Sins by Ayesha
The monsoon air hung thick and sweet over the narrow lane, clinging to Aman’s skin as he watched the moving truck disgorge its contents. He was nineteen, adrift in the liminal space between boyhood and manhood, his college admission letter still crisp on his desk. Then, she emerged.
Ayesha Khatun was a vision sculpted from temptation itself, wrapped in the black burkha that was both shield and accentuator. The fabric, meant to conceal, instead lovingly traced the extravagant geography of her body. It swept from the crown of her head to her ankles, yet it did nothing to hide the prodigious swell of her breasts, the lush, rounded shelf of her hips, or the generous, swaying curve of her backside. When she walked, a slow, deliberate undulation, the heavy, ripe weight of her bosom bounced in a hypnotic rhythm beneath the cloth. A little softness at her belly only added to her aura of abundant, womanly fullness. She was a professor, he soon learned, at his very college. A mother of three. A wife. And now, his neighbor.
She began to visit, a family friend drawn by proximity. To Aman, her presence was a seismic event. He wanted to lose himself in the vast, warm landscape of her. Her body felt like heaven, a sinful, carnal paradise. He would watch her, his gaze a physical touch, and when her dark, knowing eyes would meet his, he’d flinch away, staring at the wall or his shoes. She understood. Oh, she understood perfectly.
In the college lecture hall, her professionalism was a thin veneer. She would pace, explaining concepts, her voice a low, melodic hum. She’d lean over the desk of the boy next to Aman, and in doing so, she would press the magnificent, soft weight of her breast against his temple, his cheek. The world would narrow to that warmth, that impossible softness yielding against his skin. He could smell her then—a complex fragrance of jasmine, warm skin, and something uniquely musky about her. It was the same when she turned to write on the board, the heavy, rounded flesh of her backside brushing against his shoulder. Each touch was a bolt of lightning to his system.
At home, her audacity grew. She’d sit beside him on the settee, laughing with his parents, while her hand, hidden from view, would find his thigh. Not a pat, but a slow, deliberate rub, her fingers tracing the muscle through his jeans, the heat of her palm branding him. Her eyes, when they flicked to his, held no casual friendship. They were pools of smoldering, unapologetic desire. The silent communication between them became a constant, thrilling current.
The opportunity crystallized when his family planned a day trip. Aman begged off, pleading study. Ayesha, with a serene smile, assured his mother, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.”
The silence of the empty house that afternoon was a living thing, pulsating with anticipation. When the knock came, it was both expected and world-shattering. She stood there, holding a dish, her eyes already stripping him bare.
“I brought you dinner,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She stepped in, placed the dish on a table, and turned. The click of the locking door was the loudest sound Aman had ever heard.
She turned to face him. “Why?” she asked, advancing slowly. “Why do you look at me like that, Aman?” Each step made her body sway gently. “Do you want to fuck me? This…” her hands gestured down the magnificent length of her shrouded form, “…all of this?”
Aman’s voice was trapped in his constricted throat. His hands trembled violently. He was a boy facing a force of nature.
A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. She pointed to the floor before her. “Sit.”
He obeyed, kneeling at her feet like a supplicant. With a swift, practiced motion, she loosened the drawstring of her payjama and let them drop. She wore nothing underneath. The dense, dark triangle of her pubic hair was revealed, a stark contrast against her inner thighs. A rich, earthy, deeply feminine scent bloomed in the air; salty, musky, and utterly intoxicating.
She spread her legs, planting her feet on either side of his knees. Before he could process the reality of her nakedness so close, her hands were in his hair, gripping firmly. She guided his face forward, not with cruelty, but with undeniable command, until his mouth was buried in the warm, damp delta of her.
“Lick,” she ordered, her voice trembling now with her own need.
A spark of instinct overrode his fear. His hands flew to her thighs, holding on as if for life. They were solid, powerful, softly furred. He opened his mouth and let his tongue find her. The taste was complex: salty, tangy, uniquely organic. The smell was overpowering, embedding itself in his very soul. He licked tentatively, then with more confidence, tracing her folds, finding the swollen kernel of her clit.
Ayesha gasped, a sharp, shattered sound. Her grip on his head tightened, pressing him deeper as her hips gave a small, involuntary jerk. “Yes… like that,” she moaned.
He could feel her body responding, heating, softening further. A new flavor joined the others: sweet, slick arousal. It began to flow more freely, coating his lips, his chin, his nose. Her moans grew louder, less controlled. She was rocking against his face now, using him, lost in the sensation he was pulling from her.
“Ayesha!” The voice, her husband’s, cut through the haze from the lane outside.
It was like a bucket of ice water. She recoiled, pulling his head back with a wet sound. Her eyes were wide with panic. In a flash, she yanked her payjama up, covered herself, and was at the door. She paused, looking back at him for a split second, his face glistening with her essence, his eyes blown wide with awe and shock, and then she was gone.
Aman spent the night in a fever dream. The smell of her was on his skin. The taste was on his tongue. He was ruined, claimed, and he craved more. He wanted to drown in her.
The next morning, seeing her across the lane, his body reacted violently, his cock hardening to a painful ache in his jeans. She met his gaze and held it, a silent promise.
She came to him again in the morning, under the guise of breakfast. No words this time. She pulled him into a shadowed corner of the veranda, her movements frantic. She turned her back to him, bent forward, and let her payjama fall. She presented herself to him. The glorious, full mounds of her backside, and between them, the glistening, pink-brown furl of her sex, already slick and open.
Aman’s mind short-circuited. He fumbled with his jeans, freeing his aching erection. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and guided his tip to her molten entrance. He pushed. Her body yielded, a hot, velvety tightness that stole his breath. He buried himself to the hilt with one desperate thrust.
“Ahhh!” Her moan was a stifled, choked sound.
He gripped her waist, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her belly, and began to move. The sensation was beyond anything he had imagined. A consuming, wet heat that wrapped his cock in silken friction. He fucked her with the frantic, clumsy passion of youth, his hips slapping against the magnificent swell of her buttocks. He could feel the internal clench of her, the way her body milked him, pulling him deeper.
He was lost in the rhythm, in the smell of her sweat and sex, in the sheer carnal reality of it, when she suddenly straightened. His cock, slick and wet, slid out of her with a soft, wet pop. In a fluid motion, she pulled her payjama up and was gone, a ghost of scent and sin, leaving him panting and empty against the wall.
Saturday arrived, heavy with conspiracy. Her children were sent away, her husband to a night shift. The wait was a physical agony for her. She bathed meticulously, scrubbing her skin until it glowed. In the privacy of her bedroom, she touched herself, pinching her own dark nipples until they peaked, sliding fingers through her slickness, stoking the fire Aman had lit. She perfumed the hollows of her body, a final, decadent touch.
When she crossed to his house with the dinner dish, her heart was a drum. This time, there would be no interruptions.
The doors and windows were locked, the world shut out. She put the dish down and turned to him. The demure neighbor, the respected professor, was gone. In her place stood a goddess of appetite.
“Tonight,” she declared, her voice husky, “you will feast on me until you are sated.”
She closed the distance, her hands framing his face, and crushed her mouth to his. It was not a kiss; it was a conquest. Her tongue plunged into his mouth, demanding, tasting, claiming. Aman met her fervor, their tongues dueling, saliva mingling and dripping down their chins. His hands clutched at her clothed back, then frantically sought the closures of her burkha.
She pushed him back, just enough. “Let me,” she whispered.
With a grace that mesmerized him, she unpinned her veil and let it slither to the floor. Then came the kameez, lifted over her head. She stood before him in just her payjama, her upper body a masterpiece of voluptuousness. Her breasts were magnificent, full, heavy globes with large, dark areolas, the nipples hard and begging for attention. A soft roll of fat adorned her belly, leading the eye down to the tantalizing waistband of her pants. She hooked her thumbs into them and pushed them down, stepping out of the pooled fabric.
Naked, she was overwhelming. A queen of lust, as he had imagined, but the reality was more potent. Her skin was the color of warmed honey. Her hips flared dramatically from her waist, supporting the grand, rounded curves of her buttocks. A thatch of dark, curly hair crowned her mound.
Seeing his stunned expression, she smiled and turned slowly, presenting the breathtaking view of her back. The dip of her waist, the magnificent swell of her hips and backside. And there, trickling down the inside of her thigh from her glistening sex, was a thick pearl of her arousal, so viscous it moved with lazy slowness.
“This,” she said over her shoulder, “is yours.”
Aman tore his clothes off, his movements clumsy with need. But she approached him, pushed him gently until he sat on the wide sofa. “Not yet,” she murmured. “Tonight, we take our time.”
She knelt on the floor between his spread knees, her eyes locked on his. She took his rigid, throbbing cock in her hand, stroking him slowly, watching the pre-cum bead at his tip. Then she leaned forward and swiped it clean with her tongue, a hum of pleasure vibrating against his sensitive skin.
She opened her mouth and took him in. The heat and wetness were exquisite. She worked him with deep, deliberate strokes, her tongue swirling around the head, along the shaft, her cheeks hollowing. She took him deep into her throat, relaxing to accommodate him, and Aman cried out, his head falling back. She was watching him, studying every flinch, every gasp, learning what drove him wild. For half an hour, she worshipped him with her mouth, until his thighs trembled and his breath came in ragged sobs.
“I need to feel you inside me,” she finally gasped, releasing him with a wet pop.
She rose, turned, and placed her knees on the sofa on either side of his hips. Reaching behind, she guided his slick cock to her entrance. She was dripping, her folds swollen and eager. She sank down slowly, an exquisite, millimeter-by-millimeter descent that made them both moan. He was engulfed in a tight, velvety, impossibly wet heat. She seated herself fully, taking every inch of him, a low, continuous groan escaping her lips.
“Hold me,” she instructed.
He gripped her waist, then slid his hands to the full, lush curves of her hips. She began to move, rolling her hips in slow, deep circles, riding him with a sensual patience that was maddening. She leaned back, offering him her magnificent breasts. He needed no further invitation, capturing one in his mouth, suckling hungrily, flicking his tongue over her pebbled nipple.
“Oh, Aman… Yaa Allah… fuck me, my love… I am all yours,” she chanted, her own hands braced on his knees, driving herself down onto him with increasing force. She leaned forward, kissing his hair, his forehead, his lips, her movements becoming more urgent.
Aman, overcome, pushed her back gently. She understood, rising to let him stand. He guided her down onto the sofa, on her back. He dove between her legs, burying his face in her cunt once more, drinking from her, making her scream and buck against his mouth. Then he moved up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her neck, before finally finding her mouth.
Their kiss was frantic, open-mouthed, a messy clash of tongues and shared breath. He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed back in. The angle was different, deeper. She wrapped her legs around his back, her heels digging into his buttocks, pulling him in further.
“Harder,” she begged, her nails scoring his back. “Deeper, Aman, please!”
He obliged, driving into her with long, powerful strokes. The room filled with the symphony of their union: the wet slap of skin, their guttural moans, the creak of the sofa springs, their panting breaths. The air grew thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
“I want something,” Aman grunted, his rhythm never faltering. “Something you’ve never given anyone.”
“Anything,” she cried, her eyes glazed with passion. “It’s all yours! What?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, the primal part of him speaking. “Just… something.”
She suddenly pushed him off, a determined look in her eyes. She hurried to the adjoining bathroom and returned with a small bottle of almond oil. Aman watched, confused and aroused.
She made him lie back on the sofa. “Close your eyes,” she whispered. “Just feel.”
He obeyed. He felt her pour the cool oil onto his cock, her hand stroking him, slicking him thoroughly. Then he felt her move, positioning herself over him. He felt the head of his cock press against a different place: tighter, smaller, an impossible knot of muscle.
She lowered herself slowly, with immense pressure. A sharp, pained cry escaped her, instantly muffled. He opened his eyes. She was above him, her face a mask of exquisite agony and determination, her teeth biting her lower lip.
“This…” she gasped, sinking down another inch, making them both groan, “…is only for you. My husband… never. No one.”
The realization crashed over him. Anal. She was giving him her ass. The intimacy of the gift, the sheer taboo of it, sent a new surge of violent lust through him. Her passage was unbelievably tight, a hot, clutching vise that threatened to undo him immediately.
“How… how does it feel?” she managed, tears of pain and devotion in her eyes.
“So tight… so perfect. You feel… incredible,” he breathed.
“It is all yours,” she repeated, and lowered herself to kiss his forehead, finally taking him fully inside her. She cried out against his skin, her body trembling. Then, hesitantly, she began to move, riding him in this new, forbidden way. Her cries were a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure. Aman placed his hands on her hips, helping her, guiding her, lost in the incredible, constricting heat.
Eventually, exhausted, she collapsed onto his chest, his cock still buried deep within her. But Aman’s desire was insatiable. He gently rolled her over onto her hands and knees. She presented herself to him without a word, her glorious backside in the air. He used the oil and her own slickness to re-enter her, this time from behind. She screamed into a cushion, her body accepting his relentless pace. He felt like a conqueror, a king claiming his most prized, secret territory.
Later, spent and slick with sweat and oil, they stumbled to his bed. She pulled him on top of her, guiding him back into her welcoming, well-used vagina. Here, in the classic, intimate embrace, with her legs wrapped around him and her eyes looking into his soul, he finally let go. With a broken cry, he poured himself into her, filling her with his release. She held him tight, milking him with gentle internal flutters until he was completely spent. They fell asleep like that, entangled, a sticky, fragrant mess of satiated desire.
He woke in the deep indigo before dawn to a warm, wet pressure. She was between his legs, her mouth working his semi-hard cock back to full, throbbing life. He groaned, tangling his hands in her long, unbound hair as she took him deep, her humming vibrations traveling straight to his core. He was fully hard again when she slid up his body and impaled herself on him, riding him in a slow, sleepy rhythm as the first birds began to chirp outside.
Too soon, she stopped. “I must go,” she whispered, regret lacing her voice. “He will be home soon.”
He nodded, wordless. As she gathered her clothes and dressed, a profound sense of loss washed over him. She went to the door, her hand on the latch.
He was across the room in an instant, still naked. He turned her to face him and kissed her shoulder, his lips hot against her skin. His hands went to the waistband of her freshly donned payjama. She understood. Without a word, she turned, bent over, and braced her hands against the door, offering him his kingdom once more.
He spat into his palm, slicked his renewed erection, and found that tight, secret rosebud. He pushed. She stifled a scream, her body accepting him with a familiar, painful welcome. He fucked her there, against the door, hard and fast, a final, desperate claiming as the world outside began to lighten. Her whimpers were music to him.
With a final, deep thrust, he pulled out. She straightened, turned, and kissed him with a desperation that matched his own—a deep, soulful kiss that tasted of salt, sleep, and shared sin. Then she adjusted her clothes, unlocked the door, and slipped out into the nascent morning.
Aman stood in the silent, scent-filled house, the memory of her tight heat around him, the taste of her on his lips, the smell of her in every breath. He was no longer just a boy who had gotten into college. He was a man who had tasted forbidden heaven, and he knew, with a certainty that terrified and thrilled him, that this was only the beginning.
