Some mistakes don’t just sting—they carve wounds that bleed for years, whispering shame in your quietest moments. I’m Rambha (name changed), and this is my confession, a secret from Diwali 2013 that clings to me like a shadow. I was 22, a live wire bursting with dreams, my BSc done, my sights set on soaring as an air hostess. But Dad was a fortress of no, his voice a hammer smashing my plans. Our fights were wars—I’d train, I swore, even if it broke us. He stood firm, unyielding. Then Bua, my aunt, became my beacon. I spilled my fury and hopes over a crackling phone line, and she urged me to Chennai. Doubt gnawed, but I said yes. Bua taught school, her days spent shaping young minds, her nights with her 4-year-old son, Ganesh, in a home that felt both warm and hollow. Fufaji, her husband, was an Indian Air Force pilot, tethered to a post in Punjab, leaving Bua to stitch their life alone. Mom pressed cash into my hands behind Dad’s scowl, and though he never softened, I boarded a train to Chennai, my heart pounding with defiance. In Annanagar, I dove into air hostess training, every lesson a step toward the skies. When fees dwindled, Bua leaned on Fufaji’s wallet, and he sent enough to keep my dream alive.
Four months in, Fufaji’s leave landed him home—a month of freedom from the cockpit. I hadn’t seen him in years, and fuck, he was a storm of a man. Tall, carved from iron, with a pilot’s swagger that could stop hearts. His eyes held secrets, his grin promised danger. I revered him—brilliant, magnetic, an Air Force titan who owned the heavens. Training left me drained, so I’d collapse at home, lost in textbooks or the TV’s hum. Bua’s routine was clockwork: drop Ganesh at kindergarten, teach till dusk, then trudge back. Fufaji, though, was a constant flame, always there, his presence heavy as smoke. I’d wander in tight T-shirts and shorts, my body a ripe tease—curves taut, skin glowing. His gaze soon turned wolfish, stripping me with every glance. In the kitchen, slicing onions, I’d feel him behind me, tossing some lame excuse to talk, his fingers grazing my shoulders, lingering on my waist. He’d tug my ponytail, chuckling like it was innocent. My voice caught in my throat—gratitude for their help chained me, or maybe, deep down, I fucking loved the heat of his eyes. I knew he was crossing lines, so I traded shorts for salwar-kameez, cloaking myself in modesty. But at 22, my body was a rebellion—breasts round and heavy as mangoes, hips swaying like a siren’s call. No fabric could tame me. Fufaji, past 30, was a predator in waiting—broad-chested, his thin, curled mustache a taunt of raw manhood. I’d crushed on him since girlhood, but to indulge that thought was to dance with sin. When he pressed too close, I slipped away, never whispering a word to Bua. My silence wasn’t caution—it was kindling.
The spark caught one evening. Bua was downstairs, sweat over a stove, crafting dinner. I was on the terrace with Ganesh, lost in hide-and-seek under a moon that bathed us in silver. Fufaji appeared, voice low, “Mind if I play?” His grin was a lie—play was his trap. The terrace was a shadowed world, just us and the night’s pulse. He moved like a hunter, seizing every chance to corner me. His hands found my waist, then my tits, groping with a hunger that set my skin ablaze. While Ganesh fumbled in the dark, Fufaji’s fingers dug into me, each touch a jolt of fire and fear. I laughed, half-drunk on the thrill, my body betraying my mind. But he was relentless. In a shadowed corner, he yanked my kameez up, clawed into my salwar, and gripped my bare ass, kneading it with a growl. I gasped, twisting to stop him, heart slamming—then Ganesh’s giggle broke through. I choked out, “Let’s go, Ganesh!” but the kid vanished to hide again. Fufaji struck faster—ripping my salwar and panties down, my ass bared to the cool air. “Stop, someone’ll see!” I hissed, grappling to cover myself. Then it hit—a cock, hard as steel, scorching, grinding between my cheeks. My world tilted—panic surged, but my pussy pulsed, traitorously wet. His hands locked my waist, caging me as he rubbed, each thrust a taunt. I squirmed, his breath hot on my neck, his grip unyielding.
Bua’s call for dinner shattered the haze. We scrambled, clothes jerked back, and stood before her, faces blank. My blood roared—this wasn’t a flirtation; it was a fucking ambush. If he got another shot, I’d be devoured. Telling Bua was a dead end; I’d buried that chance. But the real inferno came without warning. One night, my door creaked, and Fufaji slipped in—a beast unchained. He lunged, eyes blazing with madness. I shoved him, voice cracking, “Fufaji, this is fucked! I’m like your kid!” He growled, “One time, Rambha. I saw you naked—my mind’s in flames.” I froze, “Naked? When?” His voice dropped, thick with lust, “Showering, through the skylight. You’ve haunted me since. Give me this.” Terror clawed my chest—if Bua walked in, she’d burn my life to ash, tell my parents, end my training. I needed a way out, one that didn’t break me. “Bua’s here—she’ll hear,” I whispered, trembling. “Tomorrow, alone, take it all.” I swore it, my heart a drum, and pushed him out.
Training the next day was a blur—my mind chewed itself raw. Delay till Bua’s home? Or keep my word? Then a scheme flared—three prizes, one gamble. I raced home early, pulse hammering. Fufaji was waiting, pouncing the second I crossed the threshold, his lips crashing into mine, hands tearing at my clothes. I broke free, “Wait, this is wrong!” He pleaded, voice ragged, “Rambha, you promised. I’m unraveling—two days, and I’m gone. Don’t betray me.” I steadied my breath, “You’ve done so much. But this? It’ll ruin me. Bua finds out, I’m fucked.” He leaned in, “What do you want?” I struck hard, “Placement costs a fortune. If I need to move, you’ll help?” He nodded, eager, “Always. Say yes.” I pushed, “Buy me a scooty—today. The bus is hell.” His eyes gleamed, “Done. Yours tonight.”
Relief surged—I’d braced for him to flee. I flung my bag, sank onto the sofa, and pulled him down, our mouths colliding, tongues wrestling in a frenzy. He was a starved animal, nails raking my skin, desperate to consume. I ripped his shirt off, seized his cock—thick, veined, throbbing like a war drum. I spat, stroking fast, “Condoms?” He panted, “Fuck yes—whole pack, fresh from this morning.” I shredded my uniform—shirt, pants, bra, panties—cast aside. Naked, my body glowed, curves taut, nipples hard, knowing Bua could barge in any second. No time to tease. He roared, tackling me to the sofa, his weight crushing me. His mouth devoured my neck, then clamped my tits, sucking with a ferocity that stole my breath. I thrashed, “Easy, Fufaji!”
He snarled, “Rambha, you’re a fucking nymph. Virgin?” My head spun—I moaned, “Yes… but… I blew a guy in college.” He bit my tits, pain melting into fire. I shoved him lower—my pussy screamed for release. He kissed my thighs, slow, torturous, until his breath grazed my folds. I gripped his hair, slamming his face into my pussy. His tongue lashed—savage, insatiable—igniting every nerve. I clawed my tits, screams tearing free, “Fuck… ohh… God… ahh!” He plunged a finger in, twisting, and my pussy detonated—hot, slick torrents flooding his mouth. I came, body convulsing, vision black.
Huffing, I yanked him up, “Now!” Our lips smashed, tongues battling. His cock—bare, molten—probed my pussy, poised to destroy. “Slow,” I hissed. He ignored me, slamming in with brutal force. Pain ripped me open—I screamed, a wail to wake the dead. He clamped my mouth, muffling me. His cock tore deeper, shredding my core. Tears poured—I was trapped, voiceless. My virginity shattered, blood seeping. Then—fuck—no condom! I ripped his hand off, shrieking, “Condom!” He pulled out, cock glistening red, and bolted to the bedroom.
My pussy pulsed, raw and ravaged. I glanced down—blood smeared my thigh, my innocence gone. He stormed back, condom stretched tight, and mounted me. Scooty in my head, I spread wide, guiding his sheathed beast. He thrust—a rocket blasting my depths. No pain—just blinding, electric pleasure. The dotted condom grazed every inch, pushing me to madness. We fucked like fiends, moans echoing—sweaty, feral, lost. His cock pounded, my hips met every blow, chasing ecstasy. He roared, unloading, collapsing, our bodies slick with sin. I gasped, “Got your fill, Fufaji? You fucked me to pieces.”
He grinned, lit a cigarette, smoke swirling. That night, he delivered—a scooty, my “surprise.” Two days till he left, I skipped training, becoming his slave. Doggy, riding, throat stuffed with his cock—I gave everything, every position, till he groaned in rapture. I drained him, and before he vanished, he slipped me 20,000 rupees—hush money for “expenses.”
I was careful, but fear festers—if Bua sniffs this out, my life’s ashes. Training done, I’m aircrew for a top airline. I pray Fufaji’s a ghost, his lips sealed. Friends, what’s your take? Love it, hate it—spill it. Thanks!