His Turn- Part 3
By the time we stumbled into the bedroom, I was wrecked—my lipstick smeared, legs trembling, skin marked by their hands, their teeth, their need. My shalwar hung off one ankle, my dupatta long gone, somewhere back in the hallway. I didn’t care. I wanted more.
The room was dim, but I could still make out their grins. One flopped onto the bed like he owned it, the other pulled me back into his lap, kissing down my shoulder like I was something to be worshipped.
And then the door shut. Hard.
Silence fell.
He was standing there. The man I belonged to. Chest rising slow and steady, eyes black with hunger. Not the teasing kind he wore earlier—the kind that said, *enough.*
The Irish lads froze. No one moved. Until he spoke.
“*Nikal jao.*”
Get out.
His voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It rolled through the room like thunder, and even though they didn’t understand the words, they understood the tone. One started to speak—but he cut him off with a raised hand.
“She’s done with you.”
He pointed at me.
“*Ab woh meri hai.*”
Now she’s mine.
They didn’t argue. Just gathered their clothes in stunned silence, sneaking glances at me—still half-naked, dripping, legs spread wide on the edge of the bed, panting. I didn’t move. I wanted them to see what he was about to claim.
When the door finally clicked shut behind them, he didn’t speak. Just looked towards me, slow like a storm rolling in over a quiet village. His hands were already pulling at his clothes, dropping everything to the floor like it didn’t matter.
I bit my lip. “Jealous?”
“No,” he said, kneeling in front of me, his voice low. “Turned on.”
His hands wrapped around my thighs and dragged me to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on me before I could answer, tongue lapping like I was the last taste of sweetness on earth. He groaned into me, loud and filthy, devouring everything they’d left behind, replacing every inch with *him.*
He didn’t stop until I was shaking—crying out his name, clawing at his hair, begging in Urdu.
“*Bas… bas karo…*”
“*Nahi.*”
No.
He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbed onto the bed. His hands were rough now—demanding. He flipped me over with one motion, pressing me down into the mattress with his full weight.
“You want to act like a slut?” he growled in my ear. “Then I’ll fuck you like one.”
He didn’t hold back.
Every thrust was punishment. Every sound I made was a challenge he met with more. I screamed into the sheets, babbled words in Urdu and English that made no sense, just raw feeling spilling out of my mouth. He grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head, and didn’t stop.
“*Dekho tum kya ban gayi ho...*”
Look what you’ve become.
I looked up—he’d angled me toward the mirror. My reflection stared back. Messy hair. Red cheeks. Lips parted. My eyes were wild. And his—locked on mine in the glass.
It wasn’t just fucking anymore.
It was ownership.
He filled me until I forgot where I ended and he began. Until the only thing I could hear was the slap of our skin and his voice in my ear, reminding me who I belonged to.
When we finally collapsed—limbs tangled, sweat sticking to skin—I couldn’t feel anything but him. His breath on my neck, his chest rising against my back.
He kissed my shoulder.
“*Ab tum saaf ho gayi.*”
Now you’re clean again.
I laughed, hoarse and spent. “You think you purified me?”
He chuckled, biting my earlobe. “No. I made you dirtier. But only for me.”
The room was dim, but I could still make out their grins. One flopped onto the bed like he owned it, the other pulled me back into his lap, kissing down my shoulder like I was something to be worshipped.
And then the door shut. Hard.
Silence fell.
He was standing there. The man I belonged to. Chest rising slow and steady, eyes black with hunger. Not the teasing kind he wore earlier—the kind that said, *enough.*
The Irish lads froze. No one moved. Until he spoke.
“*Nikal jao.*”
Get out.
His voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It rolled through the room like thunder, and even though they didn’t understand the words, they understood the tone. One started to speak—but he cut him off with a raised hand.
“She’s done with you.”
He pointed at me.
“*Ab woh meri hai.*”
Now she’s mine.
They didn’t argue. Just gathered their clothes in stunned silence, sneaking glances at me—still half-naked, dripping, legs spread wide on the edge of the bed, panting. I didn’t move. I wanted them to see what he was about to claim.
When the door finally clicked shut behind them, he didn’t speak. Just looked towards me, slow like a storm rolling in over a quiet village. His hands were already pulling at his clothes, dropping everything to the floor like it didn’t matter.
I bit my lip. “Jealous?”
“No,” he said, kneeling in front of me, his voice low. “Turned on.”
His hands wrapped around my thighs and dragged me to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on me before I could answer, tongue lapping like I was the last taste of sweetness on earth. He groaned into me, loud and filthy, devouring everything they’d left behind, replacing every inch with *him.*
He didn’t stop until I was shaking—crying out his name, clawing at his hair, begging in Urdu.
“*Bas… bas karo…*”
“*Nahi.*”
No.
He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and climbed onto the bed. His hands were rough now—demanding. He flipped me over with one motion, pressing me down into the mattress with his full weight.
“You want to act like a slut?” he growled in my ear. “Then I’ll fuck you like one.”
He didn’t hold back.
Every thrust was punishment. Every sound I made was a challenge he met with more. I screamed into the sheets, babbled words in Urdu and English that made no sense, just raw feeling spilling out of my mouth. He grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head, and didn’t stop.
“*Dekho tum kya ban gayi ho...*”
Look what you’ve become.
I looked up—he’d angled me toward the mirror. My reflection stared back. Messy hair. Red cheeks. Lips parted. My eyes were wild. And his—locked on mine in the glass.
It wasn’t just fucking anymore.
It was ownership.
He filled me until I forgot where I ended and he began. Until the only thing I could hear was the slap of our skin and his voice in my ear, reminding me who I belonged to.
When we finally collapsed—limbs tangled, sweat sticking to skin—I couldn’t feel anything but him. His breath on my neck, his chest rising against my back.
He kissed my shoulder.
“*Ab tum saaf ho gayi.*”
Now you’re clean again.
I laughed, hoarse and spent. “You think you purified me?”
He chuckled, biting my earlobe. “No. I made you dirtier. But only for me.”
2 月 前
