Yuvi and Amit’s kinky gay sex saga- Part 1

Please note that the story is fictional (or is it just change in name of characters or places :-)) Haha no its fictional and of 15+ part each getting more and more wild and unhinged. Keep reading if you are into dominance, submission, rough sex and romance all clubbed in one

In the heart of Pune, where monsoon rains slicked the streets with a glossy sheen and the scent of wet earth tangled with diesel fumes, Yuvi maneuvered through his daily commute to the sprawling campus of Flashiatech in Hinjawadi. At 25, Yuvi was a force in the strategy and sales team, his 80-kg, curvy frame carried with unshakable confidence. His dusky hands and tanned face contrasted with his extremely fair skin, a nod to long hours under the sun, his thick beard framing a face that could flip from razor-sharp wit to a submissive, lust-filled haze in private. A former engineering topper and selected as a strategy consultant at a very young age, Yuvi’s intellect was unmatched, his leadership effortless. Yet, beneath his commanding corporate persona, a craving to surrender simmered, a submissive slut pig waiting for the right trigger, hidden behind discreet app swipes in Pune’s conservative undercurrent.

Amit, 31 but looking a youthful 28, had joined Flashiatech six months prior, moving from a rival firm in Kashmir to handle the logistics of marketing. At 6’3, his lean, muscular frame and massive arms were a striking presence, his extremely fair Kashmiri skin glowing under office lights. The hottest man anyone could lay eyes on, Amit’s irresistible charm drew everyone, men, women, colleagues, strangers. His street-smart confidence, forged in Kashmir’s rugged isolation, masked a certain innocence about city life, though Pune had sharpened him. In meetings, his voice commanded attention, his piercing brownish-black eyes and trimmed beard amplifying his allure. Dominant in every sense, especially in bed, Amit flirted effortlessly, his charisma a weapon. Yet, in a city where LGBTQ identities were whispered about, he cloaked his desires in hyper-masculine bravado, cricket matches, gym flexes, and loud laughs over beers.

Yuvi and Amit were colleagues, nothing more at first. They exchanged nods in hallways, polite “good mornings,” and shared strategy meetings where Yuvi’s sharp presentations earned subtle nods from Amit’s side. Beyond that, they were distant orbits in Flashiatech’s vast ecosystem.

The first spark flared during a routine project kickoff in early June, as monsoon clouds loomed over Pune. The team was launching a new product line, and Yuvi, leading strategy, delivered a razor-sharp campaign pitch, his wit drawing chuckles. Amit, seated across the conference table, watched with a faint smirk, his piercing eyes locking onto Yuvi’s for a split second. Yuvi fumbled a word, his tanned cheeks flushing, but he recovered with a quip: “Clearly, I’m the poet of industrial logistics.” The room laughed, and Amit’s smirk deepened, a private acknowledgment that felt charged.

After the meeting, as colleagues scattered, Amit lingered, packing his laptop. Yuvi, stuffing notes into his bag, felt Amit’s towering presence nearby. “Solid pitch,” Amit said, his voice low, almost teasing. “You make this logistics crap sound almost sexy.”

Yuvi grinned, his wit firing. “High praise from the genius himself. I’ll frame that for my cubicle.”

Amit’s laugh was quick, his eyes crinkling. “Don’t get too full of yourself, genius.” The word “genius” carried a playful edge, and Yuvi felt a flicker, curiosity, maybe, or the hint of a challenge. In Pune’s buttoned-up corporate world, it was just banter. Nothing more.

Over months, the project pulled them closer. Yuvi noticed Amit’s habits: the way his massive arms flexed when he leaned back, the meticulous notes in his leather journal, the flash of impatience when a colleague missed a point. Amit, in turn, clocked Yuvi’s brilliance, his ability to charm clients with a single quip, the confidence in his curvy frame, the way he owned a room despite Pune’s body-shaming whispers of a guys at 25 being 80-85 kg and curvy.

Their first real conversation was a fluke, in the office cafeteria during a quiet lunch hour. Yuvi sat at a corner table, scrolling his phone, a plate of vada pav untouched. Amit, tray in hand, paused. “You eating that or just posing with it?” he asked, his tone dry, his towering frame casting a shadow.

Yuvi looked up, startled. “Just admiring its… architectural glory,” he shot back, gesturing at the snack. “It’s practically a monument.”

Amit snorted, dropping his tray and sitting uninvited. “You’re full of it, Yuvi.” But he stayed, and for twenty minutes, they talked, cricket (Yuvi knew enough to fake it, Amit was a fanatic), Pune’s traffic hell, the cafeteria’s dubious biryani. It was easy, unforced, and when Amit left, Yuvi felt a warmth, like he’d cleared some invisible hurdle.

Pune’s conservative pulse kept them cautious. Yuvi, dodging family marriage probes, hid his submissive desires, his lust-filled fantasies, under layers of charm. Amit, shaped by Kashmir’s traditional roots, deflected personal questions with a grin or a flirtatious jab, his innocence about city ways tempered by street-smart finesse.

Yet, the MNC’s bubble allowed cracks in their armor. During a team-building retreat in Lonavala, Yuvi and Amit were paired for a trust exercise. When Yuvi stumbled on a rocky trail, Amit’s massive hand shot out, steadying him with a grip that lingered. “Careful, pretty boy,” Amit teased, his voice low, eyes glinting. Yuvi’s “Not your pretty boy, hero” was sharp, but his pulse raced, the nickname burning in his mind.

Late nights on the project tightened their orbit. Hinjawadi’s IT hub emptied after 7 PM, leaving Yuvi and Amit in the quiet office, Yuvi crafting sales strategies, Amit crunching logistics data. The silence was easy, broken by Yuvi’s quips—“This deadline’s gonna bury me before my mom’s marriage rants do”, and Amit’s dry retorts: “Tell her you’re married to Flashiatech. She’ll be thrilled.”

One rainy night, Amit stretched, his massive arms flexing, his tight shirt straining. Yuvi’s eyes darted up, caught by the sight, then flicked away. Amit noticed, his smirk sharp. “Distracted, Yuvi?” he teased, leaning back, his tone dripping with challenge. “What’s got you so lost?”

Yuvi’s heart skipped, but his wit held. “Just wondering how you fit all that muscle in one shirt.” Amit’s laugh was low, his eyes pinning Yuvi’s, a silent dare that made Yuvi’s skin tingle.

The attraction grew, a slow burn. Yuvi noticed Amit’s details: the faint scar above his brow, the lingering spice of his cologne, the rare softness when he spoke of Kashmir’s valleys. Amit was hooked on Yuvi’s duality, his public brilliance, his private vulnerability, the way his tanned hands moved when he spoke, the confidence in his curvy frame defying norms.

Their flirting was subtle, veiled in banter. During a client pitch, Yuvi’s tie loosened, and Amit, passing by, fixed it with a quick tug. “Sloppy, genius,” he murmured, his fingers grazing Yuvi’s neck, leaving heat in their wake. Yuvi’s “Jealous of my flair, huh?” was shaky, his lust-filled eyes betraying him. Amit’s smirk screamed he’d noticed.

Pune’s social scene gave them cover. Team outings—bowling at Blue Sea, beers at Toit—let them loosen up. At a colleague’s birthday bash in Koregaon Park, Yuvi, buzzed on craft beer, owned the room in a tight kurta that hugged his curves. Amit, in a fitted shirt showing off his massive arms, watched from the bar, his eyes tracking Yuvi. When Yuvi approached for a drink, Amit leaned in, his voice a growl. “Showing off tonight, aren’t you, Yuvi?”

Yuvi grinned, bold. “Gotta keep the crowd happy.” His hand brushed Amit’s on the counter, a fleeting jolt. Amit’s eyes darkened, his “Careful what you’re starting” a promise wrapped in a warning.

Their dom-sub dynamic emerged slowly. Yuvi’s submissive streak showed in small ways: deferring to Amit’s lead in meetings, the flush when Amit snapped, “Focus, Yuvi,” during a crunch. Amit’s dominance was blatant—his control in logistics pitches, the stare that silenced pushy clients, the edge when he teased Yuvi about “needing a leash.” One night, reviewing a deck, Amit caught Yuvi doodling, a chained heart. “What’s this, huh?” Amit asked, his tone sharp but curious.

Yuvi flushed, scrambling. “Just… doodling. Stress art.” Amit’s smirk was knowing, his “Looks like you’re into some wild shit” landing like a spark. Yuvi’s silence confirmed it, and Amit tucked it away, his own kinks, control, command, stirring.

Their texts grew daring. Yuvi sent a meme about “bossy types,” and Amit fired back, “You’d eat that up, wouldn’t you?” Yuvi’s “Maybe I would” was a risk, his heart racing. Amit’s “Good to know, slut pig” was playful but heavy, the nickname igniting Yuvi’s core.

By November, with the project’s end nearing, urgency crackled. They’d built something unspoken—trust, tension, a shared secret in Pune’s rigid world. The final spark came on a Friday night after a grueling week. The office was empty, just Yuvi and Amit finalizing a client report. Rain hammered the windows, blurring the city. They finished early, collapsing onto the break room couch with instant coffee, the silence thick with unspoken words.

Yuvi spoke first, soft. “This project’s been brutal, but… you? Not the worst company.”

Amit’s eyes met his, intense but warm. “You’re not so bad yourself, Yuvi. Maybe more than that.” The words hung, raw and real.

Yuvi swallowed, his wit faltering. “Yeah? How much more?”

Amit leaned closer, his towering frame dominating the space. “Enough to know you’re different. Enough to want… this.” His massive hand moved, deliberate, resting on Yuvi’s knee. Yuvi’s breath caught, his curvy frame leaning in, pulled by Amit’s pull.

The kiss was sudden, inevitable, months of tension exploding. Amit’s hand slid to Yuvi’s bearded cheek, his lips firm, commanding, but laced with a tenderness that surprised Yuvi. Yuvi melted, his submissive core yielding, his lust-filled eyes fluttering shut. The kiss deepened, Amit’s dominance clear in how he tilted Yuvi’s head, Yuvi’s hands clutching Amit’s shirt, grounding himself. It was a spark, a start, their hidden selves breaking free.

They pulled back, breathless, the rain pounding outside. Amit’s smirk was soft, his voice a growl. “You’re mine now, slut pig.”

Yuvi grinned, his wit back. “Guess I’m screwed then.”

The office buzzed around them, unaware of the shift. The kiss was their secret, a vow sealed in the quiet, the first step toward nights in Amit’s apartment.

Wait for the next part it get’s steamier