Stranger to Skin part 1: A twink’s anal sex saga

The bus ride from Lucknow to Noida felt endless. I had my earphones in, but I wasn’t really listening to music. I was lost in my own thoughts of meeting him for the first time – Aakarsh had sent me his location with a simple “Come soon, bacha,” and I couldn’t stop looking at it on my screen, like it was some secret treasure map and I was walking straight into something dangerous, beautiful, and real. My hands were cold, even though it was July and the air was sticky with heat.

The cab ride to his place was a blur. My reflection in the window looked calm, but inside, I was burning. This wasn’t just some random meet — it felt like I already knew him in some way. The way he spoke to me on Snap, how he called me bacha in that deep, assured voice. How he asked me what I was wearing just before I stepped out, only to say, “Save the good stuff for when you’re here.”

His building wasn’t fancy, but it felt like something was glowing around it when I got down. I texted him, “I’m here,” and before I could blink, he was already downstairs.

Aakarsh

Tall, 5’11”, broad shoulders, wearing a loose shirt that clung slightly to his chest, jawline sharp, eyes soft but with something darker behind them. He smiled the moment he saw me — not a big smile, just that small, knowing curve of his lips that made me feel like I was already owned.

He didn’t waste time. “You look good,” he said as he pulled me into a quick hug. I melted into him for a second — his chest was firm, warm, and smelled like sweat mixed with a hint of cologne and something uniquely him. I could already hear his heart when my ear pressed against him, fast and loud like mine.

We didn’t go to his room right away. “You must be hungry,” he said. We went out for dinner — nothing fancy, just a local place, but I couldn’t even focus on the food. I kept looking at him as he talked, laughed, teased me. His fingers brushed mine when he passed the water bottle, and I swear my breath caught. Every little gesture felt like it was already part of foreplay.

After dinner, we walked back. The summer night was thick and heavy, but something about it made my skin more sensitive — like the heat was preparing me for something.

We reached his room.

It was dark inside except for a soft blue light from the charger in the corner. He switched on the fan, took off his shirt casually and threw it on the chair.
But all happen to me in slow-motion peeling off his shirt slowly — casually — like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. His gym-toned body came into full view, and I swear my breath got stuck. Broad chest, strong arms, that V-line disappearing into his trackpants. He knew I was staring, and he smirked.

“You can freshen up and change, bacha,” he said, tossing me a towel and pointing to the washroom. “I know the bus must’ve made you feel gross.”

I nodded and went inside, my heart thudding.

I changed into my pyjamas

“Make yourself at home,” he said. I was still standing near the washroom door, nervous and shy — not because I didn’t want this, but because it already felt too intense.
He also changed wore one of his gym T-shirt and yes I can see his muscles.
We didn’t say anything for a while. Just lay down, next to each other, both on our backs, staring at the fan blades. The silence between us was loaded. His fingers slowly moved closer to mine, until they touched — just lightly.

Then he shifted, wrapped one strong arm around my waist, pulled me closer. My head rested against his chest. That’s when I heard it again — his heart, racing. Not just beating. Racing. His warmth surrounded me completely. His body was slightly sweaty from the heat, his skin hot against mine, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want distance. I just wanted more of that closeness, that smelly, man warmth that made me feel… safe. Desired.

I whispered, “You’re so warm.”

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just held me tighter.

Then suddenly, he murmured, “Fuck it,” and turned his face toward mine. I didn’t even have time to respond. His lips crashed into mine, urgent, desperate. Like he’d been holding back for too long.

I kissed him back, harder, both of us tangled in the heat and hunger.

Hands started exploring. His fingers on my waist, sliding under my t-shirt. Mine moving across his back, feeling the muscles tense. My hand pulled his T-shirt up. He let me — and threw it aside.

Then, one by one, clothes started coming off.

Shorts. Pajamas. Boxers. Until we were completely naked under the fan — our bodies sweaty, warm, flushed with the summer heat and all the things we hadn’t said out loud.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me.

His eyes roamed over me — my chest, my stomach, my soft skin glowing under the dim light. He took a breath, deep and slow.

“Fuck, bacha,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful. This body… soft, warm, ready to be ruined by me.”

Our bare chests pressed against each other, hot skin on hot skin. It was sticky, sweaty, but we didn’t stop.

In fact, we wanted it more.

His lips didn’t stay on mine for long. He started kissing down my neck, biting a little. His breath hitched when I moaned softly, and that only made him bolder.

Then, he reached my chest.

His lips found my nipple, and I gasped when he started biting — not hard enough to hurt, but deep enough to feel. Over and over. First one, then the other. His hands were all over me, grabbing my waist, pulling me closer like he couldn’t get enough.

I couldn’t control myself either. My hips were grinding against his without even thinking. The friction, the sweat, the weight of his body on mine — it all became too much.

He looked down at me, eyes filled with something feral, intense.

“You’re mine tonight, bacha,” he whispered.

And I nodded, breathless, trembling under him.

Then his lips were still on my chest, biting, teasing, owning. I could barely breathe, not because I was scared — but because I wanted more. I had never felt this kind of hunger before. Like every nerve in my body had come alive under his touch. Like the air between us was made of fire and trust.

Then, slowly, he kissed his way lower.

His hands parted my thighs as if he already knew what belonged to him. I felt the heat of his breath right there, and then I saw it — his length, thick, veined, hard — standing like a monument to everything masculine, everything dominant. And yet, in that moment, it was offered to me. For me. For my mouth, my desire.

He brought it near my lips, and the divine scent of him hit me — that mix of sweat, skin, and raw male. It was overwhelming. My lips parted instinctively. I leaned in, kissed the tip, tasted it — and lost control.

The taste of him was deep, heavy, salty — real. Like proof of his manhood. Like something that couldn’t be faked.

He let me explore it at my pace first — slow, licking the shaft, kissing it, taking just the head between my lips. His fingers tangled into my hair, but gently, letting me enjoy.

And I did.

The more I tasted him, the more addicted I became. I took him deeper, feeling my mouth stretch to fit him, my jaw working hard as I sucked, slowly, then faster. My saliva started dripping down the sides, coating him, making it wetter, warmer, filthier. He moaned softly above me — low and rough, the kind of sound that made me ache with pride.

Then he whispered, “Don’t stop now, bacha…”

He began to guide my head, slowly pushing deeper. Inch by inch. Until he was hitting the back of my throat. I gagged, but I didn’t pull away. His hand was firm on my head, but not forceful. Just present. My eyes watered, not from pain — but from the overwhelming satisfaction of pleasing him, of knowing he was losing control because of me.

Due to much gagging the juice of my mouth mix with his Precum has became like a foam mixed with saliva spilled from my lips, trailing down my chin. My throat throbbed, my body pulsed, and still I kept going — lost in the rhythm, the heat, the wetness.

After nearly 20 minutes, he gently pulled back. My lips were red, swollen, my breath ragged. I looked up at him — eyes shining with tears, not from sadness, but from devotion. From the beautiful ache of serving him.

He leaned down, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “You’re perfect, bacha.”

Then he turned me over.

I felt his hand on my back, tracing the curve of my spine. His fingers reached between my cheeks, rubbing the saliva from his shaft across my hole. The cool slickness made me shiver. Then he leaned over, spat on his hand, rubbed it in — slow, hot, rough.

“Relax for me,” he said softly, voice suddenly tender again.

I nodded.

I felt the tip of him press against me — and even just that made me gasp. My body clenched, not in fear, but in instinct. He didn’t rush. He stayed right there, breathing heavy, letting me adjust.

Only the head was in, and already it felt like too much.

“I can’t—” I whispered, trembling.

“You can,” he said gently, kissing the back of my neck. “Just breathe, bacha. I’ve got you.”

I focused on his voice, on his warmth, on the strong hand holding mine tight.

And then, as I relaxed, he pushed all the way in.

A sharp jolt of pain shot through me — shocking, deep, intense. I gasped, fingers gripping the sheet. But he didn’t move. He stayed still, buried inside me, chest against my back, whispering soft, filthy words in my ear. And then… slowly… the pain melted into something else. Something unbearable but beautiful.

Pleasure.

He started moving, deep and slow at first. My body adjusted, welcomed him in. And soon, I wanted more.

We changed positions — on my back, on all fours, him holding my legs up, pinning my wrists above my head, flipping me over again and again like he owned me. Like my body was made for him.

And maybe… it was.

Every thrust hit deeper, fuller, wetter. His body was covered in sweat. So was mine. It felt like the fan wasn’t enough — the whole room had turned into a sauna of skin, moans, and heat. His kisses never stopped — on my mouth, my shoulders, my thighs.

We kept going — like the night belonged to us, and no one else mattered.

And then finally, toward the end, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, kissed my shoulder gently, and whispered, “I’m gonna fill you now, bacha…”

I didn’t speak. I just turned my head, kissed him.

And with one deep final thrust, he let go — completely.

I could feel the warmth of him inside me. Filling me. Marking me. Claiming me.

He held me there for a long time after. No words. Just our breath, our soaked bodies tangled up, and the soft sound of his heartbeat in my ear.

The same heartbeat I had felt in that very first hug.