Riya—that’s the sweet name I gave her, straight from my heart. She’s 26 now, born and raised in Coimbatore, the kind of girl who is friendly and easily at ease with strangers like old friends.
Her olive skin glows warm under the sun, and she’s petite, around 4.5 feet tall, with curves that turn heads: about 36-24-38. Her hips carry a little extra fat, full and inviting, but it’s her eyes that steal the show—big, expressive, lined with kohl that makes them attractive.
She has a magic way of convincing people; if she sets her mind on something, she makes it happen right then, no waiting or doubts. At work, we were just team colleagues—polite nods and quick talks. But this tale is our first real spark, away from the boring office.
Bangalore newcomers always pick Mysore for day one. Riya joined me for that trip. She stepped out in a bright yellow salwar, no dupatta, letting her long dark hair shine, oiled smooth and pinned with fresh jasmine flowers by a tiny clip.
The moment she stepped into my car, her scent hit—jasmine mixed with her natural warmth—changing the whole air inside. We laughed through the drive, windows down. The wind was playing with her hair like a running horse.
Mysore was pure joy. We enjoyed the palace gardens, its lights twinkling at dusk, holding each other’s hands as it was too crowded. We grabbed street food—crispy dosas and shared bites of sweet mysore pak.
At Chamundi Hill, we watched the sunset, her shoulder against mine as the sky burned orange. Time slipped away quickly, and we were late heading back. To skip heavy tolls and traffic, I chose my secret side road.
It was narrow, pitch-black except for headlights, full of bumps like a roller coaster. Particularly, the last stretch is too long. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm tightly and shifted from the passenger seat right into mine.
We pressed so close, I felt every deep breath of her chest rising against me, warm and quick. The jasmine in her hair tickled my nose. Heart racing, I kissed her eyes, soft as petals, and whispered, “Close them. Trust me, we are safe inside the car.”
The road punished us with jolts, my elbow bouncing steadily against her soft chest. My thoughts were a puzzle: Pull her into a full hug and let go, or keep eyes on the road?
I chose safe driving, but oh, how could I control her body on my arm—warm, alive. My hand slipped the control, my fingers found her chubby cheeks, rubbing slow circles, feeling their plump softness melt under my touch. She sighed, leaning in.
I’d driven this path so often, I knew every twist. At the toll diversion’s quiet end, darkness thick around us, I couldn’t hold back. I drew her lips to mine. Juicy like fresh mango, they parted sweet and wet.
Hands held her face firm, I sucked their nectar slowly, deep, tasting heaven. Her hair clip snapped free, unleashing a wave of oil with a jasmine smell—as ghee poured on my inner fire. I crushed her to my chest, her body fitting perfectly.
She answered every move—tiny shivers, soft moans—like a love goddess dropped from the sky, all her passion meant for me. My hands slid to her back, tracing broad straps under her salwar. Desire exploded, wild and unstoppable, but wait—it was our first alone.
I didn’t want her to see me as some easy guy chasing quick fun. So, I lightened it, grinning as I pulled back a bit. “Your eyes, so natural, no makeup needed. Pure beauty that stops hearts.” She blushed deeply, cheeks hot under my thumbs.
Giving her lips a quick rest, I moved to her earlobe, sucking gently. Pleasure shot through her. Her heartbeat doubled, pumping hard against me. Her chest swelled full, dress straining like it couldn’t hold her anymore, begging for touch and air.
I gripped her fingers tight, keeping her steady and safe. To the other earlobe, I took the slow path—kisses overlapping down her neck, lips and tongue marking warm skin, tasting salt and jasmine. My heart screamed to plunge my hands deeper into her curves.
But my brain advised patience: build it, make her crave. Muscles tensed everywhere on her body, humming; her groans filled my ears, low and needy. She hit the top—grabbed my hand, placed it on her chest. Feel it, she seemed to say—breaths fast, shallow, then deep and wild.
Her chest bloomed bigger, soft and heavy. I pulled her dress low, slipped my hand inside, and my palm met her soft boobs. She fought back with bites—my lips, jaw, cheek—sharp and playful. My fingers squeezed her breast through fabric first, then directly, pressing firmly as desire matched hers.
Harder I went, and her eagerness grew, moans turning eager. She handed me full control of her joy. I was feeling every inch—kissing her neck long and slow. Her face tilted up, nose rubbing from jaw to broad shoulders, inhaling her everywhere.
Her fingers tangled my hair, massaging deeply. She whispered in my ear: “Am I good for your fire? Or want more?” Her hips shifted, body begging for more play. My hands got more courage now, pressing her chest with real force. My thumbs were provoked to squeeze her nipple like a lemon in a drink.
I was confused as to which one I would give more attention – Right or Left as both were soft like wet cotton balls. On each move, she was moaning loudly in my ears. It encouraged me to move ahead more. She was deeply engraving with her nails on my back.
I took her whole tongue under my lips’ control so that I could taste it like a child sucking a lollipop. We were so close that she was breathing from my lungs.
Flash! A light from the other lane cut through, freezing us. Embarrassed eyes met in the messy tangle. We fixed clothes quickly, hearts pounding. Silence took over for the drive home, minds spinning: How to face each other at work? What story for this crazy heat?