Goa Nights: Shubham & Samay Ch. 01

⚠️ Author's Note:

The friendship starts to bend here.

A touch too long, a stare too deep, and a command Samay can't stop thinking about.

The descent begins--slow, hot, humiliating.

________________________________________

Goa, December 2020.

Goa hit them like a warm slap of freedom. The air smelled like sea salt and suntan lotion, the sky a washed-out blue, the December sun gentle but ever-present. The airport was crawling with mask-wearing tourists, but Samay and Shubham barely noticed. They'd timed it too well -- landed within minutes of each other, despite flying from different cities.

"Bro," Samay grinned, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, "you look like you've been eating dumbbells during lockdown."

Shubham smirked and clapped him on the back. "And you look like you haven't touched one."

"Lean is the new shredded," Samay shot back, flexing dramatically. "Besides, I had eight girls who loved this body before March. What's your number again?"

"Don't start," Shubham said, rolling his eyes. "We're not even out of the airport yet."

They bumped shoulders as they walked out, laughing. It had been nearly nine months since they'd last seen each other -- college had gone online, hostels had emptied, and everything after March had blurred into one long, lonely scroll. But now? Now they were in Goa. A thirteen-day villa vacation, beaches and booze, and the first five days -- thanks to COVID travel delays -- were just them.

The cab ride to the villa was all noise. Old inside jokes. Updates on mutual friends. Trash-talking Tinder dates. Samay sat with his leg bouncing, buzzed just from being out again. "It's fucking surreal," he muttered. "Like, this... this is what life used to be like."

Shubham nodded, quieter, his hand trailing the breeze from the half-open window. For a second, he looked like he might say something deeper -- about how brutal the year had been, how he'd felt trapped in his head for months. But he just smiled and said, "Yeah. Feels good to breathe."

The villa was a ten-bedroom beast, tucked away near a quieter beach stretch in North Goa. High walls, a private pool, white-washed walls with turquoise trim -- it looked like it had been stolen from a Netflix series. Samay whistled as they walked through the gate.

"Bro," he said, spreading his arms. "If we don't get laid on this trip, I'm suing the universe."

"File the case after breakfast," Shubham muttered, but even he looked impressed.

They dumped their bags inside, explored the space -- ten bedrooms with balconies, a big living room with a sunken couch, an open kitchen, and a wraparound terrace on top. Samay picked a room on the eastern corner with a view of the pool. Shubham picked one on the opposite end. Like bros just spreading out -- but silently, they both enjoyed the idea of space. After a year of being stuck in tight quarters, privacy was a luxury.

The living room became their temporary base. Samay sprawled shirtless on the couch, sipping from a rum-and-Coke while Shubham flipped through the Spotify playlist on the speaker. Sunlight poured in through the open doors. It smelled like sea air and furniture polish.

Samay's body was lean, naturally golden-brown, smooth from the waist down -- no hair, not even on his thighs. He had the kind of cut most guys had to work hard for. Narrow waist. Defined abs. But the standout was his ass -- thick, muscular, and high-set. Slightly feminine, sure, but firm. Shubham glanced once -- quick, automatic -- then looked away. He didn't know why it stood out.

He focused on his own drink instead. No rum for him yet. He wanted to settle in.

Samay sipped lazily. "You actually got bigger," he said, nodding at Shubham's chest. "What, you hit puberty again during quarantine?"

Shubham gave him a look. "You saying I wasn't a man before?"

"I'm saying now you look like you could lift a car. Good thing you're still a virgin or you'd have broken someone."

It was an old joke. Samay had always been the one with stories -- eight girls before lockdown, a couple regulars, a few one-nighters. He liked to boast about being "the oral god," bragging about how he could make women beg with his mouth. With women, he was always the one in control. Never played the bottom. Never wanted to.

Shubham, on the other hand, was quieter about it all. Two handjobs, one awkward blowjob -- that was it. He liked asses. Obsessed, even. But nothing ever quite clicked with the girls he tried it with. Nothing ever felt primal.

They had brunch at the villa. Eggs, toast, local sausage. A staff member in a mask brought it out silently and left without a word. The world outside still felt strange. Inside the villa, though, it was easy to forget.

By noon, they were walking to the beach -- towels slung over shoulders, flip-flops dragging through the sand.

The beach wasn't packed, but it was alive. Locals. Some Indian tourists. A few foreigners. Samay peeled off his shirt, revealing his smooth torso, and dropped it on the sand. His swim shorts -- navy blue -- were a bit snug. Shubham wore darker trunks, looser.

"Yo, red bikini girl at 2 o'clock," Samay said, nodding toward a tall woman walking past. "Solid 8.5."

Shubham grinned. "I'm more of a 3 o'clock guy. That peachy one-piece? Great ass."

Samay gave an approving whistle. "Finally! The virgin speaks."

They rated women like old times. Wingman mode activated. "You take the café girl, I'll take the volleyball one." Samay was loud, grinning. Shubham laughed along, even if something inside him felt off. Not wrong -- just... distracted.

The water was cold at first, but refreshing. They waded in waist-deep, splashing, playfully shoving each other like kids. Samay tackled Shubham underwater. Shubham retaliated by lifting him and throwing him backward. Laughter echoed out toward the waves.

When Samay surfaced, his swim shorts had ridden up. The wet fabric clung to his skin, outlining the roundness of his ass, with the soft, almost girly skin just above that ass exposed. Shubham noticed -- just for a flash -- then looked away, brushing water off his face.

That ass was insane. Like, if a girl had that, guys would fight to get behind her.

Shubham clenched his jaw, shaking the thought off. Just a trick of the light. Just a year of no sex messing with his brain.

They lounged on the beach after, drying off under the sun. Samay downed another rum-and-Coke. His skin glistened, drops of seawater sliding over his abs. His head leaned back, a slight grin on his lips.

"You miss college?" he asked, suddenly.

"Yeah," Shubham said. "Miss the hostel vibe."

"Miss the girls, man. College was like a buffet."

Shubham smirked. "Still dry since March?"

Samay groaned. "Don't remind me. My dick's in therapy."

They both laughed. But under the humor, something sat between them -- a silent acknowledgment of the weirdness. The year had twisted everything. And now, it was just the two of them, surrounded by heat and water and silence.

Later, back at the villa, the sky was streaked with orange and pink. Samay leaned against the balcony outside the living room, towel around his neck. "Shower and massage?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Shubham said. "Let's do it."

They turned away toward their opposite rooms, footsteps echoing in the hallway.

________________________________________

Dinner was still a couple hours away, and after the beach heat, the sticky saltwater, and the long morning of travel, both Samay and Shubham agreed they could use something relaxing to kick the evening off. There was a massage place attached to the restaurant they planned to eat at -- some plush, dimly lit ayurvedic joint that looked legit enough. Samay found a deal online.

"Bro, look at this," he said, holding up his phone. "Couples package. Way cheaper than two singles."

Shubham raised an eyebrow. "What, you tryna hold hands during the massage or what?"

"Shut up," Samay grinned. "Cheaper is cheaper. Don't blame me if they start lighting candles and playing love songs."

They booked it without a second thought. Locker keys handed over, soft sandals swapped in. The receptionist smiled at them without blinking when assigning them the couple's room.

Inside, the lights were soft, the air smelled like sandalwood, and there were two narrow massage tables laid out side by side. No divider. Just a serene, open space with faint instrumental music humming through the walls.

Two women entered -- young, attractive, dusky-skinned masseuses in beige uniforms with tight buns and confident smiles. Samay shot Shubham a smirk like alright, not bad.

"Undress completely, cover with towel," one of them said matter-of-factly. Then they stepped out, leaving the door ajar.

Samay and Shubham looked at each other for a second before awkwardly turning in opposite directions. Neither said a word as they each stripped fully and grabbed a small towel from the edge of the massage tables, quickly wrapping it around their waists. The towels barely covered the essentials.

They lay face down on the tables, arms by their sides. The towels shifted a bit as they settled in.

The door creaked open again.

The massage started slow -- oil warmed in palms, then spread in long glides across their backs. The women were skilled, moving with mechanical grace, kneading tension out of shoulders and lower backs. For the first ten minutes, there was silence except for the low music and the faint slap of oiled skin being worked.

Shubham closed his eyes and melted into the sensation. It had been months since anyone touched him like this. Hell, since anyone touched him at all. The firm fingers moved down his back and along the sides of his ribs, and he shivered lightly -- half from pleasure, half from the ridiculous vulnerability of it all.

He cracked one eye open, gaze drifting across to Samay's table.

Samay's towel had shifted slightly as the masseuse worked his thighs. The way Samay lay -- stomach down, one leg slightly bent -- made the curve of his lower back visible. Smooth. Completely hairless. His waist tapered down like a swimmer's, lean and tight, the small towel clinging to the swell of his ass.

Shubham blinked and looked away.

Damn. That's the kind of ass women would kill for.

The thought came uninvited. He ignored it.

Samay, on the other hand, had his eyes half-lidded, almost dozing. The strong hands on his thighs were pressing up, dangerously close to the towel line. The woman was good -- confident in the way she touched. But he found his focus drifting.

He glanced sideways when Shubham shifted slightly.

From the side angle, he could make out the silhouette of Shubham's towel. It rose higher at the center. Not outrageously, but enough. Enough to see the unmistakable shape of a thick, heavy bulge that didn't lie still. Semi-hard and twitching slightly as the masseuse worked his legs.

Jesus.

The shape looked formidable. Samay looked away immediately.

He wasn't sure why he looked. Or why it stuck in his brain even after he closed his eyes again.

The massage went on. Arms, neck, calves. At some point, they were asked to turn over.

Neither of them looked at the other this time. They moved fast, flipping under their towels with practiced precision, eyes locked on the ceiling.

The rest of the massage passed in a strange mix of peace and charged awareness. There were no stares. No talking. Just faint music, gliding hands, and thoughts they didn't quite want to acknowledge.

When it ended, they thanked the masseuses, got dressed without comment, and stepped out into the cool Goan evening, their skin still smelling of lemongrass and oil.

________________________________________

Dinner was at a beachside shack with fairy lights strung through the palm trees and old Bollywood songs playing over cheap speakers. The sand was still warm underfoot. They ordered fresh prawns, butter garlic calamari, a beer for Shubham, and rum-and-Coke for Samay -- his third of the day.

By the second round of drinks, they were looser. Talking more freely, laughing without much filter.

"I swear, I felt her hands creeping way up," Samay said, digging into the prawns. "One more inch and I'd have had to tip extra."

Shubham chuckled, taking a sip of beer. "Yeah, mine went all in on the thighs, bro. At one point I thought she was gonna ask me to flip again."

Samay leaned back, stretching. "Haha, imagine if the masseuse thought we were actually a couple..."

That made Shubham laugh out loud. "With that tiny-ass towel? Bro, I wasn't trying to flash my coke can."

Samay almost choked on his drink. "What the fuck?"

Shubham smirked. "What? That's what someone called it once. You know, thick and mean."

Samay shook his head, grinning. "You've had two girls touch it, and you've got nicknames?"

"Hey," Shubham said, mock-offended, "quality over quantity, alright?"

There was a pause. The kind of pause that might've been awkward if they weren't used to talking about sex, rating girls, swapping wild DMs. But somehow, it wasn't awkward. Just... open.

Samay raised an eyebrow, mischievous. "You really think about asses that much?"

Shubham didn't blink. "Obsessed, bro. Always been. Thighs too. If a chick has both -- I'm done."

Samay nodded slowly, lips curling into a smirk. "Explains a lot."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin'. Just... you were staring real hard at that girl in the yellow bikini earlier. She could've crushed a watermelon with those thighs."

They both laughed again.

Under the table, their legs brushed slightly. Neither moved away. It could've been the sand. The narrow table. The drinks. But something about it made Samay go still for a second. Just a flicker. Then it was gone.

________________________________________

They walked back to the villa a little later, tipsy but not drunk, full and satisfied. A light breeze rustled the palm fronds. Goa was quiet, a post-COVID hush over everything. The streets weren't crowded, and even the music from the shacks had faded.

Back at the villa, they split -- rooms on opposite ends. Like bros just spreading out, giving each other space.

Samay dropped his clothes, headed to the attached bathroom, and stood under the shower. The water was hot. He closed his eyes, letting it run down his chest, over his abs, past the curve of his back, and down his polished bronze thighs.

He towel-dried lazily, then flopped on the bed, phone in one hand.

Porn, obviously. Some amateur chick riding a guy, moaning loud. He gripped himself, stroking slow. Eyes half open. Thoughts drifting.

Then -- flash. That shape under the towel. The thick, angry-looking bulge rising under the soft white fabric. Shubham shifting slightly, unaware, like it was normal to be packing something so... formidable.

Samay clenched his jaw. Focused harder on the girl in the video.

He came hard, grunting. But something felt weird. The release was physical, sure. But afterward, lying there--he couldn't stop thinking about the wrong cock.

He frowned, wiped up, turned off the light.

________________________________________

In the other room, Shubham lay shirtless on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow.

He hadn't jerked off in a few days. Didn't feel the urge tonight. But his body betrayed him.

That moment -- Samay's lower back, glistening under oil. The towel barely clinging to the curve of his ass. Plump, muscular, almost feminine in shape. But still so masculine otherwise. Broad shoulders. Flat chest. Smooth skin.

Fuckable. In that abstract way.

Shubham's dick jerked like it had a mind of its own. He adjusted himself under the sheet. Didn't touch.

Just rolled over and buried the thought deep.

________________________________________

Two minds. Different rooms. Same thought.

We're straight.

Just a weird day.

Just lockdown brain. That's all.

________________________________________

They woke up late. Not hungover, but slow. Limbs heavy. Heads foggy -- not from alcohol, but from sleep and maybe the leftover tension neither of them fully understood.

Shubham scrolled aimlessly on his phone while Samay brewed some instant coffee in the kitchen, shirtless and yawning. Neither brought up the massage, or the dinner, or the weird silence that hung between them last night. They just pretended the day was new -- fresh.

After a lazy breakfast of eggs, toast, and bananas, Samay stood by the open patio door, sipping his coffee.

"Pool?"

Shubham grinned. "Hell yes."

They changed into fresh swimwear. Samay, cocky as ever, pulled on a white pair of swim shorts that were definitely a size too tight. He checked himself out in the mirror, smirked, and headed out.

Shubham stuck to a dark navy pair -- modest, functional, hiding everything.

The villa's private pool sparkled in the early afternoon light. The sun was hot but not punishing, and the water was crystal clear, tempting.

They dove in.

For the first half hour, it was all splashing and dumb shit -- dunking each other, roughhousing in the shallow end like overgrown teenagers. Samay was all wiry speed, while Shubham's bulk gave him the edge in brute force.

"Bro," Samay laughed, wiping water off his face. "You're fucking built like a tank now."

"Quarantine gains," Shubham grinned, flexing mockingly. "And you -- what the hell happened to you? Got lean as fuck."

Samay smirked. "Abs don't make themselves."

Their voices echoed in the quiet villa grounds. No one else around. Just them, and the sound of water sloshing.

They swam laps, then ended up hanging by the edge of the pool. The light bounced off Samay's wet skin. His lower back -- smooth and golden -- glistened under the sun. He reached up to stretch and the curve of his ass peeked out from under the water, barely hidden by the tight white shorts that were now completely soaked and almost translucent.

Shubham's eyes lingered. Just a second too long.

The water exaggerated everything -- the way Samay's waist dipped in, the way his hips curved out slightly, round and firm. That ass looked like it belonged on an Instagram model, not a dude.

What kind of guy has an ass like that? Shubham thought. Fuck, girls would kill for that shit.

He caught himself, blinked, and looked away.

Samay turned, still floating lazily. And that's when he saw it.

Underwater, Shubham's swim trunks clung to him. The thick outline of his cock -- barely restrained -- curved downward, then forward, wide and heavy. For a second, as Shubham adjusted his position, the head of it pressed against the fabric, bold as daylight.

Jesus, Samay thought. That thing's fucking huge.

He swallowed. Looked away.

Then, playfully, Samay launched himself toward Shubham, trying to dunk him again. They grappled, laughing. Samay's thigh brushed up against Shubham's underwater. Slick contact -- warm skin. Shubham's hand shot out, grabbing Samay's side, then slid instinctively to the small of his back.

It stayed there.

The dip at the base of Samay's spine was soft, warm, wet. His skin was smooth, almost silky. Shubham wasn't thinking. His palm just rested there, gripping slightly.

Samay froze.

Just for a beat.

His breath hitched, but he said nothing. Neither of them did.

Then Samay splashed him hard. "Bastard!"

They both laughed, loud and unconvincing.

Eventually, they got tired of swimming. Samay climbed out first and flopped down on a lounging chair, stomach-down, ass still in those tight, soaked shorts.

Shubham followed a moment later, standing nearby, toweling off his chest -- but his eyes slid back to Samay, who was shamelessly sprawled out, back arched slightly, ass perked up.

Samay caught the look.

And -- without thinking -- gave a little wiggle.

Just a cheeky shake. Like a guy messing around.

But there was heat in it. Intent he didn't understand.

Shubham looked away quickly, rubbing his towel over his face.

Samay smirked to himself. What the fuck was that?

Neither of them said anything.

Eventually, they headed toward the outdoor shower to rinse off. The villa had a beautiful open-air setup tucked behind a bamboo fence. Two stalls, side by side, with no real separation -- just a low divider.

They didn't bother changing -- just stepped under the water in their swimwear.

Samay let the stream run down his back, eyes closed. Shubham turned and caught sight of the water sliding down the ridges of his spine, pooling for a moment in the dip above his ass before trickling over the tight mounds below.

He wasn't ogling. Just noticing. Like a guy noticing his bro was in great shape.

Samay cracked an eye open -- saw Shubham rinsing off next to him. The dark trunks clung to him again, and for the second time today, Samay got a clear view of the monster between his friend's legs. Thick, heavy, casually hanging there even though it was mostly soft.

His eyes lingered.

It's just... damn. Dude's packing. Respect.

They towel-dried lazily, not bothering to change. The sun had dipped low, and the house felt cool underfoot. It was too early for dinner, too late for a nap. So they drifted toward the living room -- still damp, still shirtless, still buzzing from something unnamed.

________________________________________

Back in the living room, they collapsed onto the giant L-shaped sofa, still in their wet shorts. Towels draped around their necks. The AC was on full blast. A football match played on mute on the TV.

They didn't talk much. Just man-spread, legs open, letting their bodies relax.

"Still think you can beat me in arm wrestling?" Shubham smirked.

Samay scoffed. "Any day."

They locked hands. Tension. Strain. Grunts. It wasn't about winning -- it was about touching, testing each other's strength, feeling the pulse through each other's skin.

Samay lost.

Then tackled Shubham onto the rug.

They wrestled -- stupid, shirtless, adolescent energy. Samay's small shorts rode up with every movement. His ass basically spilling out, clenching with each twist.

Shubham pinned him.

Their faces were close. Too close.

Neither moved.

A breath. Two.

Then Samay squirmed out. "Rematch later. I let you win."

Shubham grinned, heart pounding.

They laid there on the floor for a minute, catching their breath.

No words.

Just heat.

Eventually, Samay stood up, grabbing a couple beers from the fridge.

"Terrace?"

"Yeah," Shubham said, following. "Let's go."

________________________________________

The terrace was quiet. Just the soft rustle of palm leaves and the low crash of distant waves rolling in like they were on a loop. The sky was pitch-black, moonless, scattered with stars, and the villa's terrace lights were dimmed down to warm little pools of orange. It was humid, but not sticky. Breezy in a lazy, Goa-at-night kind of way.

Samay lay stretched out on a cushioned bench, shirtless, feet up, beer bottle perched on his stomach. His swim shorts clung to him, still damp from the pool, outlining every muscle in his legs and the faint bulge at his crotch that he'd stopped bothering to adjust. Opposite him, Shubham was sunk low into a beanbag, also shirtless, legs spread wide, bottle in hand, his thick thighs catching the light every time he moved.

They were buzzed. Not drunk. Just loose.

The conversation had turned lazy. From travel plans to old hostel stories, hookups, nonsense dares, and now--silence. Not awkward, just... simmering. The kind of silence that crackled a bit. The kind you could feel.

It was Samay who broke it. "Wanna play something dumb?"

Shubham raised an eyebrow. "Like?"

"No dares. Just truths."

"You hate truth games."

Samay shrugged. "I'm bored. And it's too hot to think."

Shubham smirked. "You sure you can handle it?"

"Try me."

________________________________________

It started light. As expected.

"Best blowjob you've ever got?"

"Public sex?"

"Ever thought a professor was hot?"

Shubham's questions came sharp and quick. Samay gave his answers with his usual cocky confidence.

Then came the first shift.

Shubham tilted his bottle lazily, glancing over at Samay with that unreadable smirk of his. "You ever notice how tight your ass looks when you come out of the pool?"

Samay's head jerked toward him. "Excuse me?"

Shubham laughed, casual. "Just saying. I mean, no homo, but you got that Instagram model ass. Seen lesser things get more likes."

Samay rolled his eyes. "Obsessed much?"

Shubham leaned in a little. "Maybe. I'm just observant."

"You're sounding like a stalker."

"Not my fault your ass is everywhere."

Samay shook his head, but couldn't help grinning. "Bro. Are you falling in love?"

Shubham took a slow sip of beer, eyes still on him. "You're growing on me."

"Fuck off."

Another silence. Longer this time.

Shubham didn't let up.

"Serious question though. You ever looked at your ass from behind? Like, just curious?"

Samay groaned. "What is this, an interview or an ass intervention?"

"Just asking, man. It's weirdly feminine."

Samay raised an eyebrow. "Is this your way of telling me you're into me?"

Shubham smiled, slow and unapologetic. "No. Just... surprised you don't know how fuckable you look from behind."

Samay blinked. That word--fuckable--landed like a brick between them. No laugh. No comeback. Just a brief throb in the air.

He tried to brush it off. "Girls love it. That's what matters."

Shubham nodded, like he already knew. "Bet they do."

________________________________________

Then Shubham flipped it.

"So what about you? Dick stats. Spill."

Samay straightened, cockiness returning like armor. "What, you want numbers?"

Shubham shrugged. "Might as well. It's truth or truth, right?"

Samay smirked, setting his beer aside and adjusting his position a little--just enough to make the outline of his semi show a bit more. "I'm blessed, bro. Six. Thick enough. Looks good, feels better."

Shubham raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Samay went on, voice casual but cocky. "Girls love it. Especially when it's in their mouth."

That got a chuckle from Shubham. "You're such a slut."

"Not denying it."

Then, like he'd been waiting to land it all night, Shubham said:

"Seven. Thick. Coke-can situation."

Samay stared. "Bullshit."

Shubham didn't blink. "Wanna bet?"

There was a long pause.

Then Samay tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and smirked. "Prove it."

Shubham didn't move at first. Just leaned back a little, his beer dangling loosely from two fingers, the bottle sweating in the warm night air. The sea breeze ruffled his hair, but his eyes were steady. Focused.

Then his lips curved.

That smirk.

Not friendly. Not innocent.

"Get on your knees."

The words didn't land like a joke. Not fully. But they weren't fully serious either. They hovered somewhere between dares and demands, between a drunken tease and something darker, more primal.

Samay let out a short breath through his nose. A scoff, half disbelief, half nervous chuckle.

Is this for real?

Shubham didn't look away. Didn't blink. Just lifted the corner of his mouth higher.

"Get on your knees and ask nicely," he added, his voice smoother now. "And maybe I'll show you."

There was something deadly casual about the way he said it. Like he didn't even care if Samay did it or not. Like he already knew the outcome and was just waiting to be proven right.

Samay shifted.

He was still sitting on the terrace floor, legs outstretched in front of him, the back of his head buzzing with alcohol and confusion. His swim shorts clung damply to his ass, and his chest still glistened faintly from the shower they'd taken earlier. He felt the tiles beneath him--warm in some spots, cool in others. Real. Too real.

His heart was hammering now.

He's not serious. There's no way he's serious.

But even as the thought passed, his body was already betraying him. His hand moved. Then his knees. Something deeper, quieter, took over--the same current that had pulled him through every beat of this trip. The same current that had made him stare, and touch, and linger longer than he should've.

He pushed himself upright slowly. Legs folding under him. The muscles in his thighs tight. He didn't break eye contact. Not for a second.

He rose onto his knees.

Right there on the terrace tiles. In front of his best friend.

Everything was still. Silent.

The wind had stopped. The stars hung breathless above them.

And Shubham just watched. His eyes unreadable. His posture relaxed--but there was something else underneath it. Like a coiled spring.

Samay swallowed hard.

He expected laughter. Some loud, mocking bark that would snap the tension and return them to normal.

But it never came.

Shubham didn't laugh.

He didn't smirk, or tease, or even look surprised.

He just sat there--legs spread wider now, arms resting on his knees like a king on his throne--staring down at Samay.

Like he realized, suddenly, the power he held. That Samay--cocky, dominant, always-in-control Samay--was actually kneeling there. For him. Waiting.

The roles had flipped. Not in theory. Not in some joking way. For real.

Samay could feel the heat rising in his face. Not just from embarrassment--but from something deeper. A pulse in his ears. A flutter in his chest. A tightening in his shorts.

What the fuck was happening?

Shubham leaned forward slightly, elbows on his thighs now. His voice dropped, quiet and steady.

"Ask nicely."

It was like he didn't even know why he was saying it. But also like he couldn't not say it. Like something in him needed to keep pushing--to see how far Samay would go.

Samay froze. The tiles dug into his knees. His fists clenched at his sides. He could feel his pride boiling up like a scream in his throat.

But he didn't move.

Didn't stand.

Didn't laugh it off and walk away.

Because part of him wanted to see where this went.

No--needed to see.

His voice came out rough. Tight. Barely more than a whisper.

"Please."

One word.

Flat. Dry. Humiliating.

Shubham's jaw tensed. A flicker of something--control, lust, confusion--passed through his eyes. His fingers moved slowly to the waistband of his shorts.

Still watching Samay.

He didn't say anything. Not a single word.

Just hooked his thumbs inside the waistband and dragged it down. Slow. Like peeling away layers of control.

First his abs. Then the line of hair. Then--

His cock slapped free.

It flopped out with a lazy, heavy bounce. Like it didn't care that it was being revealed. Like it belonged out, owned the moment.

Thick. Veiny. Half-hard, but already intimidating.

Samay's breath caught.

His mind went blank for a second. Just white noise and heat and fuck.

It wasn't just big. It was porn-star big. A meaty, fat thing that hung heavy over Shubham's thigh, already stirring with life, twitching slightly in the open air.

Holy fuck.

There was no preparing for the sight of it. Not in theory. Not even in memory.

Samay had seen it before--brief flashes, through wet fabric, under towels--but this was raw. Unfiltered. Up close. Inches from his face.

It really did look like a fucking coke can. Heavy. Thick. Ridiculously wide. Like a mouth wouldn't even know where to begin.

And it hit him differently now. Because he was on his knees.

Because he'd asked to see it.

Because Shubham had let him.

It wasn't just arousal. It wasn't just curiosity.

It was power.

Radiating from Shubham. Settling between them like smoke. A thick, unspoken charge.

Samay's eyes flicked up.

Shubham was already looking at him. Not smirking. Not laughing. Just watching.

Their eyes locked. Held.

Samay's fingers hovered--barely an inch from Shubham's thick shaft.

His breath hitched, the air suddenly too tight in his chest.

He didn't move yet. Couldn't.

Because something in Shubham's face shifted.

Not playful. Not cocky.

But serious.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

Then Shubham spoke--low, but firm. Not loud, but commanding.

"Don't touch unless I say."

The line hit like a slap.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just dominant.

Unapologetically so.

And it went straight to Samay's cock.

He twitched in his soaked white shorts.

A slow, stubborn throb.

He was getting hard.

On his knees.

Looking at another guy's cock.

His own cock--pressed snug in his small swimwear--shifted, swelling like it hadn't gotten the memo that this wasn't supposed to happen. That this was all wrong. That he was Samay.

That he was straight.

But that voice. That command. That fucking cock in front of him.

Something raw and buried cracked open.

Samay didn't say anything.

Didn't trust his voice.

Didn't trust himself.

But he looked up--his hand still frozen, his breath shallow--and asked with his eyes.

A silent question.

Permission.

Can I?

It was almost pathetic. Vulnerable in a way that made heat bloom under his skin.

He should be ashamed.

And maybe he was.

But not enough to stop.

Shubham saw it. All of it.

The hesitation. The hunger. The question in Samay's eyes.

And he let him get away with it.

Let him keep that last shred of pride.

For now.

But only barely.

Because the next time, Shubham would make him say it.

This time, he just said--quiet, low, and firm:

"Go on."

And Samay moved.

Carefully.

Obediently.

Fingers brushing the warm, thick skin of Shubham's shaft.

It twitched under his touch--alive, heavy, arrogant in the way only a truly blessed cock could be. Meaty and proud. Like it knew how much it was breaking Samay's brain just by existing.

His breath came out shaky, almost a moan, almost a curse.

Because the second he made contact, he felt everything shift again.

It wasn't curiosity anymore.

It was submission.

It was power.

And it was his now.

Just like Shubham's cock.

Right there in his hand.

His fingers curled slowly--tentatively--around the thick shaft.

He felt it twitch.

His own body jolted.

Like he wasn't ready for how real this felt. How hot. How wrong.

But his hand didn't let go.

It was hotter than he expected.

Heavy.

Veiny.

A fucking weapon.

Samay's thumb grazed the ridge under the head, and the smooth, swollen skin pulsed beneath his touch.

He held his breath.

His grip loose. Testing. Exploring.

Almost like it would disappear if he held it too tightly.

Shubham didn't say a word. Unmoving. Unblinking. Just waiting.

But Samay could feel his gaze.

Watching.

Waiting.

Commanding without a sound.

The air on the terrace had changed--thicker, headier.

The night sky spread wide above them, a thousand stars looking down on a scene that should've never been happening.

And still, here he was.

On his knees.

One hand gripping another man's cock.

Not just any man.

Shubham.

His friend. His bro. His fucking roommate.

The guy he'd joked with, drank with, wrestled with a few hours ago on the couch like nothing was wrong.

Like they weren't circling this exact line all day, pretending not to see it.

And now?

That line was gone.

Burned clean off by the heat between them.

Samay's grip firmed just a little as his fingers stroked down the shaft.

He studied it like he was memorizing it.

The veins.

The weight.

The slight curve.

The way the foreskin barely clung to the head, pulled taut by Shubham's hardness.

It was so fucking real.

And way too big for his hand.

His thumb grazed the slit at the tip, smearing a bead of precum that had gathered there.

Sticky. Warm.

He felt it before he even realized it:

A slow roll of pressure in his groin.

His own cock pushing harder against his swim shorts.

It swelled, slow and traitorous.

Achingly so.

A part of him--some fading rational corner--screamed to stop.

That this wasn't him.

That this wasn't right.

That he should be backing away, laughing it off, calling it a joke and walking back inside.

But that part was quiet now.

Buried under the thrum of something else.

Something darker.

Older.

Primal.

Because when he looked up again, eyes dragging from the cock in his hand to the face above him, Shubham was already staring back.

Not shocked.

Not confused.

But hungry.

Different from his own hunger.

Samay's was full of heat and fear and need.

Shubham's was still. Dark. Quiet.

Like he already knew how this would end.

Like he was waiting to see how far Samay would go before he broke.

And that look--that fucking look--made Samay's grip twitch again.

But his hand slid lower anyway.

From the tip.

Down the length.

Just his fingers.

Exploring.

So fucking slow.

Every inch humiliated him.

Every second made it worse.

And yet, he couldn't stop.

His own cock stirred.

Pressed tight against his shorts.

Hard now.

Aching.

He was getting hard while touching his best friend's dick.

What the actual fuck.

And still--he couldn't stop.

Shubham didn't move.

Didn't twitch.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't even breathe, it felt like.

Just stood there like a statue--barely restrained power and heat--letting it happen.

Letting him do it.

He gave another slow stroke down the shaft.

Long. Careful.

Not like he was jerking him off.

Not yet.

Like he was worshipping it.

Studying it.

He didn't even realize he was holding his breath until Shubham finally exhaled--a soft sound, almost inaudible.

Not pleasure exactly.

But satisfaction.

Control.

Like he realized, suddenly, the power he held.

That Samay--the swagger king, the one who usually called the shots --was actually kneeling there.

For him.

Waiting.

And even worse?

Loving it.

Because this wasn't the end. Not even close. This was the beginning of something neither of them could name--but both of them felt. Deep. Primal. Unstoppable.

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???? Let me know what you think.

I'd love to hear your reactions, questions, or what you'd want to see happen next.

Your comments fuel the story--and make it filthier.

This series is still unfolding, chapter by chapter.

More is coming.

Samay hasn't hit bottom yet.

Shubham hasn't gone as far as he could.

Tell me how far you think they'll fall.

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