It started with a message."Tomorrow. My flat. 8:00 p.m. Wear nothing under your clothes."
No address. No explanation.But when she opened her door the next night, there he was—leaning against the wall in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, one brow raised like he already owned the heat in her thighs.
He didn't ask if she was ready.
He didn't ask if she was nervous.
He just stepped inside like he belonged there, like her body had been waiting for his shadow to touch the floor.
"Show me," he said.
Her hands trembled as they reached up to unbutton her kurta.No bra. No panties. Just her skin—flush, shy, electric.
He didn't undress.
He knelt.
Just like that.This man with eyes like ink and a voice that made her clit twitch—he knelt before her like she was sacred.
"Lie back. On the sofa. Legs over the edge.I want my tongue where it belongs tonight."
She obeyed.
She couldn't not.
And when he pulled her thighs apart, he didn't rush.He stared.
"Soaked already," he murmured. "I haven't even greeted her yet."
Then—he kissed her.
Not her lips.Not her cheek.Her cunt.
A single, slow, open-mouthed kiss that made her hips jerk.
"Easy," he said, teasing. "I'm not going to stop until you forget your own name."
And he didn't.
He licked her like he was tracing poetry—long, wet strokes from her slit to her clit, then back down with a hum so deep she felt it in her toes.
His tongue circled her clit—soft at first, like a whisper—then flicked.Again.And again.
Meera whimpered. Her fingers fisted the cushions. Her thighs locked around his head.
He grinned into her.
"Hold me there," he growled. "Drown me.Come all over my mouth like you were made for it."
And then he sucked.
Her eyes rolled back.
She didn't moan. She cried out—a raw, gasping, feral sound like she was being broken open from the inside.
"That's it," he said, voice muffled between her thighs."Again."
And she did.
A second orgasm. Violent. Slick. Twitching.
"Again," he said.
And she came a third time.
Sobbing now. Shaking. Her body slipping off the sofa from the force of it.
"Too much—" she whispered, chest heaving.
He licked her again, slower now, a tongue that said:Too bad. You're mine now.
And when she finally went still—fingers tangled in his hair, pussy throbbing, thighs coated in her own cum—he stood up.
His face was wet with her.
He didn't wipe it.
He kissed her mouth with it.
"Now you taste how it feels to be worshipped," he whispered.
Meera didn't fall asleep that night.
She just lay there naked, wet, held by him—
Wondering how a man could do all of that without even unzipping his pants.