The velvet ropes of the Dolby Theatre parted like a lover’s thighs as Aishwarya Rai glided down the red carpet, her sapphire gown a cascade of silk that whispered against her skin with every sway of her hips. It was the Oscars after-party spillover, 2023’s haze of champagne flutes and hollow laughter echoing off marble floors slick with spilled Dom Pérignon. At forty-nine, Aishwarya was timeless fire honeyed skin luminous under crystal chandeliers, those kohl-rimmed blue-green eyes piercing the crowd, full lips curved in a knowing smile that hid the boredom gnawing at her Bollywood exile. The gown plunged low, framing the swell of her D-cup breasts, nipples faintly tracing the fabric in the chill of the air-conditioned opulence. Her husband Abhishek was continents away, filming in Mumbai; their marriage a polite architecture of duty, sex reduced to perfunctory thrusts under starched sheets. Tonight, she craved collision.
Across the throng, Adebayo Adewale commanded his own orbit. The thirty-five-year-old Nigerian powerhouse, breakout star of that gritty Nollywood-Hollywood crossover thriller Sahara Blood, loomed at six-foot-two, his ebony skin gleaming like polished onyx under the lights. Broad shoulders strained a tailored black tux, the crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of sculpted pecs dusted with coarse hair. His locs were pulled into a neat crown, beard trimmed sharp around a jaw that could cut glass, full lips parting in easy laughter with co-stars. Hollywood whispered about his eleven-inch legend, but Adebayo let rumors simmer; he preferred the hunt, the slow unraveling of desire in a woman’s gaze.
Their eyes locked mid-stride Aishwarya’s breath catching on the jasmine of her perfume mingling with his approach, a subtle wave of oud cologne and warm skin cutting through cigar smoke. He extended a massive hand, palm rough from Lagos street football days. “Aishwarya Rai Bachchan. The eternal beauty. Adebayo Adewale your humble servant in this circus.” His voice was molten chocolate, deep timbre vibrating straight to her core, that Nigerian lilt curling vowels like fingers on flesh.
She slipped her hand into his, electricity sparking where skin met skin, his grip firm, lingering a beat too long. “Adebayo. I’ve seen Sahara. Raw. Hungry. Like you.” Up close, his scent enveloped her earthy, masculine, stirring something feral between her thighs. They talked for an hour amid the clink of glasses and orchestral swells: Bollywood’s gloss versus Nollywood’s grit, the loneliness of diaspora stardom. Laughter flowed easy, her hand brushing his arm, feeling the heat radiate through wool. God, he’s a mountain of a man. Those eyes devour me without apology. By night’s end, numbers exchanged, a casual “coffee tomorrow?” sealed it.
The next afternoon at a discreet Beverly Hills café, palm fronds rustling in the breeze carrying ocean salt, their friendship sparked over flat whites and almond croissants. Adebayo slouched in the wicker chair, legs sprawled wide, that bulge a lazy outline against his jeans. Aishwarya crossed her legs in a simple white sundress, the hem riding up toned thighs, lace panties whispering against her swelling lips. They dissected scripts, mocked pretentious directors; he teased her perfectionism, she his cocky swagger. “You’re trouble, Ade,” she said, eyes flicking to his crotch when she thought he wasn’t looking. He caught every glance, cock twitching. This Indian goddess wants it bad those tits straining, pussy probably weeping already.
Weeks blurred into ritual: hikes in Runyon Canyon where sweat beaded on her cleavage, his shirt clinging to abs like a second skin; script reads at his Malibu rental, ocean crashing below as she paced in yoga pants that hugged her ass like a promise. Friendship deepened, laced with unspoken heat. Aishwarya lay awake nights in her hotel suite, fingers circling her clit to visions of his dark hands on her golden curves, whispering his name into silk pillows. Abhishek’s calls felt like chains; she dodged, craving the secret pulse of this crush. Adebayo jerked off in his king bed, fist pumping his thick veined cock to memories of her laugh, imagining splitting her Bollywood pussy wide.
Tension crested at a private screening of his latest film, empty theater save for them in the back row. Popcorn forgotten, her hand rested on his thigh during a tense scene, inches from the heat throbbing there. The air hummed with projector whir and her quickened breath, leather seats creaking as she shifted, nipples diamond-hard under cashmere. “Ade,” she murmured, voice husky, “that scene… your rage on screen. Makes me wet.” He turned, eyes black fire, hand capturing hers, guiding it to his zipper. “Feel what you do to me, Ash. Been hard for you since day one.”
She unzipped him slow, heart hammering, the scent of his arousal musky, primal flooding her nostrils as his cock sprang free. Eleven inches of midnight glory, girth like her wrist, veins pulsing like rivers, foreskin peeled back over a plum head slick with precum. “Fuck, Ade… it’s beautiful. Massive.” Her small hand wrapped the base, stroking velvet over iron, thumb smearing the bead at the tip. He groaned low, head falling back, locs brushing shoulders. “Stroke that Nigerian dick, baby. Taste it.” Aishwarya leaned, dress hiking, tongue flicking the slit salty tang exploding on her tastebuds, like dark honey and sin. Lips stretched wide around the head, sucking greedy, cheeks hollowing as she bobbed, saliva trailing glossy down the shaft. “Mmmph, so thick… filling my mouth.” He fisted her hair gently, thrusting shallow. “Suck it deep, Ash. Worship this black cock you’ve been dreaming of.”
The screen flickered forgotten action; her slurps echoed wet in the dark. She gagged softly on seven inches, eyes watering, mascara smudging, but pushed on, throat relaxing, nose brushing his trimmed pubes. Balls heavy in her palm, she rolled them, humming vibrations that bucked his hips. “Good girl… gonna cum down your throat.” She pulled off gasping, strings of spit linking. “Not yet. Fuck me. Now.”
He yanked her dress up, panties shoved aside no time for finesse. Her pussy was soaked silk: smooth waxed lips parted, pink inner folds glistening, clit swollen pearl begging. Adebayo rubbed his head through her cream, coating it, then thrust half his length spearing her in one go. Aishwarya cried out, walls clenching velvet fire, stretch exquisite burn. “Oh god, Ade! Splitting me… so deep!” Seated on his lap facing the screen, she rode slow at first, ass grinding his thighs, breasts freed to bounce free, dark nipples begging sucks. He latched on one, teeth grazing, hand spanking her cheek lightly. “Ride that dick, Bollywood slut. Your pussy’s gripping like a vice wetter than Mumbai rains.”
Bhabhi ji ghar par hai – Part 1
Pace built frantic, her hips slamming down, squelching juices soaking his balls, theater air thick with pussy musk and sweat. She twisted nipples, clit grinding his pubes. “Harder… fuck me raw, Ade! Own this married choot.” He gripped her waist, pounding up, balls slapping ass rhythmic. Orgasm hit her like monsoon body seizing, squirting hot on his abs, walls milking ferocious. “Cumming! Yes, daddy!” Adebayo followed, roaring guttural, cock swelling, jets of thick cum blasting her cervix, overflowing creamy down his shaft. “Take my load, Ash… breed that desi womb!”
They slumped, panting, his softening cock plugging the mess, kisses lazy with aftertaste of popcorn-salt-cum. “This is our secret,” she whispered, fingers tracing his beard. “Forever.”
But once ignited, the flame raged insatiable. Next night, his Malibu cliffside villa: infinity pool glowing blue under moon, waves crashing symphony below. Aishwarya arrived in trench coat nothing, shedding to nude glory curves gilded moonlight, pussy still tender-swollen. Adebayo waited naked, cock semi-hard curving up, oiled body rippling. They swam first, bodies tangling underwater, her legs wrapping his waist as he fingered her poolside. “Your fingers… curling just right. Eat me now.” He lifted her dripping to edge, tongue diving folds, lapping her tangy nectar mixed chlorine, sucking clit till thighs quaked, squirting arc into the pool.
Bent over lounge chair, ass high, he entered doggy full length bottoming, cheeks rippling each thrust. “This perfect bubble butt… made for black cock.” Spanks echoed sharp, red handprints blooming on golden skin. She pushed back, hair wild. “Pound it, Ade! Deeper… make me scream.” He railed merciless, one thumb circling her puckered rosebud, dipping in lube-slick. Sensory storm: ocean brine hair, sweat-slick slides, wet slaps over surf, her jasmine perfume turning feral.
Flipped missionary on cushions, legs pinned wide, he slow-grinded deep, eyes locked soul-baring. “I crave you, Ash. Every curve, every gasp.” She clawed his back, nails drawing beads blood. “Love your power… filling voids Abhishek never touched. Cum inside again.” Climax synced her convulsing gush, his flooding torrent, bellies slick shared heat.
Mornings bled into days: kitchen fucks over marble counters, her tits pressed cold granite as he took her from behind, coffee brewing scent mingling cum; hikes turning mid-trail quickies, skirt hiked against redwood, his cum trickling thighs down canyons.
One weekend, his yacht off Catalina seagulls wheeling, salt spray misting decks. Sundeck sprawl: she oiled his body slow, tongue tracing abs to cock, deepthroating lazy under sun, gagging waves rocking boat. “Sixty-nine, baby.” She straddled face, pussy smothering as she slurped balls-deep, his tongue rimming ass while fingers plunged. “Taste my ass, Ade… yes!” Mutual explosions: her squirting face-drench, him throat-filling ropes swallowed greedy.
Cabin belowdecks marathon: strap-on play her wielding dildo on him teasing, then double vibe in ass while cock wrecked pussy. “Feel us both stretching you?” Reverse cowgirl mirror-view: her watching ebony shaft piston pink lips, froth cresting. “Obscene… love seeing you ruin me.” Boobjob finale: tits oiled enveloping, sucking head peeks, his load erupting pearl necklace dripping cleavage.
Secret deepened: coded texts amid press junkets, stolen hours hotels under aliases. Aishwarya confessed poolside one dawn, head on his chest, heartbeats syncopated. “You’re my addiction, Ade. This love wild, hidden it’s everything.” He stroked her hair, cock stirring anew. “You’re my queen, Ash. No spotlight touches this.”
India visit disguised: Mumbai penthouse, monsoon raging windows. Sari unwrapped ritual, her worshipping cock incense-lit, then wall-pinned standing fuck, legs wrapped, toes curled ecstasy. “Breed me here, in my homeland.” Loads claimed her repeatedly, belly warm-swollen temporary.
Press tour Vancouver: suite balcony fuck, city lights glittering as he bent her over railing, wind whipping hair, cock slamming home amid traffic hum. “Fuck me like the world watches,” she begged. Snow-dusted evergreens framed prone bone on fur rug, slow deep grinds building hours, multiple creampies pooling beneath.
Back Hollywood, gala after-party bathroom stall: quick desperate titfuck, cum swallowed discreet, lipstick smeared. Their love a clandestine blaze meets masked casual, bodies colliding volcanic.
Climax crested awards night redux: his win announced, backstage celebration her mouth on him in shadows, then limo ride home her riding reverse, city blur windows fogged, final creampie as valet knocked. Collapsed entwined his bed, she whispered, “This secret love… eternal.” Adebayo kissed forehead, hand cupping pussy possessively. “Ours alone, forever satisfied.”
Their flame burned undimmed, interracial hunger weaving Hollywood’s underbelly, endless nights of sweat-slick ecstasy.