He is fucking me. On a thin blanket laid out on a concrete floor in the middle of a tiny Indian apartment, he is fucking me. I can smell the faint residue of his Bidis and whiskey on his face. His chin and cheeks rub roughly against my face as he thrusts, my makeup smearing. He grunts with each thrust. I’ve wrapped my legs around him, and I’m trying to keep up. Together, we smell like beer and smoke and sandalwood and sex.
His cock pulls me wider, wider, more open.
I scream as he fucks, and it’s part pain, part pleasure, part the raw intensity of the sensation.
“Hijra pussy is the best,” He says between grunts, and I don’t correct him.