21 She Trust Him But （18）
The fitting room was cramped, the mirror reflecting their tangled forms in the dim, flattering light.
Ansh crushed his lips against Niyati's, the kiss hungry and demanding.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, claiming every inch as his hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against his body.
The thin fabric of her dress did little to separate their heat.
Breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, Ansh trailed his lips down her neck.
His teeth grazed her pulse point, making her shudder.
His fingers found the zipper of her dress, tugging it down with practiced ease.
The silk pooled around her waist, exposing her breasts to the cool air.
She hadn't worn a bra-the dress hadn't required one-and her casual clothes and discarded bra hung from the hooks on the wall like silent witnesses.
His mouth descended on her cleavage, open-mouthed kisses leaving wet trails on her skin. Niyati's hands tangled in his hair, her body arching into his touch despite herself. Small sounds escaped her throat-half-moans, half-whimpers-that she tried to suppress by biting her lip.
Ansh's tongue swirled around her right nipple, the sensitive bud pebbling instantly.
Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire, and she met his gaze without flinching.
The air between them crackled with unspoken words, with months of pent-up longing.
He latched his mouth onto her right breast, sucking hard while his free hand molded and squeezed her left. His other hand slid down her body, bunching the dress around her hips until his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of her panties. The heat radiating from her core was unmistakable.
Through the soaked silk, he stroked her pussy, his thumb pressing against her clit.
Niyati's hips bucked involuntarily, her body responding to his touch even as her mind struggled to catch up.
Still feasting on her breast, Ansh hooked his finger under the edge of her panties, sliding inside to find her slick and ready.
His finger plunged into her without warning, stroking her walls with deliberate, firm movements. Niyati dropped her head onto his shoulder, her face buried in his shirt to muffle the sounds threatening to escape. His scent filled her senses-cologne and sweat and something uniquely him.
Ansh shifted his attention to her other breast, his mouth closing around her left nipple while his right hand continued its assault. He added a second finger, stretching her tight passage. The burn mixed with pleasure, making her toes curl in her heels.
"An... Ansh..." she panted against his shoulder. "It's... been so... long!"
He answered by pumping his fingers faster, deeper. The wet sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of her filled the small space, mingling with their ragged breathing. His thumb circled her clit relentlessly, pushing her closer to the edge.
Niyati's walls clenched around his fingers, her body trembling with the effort to stay quiet. Outside the fitting room, she could hear the muffled sounds of the shop-other customers, soft music, the rustle of clothing. The risk of discovery only heightened her arousal.
"An... Ansh... I... I'm gonna... cu... cum..." she managed to gasp out, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Cum for me, Niyati," he growled against her breast, his voice low and commanding. "Cum for me. That's it."
His fingers curled inside her, hitting that spot that made her see stars.
The pressure built until it was unbearable, until her body could no longer contain it.
With a cry that she tried to swallow, her orgasm crashed over her.
Her release gushed out, coating his fingers and dripping down her thighs.
Waves of pleasure wracked her body, leaving her limp and breathless. She collapsed against his shoulder, her legs barely able to support her weight. Ansh held her steady, his fingers still buried inside her as she rode out the last tremors of her release.
Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips. His eyes never left hers as he tasted her, his tongue cleaning every drop of her essence from his skin. The intimacy of the gesture made her blush, even after everything they had just done.
Niyati rested her head on his shoulder, her body still humming with aftershocks. The dress remained bunched around her waist, her breasts exposed and glistening from his attention.
In the mirror, she could see their reflection-her flushed and disheveled, him dark and predatory. The sight sent another jolt of desire through her exhausted body.
The fitting door remained locked, their secret world contained within these four walls. For now, that was enough.
The scent of her release, sharp and primal, still clung to the air, a tangible ghost of her pleasure. Ansh held her, his gaze fixed on their reflection in the full-length mirror.
He saw Niyati's flushed face, the way her eyelids fluttered as she fought to regain control of her breathing, her body a pliant, boneless weight against him.
But the fire in his own gut hadn't been extinguished; it had only been banked, now roaring back to life with a vengeance. He wanted more. He wanted all of her.
With a low growl that vibrated through his chest, he straightened, his hands moving from her waist to her shoulders. He turned her, a firm, unyielding motion that left no room for argument.
Niyati's legs, still trembling from her orgasm, almost buckled, but his strong grip on her hips steadied her. He guided her the two short steps to the small, velvet-cushioned bench against the wall, the one meant for weary shoppers. Its purpose was about to be violently redefined.
He pressed down on her upper back, a clear, silent command. Niyati complied, her body bending at the waist. Her palms flattened against the cool, plush surface of the bench, her dress bunched at the small of her back, presenting her ass to him like an offering.
The position arched her spine, making the curve of her buttocks even more pronounced. The delicate, damp lace of her panties clung to her skin, the fabric dark with her arousal and nearly transparent.
Ansh hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the flimsy garment. He peeled them down slowly, deliberately, the fabric whispering against her sensitive skin as he slid them over the swell of her hips and down her trembling thighs.
He let them drop to pool around her ankles, leaving her completely exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the fitting room kissed her heated flesh, and she shivered, a gasp catching in her throat.
He raised a hand and brought it down in a sharp, stinging slap against her right ass cheek. The sound was a loud crack in the quiet space, followed immediately by her sharp intake of breath.
A perfect pink handprint bloomed on her pale skin, a temporary brand of his possession. Her muscles clenched in response, a fleeting, involuntary spasm of surprise and pleasure.
His touch returned, but this time it was gentle, almost reverent. He cupped the warmed flesh, his thumb stroking the mark he'd just made. Then his fingers slid down, tracing the cleft of her ass until they found the slick, swollen lips of her pussy.
She was still dripping, her folds slippery and hot. He slid a finger inside her with no resistance, burying it deep in her welcoming heat. She moaned, pushing back against his hand, her body remembering the rhythm that had just undone her.
He pumped his finger once, twice, coating it thoroughly in her copious wetness. Then, just as she began to rock with the motion, he withdrew. A soft whimper of protest escaped her lips.
He brought the glistening finger up, not to his mouth this time, but to the tight, puckered star of her ass. He circled the rim, using her own essence as a slick, intimate lubricant. The sensation was foreign, electric, and Niyati's entire body went rigid.
He applied a steady, firm pressure. The tight ring of muscle resisted, a natural, clenching denial. He didn't force it, but he didn't relent either. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his lips brushing her ear.
"Relax for me," he murmured, his voice a low, dark rumble. The command, combined with the insistent pressure, was her undoing. Her body yielded, and the tip of his finger breached the tight entrance.
A sharp, ragged cry tore from her throat, muffled as she buried her face against her arm. The sensation was an overwhelming mix of pleasure and a stinging, stretching burn. He paused, letting her adjust to the intrusion, his finger lodged just inside her most forbidden place.
His other hand rested firmly on the small of her back, pinning her in place, a silent promise that this was only the beginning. Then, slowly, inexorably, he pushed deeper, sliding his finger into her tight ass until it was buried to the knuckle.
He held it there for a moment, letting her feel the fullness, the absolute possession, before beginning to move, preparing her for the rough, relentless fucking they both craved.
"Good girl," he praised, his voice thick with approval. "Taking it so well."
The words loosened something inside her.
She relaxed fractionally, and he took advantage, pushing deeper until his knuckle pressed against her rim.
The fullness was overwhelming, a stretch she'd never experienced before.
Her ass burned, but underneath, pleasure bloomed like a dark flower, spreading through her pelvis.
Ansh held her there, finger buried to the hilt, letting her grow accustomed to the sensation. His other hand continued its soothing strokes on her back, grounding her as she processed this new form of possession. She was his - completely, utterly his in ways she'd never imagined.
Slowly, he began to withdraw his finger.
The drag of flesh against flesh sent another wave of sensation through her body.
Just as she thought he was done, she felt something much larger, much thicker pressing against her loosened entrance.
The head of his cock, hot and insistent, replaced his finger.
"Niyati," he growled, his voice rough with need. "Are you ready for me?"
She could only whimper in response, fingers clutching the velvet bench as she braced herself. There was no preparation for this, no way to truly ready herself for the invasion to come. Ansh didn't wait for an answer. He pushed forward, relentless in his pursuit of her most forbidden hole.
The stretch was beyond anything she'd experienced.
Her body screamed in protest even as dark pleasure coursed through her veins.
He was huge, thick, and unyielding as he forced his way past her tight entrance.
The burn was exquisite, a perfect balance of pain and pleasure that had her seeing stars behind her closed eyelids.
Ansh didn't stop until he was fully sheathed, his balls pressed against her dripping pussy. He paused, letting her adjust to his size, but the reprieve was brief. Then he began to move, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting back in, rough and deep and exactly what she needed.
Each thrust pushed her against the bench, the velvet rubbing against her sensitive nipples.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he claimed her ass with primal intensity.
The sounds filling the fitting room were obscene - skin slapping against skin, her cries and his grunts, the wet squelch of her neglected pussy.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he panted, his rhythm becoming more erratic. "So fucking perfect."
Niyati could only respond with inarticulate sounds, lost in a haze of sensation. The pain had faded to a dull ache, overwhelmed by waves of pleasure that built with each rough thrust. Her ass clamped around him, milking his cock as he drove into her again and again.
This was possession in its rawest form - not just her body, but her complete submission. She was his to use, his to pleasure, his to claim in this most intimate of ways. And as his thrusts became more demanding, more desperate, she knew she wouldn't have it any other way.
The brutal rhythm of Ansh's thrusts became the only world Niyati knew. The sharp, burning stretch of her first anal taking had begun to soften, melting into a deep, resonant ache that bloomed with every powerful drive of his hips.
The pain was still there, a ghost beneath the surface, but it was now inseparable from a dark, overwhelming pleasure. Her body, which had been stiff with resistance, started to yield, her muscles loosening, her back dipping lower to meet his strokes.
The wet slap of his thighs against her ass, the guttural grunts that escaped his lips, the scent of their combined musk filling the small, velvet-lined room-it was a symphony of primal possession, and she was the instrument.
Her fingers, which had been clawing at the velvet, now lay limp, her palms pressed flat against the bench as she simply absorbed the force of him, a willing vessel for his lust.
Just as she surrendered completely to the cadence, the world tilted. One of Ansh's hands, the one that had been anchoring her hip, moved. The sudden loss of that grounding pressure made her flinch, a momentary confusion cutting through the haze of sensation.
Then she felt it-his fingers, not gentle or exploring, but wrapping around the slender column of her throat. It wasn't a violent squeeze, but a proprietary clamp, a claim staked in the most vulnerable part of her.
The pressure was immediate, a delicious, terrifying restriction that made her breath catch in her chest. Her pulse hammered against his palm, a frantic bird beating against a cage.
With his grip firm on her throat, he pulled. Her upper body lifted from the velvet bench, her arms falling uselessly to her sides. The movement forced her back into a severe, beautiful arch, pressing her spine against the hard, clothed plane of his chest.
His other arm banded around her waist, holding her upright against him. She was completely suspended, supported only by his grip on her throat and his arm around her middle, his cock still buried deep in her ass, still pistoning into her with unrelenting force.
The new angle was devastating, hitting a place inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. Her head fell back against his shoulder, offering the line of her throat to him in a gesture of utter submission.
His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged. The words he spoke were not a question but a statement of absolute fact, a dark promise seared into her soul. "You're mine again-every hole, every gasp, every fucking drop of pleasure."
The voice was a low growl, vibrating through her chest, each word a hammer blow to her composure.
Every hole. He was claiming not just her body, but her very essence, her breath, her pleasure, her release.
The possessiveness in his tone was so absolute, so complete, that it shattered something deep inside her.
That was the trigger. The combination of his hand controlling her very breath, his body holding her captive, his cock claiming her most forbidden hole, and those final, devastating words sent her flying over the edge.
A dam broke inside her, a tidal wave of pleasure so intense it was almost agony. Her pussy, untouched and neglected, convulsed violently, gushing a hot, slick flood onto the velvet bench beneath them, the liquid proof of her total surrender.
A sharp, strangled cry was torn from her constricted throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss. Her ass clamped down around his thrusting cock, the muscles spasming in a rhythmic, milking pulse that was completely beyond her control.
The sudden, vice-like grip of her orgasm around his dick was Ansh's undoing. He had been the one in control, the dominant, the master of this encounter, but her body's instinctual reaction to his possession pulled him into his own ruinous climax.
A hoarse, broken sound tore from his chest as his hips slammed forward one last, brutal time, burying himself to the hilt. His release was a scalding tide, a deep, pulsing flood that filled her clenching heat.
He emptied himself into her with shuddering, violent jerks, his control finally fracturing under the sheer force of his pleasure.
For a long moment, they were locked together, two bodies seized in the throes of a shared, cataclysmic release, the only sounds in the fitting room their ragged gasps and the frantic pounding of their hearts.
Slowly, the spasms subsided. Ansh's hand loosened its grip on her throat, his fingers stroking the reddened skin gently as his arm around her waist became more of a support than a restraint.
He slumped over her, his full weight pressing her down onto the bench, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
They were a tangled, sweaty mess, his clothes damp against her bare skin, the scent of sex and completion thick in the air. His cock softened inside her, and she could feel the warm trickle of his cum beginning to leak out.
In the three-way mirror, their reflection was a portrait of debauched exhaustion-her, limp and claimed, her dress rucked up around her waist; him, still mostly dressed but utterly undone.
The intense, suffocating warmth of the small fitting room suddenly felt incredibly real, the heavy pounding of her heart echoing in her ears.
Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as the memory of his touch, the phantom sensation of his fingers against her skin, and the overwhelming wave of pleasure threatened to consume her entirely.
She could swear she still felt the heat of his mouth, the bruising pressure of his lips, and the weight of his body pressing her against the wall.
Then, a voice broke through the haze.
"Niyati? Where is it stuck?"
The words were calm, steady, and entirely grounded in reality. Niyati blinked rapidly, the vivid, hyper-realistic images shattering like glass as she suddenly snapped back to the present.
The cool, fluorescent lighting of the boutique filtered over the door, and the distant hum of the mall traffic flooded back into her ears. Ansh was standing right in front of her, his hands resting casually at his sides, his eyes filled with nothing but genuine, polite concern.
She hadn't turned around yet. The dress was still fully zipped up, the slider firmly caught in the fabric right at her waist, exactly as it had been two minutes ago.
A heavy lump formed in her throat as she realized she had just completely hallucinated an entire, breathless encounter out of pure, unchecked desire. She swallowed hard, her cheeks instantly flaring a deep, burning crimson.
Praying that the dim lighting of the cubicle would hide her sheer mortification, she slowly turned her back to him, her hands trembling slightly as she gathered her thick hair and pulled it over her left shoulder, exposing the jammed metal zipper.
Ansh stepped a fraction closer, his movements completely respectful.
He anchored the fabric with one hand, his fingers barely brushing the material, and with a deft, practiced twist of his fingers, he eased the caught thread out of the metal teeth.
With a quiet, smooth slide, he guided the zipper downward, opening the back of the dress cleanly so she could change.
"Done," he said softly.
Before she could even process the word, Ansh reached past her, casually clicked the lock open, and stepped out of the fitting room, pulling the door shut behind him without waiting for a reply.
Niyati stood frozen in the center of the small space, her mouth slightly open in a mix of utter surprise and quiet amusement. She stared at the closed wooden door, a helpless, breathless laugh escaping her lips. He hadn't tried anything.
He hadn't lingered, he hadn't whispered any sweet nothings, and he certainly hadn't done a single scandalous thing her overactive imagination had just vividly scripted.
Just as she had told herself out there, she trusted Ansh completely. He was a perfect gentleman. It was herself, she clearly couldn't trust around him anymore.