Virat Kohli leaned against the marble bar in his Mumbai penthouse, the city lights flickering below like hungry eyes. At 35, he was still a fucking god—broad shoulders packed with muscle from years of smashing sixes, abs carved deep enough to hide a tongue in, thick thighs that could crush a man, and that fat, uncut cock swinging heavy in his silk shorts. Sweat glistened on his brown skin after a late-night workout, the scent of his musk—raw, salty, masculine—thick in the air. He ran a hand through his damp black hair, dark eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

"You've been staring at me all night like you want to choke on my dick," Virat growled, voice low and dripping with lust. He stepped closer, his massive chest heaving, nipples hard against the thin fabric of his tank. "Get on your knees, slut. Show me how bad you need Virat Kohli's cock."

You dropped fast, yanking his shorts down. His cock sprang free—thick as a wrist, veined, the foreskin already pulled back to reveal a swollen, leaking head the size of a plum. It throbbed, a fat bead of pre-cum stretching in a string to the floor. "Fuck, look at that monster," you moaned, wrapping both hands around the shaft. It was hot, pulsing, the balls beneath heavy and shaved smooth, full of the load he'd been saving.

Virat grabbed your hair, shoving his cock past your lips. "Suck it, you filthy cockwhore. Take every inch." He thrust deep, the head slamming into your throat, stretching it wide. Gagging, eyes watering, you bobbed like a desperate whore, tongue swirling under the ridge, tasting his salty pre. Spit ran down your chin onto his balls as he face-fucked you hard, hips snapping. "That's it—choke on Virat's big Indian dick. You love it, don't you? Love being my personal cumdump."

He pulled out with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his glistening cock. "Strip. Bend over the couch." You obeyed, ass up, hole twitching. Virat spat on his fingers, rough and crude, and shoved two inside you without warning. "Tight little pussy. Gonna wreck this hole." He finger-fucked you brutally, scissoring, adding a third, curling to grind your prostate until you were sobbing and leaking pre onto the cushions.

" Beg for it," he snarled, lining up that massive cock. The blunt head pressed against your rim. "Beg Virat Kohli to ruin your ass."

"Please, Virat—fuck me! Shove that huge cock in my ass and breed me like a bitch!"

He slammed in to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You screamed, the stretch burning deliciously as his thick meat split you open, balls slapping against yours. Virat didn't wait—he pounded you like an animal, the wet squelch of his cock in your wrecked hole filling the room. "Fuck yes—take it, you greedy slut. Your ass is milking my dick so good." He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, driving deeper with every thrust, the head battering your prostate until your cock spurted untouched.

Virat flipped you onto your back, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half. He railed you missionary-style, sweat dripping from his chest onto yours, abs flexing with every savage thrust. "Look at you—cock drunk on my fat prick. Gonna fill this hole till cum leaks out for days." His balls tightened, rhythm faltering. "Take my load, whore!"

He exploded with a guttural roar, flooding your guts with thick, hot ropes of cum. Pulse after pulse—Virat shot what felt like a pint, overfilling you until it squirted out around his pistoning cock. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his seed deeper, then pulled out and slapped his cum-smeared cock against your hole.

"Clean it," he ordered. You sucked him sloppy, tasting your ass and his bitter-salty cum mixed together. Virat smirked, already half-hard again. "We're not done. Get that tongue in my ass while I stroke this dick. Then I'm fucking your face till I paint your throat."

He turned, presenting his muscular, hairy ass. You dove in, rimming him hungrily—tongue fucking his tight hole while he jerked his massive cock above you, balls bouncing. "Yeah, eat Virat's ass, you nasty fuck. Deeper!" He came again soon after, thick ropes splattering your face and open mouth, marking you.

Hours later, the penthouse reeked of sex and sweat. Virat lay back, spent cock resting on his thigh, cum still oozing from your wrecked, gaping hole. "Round three in the shower," he said with that cocky grin. "I'm gonna fuck you against the glass till the whole city sees what a slut you are for me."

Virat Kohli owned you—body, hole, and every filthy drop of cum.