Reclaimed in Mussoorie Ch. 03

⚠️ Author's Note:

It doesn't happen in the room.

But it happens.

And once it does, he can't walk the same.

________________________________________

Ishaan woke up alone.

The first thing he noticed was the cold, not of the air, Mussoorie's mornings were still forgiving in February, but the absence. The bed beside his was empty, sheets neatly pulled back, a pillow untouched. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood soap and the leftover trail of Vikram's body.

He turned slightly.

And felt the tacky drag of dried cum pulling faintly at his inner thigh.

His breath caught, he didn't need to touch to know what it was, but he did anyway. His fingers moved slowly down the slope of his hip, brushing the bare curve of his ass, and found it, a patch of dried slickness on his skin, another crusted higher up on his balls.

From Vikram, from last night.

From the grinding that had made him moan into the sheets while trying to stay still.

Ishaan closed his eyes and exhaled.

He had expected more, expected Vikram to finally fuck him again, to break the teasing, the denial, and the games. He had felt the head of that thick cock drag between his cheeks over and over, had arched into it without thinking, had whispered, Please, fill me.

But Vikram had only said, Not tonight.

And then came on him, left his mark like a signature, and rolled away without another word.

The spanking had left a reminder too. Ishaan shifted again and felt it, that faint soreness across one cheek. He reached back, traced it with the edge of his fingernails, a faint swell, a heat that had outlived the slap.

He sat up slowly, his thighs still trembled faintly, his cock, somehow, was half-hard already.

The room was quiet, no movement from the hallway, no water running in the bathroom, no voice telling him what to do.

Vikram was already gone, of course he was.

Ishaan stood, bare feet on the cold wood floor, and made his way to the bathroom. The mirror caught his reflection like a punch.

His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and a flush still lingered across his collarbone. But what struck him most was the shift he couldn't unsee, his body didn't just look like it had been used.

It looked like it wanted more.

He stepped under the hot shower, let it wash away the crust, sweat, and leftover slick. But not the memory, the water only made his hole twitch harder, every drop a tease, every shift of his weight a reminder.

He was still empty, still denied.

That wasn't going to last.

When he stepped out, towel wrapped low on his hips, he walked to the duffel bag to grab the kurta for the Haldi.

But his fingers brushed something else first, soft lace, crumpled at the bottom.

The panties.

He'd packed them thinking he might jerk off one night, breathe her in, stroke himself slow, and pretend he was still that guy, straight, in control, normal.

But after last night, that plan was long gone.

And now, the only thing his body craved was the thing Vikram had left for him, not the scent of a woman, but pressure, stretch, fullness.

If he wanted to be used, really used, he had to be ready.

He turned toward the dresser, now it wasn't the panties he was reaching for, it was the plug.

Pink silicone, smooth, familiar, deliberate.

He sat on Vikram's bed, the towel still under him, his legs slightly apart. The air was cold against his damp skin, but his cock was warming quickly, twitching against his thigh as he slicked the toy with lube.

Not because he was desperate, though he was.

But because he finally understood what Vikram was waiting for, not obedience, but ownership.

Ishaan braced one hand behind him, the other guiding the toy to his rim, his fingers circled slowly, his hole pulsed in anticipation. He hadn't touched himself yet today, didn't need to.

This wasn't about pleasure, it was about presence.

The plug slipped in with a soft pop, his breath hitched, his spine arched, his cock surged, already dripping at the tip without a single stroke.

He stayed there for a few seconds, panting softly, the pressure blooming inside him like something sacred.

He dressed slowly, carefully, no underwear.

A lemon-yellow kurta, just sheer enough to hint at what lay beneath, the fabric clung slightly at the thighs, the outline of his cock was visible if he shifted too fast. The plug, thankfully, was subtle, unless someone looked closely, unless someone knew.

Unless someone like Vikram wanted to see it.

Ishaan left the room ready, not for the Haldi, but to be used.

________________________________________

By late morning, the courtyard was alive with gold.

Petals flew through the air in chaotic handfuls, aunties dipped fingers into stainless steel bowls of haldi paste, shouting over dhol beats as they smeared it onto the groom's cheeks, arms, and occasionally into his ears. Someone dropped a tray of marigolds, a group of cousins broke into impromptu dancing. It was loud, unapologetic, and blissfully distracting.

Ishaan wove through it all like a blade dipped in sugar.

His lemon-yellow kurta caught the sunlight at every angle, soft and translucent, just enough to look innocent. It clung to his torso with sweat, hugged his ass when he bent slightly. He walked like someone rehearsing innocence and failing at it beautifully.

The plug inside him had warmed to his body now, snug and constant, but the movement, the endless bending, dodging, smiling, and posing, made it shift in ways that lit up every nerve below his waist. Worse, his cock kept brushing against the kurta's fabric, already half-hard from the overstimulation.

He hadn't worn anything underneath, that had been the point, a test.

But now, crouched in the corner near the haldi bowls, trying to help an auntie reach a dropped spoon, he regretted everything.

He bent forward, and felt it: the back hem of his kurta lifting, the breeze hitting his upper thighs.

Shit.

He froze mid-crouch, knees spread slightly, ass arched just enough for the plug to press deeper.

Someone behind him chuckled. "Ishaan, bro, are you seriously squatting in those tight clothes? You're gonna flash us!"

His heart shot into his throat.

He turned his head slightly, Tanmay was grinning, holding a phone in one hand and a steel tumbler in the other. "Wear some boxers next time, man, this isn't your Insta thirst trap."

The guys nearby laughed.

Ishaan laughed too, tight, easy, and fake. "I'm just airing it out, bro, you should try it."

He stood slowly, careful to tug the kurta down without obvious panic.

His thighs were damp, his cheeks were flushed.

He looked around quickly, no one had seen anything, not really.

Across the courtyard, Vikram leaned against the trunk of a mango tree, arms folded, sunglasses on. His cream kurta was rolled up at the sleeves again, revealing the broad curve of his forearms, the faint sheen of sweat at his throat. He hadn't spoken to Ishaan since the previous night, but he watched him now, every second.

Ishaan smiled politely at Kunal's aunt when she handed him a laddoo, nodded along to some conversation about turmeric's glow-enhancing properties, and then caught Vikram's eye over the rim of his steel tumbler.

There it was again, that stare, that unreadable quiet.

It made the plug feel twice as thick.

He shifted his weight to one leg, felt the pressure against his prostate, his cock stirred immediately, the fabric of his kurta now dangerous.

He smiled, bit his lip, and looked away.

A few minutes later, Aditi appeared, draped in a soft yellow saree, laughing as she smeared haldi on someone's arm. She found Ishaan near the laddoo table and tapped his elbow.

"I hear you've been avoiding me," she said.

Ishaan turned. "I've been occupied."

She grinned, eyes flicking down briefly, whether at his kurta, his chest, or something else, he couldn't tell. "Shame, I was starting to think you got shy."

He let out a small laugh, nothing like yesterday's practiced swagger, this time, it was quiet, controlled, and honest.

"I'm not shy," he said. "Just not pretending anymore."

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. "Pretending?"

He smiled but didn't answer.

And that was it.

She laughed again and walked off to rejoin the crowd, no drama, no performance, just a woman who flirted and moved on.

Ishaan exhaled.

The pretending really was over.

Moments later, he passed behind the mango tree, close to where Vikram still stood, hands in his pockets now, mouth unreadable.

Ishaan didn't stop, just slowed enough to let their arms brush.

"I'm plugged," he whispered.

Vikram didn't react at first.

Then: a dry murmur, low and razor-sharp.

"You'll have to beg harder."

Ishaan's cock jumped in his pants.

He didn't look back, he didn't need to.

________________________________________

The room was still warm when Ishaan slipped inside.

Afternoon sunlight bled through the sheer curtains, casting a gauzy golden wash over the beds, the furniture, the floor strewn with discarded formalwear from the morning's chaos. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, then paused. Breathed.

The plug was still inside him.

Still pulsing with every step, every breath, every heartbeat that reminded him he hadn't been touched since the night Vikram came on his back. That was almost 12 hours ago. He'd worn the toy through turmeric smears and auntie chatter. He'd smiled through it. He'd eaten sweets with it in him.

But his body hadn't forgotten what it was for.

And neither had he.

He moved slowly toward the dresser, fingers slipping over the collar of his kurta, undoing buttons with deliberate care. The air kissed his damp skin as he undressed, fabric falling away piece by piece until he was naked again. Nothing underneath. Just flushed skin, erect nipples, and the faint glisten of sweat where the plug sat perfectly tucked inside him.

The mirror caught him.

He turned slightly, just enough to see the way the plug's base nestled between his cheeks. He bent a little, testing the stretch, and shivered. The ache was sharper now. The emptiness louder. He needed to be filled. Fucked. Used.

And Vikram hadn't even looked at him today, aside from that dry, brutal line under the mango tree.

"You'll have to beg harder."

Ishaan swallowed hard.

Then climbed onto Vikram's bed. Not his own.

He crawled forward slowly, deliberately, knees parting as he moved, chest lowering to the mattress, ass arching higher in the air. He let his arms fold beneath him. Let his back curve. Let himself breathe like an offering. Like a whore.

Now he just waited.

Plugged. Naked. Presented.

It didn't take long.

A few minutes later, he heard the footsteps outside. The key turning in the lock. The door opening with a soft, ordinary creak.

He didn't move.

Didn't look.

Didn't speak.

Vikram entered like it was any other afternoon. Shut the door behind him. No gasp. No amusement. Just a slow inhale, and then the faint sound of his coat hitting the armchair.

Shoes off.

Kurta off.

Ishaan kept his eyes forward, the bedding soft under his cheek, his body tense with stillness. Waiting. Wanting.

The room stayed quiet.

Then he felt it, a palm, wide and rough, dragging slowly across the base of his spine. Down. Down. Across the cleft of his ass.

Vikram exhaled. Just once.

"Good," he said, like Ishaan was a kept thing. A made thing. "But you're not getting fucked yet."

Ishaan whimpered.

Then, another sound. Zipper.

Vikram stepped closer, cock already hard in his hand, heavy and flushed. Ishaan didn't dare look, but he could feel it. The weight of it in the air. The presence.

Then Vikram's hand fisted in his hair. Yanked his head up. Ishaan gasped, mouth falling open instinctively, and Vikram fed his cock into it without a word.

The first push was shallow. Testing.

The second punched into the back of Ishaan's throat.

His gag was loud, wet, desperate, but he didn't move away. He held it. Eyes watering, drool sliding from his lips before he even started to suck.

Vikram's hand tightened in his hair.

"Yeah," he growled. "Open up, slut. Show me what you're good for."

Ishaan moaned around the thickness, drool dripping down his chin, knees spread wider now.

He'd waited for this.

And he was just getting started.

Ishaan's throat clenched around the thickness of him, the familiar stretch already triggering that helpless rush to his cock. He wasn't touching himself, not allowed to. But that didn't stop it from twitching between his thighs, already dripping onto Vikram's sheets. His whole body responded like muscle memory, like training being reactivated.

Vikram's hips pushed forward again, the next thrust deeper. Crueler.

Ishaan gagged, and Vikram didn't pause, just held his head there, cock deep in his throat, forcing him to breathe through his nose, to feel every inch.

"Don't move," Vikram murmured above him. "You begged to be used. This is you being used."

Ishaan whimpered, eyes stinging, cheeks wet from spit and pressure. His fingers curled tight in the blanket. He didn't try to pull back. Just relaxed his jaw, welcoming the brutal rhythm that followed.

Vikram began to fuck his face in slow, grinding thrusts. Not fast. Not rushed.

Just filthy.

His cock dragged against Ishaan's tongue, pressed past his tonsils again and again. Ishaan could feel the spit gathering under his chin, slicking his throat, strings of it spilling down to his chest.

His nose brushed the base each time. His lips were stretched wide, raw.

He moaned, choked, moaned again.

Vikram's grip in his hair shifted, guiding him now like a puppet.

"That's it," he growled. "Took you long enough to remember what you were good at."

Ishaan couldn't answer. But his body did, arching harder, hole clenching around the plug, thighs quivering from the pressure.

He needed release.

He needed to be filled.

And this, this choking submission, was the closest he could get right now.

Vikram groaned above him, cock twitching in his mouth. His other hand reached down, slapped Ishaan's ass once, sharply, making the plug shift.

Ishaan jolted. A desperate noise broke from his throat, one that vibrated right around Vikram's shaft.

"You like being plugged while your mouth gets fucked?" Vikram sneered. "Pathetic. You're leaking on the sheets."

He was.

Ishaan's cock hadn't stopped dripping. A full smear of precum soaked the bedding below him, untouched, unrelieved.

Vikram pulled out suddenly, dragging his cock free with a wet pop. Ishaan gasped, coughing, spit hanging in strings from his lips.

"Face up," Vikram said. "Now."

Ishaan turned. Got on his back, head tilted over the side of the mattress. His throat was open, lips parted, eyes already glossy.

Vikram stroked himself once, twice, and then groaned as he painted Ishaan's face in hot, pulsing ropes of cum.

Across his cheek. His lips. His chin.

Some of it landed in his open mouth.

Ishaan swallowed instinctively.

"Good boy," Vikram muttered.

He tucked himself back into his pants, not even looking down again.

Ishaan stayed on his back, breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling.

Cum cooling on his face.

Plug still locked inside him.

He hadn't even touched his cock.

And he hadn't been allowed to cum.

Not yet.

________________________________________

By the time the Mehendi ceremony began in the afternoon, the sun had softened into a mellow glow over the hills. Long shadows stretched across the resort courtyard as family members gathered under a shaded canopy where low mattresses had been arranged in rows. Brass trays held cones of henna, and someone was already negotiating Bollywood song requests with the DJ.

The crowd buzzed with a different kind of energy than Haldi. It was calmer. Dressed-up. More photogenic than chaotic. Where Haldi was mischief and noise, Mehendi was elegance and indulgence: iced drinks, satin lehengas, and aunties comparing arm designs like teenagers.

Ishaan arrived a few minutes late, still in traditional clothes; this time a pale cream kurta with subtle green embroidery, pajama trousers that sat just tight enough around his thighs, and a dupatta slung low over one shoulder. He was back to clean and polished, hair styled, lips unchapped, his neck free of sweat. But underneath it?

He was still plugged.

Still aching from the blowjob that Vikram had ended across his face without giving him anything in return.

It made everything feel louder: the scrape of chair legs, the sting of citrus in his mocktail, the heavy cling of cotton when he sat too quickly. He felt stretched. Full. Over-aware of his body in ways no one around him would ever guess.

Vikram didn't sit beside him.

He stood near the drink counter in an off-white linen kurta with a collar slightly undone, talking to someone's cousin about whiskey brands in Mumbai. His sunglasses hung from his neckline. He looked unbothered. Utterly in control.

But his eyes kept drifting.

And every time Ishaan caught them, just barely, just briefly, it made the plug inside him shift with want.

They hadn't spoken since the blowjob.

And maybe they didn't need to.

Vikram passed behind him once during the function. Didn't say a word. Just adjusted the back cushion Ishaan was sitting against, letting the backs of his fingers graze the arch of Ishaan's spine. Another time, he placed a glass of cold lime soda near Ishaan's hand. Their fingers didn't touch, but the condensation dripped over Ishaan's knuckles, and Vikram's voice brushed close:

"Drink. You'll need the hydration."

It wasn't a suggestion.

"We're going for a hike after this," he added, casually.

Ishaan sipped obediently, cock twitching under the thin fabric of his trousers. The plug pulsed inside him like a secret, every throb a reminder that Vikram still hadn't taken what Ishaan had already given.

He crossed his legs slowly.

Tried not to whimper.

Around him, girls laughed as mehendi cones spiraled into delicate vines across their arms. A cousin's kid was singing loudly off-key. Someone offered him a mango lassi. He nodded. Took it. Sipped.

But his eyes were on Vikram again.

Still watching. Still waiting.

And somewhere beneath the soft spill of henna and the scent of rosewater and citrus, Ishaan's need was rising. Thick. Wordless. Demanding.

________________________________________

By late afternoon, the courtyard began to thin out. The aunties were comparing their palms, someone was arguing about how long to keep the mehendi on, and the cousins had started taking slow-motion videos for Instagram.

Ishaan used the lull to disappear.

Back in the suite, the lighting had changed; the golden pre-evening hue now cast long shadows across the floor. The air was quiet. Still faintly scented with Vikram's cologne, though he wasn't inside.

Ishaan stripped again.

This time it felt different. Intentional.

He folded the kurta carefully and pulled out his outfit for the "casual sunset hike" they'd agreed on earlier, announced to no one in particular. Just a reason to stretch their legs. Maybe explore a trail or two behind the resort before dinner.

He hadn't even asked where they were going.

Because it didn't matter.

He'd been plugged since morning: tight, aching, half-hard the entire day. It had felt insane at first, walking around like that. Sitting through breakfast. Pretending to listen during haldi and mehendi. But now it just felt normal. Expected.

Still, before changing, he slipped into the bathroom, cleaned himself out quickly, and replugged with slow, steady breaths, tighter than before, firmer. Ready. Ishaan wanted to be prepared at all times, for whenever Vikram finally decided he'd begged enough to be fucked.

He slipped on the tight white pants slowly, pulling them up over bare legs. No underwear. As the fabric stretched across his ass, the shape of the plug was faintly visible if he bent a certain way or stood under direct light.

Which he intended to do.

He tugged on a fitted black t-shirt over his chest, one that clung to the slope of his back and hugged the outline of his biceps. Clean, athletic. Deceptively modest. The kind of outfit that might fool everyone, except Vikram.

He heard the door click open.

Didn't turn around.

Vikram stepped inside, sunglasses still on, a water bottle in one hand. He gave Ishaan a single look: up, down, lingering, and didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

He changed quickly. Tossed on track pants and a loose T-shirt. Packed a small sling bag: water, a power bar, a folded jacket. Nothing else.

The silence between them was taut.

"You ready?" Vikram finally asked.

Ishaan nodded. "Yeah."

"Good." He opened the door again. "Let's go."

No one stopped them as they exited. No one asked where they were off to. The resort was still buzzing behind them; waitstaff prepped dinner tables, families posed in mehendi poses near the fountain. They slipped away unseen.

The trail behind the property wound up into the hills, rough stone and wildflowers, patches of pine needles soft underfoot. The air smelled like cedar and dirt and moss.

They didn't speak.

Vikram walked behind.

And Ishaan felt it--his gaze, steady and territorial, fixed low. On the obscene way the white fabric hugged his ass. On the way it flexed with each step, the plug pressing deeper with every incline.

Ishaan's cock was already hard by the time they reached the first bend.

And the woods were just getting started.

________________________________________

The trail narrowed as they climbed higher.

Pine trees bent low overhead, throwing dappled shadows across the uneven dirt path. Wildflowers peeked through patches of grass along the edges: violet, yellow, burning orange. Each step crunched softly underfoot. Birds called to each other in the quiet, and the slope began to level out as the hill opened into a narrow, sunlit ledge overlooking the entire valley.

Ishaan's breath was uneven.

He wasn't winded from the walk. Not exactly. But the plug inside him shifted with every stride, pressing against him just right, just wrong, reminding him with every step that he hadn't been allowed to cum since yesterday morning. He'd walked through the haldi soaked in turmeric, through the mehendi glistening with sweat, through brunch, through laughter, through teasing glances, through Vikram's silence. Still full and denied.

Vikram walked behind him, every footstep deliberate, unhurried, predatory. There wasn't a sound between them, but Ishaan could feel the stare: low, focused, heavy.

A few steps later, the path curved again and opened into a rock clearing. Flat, sun-warmed stone flanked by tall wild grass and trees whose roots gnarled like claws from the hillside. The view was enormous: valley below, cliffs in the distance, no houses, no signs of human life. Just the faintest hum of wind and cedar and afternoon heat.

Vikram stopped walking.

Ishaan paused too, standing just before the edge.

Still no words.

Then, softly, like an invocation:

"Strip."

Ishaan turned halfway.

The look on Vikram's face was unreadable.

"Here?"

Vikram's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I said," he murmured, stepping forward, "Strip. Present yourself."

He'd waited seven years to say that again. Not in jest. Not as a dare. But like this: quiet, brutal, earned. Ishaan didn't know it yet, but this moment had been choreographed in Vikram's head every time he'd seen him bent over a suitcase, stretching after a jog, standing too close.

The words hit harder than a slap. Ishaan's heart started hammering. The late sun burned hot across his cheeks. He looked around instinctively: trees, rocks, grass. Nothing. No one. Only the air. The quiet. The weight of the moment settling over him like a new skin.

He hesitated for one more breath.

Then obeyed.

His fingers moved to the waistband of his tight white pants, unbuttoning slowly. He didn't break eye contact. Didn't speak. Just slid them down, inch by inch, exposing the glisten of sweat on his thighs, the tight curve of his bare ass, and the gleaming blush-pink plug nestled perfectly between his cheeks.

No underwear. Of course.

The pants pooled at his ankles. He stepped out of them.

Then, he peeled off the black t-shirt, deliberate, slow, lifting it over his head and letting it drop soundlessly to the ground.

His cock stood half-hard already, wet at the tip, pulsing, untouched.

Vikram didn't smile. Didn't speak.

He just looked. Head tilted slightly. As if studying something rare. Or reclaimed.

It wasn't just about control. It was about proof: proof that Ishaan had never sealed shut. That seven years of women, suits, gym photos, and silence hadn't erased what Vikram had built in Goa. This ass, pink and wet, remembered him.

Ishaan moved without needing to be told. Got down onto his knees beside the largest flat rock, arched his back, and lowered his chest to the stone. Presented.

Completely exposed. Plug still in. Ass up. Mouth open with breath.

Vikram stepped closer. Unzipped.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of wind in the trees and Ishaan's breathing: fast, shallow, uneven.

Then, skin.

The heat of Vikram's cock pressed flat against his crack. Just resting there. Heavy. Hot. Alive.

Then came the first slap.

His cock dragged across Ishaan's ass and slapped against his plugged hole: once. Twice. Again. The sound was wet. Obscene.

"Say it," Vikram said low, his voice all gravel and slow thunder. "Say what you are."

Ishaan's mouth parted. He was panting.

"Say it," Vikram repeated, slapping his cock again, harder this time, making the plug shift.

Ishaan gasped.

"I'm," he swallowed, "I'm your hole."

Vikram's hand gripped his ass, spreading him wider.

"Louder."

Ishaan trembled. The breeze cooled the spit already gathering on his inner thigh.

"I'm just a hole. Yours. Use me."

Vikram growled softly behind him. The cock-slaps slowed. The next one landed with more purpose, right against the base of the plug.

Then came the sound Ishaan had been aching for.

Spit.

Vikram leaned in, spat directly on the base of the plug. It dripped down warm, thick, filthy.

Ishaan moaned into the rock.

"You've been full all day," Vikram murmured. "Stretching yourself out. Plugged for me."

He placed one hand flat between Ishaan's shoulder blades, pushing him lower into the stone. The other wrapped around the plug and twisted: slow, gentle, threatening.

"You ready, little bitch?"

Ishaan moaned again, nodded rapidly. "Yes. Please. Please, use me."

Vikram pulled the plug out slowly.

The stretch was a mix of pressure and release, a soft pop as the toy slid free with a wet sound. Ishaan gasped, body twitching, hole clenching reflexively around nothing.

Vikram set the pink plug on the stone beside Ishaan's cheek, like a filthy trophy.

Then another sound: spit again.

Vikram smeared it with two fingers. Slid them in, briefly. Just enough to stretch him, tease him, make him gasp.

Then those fingers left.

And Vikram's mouth took their place.

The first swipe of tongue against Ishaan's exposed, pulsing rim made him cry out.

"Oh fuck... Vik."

But he couldn't even finish the name. Vikram was devouring him. Hungry. Possessive.

He licked in deep, over and over, flattened his tongue and shoved it against that stretched rim like he was eating out his favorite meal.

He didn't rim Ishaan to tease him. He did it to break him in. To remind this soft little body what hunger could taste like when it came from someone who knew where every nerve was buried.

His hands gripped Ishaan's thighs tight, spreading him wide, holding him down. He spat again between licks. Bit lightly. Lapped it back up.

Ishaan's arms gave out. His chest hit the stone fully.

He moaned into the rock, drooling, grinding against nothing.

"Please... fuck... please."

Vikram didn't answer.

He just licked deeper, faster, then pulled back slightly and spoke low into Ishaan's slicked hole:

"You want to be filled again?"

Ishaan's voice broke. "Yes. Yes, anything. Please..."

"You're going to take it all--"

And then Vikram stood.

The sound of his palm slapping against his cock was sharp. Hot. He was stroking himself now, lined up, coated in spit, shaft glistening, aimed like a weapon.

"Say it again," he growled.

Ishaan arched harder. "I'm yours. Just your hole. I need you to fuck me."

Vikram pressed the head of his cock against that dripping, stretched rim.

"Good boy."

And then--

No warning. No slow ease. He wasn't offering pleasure. He was reclaiming property.

He pushed forward.

The first thrust was brutal.

Vikram didn't ease in. Didn't pause for breath or resistance. His cock punched through the slick, stretched ring of Ishaan's hole in one sharp, claiming motion.

Ishaan screamed.

Not from pain, though it burned, but from the overwhelming, devastating stretch of it. The pressure. The invasion. The instant loss of control.

"F-fuck, Vikram!"

Vikram grunted behind him, already balls-deep, already fully inside.

"Tight," he growled, hips jerking forward again. "Still so fucking tight."

Ishaan braced against the rock, fingers scrambling for purchase, legs already shaking. The sun beat down on his bare back, sweat slipping down his spine. But all he could feel, really feel, was Vikram. Inside him. Filling him.

Owning him.

Again.

Vikram pulled halfway out. Ishaan's body tried to pull him back, clenching, twitching, hungry. Like it couldn't stand the absence. Like it had already forgotten anything but Vikram's cock.

He then slammed back in, setting a pace that was merciless from the start. The sound of their bodies meeting echoed through the clearing: wet, fast, raw. Slap after slap after slap.

Ishaan sobbed into the stone.

"You wanted this," Vikram said. His voice was low, measured, cruel. "Strutting around plugged like a little tease. Bending over for laddoos."

Another thrust. Deeper.

"You begged to be used."

Ishaan whimpered. "Yes... yes... I--fuck--"

Ishaan reached back with trembling fingers.

He needed to feel it. Needed to touch what was ruining him.

His fingertips slid over the slick stretch of his own hole: red, raw, pulsing around the thick base of Vikram's cock. Lower still, his knuckles brushed against the heavy swing of Vikram's balls, slapping wetly with every thrust.

He gasped at the sensation.

At the obscene reality of it. Of how full he was. How deep Vikram was lodged inside.

Vikram let him.

For one filthy, humiliating minute, he let him.

"Yeah?" he said, voice sharp above him. "Like feeling how wrecked you are?"

Ishaan moaned, nodding, breathless, still groping at the base of that cock like it was a lifeline.

But the moment was short.

Vikram yanked his hands away, roughly, pinning them down against the rock.

"That's enough," he growled. "You don't touch. You take."

Vikram's palm came down hard on his ass, smack, then again, until the skin bloomed red beneath his grip.

"Fucking slut. Seven years and this hole's still trained."

He reached forward, grabbed Ishaan by the throat, and pulled him upright.

Ishaan gasped, back arched, Vikram's cock still drilling into him from behind. The pressure of that hand around his neck, tight, controlling, made his vision blur for a second, made his cock pulse between his legs.

"Breathe," Vikram whispered, lips at his ear. "Just enough."

Ishaan moaned through the pressure, the pleasure blooming so violently inside him it felt like it might rip through his skin.

"Say it," Vikram hissed. "Tell me what you are."

Ishaan choked out the words.

"I'm... your whore. Your hole."

"Louder."

"I'm your slut! Please... please... fuck me, fill me."

Vikram's hips stuttered, a growl tearing from his throat as he slammed into him again, harder. Rougher.

The grip on Ishaan's neck loosened. He was shoved back down onto the stone. Hips locked open. Hole spread wide.

The stone scraped his knees bloody. His shins burned. His shoulders ached from being forced down like livestock. But the worst was inside: a sore, swollen ache where Vikram kept hitting the same spot again and again.

Ishaan felt it rising, impossibly fast.

That unbearable fullness. The heat. The edge he hadn't been allowed to reach in days. It was too much. He was going to.

"I'm gonna... Vikram... I..."

Vikram didn't slow. He leaned forward, one hand fisting in Ishaan's hair, the other pressed against his lower back, forcing him down, pinning him there.

"No hands," he whispered. "Show me how good you've learned."

Ishaan came like he'd been triggered. No touch. No warning. Just Vikram's cock wrecking him and that voice in his ear. His whole body snapped, heels kicking, thighs locking, hole milking the cock inside like it had been trained to do exactly this.

A pulse that dragged a groan from deep in Vikram's chest. Hands-free. Body jerking.

Cum sprayed across the rock beneath him, thick and white and obscene. He cried out, long, broken, shaking as his cock pulsed untouched against the hot stone.

Vikram didn't say a word.

He just looked down at the mess twitching under him, cum slick on the stone, Ishaan's back arching, hole still fluttering around his cock like it hadn't had enough.

He tilted his head, almost amused.

His body still knew the drill.

For a moment, he didn't move.

Just breathed.

Ishaan lay panting, wrecked, chest heaving against the rock.

His thighs were trembling, his back damp with sweat and grit. Every breath made his ribs sting where they pressed into rock. But the stretch between his legs was worse: a deep, bruised pulse that throbbed each time Vikram moved, as if his hole had been split then sewn back together with cock.

One orgasm in, and already coming without touch.

He's not even halfway gone.

Then Vikram grinned, and started moving again.

"Didn't even need to touch that useless cock," he said. "Goa didn't just ruin your hole. It rewired it."

He spat down onto Ishaan's ass again. Slapped it once more.

He'd trained him for this, without mercy, without praise. Not to cum from cock or hand, but from surrender. Seeing it happen again was like watching a machine reboot after years of silence.

"That cock's for decoration. This hole's your real brain now."

Ishaan sobbed again, too full to speak.

Vikram leaned in, voice filthy in his ear.

"You're my good whore... my perfect filthy bitch."

Vikram pulled out slow, wet and thick, his cock dragging slick through Ishaan's ruined hole. He watched it twitch, gaping wide, lips stretched open and leaking.

"Look at that greedy ass," he murmured, half to himself, chest rising.

He bent over, spit down hard, letting it splatter between Ishaan's cheeks, then smeared it in with two fingers, rough, possessive, pressing deep into the wreckage he'd made.

Ishaan whimpered, body shuddering.

Vikram didn't pause. He leaned forward, swiped his fingers through the mess Ishaan had spilled earlier across the stone, thick, white, warm.

"You cum like a bitch in heat," he sneered. He rubbed it all over his cock, coating himself in it, slow and deliberate, like war paint. "Now I'll fuck you with it."

Then he shoved back in. Fast. Wet. Slicked with Ishaan's own shame.

Ishaan cried out, legs trembling as the slicked length slammed into him, loud and wet.

Vikram grabbed his hips, anchored him still. "You feel that? That's your own filth inside you."

Ishaan couldn't take anymore. But he was going to.

Because Vikram wasn't done. Not even close.

Vikram didn't move. Not yet.

He just watched, watched the twitching hole, the leaking thighs, the glazed-over stare.

Ishaan was ruined. But not broken.

That needed fixing.

"You came so fast," he muttered. "Like a fucking slut who's been waiting years."

He pulled out slowly, just halfway, then slammed back in so hard that Ishaan's knees nearly gave out. A helpless sound fell from Ishaan's lips, somewhere between a sob and a plea.

"You think we're done?" Vikram muttered. "You think you get to cum and collapse?"

His voice was low, ragged, animal.

He pulled out fully, and Ishaan gasped at the sudden emptiness. A string of slick stretched from his twitching hole to Vikram's cock, glistening in the light.

Vikram swiped his cockhead through the mess, smearing it deliberately across Ishaan's taint and balls.

"You're dripping like a broken faucet. How many times have you leaked like this for a girl?"

Ishaan whimpered. Didn't answer.

Vikram slapped his inner thigh. "Exactly. Never."

"On your back," Vikram ordered.

Ishaan didn't hesitate. He shifted, chest heaving, limbs shaking. As he lay back, his eyes flicked to Vikram's cock, still angry, thick, veined, wet.

Theupt rough dry earth scraped his back as he lay down on the grassy patch beside the stone, legs spread, cock soft but still leaking.

He'd just cum. He should've been done. But his hole clenched at the sight.

Vikram knelt between his thighs, spit dripping from his mouth, cock slick with both of them.

He stared down for a second, at Ishaan's body laid bare in the open like a ruined offering. Wind in his hair. Dirt on his elbows. Cum cooling across his abdomen.

Then he leaned in, and entered again. Missionary this time.

No teasing. No warning. Just a brutal push, like he owned the space.

The entire cock disappeared in one motion.

Deeper. Meaner. The angle obscene.

Ishaan arched instantly.

His toes curled. His cock twitched uselessly.

He wasn't even hard, but his body pulsed like it was begging for more.

"Oh... fuck... fuck--yes."

Vikram didn't let up.

He grabbed Ishaan's thighs, folded them toward his chest, and pounded down into him, balls slapping against spit-slick skin.

Ishaan's head tilted back. Eyes rolled. Every thrust knocked breath out of him.

"You're not hiding anymore," Vikram growled.

He looked down, not at Ishaan's body, but his eyes.

Wide. Wet. Ashamed.

That's what he wanted.

Not the moaning. Not the begging. But the break.

"This is what you are. This is where you belong." He pressed harder.

Ishaan moaned, legs trembling. The grass beneath him flattened, damp with sweat and cum.

Then they both froze.

Voices.

Somewhere below. Far off. But real.

A group. Tourists. Talking, laughing.

Ishaan's eyes went wide.

He opened his mouth, to say something, to warn, but Vikram slapped a hand over it.

"No."

The thrusts didn't stop.

"Let them hear," Vikram whispered, voice hot against his ear. "Let them know you're being ruined on a hilltop."

Ishaan whimpered behind his palm.

The next few thrusts came sharper. Crueler. Slower but deliberate.

Vikram pulled his hand back, just enough to let Ishaan speak.

"Say it."

Ishaan was gasping now. Voice a whisper.

"They'll... they'll hear."

"Say. It."

A pause.

Then, broken:

"I'm your slut."

"Louder."

Ishaan screamed.

"I'm your fucking slut!"

Birds scattered from the nearby branches.

And the tourists? Laughter faded. Footsteps passed in the distance.

Vikram grinned. Didn't stop.

"Good boy."

The scream echoed into the trees like a hymn. Vikram didn't care if the hikers below had heard. He almost hoped they had. Let them wonder what kind of man could make another forget the world just by being inside him.

He stayed deep inside Ishaan for a long moment. Let him feel it. Let him burn.

Then pulled out again.

"On top," he said. "Show me what else you remember."

"Don't act shy now," he added, slapping Ishaan's thigh as he moved.

"You rode me like a pornstar in Goa. Let's see if that muscle memory's still intact."

Ishaan's legs were shaking as he straddled Vikram.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Straddling Vikram like this, on top, in daylight, fully aware, felt more exposing than being bent over a rock.

But the moment passed.

His thighs tensed. And he lowered himself, moaning as he opened again.

They'd shifted positions again: Vikram now sitting on the grass, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock standing slick and thick from between his legs. Ishaan hovered above, still flushed, still leaking, thighs tacky with cum. His hands braced on Vikram's knees behind him as he eased down, the tip already lined up against his slick hole.

"Go on," Vikram muttered, voice sharp. "Seat yourself."

Ishaan moaned and sank down.

The stretch hit again, deep, searing, perfect. His eyes fluttered shut, spine arching as his hole swallowed Vikram's cock, inch by thick inch. He was already stretched, already filled to the edge, but riding him made it feel deeper. More devouring.

More dangerous.

Vikram reached up, gripping Ishaan's waist tightly, then sliding a hand up his back until his palm wrapped around Ishaan's throat from behind.

"Keep your pace," he said. "Don't fucking stop."

Ishaan began to ride.

For a second, he wasn't on the mountain.

He was on that hostel bed in Delhi, hips bouncing in the dark, the curtains closed, trying not to moan too loud.

But this was worse. This was daytime. Grass under his knees. A man under him, smirking like this was destiny.

He didn't stop riding.

Slow at first, grinding his hips back, letting Vikram sink in and out, wet sounds filling the clearing. His toes curled into the grass, thighs clenching as he bounced, ass slapping down again and again on Vikram's lap.

Vikram growled.

"Just like that. Bounce for me."

Ishaan gasped.

The hand around his throat tightened, not enough to cut off air fully, but just enough to make every breath feel precious. Earned.

"You're not riding for yourself," Vikram said behind him. "You ride for me. You ride because you fucking belong on my cock."

Ishaan picked up speed.

Sweat dripped down his spine, pooling at the small of his back. His hands slid forward, gripping Vikram's shins now, using them for leverage as he fucked himself on that cock, obscene and wet and feral.

Then he slowed, just a second, one hesitation too many.

Smack.

Vikram's palm landed hard on his ass.

Ishaan yelped.

"You stop when I say," Vikram growled. "Now bounce."

Ishaan whimpered and started again, faster this time, the slap still burning into his skin.

"That's my good boy. My little fucking machine."

Vikram's hand tightened on his throat again, and he sat up slightly, bringing his lips close to Ishaan's ear.

"For years you've been pretending this wasn't you," he hissed. "Dressing like a man. Fucking women. Acting straight."

He'd watched Ishaan disappear behind suits and startup jargon, dating models like that could cleanse him. But this was the truth: pink thighs bouncing, hole dripping, body remembering what his pride tried to erase.

He slammed up into Ishaan.

"But this leaking hole? This slutty little ass? It never forgot me."

Ishaan choked on a moan. His eyes were wide, mouth open, body twitching.

"You think this is a relapse?" Vikram growled. "A mistake?"

Another thrust. Brutal.

"No, Ishaan. This is the start of your real fucking life."

Ishaan sobbed aloud.

"You're mine now. My cumdump. My little bitch in tight pants with a plug up his hole just waiting for cock."

He rode harder, nearly crying, every word pushing him closer to the edge.

"Every hike. Every trip. Every hotel. I'm going to spread you open and fill you again. And again. And again."

"You think some girls, some job, some gym body changes this?"

"No, baby. That hole was always mine."

He thrust up again, brutal.

"Your body's just been waiting for my cock to come back and claim it."

"You had your chance to stop this in Goa."

Vikram's hands gripped his ass tight now, forcing him to grind slow.

"But now?"

Slap.

Ishaan screamed.

"Now it's too fucking late. Even if you cry, even if you run, this ass will remember who it belongs to."

"You could be fucking a girl tomorrow, missionary, lights off, all normal. But deep down, this loose, twitching hole will still ache for me."

And with those words.

Ishaan came like a fucking pornstar on camera, loud, messy, desperate.

No hands. Just hips grinding, hole fluttering, and Vikram's cock punching up into the softest part of him.

His body didn't ask permission. It just obeyed.

His cock jerked once, then erupted, spraying Vikram's chest with hot, eager filth. Strings of cum landed on pecs, collarbone, abs.

He watched it land, humiliated, but couldn't stop the sound that tore from his throat.

His whole body convulsed, trembling, quaking as his hole tightened around the cock still inside him.

He hadn't even meant to moan.

He wanted to hold it in. But it ripped out anyway, like his whole body needed to tell the truth.

Vikram laughed, short and dark. "You fucking put on a show, didn't you?"

"You're going to leak for me, ache for me, moan for me until you're old and ruined."

He slammed in deep, hard enough to jolt Ishaan's spine.

"This hole is my fucking legacy."

Then he paused, buried deep, cock pulsing but not spent, and held Ishaan there, impaled and twitching.

Their sweat steamed in the cool mountain air.

Ishaan sagged forward, limp with aftershock, barely able to hold himself up. His hole throbbed around the thick cock still lodged inside him, fluttering with each aftershock.

His ass burned with each bounce now, not from friction, but from overuse. Each time he lowered himself, it was like sitting down on something cracked open. His rim felt raw, swollen, wet.

Vikram looked down, at the streaks of fresh cum striping his chest and stomach, Ishaan's second orgasm still dripping warm down his skin.

He scraped two fingers through it, slow, deliberate, and brought them up to Ishaan's mouth.

"Eat it," Vikram said. Not a suggestion. A sentence.

Ishaan opened like it was instinct, slack-jawed, mind blank, face tilted for the drip.

Somewhere beneath that eager mouth was the same boy who once bragged about threesomes and tequila-fueled head. Now he sucked cum off fingers like it was scripture.

Vikram pushed his fingers in, deep, messy, smearing the salty mess across Ishaan's tongue, his lips, the back of his throat.

"You're leaking from both ends now," Vikram growled, thrusting his fingers in and out of Ishaan's mouth as he stayed buried inside his ass. "Filthy fucking thing."

Ishaan moaned around the intrusion, suckling, licking. His tongue dragged across Vikram's knuckles like he was starving for it.

Vikram scooped up another handful of cum and fed it to him again.

"You shoot your load like a little bitch," he growled. "Now swallow like one."

Ishaan didn't stop until Vikram's fingers were clean, spit-slick, glistening, sucked dry.

Then he paused, buried deep, cock pulsing but not spent, and held Ishaan there, impaled and twitching.

Their sweat steamed off their bodies in the cool mountain air. Ishaan was sagging forward, limp with aftershock, barely able to hold himself up. His hole throbbed, stuffed full, spasming around the girth still inside him.

Vikram's hands gripped Ishaan's hips firmly, then moved.

Without warning, he lifted him.

Ishaan gasped, caught off balance, muscles too loose to resist. Vikram slid out, slowly, obscenely, and the exit made Ishaan whimper. Cum slicked his inner thighs. He was already leaking.

Still, Vikram said nothing.

He guided Ishaan forward, rough but steady, to a nearby tree just a few feet away.

The bark was pale and peeling, warm in the light. Vikram pressed Ishaan forward, his chest scraping against the trunk. Ishaan braced his arms against the bark as best he could, still shuddering, his thighs wet with both their filth.

Bark bit into his nipples as he bent forward, the rough texture dragging painfully against his raw skin. It grounded him in the filth. His cock, still wet from earlier spills, smeared another weak trail down the tree.

"Hold on," Vikram said, voice quiet now. Dangerous.

Then he stepped up behind him, and entered again.

Hard.

He needed a different angle. Needed bark on his chest, dirt on his skin. Needed Ishaan to know that this wasn't a position; it was a punishment. A claim.

Ishaan jolted.

No easing in. No mercy. Just that thick cock driving into his already wrecked hole like it had a score to settle. It punched back in like it had a right. Like his hole had been waiting open just to welcome it back. The stretch was sharp, impossible, but his body took it, needy and ruined.

He choked on his own moan.

Vikram fucked him against the tree without buildup, like he was resuming a task unfinished. His hands gripped Ishaan's hips like tools. His chest grazed Ishaan's back with every forward slam.

It was feral.

It was focused.

It wasn't about orgasm anymore. It was about breaking him open.

"You thought you'd done your part," Vikram muttered, thrusting deep. "Thought cumming twice meant you were off the hook."

Ishaan whimpered, forehead pressed to the tree.

"But this isn't about you getting off."

A slap to his ass. Hard.

"It's about what I take."

He shoved in again, deeper, and Ishaan sobbed, already overstimulated, already boneless.

Vikram paused, just for a second, cockhead pressed against that raw, open hole.

Letting the tension build.

Ishaan trembled, unsure if he wanted it or feared it.

Then, Vikram pushed in. Not fast. Not hard. Just... deep.

Enough to make Ishaan scream into the bark.

But Vikram didn't care.

"You're doing so well," Vikram whispered, lips brushing sweat.

It wasn't affection. It was strategy.

The soft tone hit harder than any slap.

The fuck became something else. Something sharper. It wasn't loud; Vikram didn't grunt or pant or shout. He just moved, hips driving with a terrifying control, rhythm cruel and exact.

Ishaan had always been proud of his stamina.

He'd made women tremble. He could hold out for hours, edge partners until they cried.

But this?

Vikram wasn't fucking him for pleasure. He was reprogramming him. He wasn't here to make Ishaan moan. He was here to overwrite every straight fuck, every denial, every year Ishaan dared to forget what he'd been trained to crave.

His cock wasn't just thick. It was designed, shaped by hunger and discipline and vengeance. Every thrust carved into Ishaan something irreversible.

Each inch rewrote his insides, turning him inside out. There was no Ishaan before this. There was only now: open, dripping, wrecked around the man he couldn't escape.

Ishaan had nothing left.

His hole stretched wide, still clutching, still twitching. His cock hung limp between his legs, dripping the last of his second orgasm. His thighs shook.

Vikram's body was heat and punishment behind him, chest pressed tight, breath ghosting past his ear.

He didn't speak much now.

He let the fucking talk.

Hands at Ishaan's waist. Then in his hair. Then wrapped around his throat from behind, not choking but holding. Commanding.

Vikram's fingers pressed into the bruises he'd left hours ago. They fit perfectly. Like he knew exactly where to squeeze to remind Ishaan who'd broken him first.

The scent was unbearable.

Salt. Sweat. Bark. Pine. Sex.

Ishaan breathed it in like it was the only oxygen left.

His ass was sore. Raw. His breath came out in sharp, broken moans every time Vikram bottomed out. His entire body jerked forward with each impact.

And Vikram didn't stop.

Didn't slow.

Didn't finish.

He just fucked.

A mission.

A sentence.

A retribution.

Ishaan grunted, helpless.

"Say it," Vikram hissed. "Say what you are."

Ishaan sobbed. His voice was shredded.

"I'm... yours."

"What else?"

"I'm your... fuck... I'm your hole."

Vikram slammed in so deep Ishaan's knees nearly gave out.

"That's fucking right."

A long, ragged moan echoed into the trees.

And the forest said nothing.

Only listened.

The growl that tore from Vikram's throat was unlike anything Ishaan had ever heard.

It wasn't a warning.

It was a promise.

And then it hit: thick, molten, brutal. Vikram's cock pulsed hard inside him, and Ishaan felt it: the hot spurts painting his insides, flooding his stretched hole. Deep. Intentional. Endless.

One. Two. Three heavy ropes. Then a fourth, slower, thick like glue.

Vikram didn't collapse.

Didn't even pause.

He just exhaled, a long, brutal breath against the back of Ishaan's neck, and rolled his hips again.

Ishaan jerked forward.

"Wait," he gasped, "you... fuck."

But Vikram was still moving.

Slower now. Deeper. Crueler.

Each thrust was obscene, the sound different now. Slick. Wet. Sticky. His cum was sloshing inside Ishaan's used hole, and his cock kept pushing it in, sealing it deeper.

Claiming him.

"You thought it ended when I came?" Vikram said, low and sharp. "No, baby."

Ishaan shuddered at the word.

"I'm not done until your body knows who it belongs to."

He pushed deeper, slow and grinding. Ishaan gasped.

It was worse now.

Not the pain. The intimacy.

This wasn't sex anymore.

This was branding.

The way Vikram's cock moved inside him now, slow drag, slick press, that unbearable fullness, Ishaan could feel every nerve ending in his hole lighting up again, even though he was already wrecked. The stretch, the pressure, the squelching noise every time Vikram bottomed out, it humiliated him. It told his body that no matter how many times he came, it still belonged to this man.

"Say it," Vikram whispered into the crook of his neck.

Ishaan whimpered.

"Please."

"Say you want more." Vikram hissed, hand tightening in Ishaan's sweat-soaked hair. "Say it like a slut."

"Beg like your ass needs it."

Ishaan couldn't breathe. He was gasping against the tree bark, his cheek streaked with sweat and dirt.

Ishaan sobbed, broken wide, his voice shredded: "Please... need it, fuck... need your cock, your cum, everything... just use me, please... Vik."

Vikram smiled against his shoulder.

And gave it.

He shifted his stance, adjusted his grip on Ishaan's hips, and started thrusting again, not faster, just heavier. More deliberate. Like each thrust was pushing a new identity into Ishaan's body. Like Vikram was hollowing him out and rewriting him with every stroke.

It was ritualistic now: each thrust deliberate, slow enough to etch. His hips ground forward until Ishaan felt the base of Vikram's cock kiss the open curve of his ass, like a seal. Like he was being locked shut with ownership.

And then he pulled back, just to do it again. Over and over.

Ishaan had taken Vikram before.

But this?

This was something else.

He was opened. Owned. Bred. Fucked in a way that made the air taste different. Vikram's cock wasn't just inside him; it was a part of him now. Like a new organ had been installed in his body, and his pulse had adjusted around it.

"You're so full of me," Vikram murmured. "I can feel it leaking around my cock."

He was right.

Ishaan's thighs were sticky. His ass dripped with slick and cum. Every thrust made a low, vulgar sound, liquid and raw. His hole clenched involuntarily, trying to keep it all in, but Vikram just kept pushing deeper.

"You're mine," he whispered again. "You feel it now?"

Ishaan nodded. He couldn't speak. His mouth hung open, tongue twitching, brain useless.

He'd already come twice.

He should have been empty.

But now?

Now he felt more charged than ever. Like the act of being used, of being filled, had reactivated something in him. Something he'd buried for seven years.

"Seven years of pretending," Vikram said, as if reading his mind. "Seven years of fucking girls, dressing sharp, working out, hiding."

Ishaan moaned.

"All that time," Vikram continued, "this hole remembered."

He slammed in.

"This ass knew who it belonged to."

Another thrust. Deep. Sticky.

"Me."

Ishaan nearly came again.

His arms had long since gone limp. He wasn't holding onto the tree anymore; he was hanging from it. Bent over, hair soaked, chest streaked with sweat and cum, his hole absolutely ruined.

And Vikram?

He still wasn't done.

"You know what this is?" he whispered, still grinding inside him.

"This isn't reunion sex."

He leaned in, lips against Ishaan's ear.

"This is me taking back what's mine. I am taking your pride."

Ishaan let out a helpless, broken sob.

"You're going to remember this every time you walk," Vikram said. "Every step, every shift, every time you sit down. You'll feel me."

He pulled back. Slammed in again.

"You'll leak me for days."

Another thrust.

"Every time your thighs ache, you'll know who did it."

Ishaan broke.

That's what it felt like. Not cumming. Not releasing.

Just, breaking.

His throat let out a sound he didn't recognize, thin and raw, echoing through the trees like something dying.

His throat was dry. His eyes burned. His hips trembled each time Vikram's cock dragged through his overstretched, raw hole. The bark dug into his chest. His nipples scraped raw with every thrust. Blood mixed with sweat under his skin, and the wet slap of Vikram's hips against his ass sounded painful now, not just obscene.

Every movement now felt like it should be the last, but Vikram kept going. Slow. Deep. Inevitable.

Ishaan's third orgasm was nothing like the first two.

His cock wasn't even hard. It hadn't been since the second orgasm.

His cock lay soft, half-curled against the bark, but it still gave in.

It didn't rise. It didn't twitch.

It just let go, dribbling a weak, wet line of cum down the tree like his body was pissing out what was left of its manhood.

His cock twitched limply once, then again, and a thin spurt of cum spilled over the tree bark beneath him. No touch. No buildup. Just a worn body, surrendering again. The moan that left him wasn't even lust; it was a cry. Soft. Fragile. Grateful.

It wasn't a man's orgasm. It was something else. Something helpless. Something obscene.

His cock twitched. Not from arousal; there was nothing sexy left.

It was just obedience.

A signal that the muscle memory had taken over.

His body wasn't asking anymore.

It was reporting to its owner.

He didn't even feel the orgasm hit.

He felt the absence: the way his spine went cold, his stomach hollowed out, his mind blanked.

He felt emptied.

The cum that spilled wasn't an orgasm. It was surrender.

Vikram felt it, felt the trembling, the way Ishaan's whole frame spasmed around him, and looked down. "Fuck," he whispered. Not cruel. Not mocking. Almost reverent. "You just creamed yourself like a girl."

His hole clenched around Vikram's cock as it pulsed, milking it instinctively, like a pussy begging to be filled again.

Vikram didn't slow down.

He leaned over Ishaan's back, one hand wrapped around his throat again.

"Look at you," Vikram growled, holding Ishaan open. "Didn't even need a hard-on. Just needed my cock inside to tell you who you are."

Ishaan tried to speak. Nothing came.

Just a whimper, shaky, wet, pathetic.

Like a slut trying to say thank you.

Vikram pulled out inch by inch, watching the cum-slicked shaft emerge like it had been buried in something primal.

His cock glistened with Ishaan's insides.

The hole stayed open. Red. Beating. Shivering.

A string of slick clung between them: cum, spit, sweat, surrender.

It stretched.

Snapped.

Landed right where Ishaan's balls used to feel pride.

His knees gave out.

And still, his hole twitched, like it missed being filled.

He didn't fall. Vikram caught him.

Held him.

Just long enough.

Then knelt behind him and pressed his lips to the top of Ishaan's crack, almost reverent. He kissed the base of his spine, then licked a drop of cum off the inside of his thigh.

"You're dripping too much," he said.

Ishaan blinked, still bent over, hair matted, breath shallow.

If someone saw him now, they wouldn't think he'd had sex.

They'd think he'd been beaten.

Red slap-marks across his ass. Scratches on his back. A chest rubbed raw. Knees scraped, hole leaking, throat hoarse.

And through it all, a tiny, blissed-out smile at the corner of his lips.

________________________________________

Ishaan didn't move when Vikram reached into the small drawstring bag near the tree and pulled out the plug.

Not the pink one from earlier.

A black one now, firmer. Wider.

Ishaan saw it and made a soft noise.

"You want to keep me in?" Vikram asked softly.

Ishaan didn't speak.

He just looked over his shoulder, eyes glazed, lips parted.

He didn't nod. He breathed.

Vikram could read it. Put it back. Seal it in. Mark me.

So he did.

Vikram spit once, smeared it on the plug, then pressed the blunt tip against Ishaan's ruined entrance. "You're not even a man anymore."

Ishaan didn't flinch.

Didn't gasp.

He just pushed back, slowly, and let it slide in.

It clicked into place.

Not just the toy. The truth.

His body, open and pulsing, was no longer asking questions.

Only waiting for the next command.

The stretch made him tremble.

The seal of it made him sigh.

Owned. Again.

Vikram could've fucked him again right there. But that would've ended it too clean. Better to plug him up, make him carry the ache, the memory, the ownership, every step of the way down.

"Next time I see this ass," Vikram muttered, wiping his fingers on Ishaan's shirt, "I want it smooth. Shaved. Like the little thing you're turning into."

Ishaan's eyes fluttered.

"Yes, sir."

They didn't speak as they dressed.

The pink plug had rolled into the grass sometime during the chaos; Vikram found it, wiped it on Ishaan's t-shirt, and tucked it into his drawstring bag without a word.

The air on the trail back down the mountain was cooler now. Evening light dripped through the pine canopy, long golden streaks that caught in the dust. Somewhere far below, a horn honked. A bird scattered from a branch.

And Ishaan walked.

Or tried to.

Every step was a lesson in aftermath.

His thighs trembled. His calves felt hollow. The tight white pants clung to his legs like second skin, but they couldn't hide the way he moved now: slow, uneven, careful. Limping. His stride had changed. He wasn't walking back as the man who had gone up. His body had been used. And not gently.

His ass throbbed with every shift of muscle. The black plug inside him was wider than the pink one Vikram had first introduced. It stayed lodged deep, stretching him just past comfort, pushing into the sore places Vikram had fucked raw.

He could feel it, still slick, pulsing slightly from the warmth of his body, from the cum it held inside. Vikram had shoved it in without ceremony, and now it sat in him like a seal. Like a cork on a bottle already overflowing.

Ishaan winced.

The trail was uneven. Roots and stones and slopes that shouldn't have been hard to navigate on a normal day.

But today?

He'd been fucked for over an hour. Fucked on rocks and grass, up against bark and moss, with no care for softness or mercy.

His skin told the story.

His shoulder blades were scraped where Vikram had gripped them while rutting into him from behind on the forest floor. A thin cut ran along his right hipbone from when they'd rolled over gravel. His ass bore at least three full handprints, red, swollen, welted from the spanking he'd begged for and earned. His inner thighs were sticky with dried cum. His hair matted with sweat and soil.

His mouth still tasted like Vikram's sweat.

But worse, better, his hole twitched with every step. Not pain. Not quite.

A kind of haunted echo.

The sensation of being spread, over and over, beyond anything he'd known before. Vikram had been deep. Vicious. Slow in his second round, so cruelly deep that Ishaan had forgotten words. His prostate felt worn now. Used. Tender from repeated pressure. And yet, he felt himself clenching around the plug without meaning to. Like his body was still chasing the fullness of that cock, even with something already buried inside him.

He hadn't known it could feel like this.

He'd orgasmed three times. And the third, God.

The third hadn't even felt like an orgasm. It had felt like something stolen.

He hadn't been hard. His cock had hung soft, sticky, humiliated between his legs, and yet, cum had spilled out of it. Weak, dribbling. His body had obeyed, even when his mind had begged for a break.

He remembered how his knees had buckled. How Vikram had kept thrusting into him through it.

Ishaan swallowed hard, breath catching.

Vikram was walking ahead of him. Calm. Silent. Perfect posture. His shirt was buttoned again, but still half-stuck to his chest with Ishaan's earlier release. His hands were clean. His eyes never looked back.

He didn't need to.

Ishaan could barely keep up, but he did. Because stopping meant acknowledging just how wrecked he was.

And still.

Still, Vikram had been hard at the end.

Still thick. Still proud. Ishaan had felt it against his ass even after the plug went in. Vikram could've fucked him again. Would have. But he'd paused. He'd said nothing. Just looked at Ishaan's trembling legs. His dazed eyes. And knew.

One more round and you'd pass out.

It wasn't mercy.

It was strategy.

Ishaan knew it.

Vikram wasn't done. This wasn't a climax. It was a chapter break.

Because Vikram wasn't just a man who fucked.

He was a man made to fuck. To convert. To destroy pride and build something new in its place.

And Ishaan?

He was the blueprint of that destruction.

He felt it in his bones. In the rawness between his cheeks. In the filth drying under his plug. In how his cock wouldn't rise again, not because he didn't want to, but because Vikram had taken everything from him.

"You're crawling back. Plugged. Full. Owned."

That wasn't dirty talk anymore.

That was biography.

Ishaan stumbled slightly. His calf spasmed. His thighs shook with effort.

But he didn't complain. He just kept walking.

When they reached the resort gate, the sun was already low. Orange light spilled over the valley, but neither paused to admire it. They slipped in through the side path, past a group of aunties gossiping near the bonfire pit.

Dinner had already started. Chatter and clinks of cutlery floated from the banquet lawn. But they didn't go there.

They climbed the stairs to their room in silence, footsteps soft on the wood. Inside, the curtains were still drawn from the morning. The room was dim. Cool. The only sound was the soft click of the door as Vikram shut it behind them.

Ishaan stripped first. Silently. His t-shirt stuck to his back, damp from sweat and dried cum. He peeled it off, dropped it over the chair. Didn't look at Vikram.

Vikram did the same. No fanfare. Just muscle memory. His shirt landed somewhere near the foot of the bed.

No words.

They didn't fuck again.

They didn't need to.

Not yet.

Each climbed into their own beds. Naked. Still sore. Still full of memory.

The plug still inside Ishaan. The ache still inside both of them.

A single bedside lamp stayed on, casting amber lines across the room.

Neither said goodnight.

But the silence held something warmer now. Not peace. Not comfort.

Just the kind of tiredness that only comes after you've finally taken what you weren't supposed to want.

Outside, the lights of the valley flickered on. Day 3 was over.

The Sangeet was tomorrow.

________________________________________

???? Was that too much? Or not enough?

This chapter wrecked me. Writing it, shaping it, pushing it.

Ishaan came three times. Twice without touching himself.

Vikram's not just reclaiming him, he's reprogramming him.

Tell me your favorite moment. The most brutal line. The scene that made you moan or pause.

Is he still a man after that?

Or just a body waiting to be filled again?

The plug is in. The Sangeet is next.

And he's not done falling.