The Rack Pack: Double D Darshan

1

It began with her peeing.

The time I experienced Brahman, enlightenment, the darshan--call it whatever you want--started with the blonde girl squatting over a toilet.

She couldn't have been older than twenty-one. Round, heart-shaped face. Cheeks soft as dough. Big blue eyes. Lips parted, teeth perfect, Hollywood white.

I swallowed air. My brain rebelled at the sight.

I'd heard the trickle before I saw her. Two in the morning. Museum dead silent except for the hum of the HVAC and my boots on tile.

Four years on night shift--never caught a burglar, never seen a ghost. Only ever found my own reflection, aging in exhibit glass.

And now this girl--legs golden under the harsh light, pants bunched at her ankles. Black fabric. Hips soft enough to forgive the stink of piss.

She looked up at me like we were secret lovers.

Nani--dead a decade--whispered in my skull: Shame lives in your blood, boy. Lust lives in your bones.

She smiled wider. "Quiet party."

American accent. Valley-girl twang. Pretty mouth dropping casual words while her piss echoed off the bowl.

I just stood there. Taking inventory: black beanie, big tits pushing a tight top wide open, cleavage begging through a keyhole cutout.

She shifted on the seat. More belly. More thigh. A hint of pink. My cock pulsed so hard I felt it in my gut.

She cocked her head. "Where's the mad party?"

"P-party?" I croaked, clearing my throat. "You got the wrong museum, ma'am."

She giggled. Sweet sound. Closed my throat.

"No way. It's gotta be here. Museum After Dark? Underground invites only? Booze, techno, creepy exhibits?"

My hand crept to my belt where my work phone sat.

First real reason to call the cops. One negligence charge and they'll hire another brown guy by the end of the week.

She flushed the toilet without standing. Grinned. Eyes wide with fake innocence.

She's got you, idiot. She knows you'll fold.

No you won't, said Nani.

I tried to speak but the blonde stood up.

Pants at her ankles. Pubic hair soft and light. Barely visible.

No shame at all. Just a smile and golden skin glowing under the flicker of the motion sensor light.

I didn't breathe. I wanted to kneel. Bury my face where her scent blossomed.

My Nani's voice, Shame, shame!

She bent to pull up her pants--paused--locked eyes. She read my filthy thought. Probably felt the heat billowing from my crotch.

A ripple of mischief crossed her lips.

"You know..." Her whisper bait on a hook. "While I'm down here, I could help you too."

She giggled when I didn't move. Hiked her pants. Closed the lid with her foot.

She dropped back onto the toilet and leaned forward, palms sliding up my thighs. Fingers toying with my belt buckle like she'd done it a thousand times before.

I let her touch linger one heartbeat too long. Heat bled through my uniform. I grabbed her wrists, firm.

She squealed, fell back on purpose, drama queen sprawled on the grimy floor. Wide-eyed, gasping.

"Mr. Security Guard," she huffed playfully.

I reached for my phone. My hand never made it.

She slithered back up on the toilet--knees planted on the closed lid. Crawled like a cat, tits swaying with each slow move. Turned back to me, knees tight together, arching low.

Perfect. Heart-shaped. A black thong, the string lost behind see through black fabric and the promise of soft gold skin.

I stared. I shouldn't have. But I did.

She pressed her palms to the wall, head turned sideways, eyes closed.

"Mmm," she hummed. "Smells like Pine-Sol."

My mouth moved before my brain. "They clean every night. After close."

She gasped like I'd spooked her. Twisted her neck but stayed bent, ass stuck out like bait.

Then--like flipping a coin--she spun around. Sat pretty. Ankles crossed. Hands folded on her lap, chest pushed so far forward I wanted to bite the air.

"So you do speak English," she teased, syrupy mockery.

"Racist," I said. Flat as week-old soda.

She sprang up--close enough her perfume punched my nose. I flinched back, a tired guard outclassed by a girl half my age and twice my chaos.

One bounce of her chest and I thought: She's dressed like a burglar--stripper version.

Maybe there was an after-dark party. I'd heard stories--big museums downtown, not this dead hole full of dusty glass.

The blonde chewed her lip, letting out a sigh. Loud enough to feel. Her breath teased like the promise of every dirty screen I'd ever stared at.

Her message was simple: this could all be yours, if you're willing to burn your code.

My chest burned. Already five minutes late calling this in. My mind scattered through worst-case scenarios.

Screw-up and my green card was paper in the wind.

My honor back home was already a joke. Sundeep the graveyard grunt, not the doctor uncle brags about. A walking insult in a uniform.

I grabbed for my belt--fingers found an empty loop. No phone.

She giggled. Pretty in daylight, poison at 2 a. m.

She dangled my work phone in her small hand, black rubber case snug against her wrist like it belonged there.

"Looking for something?"

Anger fizzled faster than it sparked. I lunged anyway, half hoping she'd drop it.

She didn't. She danced back, hips twisting, phone just out of reach. I pressed in, ready to pin her against the metal stall.

She giggled again--innocent and evil. Her free hand shoved my chest, then my shoulder. I shoved back, harder.

"Nope," she sang, twisting her wrist, phone safe.

I slammed an arm across her chest, pinned her flat to the metal wall. Heat bled through my forearm, that diamond cut pressing warm cleavage into my bone.

She squirmed--too quick, too slippery. My hold slipped.

In the shuffle, my hand dropped lower. Landed smack on soft flesh. Warm and heavy. My middle finger dipped between like impurities peeking through temple doors.

She didn't flinch. She pushed my hand deeper. I felt her heartbeat--my brain went white.

Her palm clamped my other wrist, pinned me where she wanted. She twisted. Something sharp bit the nerves below my thumb--pain sliced up my arm so fast I grunted like an animal.

She beamed--blue eyes wide, wicked. Dropped my phone straight in the toilet. Plop. Gone.

My jaw fell open. Pain and tits forgotten. I stared at the phone bobbing in water. A hopeful lie flickered: Rubber case. Maybe it'll live.

She shifted her heel. Stomped. Hard. Like she wanted to break its spine and flush it.

It took me a stupid second to feel my hand still buried in softness. Nothing holding me there but lust and my own weakness.

She glanced back, warm eyes but smug smile.

For once, my brain snapped ahead of hers. She still had my wrist pinned--so I balled my free hand and slammed it right between her legs.

No clue if it'd work. Never punched a vagina before. But something in her squealed--pain, surprise--and her grip loosened.

I bolted.

Hit the corridor full speed, sneakers skidding on polished marble that stank of Pine-Sol and wet mops. Almost ate floor, caught myself, ran harder.

Everything blurred--front desk, security closet--safe. Lock the door, landline, call the cops, pray ICE didn't pick up the thread.

My lungs burned. Temples hammered.

Four years wasting nights instead of studying to be an engineer. Is this my karma, Nani? I swear I'll change.

Five feet from the desk--a shadow lunged from behind the wall. Shiny black fabric, flash of metal--then the cold, heavy crack of a fire extinguisher smashed my jaw sideways.

Before darkness swallowed me, one clear thought: That's not her.

Same skintight black, same diamond chest slit showing twin hills of soft flesh--but darker skin, darker eyes under the beanie.

Harder. Meaner. Blackness ate everything.

When I came to, my skull throbbed like a drum. Cheek numb, vision blurred. Cold marble under my back. Lobby ceiling overhead.

Two women stood over me--dressed in slutty Halloween costumes. One pale and blonde, one dark and dangerous.

Matching skintight black, matching tits propped up by the same diamond cutout, hanging over me like gods.

They talked in bored whispers. My mind slid sideways, stuck on dumb details: the brunette's hips snug in spandex, thighs flexing when she shifted her weight.

Somewhere under all that fake leather was an ass as nice as the blonde's--I knew it without seeing.

I thought: Nobody files a missing person report for a brown night guard with a green card. Nobody.

Then the dark came for me again.

2

I woke up strapped to my own security chair. Boxers the only thing left on me. Arms and ankles mummified in duct tape.

They parked me in a side hallway under floodlights that never shut off--bright enough to see, too dim to feel safe.

I tried inching forward, rocking my weight to roll an inch every few seconds. The security office had a landline. If I could get there, maybe I could still salvage this.

I was dragging myself nowhere when I heard boots clicking on marble. One set. I twisted my head but couldn't spin the chair.

Didn't matter, she appeared anyway. The blonde.

Up close, she smelled like flowers left on a grave. Sweet and wrong, but in the right way. Her chest swayed above me, a soft threat I couldn't stop stealing glances at.

She leaned in, lips brushing my ear.

"You didn't have to hit my cunt. But nice to see Lateisha return the favor. We didn't plan to hurt you, sweetheart. We just needed you calm while we did our job. You wouldn't stay calm."

My breath rattled. I closed my eyes so I didn't have to see her lips when she pulled back. When I opened them, she was still close--same fake innocence on that perfect face.

"Who the hell are you? What do you want?" I croaked, throat raw.

She pouted. Eyes wide, mock hurt.

"I'm Sarah. You're Sundeep Singh. And if you're a good boy tonight, maybe Lateisha won't kill you."

She dipped her chin, bit her lip. A sociopathic flirt.

"How do you know my name?" I muttered. "Who's Lateisha?"

She rolled her eyes, grin teasing the corners of her mouth.

I'd seen enough to ID her--name, face, eyes. Sketch artists could do the rest. I'll give the cops everything if I'm still breathing, I thought.

Without warning, Sarah stepped behind me and pushed the chair down the hallway. Wheels rattled over marble.

That's when I spotted it: a bare rectangle on the wall where a painting used to hang.

"How long was I out?"

She didn't miss a beat. Pushed me like I was her patient on the way to rehab.

"Mmm... forty minutes? Maybe. You woke up once, but blacked out again pretty quick. Lateisha taped you up while you were snoring. Should've stayed with me in the bathroom, baby--could've spared your pretty face that bruise. Does it hurt? My cunt's OK, by the way."

I ignored her. "Why this museum? We got nothing worth stealing."

She laughed. We turned a corner into the natural history wing. Bones and busts of dead men who never meant shit to me, except now that the pedestals were empty.

"Because our client pays well. And--"

A new voice cut her off. Velvet and iron twisted together. Feminine, but coiled tight.

"That's enough talk."

Sarah rolled me deeper into the exhibit hall. I caught her smirk as she shoved me forward like a prize she was delivering.

There was Lateisha: legs parted just so, one hip cocked, phone pressed to her ear, back turned so her ass was the first thing I registered.

Big and firm under slick black leggings that caught the light like wet leather. High-wasted, the center seam sliced between her cheeks, framing each perfect globe like ink on porcelain.

She spoke low into the phone but I couldn't process a word--my eyes stuck to that curve, to the shape that said I could suffocate you and you'd thank me.

My temples throbbed. My face burned where the extinguisher had kissed me goodnight.

Lateisha turned and pinned me with those eyes. Deep, dark, a threat and a dare in one look.

"Why'd you bring him?" she asked Sarah.

Sarah cleared her throat, suddenly coy. Lateisha rolled her eyes so hard I flinched.

"He wouldn't let you finish in the bathroom. What makes you think he'd want you now?" Lateisha snapped.

"Head trauma?" Sarah chirped, shrugging.

Lateisha stepped closer, enough that her bust hovered inches from my face. Same deep chest keyhole cutout as Sarah's.

A raw, natural shape, lifted and locked in place like it was engineered to break every vow I ever swore to Brahman, Nani, and America's immigration system.

The room went quiet. I dragged my eyes up--they were both staring at me. Sarah's grin was wide and wicked. Lateisha's look said she'd rather gut me than hear me breathe.

"Told you he wasn't gay," Sarah sing-songed, eyes locked on mine like she owned my next thought. "I do my research."

I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry dust.

"Not enough, Sarah," Lateisha said, stepping away. "Or he would have said fuck his honor back in the bathroom."

Sarah looked at me with her bottom lip out. The way a child looks at a pet who can't come on the family vacation.

Lateisha flicked her gaze toward a shadow down the hall. "We're already behind schedule."

"Please," Sarah begged.

"No prelim. Just hit him with the new sauce," Lateisha said, strutting off where I couldn't see. "Won't be a real test," I heard her call.

I had no clue what the fuck they were talking about.

Sarah licked her lips, staring at me like I was dessert she couldn't eat yet. Her voice dropped to a hush, just for me.

"You'll love this, sweetheart. Scary at first, but worth it. We do this all the time. Though you're the first to run."

Before I could ask, Lateisha was back at my side. Needle in hand. Thin metal glinting under the floodlight.

My mouth opened--protest, prayer, maybe both--but nothing came out. My jaw still throbbed where she'd cracked it.

Sarah knelt between my knees, a slow panther on silk. Her hands skimmed up my bare thighs. Cold first, warming fast.

She giggled when my cock twitched under her touch. Her chest grazed my knee, soft weight teasing leg hairs. One tug and my boxers were bunched above my taped ankles.

I was semi-hard.

Lateisha leaned in, needle lifted like a royal decree. Her chest pressed against my other thigh. The smell of her hair--sweat, perfume, and trouble.

"What are you gonna--?" My voice cracked apart.

"Shh," Lateisha purred.

The needle dipped. My heart punched my ribs. My dick retreated.

"No, no, no--" I said, but it came out like a child's whimper.

I closed my eyes.

A sting, quick and mean. Then dull pressure right at the root of me. My head slammed back against the chair. Nani, forgive me. Karma for my shameful porn collection.

Satisfied, Lateisha said, "Be right back."

She stood. Thighs flexing, ass giving me one last taunt before she vanished down the hall. I watched her fade into the shadows--feeling my dick grow hard.

My eyes snapped back to Sarah. She stayed kneeling. Her grin said I was hers until she said otherwise.

My brown dick sat out in the stale museum air, harder than I'd ever felt it. Veins pulsed up the shaft, ones I'd never seen before.

Before I could breathe another prayer or a curse, Sarah's hand wrapped the base and her mouth dropped over the tip.

Warm, wet, and sudden.

A shock fired through me. Pins and needles snapped up my spine, my eyes rolled back.

My wrists twitched helpless against the duct tape. Sarah pumped her fist fast and tight. She locked eyes with me--blue, cruel, gorgeous--and flicked her tongue out, tapping the head like she was tasting candy.

I grunted. My thighs jerked. My feet tried to plant, but the tape held me prisoner. It was torture--I never wanted it to end.

She slid her hand up the shaft, slick with spit and my leak. Her mouth drifted lower, warm lips wrapping my balls, cocooning them like a soft nest.

She sucked. She pulled. Dick. Balls. Tongue on the taint. My head knocked back against the chair, breath punched from my chest.

"Fuck," I groaned.

She let go with a wet pop, pushed herself upright, and left my dick standing there--angry and soaked. It throbbed like it might tear itself off my body.

Like spiritual punishment.

Sarah stood over me. She dragged one hand down her front, tracing that oval chest cutout that showed so much skin my mouth went dry.

She tugged at the fabric with her other hand--and one big, perfect tit spilled free. Then the other.

She froze there, statuesque, loving my stare. Daring me to blink.

I didn't. I couldn't.

Round and heavy, they hung soft and full. Perfect teardrops with that gentle slope on top, all the weight pooled low.

White tits framed by black fabric, hanging there like they'd been designed to ruin me. Heavy, bare and free, defying gravity.

Nipples small, pinkish-brown, set dead center in smooth circles of darker skin.

Young skin, soft flesh, just enough weight to swing but never sag. The line between them was clean and deep. A warm valley waiting to drown every drop of guilt.

She dropped back to her knees, mouth swallowing me whole again. Her bare tits dragged across my thighs, hot nipples brushing skin that hadn't felt warmth in half a decade.

A groan rattled up from my chest and hers answered in kind. My wrists fought the duct tape--not to get free, just to get a handful of something warm and soft, something alive.

Sarah was everywhere at once.

Palms on my chest, fingers scraping my thighs, then back down to my balls--rolling them, tugging them, making my hips lunge forward.

All the while her mouth didn't stop--lips locked, tongue swirling, nose flaring as she breathed through it.

She slid deeper, gagging, moaning, wet bloodshot eyes locked on me but my vision flared with black pinpricks.

Her mouth popped off with a wet smack. A spit strand clinging from her lip to the head of my dick, shining under the floodlight.

"Tough nut to crack, yeah?" she teased, grinning like a whore I'd tipped -- but this was free.

No, worse: this was stolen. My dignity traded for stolen merch and some golden blonde head.

I was getting fired. I was getting deported. And I couldn't even grab a tit.

She dipped again, teeth grazing the shaft just enough to yank a grunt out of me. Her fist tightened on my balls, tugging and rolling her fingers.

She pulled back for air, cheeks flushed deep pink. "You close?" she panted, greedy for it.

My whole lower half was numb. My dick felt wired to the sun. Pressure coiled in my chest and spine--but no. Not yet. I wasn't even fucking close.

Sarah stood up--tits swinging close enough I could've kissed them if I'd had freedom. She planted one hand on the back of my office chair for leverage.

From this angle she was an X-rayed sculpture--spine curved, chest hanging lush, body angled like she was giving a haircut.

The smell of flowers slammed up my nose and straight into my skull. Her free hand worked my cock hard and fast.

If my hands were free, I'd have traced her thighs. I'd have gripped that perfect ass. I'd have run my palm up the all-American curves she was offering on a silver platter.

Instead, she mashed her tits into my face and I devoured them--mouth open, like a dying man finding water. My tongue hunting for nipple, greedy and half mad.

But even with all that--I wasn't close.

Then came the click of boots.

Sarah sensed her, lifted halfway up, still bent over me with that keyhole cutout flaunting her open rack.

"Longest fucking blowjob of my life," Sarah gasped.

"I used a small dose. And he didn't cum earlier? Goddamn, this stuff works," Lateisha said.

Sarah snapped up to full height, stepping aside like a showgirl revealing the main act.

"Look at him," she purred, waving a hand at my cock--red, wet, throbbing so hard I felt my pulse in the shaft.

"He's lasting longer because I scrambled his brain with that fire extinguisher," Lateisha said. "Or maybe you're losing your touch, girl," she smirked.

Before my fried brain could argue, Lateisha dropped to her knees. No hello, no flirty eyes, no permission. Just business.

Her mouth hit me with no preamble -- smooth, wet, tight. New stars burst behind my eyelids. My battered face dulled to a ghost of pain as fresh adrenaline spiked through my veins.

I clenched my jaw. It was too good, too intense.

But release stayed just out of reach. Pressure was building low, crawling my spine and reaching behind my eyes like lightning in slow motion.

Lateisha was better. So much better.

Lateisha sucked dick like she could drag darshan enlightenment out through my cock.

She started like Sarah: slow tease at the tip, then working her way deep. But there was rhythm.

Gentle ripples like rowing a boat, each stroke a promise, each swallow dragging me closer to a shore I never thought I'd see.

I watched her lips, glossy and dark, sliding up and down, hiding me and showing me again.

My cock vanished into her, then reappeared, wetter each time. Her tongue flicked the shaft on the pullback, just to remind me who was boss.

I groaned -- half prayer, half surrender. My breath turned ragged. Lateisha popped off with a wet sound that echoed too loud in my ears.

"You see?" she purred to Sarah, licking her lips slow. "It's all rhythm, baby. You don't just gobble him like a donut."

Sarah huffed. "It worked fine last time. Last guard shot his prelim load in thirty seconds."

She walked behind me. I felt her hands on my shoulders. Slight pressure, not meant to be sexual.

"I wish we had his baseline," she said to Lateisha.

She pressed her cheek against mine. "When did you masturbate last?" She asked.

Lateisha laughed, low and knowing, then stood up. Her tits bounced behind the keyhole, firm and high, barely contained.

"You know when he did," Lateisha said.

She stepped aside, eyes glinting at Sarah. Sarah moved fast, all enthusiasm and wicked mischief. Lateisha caught her by the waist and spit on Sarah's tits.

Then she shoved her face right between them. Spit dripped, her tongue dragged, and Sarah squealed like a drunk goddess.

Lateisha moved aside as Sarah knelt, pressing warm, slick skin around my shaft like she'd done it a thousand times.

Her hand squeezed the base, guiding me snugly through that softness until I peeked right below her wicked grin.

She spit. Thick and messy. It landed right on the tip, dripped down to the base. I grunted, jaw clenched so tight my temple pulsed.

I shut my eyes, shame pushing hard, but lust won the fight.

When I opened them, Sarah was there--face tight with concentration, tongue teasing like she'd spent her life training for exactly this moment.

Both hands squeezing fat white tits around my brown cock. Rhythm found.

"There you go," Lateisha cooed beside us, voice like dark honey.

And then Sarah's rhythm increased. Each squeeze of her breasts tightened the tunnel.

My cock slid up, pushed under her soft weight, popped out between the plush gorge, wet and proud -- then vanished again into warmth.

I panted. She purred. Lateisha joined in.

My spine arched when I felt it -- both tongues waiting at the top like a hungry trap. My head poked free, they polished it.

It was like a demented game of whack-a-mole.

Up -- suck -- down -- squeeze -- up -- suck -- down -- squeeze. Up -- suck -- down -- squeeze.

Time bent. I could have stayed there forever. Bound, half-naked, nothing but an office chair and guilt sending conflicting signals to my brain.

"Fucking cum already," Lateisha barked. Her tone sliced through my heavy breath. "How good is this juice?"

Sarah let me slip from the soft prison of her tits and dropped back on her ass, chest heaving.

"My knees are sore," she pouted.

Lateisha's glare cut to me. "How close are you?"

I dragged my eyes up from her big tits back to her face. God forgive me. I didn't know where the nerve came from -- four years alone in a broom closet must have bred some dangerous courage.

"If you free one hand," I croaked, "I'll touch. That'll do it."

Lateisha scoffed. Sarah watched her partner, uncertain blue eyes trying to read her mood.

Lateisha strode off, rummaged through a crate or a bag -- my fried brain pictured another needle that would make my balls explode. She came back empty-handed.

"Fuck it," she said to Sarah. "Keep titty-fucking him."

Sarah grinned and shrugged. She was back on her knees in a blink. Warm flesh wrapped my shaft again.

Beside me, Lateisha moved in close. My eyes flicked to her as she leaned down. Just like Sarah, she freed her tits from that same oval cutout.

I barely registered they were massive and all real -- warm brown, full and heavy -- before her hand fisted the back of my head.

She shoved my mouth over one breast, nipple hard against my tongue. She didn't ask. She didn't need to. I sucked like it was oxygen.

Sarah's tits kept working my shaft, up and down, slower then harder, rhythm growing sloppy and wet.

Lateisha shifted, switching breasts. She mashed my mouth into her other tit, nipple pushing past my lips like a command. Her hands twisted my hair, forced my head from one breast to the other.

I whimpered into her flesh.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Sarah's rhythm jumped a gear, a kind of mechanical rutting. Soft mounds squeezing every vein in my dick, her little tongue flicking the head every time it popped out of her cleavage.

The pressure spiked so hard my toes curled. My hips bucked and I pulled against the duct tape. Heat ripped up my spine and exploded out in violent spurts.

I cried out into Lateisha's tit as I blew. Halfway through a thrust -- right when Sarah's chest sealed tight around me like warm butter -- my brain fizzed into static.

My moan hummed against Lateisha's nipple, half-prayer, half-surrender.

Sarah gasped while keeping her rhythm. Then she giggled, breathy, letting my softening shaft slip free.

She grabbed me and sucked like she was milking the last drop.

"OK," Lateisha snapped, stepping back and tucking her perfect tits away like weapons back in their holster.

"Enough. We gotta move. It's almost four."

Sarah stood too, her tits bounced once before she sealed them behind the keyhole again.

They talked above me like I was furniture -- first about my reaction to the drug, ("Forty-five minutes to cum!"), then about how tight their schedule had gotten. Their voices faded as they walked off, still bickering.

I sat there, bare dick dripping, taped to a plastic chair in a silent museum. My throat dry. My thigh sticky. I thought, If I can just free my hands--

A click of boots. Just one pair.

Lateisha appeared behind me, calm and mean, a fresh needle between her fingers.

"Uh--" was all I managed.

"Shh."

She stabbed it into my neck.

I was gone before she pulled out the plunger.

3

When I woke again, I was still in the chair. Something sawed at my ankles--tape ripping in rough strips.

Voices drifted through the haze. Radios. Boots on marble. Daylight knifed my skull open. Shapes blurred, then sharpened: not them.

Someone cut my wrists free. Blood roared back in hot needles. A medic draped a scratchy blanket over me. I smelled antiseptic and my own B. O.

My eyes latched onto my boss first: red-faced, jaw stone tight. Four years under him -- "buddy," "big guy," never Sundeep.

Next to him, a cop with a linebacker's neck and blue eyes that skimmed over me like trash.

"What the hell happened here, buddy?" my boss snapped.

The cop's palm shut him up. Calm voice, cold tone: "Mr. Singh. How'd you end up like this?"

I tried to nod -- pain sparked behind my eye. My jaw throbbed where her partner had cracked it. Or maybe from the needle.

"Women," I rasped.

"Get him water," the cop barked.

Crime tape strangled every hallway. Lab techs snapped photos where my boredom used to hide. A medic and his partner lined up a stretcher.

"He's been drugged," the medic shot at the cop, voice flat but eyes sharp.

They peeled me out of the chair. The blanket slipped -- my shriveled dick said hi to half the force.

Flat on the stretcher, wrists raw, ankles tender, I watched my boss hissing threats: negligence, lawsuit, termination.

The cop hovered, boot tapping tile like I'd ruined his lunch break. The medic sliced him a glare but said nothing.

The woman handed me a Dixie cup. I downed it fast. She peeled off, radio crackling. Hopefully fetching me a legal dose of amnesia.

Bits of the night dripped back: Her smile. Her thighs. Those eyes, reading every secret I'd buried under NSFW tabs.

"Mr. Singh." The cop's voice was calm iron. "I'm Chief Roberts. Mind if I call you Pundeep?"

"It's Sundeep."

"Good. Tell me what you remember from last night, friend."

I gave him the blonde.

"Said she was looking for a party," I croaked.

"Why didn't you call it in!?" my boss barked. His voice cracked, bouncing off marble.

Roberts shut him up with a palm flick. My boss's face purpled.

"She nicked my phone," I said.

I hunched the blanket closer.

The dumb guard who lost his phone to a pretty blonde. Better pathetic than fired. Better fired than deported.

Roberts leaned in, sniffing for the crack. "How'd she manage that?"

"She, uh..." My wrists stung.

The medic's jaw twitched -- ready to step in if this got rough.

"She went for my belt," I rasped. "Like she was gonna blow me. I stepped back. She got my phone instead."

Roberts didn't blink. "Uh-huh. Then what? How'd you wind up duct-taped like a bargain-bin hostage?"

Behind the medic, my boss practically vibrated. His eyes screamed: You're done here, buddy.

"Ran for the office," I croaked. Each word rattled my skull. "Made the lobby. Something hit me. Big."

"Hit you with what?"

"Didn't see. Metal, maybe." I tried to shake my head, lightning struck inside. Nausea consumed me for a breath.

"Fire extinguisher," a new voice cut in.

My eyes snapped open. Another cop. Young, too clean-shaven. Smirk first, warmth second.

He strolled up and tapped his own cheek where mine throbbed purple.

"Oof, that'll leave a mark. That Jane's crew again, Chief."

"Connor," Roberts said, voice granite. "Bedtime stories for your kids. Not me."

Connor's grin turned teeth. He leaned close, stale gum and cheap cologne.

"So, Singh. Who tied you up? Who stripped you? You see 'em?"

"Connor." Roberts's growl hit like a slammed door.

Connor didn't flinch, eyes boring holes in me instead. My boss radiated silent fury.

One lie, I told myself. One lie keeps Delhi away.

"Don't know," I rasped. "Never saw 'em."

Connor's grin faded slow, eyes slitting like a hawk.

"You don't remember them pulling your pants--"

"Enough," Roberts snapped. Connor stiffened, jaw ticking.

"Paramedics," Roberts ordered. "Take him. He wakes up -- nobody but me talks to him."

The female medic returned. Two pills, little hush money. I swallowed with more water.

They wheeled me out. My boss spat threats, Connor hissed behind us, Roberts ignored them all.

Outside slapped me with sun and cell phones. Flashing lights without sirens. Onlookers with no distinction.

Then I saw them by police tape. Loose silk, yoga pants. The smell of flowers even from here.

Sarah. Lateisha. Or ghosts.

Hallucination, I lied, as the doors slammed and the ambulance sped away.

4

It had been two weeks since that night.

The hospital cleared me in a day. Lucky you didn't lose a tooth, pal.

Before discharge, I gave Roberts my statement. I lied -- and I still don't know why.

I told him about the blonde pissing. Stopped there.

Said I ran for the lobby. Neither named nor described the brown goddess with thighs like steel who clocked me with a fire extinguisher.

No tits, no nuts squeezed dry.

Roberts looked at me like a tired uncle. He scribbled anyway. Said some FBI suit would come knocking -- Jane Hayes.

He nearly laughed at her name.

"Investigates museum artifacts. Cheap shit. No offense, friend."

I'd waved that off. Buddy, I guard it, I don't curate it.

"Small banks, art houses, even cafés -- just junkies pawning antique crap. Hayes thinks it's a pattern. Women, organized. She's been whining for months. She'll find you. Watch."

He patted my blanket. Didn't say Sundeep. Never had.

That was two weeks back.

Since then? Video games. Porn. More porn. Except none of it worked.

Just noise behind the reel in my head: Sarah giggling with my cock down her throat, Lateisha's nipple grazing my teeth and breasts large enough to engulf the rest of my face.

Nani prayed I'd live clean. Remain pure. I wasn't that man. Not then, definitely not now.

The boss stuck me on paid leave. Wanted me fired but couldn't -- too much liability. So I milked it. A vacation from my warm grave and a badge nobody respected.

Security footage? Gone. Not corrupted -- gone. Even the redundant cloud backup my boss bragged about: Remote server, buddy, we're Fort Knox.

Except Fort Knox glitched.

No proof they existed. No proof I didn't hallucinate two perfect bodies milking me dry while robbing the place blind.

Two weeks of takeout, beard like a refugee, scrolling every porn site trying to recreate that moment. Couldn't. Nobody got it right.

Roberts was probably right: some crook clocked me, scrambled my brain. I dreamed the blonde with the shy grin. The goddess with iron thighs.

But no concussion. No brain bleed. Just propofol, scopolamine, and ketamine found in my system.

Roberts guessed I'd taken the ketamine on my own. I didn't bother correcting him. No steroid juice was found in my blood.

Nobody swabbed my thighs for fluid. Nobody checked my cock for lip gloss. Nobody wanted two busty cat burglars sucked him dry in an evidence log.

I got hard remembering it. Paused my game. Stripped, showered, jerked off into a pocket pussy. Second time that day.

Rinsed it, hung it back up with the others. My wall of shame. If you could only see me know, Nani.

Then, a knock at the door. Not polite. A we own this place knock.

Wrapped my ratty robe around my half-chub, tied it tight. They knocked again.

Didn't peek. Four in the afternoon -- what's the worst that could--

I swung it wide. And almost collapsed in the doorway.

Sarah and Lateisha. In my hallway.

Both stood the same way -- one leg cocked lazy, the other locked straight, one hand propped on a hip, hips angled just enough to whisper bad idea, good time.

Lateisha wore a green tank top, braless. Her tits hung heavy, soft apart, nipples visible under the thin fabric.

Her hair held a wave. Her eyes locked on mine -- dark, sharp, promising more trouble than I could afford.

Bare belly out for proof: flat, tight, faint abs with a glinting navel ring.

She wore loose grey shorts with a pullstring, so short I could see the faint road map of her ass-thigh stretch marks. Subtle flaws. Enough to make her real.

Her legs were brown like mine, a tone that said sun and sin. A small cut above her knee. Sandals on her feet, toes painted and perfect.

Sarah stood beside her: sunshine and sociopath in one frame. A black bra peeked under a thin white tank top, tits pressing cotton.

Beach-blonde hair, blue eyes big enough to drown in.

My gaze slid down: belly flat, kissed with tender thickness that clings to a girl only once before life chews it off forever.

She would never look this ripe again -- not for me, not for anyone.

She wore black yoga shorts glued to her hips, golden thighs that could bankrupt a monk.

Two weeks ago under bathroom fluorescents, she'd looked like a hologram. Now, in my hallway at four p. m., she was the reason men ruined marriages on sight.

Lateisha's lips curved. Her voice landed low and cool:

"May we come in?"

I was too stunned to answer. Not that they waited for it.

Lateisha brushed past me like I was just air. Sarah floated behind her, that smile glued on like I was her favorite dirty secret.

I let them -- what else was I gonna do? I watched their asses glide by: Sarah's heart-shaped one bounced just right, each step twisting her hips like she knew I was cataloguing it.

Lateisha's bubble butt ate half her grey shorts -- fabric wedged so tight down her crack it might suffocate. The bottom of her cheeks peeked out, soft brown half-moons jiggling as she planted herself dead center in my mess.

She spun on one heel, hands on hips. Her nostrils flared. She clocked the pizza boxes, the clothes piles, the half-drained Coke cans.

She looked like she wanted to call the landlord and get me evicted.

Sarah was a different drug.

She wasn't looking at the trash. She was staring at me. My eyes, my chest, the spot where my robe was trying and failing to hide the twitch in my boxers.

That same wide grin from the toilet stall. I couldn't move. My body was hostage.

"Is this really how you live?" Lateisha asked, disgust dripping from every syllable.

Live, I thought. I died. That's what this was. The Bardo. Karma women come to test if I'd crawl back to life or jerk myself to Naraka.

"I died," I said out loud. Maybe if I admitted it, they'd vanish.

They didn't.

Lateisha lifted an eyebrow. Sarah damn near glowed -- eyes huge, teeth perfect, an all-American blonde bombshell.

"Temptation," I mumbled. "I'm in the Bardo. My karma. Whatever." I couldn't remember half the stuff Nani used to say.

Western girls just nodded politely anyway.

"You're not dead, Sundeep," Lateisha said, and drifted by me. "But our neat little cocktail should've wiped you clean. Stubborn brain, baby."

Her perfume killed me dead all over again. Fresh roses with a slap of sweat and skin. She left Sarah frozen, grinning at me like a fan at a boy band meet-and-greet.

"You know," Sarah said, "you're a tough nut to crack in more ways that one. I thought for sure you'd squealed on us but you didn't."

I heard shuffling. I turned.

Lateisha was bent over my stack of cheap plastic game cases. Her legs straight, her back arched so low I half expected her spine to snap.

That huge ass stretched tight under grey cotton, the lips of her cunt pressed flat against the fabric. My mouth opened on its own.

"Don't read into it," she said, her body angled like she was doing yoga. "You're nothing special. Just a proper lab rat this time."

She stood up. Too slow to catch up. She pivoted and caught my eyes dragging up her stomach.

By the time I forced my stare to her face, it was too late. She'd clocked everything. And my housecoat was pitched high enough to make it official.

"Like what you see?" Her voice was smooth murder.

"I--I..." Was all I had.

Then Lateisha cracked a smile. Not warm. More like the smirk you give a kid who said something halfway clever.

"You're cute, but watch your mouth."

She crossed the room. I clocked her age, mid-thirties maybe, hard to tell. Sarah, on the other hand, looked barely old enough to drink.

"Okay." Lateisha clapped the air. Her voice lost the flirt; sharp and tight now. The same mouth that had been all over my cock now shot questions like a detective.

"Why didn't you tell the cops about us? We know you started to open your mouth about Sarah -- then you backpedaled. Why?"

I froze. My lips parted. I caught the edge in her tone.

"I--I" was still all I had.

"We're not mad," Sarah chirped, a sunbeam with tits.

"Obviously not." Lateisha didn't even bother hiding her eye-roll.

She pinned me with a stare so sharp my jaw twitched.

Surreal -- two weeks ago I'd been sucking her nipple like it was salvation. Now she looked ready to break my neck if I flinched wrong.

"You talk to Jane yet? Detective Jane Hayes. Brunette. Big tits?"

"Not as big as yours," Sarah purred, delighted with herself.

"Doesn't matter," Lateisha snapped. "She covers up like a nun. Has she come around yet? She contact you?"

I shook my head. Spam calls, yeah, but I never picked up. One number hit me twice this week. I hadn't connected the dots.

"I believe him," Sarah said, voice soft enough you'd think we were about to cuddle on my crusty couch.

Lateisha stepped closer. I inhaled rose petals and sweat. My eyes betrayed me, dropped straight to her tits.

Soft, hard and free under the tank top. I traced the curves down, over her shorts, along her dark thighs, all the way to her toes.

"Never figured you for a foot guy," Lateisha said, deadpan.

"He's not," Sarah blurted, too quick. Lateisha sliced her a look sharp enough to skin her alive.

I dragged my gaze back to Lateisha's eyes. My throat clicked dry. I couldn't tell if she was here to fuck me or kill me.

She searched my eyes, reading the part I didn't say: I lied because I didn't want to be pathetic. Because if I ratted you out, I'd just be the idiot who let two women eat me alive and run circles around the cops.

Because I wanted more but couldn't admit it.

That I shamefully watched porn and blamed dopamine and Western decadence.

Pretended Nani's prayers could rinse it away. But deep down I wanted it, needed it, because maybe lust was my karma, my enlightenment, my darshan.

Lateisha's voice sliced through my thoughts: "Why didn't you tell them? Everyone keeps quiet because, well--" she motioned for me to check out her body.

I did again, pausing on the drawstring shorts and spending a moment too long on her braless top.

"That's the pattern," she said, my eyes meeting hers. "We milk 'em, so they don't squeal. Now there's a police report describing a blonde woman. Thankfully the cops think it's a fluke. An hallucination. But not the bitch."

I croaked out: "Who?"

"She hasn't talked to you?" she snapped. "That bitch Hayes--"

A knock at the door.

5

Lateisha froze.

Her eyes flipped wide -- fear, raw and unpolished. She shot me a look that promised ruin if I fucked this up. Her hand clamped my throat, squeezed just enough to remind me who was in charge.

Sarah drifted closer, that radiant grin replaced by a tight knot of worry -- for me? For her? For us? Who knew.

Lateisha leaned in, hissed warm in my ear: "You tell whoever that is to fuck off."

She peeled her hand away slow, one finger tracing my jaw like a loaded threat.

I coughed, nodded, and watched her melt back into my living room shadows. Silent. Sarah tiptoed beside her, eyes huge.

This time I checked the spyhole. My gut dropped.

A woman in a sharp suit. White blouse, navy jacket, jaw-length brunette bob, boxy face that probably turned hot when she smiled.

Which she was not doing. Even through the peephole I could feel her authority. Detective Hayes.

"Yes?" I croaked.

"Mr. Pundeep Singh?" Voice like a blade. She flashed an FBI badge. "Special Agent Jane Hayes. I've been trying to reach you."

Jesus. Another woman breezing past the useless security downstairs.

"Uh -- it's Sundeep, actually. Can I just--"

"Mr. Singh, I don't have time--"

She was mid-lecture when Lateisha's hand clamped my throat from the blind spot inside. Her other hand slipped under my robe, cupped my balls, squeezed just enough to set my spine on fire the wrong way.

Her whisper at my ear: "Let her in. Smile. Apologize for the pigsty. Get her out. Or you both die. Clear?"

Gone. Ghost silent.

Hayes snapped back into focus: "--and when the Bureau calls, you answer. May I come in?"

"Okay." My voice cracked. I unlatched the deadbolt.

Barefoot, stubble rough, half-chub straining my robe. She stepped in smelling like crisp soap and cold steel.

She did a slow circuit: couch, pizza boxes, sink of dirty plates. Filing mental evidence.

"You were attacked two weeks ago. Museum break-in. Correct?"

I nodded, shut the door, sweat icing my ribs. Any second Sarah's grin could peek from my bedroom.

"You claim you caught a woman... using the facilities. She stole your phone. You fled. Got knocked out." She moved behind the kitchen island, eyes flicking to my closed bedroom door.

She circled toward my living room, console humming from my paused game.

"In your statement, you came to with Roberts and your boss there."

I swallowed dust. Lateisha's ghost-print still burned my neck. One wrong word: deported, fired -- or dead in a robe no one would wash.

Something clattered on the counter. We both flinched.

I forced a stupid laugh. Shuffled over, robe fluttering like a cartoon butler. "Mouse, probably. Place is a wreck."

Hayes deadpanned, "A tenant who attracts vermin can be evicted, Mr. Singh." She poked around my couch, TV, each glance a coin flip from dooming me.

I squatted behind the island, scooped half-dry noodles off the floor into a cracked takeout box. No clue how it fell -- gravity or karma.

"I'm not usually this filthy. Been, uh--depressed. Might lose my job, maybe charges, deported..."

My voice fizzled. I stood.

"Sorry for the mess, Special Agent Hayes."

She nodded -- polite, not buying it -- then popped open the hall closet like she'd find the truth next to old boots.

I yanked open the cabinet under the sink, pretending to clean -- Look, lady, nothing to see here.

Instead: Sarah. Crouched small, eyes wicked.

I froze. The box clattered into the sink, half spilled again. Her hand shot out, grabbed my waistband, yanked me close till my hipbones kissed the counter.

"Mr. Singh?" Hayes glanced up, mild suspicion blooming.

Sarah's hand slipped under my robe, the other braced my thigh. My dick jumped like an idiot.

Hayes was my salvation or executioner. Sarah parted my robe like unwrapping her favorite treat.

Hayes droned on, roaming the other side of the island. "Later in your statement you said--"

I clung to the counter. Sarah cupped my balls with a squeeze that felt more aggression than seduction.

A bruised fruit she still planned to eat.

Hayes dripped suspicion into my walls: "Your report says you don't know why you were duct-taped..."

Sarah pressed deeper, under the sack, slow and clinical. My knees buckled. I bit off a moan.

Hayes stepped closer. Directly across the counter. All coffee breath and authority.

Sarah dragged her fingers lower, deep massages of my taint. My thighs jerked but her other hand pinned me with my erection: stay.

"Mr. Singh?" Hayes's voice sharp as a blade.

"Yes?" It rasped out like a plea.

"Do you -- or do you not -- remember that night?"

"No..." I forced it through locked teeth.

My spine rattled. Sarah's hand over my dick vanished. Her mouth replaced it a heartbeat later.

Warm, soft, wet.

Her tongue traced circles on sensitive skin. She sucked slow, careful pulses, mindful not to gag.

All while Hayes hovered over my half-holy, half-horrific moment. My jaw locked so hard my head began to shake just slightly.

"Are you alright?" Hayes's voice softened, real worry or Bureau protocol, who knew.

Sarah's other hand stopped massaging my taint. They moved north and tightened around my balls. I coughed, loud, masking the groan clawing up my throat.

"Bad noodles," I rasped. "Stress. Stomach bug..." Anything but the blonde polishing me under the sink.

Hayes read my sweat, glanced at the cabinet. Too close. My gut flipped.

She turned toward the bedroom. Logical: closet, secrets, boom. She began moving.

I shuffled sideways, robe spread like a drunk cape. Sarah's nails raked my thigh: don't move. I didn't dare.

Hayes almost reached the bedroom door. She tilted her head, considered the kitchen.

The sink cabinet door half-open. Me, fused to the counter, hips braced so I wouldn't grunt when Sarah flicked the head again.

Hayes shot me a glance.

I flashed her a grin -- too wide, too nothing-to-see.

She moved on into my bedroom.

Fuck. Lateisha. I'd forgotten.

Sarah's mouth let go just in time for me to yank out and slam the cabinet shut. Now I stood there with the world's hardest dick and a paper-thin robe.

I jammed my waistband up, forced my cock under my belly button, tied the robe like national security.

Hayes flicked the bedroom light, stepped in like she owned it. I hovered in the doorway, sweat cold down my back.

She turned, jumped at her own reflection. Full mirror closet doors. She slid each one to the side and back. Just clothes and storage totes.

No black American goddess.

Hayes turned and eyed my blackout curtains, the bed that hadn't known a woman. Her eyes raked me like contraband.

"Are you gay, Mr. Singh?"

I blinked. What the fuck? I shook my head.

"Say it."

"I'm not a homosexual." It crawled out so low I hoped she'd miss it.

If she offered me sex, then I'd know for sure I died and this was the Bardo.

This is what you get for your karma, Nani's voice echoed. Enjoy your rebirth as a cockroach.

Hayes watched me a beat, then slipped a business card into my palm.

"If you remember anything else, you call me. Understood?"

Her eyes snapped to my bathroom door, opposite the bed. "Mind if I use your bathroom?"

"It's a mess," I croaked.

She smirked a mean little slash. "Bet I've seen worse."

She moved without waiting for an answer. Flipped the light: toilet, sink, scum.

She parted the shower curtain and found my pocket pussies dangling like dead jellyfish.

She passed on through to the other door and out into the living room. I turned from the bedroom door and saw her lips pinched white.

A flare in her nostrils.

"Good day, Mr. Singh" she said.

She stood near the front door but took an unnecessary detour through the apartment. First, the crime scene kitchen.

I considered asking about my rights. About warrants. She opened the cabinet before I found the courage.

It was empty. I exhaled dead air.

She circled the island, found no trapdoor, and headed for the front. I followed.

"Call me if your dick remembers what your brain forgot," she said.

She slammed the door a notch too hard. Her verdict echoing in drywall and across stale takeout.

I exhaled. I should think. I should run. Didn't finish the thought because they were back.

Hands -- smooth, brown, white -- clamped my arms, dragged me like prey.

Hayes's card fell from my hands and landed on the floor. My last clean exit, waiting to be stepped on.

They tossed me on the bed. Curtains killed daylight. Lateisha killed the bedroom light.

"Be a good subject," she said. "Last longer than the Chicago boy, I'll let you stick it in my ass."

"Bardo," I whispered. Curse. Prayer. Truth.

Sarah's mouth crashed into mine -- hot breath, soft lips, her hands moving up my sides.

6

My eyes adjusted fast. There was a flicker to my right but it was just the mirror -- a ghost version of me pinned under her.

Sarah's mouth stayed locked on mine, tongue greedy like she was mining me for something I wanted to give.

She broke the kiss, breath hot on my lips. She shifted higher, settled her weight on my lap, knees sinking deep into the mattress.

I could smell her hair, that perfect blonde curtain. Her grin wasn't innocent at all. My hands hung stupid at my sides until she grabbed them and planted them square on her tits.

My brain sparked white. My cock jolted up against her cunt like it begged on my behalf.

I massaged breasts, thumbs hunting for nipples through bra and fabric, palms drowning in soft weight.

Mine.

She ground slow, tiny circles that made my hips twitch up, pathetic. My breath caught.

She leaned forward so her lips brushed my ear and her chest felt fuller. Made a sugar-coated command with no room to argue.

"Take my shirt off, Sundeep."

It just happened -- everything tightened, pulsed, my balls squeezed dry before I even peeled her top an inch.

"No--" I whimpered, voice soft and defeated.

Sarah giggled -- that same wicked giggle that'd haunt me for the rest of my life.

The bathroom door banged open. Lateisha's silhouette filled the frame, one hand on her hip, the other holding that needle.

Executioner and lab tech in one brown goddess shape.

"Did he cum?" she asked, flat as a billing statement.

"I think so," Sarah said. She climbed off me but stayed kneeling, guarding the mess like it was a prize.

I just lay there. Chest heaving. Robe pushed aside, boxers sticky and clinging like guilt.

Sarah tugged them down slow -- unwrapping leftover meat for a second course. She cupped my half-soft cock with warm fingers. I groaned through my teeth.

"Looks like it," Sarah said.

"Okay." Lateisha's voice flipped to pure business.

She stepped in, planted her palm firm on my thigh -- her skin dark, smooth, unshakable. My dick twitched like it remembered her better than I did.

I didn't flinch. I watched her thigh instead of the needle. The way her braless tits hung loose.

The needle slid to my base. Prick. Burn. Slow push.

This time I didn't fight. My hand drifted to her leg, fingertips pressing into the hard curve above her knee.

Her mouth formed a half-smile, gone in a blink.

"Let's see if this stuff is as good as the Doc says," she murmured.

"Who?" I mumbled, voice gummy. Half dream. Half prayer.

Lateisha ignored me. She never talked to me when she didn't have to.

"It worked last time," Sarah said, bouncing a little on her knees. "Thirty minutes, easy. And now we got our prelim." Adding, "Premature."

She giggled -- high, soft, the cruelest sound in the room. "Now let's see if he can take both of us for real."

No one asked if I wanted this.

Funny how the part of my brain that worried about diseases, about babies, about wrecking my whole dull life -- it was there, but buried under something bigger.

Something hungry enough to eat reason alive.

Lateisha crawled onto the bed beside Sarah. They traded a look -- some private signal -- then, in one fluid motion, they peeled their tops over their heads.

Two perfect traps unwrapped just for me. Just long enough to stain my karma black forever. Lust wasn't just in my bones. It was everywhere.

Sarah's fingers snapped the clasp on her black bra. Lateisha didn't bother -- no straps to fight, just skin and gravity.

She knelt by my hip, tits free now, heavy and real. They sat proud but soft, deep brown with darker areolas, nipples calm but firm.

But there was no time to catalogue every inch because Sarah's bra hit the floor next -- no chance for my memory bank to save a clear shot for lonely nights.

They didn't care about my spankbank. They cared about wrecking me right now.

Each girl claimed a thigh. Thin robe fabric did nothing -- their warmth bled straight into my skin, turned my legs into burning clay.

They leaned in together. I felt the brush of tits on my lower belly, the push of hips crowding my thighs apart.

Sarah swallowed the head first -- just the crown, teasing, lips pursed so tight I almost cried.

Then she slid deeper, her lips sealing me so full I forgot my own last name. No hands. Just her mouth and one palm planted on my waist to brace herself.

Her other hand rested flat on Lateisha's lower back, pale over deep brown, soft over muscle. It scrambled my brain in ways I couldn't explain.

Underneath, Lateisha ran her tongue along the base of my shaft -- slow, tracing veins, lazy torture.

Her mouth found my balls. Warm, slick, careful. She licked, sucked, pulled them gentle but firm enough my toes curled like I'd stuck them in a socket.

My hands were dead weight at my sides.

I moved the right one first, laid it over Sarah's head. She let me and I bunched her hair in my fingers.

The left took more nerve. I reached slow, found Lateisha's arm. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away.

She let me feel her skin -- smooth, warm, the faint dusting of tiny hairs made my touch tingle like static.

Sarah popped off with a wet click, licking her lips. Her eyes blinked to Lateisha -- a silent handoff, a brown baton passing from white to black.

Lateisha used her hand to guide me to her mouth. Sarah took care of hair duty.

Lateisha dropped her head, hands cupping my balls, deep, steady slides -- a rhythm so perfect it made Sarah feel like practice rounds.

"Oh god," I breathed. No more prayers. This was surrender.

Sarah held Lateisha's hair while shuffling onto my chest. The bobbing never stopped.

If anything, Lateisha picked up speed, each pull deeper, breath hissing through her nose as my hips bucked against the tightness down her throat.

Sarah sat on my chest facing away. Damp yoga pants braced my ribs. Hot yoga ass filled my view.

My hands moved without thought -- all over her backside, around and full of tits, squeezing, rolling her nipple between my fingers like I was dying for it.

"Oh my," Sarah gasped, looking back with a smile.

Below, the wet slap of Lateisha's chest tapped my thigh -- each drag sent her tits swaying against my skin, heavy and warm.

Her hips ground down hard against my leg, her shorts soaked through. The heat bled straight into my bones.

I glanced over: Lateisha's head working like she'd die before she let me slip free, hair tight in Sarah's fist. Sarah posed like a sitting goddess.

Her throat swallowed me deeper than I knew I could handle -- pins and needles bit my jaw, static licked my cheeks.

My head dropped limp to the pillow. Sarah got off my chest. Her face filled my view -- big blue eyes locked on mine in the half-dark, bathroom light licking her collarbone.

She dipped down, kissed me slow but deep, tasting me all the way down like she owned every inch of me. Lateisha still going, my dick still building pressure.

She broke off at my thigh and rose. My right hand slid down her ribcage, needing to hold on to some piece of her.

She turned to the mirror. Her ass was all I saw.

Her shorts fit like second skin -- matte black stretched tight, waistband hugging her hips in a soft V that made my throat lock.

A single seam pulled clean down the middle, pulling the fabric into that perfect divide that begged my hand to test what was underneath.

I touched it. Palm flat, a squeeze. Warm and soft but with that muscle hidden under the flesh that made my fingers crave bruises.

She didn't flinch. She leaned into it -- a gift I didn't deserve -- then pivoted back to face me, hands on her hips, mouth curved in that smug twist that ruined me the first night.

She peeled the shorts down slow--the fabric rolling lazily off her hips, revealing the soft glint of damp skin beneath.

No panties, no hair -- just wet skin, smooth lips.

She climbed back on the bed -- and I caught the mirror this time. Her backside, the way it hollowed just above her ass, how every curve begged.

I couldn't look away. Not from her, not from Lateisha's head working me, feeding on every inch like she was clocking my heartbeat in her throat.

My left hand stayed locked on Lateisha's arm -- one slip and maybe I'd wake up alone again.

Sarah planted her knees wide on either side of my face. Gold skin and heat and the slow pulse of her thighs hugging my jaw.

From this angle I saw everything: the soft split of her, where she gleamed wet, the slow dip of her hips as she lowered herself down to show me what she tasted like.

Darkness swallowed me -- warm, slick, thick with the smell of salt, sweat, and sweet soap.

Wet lips dragged my nose, my mouth. Instinct took over. I opened up, tongue flicking, letting her slow grind find its own pace on my face.

My hands grabbed her ankles first, grounding me. She pressed lower -- soft pressure, all heat and muscle.

It knocked the wind out of me, but she arched her spine just enough to leave me alive. My palms crawled up her calves, her thighs, then planted firm on her hips, her lower back -- her ass.

I was guiding her, spearing my tongue deep like it was my last meal. Below the suffocation line, Lateisha was still there. A machine, no pity.

My cock felt raw -- slick, overfed, buried so deep in her throat my balls slapped her lips.

Lateisha pulled off, twisted my head like she was opening a beer bottle, then swallowed me whole again.

I heard her nose whistle -- a quick hitch before she dove back down. She gagged, but it was calm and methodical. Repetitive and hypnotic.

"UugghhUugghhUugghh," a tiny swallow on each pass.

Sarah's voice was an unbridled primal cry. She called my name, clawed at my body, rocked and sat deeper on my drenched face.

I was dying and I loved it. Nothing pixelated ever warned me you could black out from too much of this.

"Oh god, Sundeep," Sarah moaned from above.

I gasped for air -- none came. Mouth and nose buried in her cunt, every inhale trapped between sweat and flesh.

I tried to lift her with my palms but she pressed harder, moaning low in her chest like she wanted to crush my last gasp right into her.

A dark thought: They're smothering me for real. I didn't care.

Just as the tunnel vision cinched my sight, Sarah rocked away. Cold air slammed my lungs awake. My cock felt the chill too.

I forced my eyes to focus.

All I saw was Sarah's ass, that soft heart-shape now glistening, the twitch of her holes as she bent low and swallowed me. Keeping me warm.

Her hair brushed my thighs as she bobbed slow and greedy. Tits squished to my stomach. I glanced right, to the mirror: Sarah naked, lips wrapped tight around my shaft like nothing else mattered.

Behind her, Lateisha watched. Knees planted on the bed, big brown breasts swaying with each deep breath, her eyes glued to mine in the glass.

When I caught her stare, she smirked slow and cruel. Like a queen who knew her pet would crawl back for more.

She stood. My pulse spiked sideways. Even now, I feared her.

She wore nothing but old-school athletic shorts -- loose around her hips, white trim hugging thighs that could crack my ribs.

She hooked a finger in the drawstring, tugged it loose.

The waistband dipped below her navel, then lower -- gravity handled the rest. If she wore panties, they surrendered too.

Her bush was a bold black landing strip -- unapologetic, flipping me off in the best way.

She never broke eye contact.

My hands clenched tighter on Sarah's ass, my thumb slipping into her slick heat while she hummed around my cock like it was her morning coffee.

But every scrap of fear and hunger stayed trained on Lateisha, standing there bare and imperial, deciding if I'd survive what came next.

I caught a flicker under her mask: a weariness, a boredom -- like I wasn't her first lab rat and wouldn't be her last.

She stepped to the bed and planted her feet on either side of my head, used Sarah's hips for balance, and lowered every inch of herself down.

My ears started ringing.

If Sarah's gentle weight had smothered me, this was a burial. Lateisha was thicker, solid, all muscle and lush ass flattening my nose, my cheeks, muffling my ears.

My lips were wide around her. My tongue met the tight ring above her cunt. One flick and taste and smell merged.

Earthy, clean, real.

She shifted back, bracing both hands on the headboard, pressing herself deeper onto my face until I was French-kissing her asshole like I'd signed a contract for it.

She rocked fast, snapped her hips just enough to grind every shred of breath from my chest.

Every time I thought one more second and lights out, she lifted -- just enough to inhale -- then dropped again, burying me back under, riding my face like a throne.

I heard them giggle above me -- a hush of conspiratorial chatter, too muffled to catch, sharp enough to carve up my last shred of pride.

Something about me. About the injection. About how the clock was at thirty minutes and counting. It drifted through the static in my skull like a busted radio in another room.

I should have cum ages ago. Instead it was endless pressure with no finish line. Pleasure turned torture with no off switch.

Lateisha finally lifted off. I wheezed into the sheets, air shredding my raw throat. Sarah rolled off too -- her giggle brushed my ear, a sugary slap.

I felt like a shrimp left in the sun. Except my cock was still granite, raging red at the ceiling.

I opened my eyes. They stood at the foot of my bed -- side by side, fingers linked like devils posing for a pin-up.

Ebony and ivory. Big, natural tits. Flat stomachs. Legs sculpted by artists.

Who was I? A brown security guard with no education, no plan, a green card I'd sell my spine to keep.

What kind of karma was this? Good or bad? Did I really die? Was this the Bardo?

Lateisha's voice sliced through the static: "How you feeling?" There was warmth in it, but the cruel kind, like a service worker pretending to be nice.

"I wanna come," I whimpered. Not a man's voice. A boy's. Begging.

Sarah's face lit up like Christmas morning. Even Lateisha cracked a grin. Low and wicked. She whispered something in Sarah's ear.

Sarah squealed like a teenager. She crawled back up the bed, tits brushing my face before she shifted lower, grabbed my shaft and lined herself up.

She sank back slow -- the head popped in, then her heat swallowed the rest of me alive.

Nani always said darshan was seeing truth. Not a man sitting in lotus.

Tonight truth was spit and sweat. If this is it, I thought, let me drown. Nothing left but breath and salt and surrender.

"Oooh," Sarah purred, soft and syrupy, the sound vibrating straight up my spine.

She started riding -- slow, thick strokes at first.

My eyes went to the mirror.

It was filth and worship at once: a naked blonde spread wide on my cock, leaning forward so her tits bounced an inch from my mouth.

I grabbed both, greedy, sucked a nipple like I'd never see daylight again.

Then I felt it. A sudden wet drag on my balls. A tongue. Parted lips.

I choked on my own spit. My dick throbbed inside Sarah but my balls were locked in Lateisha's mouth.

Sarah leaned forward further, feeding her breasts to my mouth, still grinding deeper with each push. Her moans sharpened at the edges, hips rolling like she owned a patent on it.

Underneath, Lateisha's tongue explored every crease, before her lips locked on my sack. She pulled back slow without letting go. Just dragging pain and her tongue across nerves.

Sarah's rhythm cracked wide open. She rode faster, harder, each slap of her ass echoing off my thighs and Lateisha's face. Her tits clapped together, smearing sweat across my lips.

"Yeah, yeah--" she breathed out, voice shredded.

Her pink tips brushed my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I buried a whimper right into her chest while squeezing the left. She slammed down harder -- so deep my hips bucked off the bed to meet her halfway, helpless.

Lateisha's mouth cinched tighter, her teeth ghosting skin just shy of punishment. My vision spiderwebbed at the edges.

Words dissolved in my mouth. I was past begging, past prayer. Past thought. Just a vessel -- cracked open for whatever these women needed to pour through me.

Only breath. Darshan.

Sarah shifted, planted her feet wide on the mattress, squatted low and bounced. It bought Lateisha more room to work her dark magic and gave me a front-row seat.

Squatting, Sarah angled her hips just right -- each downward roll forced me deeper, my cock bending just enough to stretch into new territory.

Lateisha adjusted too, dipping her face lower, mouth working my balls with less pull, more tongue.

Pressure bloomed right behind my sack. A tightening coil making my thighs jerk hard enough to rattle the bedframe.

With every bounce of Sarah's hips, I caught Lateisha's eyes below -- locked on me, raging brown fire.

Sarah's tits danced above it all -- reckless, weighty, nipples bouncing like they had their own heartbeat.

Lateisha's chest brushed my thigh now and then -- warm pressure reminding me who owned who.

I looked at the mirror and short-circuited.

There it was: a young blonde squatting, riding my cock like she'd invented it. Fingers flicking her clit so fast they blurred.

Behind her, Lateisha sprawled across my legs, her ass spread natural, hips rolling against my thigh.

Sucking and moaning. Smacks, pops, whispers, and whimpers. It was obscene. It was mine. I wanted to roar.

I tore my eyes off the glass back to the fire in front of me.

Sarah's rhythm faltered -- hips jerking, then smoothing, then stuttering again. Her fingers punished her clit like she hated it.

No giggle now. Face flushed, stray blonde strands stuck to her cheeks. She looked half wild, half holy.

The last thrusts turned slow, deep, brutal.

Her face cracked open -- eyes clenched tight, mouth a rigid "O." A quiver in her thighs, a tsunami of liquid. It splashed my face and chest -- salty, hot, sharp as sweat.

I sunk into the bed. Soaked. Bardo temptations. Had to be.

Sarah crumpled sideways, face buried in the sheets. Her voice cracked between ragged breaths:

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..."

Lateisha lifted off my balls slow and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She rose to her knees, grinning wide. The first grin that didn't feel like a threat.

"That good, Sarah?" she teased.

Her eyes slid to me and back to the blonde panting next to my hip. Sarah turned her head, those huge blue eyes nailed to mine.

No giggle or mask. Just raw begging. Her lips barely parted, but the command cracked like a gunshot:

"Don't stop fucking me, Sundeep."

I didn't think. Didn't glance at Lateisha for permission.

I rolled over Sarah, and sank my teeth to her neck. Smelling flowers and tasting salt. She moaned into the mattress, soft and filthy all at once.

My cock dragged down the slope of her back. I grabbed it, slapped it against the swell of her ass. Sharp snaps that made her scream laughing into the sheets.

She wiggled that perfect shape back at me, bait and threat in one motion.

She was still on her stomach. I spread her open and felt the heat of her cunt drip over my fingers. Warm and craving.

I planted my knees wide, leaned over her, and pushed my cock inch by inch into that pink, soaked heat. Hands on her hips, ass cheeks stealing the show.

She turned her head sideways -- grin cracked in the mirror, eyes hazed half-shut, high on annihilation.

I fucked her steady first. Hips rolling smooth, pinned under me. All those nights with a prone bone pocket pussy suddenly worth the shame.

Good practice, but nothing beat the real thing.

Each thrust was a stanza: drop, bury, lift, curve. She took it low and mean, came up high and filthy. I counted every vertebra on the way down, lost them all on the way up.

She rode the line between ache and worship -- hips sinking to drown in me, back blooming open to meet me.

Every drop buried my breath. Every lift pulled it back.

Down to eat me. Up to make me beg.

I saw it all: the contortion of her mouth swallowing her cries, the recoil of her ass slapping my thighs, the sheen of sweat painting her back and shoulder blades into artwork under half-light.

I found the groove and let the mattress spring do most the work. Until hands grabbed my hips -- firm, dark, unshakable against my brown skin.

Lateisha. Her tits pressed warm to my back, her breath scalded my ear.

"Fuck her good, Sundeep. Give her that thick brown cock."

I drove in deeper. Harder. Sarah's gasps spiked to ragged squeals, each thrust a mutual connection, smashing her moans into raw sobs.

Sweat dripped off my chin, splashed her lower back where her spine dipped to cradle me.

"Oh god, oh god--" Her voice was shredded, fingers ripping the sheets until fabric tore loose from the mattress.

"Fuck her, Sundeep! Fill her up!" Lateisha barked.

Her palm cupped my balls, squeezed just hard enough to obliterate every stray thought in my skull. Stars scraped behind my eyes but I clawed them open.

Pain bloomed in my hips, my thighs, my wrists. Didn't matter. My cock stayed granite, full of rage and drive.

My hands clamped her waist hard enough to brand her skin. I watched my length vanish, reappear, vanish again.

Lateisha's firm grip steering me, the brush of her body against my spine nudging me closer to madness. Her nipples dragging fire up my back until I felt like a live wire ready to blow.

Sarah jammed her own hand between her thighs, grinding, rolling her hips in tight circles to chase it back herself. Her mouth quivered, drool stringing to the sheets.

We rocked in perfect chaos, Then Sarah bucked too far and I slipped free.

She moaned around cotton and spit, back hunching as hot spray splashed my balls, my thighs, and soaked the bed beyond the giant wet spot we'd already made.

Her voice was low and deep and uneven.

"Ohhh my god."

"Okay," Lateisha said, voice calm as a judge stepping down. She slid off the bed.

Cold air slapped my spine where her chest had pinned me seconds ago.

She stood loose, one foot cocked out, hip tilted, hand lazy at her side. Queen at rest, kingdom conquered.

"No way your dick is that good," she said, eyebrow arched, eyes flicking from Sarah limp and panting to me and dropping to my still-throbbing shaft.

She stared like she might take it for evidence.

My eyes were on her bare body. A tight busty black goddess. Toned and thick. I should have busted from sight alone.

"What did you inject me with?" I asked, voice rasped raw from panting.

Lateisha chuckled without humor. She shook her head slow, amused, half-impressed, half-predator.

"What are we at, huh? Sixty minutes?"

"Eighty," Sarah breathed, voice dead in the sheets. Adding, "And two orgasms, mine."

Lateisha barked a single laugh. She shook her head again, eyes gleaming like a cat about to toy with its prey.

"Okay, Gandhi," she said.

She strolled into the bathroom like she owned the deed, popped a drawer, then another. Found it -- a small bottle of lube.

She prowled back out, circled behind me close enough I caught her sweat mixed with that rose-lotion.

She planted herself in front of the closet mirror, studied her own reflection. The slick sheen on her shoulders, the heavy swing of her tits, the curve of her hips.

She locked eyes with me in the glass.

She turned, tossed the lube. It hit the bed with a soft slap.

She turned back to the mirror, palms pressed firm, back arched so deep it clapped her breasts, her eyes daring mine in the glass.

"Stick it in my ass. Show me how long you can hold on," she said.

I swallowed so hard my ears popped.

"Wait--" Sarah piped up, her voice bright again, even with hair tangled, cheeks flushed, sweat drying in streaks.

She slid off the bed and padded over, planting herself right beside Lateisha. She mirrored her pose. Hands braced on the mirror, back arched, that golden heart-shaped ass lifted like a sacrifice.

"No anal for me," Sarah chirped. "This is just for aesthetics."

I nodded dumbly. Grabbed the lube, squeezed a thick line into my palm, stroked it along my shaft until it glistened slick and lethal.

My feet moved me forward and behind Lateisha. Sarah would have been a foot too short. But Lateisha and I matched exactly.

Two perfect shapes bent for me, big tits swaying with every breath. Heat pouring off them. The smell hit like flowers stomped into sweat and cheap soap.

I dribbled more lube on my fingers. I circled Lateisha's tight ring, rubbed slow until her hips twitched once. One finger slipped inside. She pushed back gently, hungrily--inviting more.

I gave it to her slow, spreading her carefully. She laughed, a low half threat, half dare.

"Enough foreplay, Gandhi," she snarled.

I barely registered the nickname. I dropped the bottle, gripped her hard, and guided myself into position.

I was trembling.

I pushed -- testing the squeeze, careful -- but she rammed back, swallowing me whole in one vicious snap.

My balls slapped her cheeks. I bit off a scream. Sarah cheered.

"Fuck," Lateisha rasped, voice ragged, eyes nailed to her own reflection.

She set the rhythm herself -- hips rolling steady, back and forth, dragging me along like I was just meat fastened to her demands.

Each push blurred my vision. I braced one hand on her ass, anchored the other to Sarah's hip. I palmed that blonde curve, slid my fingers down the crease until they found her slit, still soaked and pulsating warmth.

Sarah exhaled into the mirror, clouding the glass as I slid a finger into her warmth and matched Lateisha's impossible rhythm.

"Fuck yeah Gandhi," Lateisha spat through clenched teeth. Throwing her weight back, ass cheeks slapping my lower belly, giant brown tits swinging wild and free in the mirror.

My hand slid up her back, found her shoulder, then dropped lower--seizing soft flesh as it swung free.

The weight of it and the nipple against my fingers knocked something loose inside me. Her ass moved like it was its own god. All I could do was hold on and endure.

I thrusted to her rhythm. This was hers. I was hers.

"Fuck, you like that," she snarled through clenched teeth -- voice rough, breaking.

Her hips smashed back into me, each hit hammering the breath out of my lungs. I was buried so deep every inch felt like a prayer answered wrong.

One hand gripped her ass, her hips, her tits, her shoulders. The other stayed buried between Sarah's thighs, teasing that slippery cunt like it was the only thing keeping me from blacking out.

They bent forward in parallel curves, the mirror capturing a scene wet and primal--air heavy with panting, slick noises.

Sarah twisted, freeing my fingers, and caught Lateisha's mouth. They kissed sloppy and hard, moans drowned in each other's lips.

Lateisha shifted under it, angle changing and my cock hit a new spot that turned my vision to static.

The mirror showed it all--Lateisha's chest heavy with momentum, her muscles taut beneath glistening skin. Beside her, Sarah's golden arch bent perfect, mouth drunk on Lateisha's tongue.

My free hand on Lateisha's shoulder, my other firm on her ass. And just like that -- Sundeep Singh was dead. I was smoke in a skin they owned.

One truth left: two women, one man. One rhythm that embedded the past and ate tomorrow.

Our breath tangled. Our pulse fused. There was only now. Only darshan.

Pressure gathered behind my groin the same second a thousand needles danced behind my eyes. My spine buzzed. My jaw clamped so hard my teeth ached.

My balls drew up tight, the engine begging to blow.

Lateisha's hips slowed a heartbeat.

But I didn't.

I slammed harder, rougher, the wet slap ricocheting off the walls.

My shoulder hand dove under, found her swollen cunt. She caught my wrist and guided my fingers while I wrecked her ass.

Each roll taught me her rules: deep, punishing, worshipful.

My other hand stayed hooked on her hip, spreading her wide to watch my shaft vanish and reappear through that tight black ring.

My eyes fluttered, rolled back, snapped open. Pressure crawled my spine like live wire.

Sarah dropped lower, mouth and hands latching onto Lateisha's bouncing tits, sucking and popping over nipples.

The mirror caught it all. Lateisha's face mashed the glass -- eyes squeezed shut, lips peeling back in a snarl that broke on each ragged breath:

"Oh fuck, fuck me. Oh fuck, fuck me. That's it. That's it--"

I couldn't stop. Didn't want to. My whole body was a bomb on a short fuse. My cock was the match. Her ass was the blast.

Pins and needles crawled my scalp, my tongue fizzed. The universe shrank to her hips and Sarah's mouth locked on her chest.

In and out, in and out -- Lateisha's hand clamped mine, riding every shockwave. Sarah moaned into her breast, nails digging her spine for more.

Then it hit.

A raw sound -- not hers, not Sarah's -- mine. A growl torn out like my soul was escaping.

My hips snapped, my balls knotted like wire. The first blast hit so hard it blurred my eyes white.

"Fuuuck!" I barked it, half growl, half gasp.

Hot pulses flooded her. Clenching her tighter. I felt her laugh break in her chest. Felt her squeeze me like a fist milking every drop.

My legs buckled, my hips staggered. But it didn't quit.

I should've died there.

Lateisha twisted, locked me deeper, voice shredded:

"Don't stop, Gandhi. Again. Give it to me again!"

I panted. Sarah giggled, wicked soft. Her lips pressed against my ear. Her breasts warm against my arm.

"Do it, Sundeep. Give her more."

My eyes rolled back.

I choked on my own breath. That freak serum punched through the numb -- my cock still iron, balls squeezed dry then rolling back for more.

I slammed forward, hoarse sound bursting free.

A deep burn low in my gut, cinching tighter every time I slammed into Lateisha. Sarah's hands over my arms, like encouragement.

My gut twisted tighter with every stroke, each breath hitching like static crawling higher.

I bit my lip, neck corded so hard it felt ready to snap. Sarah's hand moved over my balls. Squeezed. Her tits pressed against my side.

"Do it, do it," Sarah commanded.

Lateisha hummed a primal violence.

I couldn't bring myself to look in the mirror. I took Sarah's face in my hands and kissed her. Ravishing her tongue.

Lateisha took control and gyrated. In and out, deeper and deeper with each twerk.

Then I tightened. Stutter in my hips, my dick quivering with violent eruptions. Sarah's fingers gripping my balls.

The second orgasm ripped through me before the first had even faded. My vision blacked at the edges. I felt it spurt thick, relentless, every nerve screaming in burn and bliss.

Lateisha's hips ground back as I emptied into her vice-tight ass.

"Shit!" I cried.

My body shuddered, caved. My forehead pressed between Lateisha's shoulder blades, laughter spilling out that felt closer to a sob.

She chuckled low, cocked her hip, shoved me off her like a spent toy. I fell back, ass hit the mattress, legs dangling, whole body twitching.

Lateisha turned, hair plastered wild, chest heaving like an animal. Sarah right beside her, both naked, both sweat-slick, fingers tangled like partners in crime.

"That's a record," Sarah said.

My eyes fluttered shut. No needle this time. Just a well-earned blackout.

A smile cracked my lips as I sank under.

7

I got to keep my security license. After the investigation wrapped, they ruled I wasn't at fault.

Didn't matter -- my boss still hated my guts after that. I found a new gig not long after the paperwork cleared. No more graveyard shifts.

Now I stand around the business district, guarding a gourmet coffee shop from tweakers who think every bathroom's public property.

It's more intense than the old job -- real security, real shouting matches with guys who haven't showered since before I landed in this country.

But since Lateisha and Sarah? I carry a different kind of armor. Karma? Don't care.

Nani's been gone a long time. Nobody's watching over me anymore.

But I'm watching. At this new gig, I eye-fuck women all day. Traded daily porn for the gym and a dating app. So far, only dates are with fat white girls who put out quick and ghost quicker.

Doesn't matter. No one will top Lateisha and Sarah.

I never saw them again. Not in person. Never got an explanation about their "tests" either.

Not until later, when it hit the news.

I thought I'd be stashed in some busty burglar database. Stamina rating ten out of ten. The truth rattled me for a week, then I shrugged it off.

I figured local cops might bang on my door once that story aired. They didn't. I kept my head down. Just another brown face in the city, another immigrant who knows how to fade.

Not the man my Nani prayed for. Not the engineer uncle brags about. Not the doctor the aunties gossip about.

Whatever. End of the day, I crash on the same bed, same stale sheets, and crack the spankbank vault.

Reach for my pocket pussy -- nowhere close to the real thing, but good enough to remember.

And in my mind they're there -- at my door, just back from yoga, hips cocked like a threat.

Or on the beach. Black and white bikinis. Tight stomachs. All-natural double D's.

I lied for that. Bet my job, my clean slate, my honor.

Worth it. Every second.

I met Brahman between their thighs. I experienced the darshan.

Special Agent Jane Hayes poked around once more, sniffing for scraps I never gave. Then she disappeared -- until her name popped up after that casino job. Her Rack Pack theory finally stuck.

Because there they were. Reduced to blurry pixels on my phone. Security footage. Tight black bodysuits with that diamond chest keyhole.

One day they'll knock again.

And I'll open the door twice as fast.