Audi A4 and the Suite Deal
The night hung heavy and humid, January 2024, Bangalore’s air a sticky shroud after an office dinner in Koramangala. I was 28, single, an HR assistant cloaking my wild pulse—my ass round and taut under jeans so tight they creaked, the denim biting into my hips, my loose cotton top fluttering over braless D-cups, nipples grazing the fabric with every shallow, nervous breath, leaving faint, shadowed peaks. My boss, Vikram—40-something, married, with a jaw honed like a razor and eyes black as tar pits—knew my filthy secret: I craved his Audi A4, its midnight curves a siren call, its chrome rims flashing like bared teeth under the parking lot’s sallow sodium lamps. After dinner, whiskey seared my throat, its smoky tang lingering on my tongue, a warm buzz tingling through my veins as he caught me staring, my breath snagging on the car’s predatory gleam. “Want to drive it?” he growled, voice a low, guttural rumble like gravel under tires, tossing me the keys with a flick of his wrist, the metal cold and heavy in my palm. I froze, heat surging to my cheeks, a flush prickling my skin as my shaky fingers fumbled the catch, the jangle sharp in the still air. “Me? Drive *that*?” I stammered, voice a thin wisp, my eyes darting away from the molten hunger in his stare.
The Audi’s cabin enveloped me as I slid in, the leather seats slick and cool, a faint whiff of polish and musk rising as my bare thighs brushed the edge—jeans riding high, exposing a crescent of soft skin, the fabric’s seam digging into my flesh. My trembling fingers clutched the stitched wheel, nails sinking into the leather’s grain, the texture rough under my sweaty palms as I turned the key. The V6 roared awake, a deep, throaty snarl vibrating through the chassis, shuddering up my spine, tingling between my legs like a lover’s growl. “This is fucking unreal,” I whispered, the dashboard’s icy blue glow washing over my flushed face, my breath fogging faintly in the cool air, pulse hammering in my ears. I stole a glance at him—shirt collar splayed wide, dark chest hair curling over tanned skin, the musk of his sweat mingling with whiskey, his trousers stretched taut over a bulge that pulsed with raw intent, the fabric whispering as he shifted. “You could have one,” he said, voice smooth as spilled oil, thick with promise, his hand settling on the gearshift, knuckles grazing my leg, the heat of his skin a jolt through the denim. I let out a shaky, nervous giggle, the sound brittle, “With my shitty paycheck?” He leaned in, his whiskey breath a scalding caress on my neck, prickling my skin with tiny shocks, the faint stubble on his jaw rasping the air. “February promotion—massive hike. I’ll push it,” he murmured, each syllable a slow ember. My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic thud echoing in my chest, eyes widening till they stung. “For real?” I breathed, voice quivering like a plucked string. “Enough for an Audi?” I added, dizzy with the thought. His hand clamped my thigh, fingers sinking deep, heat blooming through the denim like a brand. “I’ll get you there, Evangeline—if you let me fuck you like you’re driving this beast.” I jerked the wheel, tires screeching a high wail as I pulled onto Kundalahalli’s shadowed roadside, the engine’s hum sinking to a low, seductive purr, exhaust fumes curling faintly in the damp air. My pussy clenched, a slow, hot trickle soaking my panties, the cotton sticking to my swollen lips, but my stomach churned, breath shallow and ragged. “You mean…?” I whispered, voice trembling, face blazing like a furnace. I knew corporate trades from whispered rumors, but him—my boss—made my insides coil tight. “Your body, your dreams,” he rasped, eyes feasting on my ass like a starving man, “that juicy, perfect ass, those big fucking ambitions—I’ll make it happen.” I bit my lip, shy and drowning, the sharp taste of my own sweat on my tongue, nipples stiffening into aching peaks, tenting my top. “What do I do?” I mumbled, voice a fragile thread lost in the hum. He smirked, slow and wicked, teeth glinting like fangs, “I’ll book a suite. You’ll catch on.”
We rolled into a Kundalahalli hotel, his Audi parked under the flickering neon sign, its curves a dark, gleaming predator, the faint tang of gasoline lingering as I stepped out, asphalt gritty under my sneakers. My legs wobbled like reeds in a storm as we climbed the stairs, pulse thundering in my ears, drowning the distant drone of traffic, my breath hitching with every creak of the steps. The suite door slammed shut with a heavy thud, the lock clicking like a gunshot, and I stood rooted—jeans plastered to my hips, the denim sodden with sweat at the waistband, my top clinging to my skin, the damp cotton outlining my heaving tits, sweat beading down my cleavage. He shed his shirt halfway, broad chest glistening with a sheen of sweat, dark hair curling damp across it, the musk of his body sharp and primal, trousers stretched obscenely over his thick, straining bulge, the zipper’s teeth glinting faintly. “I… I don’t know,” I mumbled, voice cracking like dry twigs, my pussy dripping a slow, shameful stream, the wetness slicking my thighs despite the fear knotting my gut, my hands twisting into sweaty knots, nails biting my palms. He closed in, towering over me, “Evangeline, you’re a fucking goddess—that ass, those dreams—I’ll take you all the way,” he cooed, voice a velvet blade slicing my hesitation. He seized my wrist, yanking my hand to his bulge—hard as forged steel, throbbing hot under the fabric, massive enough to make my fingers curl instinctively, then flinch back. I gasped, a sharp, wet sound, shy heat flooding my face, cheeks glowing crimson under the dim lamplight. “You okay with this?” he asked, voice rough with lust, eyes boring into mine like drills. I nodded, barely audible, “Y-yeah,” my throat tight as a vise, too timid to pull away.
He took command—his hands ripped at my jeans, the zipper snarling loud as he tugged them down my quaking legs, denim peeling off like shedding skin, the fabric rasping against my flesh, revealing black panties drenched through, the cotton dark and slick where my pussy leaked, glistening threads of wetness catching the light. He yanked my top over my head in one brutal pull, the cotton scraping my skin, tits spilling out with a heavy, quivering bounce, nipples dark and rigid, puckered tight as he groaned low, “Fuck, you’re a goddamn vision,” his voice a guttural rumble. His trousers crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, cock springing free—long and thick, veins bulging like twisted cords, the tip slick with precum, glistening like dew on a blade, hard as the Audi’s chassis, swaying heavy in the air. “Kneel,” he commanded, hands clamping my shoulders, shoving me down with a firm, unyielding push, my knees sinking into the carpet’s coarse weave, the fibers biting my skin. I knelt, shy and trembling, staring at his cock—then he gripped my head, fingers tangling in my sweaty hair, pressing the swollen, salty head to my lips, the musk of him sharp in my nose. “Suck it,” he grunted, sliding in slow, stretching my mouth wide, the bitter tang of precum flooding my tongue, coating my throat. I gagged softly, spit drooling in thick, glistening strands down my chin, my tongue fumbling over his pulsing shaft, the veins hot under my licks as he thrust deeper, “Good girl, choke on it,” he growled, hand tightening, guiding me with a relentless, wet rhythm. My pussy throbbed, a pulsing ache, leaking a sticky stream onto the carpet, clit swelling painfully, the air cool against my wet thighs.
I pulled back, gasping for air, the taste of him lingering, “You’ve got condoms, right?” I asked, voice a shaky rasp, wiping my slick chin with a trembling hand, spit smearing across my skin. “Yeah,” he said, fishing one from his pocket, the foil crinkling as he held it up, glinting silver. “Go pee first—wash your pussy,” he ordered, nodding sharply to the bathroom, his tone clipped and commanding, eyes locked on mine. I blushed a deep, humiliated red, the heat searing my face, nodding fast, stumbling to my feet—the cold tile chilling my bare soles as I scurried off, the air thick with the suite’s stale musk. I peed, the sharp splash echoing in the small space, my breath hitching, then rinsed my pussy under the faucet—water icy against my swollen, dripping lips, washing away the sticky heat, the chill biting my tender flesh. Back in the room, he had me on the bed, knees sinking into the plush mattress, the springs creaking faintly, panties shoved aside with a rough tug, the elastic snapping against my thigh, my wet pussy bared—pink and glistening, folds parted wide, G-spot aching as he rolled the condom on with a practiced snap, the latex stretching tight over his girth. “You’re a fucking flood,” he snarled, voice thick with hunger, gripping my hips with bruising force, fingers sinking into my soft flesh, sliding his cock in slow—stretching my tight walls wide, the pressure a slow burn as I whimpered, “Oh God,” my voice quivering, shy moans spilling out like shattered glass, the air thick with my own musk. He thrust harder, hips crashing into me, *slap-slap-slap* ringing loud as his pelvis slammed my ass, the flesh rippling, my body jolting forward, tits bouncing wildly, nipples scraping the air, leaving trails of heat. “So fucking tight,” he grunted, pounding my G-spot with ruthless precision, the wet squelch of my pussy loud in the room, my cum gushing in a hot, sticky rush, drenching my thighs, soaking the sheets in a slick, glistening puddle, the scent sharp and primal.
He stopped mid-thrust, cock still a rigid rod inside me, the condom slick with my juices, and leaned over, his sweat dripping onto my back, hot and salty. “Can I fuck your ass?” he asked, voice gravelly, raw with need, his breath a furnace against my skin. I nodded, shy but tingling with curiosity, “Yes,” my breath catching in my throat, a nervous flutter clawing my chest, the air cool on my sweat-soaked body. He flipped me around fast, hands yanking my hips up high, ass thrust into the air, the mattress dipping under my weight, face smothered in the pillow’s musky cotton, the fabric damp against my cheek. He spread my cheeks wide, fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh, the air cold against my exposed hole, pressing his hard cock against my asshole—dry and puckered, it clenched tight, resisting his push, the pressure a sharp sting. I tensed, a ragged gasp tearing free, “It’s hard,” I whimpered, voice trembling like a plucked wire, my body wincing as the burn flared, my nails clawing the sheets. “Hold on,” he muttered, pulling back, sweat beading on his brow, the air thick with his musk, grabbing his phone with a quick swipe, fingers slick on the screen. “Need lube,” he said, ordering it fast—minutes ticked by, the room silent but for our ragged breaths, then a soft knock, a discreet hand-off at the door, the packet rustling as he tore it open. He squeezed the cold, slippery gel over my hole, a thick dollop splattering down my crack, chilling my skin, fingers smearing it in slow, deliberate circles, then slipping inside—stretching me open, the slick intrusion cold and shocking as I moaned, “Oh fuck,” shy but melting, my ass yielding with a wet squish. His cock pressed again—slick now, gliding past the burn, sliding deep into my ass with a slow, relentless push, filling me to a gasping, trembling fullness, the stretch a fiery ache that melted into heat. “Fuck, you’re a goddamn vice,” he groaned, thrusting steady, *slap-slap* echoing as his hips slammed my jiggling cheeks, the flesh rippling like waves, my pussy dripping below, a hot stream trickling down my thighs, clit screaming from the stuffed pressure, the air thick with the scent of lube and sweat. He fucked my ass harder, the bed creaking in protest, springs squealing, my moans ripping free—raw, loud, uncontrollable despite my shyness—G-spot pulsing through the tight heat till I shrieked, “Yes, fuck me!” cum squirting from my pussy in wild, messy spurts, soaking the mattress in a glistening, sticky flood, the scent sharp and tangy.
He pulled out with a wet, sucking pop, ripped the condom off, the latex snapping, and groaned, “Fuck, take it,” as hot cum erupted, splashing across my ass in thick, creamy spurts, the heat searing my skin, dripping down my crack in sticky rivulets, pooling warm and heavy against my flesh, the musky stench rising sharp and thick. We collapsed, breathless, and he pulled me into him—nude, sweat-slick bodies tangled in the rumpled sheets, my skin reeking of his cum, a pungent, primal scent clinging to me, thick in my nose, my hair matted with sweat against his chest. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a sharp trill; he grabbed it, fingers tapping fast, and mine pinged—10k flashing on my GPay screen, the chime cutting the silence. “Just the beginning,” he murmured, voice a low rumble against my ear, his arm tightening around me, cuddling me close, his chest hair prickling my back, his breath hot and damp on my neck, the faint salt of his sweat on my lips as I turned into him. I lay there, shy but buzzing, ass and pussy still humming with aftershocks, the ache a dull, delicious throb. “The car?” I whispered, voice timid, barely daring, the words soft against his skin. “Keep this up, it’s yours,” he chuckled, his hand sliding down to squeeze my ass, fingers sinking into the sticky flesh, cum smearing under his grip. “No one knows, right? Keep it secret,” I pressed, voice soft but insistent, my heart thudding against his chest, the beat syncing with his. “Just us,” he swore, fingers stroking my hair, the strands slick with sweat, sealing the pact with a rough tenderness.
From that night, he’d roll up to my Kundalahalli PG in his Audi, the engine’s low, seductive purr vibrating through the dawn mist, exhaust curling faint and acrid as he picked me up, the leather seats creaking under me, still warm from his body. At the office, we’d sneak into the toilets—me locking the stall with a shaky click, the air cool and stale, peeling my top to snap nudes, tits spilling out, nipples hard as pebbles, pussy spread wide and wet, the slickness glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, sending them with a trembling finger, the phone’s shutter a soft snap; him firing back sex chats, “Gonna fuck that ass raw next time,” his words dripping filth across my screen, the buzz of my phone a jolt in my hand. My mind drowned in it—sex, his cock, the car, the cash—every thought a vivid, pulsing flood of lust, the salty taste of his cum still haunting my tongue, the creak of the Audi’s seats echoing in my ears, my shy shell splitting wide, craving more with every stolen, sweat-soaked glance.