Goa Nights: Shubham & Samay Ch. 04

⚠️ Author's Note:

Samay doesn't just submit--he belongs.

Shubham takes control completely.

Discipline. Ritual. Exposure.

The man who once fucked girls without thinking now begs to be used like a toy.

________________________________________

By now, their dynamic had ossified into something both terrifying and perfect.

Not just unspoken.

Unwritten.

Inescapable.

Samay didn't ask anymore.

He offered.

No more hesitation.

No more tension.

Only ritual.

Each morning, without fail, Shubham would wake to the same thing.

Samay. Naked. On his stomach.

Legs slightly parted. Hole faintly twitching.

Head turned just enough to offer that sleepy, submissive smirk.

Not a word spoken.

He didn't even look back anymore. He didn't need to.

Because this was their religion.

Shubham would sit up, cock already swelling at the sight.

He'd crawl over, part Samay's warm cheeks, and whisper--

"My pussy ready?"

Samay would sigh into the pillow.

A soft, needy sound.

"Always."

And Shubham would spit. Coat the hole in slick. Smear his precum over the rim. Rub the head of his cock in teasing circles.

The hole opened like it missed him.

Because it did.

Then -- slow, steady, deep -- he'd slide in.

No resistance.

No preparation.

No hesitation.

Just a trained body opening for its owner.

Sometimes it was lazy.

Sometimes rough.

Sometimes silent and sacred -- like he was praying into the ass of the man he owned.

And Samay?

He never touched his cock.

He didn't dare.

"You don't cum unless I say," Shubham had warned him early on.

"You don't touch your cock unless it's for me."

Samay obeyed.

His cock stayed hard the entire time.

Throbbing into the sheets.

Leaking freely.

And when Shubham finally came -- long, hot spurts deep inside -- Samay would moan into the pillow like that was his release too.

But it wasn't.

He didn't get one.

Not yet.

________________________________________

After the morning fuck, they showered.

Shubham would rinse his cock. Samay would rinse his hole.

If Shubham felt generous, he'd kneel behind Samay, part his cheeks again, and rim him until he trembled.

Sometimes he whispered filth into the wet, twitching skin:

"Good girl."

"Your pussy's loose today."

"Already hungry again, aren't you?"

And Samay?

He didn't flinch.

________________________________________

If they stayed in the villa, Samay stayed naked.

Always.

It was the rule. Spoken once. Enforced always.

Even if he cooked, cleaned, read, texted friends -- he did it bare-assed.

One morning, while stirring eggs at the stove, Shubham came up behind him, spat on his hole, and slid inside.

No warning.

Samay didn't spill a drop.

"Fuck," Shubham whispered. "This is my breakfast."

Another time, Samay was on a call with his sister. On speaker.

Shubham knelt beside the couch, pulled Samay's thighs apart, and buried his face in his ass.

He licked. Moaned. Spat.

Samay gripped the phone tighter, voice shaking as he said, "Yeah di, all good here... just--uh--Goa stuff."

He came on the floor the moment he hung up.

________________________________________

Shubham used him everywhere.

• On the dining table, bent over beside a plate of toast.

• On the living room floor, legs up, Shubham holding him open like a toy.

• In the pool, Samay floating face-down while Shubham fingered him from behind.

• Against the window frame, just out of sight from the neighbor's yard.

• Pressed onto the TV cabinet during an IPL match, getting face-fucked while commentary played in the background.

He'd been used in every room of the ten-bedroom villa.

Every. Single. One.

________________________________________

And outside?

Even filthier.

They fucked on the boat -- Samay bent over the deck railing, Shubham thrusting slowly while the sea rolled beneath them.

They got caught in a downpour one night and fucked under a beach umbrella while drunk tourists screamed around them.

Shubham once took him into a restaurant toilet and made him suck while loud Punjabi music blared outside.

Samay gagged. Moaned. Came untouched.

Then wiped Shubham's cum off the floor with his own T-shirt.

"That's your cleaning rag now," Shubham had said.

"Every time I cum, you wear it."

Samay wore that shirt the next morning. Still crusted. Still reeking.

________________________________________

They discovered things.

Positions Samay had never tried before:

• Shubham lifting him by the hips, fucking him against a balcony railing.

• Samay on all fours on a lounger, hole glistening in sunlight.

• Standing face-to-face, Shubham holding him up by the thighs and fucking him against the wall.

Samay's throat got deeper. He could now take three-quarters of Shubham's cock without gagging. Sometimes more.

His hole was permanently tender. Loose enough that Shubham didn't need fingers anymore.

And Shubham?

He learned that if he rimmed Samay for six to eight minutes -- just the right angle, just the right tongue movement -- Samay would cum.

Hands-free.

________________________________________

And the words?

The words changed too.

What used to make Samay flinch now made him moan.

"Good girl."

"Slut."

"Whore."

"Cockslut."

"You love being my cumdump, don't you?"

Samay didn't fight it.

Because it was true.

He was Shubham's slut. His mouth. His pussy. His toy.

His submission had become a source of pride.

He hadn't just been broken.

He'd been reshaped.

________________________________________

They started sleeping together.

One bed. One routine.

Every night, before sleep, Shubham would use him one last time.

Slowly.

Not like a slut. Not like a quick fuck.

Like a possession. A property.

It started with Samay on his knees, sucking Shubham soft, hard, soft again.

Then fingering.

One finger. Two. Three.

Curling, twisting, pushing him open.

Then rimming.

Long, slow, filthy rimming until Samay's hole leaked against the sheets.

Then the fuck.

Not hard.

Long.

Steady.

Measured.

Shubham held him by the waist. Or sometimes kissed the back of his neck while thrusting in like a lover.

But it wasn't romantic.

It was ownership.

Shubham came once.

Always deep.

Samay came as many times as his body could take.

On Shubham's cock.

On his tongue.

From a single slap.

From a whisper in his ear.

He was perpetually sore.

His ass was always red.

Always leaking.

He walked funny most mornings. Limped some nights.

But his body had adapted.

He needed this now.

He needed to be used.

________________________________________

Shubham had trained him.

A man's man. Former straight boy. Athlete. Top. Stud.

Now bent. Fucked. Owned.

And Shubham was proud of that.

Prouder than anything else in his life.

"No one's ever going to touch this pussy again," he told Samay once.

"Not unless I say."

Samay nodded, hole still dripping cum from earlier.

"Yours."

His body was bruised all over.

Bite marks on his hips. Hickeys on his ass. Spank bruises on his inner thighs.

They spared everything above the collarbone. Nothing on the chest. Nothing below the knees.

Because their friends were arriving soon.

But everything in between?

Claimed.

Utterly.

________________________________________

And then there were the punishments.

Not the teasing slaps mid-thrust.

Not the playful spanks during foreplay.

These were different.

Shubham called them "corrections."

They only happened twice.

But Samay remembered every second.

The first time was when Samay broke the rules.

He was on his knees, mouth full of cock, slurping hungrily while Shubham leaned back on the couch, fingers tangled in his hair.

Samay had gotten good at it--too good. His throat adjusted, his tongue confident, his moans timed to tease. Shubham was close, groaning softly above him.

Samay's own cock throbbed between his legs, stiff, leaking, aching for release. It was instinct--pure muscle memory--that made his hand drift down and grip it. Just a few strokes. Less than ten seconds.

He didn't even realize what was happening until it was too late.

His whole body tensed. His moan vibrated around Shubham's cock. And then he came.

Hard.

All over the floor. Ropes of cum soaking the tile. A grown man, on his knees, mouth full, cumming just from sucking cock and touching himself for a few desperate strokes.

Shubham pulled out slowly.

His eyes were unreadable. His cock still wet with spit.

Then:

"Did I tell you you could touch it?"

Samay froze.

"No."

"Did I say you could cum?"

"... No."

"Bed. Now."

Samay stood on shaky legs, walked to the bed, and bent over it without being told.

His cock still dripped. His thighs were sticky. His cheeks already flushing with humiliation.

Shubham followed.

Sat beside him. One hand pressing into the small of Samay's back. The other raised.

And then it began.

A spanking unlike any he'd had before.

Not playful. Not sexual.

A punishment.

Bare hand. Slow. Deliberate.

One smack every few seconds. Each strike landing harder, lower. The sound was sharp, but the silence between each one was sharper.

Samay bit the pillow. Gritted his teeth. Whimpered without meaning to.

He didn't resist.

Because this was discipline.

This was what it meant to belong to someone.

He'd broken a rule.

And Shubham was showing him who he belonged to.

By the end, his ass was red and trembling.

His cock soft. His pride crumbling.

But something inside him had clicked.

He needed this.

He needed to be put back in place.

And Shubham?

He never said "good job."

Never kissed it better.

He just stood, wiped his hand on a towel, and said--

"Learn your place."

And Samay whispered, voice cracked:

"Yes, sir."

________________________________________

The second punishment was worse.

It wasn't for cumming.

It wasn't for touching himself.

It was for talking back.

They were having coffee in the villa's sunlit lounge.

Samay was barefoot, naked as always, skin still marked from the night before.

Shubham had said something teasing--something filthy and true.

And Samay, maybe tired, maybe too comfortable, replied with a sharp laugh and a snarky:

"You're getting obsessed, bro. Chill."

He didn't mean it.

Not like that.

But it came out fast. Too casual. Too equal.

And Shubham froze.

Then, quiet and firm:

"Backyard. Now."

Samay's blood ran cold.

He followed.

Past the pool. Past the outdoor bar.

To a quiet corner of the backyard, half-visible through the hedge, barely hidden from the villa's shared walking path.

People passed there sometimes.

Tourists. Locals. Other Airbnb guests.

Samay hesitated.

Shubham didn't. He wasn't angry. Not really.

But Samay needed to remember.

And this was the only language that stuck.

He dragged a patio chair into place. Sat down fully clothed, legs apart like a king.

Then pointed to his lap.

"Over."

Samay swallowed hard.

He looked around. The hedge offered some cover. But not much.

Still naked. Still marked.

He stepped forward. Climbed over Shubham's lap. Bent.

Ass high. Hole exposed.

His cock brushed Shubham's thigh, already hard from the shame.

And then it began.

Shubham raised his hand and brought it down.

Loud. Sharp. Barehanded.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each slap stung. Not just the skin, but Samay's ego.

He was 21. A man. A grown-up. Being spanked like an unruly child.

Outside. Naked. Over another man's lap. While fully visible through a gap in the hedges.

Anyone could walk by.

Any stranger could glance in and see Samay Bhatia--once top of his class, the guy who'd fucked girls in hostel parties--now bent and moaning like a bitch in heat.

The humiliation made his cock throb harder.

And Shubham saw it.

"You like this, don't you?"

"Being put in your place."

"My naked little hole, getting spanked in public."

Samay gasped.

Shubham's hand landed lower now. Onto the sit spot. Again and again.

Samay squirmed. Shuddered. Gripped Shubham's ankle for balance.

By minute twenty, he was trembling.

By minute thirty, his ass was raw.

By minute forty-five, he was gone.

No safe word. No escape.

Just dominance. Ritual. Correction.

And the sick, twisted pride of knowing he belonged to someone strong enough to own him like this.

When it was over, Shubham didn't speak.

He ran his fingers across Samay's welted cheeks, slow and possessive.

Then leaned in and whispered:

"Next time you mouth off, I'll fuck you right here. Loud. Deep. Until everyone hears what you've become."

Samay whimpered.

"Yes, sir."

And when he stood up--still shaking, cock still hard, hole still twitching--he didn't run inside.

He stood there.

Naked.

Marked.

Owned.

________________________________________

That day, Goa was drunk on sunlight.

Late morning.

Barely a breeze.

The air clung to skin like heat itself was horny.

Samay lay on his towel--tight grey swim trunks hugging his hips indecently, his golden brown ass plump and smooth and teasing the entire coast.

Shubham sat beside him in sunglasses, barely speaking. Legs sprawled. Cock hard under his loose shorts. The outline obvious. Shameless.

Samay didn't need to look. He felt the stare. Knew that heat.

"You're staring again," he muttered, still pretending to tan.

Shubham smirked. "Your ass is asking for it."

"Not my fault it's perfect."

Samay opened one eye. Their sunglasses met. A private little war through mirrored lenses.

Shubham leaned closer. Voice low. "You gonna jerk me off or not?"

Samay paused. His cock twitched in his trunks. But his face stayed still. Cool. Like this was nothing.

"Out here?" he asked, half a smirk on his lips.

"No one's looking."

And no one was.

The beach curved around a natural rock formation. Music drifted from the other side. Just far enough to cover their sounds. Just close enough to make it risky.

Samay rolled onto his side and reached over.

Shubham was already hard. Leaking.

Samay's fingers wrapped around the thick shaft under the shorts and freed it with practiced ease--slowly pulling it out like it was something sacred. Or filthy. Or both.

He stroked him lazily. Long, slow pulls. Thumb grazing the slit. He watched Shubham's jaw tense. His stomach twitch. His hands fisting the towel beneath him.

Samay leaned in, lips brushing the head without warning.

Just a kiss.

"I could ride you right here," he whispered. "Let the whole fucking beach watch."

Shubham groaned. "Fuck, Samay--"

"Cum for me."

Shubham bit his lip. The sun glinted off his glasses. His cock throbbed in Samay's hand.

Then he came.

Hard.

Thick spurts across his chest, stomach, even Samay's knuckles. The mess was obscene--filthy, wet, loud. A wet sound at the end that only they heard.

Samay reached for the edge of the towel, wiped his hand, and then--while staring straight at Shubham--licked his fingers clean.

Shubham stared back.

"You're disgusting."

"You're welcome."

________________________________________

They didn't talk after that.

Just stood, brushed sand from their legs, and walked to the outdoor shower behind the villa.

The water was cold. Brutal. Sharp against overheated skin.

Shubham stepped under it fully clothed, shirt clinging to his chest. Samay stripped down without hesitation--trunks clinging to his thighs before he let them fall.

He knelt without being told.

Still dripping. Still wet. Still tasting cum on his tongue.

And took Shubham's cock into his mouth.

Fast.

No prep. No teasing. No hesitation.

Like it was his place. Like he'd done it every day since birth.

He sucked like a man possessed--head bobbing, hair soaked and clinging to his face. Water streamed down his back. His hands gripped Shubham's thighs, tight and trembling, like they were his anchor.

Shubham grabbed a fistful of hair. "You want it in your mouth or your hole?"

Samay looked up. His chin dripped with spit. His lips were red, swollen. His breath shaky.

"Whichever leaves a bigger mess."

And that was it.

Shubham yanked him up. Turned him around. Pushed him forward so his palms slapped the wet tile of the wall.

Samay didn't flinch.

He knew.

He arched his back, spread his legs, and waited.

His hole was still open from that morning. Still raw. Still twitching.

Shubham spit. Twice.

Rubbed the head of his cock against the ring.

And shoved in.

No fingers.

No warning.

Just one hard, deep thrust.

Samay cried out. Loud. Echoing off tile and stone.

The cold water couldn't hide the heat between them. Couldn't silence the wet slap of hips against ass. Couldn't hide the moans. The curses. The desperation.

Shubham held his waist tight. Fucked with single-minded hunger. Every thrust deeper than the last. Every sound riskier than the one before.

They were exposed. Anyone walking by the villa could hear them.

Samay knew it.

It made him harder.

"You love this, don't you?" Shubham growled. "Getting fucked like a whore out here."

Samay could barely speak. Could only gasp.

"Say it."

"I--I love it," he stuttered. "Use me. Anywhere. Always."

Shubham grunted, slammed in deeper, and came with a low growl--thick pulses spilling inside the hole already broken open for him.

He pulled out. Cum oozed down Samay's thighs, mixing with the water. Dripping. Leaking.

Samay didn't move.

He stood there--wet, used, hole wide open--like this was exactly where he belonged.

And it was.

________________________________________

The final night, before their friends arrived, the villa was silent.

The ocean winds had settled. The lights were low. There was no music playing, no distractions--just the hum of ceiling fans and the pulse in Samay's veins.

He wore a loose shirt. Nothing else.

His ass was still sore from the morning shower fuck, but that wasn't a deterrent. It was a reminder.

Of who he was now.

What he needed.

What his body craved like oxygen.

He didn't knock on Shubham's door.

Didn't text.

Didn't wait.

He just walked into the bedroom.

And bent.

Over the bed.

Ass bare.

Legs parted.

Face turned to the side with a calm, filthy smirk.

It wasn't even an invitation anymore.

It was a statement.

This hole belongs to you.

________________________________________

Shubham walked in five minutes later, towel around his neck, shirt half-buttoned, and stopped cold.

That ass. Bare. Plump. Smooth.

Framed like a gift.

He didn't speak.

He just dropped the towel, unbuttoned his shirt, and walked over.

Samay didn't turn to look.

He just arched deeper. Spread wider. Presented.

Shubham grabbed his hips, leaned forward, and whispered into his ear--

"You've been waiting to get used all day, haven't you?"

Samay moaned. Quiet. Obedient.

"Yes, sir."

Shubham spat on the hole, smeared it with the head of his cock, and pushed in.

One stroke. Deep.

Samay cried out into the mattress, legs shaking from the stretch.

There'd been no fingers. No teasing. No warm-up.

Just cock.

"Keep your hands off your dick," Shubham growled.

Samay whimpered.

Shubham began to thrust.

Slow. Heavy. Precise.

"You know why you're not allowed to touch yourself?"

Samay shook his head, gasping.

"Because you cum too fast. Because your pussy leaks just from getting filled."

He slapped Samay's ass hard.

"You've been trained."

Samay sobbed into the blanket, body trembling from the overload.

Shubham fucked him deeper.

Long strokes. Measured. Methodical. Like he was carving ownership with each thrust.

Then Samay gasped--eyes wide--and tried to reach for his cock.

"No," Shubham snapped, slapping his hand away.

Samay's voice cracked. "I--I'm gonna--"

Shubham grabbed both wrists and pinned them behind his back.

"You don't cum until I say."

"But it--fuck--it feels too good--"

"That's the point."

Samay's hole clenched around him, desperate and soaked. His cock bounced untouched beneath him, twitching with each thrust.

Shubham leaned in, breathing against his ear.

"You're gonna cum from your hole. Like a bitch."

And then it happened.

Shubham slammed in.

Buried himself.

Growled--

"Cum."

Samay shattered.

His body convulsed. His cock shot untouched--thick ropes across the sheets.

He screamed into the mattress. A man broken. Ruined. Marked.

Shubham came seconds later. Deep. Hot. Heavy.

He stayed buried inside. Not moving. Letting it soak.

When he pulled out, Samay's hole was dripping again.

Leaking. Gaping. Used.

He didn't move.

________________________________________

Later, they stood in front of the mirror.

Samay naked.

Shubham sitting back on the edge of the dresser, cock glistening, legs spread.

"Come here."

Samay climbed onto his lap, straddling him.

"You used to be such a stud," Shubham murmured.

Then leaned in, closer to Samay's ear.

"Now look at you."

A pause.

"You're not a man anymore, Samay."

And fuck--Samay moaned at that.

"Ride it."

He did.

He lowered himself slowly. Felt that thick stretch all over again. Sat down until he was fully impaled.

Then began to move.

Up. Down. Grinding. Bouncing. Moaning.

His hands gripped Shubham's shoulders. His head dropped back. His eyes flicked to the mirror.

He saw himself.

Sweaty. Flushed. Slutty.

Saw Shubham's hands gripping his hips. Saw the hickeys on his collarbone. The bruises on his thighs. The red bloom spreading across his ass.

"Look at you," Shubham whispered. "Just a pussy with a pretty face."

Samay moaned louder. Rode faster.

The squelch of their bodies echoed in the room.

Shubham grabbed his face and kissed him hard--sloppy, teeth, tongue--and then bit down on his neck.

A new mark.

Samay whimpered. He was close again. His cock rubbed against Shubham's abs, leaking like a broken faucet.

"Don't cum," Shubham growled. "You cum when I fill you again."

Samay nodded, dazed.

He rode until his thighs burned, until he shook, until he couldn't take another inch.

Then Shubham stood up--still inside him--and carried him to the floor.

________________________________________

He laid Samay down flat.

Legs up.

Held him open by the thighs. Licked his lips at the sight of that twitching, open hole, already pink from two loads.

He pushed back in.

Samay cried out.

"Still want more?" Shubham asked.

Samay nodded, tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Good. Because you're getting bred again."

And he fucked him.

Harder than before.

The kind of thrusts that lifted Samay's hips off the floor. The kind that made him cry out and sob and tremble.

No mercy. No breaks. No rest.

Samay's body took it.

Barely.

But he took it.

And when Shubham finally came again--grunting, panting, spent--Samay came too.

No hands. No touch.

Just cock.

Just power.

Just submission.

________________________________________

Afterwards, Samay lay flat on his back, cum cooling on his belly and leaking from his hole.

The mirror didn't lie. He looked destroyed. Like a used-up whore.

And suddenly, panic bloomed in his chest.

What if someone finds out?

What if Kunal ever saw this? Or Harsh? Or literally anyone from campus?

What if they knew he let his best friend bend him over and fuck him raw--

not just once, but again and again?

What if they saw his legs shaking like this? His cum-smeared chest?

What if they heard how he begged to be slapped, called a good boy, moaned when his hole was stretched?

He squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was racing. His throat tight.

But beneath the panic--his cock twitched again.

Hard.

Shame pulsed in his blood like a drug.

The fear of being exposed didn't kill the arousal.

It made it worse.

And that terrified him more than anything.

He looked at Shubham and asked "Do you think we're fucked up?"

Shubham was still catching his breath.

"Absolutely."

Samay grinned, eyes half-closed.

"Good."

________________________________________

The house was loud again.

The friends had arrived that morning in waves--tote bags, beer crates, tangled charger cords, and half-yelled jokes already half-forgotten. The pool thumped with Bluetooth beats. Someone spilled vodka on the porch. Someone jumped in fully clothed.

Samay and Shubham?

Just two more boys in the chaos.

The good old gang.

Back together. Goa in full swing.

No one suspected a thing.

No one knew that the night before, Shubham had spent forty minutes face-fucking Samay on the floor. That Samay had begged for it, eyes teary, hole twitching from the round before. That after the others had arrived, the first thing Shubham had done was drag Samay into a guest bathroom and finger him until he came untouched, biting the towel to stay quiet.

Samay wondered if they knew. That he'd ridden that cock like a bitch. That he'd begged to be filled.

No one knew. But it was getting harder to hide.

________________________________________

The rules weren't spoken. But they were sacred. Etched in sweat, spit, and bruises. Each one written into the way Samay bent, obeyed, leaked.

Rule One: Hide the marks.

Samay wasn't allowed to be shirtless anymore. Every trip to the pool or beach came with a tank top or oversized T-shirt. He wasn't allowed to get careless, no matter how hot it got.

His collarbone hickeys had faded. But the ones on his hips? His back? The deep purple bite on the curve of his left ass cheek?

Those were still fresh.

And they were only for Shubham to see.

Sometimes, when no one was around, Shubham would pull Samay into the hallway and lift his shirt, just to admire that one mark.

"Still bruised. That's mine."

And Samay would whisper, "Yes, sir."

________________________________________

Rule Two: The nightly ritual.

Every night, after the house quieted, Samay slipped out of his room naked--hard, leaking, used--and padded across the hallway to Shubham's door.

He did it barefoot. Silent. The cold floor shocking his feet. The air raising goosebumps across his body.

The risk?

That was part of it.

Twice, he'd almost been caught.

Once, when a friend stepped into the hallway for water and Samay had to duck into a storage closet--cock still hard, precum already dripping down his thigh.

Another time, he'd opened Shubham's door just as someone in the opposite wing opened theirs--mid walk of shame, hole still gaping, thighs still sticky from being ruined earlier that night.

They hadn't spoken.

But Samay swore someone saw him.

He never figured out who.

He prayed he was wrong.

But if he wasn't?

If someone knew?

As long as they kept quiet... it was fine.

________________________________________Rule Three: Best friends by day. Slut by night.

They didn't touch in front of others. Barely made eye contact for too long. The occasional laugh, a shared beer, a lazy arm toss around the shoulders.

To the group, they were just bros.

But under the table?

Shubham's hand would slide between Samay's thighs and press just hard enough to remind him who he was.

________________________________________Rule Four: Samay answers when called.

Shubham didn't text. Didn't knock. He didn't need to.

A glance across the room. A flick of two fingers. A passing mutter:

"Be bent over when I get there."

Samay would disappear. Quiet. Compliant.

He'd go to Shubham's room, strip naked, and kneel or bend--depending on the day's mood.

He never locked the door.

________________________________________

On the first day after their friends arrived, the living room was packed.

Netflix on. Lights off. Three people sprawled on the couch, others on the floor. Everyone under blankets, shoulders touching.

Samay sat between Shubham and another guy--Ajay. The blanket over their laps was shared. Samay's thighs were warm. Tense.

Half an hour into the film, Shubham's hand moved under the blanket.

To Samay's thigh. Then up.

Then between.

Samay bit the inside of his cheek.

No one noticed.

Shubham's fingers found his ass, slipped under his shorts, and pushed inside.

Samay gasped. Quietly. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but he couldn't remember what it was about.

Shubham fingered him slowly. Expertly. Curling his fingers inside the way he knew made Samay shake. The angle was shallow, the thrusts lazy, but it didn't matter.

Samay was already leaking.

He bit his lip so hard it stung. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

Shubham leaned in and whispered--

"Don't make a sound. If you cum, you cum quietly."

Samay came three minutes later.

No hands.

Just Shubham's fingers inside him, massaging his prostate as he sat between two of his closest friends, cock twitching under the blanket, leaking into his own shorts.

________________________________________Later that night, it was a long dinner. The group had ordered in--three pizzas, some cheap rosé, and greasy fries that were already cold. Everyone sat at the big dining table, half tipsy, legs stretched out, voices overlapping in conversation.

Samay sat beside Shubham.

His bare thigh pressed slightly against Shubham's. He wasn't wearing boxers under his loose joggers. That was by design.

Under the table, hidden by the tablecloth, Samay's hand moved.

Slowly. Smoothly. Quietly.

Shubham's cock was already half-hard. Samay had taken care of that with a whisper on their way to the dining room:

"Can I stroke you while we eat?"

Shubham hadn't answered. He'd just stared.

Now, as Shubham chewed through cold pepperoni, Samay's hand worked under the table--carefully. His knuckles brushed against the wood. His grip shifted for better angle. His thumb rolled over the leaking tip.

Shubham kept eating. Kept laughing. But his thigh tensed.

"Dude, you good?" Kunal asked, pouring another glass.

Shubham nodded. "Yeah, food's just shit."

A few of them laughed.

Samay didn't.

He stroked harder. Tighter. Faster. Until--

Shubham grabbed the edge of the table. Fist clenched. Muscles tight.

And came.

Hot, thick, silently.

Onto Samay's hand.

Samay didn't flinch. He waited for Shubham to relax, then slowly pulled his hand back and licked one finger.

Then another.

He finished the rest with a sip of water.

________________________________________It was two days after the group arrived.

Late morning. Everyone was messing around the pool. Samay had been swimming laps in tight grey trunks, barely clinging to his waist. The water made everything stick.

He climbed out, back glistening, ass flexed.

And that's when Kunal noticed it.

"Yo, Samay--what's that on your ass?"

Samay froze mid-step.

Kunal leaned closer. "Wait--is that a fucking hickey?"

Someone hooted. Another wolf-whistled.

"Damn, bro," someone called. "You're not wasting time in Goa."

Samay laughed it off and towelled his face, stalling for half a second.

Then:

"Yeah, met this local girl near the shack bar. One of those wild nights. She was drunk on Cashew Feni, dragged me into her friend's place."

"Ohhh shit," Kunal grinned. "Tell me you smashed."

"Worse," Samay smirked. "She tied me up, rode me like a pornstar, and bit down every time I moaned."

Laughter erupted. "You got dommed by a Goan girl?"

Samay shrugged, trying not to shake. "She left a few marks. That one's just... the most visible."

They let it go.

But across the pool, Shubham looked at him.

Not smiling. Not laughing.

Just... owning.

Because they both knew.

That hickey?

Shubham had given it. With Samay's knees pulled to his chest, biting the pillow, cock untouched and leaking while Shubham left teeth marks deep in his flesh.

Samay bit his lip.

He hadn't lied.

Just... reversed the roles.

And as their eyes locked across the water, something inside Samay clenched.

He liked lying for Shubham.

________________________________________

The next afternoon, they were all lounging in the backyard, beer bottles scattered across the grass, someone playing Spotify from a phone. Samay was sitting cross-legged on a blanket, sipping slowly from a glass.

His phone buzzed.

Shubham: You're leaking, aren't you?

Samay checked.

He was.

From the fuck earlier that afternoon--poolside, fast, bent over the deck chair. He hadn't cleaned up. Just pulled his shorts back up and joined the group.

He replied:

Samay: Yes, sir.

A pause.

Shubham: Don't clean up. Let it soak through.

Samay obeyed.

Twenty minutes later, someone pointed at the faint stain on the back of his light-colored shorts.

"Dude, spill something?" Kunal asked.

Samay didn't miss a beat. "Yeah. Just water."

But Shubham looked up from his phone, cocked his head, and said loud enough for everyone to hear:

"Weird spot for water, bro. Looks like something's still dripping."

Samay froze.

A few guys chuckled.

He laughed too--tight, forced.

Shubham didn't even smile. Just leaned back, took a sip of beer, and watched him squirm.

________________________________________

Public Teasing was constant now. Unrelenting. And no one noticed.

That was what made it hotter.

Shubham never touched him in ways that would get noticed. He didn't hover. He didn't flirt. He didn't act like anything was different.

But Samay felt it.

The way Shubham brushed past him in the hallway, fingers grazing just above the waistband.

The way he stood too close during poolside selfies, his hips almost touching Samay's.

The way he'd murmur--

"Keep that hole stretched, princess."

--before walking away like nothing had been said.

At the beach, Samay started wearing shorter shorts. Ones that clung when wet. Ones that clung even more when he was leaking.

Sometimes, he sat across from Shubham and deliberately bounced his legs.

Flexed his thighs.

Wiggled his hips.

Shubham's voice would drop when they passed in tight corridors:

"Keep teasing me, and I'll fuck you in the shower stall."

"Those shorts don't hide anything, slut."

"You know I can still see the bruise on your ass, right?"

One time, when everyone was heading upstairs after dinner, Shubham grabbed Samay's ass at the bottom of the stairs. Hard.

Samay gasped--quick and soft.

Shubham smirked and said loudly, "Move it, man. You're in the way."

No one blinked.

Another time, in the hallway, Shubham pulled Samay aside and leaned in like he was fixing the collar of his T-shirt.

He whispered:

"Bend over when we get upstairs."

And just like that, Samay's cock stirred in his shorts.

His heart pounded louder than the music.

His hole clenched with need.

And he didn't even answer.

He just obeyed.

________________________________________

Every night, after the villa went still and the last drunken laugh faded down the hallway, Samay stripped naked, opened his door barefoot, and slipped across the hall--silent, sore, leaking.

It had become ritual.

Sometimes Shubham was already awake, sitting up in bed, cock in hand, waiting.

Sometimes he was asleep--and Samay would kneel patiently until his Master stirred.

But always, always, the moment Shubham saw him, the instructions came.

"Mouth open."

"On the bed."

"All fours."

Samay obeyed.

No questions. No delay.

________________________________________

Their rhythm had matured.

Where once it was exploration--now it was instinct.

Samay's mouth took all of it now. Down to the base. His throat had been trained. Conditioned. The first few nights had left him gagging, choking, face streaked with spit. Now, he welcomed it. Swallowed it. Felt proud when his nose pressed into Shubham's pubes and stayed there, suffocating on the heat of his cock.

Shubham gripped his hair tighter now. Fucked deeper.

Not gently. Not kindly.

"That's it, you filthy little bitch," he'd growl.

"Take it. All of it. You know it's yours."

Samay moaned around him. Leaked onto the floor.

Then came the rimming.

Shubham flipped him over and spread him open.

Samay's ass had been stretched, trained, used. But it still twitched at the first lick. And now Shubham's tongue was ruthless--long, wet strokes that forced Samay to shake and moan and whimper into the sheets.

He didn't touch his cock.

He didn't dare.

Shubham would flick his tongue into the hole and then whisper filth against it:

"Already leaking. And I haven't even fucked you."

"Your pussy's hungry. Look at it twitch."

"Keep it open. Keep it gaping. This is mine."

And Samay's body would respond.

His hole opened wider.

His legs parted further.

His back arched without thought.

The moans that escaped him weren't shy anymore.

They were broken. Owned.

________________________________________

Spanking had become foreplay.

Not punishment.

Shubham would pause mid-rim or mid-blowjob, sit back, and slap his ass hard--just to hear the sound. Just to feel the jiggle. Just to watch Samay's hips grind forward from the impact.

"That's right," he'd whisper.

"Keep that ass jiggling for me."

Samay would whimper.

Push his hips back for more.

He needed it now. Craved it. That slap of dominance that reminded him who he belonged to.

________________________________________

And then--the fuck.

Always. Always.

Sometimes face down, cheek pressed into the mattress.

Sometimes bent over the windowsill, the moonlight catching his leaking hole.

Sometimes on his back, legs pulled to his chest like a good girl being bred.

Shubham knew exactly how to thrust now.

Slow at first. Deep. Holding the base, grinding in. Making Samay feel every ridge.

And then faster--long strokes, hips smacking skin, balls slapping Samay's taint as his hole stretched wide and swallowed more cock than he ever imagined possible.

Samay didn't need to touch himself anymore.

He came from Shubham's cock alone.

From the words. From the stretch.

From knowing he was nothing but a used-up hole for the man above him.

"That's it. You're close again, aren't you?"

"Hold it. You don't cum unless I say."

"You're not a man anymore, Samay. You're a fuck."

And Samay would sob.

Would leak.

Would let go.

And still--Shubham wouldn't stop.

"You think I'm done? You think one load is enough for a bitch like you?"

"Arch that back. Take your Master again."

Samay didn't beg anymore.

He offered.

________________________________________

They always fell asleep after.

Bodies slick. Sheets ruined. Samay curled around Shubham's chest, cock soft, hole leaking.

And every morning, before the sun rose--

He slipped out.

Back to his own room.

Naked. Raw. Quiet.

Marked. 

________________________________________

???? 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.

________________________________________