Ayesha: Filthy Fall

The railway station in Lahore was a furnace in late September. The platform baked under the noon sun, the air thick with diesel, sweat, and the metallic tang of steel. Ayesha Khan stood near the tea stall, her dupatta pulled low over her forehead, a plain beige shalwar kameez hiding her figure. She had come to buy a ticket to Karachi—another visit to Amna, another excuse to escape the city that now felt haunted.

Then she saw him.

He was loading rice sacks onto a freight truck, shirtless, his torso glistening with sweat. The scar through his left eyebrow caught the light. Same height. Same broad shoulders. Same powerful arms that had once pinned her against brick. He bent to lift another sack, muscles rippling under sun-dark skin, and Ayesha’s breath caught.

Her body remembered before her mind could protest. A pulse throbbed between her legs—sharp, insistent. The memory of his cock, thick and relentless, flooded back. The way it had filled her. Stretched her. Taken her without mercy. She had hated it. Then. But now, months later, the ache was different. Not shame. Hunger.

She turned away, bought her ticket, and boarded the train. But the image stayed. Burned into her retinas. That night, in her flat, she touched herself for the first time since the alley. Her fingers slid between slick folds, circling her clit, imagining his weight, his thrusts. She came hard, biting her pillow to muffle the sound.

She needed it again.

Not the violence. Not the fear. Just the power. The way he had moved inside her, owning every inch. She needed to feel that cock again—hard, deep, unstoppable.

Ayesha returned to the station three days later. Same time. Same platform. She wore a simple black abaya, hijab pinned tight, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She carried a small handbag and a paper cup of doodh patti as a prop.

He was there. Same truck. Same rhythm—bend, lift, toss. Sweat traced the V of his back. Ayesha’s mouth went dry.

She waited until the other loaders took a break. Then she walked up, slow, deliberate.

“As-salamu alaikum,” she said, voice low.

He turned. Wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Recognition flickered in his eyes—then surprise. Then a slow, knowing smirk.

“Walaikum assalam, aunty,” he said, voice rough. “Ticket kharidne aayi ho?”

Ayesha removed her sunglasses. Met his gaze. “Nahi. Aap se milne aayi hoon.”

He raised an eyebrow. Looked her up and down. The abaya did little to hide the curve of her hips. “Mujh se? Kyun?”

She stepped closer. Close enough to smell his sweat, his heat. “Jo kuch us raat hua… main usay bhool nahi paayi.”

His smirk widened. “Aur?”

“Main chahti hoon ke woh phir se ho. Lekin is baar… meri marzi se.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then nodded once. “Theek hai. Mere ghar. Aaj raat. Dus baje.”

He gave her an address—Railway Colony, Platform 3 ke peeche, Gali No. 7, Makaan 42. She memorized it. Turned to leave.

“Naam?” he called after her.

“Ayesha.”

“Raheel,” he replied. “Raat ko aana. Darwaza khula hoga.”

Ayesha arrived at 10:07 PM. The colony was a maze of narrow lanes, brick houses stacked like boxes. Laundry hung from wires. A stray dog barked once, then lost interest. Makaan 42 was a single-story structure, peeling blue paint, a rusted gate. The door was ajar.

She pushed it open.

Inside was sparse: a charpai, a fan spinning lazily, a small TV flickering with a cricket match on mute. Raheel stood in the center, barefoot, wearing only a white vest and shalwar. His chest rose and fell steadily. His eyes locked on her.

“Lock kar do,” he said.

Ayesha closed the door. Turned the latch.

He didn’t speak again. Just stepped forward, gripped her abaya by the collar, and pulled it over her head in one motion. Underneath, she wore a black bra and matching panties—lace, expensive, bought that afternoon from a boutique in Liberty Market. Her skin was flushed, nipples already hard against the fabric.

Raheel’s hands went to her bra. Unhooked it with a flick. The straps slid down her arms. Her breasts spilled free—full, heavy, dark nipples erect. He cupped them, thumbs brushing the peaks. Squeezed. She gasped.

He pushed her back against the wall. The plaster was cool against her spine. His mouth descended on her left breast, sucking hard. Teeth grazed the nipple. His hand slid into her panties, fingers parting her folds. She was soaked. Two fingers plunged in without warning, curling, pumping. Her hips bucked.

“Geeli ho,” he growled against her skin. “Tayyar ho.”

He yanked her panties down. They caught on her hips, then tore. The lace ripped. He didn’t care. Dropped to his knees. Pushed her legs apart. His tongue found her clit—flat, broad licks, then tight circles. Ayesha’s hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair. Her knees weakened.

He stood. Shoved his shalwar down. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, the head flushed dark. Pre-cum beaded at the tip. He gripped her thigh, lifted it to his hip, and lined himself up.

One thrust. Full depth.

Ayesha’s head fell back against the wall. He filled her completely, stretching her walls, the head nudging her cervix. He didn’t pause. Pulled back, slammed in again. Again. Again. The rhythm was brutal, relentless. Her breasts bounced with each impact. The wall shook.

She wrapped her leg tighter around his waist. He gripped her ass with both hands, lifting her off the ground. Her back scraped the plaster. He fucked her standing, her weight nothing in his arms. Her pussy clenched around him, slick and hot.

He carried her to the charpai. Dropped her on her back. The ropes creaked. He climbed over her, knees spreading her thighs wide. Re-entered in one smooth stroke. This angle—deeper. His cock dragged against her front wall, hitting her G-spot with every thrust. She moaned, loud and unrestrained.

Raheel’s hand found her throat—not choking, just holding. Dominating. His hips snapped forward, relentless. The charpai groaned. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her chest. She reached down, fingers circling her clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

He pulled out. Flipped her onto her stomach. Yanked her hips up. Her knees dug into the mattress. He entered from behind—hard. The slap of his balls against her clit echoed. His hand fisted her hair, pulling her head back. She arched, ass high, taking every inch.

He slapped her ass—sharp, stinging. Once. Twice. The heat bloomed. She pushed back, meeting his thrusts. Her fingers dug into the sheets. The pressure built, coiled tight.

Raheel’s pace quickened. His grunts grew rougher. He reached around, replaced her fingers with his own on her clit. Two rough circles and she shattered—her pussy spasming, juices flooding, a low cry tearing from her throat. He didn’t stop. Fucked her through it, drawing it out until she was trembling.

He pulled out. Flipped her onto her back again. Straddled her chest. His cock, slick with her, hovered over her face. She opened her mouth without being told. He fed it to her—slow, deep. She gagged once, then took him to the root. Her tongue swirled the underside. He groaned, hips rocking.

He pulled out. Moved down. Lifted her legs over his shoulders. Folded her nearly in half. Re-entered. This angle—God. His cock speared her, relentless. Her G-spot, her cervix, every nerve screaming. She came again, harder, her nails raking his back.

Raheel’s rhythm broke. His thrusts turned erratic. “Andar?” he grunted.

“Haan,” she gasped.

He buried deep and came—hot, thick pulses filling her. She felt every spurt. Her own climax pulsed around him, milking him dry.

They collapsed, panting. His weight pinned her to the charpai. After a moment, he rolled off. Lay beside her, chest heaving.

Twenty minutes later, he was hard again.

Ayesha was on her knees, ass up, face pressed into the pillow. He entered her from behind—slow this time, savoring. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her back onto his cock. She rocked, meeting him halfway. The rhythm built—steady, then faster. His thumb found her asshole, circling, pressing. She tensed, then relaxed. He pushed in—knuckle-deep. The dual sensation sent her over again, her pussy clenching, her moans muffled by the pillow.

He pulled out. Lay on his back. Pulled her on top. She straddled him, sinking down slowly. His cock filled her inch by inch. She rode him—slow rolls of her hips, then hard bounces. Her breasts swayed. He reached up, pinched her nipples. She ground her clit against his pelvis, chasing friction.

He sat up, wrapped his arms around her waist, and flipped them. Now she was on her back, legs over his shoulders again. He pounded into her—deep, punishing strokes. The charpai nearly collapsed. She came twice more—sharp, shattering climaxes that left her breathless.

They moved to the floor.

Ayesha on all fours. Raheel behind her, one hand on her lower back, the other pulling her hair. He fucked her like an animal—raw, primal. The slap of skin on skin filled the room. Her knees burned against the concrete. She didn’t care.

He pulled out. Pushed her onto her side. Lifted one leg high. Entered from the side—awkward at first, then perfect. The angle rubbed new spots. She reached down, rubbed her clit furiously. He slapped her breast—hard. The sting pushed her over. She came with a scream, her body shaking.

Raheel flipped her onto her back one last time. Pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. Fucked her slow and deep. His eyes locked on hers. No words. Just the wet sounds of their joining, the creak of the floor, the fan spinning above.

He came again—deep inside, groaning her name for the first time. “Ayesha…”

She followed, her final orgasm rolling through her like a wave. Slow, sweet, endless.

They lay on the floor, sweat-slick and spent. The fan cooled their skin. Raheel lit a cigarette, offered her a drag. She took it, inhaled, coughed once. Handed it back.

“Phir aogi?” he asked.

Ayesha stared at the ceiling. “Shayad.”

She dressed in silence. Her abaya was wrinkled, her hair a mess. She didn’t care. At the door, she paused.

“Lock kar dena,” she said.

He nodded.

She stepped into the night. The hunger was sated—for now.