Girl in heat 2: Me and him alone

After husband gone I am alone ... Not alone but .... Ammmmm someone give me a dickkkk

With Arjun gone again for fifteen days, Vikram quietly resumed his role as if he’d never left. He arrived each morning at seven, let himself in with the spare key, and started the chores—sweeping, mopping, washing clothes, preparing breakfast. But everything felt different now. The invisible line they had danced around for thirty days had been crossed the moment he stepped back inside after dropping Arjun at the airport.

Supali stopped wearing a bra at home.

It started small. The first evening after Arjun’s departure, she came back from work, showered, and slipped into a loose, oversized white t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh and soft cotton shorts. No bra. Her full breasts moved freely beneath the thin fabric, nipples faintly visible when the AC cooled the room. She told herself it was just for comfort—Hyderabad’s December evenings were still warm—but deep down she knew better.

Vikram noticed immediately.

He was folding laundry in the living room when she walked in. His eyes flicked up, lingered on the soft sway of her breasts under the shirt, the dark outline of her nipples pressing against the cotton when she reached up to tie her wet hair. He didn’t stare openly, but the air shifted. He cleared his throat and continued folding, yet his movements were slower, more deliberate.

The encounters grew bolder, more frequent.

One afternoon, she “accidentally” dropped her phone while reaching for a glass in the kitchen. Bending over slowly in her loose tank top, the neckline gaped, giving him a clear view down her shirt—full, bare breasts hanging freely, nipples hard from the cool air. When she straightened, Vikram was right behind her, handing her the phone. His fingers brushed the underside of her breast as he did—deliberate this time. She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice rough, but his thumb grazed her nipple for a split second before retreating.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, pressing her thighs together.

Another night, she asked him to help adjust the ceiling fan chain that was stuck. He stood on a stool, massive frame stretching upward, muscles rippling under his vest. She stood close—too close—holding the stool steady. As he pulled the chain, his hip pressed firmly against her chest, her braless breasts squishing softly against his thigh through the thin fabric. She felt the heat of him, the hardness growing in his shorts. Neither moved for a long moment.

“You got it,” she said breathlessly.

He stepped down slowly, eyes locked on hers. “Anything else you need… adjusted?”

She bit her lip. “Not yet.”

Mornings became the most charged. She started waking later, coming out of her bedroom in just a loose spaghetti-strap top and tiny shorts, breasts bouncing gently with each step. Vikram would be making coffee or chopping vegetables. She’d lean over the counter beside him to grab a cup, her bare arm brushing his, her nipple grazing his bicep as she stretched. Once, she “spilled” a drop of coffee on her chest. The liquid ran down between her breasts, soaking the fabric translucent. Vikram’s eyes darkened as he watched it trail.

Without a word, he took a kitchen towel and dabbed at her chest—slowly, firmly—his large hand cupping her breast through the wet shirt, thumb circling her hardened nipple under the pretense of cleaning. She moaned softly, arching into his touch.

“Careful, Supali,” he rumbled. “You’ll make a mess.”

“You’re cleaning it,” she breathed.

His hand lingered, squeezing gently before pulling away.

They still hadn’t kissed. Hadn’t fucked. But every touch, every glance, every brush of skin was foreplay now—slow, deliberate, building.

Supali spent her days at work distracted, wet and aching. Nights, she touched herself thinking of his huge hands on her bare breasts, imagining that heavy bulge she’d seen outlined in his shorts finally free, finally inside her.

Vikram moved through the chores with calm control, but his eyes followed her everywhere.

Fourteen days left until Arjun returned.

The apartment was no longer just a home.

It was a powder keg.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, ten days into Arjun's latest offshore stint. Supali was lounging on the couch in her favorite loose crop top—no bra, as had become her habit—and tiny denim shorts that rode up her thighs. Vikram was in the kitchen, preparing lunch, his massive frame moving with that quiet efficiency she'd grown addicted to watching. The air was thick with their usual unspoken heat; earlier that morning, she'd "accidentally" pressed her bare breasts against his back while reaching for a spoon, feeling his body tense like coiled steel.

The phone rang—Arjun's ringtone.

Supali answered, putting it on speaker out of habit. "Jaan? You're calling early. Everything okay?"

Arjun's voice crackled over the line, distant and strained. "Supali... something's happened. There's an emergency at the site—major pipeline rupture. They need me to stay on for... about two years. Full-time oversight. They're doubling my pay, baby, and there's bonuses. But it's remote as hell, deep in the Andamans. Signal's spotty; I might not be able to call often. Emails maybe, but no promises."

Supali sat up straight, her face twisting in shock and anger. "Two years? Are you fucking kidding me, Arjun? We just had one night together! I'm 21, not some widow waiting in a goddamn tower!" She paced the living room, breasts bouncing freely under the crop top, nipples hardening from the rush of emotion. "How am I supposed to handle this? Alone? Again?"

Vikram paused in the kitchen, listening silently, his dark eyes on her.

Arjun sighed. "I know, jaan. I'm mad too. But this could set us up for life. And... remember last time? That crazy night? Let's just hope we made a little one. You'd have company then." His voice softened, trying to joke, but it fell flat.

Supali stopped pacing, hand on her belly instinctively. The thought sent a twisted thrill through her—Arjun's seed, or... but she shoved it down, fury winning. "That's not funny. You can't just leave me like this!"

"I'm sorry. Look, put Vikram on the phone. I need to talk to him."

She glanced at Vikram, who stepped forward without a word. She handed him the phone, her fingers brushing his palm, sending a spark up her arm.

"Arjun sir," Vikram said, voice steady and deep.

"Brother, listen," Arjun said urgently. "I trust you like family. Take care of Supali. Everything. You know what I mean—house, food, protection. She's young, full of fire; don't let her be alone. Shift into the house full-time. Use the spare bedroom. Stay nights. I don't want her vulnerable in this city."

Vikram's eyes met Supali's across the room. She felt a rush of heat, her core clenching at the implications. "Sir, I... I have my gym routine. Early mornings."

Arjun cut him off. "No problem. I'm sending you 50k right now—check your account. Buy whatever equipment you need. Dumbbells, bench, whatever. Set up a gym in the balcony or living room. Make it at home. And involve Supali—get her working out with you. It'll keep her busy, strong. Healthy for if... you know, the baby thing happens."

Supali's phone buzzed—a transfer notification: 50,000 INR from Arjun. Vikram glanced at it, nodding. "Yes, sir. I'll handle it. Everything."

"Good man. Take care of my wife. I'll try to call when I can."

The line went dead.

Supali stood there, breathing hard, a storm of anger, frustration, and something darker swirling inside her. Two years. Alone with Vikram. Full-time. Gym sessions. "Everything."

Vikram set the phone down gently, his massive presence filling the space between them. "Supali... you okay?"

She looked up at him, eyes flashing. "No. But... you're staying now." It wasn't a question.

He nodded slowly, stepping closer. "Yes. And we'll set up that gym tomorrow." His gaze dropped briefly to her crop top, the way it barely contained her heaving breasts. "You'll join me. Sweat it out."

She swallowed, the anger shifting to a familiar heat. "Fine. But don't think this changes anything."

His smile was small, knowing. "It changes everything."

That night, Vikram moved his few things into the spare room. Supali lay in bed, hand between her thighs, imagining the weights, the sweat, his hands spotting her lifts—closer than ever.

Two years stretched ahead like an endless, burning horizon.

The gym arrived piece by piece over the next week: a sturdy adjustable bench, a rack of dumbbells up to 50 kg, a barbell with plates, thick rubber mats for the balcony that overlooked the glittering Hi-Tech City skyline. Vikram set it all up with quiet efficiency, turning the spacious enclosed balcony into a private workout space. By the end of the week, it looked professional—mirrors on one wall, a pull-up bar mounted in the doorway, even a small Bluetooth speaker for music.

Supali watched him assemble it all, usually in tiny shorts and a loose crop top that ended just below her breasts, no bra, nipples perpetually half-hard from the cool tile floors and the way his eyes tracked her.

Their first “session” started innocently enough.

It was a Tuesday evening. She came home from work, showered, and changed into the skimpiest workout outfit she owned: black high-waisted leggings that hugged every curve of her ass and a neon pink sports bra that was technically meant for exercise but barely contained her full C-cups. The fabric stretched tight across her chest, nipples poking through clearly. She told herself it was practical.

Vikram was already out on the balcony, shirtless for the first time in the house. His dark skin glistened faintly under the LED lights, every muscle carved deep—thick pecs, ridged abs, traps that bulged when he loaded plates onto the bar. A thin trail of sweat already ran down the center of his broad back.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low, as she stepped onto the mats.

She nodded, throat suddenly dry.

He started her light—warm-up squats with just the empty bar. He stood behind her, spotting, his huge hands hovering inches from her hips. Every time she descended, her ass brushed the front of his shorts. By the third set, she could feel him thickening against her, the heavy length pressing firmly into the cleft of her leggings.

“Deeper,” he rumbled. “Sit back like you’re sitting on my—”

She gasped, nearly dropping the bar. He caught it easily, steadying her, his chest pressing against her back, nipples dragging across his bare skin through the thin bra.

“Good,” he murmured against her ear. “Feel that burn.”

Next came dumbbell lunges. He demonstrated first, thighs exploding with power, shorts riding up to reveal the thick root of his cock nestled against one massive leg. When it was her turn, he stood close, one hand on her lower back, the other “correcting” her front knee—fingers grazing the inside of her thigh, dangerously close to the heat building between her legs.

Sweat beaded on her chest, running down into the deep valley of her cleavage. Vikram’s eyes followed every drop.

Bench press was worse—or better.

She lay back on the bench, bar loaded light. He straddled the bench behind her head to spot, thighs on either side of her face. As she pushed up, her eyes were level with the massive bulge in his grey shorts—now fully outlined, thick and half-hard, stretching the fabric. Every rep brought her face inches from it. She could see the ridge of the head, the heavy veins pulsing faintly. The scent of clean male sweat and faint musk filled her senses.

“Eyes on the bar,” he said, but his voice was rougher now.

On her last rep, she faltered deliberately. He leaned forward to help, and the weight of his cock brushed her forehead—hot, heavy, unmistakable. She let out a soft whimper.

He racked the bar slowly, then looked down at her, dark eyes burning.

“You’re getting stronger,” he said. “But your form needs work.”

He moved to the front of the bench, adjusting her grip—his large hand closing over hers on the bar, then sliding down her arm, brushing the side of her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple deliberately this time, circling once.

Supali arched, a small moan escaping.

Deadlifts were the breaking point.

He loaded the bar heavy for himself first, demonstrating. Shirtless, back flaring wide, glutes and hamstrings flexing as he pulled 180 kg like it was nothing. Sweat poured down his torso, dripping off his abs. When he finished, he turned to her, breathing hard, shorts tented obscenely now—his cock fully erect, at least nine thick inches straining against the fabric, the head pushing past the waistband.

“Your turn,” he said, voice gravel.

She stepped up to the bar, bending over in front of him. The leggings stretched tight across her ass, outlining everything. As she gripped the bar, he moved in close to “correct” her hip position—his erection pressing firmly between her cheeks, hot and throbbing through the thin layers of fabric.

He didn’t move away.

She stayed bent over, breathing hard, feeling every inch of him nestled against her.

“Pull,” he commanded softly.

She did—one shaky rep, grinding back against him involuntarily.

His hands gripped her hips, holding her there.

“Again.”

The second rep, she pushed back harder. A low groan escaped him.

By the third, his fingers were digging into her flesh, cock pulsing against her ass.

She dropped the bar with a clang and straightened, turning in his arms.

They were inches apart, sweating, panting, eyes locked.

His hand slid up her slick back, thumb tracing her spine.

“Stretch now,” he said, voice barely controlled. “Cool down.”

But they both knew cooling down wasn’t happening tonight.

The gym mats were about to see a very different kind of workout.

Supali had pushed herself hard during those first two intense gym sessions, egged on by Vikram’s deep commands and the electric thrill of his body so close to hers. Squats, lunges, deadlifts, bench presses; she’d matched his encouragement rep for rep, sweat pouring, muscles screaming. By the third morning, she could barely move.

Every muscle in her body felt knotted and inflamed: thighs burning, glutes tight, back aching, even her arms trembling when she tried to lift her coffee mug. She shuffled into the living room in an oversized t-shirt and panties, wincing with every step.

“Vikram…” she groaned, collapsing onto the couch. “I can’t even walk properly. My whole body is cramping. I think you broke me.”

He appeared from the kitchen, shirtless as usual now that he lived in the house, a faint sheen of sweat from his own early workout. His dark eyes scanned her curled-up form with concern, then something warmer.

“Too much too soon,” he said softly, voice rumbling. “You’re not used to heavy loads. I can fix it. A deep massage will loosen everything.”

Supali hesitated, biting her lip. “A massage? You know how to do that?”

“On the rigs we learned. Injuries happen. No physiotherapist out at sea. I’ve done it hundreds of times.” He paused, meeting her gaze. “But it has to be proper. Skin to skin. Oil. Full body.”

Her pulse quickened. Two years alone with him stretched in her mind. “Okay,” she whispered. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

That evening, after dinner, Vikram prepared the living room like a makeshift spa. He pushed the coffee table aside, laid a thick blanket over the soft rug, and dimmed the lights. A bottle of warm coconut oil sat ready. Soft instrumental music played low from the speaker.

Supali showered first, nerves buzzing. When she emerged from the bedroom, she wore nothing but two large white towels—one wrapped tightly around her breasts, the other draped low over her hips, barely covering her mound and ass.

Vikram waited on his knees beside the blanket, wearing only loose shorts. His massive chest and arms gleamed faintly in the low light.

“Lie down on your stomach,” he instructed gently.

She did, heart pounding, towels staying in place. The rug was soft beneath her.

He started innocently enough: warm oil poured between her shoulder blades, strong hands kneading her tight traps and upper back. She moaned involuntarily; the pressure was perfect, pain melting into relief. He worked down her spine, thumbs digging into knots, palms gliding over her sides, occasionally brushing the swell of her breasts pressed beneath the towel.

Lower and lower—calves, hamstrings, glutes. His hands were huge, fingers sinking deep into sore muscle. When he reached her glutes, he peeled the lower towel up just enough to expose her ass cheeks, keeping her pussy covered. He massaged firmly, thumbs pressing into the thick muscle, spreading her cheeks slightly with each stroke. She felt cool air on her most private skin, felt herself growing slick despite the innocence of the act.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

She did, shakily.

He moved to her inner thighs, oil-slick hands sliding higher and higher, knuckles grazing the edge of the towel over her mound. Once, twice, his thumb pressed deliberately along her outer lips through the fabric. She gasped, hips lifting slightly.

“Relax,” he said, voice thicker now.

He asked her to turn over.

Supali hesitated, then rolled slowly onto her back. The upper towel shifted, barely covering her nipples; the lower one clung precariously between her thighs.

Vikram poured fresh oil over her collarbones and began working her chest and shoulders. His hands moved downward, palms gliding over the tops of her breasts where the towel had slipped. He didn’t remove it, but his fingers slipped beneath the edge, kneading the full, soft flesh, thumbs circling dangerously close to her nipples.

She bit her lip to stifle a moan.

Lower still—stomach, hips. He massaged her quads, hands sliding up the sensitive inner skin. When he reached the towel over her pussy, he pressed firmly with the heel of his palm, slow circles right over her clit through the fabric. Once. Twice. Harder.

Supali’s back arched, a soft whimper escaping. Her nipples were rock-hard under the slipping towel, thighs trembling. She was soaked; she could feel it.

He moved to her breasts fully now. The towel fell away completely as his oiled hands cupped her bare tits, squeezing gently at first, then deeper, thumbs rolling her nipples until she cried out softly. He pinched, tugged, massaged—claiming every inch without a word.

Back down again. The lower towel shifted aside just enough. His large hand cupped her mound directly now, skin on slick skin, one thick finger tracing her wet slit without entering, pressing her clit in slow, firm strokes. Her hips bucked helplessly.

“Please…” she whispered, not even sure what she was begging for.

But he didn’t go further. No penetration. No guiding her hand to the massive erection straining against his shorts—she could see it throbbing, the head peeking above the waistband, pre-cum glistening—but she didn’t touch. He kept control.

He brought her to the edge twice—fingers circling her clit, palms pressing her breasts—until she was writhing, panting, tears of frustration in her eyes. Then he eased off, returning to innocent muscle work on her arms and neck.

Finally, he covered her again with the towels, now completely askew, and leaned close to her ear.

“Better?” he rumbled.

Supali could only nod, body trembling, pussy throbbing with unspent need.

“Sleep now,” he said, voice rough with his own restraint. “Tomorrow we train lighter. And another massage if you need.”

He stood, erection tenting his shorts obscenely, and walked to his room without looking back.

Supali lay there long after he left, towels discarded, fingers finally slipping between her legs to finish what his hands had started—coming hard and silent with his name on her lips.

The line between relief and desire had vanished completely.

And there were still almost two years left.

The massages became a nightly ritual over the next several days, each one stretching longer, delving deeper into the realms of tormenting pleasure. Supali's muscle cramps had faded by the second session, but she didn't tell Vikram that. Instead, she feigned lingering soreness, complaining about phantom aches in her thighs, back, and core—anything to summon his massive hands back to her body. He knew, of course; his dark eyes held that knowing glint each time she lay down on the blanket, towels barely concealing her nudity. But he played along, his control as unyielding as his touch was masterful.

By the third night, the pretense of therapy had all but evaporated. Supali stripped fully before entering the living room, draping the towels loosely over her breasts and mound as she positioned herself face-down. Vikram started as always: warm coconut oil cascading over her skin, his palms kneading her shoulders and back with firm, rhythmic pressure. But now, he lingered on her ass, thumbs digging deep into the cheeks, spreading them wide to expose her completely. Oil trickled down her crack, and she felt his breath—hot and steady—against her skin as he worked.

"Still tight here," he murmured, voice like gravel, as one thick finger traced the slick path from her tailbone to her entrance. Without warning, he pressed in—just the tip at first, oiled and insistent. Supali gasped, hips lifting instinctively. He pushed deeper, one finger fully inside her now, curling gently against her inner walls. She clenched around him, wet heat flooding her core.

"Vikram..." she whimpered, but he shushed her softly, his free hand stroking her back.

"Relax. This loosens everything."

He pumped slowly, in and out, the oil making obscene, wet sounds. Sometimes he added a second finger, stretching her wider, his thumb circling her clit in lazy patterns that made her thighs tremble. He extended the strokes, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, fingers scissoring slightly to stretch her inner lips, tugging at the sensitive skin until she was dripping onto the blanket. No rush, no frenzy—just deliberate, erotic torment that built her to the brink without mercy.

When she flipped over, the towels fell away entirely. Vikram's eyes devoured her bare body: full breasts heaving, nipples peaked and begging. He poured oil directly onto her chest, cupping her tits with both hands, squeezing and kneading like dough. Thumbs rubbed her nipples in tight circles, pinching them until they were red and swollen, sending jolts straight to her pussy. She arched, moaning openly now, her hands fisting the blanket to keep from reaching for him.

Lower he went, oil slicking her mound. One finger dipped inside her again—then two—pumping rhythmically while his palm ground against her clit. He stretched her further, fingers hooking and pulling at her walls, extending the soft, slick folds with gentle tugs that made her cry out. His other hand roamed: pinching a nipple, tracing her inner thighs, even brushing her lips as if daring her to suck. But she didn't touch him back—not his throbbing erection straining against his shorts, not the pre-cum staining the fabric. He wouldn't allow it; this was his domain, his control.

Each night escalated subtly. By the fifth massage, he used three fingers once, stretching her to her limits, rubbing her G-spot until she sobbed with need, her body convulsing on the edge of orgasm. He'd pull back just in time, leaving her panting, unsatisfied, horny beyond words. "Tomorrow," he'd say, voice hoarse, before retreating to his room—leaving her to finish alone in bed, fingers mimicking his but never quite matching the fire.

Supali's days blurred into a haze of anticipation. Work was a distraction; the gym sessions resumed lighter, but now with the memory of his fingers inside her, every spot, every brush felt like foreplay for the night ahead. She was constantly wet, nipples sensitive to the slightest fabric, body craving more.

And Vikram? He moved through the house like a predator in wait, chores done with the same quiet power, but his gaze promised everything.

Two years felt like an eternity of sweet agony.