankle, and yanked her into the footwell. Then slammed the door so hard the whole truck shook.
She twisted upright just as he jumped into the driver’s side, the cab rocking under his weight.
“Let me the fuck go!” she snapped, slamming her fists on the locked door.
He didn’t even glance over.
“You walked through my block dressed like a joke,” he muttered, slamming the truck into gear. “Now you’re the punchline.”
She kicked at the window. It didn’t budge.
“You’re fucking insane!”
He chuckled under his breath. “Nah. I just take what’s already beggin’ to be taken.”
He didn’t punch her. Didn’t shout. But his calm was scarier than anything. One hand on the wheel. The other rested across his lap, fingers twitching—casual. Controlled. Coiled.
She stared at him. His arms flexed with each turn. His neck glistened with sweat. The veins ran thick down to his knuckles.
He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t care. Didn’t ask.
And that did something to her.
He doesn’t see Deepika Padukone. He sees a body. A sexy bitch. That’s it. That’s all. And that’s…
Her thighs squeezed.
…that’s what I want. I want to disappear. I want to be ruined.
She bit her lip, not from fear now—but from need.
The truck barreled up a dirt road, the tires coughing dust. The trees thickened around them, pine shadows slicing the sunset. No signs. No lights. No people. Just raw, endless woods.
Deepika sat curled in the passenger seat, pressed against the door. Her knees pulled up. Her gold panties dug into her hips. Her bra straps had shifted, leaving one nipple exposed. She didn’t fix it.
He hadn’t spoken since they left. He didn’t touch her again either. That scared her more.
He didn’t need to threaten her. The silence was the threat.
The truck screeched to a stop beside a weathered wooden cabin. One story. Tin roof. No porch light. No lock on the door. There were dents in the side. A broken generator rattled in the back.
He got out. Slammed the door. Came around.
She braced herself.
He yanked open the door, grabbed her by the elbow, and dragged her out like she was a sack of laundry. Her feet hit dirt. She stumbled. He didn’t wait. He hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her like nothing, hauling her against his chest as she kicked and fought.
“Let me—!”
He cut her off with a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding—tight enough to say, I could.
“Shut the fuck up.”
She did.
He shoved her toward the front door, her bare feet slipping on the cracked wood steps. When she didn’t move fast enough, he grabbed the back of her neck and steered her like a dog, fingers digging into her spine.
Inside was worse. Dark. Sparse. One stained mattress on the floor. A splintered table. A coil of rope hanging from a hook. Her breath caught.
He didn’t even pause.
He slammed through a second set of doors—the back. They burst open onto a wide balcony. The air turned cooler. Trees stretched below them. A mountain ridge cut the horizon. And in the middle of it all…
A white bed. Queen-sized. Thick linens. Mosquito netting pulled back and tied. Framed like it was waiting for her.
“Get up there.”
She blinked.
“What?”
He didn’t repeat himself. He grabbed her wrist, spun her, and shoved her forward. Her body hit the bed hard—chest down, ass up.
“Stand up on it,” he growled, voice low, heavy. “Now.”
She pushed up slowly, arms shaking. She turned around. Faced him.
Her chest rose and fell. Her hair stuck to her shoulders. Her legs trembled.
This is happening. He’s going to do it. Right here. Right now.
“Gonna stare or fuck?” she whispered, defiant.
He smirked and stepped forward. In one motion, he grabbed the front of her gold bra and ripped it clean off. Her tits bounced free—slick, round, marked from his grip.
She gasped.
He threw the torn bra off the edge of the balcony.
“Lose the rest,” he said. “Slow.”
Her fingers reached for the gold panties. Her hands shook. She turned around, bent over, and peeled them down inch by inch, giving him the view. Her ass bare. Her pussy slick. Her thighs trembling.
She stepped out of them and dropped them.
Then turned back around. Naked. Marked. Glowing in the last of the light.
He was already undoing his jeans. His cock swung out—half-hard and still longer than anything she’d seen, fat veins pulsing. It hung heavy and ready.
“On your knees,” he said, voice like gravel.
She dropped. Her knees landed hard. She didn’t complain.
He stepped forward. She didn’t reach for it.
He grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back, and slapped the thick shaft across her cheek.
“You suck this, you don’t stop until I cum. You choke, you keep going. Got it?”
She looked up, eyes wide, lips parted.
“Yes.”
He shoved his cock into her face.
Her lips parted, and Tyrese didn’t wait.
He drove the tip straight into her mouth, one hand tangled in her highlighted hair, the other gripping the back of her skull like a handle. No warm-up. No teasing. Just force.
She gagged instantly. Her throat spasmed. Saliva spilled from the corners of her mouth.
He didn’t stop.
“Yeah, take it,” he growled. “Don’t act like this ain’t what you came out here for. You dressed for this. Now suck like it matters.”
Deepika blinked up at him, eyes already watering. Her jaw stretched painfully around the thick head. His cock throbbed heavy on her tongue. Her nose buried in the trimmed hair at the base. He was in deep.
Her hands braced on his thighs, trying to control the angle. He slapped them away.
“Keep ‘em behind your back.”
She obeyed. Slowly folded her arms behind her. Surrendered.
He set the rhythm now—hips pumping with short, brutal thrusts. The wet sound of her sucking filled the quiet forest air. Her mascara ran. Her breath came in chokes and wheezes as she gagged and swallowed and tried to keep up.
Spit poured down her chin, coating her sweaty tits. Snot dripped from her nose, stringing down to her breasts. Her knees slipped slightly on the now-damp sheet.
I can’t breathe… fuck, I can’t even breathe… he’s going to tear my throat open…
But her pussy throbbed. Her thighs squeezed together. Her nipples stood harder than ever.
I’m a fucking mess… and I love it.
He gripped the base of his shaft, pulled out halfway, and slapped it across her tongue.
“Open wide. Stick it out.”
She obeyed. Tongue flat. Mouth drooling. Eyes raw.
He slapped her face with his cock once, twice, hard—leaving streaks of spit and pre-cum across her cheek.
“Pretty mouth don’t mean shit out here,” he muttered. “You earn your place.”
Then he shoved it back in.
Deeper. Harder. Rougher. He held her head steady now and fucked her throat like a pussy—fast, unforgiving. Her eyes rolled back. Her arms shook behind her. She let out a half-sob, but didn’t stop.
He moaned low. “Yeah, cry on it. That’s what this dick’s for. Bollywood tears down my shaft.”
She choked again, and this time he didn’t stop when she tried to pull away. He held her head in place, groaning as he stuffed her throat full, watching her gag around him, throat bulging, mouth stretched.
“Fuck yes. You’re gonna pass out on this dick.”
Her chest convulsed, her fists clenched, and then—
He pulled out.
A long, thick string of spit and cum-tinged drool clung from his cock to her lower lip. She coughed, gasped for air, mascara now fully smeared down both cheeks.
Her voice was shredded.
“I’m gonna ruin my lungs before I ruin my pussy.”
He smirked and slapped his cock against her lips again.
“Then shut the fuck up and flip over.”
She obeyed, trembling—her throat raw, her hair soaked, her chest rising and falling fast.
Deepika was still catching her breath when Tyrese grabbed her by the waist and flipped her face-down like she was nothing.
“Get your ass up.”
She grunted, trying to catch herself, but his palm landed hard across her ass—one slap, two, three, each one louder than the last. Her skin bloomed with red heat.
“Higher.”
She obeyed on instinct—knees wide, elbows down, back arched. Her thighs trembled.
He knelt behind her and grabbed both her hips like handles, digging his thumbs deep into her flesh. Then he spat right on her pussy, watched it drip, and smeared it in with two fingers, spreading her lips apart like he was inspecting meat.
“You soaked, bitch. Didn’t even need to fuckin’ touch you.”
She moaned, shame twisting in her gut—but not enough to stop the way she pushed back against his fingers.
He sucked his teeth, lined up, and in one savage motion, slammed his cock into her.
She screamed.
The sound punched out of her lungs—loud, raw, unfiltered.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t wait. He grabbed her braid, yanked her head back, and started pounding her like an animal. Every thrust made the bed creak, the sheet slide, the air split with wet smacks and choked sobs.
“Yeah, you feel that? That’s real dick. That’s what you’ve been beggin’ for in those shiny little panties.”
Her hands scrambled to find the edge of the mattress. Her knees slipped, but he pulled her back into place like she was furniture—adjusted her position mid-thrust to get deeper, harder.
Her body jolted forward with every thrust, her ass rippling from the impact.
She cried out again, face pressed into the mattress.
He’s splitting me open. He’s using me like I’m not even real. And I’ve never wanted anything more.
He slapped her ass again, this time with a low grunt.
“You make that noise every time, I’m gonna fuckin’ leave you leaking all over my truck.”
She moaned like an animal. “Yes… please… don’t stop… ruin me…”
“You don’t get to beg,” he growled. “You just get used.”
He changed angles, grabbing one of her thighs and yanking her open wider, spreading her until her hip popped. Then he drove in deeper, bottoming out, his balls slapping her clit loud and wet.
“Yeah, that’s the spot,” he growled. “You feel that, slut? That’s the spot your husband never found.”
She tried to nod, eyes blurred from tears. Her mouth opened but no words came—just sounds. Raw. Broken. Filthy.
Then—he pulled out.
She collapsed forward, sobbing into the sheet, her thighs sticky with spit and cum.
But Tyrese wasn’t done.
He grabbed her by the throat, hauled her upright, and shoved her onto her back.
“Round two,” he muttered. “Time to see what them hips can do.”
Tyrese shoved her down flat on her back.
Her spine hit the mattress hard. Before she could even blink, he grabbed both her ankles and yanked her downward, dragging her body so her hips met the edge of the bed with a bounce.
She gasped.
He stood over her, cock glistening with spit and slick. His eyes scanned her—legs spread, stomach rising and falling, tits heaving.
“Thought you said you could ride,” he muttered, jerking his cock slowly, watching it throb. “Let’s see if that mouth wrote a check your pussy can cash.”
Deepika pushed up on trembling elbows. Her skin was flushed, marked, red at the wrists and thighs. Her voice came hoarse:
“I ride better than anyone you’ve ever had.”
He grinned, dark and dismissive. “Yeah? Prove it.”
She rolled onto her hands and knees, straddling him as he fell back into the mattress. Her knees spread, her thighs already shaking. She reached back, gripped the base of his cock, and angled it up beneath her.
She didn’t lower herself slowly.
She slammed down—gritting her teeth as her pussy split open around his girth. She cried out loud, half in pain, half in disbelief.
“Fuck… you’re still so deep…”
“Keep goin’,” he barked, grabbing her hips tight. “I don’t give a fuck if it hurts.”
Her hands dug into his chest for balance. She lifted. Dropped. Again. The sound of their bodies clapping echoed off the mountain air.
Her tits bounced hard with every thrust. Her hair flew across her face as she started to grind harder, finding rhythm.
He leaned forward suddenly, bit her nipple, making her yelp.
She grabbed his face.
“You want a show?” she panted. “Watch this.”
She arched her back and rolled her hips, squeezing him inside her, drawing a moan from his chest.
His eyes narrowed. “Smart mouth for a bitch who’s barely holdin’ on.”
He sat up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and slammed her down harder, using his strength to bounce her on his cock like a toy.
“Thought this was your scene? Nah, bitch. You don’t ride. You get used.”
She clawed at his shoulders as he bounced her, her voice cracking:
“Oh god… oh fuck yes… yes—use me, fuck—”
He grabbed her ass and pulled her cheeks apart, spat down between them, then kept pumping.
She was moaning wildly now. Filthy. Loud.
“You feel that?” she cried. “You feel my pussy milking you?”
He growled, slapped her ass.
“I feel you losin’ your mind.”
And she was.
Her thighs shook uncontrollably. Her body seized up. Her moans turned high, frantic.
“I’m gonna cum—oh fuck I’m gonna—”
He let her.
He kept her bouncing, one hand on her throat. Her entire body spasmed in his grip as she came, pussy clenching around him like a vice.
But he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause.
Instead—he shoved her off, rolled her like she was weightless, and pulled her into his chest.
“Now let’s see what that pussy feels like when you ain't on top.”
He pulled her against him roughly—his arm hooking beneath her knee, yanking her sideways into a spooned position before she could catch her breath. Her back slammed into his chest, her soaked thigh thrown wide open over his leg.
She whimpered, her body limp.
Her pussy was still fluttering from orgasm, raw and wet, but he didn’t care.
He lined up and slammed into her from behind, hips snapping forward so hard her shoulder jerked off the mattress.
She cried out—loud, hoarse, wrecked.
“Fuck—wait—”
He grabbed her jaw mid-sentence and squeezed, hard enough to leave fingerprints.
“No. You don’t wait. You take what I give you.”
His other arm wrapped around her torso, gripping her tit like a handle, jerking her backward into each thrust. The force of his rhythm was pure dominance—deep, relentless, raw. Her entire body jolted with every stroke.
“You don’t get breaks,” he hissed in her ear. “You’re just a warm hole with a name I don’t give a fuck about.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered shut.
He doesn’t care who I am. He doesn’t care what I’ve done. I’m just a thing. A hole. A place for him to empty himself.
Her shame burned hot across her face… and made her even wetter.
He bit down on her neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and growled, “Say it.”
She moaned, breathless.
“Say what?”
“Say what you are.”
She choked. Then whispered:
“I’m yours.”
He slammed in deeper.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours,” she gasped. “All of me. Pussy… mouth… everything. Just take it.”
Her own voice sounded like someone else’s. Desperate. Shaky. Broken.
He didn’t let up.
He brought his hand between her legs and started rubbing her clit, fast, hard, without rhythm—not to please her, but to break her.
She arched, writhing.
“I can’t—oh fuck—I can’t—”
“You’re gonna cum again. And again. Until I say stop.”
And she did.
Her body convulsed violently, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her pussy clenched around his cock like it was trying to lock him in. She spasmed in his grip, her arms useless, her legs jerking.
He held her still through all of it. Never stopping. Never loosening his grip.
When she stopped shaking, he pulled out with a loud, wet slap. Her thighs twitched. She was leaking down onto the white sheets, ruined.
But he wasn’t done.
He grabbed her waist and yanked her upright like a ragdoll. She whimpered, no strength left to resist. He flipped her around and shoved her back down, this time facing away from him.
“Last one, slut. Bounce.”
She barely had control over her own legs, but she obeyed. She reached between them, guided his cock back into her soaked hole, and lowered herself, groaning loudly as she took every inch.
She started riding.
Her movements were messy now. Sloppy. Desperate. Her ass bounced unevenly, slick skin smacking down against his thighs. Her pussy made loud, lewd noises with every thrust.
Her hands trembled as she braced on his knees.
“Move,” he growled. “This ain’t a vacation.”
She picked up the pace, ass bouncing wildly now, her sweat spraying, her breath erratic.
He reached up, grabbed both her ass cheeks, and spread them wide. Spat on her asshole again. Watched himself disappear inside her pussy over and over, growling under his breath.
“You’re my favorite fuckin’ toy now. You realize that, right?”
She looked over her shoulder, face wrecked, cum and spit drying on her throat.
“Do it,” she begged. “Cum on me. Anywhere. Just—fucking—mark me.”
“Beg better.”
She dropped to her knees, spun around, tongue out, mouth open, hair stuck to her face.
“Please,” she gasped. “I want your cum. All over me. I want to smell like you. Look like you fucked me raw. Mark me. Ruin me.”
He stood over her, cock in hand, stroking fast.
“Don’t blink.”
He grunted—deep, animal—and let go.
Hot ropes of cum exploded across her face. One thick streak across her cheek. Another on her nose. A third landed right between her tits. Then more—splattering her lips, her chin, everything.
She didn’t move. Didn’t wipe.
She just sat there.
Covered.
Dripping.
Breathing.
Smiling.
“Fuck…” she whispered.
He looked down at her like he owned her.
“You look better now than you ever did on screen.”