Ayesha: Dirty Monsoon

The summer night in Lahore was thick and airless. Even at 11:30 PM, the heat clung to the skin like a second layer. Anarkali Bazaar had long since shuttered—metal grilles down, neon signs off, only the occasional flicker of a dying tube light. The asphalt still radiated the day’s stored warmth, rising in waves. Ayesha Khan, forty-two, walked quickly through the near-empty lanes, her emerald shalwar kameez damp with sweat at the small of her back. She had stayed late at Fatima Jinnah Girls’ Academy, correcting board exam essays under a humming fan. The last rickshaw had refused the fare—“Petrol khatam, madam”—so she walked the final kilometer to Gwalmandi.

Her flats made soft, sticky sounds on the warm pavement. She carried a small black handbag—keys, purse, graded papers, a half-empty bottle of Rooh Afza. Her dupatta was draped loosely, ends fluttering in the faint, hot breeze that smelled of dust, diesel, and overripe mangoes from a nearby cart.

She turned into the narrow lane behind the old haveli—a shortcut she’d used a hundred times. The alley was unlit except for a single bulb swinging from a frayed wire, its glow weak and yellow. The walls were high, brick baked all day, now exhaling heat. Crates and rusted drums lined one side; a pile of broken furniture blocked the other. The air was still, heavy, pressing down.

She didn’t hear him until his shadow fell across her path.

A man stepped from the mouth of a side passage—tall, broad-shouldered, black cap pulled low. Before Ayesha could react, his hand covered her mouth, palm rough and warm. His other arm locked around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. She struggled—heels scraping the warm asphalt, handbag slipping from her shoulder and thudding softly. He dragged her deeper into the alley, past the crates, to the dead-end wall where the bulb’s light barely reached.

Her muffled cry vibrated against his hand. She pushed at his chest—solid, unyielding, the fabric of his kurta damp with sweat. He pressed her back to the brick wall, his body pinning hers. The wall was hot against her shoulder blades. Up close, she saw him: late thirties, thick black beard, scar through the left eyebrow. Eyes dark, focused. A stranger.

“Chup,” he whispered, voice low, gravelly, breath warm against her ear. “Hilna mat.”

Ayesha’s pulse thundered in her throat. She twisted, trying to bring her knee up. He shifted smoothly, trapping her legs between his thighs. The movement pressed her shalwar against her skin, the drawstring brushing her hip. His hand left her mouth, slid to the base of her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a silent command. She opened her mouth to scream. He covered it again, firmer this time, thumb pressing into her cheek.

His other hand moved to the drawstring of her shalwar. One slow tug. The knot loosened. The fabric slid down her hips, catching briefly on the curve of her ass before pooling at her ankles. She wore plain white cotton panties, slightly damp from the heat. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down—slowly, deliberately. The elastic stretched, then released. The panties joined the shalwar in a soft heap.

Ayesha’s breath came in sharp, panicked bursts. She pushed at his shoulders again. He didn’t move. His hand slid between her thighs, parting them with steady pressure. Two fingers pressed against her slit—dry, unready. He rubbed once, twice, then pushed inside. The intrusion was tight, burning. She clenched involuntarily. He worked his fingers deeper, curling, stroking the inner walls. Her body responded against her will—slickness forming, easing his path. He added a third finger, stretching her further, thumb brushing her clit in slow, deliberate circles.

He withdrew his fingers. She heard the soft rustle of his own clothes. His shalwar dropped to his knees. His cock pressed against her lower belly—hot, heavy, fully erect. Thick. Longer than her late husband’s. The head nudged her entrance, smearing pre-cum across her skin.

He lifted her slightly, back still against the wall, feet barely touching the ground. One arm slid under her left thigh, spreading her wide. He guided himself in.

The first inch stretched her painfully. He paused, let her adjust, then pushed deeper—slow, relentless. Another inch. Another. Her walls fluttered around him, gripping the intrusion. When he was fully seated—balls flush against her, the head nudging her cervix—he stilled. She felt every throb of his cock inside her, every vein, every pulse.

Then he began to move.

Long, deliberate strokes. Out until only the head remained, then in again, to the hilt. The brick scraped her shoulder blades through the damp kameez. Her breasts, still confined in her bra, bounced with each thrust. He shifted his grip—both hands now under her thighs, lifting her fully off the ground. Her legs dangled, shalwar tangled at her ankles, flats slipping off one by one and thudding softly to the ground.

The angle changed. His cock dragged against her front wall, grazing a spot deep inside that sent unwanted sparks through her core. She bit her lip to stay silent. He noticed. Adjusted his hips. Thrust upward, hitting the same place again. Again. Again. Her breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound.

He lowered her slowly, feet touching the warm asphalt. Turned her to face the wall. Hands on her hips, he bent her forward at the waist. Her palms flattened against the hot brick. He entered from behind—smooth, deep, one continuous motion. The position opened her wider. His cock filled her completely, the head pressing firmly against her cervix with each stroke. The heat of his body radiated against her back.

He moved steadily—long, deep thrusts that made her toes curl against the ground. One hand slid around her waist, fingers finding her clit again. He rubbed in tight, relentless circles—rough calluses against sensitive flesh. Her hips jerked. She hated the slickness coating his fingers, hated the way her body tightened around him, hated the low, wet sounds of their joining echoing in the still alley.

He pulled out slowly, the drag of his cock against her walls making her shiver. Turned her to face him again. Lifted her onto a low wooden crate stacked with empty sacks. The wood was warm, splintered, slightly damp with condensation. He stepped between her thighs, spread them wide. Her shalwar and panties remained tangled at her ankles, restricting her movement. He pushed the hem of her kameez up to her ribs, then higher, bunching it above her breasts. Her beige cotton bra was soaked with sweat. He pushed the cups up, exposing her breasts—full, heavy, dark nipples erect from the heat and friction.

He leaned in. His mouth latched onto her left nipple—sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak. His teeth grazed it lightly, then harder. She gasped. His cock nudged her entrance again. He entered in one slow, deliberate thrust—deeper this time, the crate giving him leverage. Her back arched against the sacks. He fucked her steadily, hips rolling, the head of his cock grinding against her G-spot with every stroke.

He straightened. Gripped her hips with both hands. Pulled her to the edge of the crate. Her ass hung slightly off, legs spread wide. He thrust harder—short, sharp strokes that made the crate creak. Her breasts bounced freely now, nipples brushing the rough fabric of the sacks. Sweat beaded between them, trickling down her sternum.

He slowed. Pulled out almost completely, then slid back in—inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge. Her pussy clenched around him, slick and hot. He repeated the motion—slow withdrawal, slow re-entry—until she was trembling. Then he changed pace: fast, shallow thrusts that teased her entrance, then one deep plunge that made her gasp.

He lifted her off the crate. Turned her again. This time, he lowered her to the ground—on her back, on a flattened cardboard box that cushioned the warm asphalt. The shalwar and panties still tangled at her ankles pinned her legs together slightly. He knelt between her thighs, pushed her knees up to her chest, folding her nearly in half. The position opened her completely. He entered again—slow, deep, relentless.

This angle was devastating. His cock speared her, the head pressing hard against her cervix. Each thrust nudged her G-spot, then deeper. Her clit was exposed, swollen. He reached down, thumb pressing against it, rubbing in tight circles. Her hips bucked involuntarily. The pressure built—unwanted, unstoppable.

He leaned forward, one hand bracing beside her head. His chest brushed her breasts. His hips snapped forward—deep, rhythmic strokes. The cardboard shifted beneath her. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her collarbone. She felt the heat of his body, the weight of him, the relentless fill of his cock.

He pulled out. Shifted her onto her side. Lifted her top leg high, resting it on his shoulder. Re-entered from the side—awkward at first, then perfect. The angle rubbed new spots inside her. His hand slid between her thighs, two fingers circling her clit. She moaned—low, involuntary. He thrust faster, the slap of his balls against her ass loud in the quiet alley.

He rolled her onto her stomach. Pulled her hips up slightly. Entered from behind again—knees on the cardboard, ass in the air. The position was deep, animal. His cock dragged against her front wall with every stroke. One hand gripped her hip, the other reached beneath to pinch her clit. She came—hard, sudden. Her walls spasmed around him, juices flooding, a low cry muffled against the cardboard. He didn’t stop. Kept thrusting through her climax, drawing it out until her legs shook.

He pulled out. Flipped her onto her back one final time. Knelt between her thighs. Lifted her hips slightly off the ground. Re-entered—slow, deep, deliberate. His eyes locked on hers. No words. Just the wet sounds of their joining, the creak of cardboard, the distant hum of a generator.

His rhythm faltered. His grip tightened. He buried deep and stilled. She felt the hot pulse of his release—thick, copious, filling her completely. Pulse after pulse. He stayed inside a moment longer, then pulled out slowly. Cum dripped down her thighs, pooling on the cardboard.

He stood. Adjusted his shalwar. Picked up his cap from the ground. Ayesha lay still, legs trembling, shalwar and panties tangled at her ankles. The warm night air kissed her exposed skin. He turned and walked away, footsteps fading into the darkness.

Ayesha remained on the cardboard, the taste of sweat and shame thick on her tongue.