Reclaimed in Mussoorie Ch. 05

⚠️ Author's Note:

The punishment begins.

But the worst blow isn't a hand.

It's the reveal.

________________________________________

Ishaan drifted in a haze of half-sleep and soreness, face turned toward the dim window. His head pulsed with a faint hangover. Not sharp, but sticky and slow, the ghost of too many whiskies still clinging behind his eyes.

The mountains outside were dusted pink; light seeped through the curtains and striped the room in pastel bars. A slow exhale gusted across the back of his neck, warm, steady, familiar. Vikram's arm lay slung heavy over his waist.

He might have dozed again, but a thick droplet slid from his hole and tickled down the curve of his cheek. Memory jolted him fully awake: the dawnfuck hours earlier, the grind he'd started in his sleep, Vikram's brutal correction, the torrent of seed left deep inside. During the brief collapse that followed, Vikram's cock must have softened and slipped free. The bedding beneath Ishaan was still damp where his thighs met. Every shift reminded him of being used.

He almost relaxed into that thought, until the arm tightened.

A subtle flex. Then another.

Ishaan froze. His own breathing paused. He tried to gauge whether Vikram was waking or merely stirring. The warm bulk behind him shifted, nudging closer, thigh sliding between his legs. A soft grunt rumbled near Ishaan's ear, a feral, half-dreaming sound, and Vikram's palm flattened on Ishaan's lower belly.

One lazy drag of that broad hand downward, fingers grazing the sticky patch where cum and sweat had dried on skin. A deeper inhale from Vikram. Conscious now.

Ishaan braced.

There was no warning. No teasing. One moment Vikram's cock was nestled limp at Ishaan's cleft; the next, that thick shaft pressed, lined up, and plunged in a single ruthless drive, sheathing every inch in the slick residue of the night before.

Ishaan's body spasmed. A choked cry punched out of his chest. His thighs tensed, back arching like he could outrun the heat inside him. But the sensation struck too fast, not just burn, but fullness. Relief. Shame curled up his spine. He shouldn't need it this bad again. And yet, God, it felt right.

The stretch was molten; the heat immediate. He clawed at the sheet, back arching into the thrust instinctively even as it burned. Vikram held him fast, forearm a steel band across his torso, pinning him to the mattress.

Vikram's cock didn't slide in, it claimed. One relentless, greedy plunge, burying itself to the hilt through last night's slick and this morning's surrender. No hesitation. No mercy. Just heat meeting heat, the full length of him swallowed in a single breathless second.

"Morning, needy thing," he growled, voice syrup-rough, but fully awake now.

Ishaan gasped, half in pain, half in delirious joy. "M-morning..."

Vikram withdrew halfway and slammed again. Wet sounds, slick, messy, filled the hush. He'd pulled nothing from last night's cum-slick chaos; he didn't need to. Ishaan's body welcomed him with obscene readiness. The drag of thick flesh over raw nerves made Ishaan's vision blur.

Another thrust. Another. Rhythm building fast, too fast. Ishaan's cock, flaccid moments earlier, engorged in seconds. With every thrust, Ishaan's cock dragged across the damp sheet, trapped and grinding. Slick gathered at the tip, a shameful, needy puddle that smeared each time Vikram's hips snapped forward. Each piston stoked it further.

Vikram's mouth hovered at Ishaan's ear. "Still leaking. Good. Saves me lube." A brutal snap of hips punctuated the sentence.

Ishaan whimpered. His prostate fired sparks through his spine. Orgasm gathered far too quickly, nerves raw from earlier denial. He shifted his hips, tried to nudge away from the edge.

Vikram sensed it. "Stay on the edge," he rasped, thrusts shortening but hardening into quick, ruthless jabs. "You don't get to cum. Not yet."

Ishaan's breath hitched, begging without words. Ishaan clenched everything, his thighs, his fists, even the muscles of his stomach. Anything to hold back the spill building like a scream. But the pressure was molten, curling behind his balls, trembling at the base of his cock. He was so fucking close.

Vikram must have felt the tell-tale flutter. He yanked out abruptly. The sudden emptiness punched a moan from Ishaan's throat. His cock throbbed untouched, slick at the crown.

"You need punishment first," Vikram said, voice steady now, fully in command.

Ishaan's body sagged, every muscle trembling. He nodded shakily against the pillow.

Vikram's hand released his waist. Heavy breathing slowed, sharpening into focus. He rolled Ishaan onto his back, then slid off the bed, standing tall beside the mattress, naked, erection glossy with the mix of last night's cum and fresh slick. Ishaan stayed prone, eyes glassy.

"How many spanks for sneaking my cock without permission?" Vikram asked, tone casual, as if discussing breakfast.

Ishaan swallowed. "Twenty?" He offered the number weakly, both hopeful and fearful.

A small, dangerous smile curved Vikram's mouth. "Not nearly enough."

He leaned down, grabbed Ishaan's wrist, and hauled him upright with effortless strength. Ishaan's legs wobbled; his hole pulsed, dripping a clear, ropey line down his inner thigh.

"Fifty," Vikram decided, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. "You'll count. Loud." He turned, sat on the mattress edge, then tugged Ishaan across his lap.

Ishaan folded over obediently, palms on the sheet, cheek against cotton. His cock dangled between Vikram's thighs, heavy and glistening. Behind him, Vikram's shaft jutted, slick spear of flesh that had just left his body hungry.

"Ready to count?"

Ishaan's answer came soft but sure. "Yes, sir."

Vikram adjusted Ishaan's hips, spreading his legs a touch wider, tilting him so the bruised, flushed cheeks were perfectly presented. The position opened his leaking hole to cool air; slick dribbled down to the bedspread below.

Ishaan shivered. Shame, thrill, dread, need, all spiraled into a dizzy heat.

Vikram's palm hovered ... then settled, gentle, rubbing circles across heated skin. The caress made Ishaan whimper, not pain, but anticipation. Vikram's other hand traced along Ishaan's spine: possession in every stroke.

Finally, Vikram spoke, breath warm over Ishaan's back. "You count. Fifty. And remember: you don't cum." His palm lifted.

Ishaan inhaled.

Everything inside him clenched in readiness.

The first strike hadn't fallen. But the edge of punishment already sliced through the quiet morning light and Ishaan was desperate to meet it.

The bedroom had shifted from dawn-gray to amber. Sunlight sliced between the curtains and striped the bedspread, catching the sweat beading on Ishaan's spine. The room smelled of sleep, sex, and the faint spice of mountain air that leaked through the cracked window. Outside, distant wedding drums were warming up for the day, a muffled dhol rhythm still half-asleep.

Inside, everything felt razor-focused.

Ishaan's lungs stretched thin; head turned sideways, cheek crushed into the cool sheet. Vikram's thick thigh pinned Ishaan's leaking cock against the mattress, warm, hard muscle pressing the sensitive shaft just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. Below, Vikram's own cock hung slick and heavy, brushing Ishaan's hip each time he shifted for a better angle to deliver the first smack.

A moment's hush.

Then Vikram's voice, low, even, broke it. "If it's too much at any point, say stop. Understood?"

Ishaan's breath trembled in his chest, but he managed: "Yes... I want it. Punish me."

The agreement clicked into place like a collar around his mind. Vikram stroked once over Ishaan's bruised right cheek, gentle, almost tender, then lifted his hand.

Ishaan braced.

CRACK.

"One," Ishaan counted, voice hot in his own ears. A fiery sting bloomed where Vikram's palm landed.

CRACK.

"Two."

Vikram spanked hard, sharp, deliberate, but spread evenly so no single blow broke skin. The noise filled the suite, a punishing metronome. By the fifth strike, Ishaan's cheeks radiated heat; by the tenth, every nerve below his waist tangled pain with arousal.

"Eleven... twelve..."

Vikram's free hand anchored Ishaan's lower back, reminding him not to squirm. Not that Ishaan wanted to escape. Every slap drove a pulse through his cock; pre-cum had already glazed the dark hair on Vikram's thigh beneath him.

CRACK.

"Fifteen." Ishaan's voice cracked.

Vikram paused. His palm rubbed slow circles over fresh welts, heat and softness mixing like balm and brand. "Still good?"

Ishaan's eyes were glassy, part tears, part lust. "Yes, please. Keep going."

The hand lifted again.

CRACK.

At twenty, Ishaan's voice slurred around the number; his hips rolled involuntarily, seeking friction, but Vikram's firm forearm denied him. The denial itself felt as fiery as any slap.

"Twenty-five... thirty... thirty-one."

Each count tumbled from Ishaan's lips, half-sob, half-prayer. Tears soaked the sheet; drool dampened his chin. But with each number his need grew wilder, cock pulsing against the unforgiving thigh that trapped it.

By thirty-five, sweat glistened on Vikram's shoulders. He stopped again, palm flattening to soothe red flesh. "Should I continue?" he murmured.

Ishaan swallowed past a raw throat. "Yes. Please—"

The rest of the plea ended in a gasp as Vikram's hand struck again, harder than before. Thirty-six echoed; then thirty-seven; thirty-eight, Ishaan's voice high and cracking.

His mind blurred. Slap. Count. Slap. Count. The numbers kept him tethered; the pain kept him aflame. And underneath it all, humiliation sang, a bright, dirty thrill that this was happening between friends who were supposed to be equals.

"Forty-four, forty-five..."

His cock leaked a glossy strand across Vikram's thigh, slicking skin. Every time he tried to shift, Vikram's left hand pressed his hips down, pinning him deeper to that hot, humiliating contact.

"Forty-nine." His voice nearly gave out. Tears dripped off his nose onto the sheet.

CRACK.

"Fifty." The final number escaped on a shaky exhale.

Silence. Only Ishaan's ragged breathing and the faint ruffle of lungs expanding in Vikram's chest.

Vikram set his palm flat atop the reddened heat, massaging softly, almost worshipful. Ishaan shivered. The contrast, burn then balm, made his cock throb so hard stars burst behind his eyelids.

Vikram bent forward, lips at Ishaan's ear. Breath hot. "Remember this: I decide when you're used, when you cum. This was only part of your punishment."

Ishaan tried to nod, tears streaking clean lines through the salt on his cheeks. His hole twitched, empty and needy, as though clenching in reply.

"Show me that mouth," Vikram commanded.

He guided Ishaan upright, knees hitting the carpet. Ishaan's thighs quivered, ass aflame, cock bobbing, leaving flecks of moisture on his stomach. Vikram stood; his own shaft hung gleaming with juices from Ishaan's ass and a rich scent.

"Look at the mess you've made," Vikram said, stroking once from thick base to flushed tip. "If I fuck you again now, you'll spray all over my thighs. You're too close."

Ishaan's gaze locked on the slick head inches from his lips. He tasted salt, sweat, and anticipation on the back of his tongue already.

"So you'll use your mouth, clean me, and you still don't cum." Vikram threaded fingers into Ishaan's hair, no gentler than the spanking had been, tilting his head back to seal the command.

Ishaan opened, took the tip to his tongue, and tasted himself first, earthy, faintly bitter remnants from inside his own body. Humiliation and thrill fused as he wrapped lips deeper, housing inch after greedy inch of Vikram's cock. His throat parted, accepting unhurriedly until Vikram nudged the back wall.

The grip in his hair tightened. "Deeper, make that throat my washcloth."

Ishaan obeyed, moaning around the bulk, drool gathering at the corners of his mouth. Each pull back drew more of their mingled musk across his palate; each slide forward seated that scent like stain.

Vikram set a languid pace, hips rolling shallow at first, letting Ishaan's lips and tongue work. Ishaan hollowed his cheeks, vacuuming; then flattened his tongue, dragging it along the thick vein underside. He reveled in the taste, briny, slick, wholly Vikram. The pain in his buttocks morphed to molten ache in his gut. His cock dribbled onto his thigh, denied even a stroke.

"Look up," Vikram ordered.

Ishaan's eyes rolled upward, wet, wide, pupils blown. Vikram's gaze smoldered, jaw tight. That expression of absolute possession pushed Ishaan's shame to a new high; it felt like being pinned open with a stare alone.

He worked harder, swallowing at each glide, letting Vikram's head push past the ring. Small gags spasmed, massaging the shaft. Vikram's fingers tightened, then eased, petting hair once, a silent praise that made Ishaan's heart lurch.

"You taste yourself?" Vikram murmured, voice thickening. "That's you, right there on my skin."

Ishaan hummed around the length, yes, yes, he tasted it, reveled in it, surrendered to it.

Vikram began to tilt hips faster, but still controlled, short thrusts, feeding himself into that wet heat. Ishaan relaxed throat, taking more each time. Drool slicked his chin; his knees spread wider for balance. His crimson ass clenched with every shove, nerves still singing from the spanking.

"Ready to milk me?" Vikram asked, brow furrowed, breath heating.

Ishaan moaned agreement without words.

Vikram buried deep, held, then drew back with a hiss. The second plunge pressed Ishaan's nose to the trimmed hair at Vikram's base; Ishaan swallowed convulsively, throat embracing. A third thrust, harder, set Vikram's abs trembling.

Hand fisted in hair; a low groan tore loose: "Fuck."

Release came hot. Ishaan felt it first as a pulse, the root jerking in his mouth, then a pulse that surged forward, a wash of heat filling his mouth. He kept his lips sealed, throat working, doing exactly what Vikram had ordered. One swallow, then another. Salty, slick, undeniably theirs. He made himself breathe through his nose, eyes half-lidded as the last tremor ran through the man towering over him.

Vikram's hand stayed buried in Ishaan's hair a second longer, grounding them both, then loosened, those rough fingertips dragging a stripe of wetness along Ishaan's cheek. A smear of spit and seed, like a signature. He rubbed it in thoughtfully, then thumbed the corner of Ishaan's mouth, coaxing the smallest drop from his lip so he could watch Ishaan lick it back in.

For a moment nothing moved but their chests. Ishaan knelt on aching legs, ass throbbing, cock heavy and blue with denial. His throat worked once more, making sure not a trace remained. He held Vikram's gaze, silently asking if that had been enough.

A soft, almost satisfied exhale answered him.

Vikram cupped the back of Ishaan's neck, squeezing, not tender exactly, but final, then let go and stepped away. He reached for a towel by the wardrobe and slung it over his shoulder as he walked toward the en-suite, every casual stretch of muscle a reminder of the power he wielded without even trying.

At the doorway he paused and looked back. Sunlight framed him, limning his shoulders, the lean V of his hips, the still-half-stiff outline beneath. His voice came quiet but unmistakable:

"Baraat starts in less than an hour. You're still denied. And you're going to leak the whole time, just so you remember who decides when you spill."

Ishaan's pulse hammered. He nodded once, small, deferential, still kneeling on the carpet. The welts on his ass sang with heat; his skin felt stretched too tight for his body. But the burn, the ache... it all settled into a deep, humming rightness. It was the drug he'd come to crave more than any release.

Vikram's mouth twitched, somewhere between smirk and fondness. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. Water hissed on.

Ishaan stayed exactly where he was. Knees pressed into carpet. Thighs trembling from effort. Cock dangling, pulsing, a bead gathering at the tip only to slip down the shaft. In the hush left behind, he could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears, could feel every echo of the spanking along his flesh, every stretch of earlier thrusts inside his body.

His tongue flicked over his lips. Salty-sweet reminder.

Outside the suite, a burst of laughter traveled down the hallway, groomsmen heading toward breakfast, unaware of the raw tableau behind this closed door. The contrast made him shiver. Public face, private truth. Two lives stitched together by one man's hand.

Ishaan inhaled, letting the sting settle into memory. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright. His legs wobbled, but he found balance and padded toward the mirror. The reflection stopped him cold: flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to his forehead, dried tears streaking faintly down each side. His shoulders bore pale prints from Vikram's grip; his backside, an angry red bloom. Between his legs, his cock stood swollen, untouched, glistening.

Ishaan should have felt shame, maybe he did, but the stronger emotion was belonging. Every mark spelled it out: owned.

Inside the bathroom, the shower shut off. Steam curled beneath the doorframe. Ishaan took one last look at the reflection, at the man who had, not so long ago, believed himself in total control around women, who'd never imagined he'd kneel like this for anyone. Then he turned, padded to the dresser for a fresh towel, and waited, knees obediently kissing the floor again, until Vikram re-emerged, towel at his waist, ready to dictate how the rest of the day would unfold.

The sun climbed higher. Drums outside boomed a call-to-arms for the groom's procession. And Ishaan, ass crimson, cock dripping, punishment only half-over, gave thanks in silence for every bruise that proved exactly where he belonged.

________________________________________

Ishaan's knees ached against the carpet, but he didn't move. The bedroom smelled of steam and sandal-soap drifting from the en-suite where Vikram was finishing his shower. Dawn's amber had brightened to a full-bodied morning gold; motes of dust hung lazy in the slanted light.

His thighs still trembled. A thin ribbon of slick teased down the inside of one leg, proof of everything that had happened since sunrise. The spanking heat throbbed under his skin, fifty precise strikes and Vikram's palm still ghosted there, an ember that refused to cool. The command to stay leaking hummed louder than the distant wedding drums outside.

A knock startled him.

Too light, too fast, then the door pushed open anyway. Ishaan reacted on instinct, scrambling up onto Vikram's bed. He yanked the blanket just as the door swung wide.

His thighs left damp smears on the carpet. The inside of one leg still glistened with a trail of slick. When he stood, a drop of cum clung to the crease where cheek met thigh.

"Morning, you degenerates! You decent?" Tanmay's grin led the way in. His eyes flicked left, right and settled on the sight Ishaan hadn't managed to hide: One bare, crimson cheek peeked from beneath the edge of the duvet, a raw bloom against the pale fabric. A faint sheen marked where lubrication and seed had dripped, red handprints climbing his lower back like currency stamped into flesh.

Tanmay blinked, then cackled. "Bro... did Trisha and Aditi sneak in after we crashed? Or did Vikram finally tap that girly ass?"

Face burning, Ishaan buried into the pillow. "Hangover," he muttered, voice muffled.

"Hangover? Looks like you got bred." Tanmay's laugh bounced off the walls. He stepped fully inside, unbothered, wearing baraat trousers and an undershirt. "No pants either? Wild night, champ."

Ishaan's cheeks burned hotter, and his mind scrambled for a quick escape. The truth wasn't an option, not here, not now. He needed to deflect, to sound casual, like this was nothing out of the ordinary. The best excuse he could cobble together spilled out before he fully caught it.

"I was drunk, man. Couldn't find my boxers, and the churidars were digging into my thighs like a chokehold. Figured the blanket would do."

He hoped it sounded convincing enough to bury any further questions.

The shower cut off. A second later the bathroom door opened and Vikram emerged, towel knotted at his hips, hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders. He clocked Tanmay first, then took in Ishaan's half-hidden state. A lazy grin grew.

"He stripped around two a. m., crawled into my bed whining something about how horny he was," Vikram said, voice still morning-rough. "Kept throwing that fat, girly ass around like bait. What was I supposed to do, sleep? Shit practically begged to be pinned. I did what had to be done."

Tanmay doubled over laughing, swatting the doorframe with the flat of his hand. "Fucking hell. Been saying for years, he's got an ass that doesn't belong on a dude. Round, soft, full-on porn bounce."

He turned to Ishaan, wagging his eyebrows like they were still back in school. "If you're taking new applicants, bro, I've got stamina. Just saying."

Ishaan groaned from under the blanket, face half-buried in the pillow. "You guys are deranged. I take off my pants one night and suddenly I'm the local cum-dump?"

Tanmay whooped. "You said it, not me!"

Ishaan voice was quiet but sharp. "Trust me Tanmay, even if I volunteered my ass, you wouldn't be able to handle it."

Because only one man ever could. Only Vikram. The only one he'd ever bend for.

"You're both a disaster," Tanmay declared, shaking his head with mock dismay. Then he clapped, loud, cheerful. "Baraat rolls in fifteen. Finish your freakshow and get downstairs before the groom starts without his entourage."

He turned to leave, then paused in the doorframe, grin sharpening. His eyes flicked to Vikram too, towel low, a faint reddish bite blooming under the collarbone.

"Seriously though, whichever of you got railed, hydrate. Nothing ruins a baraat like wobbly legs." With that parting shot, he disappeared down the hallway, laughter trailing after him.

Silence reclaimed the suite. Water plinked from Vikram's hair onto the hardwood.

Ishaan peeked over the blanket, cheeks blazing. "I... I thought he'd knock again."

Then, with a deliberate movement, Vikram reached back and locked the door behind him, the soft click echoing through the room.

"You could've locked the door," Vikram's tone was reprimand and amusement in equal measure. He crossed to the dresser, toweling his hair. "Still, he didn't see much. Just enough to keep guessing."

Ishaan's gaze dropped. The pink silicone plug sat on the nightstand exactly where Vikram had placed it earlier, bright as a warning beacon. The plug's curved stem glinting in daylight, soft, girly, obscene. A mute confession left out in the open.

Had Tanmay's quick scan landed on it? His stomach clenched.

Vikram noticed the direction of the stare, followed it, and chuckled. "Relax. He was looking at your ass, not your nightstand." He tossed the towel aside, approached the bed. His hand curved over the blanket, finding the welt-hot curve beneath. He rubbed slowly, rough enough to sting, gentle enough to soothe.

Ishaan shivered. The heat of that palm against punished flesh made his cock twitch despite itself.

"You'll get another chance to show off... maybe when there's no blanket to hide behind," Vikram murmured, leaning closer. "Remember, only I decide when you break and when you spill." His thumb traced a lingering bruise, possession in every stroke.

Ishaan whispered, "Yes."

Vikram straightened. "Ten minutes. Shower. Then you shave if you need and get into sherwani. We're standing guard for the groom, remember?"

Ishaan nodded. As Vikram stepped toward the wardrobe to retrieve his under-layers, Ishaan slipped from the bed. Each step sent a muted ache through his buttocks and a warm slide of slick between his cheeks, Vikram's warning made tangible.

He stole a final glance at the door, half-expecting it to burst open again. It stayed shut. Somewhere outside, trumpets began their practice run, a bright, brassy fanfare announcing that Day Five, in all its pomp and pageantry, was officially underway.

Ishaan exhaled. Shame still prickled under his skin, but beneath it pulsed something fiercer: anticipation. The day was only beginning, and Vikram had promised he was not done.

With shaking fingers he scooped up the pink plug, hiding it in the blanket fold. Then he padded toward the bathroom where steam still clung to the mirror, ready to scrub, to steel himself, and to leak silently through the most public hours of the wedding, all while no one around him knew just why his smile curved a fraction too tight.

He stepped over the threshold, looking back once: Vikram, towel gone, pulling cotton boxers up muscular thighs, a faint bruise of teeth at his collarbone, Ishaan's teeth, and a small, satisfied tilt to his mouth.

His cock throbbed once under the blanket, full, untouched. Denied.

Daylight pooled between them: bright, bold, and complicit.

________________________________________

The bathroom light flicked on behind Ishaan as he stepped in, skin flushed from the morning heat, limbs still sluggish from what had just happened. The burn across his ass hadn't faded. Neither had the slow ache in his hole or the simmering need still pooling low in his belly.

He was only in the bathroom for seconds when he heard Vikram's voice from outside the door, casual, low, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened that morning.

"Got an extra pair of socks?"

Ishaan spat toothpaste into the sink. "Yeah. Duffle bag."

Out in the room, Vikram crossed over to the corner where Ishaan's luggage was half-unzipped and slouched against the wall. The bag still smelled faintly of Ishaan's cologne, laundry detergent, and something subtly sweeter. Vikram reached in, pushed past a bottle of face wash and a travel pouch, and froze.

The scrap of black lace wasn't folded. It sat loose, crumpled between a t-shirt and a spare towel. Lace-trimmed, satin-lined, unmistakable.

Not socks.

Vikram raised his eyebrows, pulling the panties free with two fingers. The black lace gleamed faintly in the morning light. The cut wasn't shy, slim front, cheeky back, with a tiny satin bow on the waistband.

He smiled slowly.

Then he sat back on Ishaan's bed, legs still spread, bare-chested, in only his charcoal grey boxer briefs. The panties he laid out beside him, smoothing them carefully on the sheets like a ritual. And he waited.

Ishaan emerged five minutes later, towel draped around his shoulders, hair still damp. He was naked, water clinging to his skin in small rivulets, steam rising faintly off his back. His walk was sluggish, uneven, the soreness of the morning's punishment lingering in every step. The skin of his ass still bore it, faint red streaks, fresh and tender.

But then he looked up, and saw the sight in front of him.

Vikram. Still mostly naked. Still lounging. Still looking at him with that unreadable expression. And right beside him, the black lace panties.

Ishaan's stomach dropped. Of course he'd found them. And somewhere deep down, Ishaan already knew—he'd end up wearing them.

"You, found those?" he asked, throat tight.

Vikram didn't blink. "Didn't know you wore panties now."

Ishaan exhaled hard through his nose. "They're not mine."

Vikram raised one brow. "Oh? You're carrying someone else's underwear?"

"She..." Ishaan hesitated. Normally he would have smirked, bragged, tossed the panties across the bed like a trophy. But not today. Not after this morning. Not with the way Vikram looked at him now. "She gave them to me. Said they'd help me remember her during the trip."

Vikram leaned back on one elbow, eyes gleaming with quiet victory. "And yet here you are. Leaking and sore. Plugged and punished. Guess she didn't leave much of a mark after all."

Ishaan swallowed. "I didn't plan to."

Vikram cut him off. Voice flat. "Your punishment's not over."

"But it can be."

Ishaan looked up, heart hammering. Vikram's eyes were still on the panties, like they weren't a suggestion, but a sentence.

"Wear them."

Silence.

Ishaan stared at the lace. Black. Soft. Humiliating.

He felt it hit deeper than the plug, deeper than the spanking.

This wasn't just being used. This was putting it on himself.

He glanced at Vikram, uncertain.

"Under the sherwani?" His voice cracked halfway through.

Vikram gave the faintest nod. "Lace on skin. Plug in. You walk through the baraat dressed like that. Then we're done."

Ishaan's stomach flipped. His cock twitched. He knew it wasn't really a deal. It was a dare. A leash.

This was filth layered under silk. A secret wrapped around his cock. And Vikram was asking, no, commanding him to choose it.

He paused. Shame rose in his throat. His cheeks burned. But his body was already answering. Of course he'd wear them. Vikram told him. That was enough.

He stepped forward, reaching for the panties and the small pink plug still lying on the bed from earlier. He grabbed both and turned.

Vikram's voice stopped him at the foot of the bathroom.

"Where are you going?"

Ishaan turned slowly, towel still around his shoulders.

"My girl wears them in front of me."

The words didn't sting. They undid him.

Ishaan let the towel slide off his shoulders and fall.

His body was still flushed from earlier. His thighs glistened faintly from a rinse that hadn't cleaned everything. Red marks streaked across his ass, angry and raw. His hole was still slightly puffy, the faintest ring of pink from a morning of being opened and owned.

He walked to the center of the room and stood between Vikram and the long vertical mirror across the bed. He could see Vikram's reflection clearly, broad shoulders, boxer-clad thighs, the shadow of his cock outlined under cotton. And he could see himself, naked, lean, exposed, marked.

He bent.

Both hands behind him. Spit on his fingers. Rubbed it around the soft plug. He could see his own face in the mirror, eyes dark, lips slightly parted. See Vikram behind him, watching with unblinking hunger.

Ishaan pressed the plug against his hole, took a breath, and pushed.

The familiar stretch hit. The pink silicone slipped in with a soft pop. He moaned quietly, not because it hurt, but because he needed it.

He straightened. Plug snug, cock heavy.

Then he reached for the panties.

They were cool in his hand. Smooth. Silken. He stepped into them slowly, one leg at a time. Pulled them up his thighs, over his ass.

They fit. Disturbingly well.

The lace hugged his cheeks perfectly, tight over tender skin. The waistband sat low across his hips. His semi-hard cock bulged obscenely through the front, too much for the tight fabric. But the feel of lace on his sore skin sent a thrill up his spine. Across his ass, the cut was high, almost girly. The outline of the plug showed faintly beneath the dark lace. And the redness? Visible, just barely, like a blush under filth.

He looked in the mirror.

From behind, he didn't look like a man. Not really.

The smooth skin, the curve of his hips, the arch of his back, it all looked... trained. Feminine. Owned.

And still, his cock twitched.

He turned slightly, trying to get a better look at himself from the side. The lace was already darkening in the front with pre-cum.

Vikram watched, cock thickening. He'd fucked Ishaan two hours ago, plugged him, spanked him, left him dripping.

And yet the sight of that lace riding up soft, sore skin made his hands twitch. One more minute of this and he'd bend Ishaan over the dresser, wedding be damned.

Vikram stood.

Crossed the room in three steps.

Now they both stood in front of the mirror, Ishaan with his back to it, Vikram facing it. The image was absurd. Ishaan: lace-wrapped, flushed, breathing heavily. Vikram: tall, broad, a thick outline of hard cock in his boxers.

The contrast couldn't be clearer.

Vikram's hands gripped Ishaan's ass. Firm. Possessive. Thumbs stroking the lace slowly, grazing over the raw, still-warm marks from earlier.

"This hole's mine," he said, voice low near Ishaan's ear. "This day? Yours to suffer."

Ishaan whimpered softly. His knees almost buckled. Vikram's left hand crept lower, palm hot on ravaged cheek, squeezing; the right thumb pressed at the plug base through lace until Ishaan's head fell back on Vikram's shoulder, a broken sigh spilling out.

Satisfied, Vikram nipped Ishaan's lobed ear, then eased away. "Dress."

They dressed after that, slowly, silently.

They moved like clockwork. Ishaan tugged a pair of silk trouser-liners up first, Vikram's idea of containment, creased white fabric over black lace, delicious friction across overstimulated skin. He stepped into the ivory churidar, tying the drawstring above the hidden waistband. Each bend compressed the plug, teasing him. He bit down a moan.

Vikram handed over the cream sherwani, rich brocade, gold buttons, and guided Ishaan's arms into the sleeves. Fingers brushed Ishaan's hairless chest, trailed along the curve of his stomach, paused at the final clasp just above the navel; Ishaan sucked a breath. Button by button, Vikram sealed him in, trapping hot secret beneath princely elegance.

When it was Vikram's turn, Ishaan helped, slipping the man's own sherwani across broad shoulders, trying not to tremble when knuckles grazed Vikram's still-swollen cock. Vikram smirked but let him.

Finally they stood side by side before the mirror, two regal silhouettes: Vikram tall, shoulders like armour; Ishaan sleek, waist cinched, eyes blown. No trace of lace or silicone showed beneath the embroidery, yet Ishaan felt every thread.

Vikram adjusted Ishaan's collar, brushing his throat. "All set?"

Ishaan nodded, voice low. "Still leaking."

"Good. Walk straight, keep your smile." Vikram stepped back, admiring the handiwork, the picture of groomsman perfection hiding a slut's lingerie and plug. "And remember: you won't spill a drop until I decide. Beg nicely after baraat and we'll see."

Ishaan's pulse thundered. He could already feel a new damp spot seeping through the silk lining. If the day grew hot, if he moved wrong, would someone notice? The risk made his cock push harder at the mesh.

Vikram retrieved the turban each would wear for the baraat and handed Ishaan's over. Then he opened the door.

Trumpets, drums, and distant cheering rushed in. The wedding's peak day had begun. Ishaan squared his shoulders, feeling brocade shift over sensitive flesh. He followed Vikram out, every step a reminder, lace tugging, plug nestled, slick threatening.

Elegant on the outside. Owned underneath. The perfect contradiction, walking proudly into sunlight.

________________________________________

The first dhol beat rolled through the valley just after eight-thirty, a thick bass thump that rattled windowpanes and sent flocks of hill birds bursting from the pines. In the courtyard, every surface had been lacquered in colour: marigold ropes looping from balcony to balcony, saffron scarves knotted at every groomsman's wrist, the groom's snow-white mare draped in scarlet velvet and jangling silver tassels whenever she stamped.

Ishaan stood among the chaos looking, to any camera lens, like the picture of princely composure. His maroon brocade sherwani cinched his waist, the gold buttons gleamed, the cream churidar wrapped his legs in precise folds. Yet beneath that royal armour his skin was humid with sweat, lace clung to his cock, and a slim pink plug thrummed in his gut every time he took a breath. The early sun was already higher than anyone expected; heat pooled beneath the heavy jacket, trickled down his spine, softened the fresh welts Vikram had painted on his ass scarcely two hours earlier.

"Hold still, majesty," Trisha murmured at his side. She wore a peacock-blue lehenga and smelled of mogra; deft fingers pinned a boutonnière to Ishaan's lapel. "If that rose droops before we reach the gate, the aunties will blame me."

Ishaan laughed, careful to keep it airy. "Your floral reputation is safe." When she stepped back the hem of her dupatta brushed his wrist, and for a second he forgot the plug, forgot the panties, forgot everything, but then he shifted his weight and the silicone nudged deeper, shocking him back into his body.

Across the courtyard Vikram materialised, ivory kurta stripped off, broad chest bared while two of Kunal's cousins wrestled a jewelled belt around his new sherwani. Aditi hovered beside him in a vermilion saree, hands quick, laughter bright. She adjusted the tail of Vikram's turban, fingertips skimming the shaved nape of his neck, said something that made his lips twist into a lazy grin. Ishaan's stomach tightened, possessive, anxious, impossibly turned on. The lace at his crotch dampened further.

"Eyes up, Romeo," Trisha teased, following his gaze. "You'll burn through her saree with that stare."

He jerked a smile. "Just admiring the teamwork."

That was when Tanmay strode in, brandishing a stainless-steel flask like a sceptre. "Breakfast of champs, boys and girls!" He upended cheap smoky whisky into six dented tumblers. Anshul passed them down the line; Ishaan took one, grateful for the liquid courage. The first gulp hit his empty stomach like a furnace, radiating out until even his fingertips tingled.

A handler led the mare forward. Brass horns blared a tuning riff. The resort drive filled with the scent of diesel from the generator van and crushed marigold underfoot. Photographers called for the groom's party to assemble. Vikram, now fully dressed, vaulted onto the mounting block and swung up behind Kunal, tightening the groom's sash with brisk competence, biceps flexing under brocade sleeves. Ishaan swallowed; the plug pulsed.

The line lurched forward. Baraatis waved saffron scarves and pelted rose petals at the horse's hooves as the procession rolled down the drive. Drummers set a furious rhythm; friends clapped along. Trisha grabbed Ishaan's hand, pulling him into a light bhangra bounce. Each hop jolted the plug; pre-cum smeared across lace, soaking further into silk lining. He prayed the stain wouldn't soak through the churidar.

"Your sherwani makes your booty famous," Trisha hollered over the music, giving his hip a playful nudge.

Ishaan barked a laugh that cracked halfway into a moan he disguised as a whoop. He hoped the music drowned it. His cock was slick. His thighs were damp. One wrong move and he'd be leaking down his leg.

If you only knew, he thought.

Half-way to the gates the horn section paused and Tanmay shoved fresh whisky into every free hand. Ishaan sipped, heartbeat syncing with dhol. He felt sweat gather at the small of his back, trickle under lace. He needed, needed, Vikram, right now, against a wall, against a tree, anywhere. But Vikram was ten paces ahead, coaxing the mare around a flower-strewn pothole.

When the road straightened Ishaan seized his chance. Under the pretence of fixing a sandal buckle he crouched low, pressing one knee to gravel. Sherwani tails parted; the brocade lifted just enough to flash a teasing curve of lace-bounded cheek. The plug's flared base pressed the fabric, a secret bulge. Ishaan lingered a heartbeat too long, heat blazing up his neck.

From three metres back Vikram's gaze pinned him, dark, electric. A single, infinitesimal nod.

Ishaan tightened the strap and rose, pulse hammering.

They marched on. The sun climbed. The horse tossed its mane, bridal tassels clinking. Kids from the nearby village lined the roadside with cell phones. Ishaan danced beside Trisha, hip shakes muted by the plug's weight. Across the circle Vikram spun Aditi under one arm, both laughing; the sight burned jealousy and lust through Ishaan's veins.

Then, Ishaan blinked, Vikram was gone.

Aditi followed him past the drummer line, around the catering van. Ishaan's heart thudded. Where the fuck were they going? Why?

He danced mechanically, chest tight, plug pulsing. Another beat. Another half spin. The lace was soaked now, his cock pressed flat and twitching against the fabric. But none of it could distract him from the ache crawling up his spine.

He scanned the crowd. Nothing. Just a blur of turbans, sequins, smoke.

Two minutes passed, maybe three. The whisky made seconds slippery.

Aditi was smiling, brushing something off her waist. Her fingers moved to the back of her blouse, adjusting a tiny gold pin near the spine. She leaned in, whispered something. Vikram nodded, expression unreadable, and stepped away.

That was all. Just a pin. Just a laugh. Harmless.

But Ishaan didn't know that.

No touch. No kiss. No proof. Just a fucking pin.

But Ishaan couldn't be sure. He didn't know.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

His stomach twisted. His chest flared with something sharp and ugly.

What if he bent her over the catering van? What if she begged for the cock that was still making me leak? What if he came in her before I even got to taste it again?

The thought made him want to scream. Or sob. Or crawl.

And that was the worst part.

Because even if Vikram had, even if he'd just finished fucking someone else, Ishaan still wanted it. Needed it.

He didn't care if he was second.

He just needed to be used.

Fuck me after her. Fuck me because of her. Just, fuck me.

Another burst of music, whistles, cheers. The MC called for the friends' dance circle right there on the asphalt. Tanmay dragged couples inward. Vikram re-appeared, looping an arm around Ishaan's shoulder briefly before spinning to face him across the ring, he and Aditi on one side, Ishaan and Trisha opposite. The horns blared; dhol slammed; they danced.

Ishaan's hips circled carefully, plug grinding his prostate. Lace rasped his cock; moisture gathered. Vikram's eyes never left Ishaan's. Every twist of Ishaan's torso earned a faint, approving smirk. Sweat trickled down Ishaan's spine, carving paths through the sting of welted skin. The scent of horse, diesel, sweat, rose petals, all of it swirled around him until he was dizzy.

He stumbled, just a slip, but Vikram caught the stumble from across the circle; a small jerk of chin told Ishaan he'd seen the plug shift. Heat flooded Ishaan's face.

He was still stuck on those missing minutes, on Vikram's hand near Aditi's waist, on her laugh, on the way they'd looked coming back like nothing had happened.

That last shred of masculine pride, whatever was left of it, tried to hold the line.

Don't say it. Don't beg. Not now. Not in the middle of the baraat like some thirsty little—

Then Vikram reappeared beside him, scent of brocade and sweat flooding Ishaan's nose. He felt a warm hand curl around his shoulder, squeeze once, and release.

That was it. That was enough.

When the circle broke, Ishaan edged close under the guise of adjusting his saffron scarf. Breath hot against Vikram's ear, voice rough and barely audible, he whispered, "I need it. I'm leaking."

Vikram's response was a low chuckle.

A fresh crack of drums signalled the final march to the mandap gate. Baraatis surged forward, waving neon smoke bombs. The ivory horse clopped through a tunnel of marigold hoops. Ishaan forced his stride to stay regal, shoulders back, even though every step pushed the plug deeper, every breath made lace rub wetly against his cockhead.

As they passed under the arch, the priest blew a conch shell. Vikram leaned in one last time, voice silky: "Stay full. Your real dance starts behind those drapes."

Ishaan inhaled the jasmine-laced air at the mandap entrance. Beyond the curtain priests chanted, cousins milled, but behind him loomed Vikram's promise, thick as the plug in his ass.

Ishaan exhaled, legs shaky. He wasn't sure if he could make it to the mandap, or if he'd lose it before then. He straightened his shoulders, wiped sweat from his brow, and stepped into the marigold-draped corridor that would lead, one way or another, to relief.

________________________________________

The marigold corridor swallowed the noise behind them. Outside, the baraat still thundered, drums cracking, petals flying, but inside, the air shifted. Quieter. Hotter. Heavy with incense and jasmine and something more primal. Ishaan followed just behind Vikram, the silk of his churidar clinging damp to his thighs. Each step was slow, careful, but the plug still pressed deeper. The lace was soaked. His cock was hard. His chest felt tight like his body didn't know how to hold this much need.

He was sweating beneath the sherwani.

Not just from the heat of the wedding sun or the weight of brocade, but from the pressure inside him. The plug had stopped feeling like a toy an hour ago. Now it felt like a stopper. Like something keeping him from spilling over, holding back a want that had climbed up from his gut into his ribs. A quiet, obscene vibration that pulsed behind his eyes every time he moved.

They reached the far end of the corridor, meant for caterers or priests, but no one followed. Vikram turned. Looked at him. And Ishaan knew the second their eyes met, this was it. The walk, the lace, the dance, the ache—it had all been foreplay. Now, he would finally be emptied. Or broken. Or both.

The marigold drapes rustled faintly behind them, fluttering with each gust of mountain breeze. The dhol beats, horns, and priestly chants all bled into the corridor, loud, chaotic, just steps away. But here, behind the mandap, the air felt thick. Private. Sacred. Filthy.

Vikram didn't speak at first. He just turned to face him, eyes dark, mouth unreadable.

Ishaan's breath caught.

There was no door to close. No lock. No walls. Just a shadowed sliver of space between curtain and stone, and every part of Ishaan's body screamed to drop in it.

His eyes dropped, already locked on the shape pressing against Vikram's trousers. Thick. Heavy. Already twitching for him.

He didn't wait for an invitation.

"Can I," Ishaan's voice cracked. "Can I suck it?"

Nothing.

"Please," he whispered. "I need your cock. Right now."

Vikram's smirk was slow, indulgent. He said nothing, but unbuckled his belt.

The sound of the zip made Ishaan's throat tighten.

He reached forward instinctively, but Vikram stopped him with a palm to the chest.

"Slow. You don't just get this. You earn it."

Ishaan nodded, shame prickling his cheeks. He watched as Vikram pulled himself free, thick, flushed, veined, already glistening at the tip.

Ishaan's mouth watered.

Vikram brought it to his lips but didn't let him suck. Not yet.

"Smell it."

Ishaan inhaled like a man starved. Musk. Sweat. Precum. The scent hit something primal behind his ribs.

"Now rub your cheek on it."

He obeyed, turning his face into the shaft, dragging it across his skin, letting the wet head streak his jaw and smear across his lips.

"You want it that bad?" Vikram murmured.

Ishaan nodded, voice raw. "Please. Please let me suck it."

Vikram glanced down at the dusty floor beneath them.

"So kneel for it."

Ishaan looked too, and for a split second, he hesitated.

The knees of his churidar were still pristine. The courtyard dust was thick, the stone rough. If he went down now, the fabric would stain. The garment would wrinkle. People would notice.

And then he dropped anyway.

No hesitation.

His knees hit the ground with a thud, loud enough to echo faintly over the dhol. Sharp stone bit through the fabric instantly. He barely noticed.

Vikram's cock hovered inches from his face.

Ishaan looked up once, then opened his mouth.

Vikram didn't need to say a word.

Ishaan took him in, lips stretched wide, already choking on the first thrust. He didn't hold back. No teasing, no rhythm, just full surrender. Spit pooled on his tongue and spilled down his chin. His throat convulsed around the thick shaft.

And Vikram just watched. One hand behind his back. The other casually curling into Ishaan's hair.

"You've been aching for this since the moment you wore the panties," he said calmly. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Ishaan moaned around him, loud and obscene.

"Danced with Trisha like a gentleman. Made the aunties smile. Played the prince in your gold buttons and crisp collar."

He gave a slow, shallow thrust.

"While leaking into panties for me."

Ishaan gagged, eyes watering, cheeks hollowed.

"Plug twitching every time the drums hit. Lace soaked halfway to the thigh."

He pulled out just long enough to slap his cock against Ishaan's tongue. Wet. Glazed.

"You're not even pretending you're a man anymore. Not with that cock tucked in lace and your mouth dripping like this."

He smeared precum across Ishaan's lips.

"Open."

Ishaan opened wide.

"You're not a man today. You're my whore."

He pushed back in, this time with purpose. The rhythm built. Slow but deep. Ishaan rocked with each movement, hands braced on Vikram's thighs, face flushed, spit hanging in strings from his chin.

"You like this," Vikram growled. "Out here. Plugged, dressed like a prince, but sucking cock like a party trick."

Another thrust. Another choke.

Ishaan didn't care. His cock throbbed untouched inside lace. His eyes rolled back, tears streaking his cheeks.

"I could fuck your mouth right here and make you cum without ever touching you."

A filthy gag. A moan.

"Look at you. Drooling. Grinding your knees into dirt for cock."

Ishaan whimpered against his length, unable to speak.

Vikram pulled out again, slow, wet.

Ishaan chased it. Mouth open, tongue out, desperate.

A soft, cruel laugh.

"Still leaking?"

Ishaan nodded, dazed. "So much."

Vikram slapped his cheek with the cock once, smearing the side of Ishaan's face with precum.

"Good," he said. "Then we'll soak those panties properly. You're gonna wear my load in them next."

He reached down, grabbed Ishaan by the collar, and hauled him up in one brutal motion.

"I'm not done. But your mouth's had its turn," he growled, turning him toward the heavy table stacked with garlands. "Let's see if your other hole still remembers who it belongs to."

Ishaan's voice broke on a whisper. "Yes. Please. Use me."

Vikram didn't even blink. "Say you'll take anything I give."

"Anything," Ishaan gasped.

That was all it took.

In one fluid, brutal motion, Vikram hauled him up and spun him around, pressing him down over a heavy wooden table heaped with garland baskets. The edge dug into Ishaan's hips. The marigold petals scattered across the surface stuck to the sweat blooming on his skin.

"Hands flat. Don't move."

Ishaan obeyed instantly, chest rising fast, heart thudding against the table. The brocade of his sherwani itched across his shoulders. His cock was still untouched, trapped against his thigh in soaked lace. He could hear the dhol and priest chants just beyond the curtain, too close, too real, but in here, all he could feel was the air shift behind him.

And then fingers gripped the hem of his sherwani. Pulled it up.

Ishaan trembled.

Vikram's hands moved lower. He undid the tie of Ishaan's churidar pants, tugging them down just far enough to bare the truth beneath.

He moved slowly. Intentionally. Folding the heavy embroidered fabric over Ishaan's lower back, exposing the black lace in full.

The lace panties hugged Ishaan's ass like they were made for it, tight, dark, soaked through.

The skin beneath was still faintly red, tender from the earlier spanking.

He didn't say a word at first. Just looked.

Ishaan could feel the pause. The heat of that gaze.

Then: Vikram's fingers pressed against the lace, right over the plug's base. A light push. The bulb shifted inside Ishaan with a muted squelch.

He gasped.

Vikram smirked as his fingers trailed over the lace. "I knew when you put these on this morning, this is where we'd end up."

He stroked the fabric slowly. "You've been marinating in my orders all day. Plugged. Dressed. Dripping."

Ishaan whimpered.

"And now? You want cock inside all that filth."

Vikram tugged the lace gently to the side, not removing it, just enough to expose the pink plug snug in Ishaan's hole. The panties stayed on. The frame. The branding.

He tapped the base with two fingers, letting it squelch. "Still full."

Then leaned in, breath hot on Ishaan's back.

"I should leave you like this. Plugged. Pantied. Denied. Ruined just from leaking."

Then the fingers gripped the base of the plug and began to pull.

Slow.

Wet.

It dragged out with obscene resistance, Ishaan's rim clinging, fluttering. A thin trail of slick followed it, glistening down his thigh.

Vikram stared. "Didn't even close up," he muttered. "You're open for me. Always."

Ishaan's body burned.

Vikram spread him wider with both hands. He didn't rush. He inspected him, like he was examining a hole he owned. One hand rubbed the inside of Ishaan's thigh. The other traced over the twitching, wet entrance.

Spit hit the curve of his ass. Then two fingers rubbed it in.

And then.

Pressure.

Stretch.

Ishaan's breath seized as Vikram pushed in. There was no gentle. No teasing. Just one long, brutal push, cock splitting him open with filthy ease.

Ishaan's mouth dropped open. Silent.

The stretch felt endless. Raw. Vikram bottomed out with a grunt, hips slapping against Ishaan's lace-framed cheeks.

"Oh fuck," Ishaan gasped, trembling.

His hole pulsed around the cock inside him, but there was no resistance. His body knew this now. Needed it. Vikram leaned over him, weight heavy, breath warm against his neck.

And then he started to fuck.

Slow at first. Deep. Each thrust precise and unrelenting. Ishaan's spine bowed. His thighs trembled. The wood beneath him creaked faintly with each push forward.

Outside, a conch blew. A priest shouted something in Sanskrit. Closer than ever.

"You'd let me take you right on the mandap, wouldn't you?" Vikram murmured into his shoulder. "Right on that fire pit. In your panties. While everyone watched."

Ishaan whimpered into his arm, face hot, cock leaking onto the garlands beneath him.

"If someone pulled that curtain right now," Vikram growled, "they'd see your lace pulled aside and your hole stuffed full of cock. What would they say, huh?"

Ishaan moaned. His head shook once, but then he nodded.

Because he wanted it.

He wanted them to see. He wanted someone, anyone, to witness what Vikram did to him.

"You said yes too easily when I handed you those panties this morning," Vikram breathed against his ear. "The old Ishaan would've resisted. Argued. Run."

A sharp thrust made Ishaan gasp.

"But you? You bent. You obeyed. Because deep down, you wanted this."

The next words were a growl, right into his hairline:

"You bent over in lace because you wanted to be fucked like a girl."

Each thrust now landed harder. Louder. The table rocked beneath him. Garlands shifted. Ishaan's arms strained just to keep himself from collapsing.

"And you like it like this," Vikram said. "Used. Owned. Fucked open."

"Yes," Ishaan gasped. "I do. I... fuck, please, don't stop."

"I'm not going to."

The pace broke into chaos. Vikram's fingers dug into Ishaan's hips, pulling him back against each punishing stroke. The lace panties clung to one thigh, stretched thin. The waistband dug into his skin, soaked, ruined.

The plug lay abandoned on the floor.

The marigold scent around them was crushed under sweat and sin.

Ishaan was leaking like a broken faucet now, lace soaked, thighs slippery, cock twitching uselessly in front of him with every brutal thrust. The table under his belly had a wet patch already, but he couldn't tell if it was pre or sweat or just shame. Every time Vikram slammed into him, the lace dragged against his cock, silk sticking, teasing, taunting.

This wasn't how Vikram used to fuck him. Not in Goa. Not that night in the hostel. Back then it was new, clumsy, hidden, two boys trying something they wouldn't admit to wanting. But now? Now this was brutal. Possessive. This was Vikram claiming a thing he owned.

And Ishaan knew why.

It was the panties. The lace. The sight of him bent over like this, dressed and desperate, had turned Vikram into something darker. It had lit a fuse. And Ishaan fucking loved it. He wanted more. He needed Vikram's cock, his voice, his orders. He'd wear whatever he was told. He'd bend wherever he was told. He'd take it in front of anyone. Anything to make Vikram ruin him like this again.

He could hear cheering outside. Out there, people were clapping for the varmala. And here he was: bent over a garland table with his panties pulled aside, getting fucked like he was born for it. His old self wouldn't even recognize him. That straight, proud, polite Ishaan was long gone, burned out of his body by the heat of Vikram's cock.

Whatever switch Vikram had flipped with that first smack, that first command, it was permanent now. There wasn't an ounce of masculinity left in him. Not here. Not like this.

And he didn't want it back.

He wanted more.

He tried to speak. To say thank you. Or please. Or something.

But all he could do was moan.

Vikram thrust deeper. Leaned in again. Bit his shoulder, harder this time. Left a mark. A bruise.

Ishaan cried out, but didn't move.

Vikram's voice hit his ear, low and commanding:

"You think this is rough? You think this is where I stop?"

Ishaan whimpered, brain fogged, body wrecked.

"You think you begged for this? You think you made this happen?"

Vikram paused.

One more brutal thrust buried him to the hilt.

Then came the whisper.

"I booked us a private hotel stay."

Ishaan blinked. His body twitched around the thick cock inside him. "What?"

"For after this," Vikram said, voice calm, dangerous. "Two more nights. Just us. Secluded. No friends. No interruptions."

A deep thrust followed, sharp enough to punch the air from Ishaan's lungs.

"You'll cancel your ticket. Add two days to your leave. Your boss won't care." Another roll of hips, slower this time. "Because you're not going back to your world until I'm done with you."

Ishaan gasped, mind spinning.

"You already—?" he stammered.

Vikram chuckled, low and cruel. "I booked it before I even RSVPed."

He didn't stop fucking. If anything, he went deeper, angling upward, making Ishaan choke on a moan.

"I knew you'd break. From the second I saw your name on that WhatsApp group, I knew. You were never going to make it through this wedding without giving me this ass again."

Ishaan's mouth dropped open, breath ragged, lost in the dizzy humiliation of it.

"Oh, you thought you started this?" Vikram's voice turned mocking. "You thought you were the one who initiated all this again? That little shift in bed on the first night? Grinding your ass into my crotch like a needy slut?"

His hand slapped hard against Ishaan's ass, one sharp crack. Ishaan cried out.

"I've been planning this since the night you left our hostel bed dripping," Vikram growled. "I've wanted to own this hole again for seven fucking years. This time, I'm not letting you disappear."

Ishaan whimpered. The table rocked beneath his hands. His cock, escaped from the side of the panties, slapped helplessly against the wood, glistening with untouched pre.

"I brought the black plug with me from Delhi," Vikram continued. "Before I even got here. The pink one? Just a souvenir. You think Kunal put us in the same room by accident?"

Ishaan froze.

Vikram leaned in, kissed the back of his neck.

"I came to the wedding a day early. Told him I'd help with setup. Dropped your name in passing. You've been walking straight into my plan from the second you arrived."

Thrust. Another. Deep and savage.

"I've owned this fuckhole since 2021. You just needed reminding."

Ishaan gasped, shattered. "Vikram, I, please..."

"You want to cum?"

Ishaan nodded, eyes wide, breathless. "Yes. Please. I need..."

Vikram looked down. Ishaan's cock was rock-hard, flushed, bulging out of the lace, dripping steadily onto the dusty floor. One more thrust and he'd explode. He was right on the edge.

"No."

Ishaan choked.

"You don't get to cum. Not yet. Not after this mess."

Vikram added, "you'll walk around this wedding with a loaded cock, hard and aching, while my cum leaks out of your used ass. And you'll thank me for it. Because you don't deserve to cum until I say. You're a dickless little panty-whore until I let you earn that finish."

Vikram pulled out just slightly, enough to make Ishaan's body clench desperately around the cock that had been stretching him for minutes. Then he stopped moving.

To Ishaan's shock, Vikram's hand smacked his ass again, twice. Hard. Loud. Then his fingers reached up and pinched both nipples through his shirt, hard enough to make Ishaan arch and yelp.

"Focus somewhere else," Vikram murmured. "Not on your cock. You don't cum unless I let you."

Ishaan whimpered, shaking. His hole ached. His cock pulsed. But Vikram wasn't done.

He reached forward, grabbed the base of Ishaan's shaft, and squeezed tight, thumb and forefinger forming a makeshift clamp.

"Let it build. Let it hurt. Let it leak. But you don't spill a fucking drop."

Ishaan gasped, the pressure shocking him back from the brink. His balls ached. His nipples stung. And his cock, still hard, still exposed, jerked helplessly against the table, denied.

Only when Vikram felt him pull back from the edge, only then, did he release his grip, spit down on Ishaan's hole again, and slam back in with brutal force.

Vikram watched Ishaan's whole body twitch, legs unsteady, nipples still red from the abuse. His cock throbbed violently, purple and slick, bobbing helplessly in the air like it was begging for contact. Vikram didn't touch it. Didn't need to. The friction of lace rasping against Ishaan's inner thighs, the raw glide of cock over a hole already wrecked, it was enough to keep him on the verge.

What followed wasn't lovemaking. It was claiming. Final. Dirty. Loud. The kind of fucking that left no doubt who belonged to whom.

The table creaked beneath them. Marigolds spilled to the floor.

Vikram's thrusts turned erratic, sloppier, meaner. And then he came.

He gripped Ishaan's hips tighter, rutted deep like a dog, and snarled, "take my load, fucktoy," as his cock thickened and twitched.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, held there, and emptied inside Ishaan in long, thick spurts. Ishaan could feel the heat flood into him, sticky, claiming, obscene. It leaked out almost immediately, dripping down his thighs.

Vikram didn't pull out.

He stayed for a moment. Buried. Breathing hard. Letting Ishaan feel every throb of his cock inside him.

And Ishaan?

Ishaan just folded forward, forehead against the wood, cock still twitching, untouched, denied. Lace soaked. Hole wrecked. Filled and leaking.

"You're dripping," Vikram murmured, mouth near his ear.

"I know," Ishaan whispered.

Vikram finally slid out, slow, deliberate, and a long trail of cum spilled from Ishaan's hole, running down to his knees.

Ishaan's hole fluttered open in the aftermath. The lace, still bunched to the side, clung sticky to the crease of his thigh. His muscles spasmed involuntarily, clenching around nothing, as if begging to be filled again.

Vikram bent, grabbed the pink plug from where it had fallen earlier, now coated with slick and petals and dirt. He didn't clean it.

He handed it to Ishaan.

"Put it in your pocket. You don't get it back."

Ishaan took it with shaking fingers, the toy still warm. He tucked it inside the inner pocket of his sherwani. His body was trembling, sticky, and full.

Vikram pulled his pants back up, buckled his belt like he'd just finished a chore.

"You'll walk out like nothing happened," he said, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. "Smile for the cameras. Stand beside the groom. And let my cum drip out of you every time you take a step."

"By the time the wedding is over, your churidar will be sticking to your thighs from the slick. And if anyone hugs you too close, they'll smell me. You'll smell like the man who bred you."

Ishaan adjusted his clothes. Tried to tuck his cock back in, but the lace was ruined, stretched out, damp with shame. His churidar was stained, at the thigh, at the seat. He panicked.

But the sherwani was long enough to hide it. Barely.

He looked up. "I'm yours," he whispered, hoarse.

Vikram smirked.

"I know."

And then he left.

No kiss. No goodbye. No softness.

He walked out, blending back into the music, the chanting, the celebration.

Ishaan stayed behind for another two minutes, catching his breath. He wiped the table clean of the slick his cock had spilled.

As he reached for the buttons of his sherwani, his hands trembled, not from exertion, but from how ruined he felt. The fabric dragged over oversensitive skin, brushing his leaking tip, which still refused to soften. Each movement threatened another dribble. His thighs were sticky. His stomach was tight. His nipples still burned from Vikram's pinches. And his brain? Fucked to mush.

________________________________________

Ishaan stepped out into the light.

The wedding was still roaring. Trumpets and drums. Laughter. Rice flying.

And Ishaan?

He walked out plugged, pantied, leaking, and finally, undeniably owned.

By the time Ishaan stepped back onto the lawn, the varmala was already over. A burst of petals exploded over the mandap, and the pheras had begun.

Ishaan was still semi-hard. The lace clung damply to his skin, his cock bulging obscenely against the inner fold of the churidar. Every step made it twitch. He walked awkwardly, stiff-hipped, one hand near his crotch, pretending to smooth his sherwani pleats just to hide the outline of his shame.

Aditi caught sight of him near the seating area. She approached, fanning herself. "Where were you during the varmala?" she asked, teasing. "You look like you just sprinted from the hills. Sweaty much?"

Ishaan forced a smile, adjusting the collar. "Was on the other side of the lawn. Didn't hear the call. Sun's brutal."

He didn't let her get close. One step nearer and she'd smell Vikram's cum on him, musk, sweat, and something sweet that clung to his skin like a confession. Worse, she might notice the faint round bulge of the plug in his pocket, sticking out against the drape of brocade.

He backed away with a polite nod and drifted toward the buffet zone with a few college friends.

As he rejoined the wedding crowd, Ishaan paused.

Tanmay was seated alone, a little apart from the rest, eyes locked on the pheras. Everyone else was crowding around the buffet.

"Lunch?" Ishaan offered as he passed.

Tanmay didn't look away. "Not hungry."

Ishaan nodded, unsure what else to say. Something about Tanmay's expression, tight and unreadable, made it feel like he shouldn't ask more.

He joined the group, trying not to limp, trying to walk like his thighs weren't sticky with another man's cum. Mukul, holding a plate of chaat, glanced down for half a second, then up at Ishaan's face with a raised eyebrow.

Ishaan's stomach flipped. He followed the gaze, then realized: his churidar knees. Dusty, creased, faintly grey where the white had scraped the courtyard stone. From kneeling. From sucking cock like a dog in heat.

"You trip or something?" Mukul asked, half-laughing, half-curious.

Ishaan forced a shrug. "Lost my balance during the bhangra."

Mukul chuckled and turned away.

Ishaan clenched. The plug shifted. Cum threatened to leak again. He didn't know what was worse, that Mukul had noticed, or that he hadn't seen the real mess.

Vikram was across the lawn, laughing with another group. They didn't speak. Didn't need to. But Ishaan could feel it, the weight of the load still inside him. The damp trail that curved down his inner thigh with every shift. The way his hole twitched when he crouched to scoop some paneer onto his plate.

Then a smack.

A casual tap landed on his ass.

He jumped.

Anshul, oblivious, just grinned. "Move ahead, yaar. You're blocking the pulao."

Ishaan laughed thinly. Inside, he clenched. Hard. Too much movement and he'd be dripping down his ankle.

The pheras circled to a close. Priests chanted. Family clapped. Vikram made eye contact across the crowd, eyes slow and dark and full of promise.

Ishaan swallowed.

His cock still hadn't softened.

And all he could think was: Please... please let him let me cum when we get back to the room.

________________________________________

????Two more chapters remains.

The Mussoorie story isn't over yet, Chapter 6 and 7 will be posted here soon.

It'll close out this arc.

Also, if you've noticed more details about other characters, you're right. I'm planting seeds.

Every member of this group will have their own story, each exploring something different. I will start with Tanmay.

But first, should Ishaan finally get to cum? Or should Vikram deny him until the end of the wedding?