Reclaimed in Mussoorie Ch. 04

⚠️ Author's Note:

This is the chapter where Ishaan stops pretending.

No denials. No excuses.

Just surrender, one scene at a time.

On stage, he dances.

In the bathroom, he begs.

And in the mirror, he finally sees what he is.

________________________________________

The room was still dark when Ishaan stirred.

Somewhere outside, a koel called into the early morning chill, its voice slicing the silence before the first rays of sun could pierce the mist veiled across the mountains. Mussoorie was half-asleep, the resort quieter than usual, no footsteps in the corridor, no chatter from balconies, no housekeeping trolleys trundling past.

Inside their room, the air was thick, stale with sweat, and still charged from last night.

Ishaan shifted under the blanket, muscles tensing automatically, a slow throb uncoiling from the base of his spine. He flinched.

Everything hurt, his thighs sore and tight, his calves stiff, the inside of his ass raw, as if the mountain trail had left its marks not just on his skin, but inside him, a deeper trail, one that pulsed even now with phantom pressure.

And that's when he felt it, or rather didn't feel it.

He reached behind himself instinctively, fingertips grazing soft skin, bare and empty.

His heart gave a small, irrational skip, he turned his head slightly, groggy.

And there it was, the black plug, the thicker one, glinting faintly in the dawn light, lying against the sheet beside him, slick, wet, and smelling unmistakably of sweat, spit, and cum.

It must have slipped out during the night, after they came back from the hike, after Vikram had filled him so full he couldn't even think straight.

He reached for it, picked it up slowly.

His fingers slid across its wet surface, cool now, but coated with the unmistakable scent of the night before. His cheeks flushed, his hole gave a ghost of a twitch.

On the other bed, Vikram still lay facedown, naked, the sheets half-kicked off, his muscular back rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Ishaan's eyes skimmed the outline of his form, that shoulder, that waist, the scratch-marks Ishaan had left when Vikram had fucked him against a tree.

A part of Ishaan wanted to crawl into that bed, bury his face in Vikram's chest, and fall back asleep, another part wanted to ride him again until he blacked out.

But his body wasn't ready, not yet.

He swung his legs off the mattress, wincing as pain shot up his inner thighs, and limped to the bathroom, the plug still in his hand.

He paused at the dresser, the pink one was there too, back where Vikram had placed it two days ago, like a warning, a promise, an anchor.

Now there were two, a collection, his collection.

He turned the lock behind him with a soft click.

________________________________________

The water was steaming by the time he started to clean the plugs, one under the spray, the other lathered with soap. His fingers trembled, partly from exhaustion, partly from what came next.

When he stepped out of the shower stall to grab a towel, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Bruises, deep purple along his hipbones, faint red outlines of Vikram's palms across his ass, like the ghost of ownership. Scrapes on his knees from the forest floor, a crescent moon on his side, where Vikram's teeth had dug in.

His ass looked obscene, still puffed, slightly parted, slick.

And now it will be hairless.

His legs, stomach, and thighs all had light fuzz, his chest too, just a little, not like Goa, when he used to trim everything obsessively.

"Next time I see this ass, I want it smooth, shaved, like the little thing you're turning into."

The words echoed in his ears like a bell tolling obedience.

He stared into the fogged mirror, then reached for the razor.

He shaved his thighs first, then his calves, then carefully around the bruises on his knees. The chest came next, just a fine dusting of hair around his pecs and belly button, gone now, his arms, his underarms, even the insides of his wrists.

Only his ass was left.

He hesitated, then turned toward the door.

"Vikram," he called softly. "Come here."

No answer.

He opened the door a crack, the room beyond was brightening slowly, pale light spilled across the floor.

Vikram stirred on the bed, he raised his head slightly, brows furrowed.

Ishaan stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped low around his waist, his chest gleamed faintly, steam still clinging to his skin. His legs, now smooth, caught the light.

"I need help," he said simply.

Vikram sat up, his body a catalogue of power, sheets slipping down to his lap, his cock resting heavily on his thigh, dried scratches painted across his shoulder.

"With what?" His voice was low, gravelled.

Ishaan turned around, dropped the towel, bent slightly.

"I couldn't reach the back."

Vikram exhaled, slow and dangerous, he didn't reply immediately.

But Ishaan heard the creak of the bed, the soft sound of bare feet on the floor.

When he finally stood, he gave Ishaan a light tap on the ass. "Come," he said simply.

They returned to the bathroom, the lights were harsh, the air sharper. Vikram reached for the razor.

A moment later, warm fingers gripped his hips.

Vikram knelt, and took his time.

Vikram didn't speak, he gripped Ishaan's hips with both hands, thumbs resting against the curve of his lower back, the rest of his fingers pressing lightly into that soft, muscular ass. Vikram's eyes trailed over the skin, the bruises from last night had bloomed darker overnight, red splotches where he'd slapped, deep thumb-presses where he'd held on too tight. There were faint scrapes from tree bark, a trail of dried spit and sweat down his inner thigh.

Vikram noticed something else too now, fine, downy hairs catching the light across the curves, a subtle dusting that made the ass look even more obscene in contrast: boyish and filthy at once. And lower, just above the rim of his hole, was the slightly parted ring of flesh, twitching involuntarily every few seconds, still echoing with memory.

He stared at that for a long time, then dragged the razor slowly up Ishaan's right cheek.

The sound was crisp, hair against blade, blade against wet skin. Ishaan tensed slightly, then relaxed, his breath hitched with every careful motion, his fingers clutching the bathroom counter.

Vikram used short, practiced strokes, one cheek, then the other, then lower, along the perineum, where Ishaan lifted one leg slightly onto the counter, exposing more. He didn't have to be told, he knew what Vikram wanted shaved, he knew why.

"You've got cuts," Vikram murmured, almost to himself.

Ishaan's voice was quiet. "From the hike?"

"No." Vikram's hand ran down his hip, thumb pressing into a bruise just above his glute. "From me."

Silence.

Ishaan didn't answer, he just stood still, face turned away. The act of being shaved, back there, wasn't just practical, nor for cleanliness, but a ritual, a surrender, one stroke at a time.

And Vikram was reverent about it, he rinsed the razor, dabbed the skin clean with a damp cloth.

Then he spread Ishaan open gently with both thumbs, and just stared.

His breath caught, he could see it all now, his hole, raw and soft, slightly puffy and pink from being pounded into for over an hour. His balls hung heavy beneath, loose from sleep and heat. And his ass? A masterpiece, completely hairless now, gleaming under the light, marked by bruises, but otherwise smooth and soft, like something meant to be owned.

He leaned in, slowly, and licked.

Ishaan gasped, the touch was sudden, hot, electric.

Vikram's tongue dragged across his hole in a slow, deliberate circle, then again, then deeper, pushing past the outer rim, slicking him with spit. Ishaan's knees buckled slightly.

Vikram's hands kept him steady, no warning, no teasing, just pure, hungry rimming.

Ishaan couldn't breathe, his chest rose and fell fast, his cock, which had been resting quietly, started to swell.

But he didn't touch it, he couldn't.

Vikram's grip on his ass was firm, thumbs pulling him apart, his face buried between his cheeks like he was trying to drink something out of him. Every flick of his tongue made Ishaan gasp, twitch, and groan, he pressed his forehead against the mirror, sweat already forming on his spine.

Then he heard it, the wet slap of skin on skin.

Behind him, Vikram was jerking himself off, one hand on Ishaan's ass, the other working his own cock. He didn't stop rimming, just kept eating, licking, tongue thrusting into Ishaan's sore, twitching hole while his fist pumped faster.

Ishaan whimpered.

"Fuck, fuck, Vikram—"

"Don't talk," came the growl from behind him. "Just moan."

Ishaan bit his lip.

Vikram's mouth moved faster now, tongue circling, tongue fucking, spit running down Ishaan's taint, collecting in the folds of his ass. And then a muffled grunt, warmth.

Ishaan looked back just in time to see Vikram's cock explode, thick streams of cum painting his own abs, chest, and lower belly, some of it splattered on Ishaan's thigh, some hit the bathroom floor.

Vikram's breath came ragged, he leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Ishaan was shaking.

"Clean it," Vikram said.

Ishaan blinked. "What?"

"Clean. All. Of. It." He dragged two fingers through the slick mess on his own abs and held them out.

Ishaan got on his knees, licked, first the fingers, then Vikram's chest, his abs, his cock. He licked the tip clean, then sucked it into his mouth briefly, just once, enough to taste the salt, enough to feel it throb again, already thickening in his mouth.

Vikram grabbed the back of his head, just once, then let go.

Ishaan looked up, and waited.

Vikram stared down at him, eyes dark, chest still rising and falling.

Then he said it, calmly, without ceremony.

"From now on, you don't wear anything in this room," Vikram scoffed. "Not with a smooth and girly ass like this, you're my bitch in this room, and my bitch stays naked."

Ishaan swallowed, his heart beat faster.

Vikram stepped back, rinsed his hands.

Ishaan was still kneeling on the floor, still naked, still sticky, and completely, silently, obedient.

The silence between them thickened, Ishaan remained kneeling, the taste of Vikram's cum still on his tongue, lips damp, chest rising and falling with something slower than breath and deeper than shame. His skin tingled with a residual charge, not from contact, but from the simple act of being used, praised, marked, and then dismissed, all without a raised voice.

Vikram didn't acknowledge him at first, and then, finally:

"Get in the shower."

Ishaan rose without question, his knees ached, his thighs trembled just slightly from holding his own weight while Vikram devoured him. He stepped into the stall, turned on the water again.

The steam gathered quickly, curling up the mirror and fogging the tiles.

He didn't expect Vikram to follow, but he did.

A moment later, Vikram's broad, naked frame stepped in behind him, droplets still clinging to his chest from the sink, his skin radiated heat.

One hand reached past Ishaan to adjust the water temperature, the warmth surged down their shoulders, their chests, wet skin to wet skin, steam gathering between them like an embrace neither of them would name.

Ishaan didn't turn, he stood under the water, breathing, letting it pool between his shoulder blades.

Vikram moved closer, the space narrowed, their wet thighs almost brushed.

They weren't touching, not quite, but Ishaan felt the nearness like a hand already pressing down on his lower back.

"I should've taken you again," Vikram murmured at last, voice low and hot beside his ear.

Ishaan exhaled. "I wouldn't have stopped you."

Vikram's hands slid down to his waist. "I know."

A pause, then one hand slipped lower, just barely skimming Ishaan's bruised ass, grazing one cheek lightly, not a grab, not a grope, just a quiet confirmation, ownership with a touch of restraint.

Vikram leaned in.

"Look what I did to you," he whispered, his voice didn't sound proud, nor apologetic, but possessive.

His thumbs pressed lightly into each bruise, not hard, just enough for Ishaan to feel each one, the dent on his right thigh, the faint red print at the top of his left cheek, the still-sensitive welt where he'd been bitten near the base of his spine.

"You're full of me, all over."

Ishaan nodded. "I feel it."

Another pause, Vikram stepped back slightly, water rolled over his shoulders, down the ridges of his abs. He picked up the loofah from the ledge, squirted a line of body wash into it, thick and foamy.

Then he started washing Ishaan, not playfully, not erotically, not even gently, but deliberately.

First, his shoulders, then his back, his arms, the lather spread slowly across his skin, soft and clinical, but charged. Vikram's hand moved like a man tending to something he'd built with his own sweat, a man inspecting his work.

"Raise your arms."

Ishaan obeyed.

The loofah swept down his chest, across his nipples, over the flat of his stomach, then lower.

Vikram paused just above the crease of his groin.

"You're still leaking."

Ishaan didn't respond.

Vikram smiled faintly, he reached down, and smeared it in.

Ishaan jolted, his hips twitched forward.

"I didn't tell you to move."

"Sorry."

"You always say that."

Ishaan lowered his head.

Vikram reached around him, pressed the loofah against his chest and rinsed him front and back, letting the water cascade over every newly shaved surface.

His own body was wet now, too, soap trailing down his thighs, beads of water dripping from his jawline.

There was something intimate in the silence, not soft, not cruel, just a kind of truth neither of them had the vocabulary to name.

By the time Ishaan turned to face him, his eyes were half-lidded from the heat, his hair slicked to his forehead, the water making him look younger, his lips parted.

Vikram looked down, his cock was already starting to stiffen again.

Ishaan followed his gaze, but said nothing.

Vikram leaned forward, pressed his forehead briefly to Ishaan's, then stepped back.

"Out."

Ishaan blinked. "What?"

"We'll be late for breakfast."

Ishaan didn't move.

Vikram tilted his head.

"You don't get to decide when it ends."

That landed hard.

________________________________________

Ishaan stepped out of the shower slowly.

His legs still ached. His ass still throbbed. His cock remained soft but warm, blood humming under the skin like it knew better than him.

Vikram followed him out, grabbing a towel for himself.

Ishaan reached for one, but Vikram held it just out of reach.

Then dropped it onto the floor.

"Dry yourself with your hands."

Ishaan looked at him.

The smirk. The way his arms crossed. The cock still half-hard.

He understood.

And used his palms to brush the water off his thighs. His chest. His arms. No towel. No protest. Just the friction of skin against skin. Like a man learning how to be present in his own nakedness.

Vikram watched it all.

By the time Ishaan had finished brushing the water from his skin, the mirror had cleared just enough to catch his reflection.

He didn't recognize himself.

Not fully.

His body looked leaner somehow. Not physically. He still had the definition, the swimmer's torso, the sharp V at the waist, but something had shifted. His posture had changed. He stood straighter, yet with less certainty. His shoulders weren't hunched, but they weren't cocky either. His arms hung loosely at his sides. He looked... exposed.

Everywhere.

His skin gleamed from the shower, pale in places where the tan had faded. His legs, now hairless, looked longer, softer. His thighs bore the faintest of stretch marks, and his inner thighs still showed the outline of finger bruises from being held down hard. His chest was marked too: a light pink scrape where Vikram's teeth had grazed him.

And behind him, he could still feel the pressure of Vikram's gaze. He didn't even have to look.

"I meant what I said," Vikram said finally, reaching for the towel again, his towel, not offering Ishaan another.

Ishaan nodded.

Vikram dried himself slowly. Ishaan watched, silent. The movements were methodical. Shoulder. Chest. Stomach. Cock. Legs. It was watching a lion groom itself. Calm, but coiled. Powerful.

"You shave well," Vikram added casually, nodding at Ishaan's legs, his smooth chest. "Missed a patch near the back of your knee though."

Ishaan flushed. "I'll fix it."

"No," Vikram said. "I like the imperfection. It's cute."

That word hit harder than it should have.

Ishaan glanced away.

Vikram stepped forward, dropping his towel to the floor. He was fully dry now. Naked. Already hard again, or close to it. His cock hung thick between his legs, heavy with promise.

He didn't reach for Ishaan.

He didn't have to.

Instead, he walked out of the bathroom without another word.

Ishaan followed, naked, wet, still dripping in parts.

The room was brighter now. Pale morning light streaked through the curtains. Birds chirped somewhere on the balconies. Below, in the lower levels of the resort, they could faintly hear chairs being set out, some clatter from the kitchen, a few early risers laughing on the terrace.

The rest of the world was waking up.

But in here?

The rules were different.

Ishaan stood by the edge of the bed. Still exposed. Still waiting.

Vikram, now at the dresser, began picking through their suitcases with idle precision. He didn't look rushed. Just... thoughtful. He pulled out a pair of briefs. Tossed them aside. A t-shirt. Rejected. Then a pair of running shorts: tiny, black, flimsy.

He held them up.

"These."

"You want me to wear these out there?"

"No." Vikram's voice was flat. "I want you to stay naked in here forever. But since that's not an option..."

Ishaan exhaled a laugh despite himself.

Vikram turned to face him.

"Yes. For you."

Ishaan hesitated. "What about boxers?"

"No boxers. No lining. Just these. And a hoodie to cover that bruised body of yours."

Ishaan's cock stirred, despite the embarrassment flooding through him.

"You'll wear them for breakfast."

Vikram came closer, still holding the shorts.

His voice dropped.

"If anyone asks about the bruises on your thighs, you fell."

Ishaan swallowed.

"And the way I walk?"

Vikram smirked.

"Your little secret."

He handed the shorts over.

But didn't let go immediately. His fingers brushed Ishaan's as he held them.

Then, softly:

"You want to please me today?"

Ishaan nodded.

"Then look like you've been claimed."

Ishaan took the shorts.

And for the first time that morning, Vikram smiled.

Not cocky. Not playful. Just... raw.

Ishaan stepped into the shorts. No underwear. The fabric clung to his freshly shaven thighs, hugged the still-tender swell of his ass, and dipped slightly where his hipbones jutted. They were high-cut. Hugging. Unforgiving.

He zipped up a hoodie over his bare chest. It was loose and soft and fell low enough to cover his bulge. Barely. His legs, though, were on full display.

Vikram smirked.

"Perfect."

Ishaan didn't respond.

________________________________________

The shorts clung like sin.

By the time Ishaan stepped out of their room, the slick black nylon hugged his thighs with unforgiving precision. His freshly shaved legs caught the sunlight as they walked, bare, smooth, too exposed. The hoodie Vikram made him wear was oversized, hanging low enough to give the illusion of modesty. But it didn't hide the way the shorts cupped his ass, the faint bruises still blooming near his upper thigh, or the awkward stiffness in his gait that told a story no one else knew.

Except one man.

Vikram walked ahead, calm, loose-limbed, composed. One hand in his pocket. Not looking back.

Ishaan followed like a shadow.

The path from the resort rooms to the breakfast patio wound gently past a cluster of flowering trees. Sparrows chirped somewhere overhead. Waitstaff moved briskly in and out of the main kitchen. There was a breeze, mild and pleasant.

But Ishaan's skin prickled like he was being dragged through fire.

They reached the patio just as a few others from their dance group were claiming a table. White linens. Clinking glasses. A buffet table near the railing with steel cloches and a line of fresh chai being poured.

Vikram didn't hesitate; he walked straight to the corner of the table, took a seat, and poured himself a coffee.

Ishaan trailed behind.

It was the first time he'd been in public like this, with Vikram's rules clinging to his skin.

He felt... raw.

He sat down across from Tanmay, who gave him a once-over and arched an eyebrow.

"Damn, Ishaan. Someone's been doing leg day?"

The words landed like a slap. Ishaan forced a breath through his nose.

"Gotta keep up with Vikram, right?"

Tanmay chuckled. "Yeah, good luck."

No one else commented.

Vanya was already deep in conversation about her lehenga fitting. Someone else asked if the DJ had changed the tracklist for tonight's sangeet. The usual chaos. The usual noise.

But Ishaan couldn't focus.

He sipped his chai slowly, fingers wrapped tight around the steel cup, legs crossed under the table to hide the ache. Every time he shifted in his seat, the fabric of his shorts tugged against his inner thighs, reminding him, again and again, of what he'd become.

What he'd let Vikram make of him.

What he couldn't deny anymore.

And then there was Vikram.

Sitting diagonally across, calm as ever, sipping his black coffee.

He hadn't looked at Ishaan once.

But Ishaan still felt it.

The weight of it.

The knowing.

Under the table, their knees brushed once.

Not an accident.

Vikram didn't move.

Neither did Ishaan.

It was a silent press of power. Invisible to anyone else. But Ishaan felt his pulse leap, his skin crawl with heat. His body, still loose from the night before, still leaking memory, tightened in response.

Vikram eventually leaned back, stretched his arms above his head, the hem of his kurta riding up slightly to reveal a glimpse of abs.

Ishaan looked away.

Downed the rest of his chai.

And tried not to think about how wet he still felt between his legs.

How the taste of Vikram still lingered faintly on his tongue.

And how, even here, surrounded by friends, sunlight, and breakfast buffets.

He didn't feel human.

He felt owned.

________________________________________

By midday, the group had gathered in one of the indoor banquet halls for dance rehearsals. The room was massive, wood-paneled, mirror-lined, with AC vents humming overhead. A speaker system was already pumping low Bollywood beats. Someone had brought protein bars and lime water.

They were about fifteen people total, bride and groom's friends, the Sangeet core crew. The choreographer was a wiry man in his late thirties with a ponytail, sharp energy, and an iPad full of pre-recorded steps. The choreographer ordered them all to circle up.

"This is not a drill, people. Sangeet's tonight, and I've got a bride on my back and a best man with two left feet."

Laughter. Groans.

People stretched. Shoes came off.

"Alright!" the choreographer called out, clapping twice. "You all got your dance videos in advance, right? Today we just bring it together. Formations. Pairwork. Smiles. Let's go!"

"Let's do partner pairings," he said once the warm-up ended. "No stress. Go with someone who matches your height and vibe."

Before Ishaan could even glance around, he saw it.

Aditi had already walked up to Vikram.

She tilted her head. "We work, right?"

Vikram smiled, all confident ease. "Yeah. Let's try."

Ishaan blinked. And looked away.

The rest of the pairings sorted themselves out. Ishaan found himself opposite Trisha, another bridesmaid. Pretty, easy to talk to, already smiling at him like they had some kind of rhythm figured out.

"Go easy," she teased, "I haven't danced since college."

Ishaan chuckled. "We'll wing it."

They began learning the duet moves, four-step sequences, a quick spin, a hip brush, a dip. It wasn't difficult. He picked up fast. She was light on her feet. Their bodies aligned easily.

And Ishaan enjoyed it.

Trisha's hands felt soft on his shoulders. She was flirty, warm, responsive. He let himself relax into the motion, feel the music in his limbs, let a bit of that old charm return. He smiled at her jokes. Took the lead. Got her to laugh once. Maybe twice.

It was nice.

Almost enough to forget the simmering heat rising from the floor.

Almost.

Because every time they paused between segments, every time Ishaan turned toward the mirror to reset his posture, he saw them again.

Vikram and Aditi.

Dancing close. Laughing.

And it wasn't just any girl. Aditi was the hottest of the bridesmaids, no question. Hair to her waist. Big, knowing eyes. The kind of confidence that came from being wanted. She moved like she was used to drawing attention. Ishaan had clocked her the moment she walked in on Day 1. She'd even flirted with him over chai. There'd been a time, literally yesterday, when he might've made a move.

And he still could. He knew that.

He still wanted women. Still got hard at the right curves, still imagined thighs around his face, tits in his hands. That part hadn't changed. Not fully. He was still mostly straight. Still someone who'd go back to flirting, to fucking, to chasing what he'd always chased.

Just not today.

Not here.

Not with Vikram in the room.

Because when Vikram was close, when his voice was in Ishaan's ear, when his palm was on someone else's waist, every woman vanished. Became less.

Now he watched Aditi spin into Vikram's arms.

Watched Vikram's hand settle low around her waist.

Watched Aditi lean into him slightly after a clean turn, her laugh a little too bright.

And it didn't make Ishaan jealous.

Not exactly.

It made him aware.

Of the hollowness.

The ache.

A space inside him that used to belong to women, to seduction, to the easy, straight-coded charm he once wore like cologne. And now? Now he didn't want to be with Aditi.

He wanted to be her.

To be the one Vikram guided. The waist he steadied. The presence made more electric by his touch.

He thought of last night, being bent over a rock, pinned against bark, Vikram's cock driving into him until his legs shook. He remembered the third orgasm: a soft, broken whimper, his own dick soft, his hole leaking. Nothing had ever undone him like that.

And now, here he was. Sore. Still stretched. Barely able to keep up with Trisha's steps. Watching the same man who had filled him like no one else act like none of it had ever happened.

Because to Ishaan, everything had changed.

And to Vikram?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, just maybe, something had. Something he wasn't showing yet.

Ishaan turned from the mirror. Focused on the steps. Forced his limbs to stay in rhythm.

But inside, his gut twisted, not with jealousy, but with clarity.

He hadn't just lost his shot.

He'd surrendered it.

And for what?

For the man now teasing the same girl Ishaan could've pulled with ease. The man who'd bent him over a rock. Fucked him into moaning. Stuffed him so deep Ishaan had cried out hands-free into pine-soaked air.

He turned away from the mirror.

Focused on Trisha's steps. Repeated the combo. Forced his body to stay in rhythm.

But in his mind, Vikram's fingers were still on Aditi's waist.

The rehearsal dragged on.

Two hours passed in sweat and soft choreography scolding. Ishaan barely noticed his legs tiring. His hoodie stayed on. He didn't strip like the others. He couldn't. The bruises. The soreness. The sharp reminder of the black plug that had come out of him slick with cum this morning.

By 5:30 PM, the music finally stopped.

The choreographer clapped his hands.

"Good work. You've got an hour and a half till showtime. Eat something, hydrate, change into your outfits. And don't forget to smile like you're not hungover."

The group laughed.

People scattered quickly, some heading toward the buffet, others toward their rooms to shower and change.

Ishaan lingered for a beat.

He turned, just in time to see Aditi still chatting with Vikram by the mirror. Her hand brushed his arm. He said something that made her laugh.

They didn't move.

Ishaan left.

________________________________________

The suite was empty when he walked in.

Still dim. Still silent.

He shut the door behind him, peeled the hoodie off, and dropped it on the chair.

The shorts followed. Then his socks.

He walked to the edge of the bed. Lowered himself slowly. Knees to the carpet. Palms resting on his thighs. Chin tucked.

He waited.

Naked.

Exactly how Vikram would want to find him.

A few minutes later the door clicked shut behind him.

Vikram didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

There was Ishaan, already on his knees. Naked. Back straight. Hands on his thighs. Head bowed, like a penitent sinner before the altar. His skin glowed faintly under the low hotel light, shaven, flushed, marked. His cock hung heavy, untouched. And beside him, on the carpet, the plug Vikram had left out this morning gleamed faintly, waiting.

It took everything in Vikram not to smirk right away. Not because he didn't enjoy it. He did. But because this had to mean something more.

He walked in slow, casually unzipping his jacket, toeing off his shoes, the click of each movement echoing between them. Ishaan didn't look up.

Good.

Because Vikram needed this pause.

He needed the weight of the moment to settle.

Vikram walked into that room with full awareness of the game he was playing.

From the outside, he was composed, breezy, charming, smooth. The kind of man who looked like he didn't have to try. But beneath that? Controlled fury. Tactical heat. A singular focus burning under skin.

He hadn't chosen Aditi during dance practice by accident.

He'd seen how Ishaan clung to her, like a shield. A hetero crutch. A soft, fake fallback to keep his pride intact. Vikram had fucked that pride out of him last night, but this? This was cleanup. A correction.

So he yanked the safety net away.

Took her.

Danced with her.

Held her waist like he owned it. Brushed his lips close when he laughed. Let his hand drag, slow and loose, over the soft swell of her hip. Not because he wanted her.

Because he wanted Ishaan to see it.

To feel it.

To ache.

To remember exactly what he'd begged for the night before. What he'd bent over for. What he'd whimpered for with his ass spread and his mouth leaking filth. That wasn't confusion. That wasn't a mistake.

That was need.

Even when Trisha touched Ishaan, dragged her nails down his arm, Vikram didn't flinch. He watched. Filed it away. Didn't react. Just steered harder. Tightened the leash. No confrontation. No jealousy. Just pressure.

Because silence, when wielded right, stings harder than any slap.

And now? That same leash, thick, invisible, wrapped around Ishaan's throat, was being pulled from the other end.

Ishaan, kneeling. Naked. Skin flushed. Eyes begging.

Tugging the leash with both hands.

He's not spiraling, Vikram thought.

He's craving.

And he's already turning to follow.

Finally, Vikram stepped forward. Slowly.

Deliberately.

He unzipped his fly in one slow pull. The sound cut through the silence like a blade.

Ishaan looked up.

Eyes soft. Waiting.

Vikram let the silence stretch. Let it grow uncomfortable. Then, low, casual, deadly smooth:

"Jealous?"

Ishaan didn't answer.

Vikram stepped closer.

"Wanted to be Aditi today?"

Still silence.

He let his cock fall out, thick, flushed, already semi-hard.

"Think I'll fuck her tonight instead?"

That made Ishaan flinch, just slightly.

Just enough.

Vikram smirked.

Ishaan crawled forward.

The first touch wasn't even skin; it was breath. Warm, moist air as Ishaan leaned in, lips parted.

Then: a single lick. Soft. Testing.

Vikram didn't say a word.

He just watched.

Ishaan's tongue traced along the underside of his shaft, slow and reverent, like he was reacquainting himself with something divine. The weight of the cock. The heat. The smell.

Another lick.

Then, his lips wrapped around the head. Just the tip. Like a secret.

A moan escaped Vikram's throat. Barely a sound. More exhale than voice.

Ishaan pushed deeper.

Slow.

Then slower still.

One inch. Two.

His throat opened like memory, no gag. Just a tremble in his jaw, a tightening in his cheeks.

Then three inches.

His lips flushed pink. Spit began to bead at the corners of his mouth. His hands rested on his own knees, obedient, unmoving.

Vikram's voice dropped again. Low. Cruel. Filthy.

"You ever think what it'd feel like to watch me take her?"

Ishaan didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Didn't stop sucking.

Vikram's hand cupped the back of his head. Just enough pressure to guide, not force.

"Her riding me, tight, loud, messy, while you sit in the corner? Plugged. Dripping. Watching."

Ishaan gagged, just slightly.

Recovered.

Went back in deeper.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Vikram muttered, his voice curling into something darker. "Watching me fuck a girl right while your hole leaks from last night."

Ishaan's cock twitched between his thighs.

Still untouched.

Still hard.

Still aching.

He twitched again, reflexive, useless. His hips jerked forward like his body forgot it wasn't allowed. But his hands stayed on his knees. Shaking.

Vikram thrust gently into his mouth, hips moving slow and controlled. Wet sounds filled the room. The suck. The drag of spit. The obscene slurp when Ishaan pulled back to breathe.

He didn't look up.

Not yet.

His lips dragged across the shaft. Again. Again.

"Or maybe I'll line you both up," Vikram added. "Make you beg like real bitches. Her pussy. Your pussy. See who leaks more."

"Bet she screams when I fuck her. You just drool."

That got a moan.

Low.

Muffled.

But real.

Vikram grabbed his chin.

Pulled him off with a slick pop.

Ishaan gasped, his jaw sore, spit stringing between lip and cock.

"Use your tongue. Worship it. Earn it."

Ishaan obeyed instantly. He leaned back in, licked up the length, kissed the swollen head, then sucked again, slow and deep.

Vikram grunted.

"You're a natural cocksucker? Barely took any training."

Ishaan moaned.

Didn't stop.

Didn't touch himself.

Ishaan's eyes shifted to the mirror. What stared back was obscene: his lips stretched wide, drool glistening, cheeks hollowed around cock. A mess. Vikram's mess.

Ishaan choked.

Vikram didn't ease up.

His grip tightened at the base of Ishaan's skull, guiding him forward, slow, relentless, punishing. Ishaan's lips were stretched wide around the thick girth of cock slicked in spit and pre-cum, and his throat was trying, failing, then yielding again.

Another inch down.

Then another.

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. His jaw ached. His lips were numb.

But he didn't stop.

Not even when his nose pressed into Vikram's groin. Not even when he gagged so hard his whole body jolted. He took it. Mouth open. Throat offered.

Vikram looked down, groaning low under his breath. His cock throbbed. His thighs tensed. The sight was too much.

The broken man on his knees.

The barely-there breathing.

The raw, wet surrender.

"Fucking perfect," Vikram growled.

Then he yanked him off again, hard.

"You want it?"

Ishaan nodded, spit-strung and desperate.

Vikram waited. One beat. Two. Then shoved him back down.

"Then take it."

He didn't give warning.

Didn't need to.

His orgasm ripped through him without sound, just a low hiss between clenched teeth. Ishaan felt it, then tasted it: hot, bitter, sudden. The cock spasmed against his tongue as Vikram held him in place. Thick ropes spilled down his throat. Ishaan didn't flinch.

He swallowed all of it.

Every drop.

The taste coated his tongue, hot, bitter, intimate. He didn't grimace. He held it. Savored it. Like a secret.

When Vikram pulled out, his cock was still hard, still twitching slightly, gleaming with slick. Ishaan licked it clean without being told. He kissed the head once, soft. Then sat back on his heels, panting, lips red and wet, cum still coating the back of his throat.

Ishaan's cock throbbed between his legs, angry, swollen, untouched.

A drop of precum clung to the tip, thick and humiliating. It slid down, staining his thigh. He didn't dare wipe it.

Vikram zipped up slowly. Like there was no rush.

Then he bent, grabbed something off the dresser, and tossed it lightly in front of Ishaan.

The black plug.

"Put it in," he said, voice level. "We're already late."

Ishaan stared at it.

Not surprised.

Not reluctant.

Just momentarily still.

Then he picked it up.

He spat into his palm, rubbed the lube along the base. He'd done it enough now that his fingers didn't hesitate. His body responded like it remembered.

He knelt beside the bed and lifted one leg up. His hole, still slightly loose from the shower, still sensitive from yesterday, fluttered when the tip touched him. He pressed it in slowly.

He gasped.

The plug popped past the ring with a slick stretch. His hips jerked slightly at the sensation. The toy settled in place. Ishaan let out a low, involuntary whimper. His hole fluttered around the intrusion, greedy now. His cock jerked again. He pressed his forehead to the edge of the bed, panting.

His hole clenched around it, and for a moment, he felt everything.

Full.

Empty.

Claimed.

Vikram watched him through the mirror.

"Don't leak," he said, smoothing his own kurta. "Not onto your sherwani."

Ishaan didn't answer.

His cock twitched again. Still no release. His balls ached.

But he didn't ask.

They dressed in silence.

Vikram in deep emerald green, sharp angles, crisp cuts.

Ishaan in ivory, rich fabric, minimal embroidery, tight collar. Regal, like he was made to be looked at. Like no one could guess what lay inside the folds.

Vikram helped him button up.

Fingers brushed Ishaan's smooth chest. Slid over his ribs. Lower.

He paused at the waistline.

Ishaan's breathing stuttered.

He hadn't even touched himself, and yet, his cock was still hard. A dark stain had formed along the front of his undershorts.

Vikram didn't mention it.

Just buttoned the last clasp.

Adjusted the collar.

And stepped back.

As they turned toward the door, Ishaan glanced sideways at the full-length mirror.

He didn't recognize himself at first.

He looked... poised. Elegant. Controlled. Like someone who knew how to command a room.

No one would guess he was plugged.

That he'd just been mouth-fucked like a toy.

That his hole still fluttered from the stretch. That his stomach still twisted with unreleased heat. That he was leaking into his underwear even now.

But he knew.

Every step toward the Sangeet pushed the plug deeper. Every word he'd have to say tonight would come out of a mouth that had swallowed another man's cum just twenty minutes ago.

His cock was untouched.

His body? Owned.

He walked forward, head high, like nothing had happened.

But inside?

Everything had.

His mouth still tasted like him. His ass still clenched around the toy. His body still begged for touch. But all he got... was the Sangeet.

________________________________________

By the time they walked down to the lawn, the sangeet was already in full swing.

Lights crisscrossed overhead like falling stars, sharp against the Mussoorie mist. The stage was elevated at the far end of the lawn, glowing under spotlights. A curved LED screen behind it flashed pictures of the bride and groom, from childhood candids to pre-wedding photoshoot glamour. Laughter rang like bells. Someone popped a bottle of champagne off to the side. Aunties in heavy lehengas twirled slowly to the music as cousins in sequined saris filmed them for reels.

Ishaan and Vikram were two steps behind their group as they entered. Their friends peeled off toward the bar, already laughing, already flushed from the afternoon.

Ishaan was barely holding it together.

His sherwani was too tight around the thighs, intentionally so. Gold-threaded cream fabric that shimmered under the fairy lights. His cock hadn't been touched since their hike. His hole was plugged. The heavy black silicone seated snug inside him. He'd plugged himself under Vikram's watchful eye earlier in the room, lubed it with spit, sealed it with silence.

Now, every footstep pushed it deeper.

He felt it shift when he laughed too hard at one of Harsh's jokes.

Felt it clench involuntarily when he spotted Aditi in the crowd.

She looked radiant, crimson lehenga, backless choli, hair swept up with gold pins. And she was clearly waiting for someone.

Vikram.

Ishaan glanced sideways. Vikram stood still, drink in hand, expression unreadable.

Then he turned toward the bar. "Whiskey?"

"Just Coke," Ishaan muttered. His throat was too dry for anything else.

Tanmay slapped him on the back. "You dance better drunk, bro. Don't pussy out tonight."

Ishaan faked a grin. "Just saving it for later."

The lights dimmed.

A spotlight clicked on the stage.

The emcee's voice boomed across the lawn: "Get ready! Opening act, groom's cousins doing Gallan Goodiyan!"

A roar from the crowd. Music started. Drums kicked in.

And so it began.

Family after family took turns on stage, choreographed routines, uncles half-stumbling through their steps, teenage cousins spinning perfectly in sync. The bar kept pouring. Someone handed Ishaan a drink. He didn't ask what it was, just sipped. Breathed. Focused on staying upright, plugged, composed.

"Couples next!" shouted the choreographer. "Groom's friends and bride's friends, get into position! Pair up!"

It had been rehearsed. Everyone knew who was dancing with whom.

Vikram was with Aditi.

Ishaan had been paired with Trisha, sweet, warm, and flirtatious.

They took the stage as the emcee called out: "And now, Kunal's boys and Natasha's girls! Let's go!"

The music changed, something upbeat, cocky, perfectly rehearsed.

Ishaan took his mark.

Across the stage, Aditi winked at him once before turning toward Vikram.

And the moment the beat dropped, it began.

Pairs in motion. Spins. Switches. Ishaan grabbed Trisha's hand, lifted her into a twirl, spun her into a dip. He heard the applause, felt the lights heat his face. His body moved without thinking. All muscle memory.

Except for the plug.

Every bounce of his hips made it nudge something deep.

Every footfall jostled it with cruel, thrilling friction.

He kept his smile up. Kept Trisha's hand firm in his. She looked amazing. Her laugh was real. Her touch playful.

And still, his eyes drifted sideways.

Vikram danced like he didn't care. Lazy-sexy. Perfect timing, relaxed shoulders. One hand on Aditi's waist, the other gesturing to the beat. His smile had just the right touch of smugness.

Ishaan saw it in flashes. A smirk as Aditi twirled. Fingers grazing the small of her back. A laugh that made her clutch his arm a little tighter.

It wasn't that he was jealous.

It was that she'd taken his place.

The dance routine ended to a wave of whistles and claps.

Ishaan stepped back into position, panting slightly, sherwani stuck to his skin.

"Group photo!" the choreographer called. "All dancers, stage front!"

They huddled in tight rows, adjusting dupattas and collars, brushing sweat from their faces. Ishaan knelt slightly in front, crouched between Harsh and Santosh. Trisha stood behind him, still giggling.

Vikram came up last, taking the spot directly behind Ishaan.

"Three... two..."

Ishaan felt it.

A hand, hot, wide, confident, slid down his spine.

Paused at his waist.

Then cupped his ass.

Firm. Unapologetic. Right on the plug.

The click of the camera flash hit mid-grope.

Vikram's hand lingered.

Then fell away.

"Another one!" the photographer called.

This time, Vikram didn't touch him.

But Ishaan's cock twitched once. Then again.

No one else noticed.

Or if they did, no one said anything.

They filed off the stage.

Ishaan grabbed a beer from a passing tray. Downed half.

Vikram was already drifting toward Aditi again.

And the night was far from done.

________________________________________

The lights on the sangeet stage were still pulsing in slow cycles when a bunch of the boys drifted off toward the back lawn. The air had cooled, the crowd had thinned, and the groomsmen, buzzing from open-bar whiskey and shared adrenaline, were half-laughing, half-stumbling into the next act of the night: decompression.

The lawn behind the main pavilion sloped gently downward, edged by a thicket of pine trees. A few scattered chairs, one folding table, two Bluetooth speakers playing retro Bollywood at low volume. A bottle of rum appeared from someone's jacket. A metal flask passed from hand to hand.

Vikram walked with one hand in his pocket, silent, confident. Ishaan was a few paces ahead, the dark fabric of his sherwani hugging his hips tighter with every step.

Then.

Smack.

A loud, open-palm slap landed square across Ishaan's ass. Crisp. Echoing in the cool mountain air.

Ishaan jumped, startled. The pain was sharp. Immediate. The sound had been obscene.

"Broooo," Anshul wheezed, laughing. "You're still on his ass after all these years, haan?"

Harsh grinned. "Vikram's been eyeing that thing since second year, don't lie."

Mukul cut in, louder: "It makes sense. It's not even a normal ass. This fucker's got a girly ass. Round, high, soft. Shit actually jiggles."

Vikram didn't miss a beat. "Tell me this guy doesn't move like he wants to be pinned."

The boys burst out laughing, half-shocked, half-hyped.

"Shut the fuck up," Ishaan grinned back, smoothing his kurta as if it hadn't been jolted sideways.

And then Vikram added, deadpan:

"Give him two more drinks, I might finally tap it tonight."

More laughter. Harsh whooped. "Broooo, chill!"

"Consent first, please!" Anshul snorted.

Vikram didn't miss a beat, his voice low and calm. "He wouldn't need much convincing. The minute Ishaan sees me hard, he'd drop to his knees and plead for whatever I give him. Trust me, he'd be begging to be fucked by me if it came to that."

The boys went silent for a split second, before the laughter came back, louder this time, more reckless.

Ishaan gave a crooked grin, voice flat. "Y'all keep fantasizing. Let me know when you're done."

The others kept laughing. The moment passed. Or at least, it seemed to.

They reached the lawn and began settling in. A couple of folding chairs. One guy sat directly on the grass. Someone had snagged a pack of Marlboros. Ishaan lit one without looking. His hand trembled slightly, though it didn't show.

But inside?

The sting of Vikram's slap still radiated across his cheek.

He felt the plug shift with every breath.

It pulsed, dully, deliciously, with each beat of his heart. The plug had been in since before sangeet. And now, combined with the shock of public humiliation, it made his hole twitch with shame.

He exhaled slowly. Tried not to squirm.

He was almost impressed. Vikram had basically just said, out loud, how it started in Goa between them. How Ishaan had begged for it.

And still, no one flinched. No one really heard it.

They laughed, shrugged, moved on.

Ishaan took another drag. Let the smoke cover the heat in his face.

The truth had walked naked through that moment, and no one had looked twice.

Vikram sat across from him. Legs spread wide. Elbow resting on the back of his chair like a man entirely at ease. He hadn't even glanced at Ishaan after the slap. He didn't need to.

Ishaan crossed his legs to hide the pressure building in his crotch.

Then the women arrived.

Aditi. Trisha. One more bridesmaid Ishaan didn't know by name. Sonali and Vanya from Kunal's friends' circle. All of them in various degrees of buzzed, heels off, hair slightly messy, glitter and jewelry gleaming in the soft garden lights.

Aditi headed straight for Vikram. "There you are."

He looked up, smiling. "Missed me already?"

She rolled her eyes, but took the empty chair beside him anyway.

Trisha flopped onto the grass near Ishaan. "Dance partner!" she chirped. "You killed it up there."

Ishaan smiled. "Only 'cause you didn't miss a step."

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder.

Conversations split like little rivers: crosscurrents of gossip, jokes, drunken declarations of friendship. Anshul was half-heartedly trying to explain cryptocurrency to Harsh. Vanya and Sonali had hijacked the speaker to play a Honey Singh throwback. Someone passed a joint; someone else offered a Diet Coke.

Ishaan drank slowly.

Across from him, Vikram was lounging, drink in hand, one leg crossed over the other, fingers lazily playing with the stem of his glass.

Aditi leaned in close, whispering something. Vikram chuckled. Said something back. She tossed her hair and laughed harder.

To anyone watching, it was textbook flirtation.

But Ishaan saw the angle of Vikram's gaze.

Even while Aditi spoke, his eyes tracked him.

Not always. Not obviously. But enough.

Each time Ishaan shifted on the grass, he felt the plug dig a little deeper. His hole clenched around it. Not pain, just presence. His body's reminder that even fully dressed, even surrounded by friends, even with a girl leaning against his shoulder.

He was owned.

And worse?

He wanted more.

________________________________________

It started with a glance.

Vikram set his drink down. Stretched like he was just tired of the chair. "Back in five," he said to no one in particular.

He didn't look at Ishaan.

But Ishaan had already felt it. The signal. The unspoken now.

He waited fifteen seconds, made a show of laughing at something Trisha said, then stood too. "Bathroom," he muttered.

He didn't need to say whose.

The private guest bathroom just beyond the lawn was dimly lit and rarely used, tucked beside the lower banquet hall, away from the crowd. Vikram pushed the door open, stepped inside, and left it unlocked.

Thirty seconds later, Ishaan entered and twisted the lock behind him with a sharp click.

The silence was immediate. Loud with the weight of expectation.

Vikram stood near the sink, arms folded, eyes unreadable. Silent.

Ishaan stood there, flushed, breath uneven, erection stiff beneath the layers of his sherwani. The plug inside him had felt unbearable for the past hour. Now it was torture.

His plug was still in.

His cock was leaking.

He hadn't touched himself since the hike. Not once. Not without permission.

Ishaan took a step closer. Then another. His voice cracked when he spoke.

"Please... I need to cum."

Nothing from Vikram.

Ishaan's throat tightened. "I haven't since the hike. Since you... since you fucked me open. I've been plugged since before sangeet. I'm leaking through my underwear."

Still nothing.

Ishaan's voice dropped to a whisper. "You told me not to touch myself. And I didn't. Because it's not worth it. Because it's only ever that good when it's from you. When you fuck me. Or eat me out."

Something flickered in Vikram's face, not pity, nor kindness.

Ownership.

He stepped forward slowly. Raised a hand. Took Ishaan's jaw and tilted it up.

"So desperate," he murmured. "So obedient."

He turned him roughly, bent him over the sink.

Ishaan gasped as his chest hit the cold counter. His hands gripped the edges.

Vikram yanked down his pants. The black base of the plug sat snug between flushed cheeks.

Still warm. Still snug inside.

Vikram tugged. Slowly.

Ishaan whimpered.

A wet pop echoed in the tiled space as the black silicone slid free. A string of slick clung to the plug and Ishaan's rim. The sound was obscene.

"Look at that," Vikram murmured.

Ishaan's eyes met the mirror.

He was bent forward. Mouth parted. Chest heaving. And between his thighs, his hole twitched. Open. Gleaming.

"Your hole's so stretched it didn't even clench."

Ishaan closed his eyes in shame.

But that only made it worse.

Vikram undid his own pants, just enough to pull his cock out, thick, warm, hard. He let the head drag up Ishaan's taint, pausing right at that slick, twitching hole, not entering, just letting it rest.

Ishaan moaned.

Vikram smiled.

"You want it too much," he said. "That's the problem. So you don't get cock."

He leaned in close, voice darker. "I'll give you something worse."

He stepped back.

"Spit."

Ishaan turned, mouth open instantly. Vikram shoved three fingers between his lips.

"Suck. Coat what's going to split you open."

Ishaan sucked them deep, cheeks hollowing, eyes dazed. He moaned around them.

Vikram pulled them out slowly.

Then pressed just one finger against Ishaan's entrance.

It slid in, slow, wet, partial. Barely the first knuckle.

Ishaan gasped, hips rolling back instinctively. Wanting more.

Vikram paused. Didn't move.

"Fuck yourself on them," Vikram said coldly. "If you're that desperate."

Ishaan did.

He began to fuck himself on the single finger. Desperate. Needy. Silent except for the wet sounds and his own breath.

After a minute: "Please. Another."

Vikram smiled. Added the second. Just as slow.

"You don't even ask like a man anymore."

Ishaan was squirming now. Blushing. His cock leaking against the counter.

He rocked back harder. Grinding. Eyes locked on the foggy mirror.

Vikram stared at him through the reflection.

"You'd do this for hours if I let you," he murmured. "Just use yourself on my hand like a bitch in heat."

Ishaan moaned again. His shame deepened. But he didn't stop.

He couldn't.

Vikram finally checked his watch.

"We've got five minutes," he said calmly. "And you're moving like a virgin on prom night."

Without warning, he shoved a third finger in.

Ishaan gasped, his knees buckled slightly, his moan sharp and helpless.

Vikram didn't pause. He gripped Ishaan's hip, pulled him flush, and began to fuck him with his hand. Not gently. Not to tease. This was use.

"This is what you want?" Vikram growled. "Say it."

"Yes," Ishaan gasped. "Please. Please, fuck me. I need to be used."

Vikram curled his fingers deep, found that spot, the one that made Ishaan's whole body seize.

"You like this better, don't you?" Vikram muttered. "Fucking yourself on my hand like it's a cock. Like a fucking girl."

Ishaan moaned, hips twitching.

Vikram leaned closer. "Aditi's already halfway into me. Saw the way she looked at me tonight?"

He thrust harder. Ishaan whimpered.

"If Trisha walked in right now and saw you like this, drooling, stuffed, pathetic, she'd drop to her knees for me too. Because girls want a man. Not some needy little fuckdoll like you."

Ishaan's moan turned into a choked sob. His cock slapped the counter, leaving trails of precum with every thrust.

"What would the guys say, haan? If they knew what their buddy was doing right now? That the same ass they joke about is stretched open on three of my fingers?"

Ishaan whimpered, voice cracking. "They don't know... they won't..."

"You'd let them, wouldn't you?"

Ishaan's spine stiffened. "No."

"You'd let Harsh bend you over?"

"No."

"Anshul?"

"No. Only you."

Vikram grabbed his chin, turned his face toward the mirror.

"Then say it. Look at yourself and say it."

Ishaan's voice was barely a whisper. "Only you."

Vikram's eyes darkened.

"You'd take them if I told you to, though. Wouldn't you?"

A pause. A shudder.

"Yes. I'd take them if you told me to."

"Exactly," Vikram hissed. "You're mine to give."

He slammed his fingers deeper, faster, curling them relentlessly against Ishaan's prostate. The sound of it was obscene, wet, sloppy, sharp. His hole was leaking. Vikram didn't need lube, Ishaan's body had made its own.

"You don't need cock. You just need to be filled."

Ishaan was shaking. Thighs trembling, hands barely holding onto the sink.

"You've been aching for this since I licked your hole while shaving you this morning. You couldn't even focus through breakfast."

Ishaan cried out, high, broken, desperate.

"You gonna cum like a whore?" Vikram growled. "Fucked open with three fingers?"

Ishaan's voice was a whisper. "Please... please... daddy..."

He just drove his fingers deeper, twisting them cruelly until—

Ishaan's back arched. His whole body went tight.

Vikram grabbed the back of his neck again, forced his head up.

"Look."

Ishaan opened his eyes. The mirror showed everything.

His own flushed face. Red cheeks. Eyes glistening. Mouth slack and wet.

"You're not a man right now," Vikram growled. "You're a fucking hole."

The words hit like a slap.

Ishaan's cock twitched violently. His ass clenched around the fingers.

And then he came.

No warning. No stroking.

Just a full-body spasm as his orgasm tore through him.

His cock jerked, untouched, spraying cum across the mirror, the sink, the countertop. White streaks on cold granite. His thighs. The floor.

He cried out, soft, muffled by the crook of his own arm.

But Vikram didn't stop.

Fingers stayed buried. Moving slowly. Pressing into the same spot until the last twitch faded.

He whispered, "You took three fingers like nothing. Might try a whole fist next time."

Ishaan twitched. Moaned again. His whole body sagged against the sink.

Sweat beaded along his spine. His hole fluttered helplessly around the fingers still inside.

He couldn't speak.

Could barely breathe.

And then, Vikram pulled out.

With one final twist of his wrist, he smeared the cum on Ishaan's thighs, down the inner curve, until it mixed with sweat and spit and whatever slick had spilled out of him during the night.

"You done crying?" he asked, voice casual.

Ishaan didn't reply.

He couldn't.

He looked around for a towel.

Didn't find one.

Used Ishaan's kurta instead.

Wiped his fingers clean on the soft cream fabric without hesitation.

"Sluts like you don't need clean clothes," he muttered.

He didn't raise his voice. Didn't smirk. Just said it flat, like it was fact. "You came untouched. From fingers. On my time."

A beat later, "you'll remember that tomorrow. While you're smiling for group photos, leaking under your fucking churidar."

Ishaan didn't speak. Just stayed bent.

Vikram reached down, picked up the plug from where it sat on the side of the sink.

"Clean the mirror. Plug back in. Smile like nothing happened."

With that, he tucked the plug into Ishaan's palm, opened the door, and walked out.

Still dressed. Still dry.

Ishaan stood there. Shaking. Pants around his thighs. Cum dripping down both legs.

He looked at the mirror again.

He looked ruined.

Not just from what had been done to him, but from what he'd asked for.

He reached for paper towels. Wiped the mirror. The counter. The sink. His own thighs.

Each movement felt mechanical. Detached.

When he bent over, slowly, carefully, and pushed the plug back in, it slid in with almost no resistance.

His hole welcomed it.

Like it missed it.

He redid his pants. Washed his face.

Avoided the mirror.

And stepped out into the night, smiling.

________________________________________

The resort lawn hadn't changed.

Same string lights overhead, glowing amber across tipsy heads. Same low murmur of music drifting from the banquet speakers. Same open bar, now with fewer mixers and more whisky on the rocks. The groom's friends were deeper into their jokes. The bridesmaids had melted in, laughing over inside stories they weren't part of but enjoyed anyway.

Ishaan stepped back into it all as if nothing had happened.

No one looked up.

No one asked.

Ten minutes. A blink in the timeline of a wedding night.

He walked slowly, each step echoing more than it should. The plug sat snug again inside him, still warm, slick with spit and filth. His pants were too tight. The inner seams clung to his thighs where the skin still shimmered faintly, not entirely cleaned.

His hole was twitching. Sore. Claimed.

His cock—soft but swollen—rested heavy against his thigh, sticking slightly with what hadn't been wiped clean.

He moved through the space like a ghost who had been fucked back into flesh.

On the far end of the circle, Vikram was lounging. One arm resting over the back of his chair. A glass in his other hand. Smiling lazily at something Aditi had said. She leaned into him, bright, confident, a little drunk. Her laugh was full-bodied, and her nails were cherry red.

His smile didn't break. Not even when his eyes flicked, just once, to Ishaan.

A flicker. A leash pulled taut.

That was all.

Ishaan took his place next to Trisha again. She didn't notice anything. Just leaned against his shoulder, warmth spilling off her like sunlight off glass.

"You took long," she murmured, voice lilting with liquor.

He gave her a soft smile. "Washroom queue."

"Ugh." She rolled her eyes. "This place needs more bathrooms."

He nodded. Said nothing.

Because ten minutes ago, the mirror had shown him what he was.

Now, no one could see it, but he still felt it in every step.

And now, she was resting her head on the same shoulder that had been shoved against tile.

On the other side of the circle, Vikram laughed again, deep and low, eyes twinkling at Aditi. She nudged him with her foot, teasing something Ishaan couldn't hear.

But he knew the sound of Vikram's voice when it was composed. When it was calibrated.

That wasn't flirtation.

That was control.

Ishaan shifted slightly.

The plug moved deeper inside him. His breath hitched. Trisha didn't notice.

Someone lit a cigarette. Passed it around. Anshul made a dirty joke about the sangeet choreographer that had everyone groaning.

Aditi leaned in to whisper something else to Vikram.

He smirked. Took another sip.

Didn't look at Ishaan again.

But Ishaan didn't need him to.

He could feel it: the heat of ownership. The echo of fingers inside him. The slick filth between his thighs.

And beneath the cotton of his pants? A black silicone plug, nestled deep.

He smiled softly into his glass.

No one knew. But one of them owned the night.

Eventually, the circle thinned. Someone stood, someone else yawned, and the group drifted toward the suites. Ishaan followed Vikram through the garden's back path, each step pressing the plug deeper. The night air turned cooler as they slipped into the hallway.

________________________________________

The hallway spun slightly as they walked. The hotel's decorative sconces cast soft golden rings on the carpet, and everyone's footsteps had the lazy drag of too much whisky and not enough food. Someone was still giggling. Tanmay dropped his key. Vanya made a joke that no one really heard, but they all laughed anyway.

Ishaan blinked slowly, his vision just a half-second behind his footsteps. His body felt warm, loose, buzzed all the way down to the marrow.

His mouth was dry. His skin too hot beneath the sherwani. The whisky hadn't worn off; it had just burrowed deeper.

The plug pulsed inside him with each step.

When they reached their door, Vikram unlocked it. Let Ishaan walk in first.

The lights stayed off.

Behind him, the door clicked shut.

Ishaan moved to his side of the room and undressed without thinking. His hands fumbled slightly with the buttons. Fingers not clumsy, just distant. He was still riding the slow hum of liquor, every movement dipped in cotton. Jacket off. Kurta peeled over his head. Churidars shimmied down his legs. Underwear stripped, folded, forgotten. His cock, soft, faintly damp, hung heavy, barely interested. His thighs were streaked with dried spit and sweat and the faintest trace of earlier release. He didn't bother to hide it.

The plug was still in.

He didn't take it out.

Across the room, Vikram stepped onto the balcony, the glass door sliding open with a soft hiss.

A moment later, he called out, voice low, casual: "Get out here."

Ishaan obeyed.

Naked. Barefoot. Plug still buried inside.

The Mussoorie night was colder than before. The mountain air bit softly against his skin, making his nipples tighten, his breath hitch. But he stepped out, joining Vikram, who stood shirtless, just a pair of loose cotton pants slung low on his hips, a cigarette between two fingers.

He didn't speak. Just passed Ishaan the lighter.

They smoked in silence. The smoke hit stronger than it should have. Vikram's head already floated from the last three drinks. The nicotine blurred what the whisky hadn't.

Side by side. The breeze ghosted across Ishaan's chest. His feet were cold. The railing pressed against his thigh.

The plug shifted.

Vikram flicked ash over the edge. His gaze was somewhere far, into the dark trees, the winding road lit only by the occasional passing headlight. But his presence was all over Ishaan. Quiet and steady. Unshakeable.

Eventually, Ishaan spoke, barely audible. "I'm sore."

Vikram glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable in the dark.

"You're mine," he said. Low. Final.

"Any time I want. Any way I choose. Bent over a sink, stuffed full at a wedding, or silent under the covers. Doesn't matter."

He exhaled, slow and even. "You take it because I give it. Because you know it's better when it's me."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he reached out and placed a hand flat on Ishaan's lower back.

A single, steady touch.

Not a command. Not a tease.

Just presence.

They stood that way until the cigarette burned low. Until the cold started sinking deeper.

Back inside, they moved without words.

Ishaan went to the bathroom first.

He removed the plug, slowly, gently, and let it fall into the sink. His hole fluttered. Gaped faintly. He cleaned himself with slow, methodical movements. Warm water. A careful towel. No urgency. Just the wreckage of what had been done and the duty of restoring the body to stillness.

Vikram came in after. They didn't speak.

They passed each other in the doorway: one man raw, the other composed.

Vikram undressed slowly, methodically. His body still carried the edge of arousal, but it had faded now into something else. Ownership. Warmth. Satisfaction.

Ishaan collapsed onto Vikram's bed.

Didn't even reach for his own.

He curled up instinctively, exhausted, spine aching, hips loose. His thighs trembled faintly from the day's pounding. His back bore faint bruises. His ass, red and stretched, ached with every breath. He pulled the blanket over him with a kind of gratitude that bordered on surrender.

Vikram slipped into the bed a minute later.

Naked.

Warm.

He wrapped an arm around Ishaan's middle. Pulled him back until his chest met Ishaan's spine, his legs folded into the curve of Ishaan's thighs. Spooned him fully. Possessively.

His cock rested, semi-hard, in the groove of Ishaan's ass.

Not demanding.

Just... there.

Breathing met breathing.

Skin against skin.

No words.

Just the slow, rhythmic thump of Vikram's heart against Ishaan's back, the rise and fall of two exhausted chests, the subtle spread of heat from bodies that no longer needed to perform.

They smelled like sweat and whisky and fogged-up glass. The bed tilted gently beneath them, or maybe that was just the alcohol still turning in their blood.

Ishaan didn't know when he drifted off.

But he knew the last thing he felt was Vikram's cock resting in the same place it had ruined. It was the soft weight of the man who had claimed him. And it was the hum in his own chest that finally, wordlessly, understood:

He was owned.

And he was safe.

Just before Ishaan's eyes closed, Vikram leaned in behind him, his voice low, calm, right against his ear.

"You didn't touch yourself once," he murmured. "Plugged all day, dripping... and still you waited for me to make you cum."

He paused, breathing steady.

"That's what a good slut does."

A single kiss against the back of Ishaan's shoulder. Not tender, just confirmation.

________________________________________

The room was dim, veiled in the faint gray light that comes just before dawn. Curtains still drawn, cold mountain air humming faintly against the windows. The only sound inside was slow breathing and the occasional shift of weight on the mattress.

Ishaan stirred.

His eyes blinked open to shadow and silence. His head throbbed faintly, not a sharp pain, but the dull, sticky echo of too many drinks. Whisky. Rum. Coke poured by a distracted bartender and handed off between sweaty palms and cigarette smoke.

His body was warm, far too warm, pressed into the familiar bulk of another chest behind him. He didn't need to look to know whose breath kissed the nape of his neck. Vikram's arm lay heavy over his waist, one broad hand loose against his stomach, anchoring him. And lower?

God.

Vikram's cock lined up his ass crack, half-hard now, nestled like it belonged there. Ishaan's thighs clenched instinctively. He realized he'd been grinding in his sleep, slow, rhythmic, a subconscious rutting he hadn't even registered.

His hole ached.

No plug.

Not since last night, when Ishaan had pulled it out.

Ishaan's hole had not been fucked since he'd collapsed after being finger-fucked to climax in the resort bathroom, standing there trembling and plugged and desperate.

Now, plugged no longer.

Just... empty.

And every nerve in him knew it.

He shifted slightly, testing how much pressure he could take without waking Vikram. The movement dragged that thick, warm cock across his crack. His breath hitched. Vikram didn't move.

Ishaan exhaled quietly. Swallowed.

They'd never talked rules explicitly. But the rhythm of the last few days had made things clear: Vikram owned the timing. The use. The reward.

Still.

Vikram had said it, "You're mine. Any time. Any way."

Ishaan clung to that line like permission. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was just the excuse he needed to get what he wanted right now.

His body was humming. Used and sore but needy all over again. That hunger hadn't left him since the hike. Since the tree. Since the fuck that had split his pride in two.

He needed it again.

Now.

Moving slowly, breathlessly, Ishaan reached back, felt for Vikram's cock, already thickening. Just a brush of his fingers and it twitched. Still asleep, but alive.

He gathered saliva in his mouth. Spit into his palm. Twice.

His hand slid between his cheeks, rubbing slickness along his hole, working it in. He gasped softly, still tender. Still stretched. But not enough.

Never enough.

He pushed back, guiding Vikram's cock into place, then adjusted his knees, widening just slightly. A better angle. Deeper breath.

Now.

He eased down.

The blunt head met resistance, slick but tight. His whole body clenched.

And then, with another push, it slipped inside.

Ishaan bit the inside of his cheek to stay quiet. The stretch burned. Familiar, but fierce.

He didn't stop.

He rode it. Slow. Controlled.

One inch, then two. Then retreating. Then back again.

Vikram's cock slid inside like it belonged, slick with spit, heavy, hot. His breath hitched again.

Ishaan bit his lip hard.

"Fuck..."

He wasn't even trying to cum. Not yet.

This was about being filled. Owned. Lit from the inside out.

Ten minutes passed in a haze of friction and surrender. The room stayed silent except for the wet drag of cock inside hole, the faint sound of Ishaan's shallow breaths, and the rustle of the sheets shifting with every thrust.

Each time he sank down, he took more. Deeper. Greedier.

He fucked himself like it was a prayer. Like repentance. Like rebellion.

Because he knew he wasn't supposed to.

And he wanted to be punished.

That was the worst part.

He wanted Vikram to wake up and find him like this, needy, filthy, disobedient.

A gasp escaped him as he bottomed out fully for the first time, his thighs trembling.

That was when he felt it.

Vikram's hand tightening around his waist. Not gently.

His breath changed.

Then:

"Fucking serious, Ishaan?"

Ishaan froze. His chest heaved. Vikram's voice was low, rough with sleep, but not soft.

Not pleased.

"Couldn't wait till morning?"

Vikram's breath was hot, tinged with whisky. Not sloppy, just darker. The kind of drunk that didn't fumble. Just lowered inhibitions until the truth poured out like spit.

"You really thought I'd sleep through you fucking yourself on me?" he muttered, slurring just barely. "You think my cock doesn't notice when you start begging with your hole instead of your mouth?"

Ishaan tried to breathe. To speak.

Didn't manage either.

Vikram spoke crueler, "you are riding my cock without permission."

A beat. His voice dropped lower. "What is it now, your personal dildo? Something you just stuff in when you get needy?"

Vikram's other hand slid up Ishaan's back, gripping the nape of his neck, and shoved him forward into the mattress.

"You fucking yourself like a needy little slut?"

The mattress dipped. Weight shifted behind him.

Ishaan's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because he knew what was coming next.

And he wanted all of it.

Ishaan barely had time to brace before Vikram's hand knotted in his hair and yanked his face sideways into the pillow. The other fist clamped his hips in an iron grip.

The room tilted faintly when Vikram shifted behind him, liquor and lust knotting in the air.

Ishaan's own head spun, not from fear, nor nerves, but from the long pour of rum hours earlier that still hadn't settled. His knees wobbled not from lack of sleep, but from heat and drunken surrender.

"Couldn't wait till morning, huh?" The words were a growl, hot against Ishaan's ear. "Fucking your own ass like a whore."

Ishaan tried to answer, tried to say yes, yes, I needed it, but the sound dissolved into a gasp as Vikram slammed forward, burying the last thick inch that Ishaan hadn't dared to take on his own. No lube beyond spit, no gentle give. Just a single, ruthless push that seated Vikram to the hilt.

Air left Ishaan's lungs in one broken exhale.

The burn slid into a throb, then into something hotter, darker, pleasure edged with pain. His fingers clawed at the sheet. It felt like being broken and rebuilt in one thrust. Like finally being caught doing what he most wanted to be punished for.

Vikram's hips slammed forward with drunken confidence, like a man too full of liquor to care how loud the bed got or how rough the rhythm turned.

Vikram didn't pause; he pistoned straight back, drove in again, the mattress groaning beneath the sudden violence.

"You knew I'd punish you," he hissed, setting a pace that felt like a hammer. "That why you did it?"

Ishaan could only nod, cheek mashed to cotton, drool slicking the corner of his lips. Every thrust punched a grunt from his chest. His cock, trapped between stomach and sheet, wept a fresh bead with each slam.

"Answer," Vikram barked, palm coming down, smack, across Ishaan's right butt-cheek, still red from the night before.

"Yes!" Ishaan gasped. "Wanted it, wanted you to..."

Another slap. Then a thrust so deep Ishaan nearly screamed, the blunt force of it detonated pleasure behind his navel, bursting white behind his eyes.

"You're getting punished," Vikram growled, voice all gravel and breath. He shifted his weight, yanked Ishaan up onto his knees, dragging his hips high, thighs wide. Every slam forward struck that spot inside with relentless, bruising precision.

Ishaan's orgasm hit like a landmine.

No hands, no mercy, just Vikram's cock pounding the ruin into him. His whole body locked; his hole clamped tight. His cock twitched once, twice, then released, a thick spurt painting the sheets below. His cry was sharp, muffled into the mattress, hair clinging to his face, knuckles white against the bed.

Vikram didn't stop. His thrusts stayed steady. Brutal.

"One," he muttered, low and final. "You're not done."

Ishaan whimpered, breath catching. His cock was already softening, slick and limp from the force of the first orgasm. But he didn't have time to catch his breath.

Vikram's arm snaked forward, and for the first time in seven years, he touched Ishaan's cock.

But not with a fist. Not even a full hand.

Just his thumb and forefinger.

A slow, clinical stroke, measuring, unimpressed.

Ishaan moaned in shock. His hips bucked.

Two fingers. Not to pleasure. To humiliate.

"You wanted to cum so badly," Vikram murmured, breath hot against his shoulder. "You fucked yourself on my cock. Now you'll cum again."

He didn't ask.

He commanded it with each deep thrust, each flick of his fingers over Ishaan's half-hard, oversensitive cock. The touch wasn't even meant to arouse. It was possession, degradation, a reminder of how little Ishaan needed to be made to break again.

His cock twitched in Vikram's grasp. Pathetic. Soft.

The strokes stayed slow. Two fingers, dragging over the slippery shaft like it didn't deserve more.

"This all you've got left?" Vikram's voice was soft, cutting. "This used to be a cock. Now it just leaks when I tell it to."

Ishaan sobbed, body shaking, thighs trembling, the stimulation too much, too sharp, too raw. His hole burned, stretched wide, stuffed full. His cock wasn't ready, but it didn't matter.

The second orgasm spilled from him like shame.

It didn't burst; it leaked.

Thin pulses ran down Vikram's hand, wetting his fingers in broken spurts. Ishaan collapsed forward again, arms giving out, body sagging under the weight of it all. His lips parted in a breathless moan, too wrecked to speak.

Ishaan sagged forward, but Vikram wasn't done.

With his clean hand, he fisted Ishaan's hair and yanked him upright, dragging him into a cruel arch, chest lifted, spine bent like a bow, throat bare.

Ishaan gasped, neck exposed, cock limp and leaking between trembling thighs. His small balls clung close, drawn up and spent. His hole was stretched wide, swallowing every inch of the cock that owned it.

Vikram's body loomed behind him, solid, sweat-slick, terrifying in its composure. His cock stayed hard, thick, veined, grinding mercilessly into the oversensitive heat inside.

His big balls swung forward with every thrust, slapping loudly against Ishaan's smaller ones, the rhythm obscene.

Their bodies locked: one man used, emptied, wrecked. The other, unrelenting.

Vikram's eyes met Ishaan's in the mirror. The reflection was brutal.

Ishaan looked ruined. Flushed. Sweat-slick. Lips parted. But in his eyes? Shame and satisfaction, twin flames flickering beneath the wreckage.

Vikram's gaze held no pity. Just hunger. He was fucking like an animal, deliberate, steady strokes, deep and slow, his abs tightening with every push.

Behind him, Vikram's rhythm changed.

Deeper. Harder. He was close.

Ishaan could feel it, every throb of the cock stretching him, every pulse tightening.

Then it hit.

Vikram slammed in, held tight, and came, a full-body quake, nostrils flaring, teeth clenched. Thick pulses spilled into Ishaan's guts, deep and endless.

But even as he groaned, his hips didn't stop.

He kept fucking through it. Small strokes. Pressed deep. Refusing to let Ishaan go.

Pulse after pulse. Slow. Relentless.

As the last wave pulsed through him, Vikram raised his cum-slicked hand, the one that had stroked Ishaan's cock just minutes ago, and brought it to Ishaan's lips.

Without breaking rhythm, he fed the fingers in.

Then Vikram leaned in, breath brushing Ishaan's ear. "Lick."

Ishaan opened obediently. The taste of his own cum and sweat and filth coated his tongue. He moaned faintly, tongue working between the digits, licking them clean.

Vikram's other hand kept him upright by the hair, forcing him to suck while the cock inside him continued those slow, devastating thrusts.

Only then did Vikram exhale and shift slightly, but he didn't pull out.

His cock stayed buried, still hard.

He could've gone again.

Ishaan knew it. Felt it.

But instead, Vikram let him collapse forward into the mattress, his own body following slowly down, cock still locked inside, not softening.

Ishaan could feel it—the weight, the stretch, the proof of difference between them. He was empty, soft, drained, twitching.

Vikram?

Still thick. Still hard. Still inside.

Nothing needed to be said.

The message was clear: one of them had come twice and crumpled.

The other hadn't even softened.

Then Vikram turned to his side, dragging Ishaan back with him, their bodies still joined. His hard cock stayed sheathed, sealing the leak of cum inside the other man's spent, twitching heat.

A final murmured threat drifted across Ishaan's ear: "I will punish you properly in the morning. Remember that."

Ishaan managed a tiny nod, eyelids fluttering. The sheets were damp beneath him, the room still gray with pre-dawn light. Vikram's breath steadied first, long, even, possessive gulps of air that warmed the back of Ishaan's neck.

Ishaan exhaled, boneless. His hole throbbed around the slowly shrinking thickness plugging him, every faint shift an echo of belonging. The smell in the room, sex, sweat, spit, felt like a blanket heavier than the duvet.

He drifted.

And just before he slid under, it registered: Vikram's arm cinched tight at his waist, cock still lodged in his body, pulse syncing to his own.

Owned even in sleep.

The sun had not yet cleared the ridge outside, but the final day of the wedding hadn't even begun, and Ishaan had already been claimed. Filled. Marked. Made his.

Both men slept again, fused together, the room holding its secret in the hush before morning noise would break it.

________________________________________

???? Let's talk.

The face-fucking. The mirror. The plug. The sangeet. Ishaan's been used, shaved, denied.

But tonight, he took.

Ishaan came without permission. Straddled Vikram. Used his cock. Ground himself to orgasm.

And Vikram didn't stop him. He just whispered: "I'll punish you properly in the morning."

So what should that punishment be?

Tell me what you think Vikram should do. Because the wedding isn't even over yet. And Ishaan's already acting like a cock-hungry slut.