Varun vanished like someone hit delete. One day his teeth were on my throat, the next he was just a ghosted “seen” and a hole I couldn’t fill.

So I did what any horny eighteen-year-old virgin-slut-in-training does: made a no-face account and scrolled until my cock was raw. I swore I’d never meet anyone.

Then Krish messaged me at 2 a.m. with a single voice note that made me come in my shorts without touching myself.

Two weeks of filth. Shirtless pics. Him growling “pretty boy” until the words lived under my skin.

Saturday he typed: Coffee?

We both knew I was the only thing getting poured.

I stood outside his building tasting my own pulse. Second floor. Door 204.

Pressed the bell and left sweaty fingerprints on the wall.

Door opened and the air turned thick.

Krish leaned there in nothing but paper-thin grey joggers riding so low the root of him was almost showing. Warm hallway light licked the sweat already pooling in the grooves of his abs. He smelled like fresh soap, expensive cologne, and pure fucking trouble.

“Jesus, Ravi,” he rasped, eyes dragging over me like he was already balls-deep. “You’re prettier than every lie you told me.”

He knew my real name. My cock jerked so hard it hurt.

He yanked me inside, slammed the door, and crushed me against six-foot-something of hot, hard skin. His palms slid down and claimed my ass like he’d paid for the night. I buried my face in his neck and inhaled until I was dizzy—salt, cologne, the faint bite of clean sweat.

“Been dripping in these joggers since your last nude,” he growled, teeth scraping the spot under my ear that makes me stupid. “Gonna ruin you so good, pretty boy.”

We never made it to the couch cushions.

He shoved me down, thigh forcing mine apart, fingers already crawling under denim like they owned me. The leather was cold for one second, then his weight pinned me and every breath tasted like him.

His mouth found my throat—slow, wet, obscene kisses that turned into bites hard enough to brand. I arched, moaning like a whore before I could pretend I had shame.

He laughed against my skin, vibrations shooting straight to my balls. “Listen to you. Already begging and I’ve barely started.”

Hands ripped under my T-shirt, palms dragging over trembling abs, thumbs tormenting my nipples until they throbbed raw. Fabric vanished over my head. Cool air hit damp skin and I broke out in goosebumps so hard he felt them.

He shoved me flat, straddled me, and kissed me like he wanted to swallow my soul—tongue fucking my mouth slow and nasty while I ground up against him like a desperate slut. The friction through denim and soaked cotton was torture; I could feel him leaking, the wet patch spreading, burning hot.

He broke the kiss just to snarl, “Needy little bitch,” and suddenly I was airborne—arms under my thighs, my back leaving the couch. Bedroom door banged open. He threw me on the bed so hard I bounced, air punching out in a wrecked moan. Sheets smelled like sex and yesterday’s cologne.

I watched, dizzy and dripping, as he shoved the joggers down. Thick. Heavy. Curved up angry toward his abs, the tip already slick and shining. My mouth flooded.

He crawled over me, knees forcing my thighs so wide the burn felt like heaven. Mouth back on my neck—sucking bruises that pulsed with every heartbeat. When he bit down on my nipple and pulled, the scream that tore out of me was filthy enough to echo.

Lower. Tongue swirling my navel, tracing the happy trail, breath ghosting over the waistband he still hadn’t ripped off. My hips chased his mouth like a slut on a leash.

He knelt up, fisted my hair hard, and fed himself between my lips. Salt and heat exploded across my tongue. I opened wide, took him deep, cheeks hollow, throat working. Drool spilled down my chin, onto my chest, cooling instantly then reheated by his skin. My eyes watered; I swallowed harder.

He groaned my name like it hurt, hips rocking slow and relentless until I gagged and kept begging with my tongue.

“Good fucking boy. Choke on it.”

Wet pop when he pulled out. Flipped me over like a rag doll, shoved my face into the pillow that still held his heat. Cool lube drizzled down my crack, shocking against burning skin. One finger became two, stretching, curling, scissoring until I was pushing back and sobbing broken pleas into cotton.

Then the blunt, impossible pressure—slow, merciless, splitting me open inch by filthy inch. The burn turned molten. When he finally snapped his hips, the headboard cracked against the wall in time with every raw, wrecked moan I couldn’t hold back.

His hand wrapped around me, slick with lube and my own mess, stroking brutal and perfect. I came untouched—clenching hard around him, spilling hot over his fingers and the sheets, vision whiting out, body shaking so hard the mattress screamed.

He buried deep and pulsed inside me, teeth sinking into my shoulder as he growled my name like a curse and a prayer.

We collapsed, sweat glueing every inch of us together. The room stank of sex, lube, and bruised skin. My heart slammed against his ribs; his slammed back.

He kissed the bite mark blooming on my shoulder, voice hoarse and smug.

“Round two in ten, pretty boy. Gonna wreck you until you forget how to walk.”

I was already counting the seconds.

Next chapter drops when the comments are wetter than these sheets.

Tell me the filthiest thing you’d do to me if you had me like Krish just did. I double-fucking dare you.