I’ll admit it—I’ve got a thing for imagining girls getting wild and slutty, and it all started with my ex. She cheated on me, and those naked pics I found of her with another guy flipped a switch in me, turning anger into a dark, thrilling rush. Fast-forward, and that twisted desire was about to ignite again, in ways I never saw coming.
I was single, crashing at my best friend’s place with him and his girlfriend, Krutika. She was a total sweetheart—cute, with a shy smile and big, innocent eyes that could melt anyone. Her smooth, golden-brown skin glowed with a natural warmth, her long dark hair framing a face that screamed purity. She had these killer curves, especially that plump, round ass that her clothes always seemed to hug just right. She was like a sister to me, so I never let my mind drift there. Not until that night.
My buddy threw a little party at our place, the music blasting like a live concert, bass shaking the walls as the lights dimmed low. Krutika was her usual bubbly self, giggling as the drinks flowed and we all got a little tipsy. She ended up on the floor, sketching on big sheets, her white crop top clinging tight to her toned midriff, the fabric stretching over her full cleavage. Her blue jeans hugged her hips, the denim accentuating that perfect ass. My friend was beside her, focused on her art, but his office buddy—a slick guy with a predatory grin—was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to her every move.
I stood behind him, sipping my drink, when Krutika shifted. She bent over to grab a pencil, and that’s when it happened—her jeans slipped just enough to reveal the edge of her white lace underwear peeking out, a tantalizing glimpse against her flawless, caramel-hued skin. The sight was electric, her skin glistening faintly with a soft sheen under the party lights, smooth and inviting like silk. It was like the music’s pulse synced with my heartbeat, the room buzzing with that wild, anything-goes concert vibe. The guy on the couch smirked, pulling out his phone to snap pics, all sneaky-like. I should’ve been furious. Instead, a hot rush hit me, my body reacting with a hardness I couldn’t ignore. That view—her cleavage spilling out, that ass framed by those tight jeans and white lace—was pure fire.
That night, alone in my room, I couldn’t shake it. I pictured Krutika, so innocent and sweet, turning into this sultry vixen right in front of us. My mind ran wild, imagining that guy pinning her down, her curves bouncing as he took her. I gave in, jerking off to the thought, the guilt and heat mixing into something dangerously addictive.
The next morning, my friend and Krutika headed to work, leaving me alone. Curiosity—or maybe obsession—drew me to their bathroom. There, in the laundry, was that same white lace underwear, still warm with her scent, the fabric soft against her silky skin. I held it close, inhaling deeply, my body igniting as I got off again. Then I spotted it—a used condom in the trash, a little dry, probably a couple days old. The thought of her, that angelic face hiding a wild side, getting intimate with my friend sent a jolt through me. It was filthy, and I was hooked.
A few days later, my buddy lent me his laptop for some work. He stepped out, and I couldn’t resist—I snooped. Hidden in a folder were videos and photos of Krutika, and damn, she was a vision. There she was, dancing in a bra and panties, her golden-brown skin shimmering, that big ass swaying to some unheard beat. Her curves were hypnotic, every move dripping with a confidence she buried under her shy exterior. I didn’t copy anything, but those images seared into my mind.
Then came the weekend. I was heading out Saturday noon, back by Monday’s early hours, maybe 2 or 3 a.m. Before I left, I checked their bathroom trash—call it a sick habit by now. No condoms. But when I returned and they’d gone to work, I checked again. The bin was stuffed—fourteen, maybe fifteen used condoms, some still slick. My mind raced. No way my friend alone could manage that, not even on his best day. I pictured Krutika, that innocent smile hiding a wild streak, caught in a sweaty, tangled three-way, her smooth skin pressed between two bodies as the night burned on. Even if it didn’t happen, the thought alone—her white lace tossed aside, her curves on full display, that caramel skin glowing with sweat—was enough to keep me burning. It’s stuck in my head, and damn, it’s the hottest fantasy I can’t shake
I was single, crashing at my best friend’s place with him and his girlfriend, Krutika. She was a total sweetheart—cute, with a shy smile and big, innocent eyes that could melt anyone. Her smooth, golden-brown skin glowed with a natural warmth, her long dark hair framing a face that screamed purity. She had these killer curves, especially that plump, round ass that her clothes always seemed to hug just right. She was like a sister to me, so I never let my mind drift there. Not until that night.
My buddy threw a little party at our place, the music blasting like a live concert, bass shaking the walls as the lights dimmed low. Krutika was her usual bubbly self, giggling as the drinks flowed and we all got a little tipsy. She ended up on the floor, sketching on big sheets, her white crop top clinging tight to her toned midriff, the fabric stretching over her full cleavage. Her blue jeans hugged her hips, the denim accentuating that perfect ass. My friend was beside her, focused on her art, but his office buddy—a slick guy with a predatory grin—was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to her every move.
I stood behind him, sipping my drink, when Krutika shifted. She bent over to grab a pencil, and that’s when it happened—her jeans slipped just enough to reveal the edge of her white lace underwear peeking out, a tantalizing glimpse against her flawless, caramel-hued skin. The sight was electric, her skin glistening faintly with a soft sheen under the party lights, smooth and inviting like silk. It was like the music’s pulse synced with my heartbeat, the room buzzing with that wild, anything-goes concert vibe. The guy on the couch smirked, pulling out his phone to snap pics, all sneaky-like. I should’ve been furious. Instead, a hot rush hit me, my body reacting with a hardness I couldn’t ignore. That view—her cleavage spilling out, that ass framed by those tight jeans and white lace—was pure fire.
That night, alone in my room, I couldn’t shake it. I pictured Krutika, so innocent and sweet, turning into this sultry vixen right in front of us. My mind ran wild, imagining that guy pinning her down, her curves bouncing as he took her. I gave in, jerking off to the thought, the guilt and heat mixing into something dangerously addictive.
The next morning, my friend and Krutika headed to work, leaving me alone. Curiosity—or maybe obsession—drew me to their bathroom. There, in the laundry, was that same white lace underwear, still warm with her scent, the fabric soft against her silky skin. I held it close, inhaling deeply, my body igniting as I got off again. Then I spotted it—a used condom in the trash, a little dry, probably a couple days old. The thought of her, that angelic face hiding a wild side, getting intimate with my friend sent a jolt through me. It was filthy, and I was hooked.
A few days later, my buddy lent me his laptop for some work. He stepped out, and I couldn’t resist—I snooped. Hidden in a folder were videos and photos of Krutika, and damn, she was a vision. There she was, dancing in a bra and panties, her golden-brown skin shimmering, that big ass swaying to some unheard beat. Her curves were hypnotic, every move dripping with a confidence she buried under her shy exterior. I didn’t copy anything, but those images seared into my mind.
Then came the weekend. I was heading out Saturday noon, back by Monday’s early hours, maybe 2 or 3 a.m. Before I left, I checked their bathroom trash—call it a sick habit by now. No condoms. But when I returned and they’d gone to work, I checked again. The bin was stuffed—fourteen, maybe fifteen used condoms, some still slick. My mind raced. No way my friend alone could manage that, not even on his best day. I pictured Krutika, that innocent smile hiding a wild streak, caught in a sweaty, tangled three-way, her smooth skin pressed between two bodies as the night burned on. Even if it didn’t happen, the thought alone—her white lace tossed aside, her curves on full display, that caramel skin glowing with sweat—was enough to keep me burning. It’s stuck in my head, and damn, it’s the hottest fantasy I can’t shake
