Ruin and Release- Goa Escorts

The humid Goa air clung to Rohit’s skin as he sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, the faint scent of saltwater and jasmine drifting through the half-open balcony doors. The hotel room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of his phone screen and the flickering neon sign outside, casting shifting shadows across the rumpled sheets. His fingers moved with deliberate precision, thumbs tapping against the glass as he typed the words into the search bar: "independent female escort in Goa."

The results loaded instantly, a cascade of images and names, each profile more tantalizing than the last. He scrolled past the younger Indian women Escort —smooth skin, pouting lips, the kind of polished perfection that usually drew his attention—until his thumb hesitated. A section at the bottom of the page caught his eye, labeled in bold, unapologetic text: "50 yrs plus female escort in Goa." His breath hitched. He hadn’t considered it before, but now, the idea took root, unfurling something deep and unexamined within him. Experience. Maturity. The kind of woman who knew exactly what she wanted—and how to take it.

His pulse quickened as he clicked through, landing on a profile that made his throat tighten. The woman in the photos—Natasha—was stunning in a way that had nothing to do with youth. Her dark hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, streaked with silver that glinted under the low light of whatever bar or lounge the photo had been taken in. Her lips were full, painted a deep, sinful red, and her eyes—fuck, her eyes—held a knowing glint, as if she could see right through the screen, right through him. The caption beneath read simply: "Discretion. Sophistication. Satisfaction."

Rohit’s fingers trembled slightly as he dialed the number listed beneath her profile. The line rang twice before a smooth, velvety voice answered, the kind of voice that wrapped around his nerves like warm silk. "Good evening. How may I assist you?"

He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth had gone. "Uh—hi. I’m calling about… Natasha?"

A soft, amused chuckle hummed through the receiver. "You’ve found her. What would you like to know, Rohit?"

The way she said his name—like she’d already tasted it, already decided she liked the way it rolled off her tongue—sent a jolt straight to his groin. He shifted on the bed, the fabric of his trousers suddenly too tight. "I—I’d like to meet her. Tonight, if possible."

Another pause, deliberate, teasing. "Mmm. Tonight works. The Lounge at the Taj, in an hour. Black dress, red lips. You’ll know her." The line went dead before he could respond, leaving him staring at the screen, his cock already half-hard in his pants.

The Lounge was exactly the kind of place Rohit expected—sleek, dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and expensive perfume. Low jazz murmured from hidden speakers, the kind of music that made you want to lean in close, to whisper secrets against someone’s ear. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of every detail—his unsteady breath, the way his pulse thrummed in his wrists, the dampness at the small of his back.

And then he saw her.

Natasha sat at the far end of the bar, one leg crossed over the other, the slit of her black dress riding high enough to tease the curve of her thigh. The red of her lips matched the polish on her nails, which tapped idly against the stem of her martini glass. She didn’t look up as he approached, but he knew the moment she sensed him—her shoulders squared just slightly, her posture shifting from relaxed to predatory.

"Rohit," she murmured, finally lifting her gaze to his. Her eyes were darker in person, a deep brown that seemed to swallow the light. "You’re late."

He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words died on his tongue. She wasn’t scolding him. She was testing him. Seeing how he’d react.

"I got held up," he said instead, sliding onto the stool beside her. "Admiring the view."

Her lips curved, slow and deliberate. "Flattery won’t get you anywhere. But honesty might." She took a sip of her drink, her tongue darting out to catch the drop that clung to her lower lip. Rohit’s cock twitched, pressing insistently against his zipper. "Tell me, Rohit. What do you want tonight?"

The question wasn’t just about sex. It was about everything. The way she looked at him—like she could peel back every layer of his carefully constructed control—made his chest tighten. He could lie. He could play it safe. But something in her gaze dared him to do the opposite.

"I want to be ruined," he admitted, voice rough. "Just for tonight. I want to forget everything except how good you can make me feel."

Natasha’s smile turned sharp, triumphant. She set her glass down with a soft click. "Then you’ve come to the right place." Her fingers brushed against his knee, just a graze, but it burned through the fabric of his trousers. "My suite is upstairs. Unless you’d rather stay here and let everyone watch?"

The thought sent a shudder through him—being taken right there on the bar, her nails digging into his hips while strangers pretended not to look. But no. He wanted her all to himself.

"Upstairs," he managed.

She stood in one fluid motion, her dress clinging to the curves of her hips, the swell of her breasts. "Follow me."

The suite was nothing like his own room—spacious, decadent, the bed draped in silk that shimmered under the low light. Natasha didn’t bother with small talk once the door clicked shut behind them. She turned to face him, her fingers going to the zipper at the back of her dress.

"Undress me," she commanded.

Rohit’s hands shook as he stepped forward, his fingers fumbling with the delicate pull of the zipper. The dress parted like water, slithering down her body to pool at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a black lace bra and a pair of matching panties so sheer he could see the dark shadow of her pussy beneath. His breath came faster, his cock aching, straining against his pants.

"Touch me," she ordered, stepping closer until her breasts nearly brushed against his chest. "But don’t you dare come until I say so."

His hands found her waist, her skin impossibly soft beneath his palms. He slid them upward, thumbs grazing the undersides of her breasts, feeling her nipples harden through the lace. She arched into his touch with a low, approving hum, her fingers working at his belt.

"Good boy," she purred, freeing his cock from his boxers. It sprang out, thick and flushed, the tip already wet. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking once, twice—just enough to make his hips jerk forward. "Pathetic, really. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?"

"Too long," he groaned, his head falling back as she tightened her grip.

"Mmm. And you’re going to last for me, aren’t you?" She gave him another slow stroke, her thumb swiping over the slick head. "You’re going to let me use this pretty cock however I want."

"Yes," he gasped. "Fuck, yes—"

She released him abruptly, stepping back with a smirk. "On the bed. Face down. Ass up."

Rohit nearly stumbled in his haste to obey, his cock bobbing with every movement. The cool silk of the sheets brushed against his overheated skin as he positioned himself, his pulse roaring in his ears. He heard the rustle of fabric, the snap of a cap being opened—lube, maybe—and then her hands were on him again, spreading his cheeks apart.

"Such a good boy," Natasha murmured, her breath hot against his skin. "Already so wet for me."

He groaned as her fingers teased over his hole, circling, pressing just enough to make him whimper. "Please—"

"Please what?" She chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Use my words, Rohit. Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want you to fuck me," he snarled, his face burning with humiliation and need. "I want your fingers, your cock, anything—just fucking ruin me."

Natasha’s laugh was a low, approving sound. "Since you asked so nicely."

The first press of her finger inside him was a shock, stretching him open with slow, deliberate precision. He gasped, his cock dripping onto the sheets beneath him, his entire body trembling with the effort of not coming. She worked him open with two fingers, then three, scissoring them inside him until he was panting, his muscles clenching around her.

"Look at you," she crooned. "Taking me so well. You were made for this, weren’t you?"

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. All he could do was take it, his body burning, his cock throbbing with every thrust of her fingers. And then—then—he felt the blunt press of something thicker, something harder.

The strap-on.

"Oh, god—" he choked out as she pushed inside, the stretch bordering on pain, the fullness overwhelming.

"Shh," she soothed, her free hand tangling in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him whimper. "You can take it. You will take it."

And he did.

She fucked him slow at first, letting him adjust to the size, the weight of her filling him up. But soon, her hips snapped forward with sharp, punishing thrusts, her nails digging into his hips hard enough to leave marks. The bed creaked beneath them, the sound obscene, the slap of skin against skin filling the room.

"Touch yourself," she ordered, her voice rough with effort. "I want to hear you come undone."

Rohit’s hand flew to his cock, his strokes desperate, erratic. Pleasure coiled tight in his gut, his balls drawing up, his entire body trembling on the edge. "I’m—fuck, I’m close—"

"Not yet," Natasha growled, her thrusts turning brutal, her hips slamming against his ass with a wet, obscene sound. "You come when I say you come."

He whined, his cock twitching in his grip, his vision swimming. "Please, please, I can’t—"

"Now," she snarled, and that was all it took.

His orgasm hit him like a freight train, his cock pulsing in his fist as ropes of cum splattered onto the sheets beneath him. His entire body locked up, his hole clenching around her as she drove into him one last time, her own breath hitching as she came with a low, satisfied moan.

Afterward, they collapsed onto the balcony, the cool night air a balm against their sweat-slicked skin. The Arabian Sea stretched out before them, the waves crashing against the shore in a rhythmic, soothing lull. Natasha lit a cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark as she took a slow drag.

Rohit leaned back in his chair, his body still humming, his mind eerily quiet. There was no guilt. No second-guessing. Just… peace.

She exhaled smoke, watching him through narrowed eyes. "You’re different than the others."

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. I think I am."

A beat of silence. Then, softly: "Was it what you needed?"

He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw not just the escort, but the woman beneath. The confidence, the warmth, the quiet understanding in her gaze. He smiled.

"It was everything," he admitted.

Natasha returned the smile, her fingers brushing against his wrist in a gesture that was almost tender. "Good."

They sat like that for a long time, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. Rohit’s chest ached, but it wasn’t pain. It was release. The kind of catharsis he hadn’t known he was chasing until this very moment.

As the last sliver of sunlight vanished, he turned to her, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This is the final chapter."

Natasha’s smile was knowing. "I know."