u/vamsi468_

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I still can’t believe it only happened yesterday.

I had gone downstairs from my PG to collect an order when I saw him. A desi boy built like a pahalwan — broad chest, thick arms, that solid, wrestler’s body that makes you look twice without meaning to. Something in me caught and held. A sharp, quiet crush. Then I walked away and somehow managed to forget about it.

Until this morning.

I woke up aching. The kind of hunger that only comes when I’ve been denying myself for a long time. I don’t keep that app on my phone. I only install it when the need becomes unbearable — and even then, only if I’m desperate. Six or seven months had passed since the last time. This morning I finally installed it again, opened it, and started looking.

I’m picky. Extremely private. Most of the time I find no one worth messaging. But his profile appeared, showing five hundred meters away. If it had said one meter I would never have risked it. Five hundred felt safe enough. Maybe he was at the market, or just passing through. I messaged him. We exchanged pictures — mine first, then his face. I didn’t recognize him at first. The boy from yesterday. He wasn’t my usual type. Yet every private fantasy I’d ever had about a thick, desi pahalwan lived in that face and that body.

I told him the name of my PG and the exact room number.

When he walked in, the air changed. That body was even more beautiful up close — fair skin stretched tight over hard muscle, pure pahalwan build. He spoke only Haryanvi. Sometimes I understood him. Sometimes the words slipped past me. He was completely at ease in my room, more comfortable than I was. He pulled the towel from around his waist himself, walked into the bathroom, used my towel without asking, showered, and came back out. Then he simply lay down on my bed.

He looked at me and told me to take my underwear off.

I did.

He was big. Bigger than I expected. Thick. The kind of size you only see in videos and still don’t quite believe until it’s right in front of you. I took him into my mouth. He started moaning almost immediately, low and rough, one heavy hand fisting in my hair. Sometimes he pushed deeper on his own, hips lifting, the head of him pressing against the back of my throat. I didn’t pull away. I kept going, taking as much as I could, the taste of him clean and warm from the shower.

After a while he pulled out of my mouth, reached for a condom, tore the packet open, and held it toward me. He wanted me to put it on him using only my mouth. I took the tip between my lips, placed it over the head of his thick cock, and slowly rolled the latex down with my lips and tongue, working it carefully all the way to the base until it sat tight and smooth. Only then did he push me onto the bed.

We didn’t do any real body play. He was straight, after all. Still, he tried to fuck me. At first he couldn’t get all the way in. I used a lot of lube — more than I ever had before — and slowly he managed to push the thick head inside. Just that much already stretched me open. I felt every ridge of him through the condom.

Later that same night he came back for more.

This time he turned me over, grabbed both my wrists and pinned them, and pushed all the way in with one long, heavy thrust. I wanted to cry out. The rooms on either side were occupied; I bit down on the sound. His full weight settled over me, solid and inescapable. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even shift. He stayed buried deep for a moment, breathing hard against my neck, then started to fuck me — slow at first, then harder, the wet sound of it filling the quiet room.

It had only been a few minutes when something unexpected happened.

I came.

Hands-free. Completely untouched. Just from the way he was driving into me. My whole body tightened and spilled across the sheets while he kept thrusting. I was shocked. It almost never happens like that. My face and chest went pink; every nerve felt raw and open. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. The pressure kept building inside me, deep in my stomach, and it started to hurt in that sharp, full way that comes after you’ve already finished. His cock was so thick it felt like it was splitting me open from the inside.

I asked him when he was going to come.

He answered in Haryanvi, voice rough: “Haibera na.”

He didn’t know. He just kept going, heavy strokes that pushed the air out of my lungs.

Two or three minutes later he finally finished, buried to the hilt, groaning against my shoulder. The heat of it flooded the condom inside me. Even through the ache, it felt good. So good.

He was twenty, same as me, but he looked three or five years older. I look younger than I am — sometimes when I share photos on Telegram people still ask if I’m even eighteen. His body was all man, but his behavior afterward was almost boyish. He lay there for a while, then started playing with my laundry bags, lifting them and tossing them around until I told him they’d tear. He put them down, wandered over to the table, opened a packet of dry fruits I’d bought for myself, and started eating. Then the chips. He moved through my room like he belonged there, opening the almirah, completely at home, without asking for a single thing.

I still had to clean myself up. The mess was considerable. Part of me was nervous about leaving him alone in the room — desi boys can be a little reckless, a little foolish, and that has always made me cautious. But he was also sweet in his own rough way. Comfortable. Present.

And the memory of how he felt inside me — heavy, thick, relentless — stayed long after he finally left.

PS : Attached photo is his...