Meghna Ch. 02: Face Full of Gooodnight

This is Chapter 2 in the Meghna & Kamaljeet series -- a slow-burn, filthy, glamcore Indian erotica following a high-society couple navigating lust, power, and absolute surrender. Read Chapter 1 for context, but this one stands alone in all the right ways. Buckle up.

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Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction intended for adults only. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The content contains explicit material and is meant for mature audiences aged 18 and above. Reader discretion is advised.

Copyright Notice:

© 2025 litorigami. All rights reserved. This story and its content are the original work of litorigami and may not be copied, reproduced, or distributed in any form without express written permission from the author.

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Meghna Ch. 02 : Face Full of Gooodnight

Dinner was done. Plates cleared, wine polished, ass grabbed under the table twice. Classic.

He stood up first, like the gentleman menace he is. I followed, still trying to walk like I wasn't throbbing between my legs. The hostess smiled a little too hard at him. I smiled harder. Sorry, babe, he's not just mine--he ruins me.

He held the door open and pressed his palm to the small of my back. I swear to God, I nearly came just from that. I knew that touch. That was his you're not leaving without choking on my cock touch.

The valet brought around the Range like we were royalty. Which--okay--we kind of are.

Kamaljeet didn't wait. He opened my door himself and helped me in, all quiet and smooth and completely dripping with I'm going to fuck you up later energy.

I slid in, legs together like a good Indian beti on the outside, whore in heat on the inside. He took his time walking around to the driver's side, slipped in, shut the door, and suddenly it was just us. Dark leather, city hum, and the tension so thick I could sit on it.

I looked like a bridal Barbie sent straight from a wet dream. Blush pink chiffon, sheer as hell, covered in tiny, multicolored floral embroidery--like a botanical garden fucked a lace factory. The blouse? Basically backless. One baby bow holding it all together, like that wasn't dangerous. And I didn't wear a bra, obviously. The pallu was already misbehaving. My lipstick was still there, somehow. My anklets chimed every time I so much as exhaled. I knew he heard them.

And Kamal?

Wine-red suit. Monochrome shirt, top buttons undone like a cheat code. Rolled sleeves. The kind of rolled sleeves that make your knees give out. He had that slow-blink predator energy--calm on the surface, but I could feel it pulsing off him.

His thighs were spread, one hand on the wheel, the other just resting near his zipper. I knew that pose. Daddy was going to get what he wanted.

He pulled up outside my house like it was no big deal. Like my parents weren't literally upstairs probably watching the daily night talkshow with the comedian host or something while I sat here soaked through silk. The headlights cut across the garden wall. The Range idled. And suddenly, it felt stupidly quiet.

I leaned in, all grace and glossy lips, and kissed him goodbye--slow, controlled, the kind of kiss you give your fiancé when you're wearing diamonds and trying not to act like a cum-hungry menace.

He didn't kiss me back.

He grabbed my jaw, kissed me hard, teeth and tongue and this filthy little growl that made my clit twitch.

Then he pulled back just enough to whisper,

"You think I brought you all the way home for just a kiss?"

And my whole body just... betrayed me.

I didn't even have time to gasp.

He took my wrist and dragged it straight into his lap--right onto his cock, thick and hard under that fucking wine-red suit.

My fingers twitched. My thighs clenched. I could feel the heat through the fabric, feel how badly he wanted this.

"Kamaljeet..." I whispered, glancing toward the house. "They're still awake."

He didn't flinch.

"Then be quiet," he said, low and dangerous, "and open your mouth."

I bit my lip. My pussy pulsed.

And the zipper came down.

Slow. Heavy. Intentional.

He didn't rush. He just leaned back, legs spread, letting his cock spring free like this was his fucking throne and I was already bending sideways.

"What's wrong?" he smirked. "Don't tell me my good girl's getting shy."

I wasn't.

I was just already soaking through my fucking panties.

I didn't even hesitate. I just bent over--face first into sin--like my body had made the decision for me. One hand braced on the center console, the other wrapped around his cock, warm and thick and already twitching in my grip.

I gave it one long, teasing lick. Flat tongue, eye contact, full slut mode.

His jaw flexed.

Then I opened my mouth and slid him in. Sloooowly. Letting my lips stretch, letting my lipstick smear, letting the Range Rover become our private porn set.

"Good girl," he muttered, voice thick.

"Use that mouth. Come on. Let me hear it."

I moaned around him--loud. Obscene. Let the spit fall. Let it get messy.

His hand landed on my head, not gentle, and started guiding.

I bobbed faster. Deeper. Felt him hit the back of my throat. Gagged a little, blinked through the tears.

My mascara probably wasn't surviving this, but honestly? Neither was I.

His thighs tensed. My anklets jingled. My jaw ached.

And still--I didn't want to stop.

I pulled off for a second--spit-slick, breathless, lips glossy with filth.

Needed air. Needed to breathe. Needed to stop moaning like a paid whore under my own home.

But that's when I saw it.

Saw her.

A figure.

In the upstairs window.

Barely lit. Still.

But clear as day.

My mother.

In her fucking nightgown.

Watching.

Not moving.

Not hiding.

Just there.

Frozen in the window like a ghost--or worse, an audience.

My entire body jolted. My stomach dropped. My thighs clenched, and not from shame--

From something way dirtier.

She was watching me give my fiancé a sloppy, gaggy, two-hand, wet-sound blowjob.

And she wasn't stopping it.

Not even a knock on the glass. Not even a flinch.

Just... witnessing.

I froze for half a second--half a fucking breath--cock still in my hand, spit smeared across my lips, his taste in the back of my throat.

And then I looked up.

Right at the window.

Right at her.

My mother.

Watching.

Still as glass.

Expressionless.

Like she'd been there for a while.

Like she wasn't even shocked. Just... observing.

My first instinct was shame.

My second?

Filth.

Pure, filthy thrill.

She's watching you?

Good. Let her see what kind of daughter she raised.

I looked her dead in the eye.

And took him back in my mouth.

Not soft.

Not slow.

Greedy.

I wrapped my lips tight around the base, let my spit coat him like lube, and bobbed hard.

Gagged once. Didn't stop.

Tears welled in my eyes. Mascara be damned.

"Fuck," Kamaljeet groaned, hips jerking, "you're so fucking perfect."

His hand fisted in my hair.

The car rocked slightly.

The sound of my sucking filled the cabin like applause.

And still--still--that ghost of a woman stood at the window, draped in cotton and judgement.

Watching her daughter turn into a dripping, messy, cock-hungry little wife.

I could feel it in his thighs--the twitch, the tension.

The way his hand tightened in my hair, his other fist gripping the steering wheel like he was about to fucking break it.

He was close.

I knew that cock too well by now. I could read it like scripture.

The way it pulsed on my tongue, the way his breaths turned jagged, the way his head tipped back against the seat as if the pleasure was too much.

And I?

I wanted it.

I wanted every fucking drop.

I pulled off with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting my lips to the head of his cock. My mouth was swollen, lips red and raw, throat sore.

I didn't care.

I looked up at him, smeared in drool, eyes big and shining.

"Cum on my face, Daddy," I whispered.

"Make a mess. Let her see what your bride's really for."

And do nothing about it.

He blinked.

Once.

Then twice.

Like he'd just realized what I'd said.

His eyes flicked to the window--and I know he saw it then.

That faint silhouette of my mother.

Still there.

Still watching.

Still pretending it was all fine.

And Kamaljeet?

That sick, controlling bastard?

Smiled.

"Open your mouth," he growled.

I did.

Tongue out.

Face tilted up like an offering.

My blouse had slipped so far down by now I might as well have been topless.

I stroked him once. Twice. Fast.

He groaned--deep and savage--and then it happened.

His cock jerked, and the first thick rope of cum hit my cheek.

Then my lips.

Then across my nose.

More.

Hot, sticky, fucking endless.

It splattered onto my saree. Onto his trousers. Into my hair.

I stayed still and let it rain down, proud and filthy and soaking it up like it was holy.

"Fuck, Meghna," he panted, chest rising fast. "Look at you..."

I did.

I looked at her.

Right back at that dark little square of glass above the garden.

Cum on my face.

Tits half-out.

Tongue still hanging.

And for the first time all night--she moved.

Just one slow pull of the curtain.

Like the show was over.

Like she'd seen enough.

But me?

I wasn't done.

Not even close.

Silence.

Not a word.

Just the soft hum of the engine and the sound of me breathing like I'd run a fucking marathon.

My hand reached up automatically to wipe my face--warm cum smeared across my cheek, dripping onto my blouse, caught in the embroidery like it belonged there.

My lipstick was gone.

My pallu was somewhere near the gearshift.

My mother had just watched me get facialed like a pornstar in the car parked outside her kitchen window...

And all I could think was,

I should've swallowed it.

Kamaljeet zipped up like he hadn't just destroyed me six feet from my parents' gate.

He leaned over casually, like this was just another goodbye, and kissed my forehead--his cum still wet on my chin.

That part?

Destroyed me.

"You were beautiful tonight," he said, thumb brushing my jaw like I was made of something delicate.

"Text me when you're done washing me off your pretty face."

Then he reached across me, opened the door, and waited.

Like a fucking gentleman.

I stepped out of the car barefoot--heels in hand, anklets silent now--and adjusted my blouse with shaking fingers.

My thighs were sticky.

My hair smelled like him.

And somewhere upstairs, my mother was probably lighting incense and trying to figure out if she'd just hallucinated me getting face-fucked in her driveway.

Spoiler:

She hadn't.

And as I walked back into the house, cum drying on my throat and guilt nowhere to be found, I couldn't stop smiling at just one thought:

Next time... I'll leave the window open.

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Epilogue -- Aloo, Incense, and Shame

The next morning smelled like cumin, mint chutney...

And judgment.

I walked into the kitchen in yesterday's oversized tee, braless, barefaced, still tasting last night on my lips.

My hair was up in a lazy bun.

My pussy?

Still sore. Still wet.

Mummy was at the counter. Rolling out aloo parathas like they'd personally offended her.

She didn't look at me. Not once.

"You came home late," she said.

"Did you eat anything after dinner?"

Her tone was polite. Her wrist? Vicious on the rolling pin.

I sat down slowly at the table, feeling like I was five years old again after stealing kajal.

Only now?

I'd stolen my future husband's cum and let it drip down my throat while she watched.

She slid a hot paratha onto my plate.

Right beside it?

A single, sticky red bindi.

Mine.

From last night.

She didn't even blink.

"This was stuck to your cheek while you slept."

"Try not to ruin this one." as she passed me a packet of new assorted bindis.

I swallowed hard.

Reached for the napkin.

Wiped a spot that didn't need wiping.

"And beta..."

She finally looked at me. Calm. Measured. Fucking terrifying.

"Next time he drops you off..."

"Invite him inside. Don't keep a good boy waiting like that."

Then she turned back to the stove.

As if she hadn't just murdered me with one goddamn paratha.

THE END.