The theater smelled of burnt sugar and synthetic butter, the air thick with the low hum of the AC and the distant crackle of on-screen gunfire. Vishal and Manisha had claimed the far back corner, last row, where the velvet seatback swallowed sound and the overhead light never reached. The armrest between them was already flipped up, a silent surrender.
Manisha’s black cotton sundress clung to her damp skin, the hem riding high enough to expose the soft crease where thigh met hip. No panties—Vishal had peeled them off in the parking lot, stuffing the damp lace into his pocket while she shivered against the car door. Now her bare pussy kissed the cool, cracked leather seat, slick arousal already painting a faint sheen on the upholstery. Every tiny shift sent a whisper of chilled air across her swollen clit, making her thighs tremble.
Vishal’s scent—cedar cologne, faint sweat, the metallic tang of anticipation—filled her lungs as he leaned in. His stubble scraped the shell of her ear, voice a low rumble that vibrated straight to her core. “Spread for me, baby.”
His hand slid under the dress, calloused fingertips skating over the fever-hot skin of her inner thigh. Gooseflesh rose in their wake. When he reached her center, she was drenched—hot, slippery folds parting easily for the rough pad of his thumb. He circled her clit once, slow and deliberate, then pressed hard, the pressure blooming into a sharp, electric ache. Manisha’s breath stuttered; the taste of salt and popcorn lingered on her tongue as she bit down on her lower lip.
Two thick fingers plunged inside without warning, the stretch burning sweetly. Her walls fluttered, greedy, sucking him deeper. The wet squelch of her arousal was obscene, swallowed only by a perfectly timed explosion on screen. Vishal curled his fingers, stroking the ridged spot that made her vision spark white at the edges. His palm ground against her clit with every thrust, the friction slick and relentless.
Manisha’s own hand shook as she attacked his zipper. The metal teeth rasped open; his cock sprang free, heavy and scalding in her grip. The skin was silk over steel, veins pulsing under her fingers. A bead of precum welled at the slit—she smeared it down the shaft, the glide slick and filthy. Vishal’s hips jerked into her fist, a low growl vibrating against her neck.
“Inside,” she gasped, the word shredded. “Need you inside me now.”
She rose on shaky knees, straddling him. The dress bunched at her waist, cool air kissing the wet trail of arousal cooling on her thighs. Vishal’s hands clamped her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The blunt head of his cock nudged her entrance—scorching, slick with her juices. She sank down in one slow, merciless glide.
The stretch was exquisite agony. Her pussy fluttered, walls rippling as they molded around every ridge and vein. When her ass finally met his thighs, he was buried to the root, balls pressed tight against her dripping lips. The fullness stole her breath; she could feel him throb deep inside, a second heartbeat.
“Fuck, Manisha,” he rasped, voice raw. “You’re dripping down my balls.”
She started to move—slow, grinding circles at first, clit dragging over the coarse hair at his base. The friction sent sparks skittering up her spine. Then she lifted, inner walls clinging to every inch as she rose until only the flared head remained, then slammed back down. The wet slap of skin on skin was masked by a car chase roaring overhead, but she felt it in her bones.
Vishal met her thrust for thrust, hips snapping up, cock spearing into her with brutal precision. The seat creaked beneath them, springs groaning. His mouth found her throat—teeth scraping, tongue soothing—before he yanked the dress neckline down. Cool air hit her exposed breast; her nipple pebbled instantly, dark and aching. He sucked it hard, cheeks hollowing, the wet heat of his mouth a shock against the chill. His tongue flicked the stiff peak in time with his thumb circling her clit, the dual assault making her sob silently.
Sweat bloomed between them, salty and sharp. Manisha’s thighs burned, muscles trembling as she rode him harder, chasing the coil tightening low in her belly. Vishal’s fingers dug into her ass, spreading her cheeks, the tip of one slick finger circling her tight rear entrance—teasing, promising. The threat alone sent a fresh gush of wetness coating his cock.
“Come on my dick,” he snarled against her breast, teeth grazing the sensitive underside. “Want to feel this greedy pussy milk me dry.”
The words snapped her. Pleasure crashed over her—white-hot, blinding. Her pussy clamped down in rhythmic pulses, walls spasming as she came, gushing around him in a scalding rush. Vishal thrust deep and held, cock jerking as he erupted. Thick ropes of cum flooded her, pulse after pulse, until it overflowed, dripping in warm rivulets down her thighs and pooling beneath them on the seat.
They stayed locked, trembling, the scent of sex and buttered popcorn thick in the air. Manisha clenched deliberately, drawing a final shudder from him. Vishal kissed her slow and deep, tasting salt and satisfaction.
The credits rolled, house lights flickering on. She slid off him with a wet sound, cum trickling down her leg. Vishal tucked himself away, eyes dark with promise.
“Parking lot,” he said, voice hoarse. “Backseat. Now.”