Sex with beggar: Driving back from the party, I was pushing my shiny red Maruti Alto a bit too fast. It was past 3:30 AM, and my house was on the other side of the railway crossing. The damn gate was closed, as usual, with freight trains rumbling by. I’d be stuck here for at least half an hour, maybe more. All I could think about was getting home and finishing that bottle of Black Dog whiskey stashed in my dashboard. The party had left me horny as hell, my body aching for release.
The party was thrown by the “Friendship Club,” a place where people go for wild hookups and no-strings-attached fun. A bunch of guys danced with me, but their only goal was to grope me. I’d worn a black halter top on purpose—tight enough to show off my curves, leaving my back completely bare. No bra, so my big tits bounced with every step. No wonder every guy there was dying to get close, their hands itching to slide across my naked back or press against my tits through the thin fabric.
My long hair cascaded down my back, and I could tell some of them were praying I’d tie it up so they could get a better feel of my skin. In that black halter, with my fair skin glowing under the lights, I was turning heads. One guy, Dr. Dutta, couldn’t take his eyes off me. He looked forty-five, maybe older, but carried himself like he owned the place.
After a dance with some random dude, I headed to the bar counter. Dr. Dutta sauntered over, all confidence. “Excuse me, miss, would you care to join me for a drink?” he asked, his voice dripping with charm.
“Sure, and you are?” I replied, flashing a teasing smile. I was there to have fun, and if an older guy wanted to buy me a drink, why not? Free booze in a den of debauchery? Count me in.
“I’m Dr. Dutta, a gynecologist,” he said, puffing out his chest.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Dutta. I’m Zoya, just a woman with no medical issues,” I quipped, laughing.
He chuckled, and within minutes, we were chatting like old friends. After a couple of drinks, he leaned in. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to dance with a gorgeous woman like you. But I have one request…”
“Go on,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Could you tie your hair up in a bun?”
“What, you don’t like my hair down?” I teased, pretending to be offended.
“No, no, you look stunning. It’s just… with your hair up, you’d look even sexier. That bare back of yours would make dancing so much hotter. You’re not wearing a bra, are you?” His eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Nope,” I said, grinning.
“Perfect,” he replied, practically salivating.
I laughed. “I know what you want, Dr. Dutta. You’re dying to feel my tits, aren’t you?”
He burst out laughing, caught off guard by my bluntness. “You’re sharp.”
“I’m here for fun, so I don’t mind. Just don’t squeeze too hard—it hurts,” I said with a wink.
I downed my drink, gathered my hair into a loose bun, and grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s dance.” He left his drink half-finished and followed me to the dance floor, his hands already grazing my hips.
We danced close, our bodies pressed together. His fingers roamed my bare back, sending shivers down my spine. I deliberately pushed my tits against his chest, feeling his breath quicken. His hands slid lower, squeezing my ass whenever he got the chance. I didn’t care—I was there to let loose.
Then I felt it—a hard bulge pressing against my thigh. His cock was rock-hard, straining against his pants. He whispered in my ear, “Would you like to spend some time alone with me?”
“Sure, but I’m only in the mood for a quick fuck,” I said boldly.
“God, I wish every woman was as straightforward as you,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
After another drink, we headed to the poolside. The moment we got there, he turned into a beast. He kissed me hungrily, his tongue invading my mouth, his hands tearing at my clothes. He ripped my panties off—four hundred bucks, gone! I snapped, “Dr. Dutta, slow down! I’ll lift my skirt, you take off your pants.”
He was sucking my lips as he fumbled with his belt. I was in his arms, ready for action. “You’ve got a condom, right?” I asked.
“Shut up, you slut. You came here to get fucked, so what’s with the condom bullshit?” he growled.
I stared at him, tempted to walk away, but my pussy was throbbing with need. I stayed silent as he yanked my skirt up, exposing my ass and pussy. He was about to shove his cock inside me when his phone rang.
A woman’s angry voice came through—probably his wife. He hung up, looking panicked. “Sorry, Zoya, I have to go.” I glanced down—his cock was limp now.
Furious, I shouted, “You bastard, you strip me naked and now you’re leaving? Can’t even keep it up?”
“It’s my wife, and that guy coming this way is the hotel manager—my brother-in-law. If he sees me like this…” he stammered.
I slapped him hard, twice. “Motherfucker, so I should pay someone else to fuck me now?”
He grabbed my hair, snarling, “Listen, you whore, if I had time, I’d fuck you till you couldn’t walk. Wait for me.” Then he bolted.
Fuming, I downed three more drinks and decided to leave. As I drove, cursing Dr. Dutta, my luck screwed me over again—the railway gate was still closed. I lit a cigarette, reclined my seat, and closed my eyes, trying to calm down.
Suddenly, a voice broke through. “Hey, girl, give me a drag.”
I looked up to see an old beggar standing by my car window. He was maybe sixty, wearing a filthy lungi and kurta, his face wrinkled and weathered. “This isn’t a bidi, it’s a cigarette. Want it?” I asked.
“Yeah, give it,” he said.
I handed him my half-smoked cigarette.
“What’re you doing here so late?” he asked.
“Waiting for the gate to open,” I replied.
“Alright,” he said, sounding restless. “You’ve been drinking, huh?”
The whiskey on my breath must’ve given me away. Feeling playful, I said, “Yeah, some guy got me drunk. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t worry. Got any cash?” he asked.
“Cash?” I pretended to check my purse, hiding a ten-rupee note in my fist. No one was around—just the sound of freight trains and the dim streetlights. I decided to have some fun. “Sorry, no cash.”
“Check your blouse. Girls like you hide money there,” he said, eyeing my halter top.
“Girls like me? What’s that mean?” I asked, feigning surprise.
“Big-titted ones,” he said shamelessly.
“Oh my!” I acted shy, then untied my halter strap, letting my tits spill out. My bun came loose, and my hair covered one breast. Pretending innocence, I said, “You were right, Baba. Here’s a ten-rupee note.”
He took the note, but his eyes were glued to my tits. “Oh my, I forgot I wasn’t wearing a bra. You saw me naked!” I said, playing coy.
“Nah, you’re not naked yet,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell you what—got another cigarette?”
“Yeah.”
“And booze?”
“Yup, but no water.”
“I’ve got water in my hut. Come on, the gate won’t open for another half hour. Drink with me, but you gotta strip completely for me to call you naked.”
“If I get naked in your hut, will you fuck me?” I asked bluntly.
“Hell yeah, that’s why I’m taking you there. Your body and hair got my cock hard. You cool with that?”
I looked him over. He was dirty, reeking of sweat and grime. Every guy I’d fucked before was high-class, clean. This guy? Not so much. Then I remembered the condoms in my purse—eight left.
“What’re you thinking, girl?” he asked, getting impatient.
“Nothing. Alright, I’ll come. I’ll get naked, drink with you. I’ve got plastic cups. But you wear a condom, and I’ll bend over on my knees, ass up. You fuck me from behind.”
“I wanted to lay you down, but if that’s what you want, fine,” he said.
“Promise you’ll do it my way.”
“Fuck yeah, promise.”
I parked the car, grabbed a plastic bag with my keys, whiskey bottle, cigarettes, matches, cups, and condoms, and followed him. I kept looking around, scared someone might see, but it was just us and the trains. His hut was nearby—a ramshackle shed with no door, just a dirty sack for a curtain.
As soon as we got inside, he said, “Alright, girl, strip.”
I pulled off my halter. No bra, no panties—thanks to Dr. Dutta. I was buck naked. He snatched my halter and tossed it aside.
“You gonna keep your lungi on?” I asked.
“If I take it off, I’ll be naked too,” he said, grinning.
“You’re gonna fuck me, so why not?”
“Didn’t wanna scare you.” He dropped his lungi, and I froze.
His cock was massive—eight inches long, thick as hell, standing straight like a steel rod, surrounded by a jungle of pubic hair. I’d never seen anything like it. My pussy twitched, but his stench was overwhelming.
“Like what you see?” he asked, smirking.
I was torn—run away or fuck this monster cock? Before I could decide, he ran his rough fingers over my pussy. “Why’s your cunt so smooth?”
“I keep it shaved,” I said.
“Why?”
“So guys like it. They shove their cocks in, pound me, and shoot their hot cum. Feels good,” I said, playing innocent.
“How long you been doing this?”
“Since I was young. My aunt got me into it.”
He kept stroking my pussy, his rough touch making me wet. “You gonna fuck me or what?” I asked, drunk and horny.
“Hell yeah, that’s why you’re here,” he said, lunging at me.
I pushed him back. “Wait, we said we’d drink first.”
“Right, right!”
I sat cross-legged on the floor, poured him a big shot of whiskey, and a smaller one for myself. He brought a clay pot of water, checked it, and poured some into a cup. We clinked our plastic cups. “Cheers,” I said. He ran his fingers over my pussy again, sending a jolt through me.
He downed half his drink in one go. I took a sip, but it hit me wrong—I felt like puking. I lit a cigarette and passed it to him. He started fondling my tits, squeezing them gently. “Why aren’t you drinking?” he asked.
I tossed him the condom packet and took another sip. My head spun, and I collapsed onto the floor.
When I came to, I was flat on my back, legs spread wide. The beggar was on top of me, his tongue lapping at my face, his hands mauling my tits. I tried to push him off, but my body wouldn’t move.
He’d put on a condom and was shoving his massive cock into my pussy. I screamed in pain, but he clamped his hand over my mouth. His cock stretched me to the limit, like it was tearing me apart. He pounded me relentlessly, his strength unreal for an old man. The pain turned to pleasure, and I came twice, my pussy clenching around his shaft. He didn’t stop, fucking me harder until he finally came, collapsing on top of me.
I passed out again. A dog’s barking woke me. I was still naked, sprawled on the floor, the beggar passed out on top of me, drunk. His limp cock was still inside me. I pushed him off, noticing blood on the floor—my pussy had bled from his size. The condom had slipped off his cock and was hanging out of me. I yanked it out and threw it away.
I grabbed my halter, dusted it off, and put it on. Snatching my bag, I checked for my keys and ran, shooing the barking dog away. Outside, the sun was up. I sprinted to my car, ignoring the stares from passersby. My halter was dusty, my face sticky with his spit. I jumped in, started the engine, but the gate was still closed. The car clock showed 7:45 AM.
I’d thought I could play the beggar, have some fun, but he’d played me. The water he gave me must’ve been spiked, knocking me out so he could fuck me senseless. When the gate finally opened, I floored it, speeding home. Thank God he used a condom—who knows what diseases he might’ve had.
I’m a high-class call girl, sold into this life by my uncle when I was young. Shabana Aunty runs the show, and my job is to hit up fancy parties, seduce rich guys, and make bank while having fun. Today, though, I was going back to Shabana Aunty empty-handed, my body used and sore.
I reached her place around 9:30 AM. She saw me from the balcony and opened the door before I could ring the bell. “Zoya, where the hell were you? Why didn’t you answer your phone? You look like you fell in a sewer!” she yelled.
I burst into tears, telling her everything—how I thought I’d outsmart the beggar, but he drugged me and fucked me for free. She listened, then asked, “You’re sure he used a condom?”
“Yes, I pulled it out myself,” I said.
“Thank God. Don’t you ever pull a stunt like this again, or I’ll skin you alive,” she scolded.
She sent me to shower, and after a light meal, I crashed. I was exhausted—physically and emotionally. When I woke up, it was evening. Later, Shabana Aunty and I sat on her terrace, sipping red wine. She grinned and asked, “Was his cock really that big?”
“Swear to God, huge,” I said.
“Interesting,” she mused. “Times are changing. I get clients looking for wild experiences. If I could clean up a guy like that beggar and set him up with high-class women, imagine the profit.”
I stared at her, shocked. She patted my head. “Don’t worry, I’ll think it through. You just keep doing your job like always. And never pull a stupid move like that again.”
We drank late into the night. My youth, my beauty, my life—it’s all still here. That night could’ve ended badly, but I escaped. I swore I’d never make that mistake again.