Reclaimed in Mussoorie Ch. 06

⚠️Author's Note:

The wedding ends. But the punishment doesn't.

What follows is not sex. It's training. Reprogramming.

________________________________________

Evening had begun to drape the mountains in gold by the time they returned to the room. The pheras were done, lunch served, guests scattered across the property. The corridor lights flickered behind them, but inside, the only illumination came from slanted beams slipping through half-drawn curtains. The room smelled faintly of crushed garlands, sandalwood soap, and something darker, musk, sweat, sex.

Vikram entered first, lazy in his gait, jacket slung casually over two fingers. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. His walk alone said it: I own what just happened. I'll own what comes next.

Ishaan followed, a few silent steps behind, his thighs sticky, the plug a warm bulge in the inside pocket of his sherwani. His legs moved awkwardly from the stretch, the soreness, the cum still drying on his skin. He hadn't even been allowed to cum, and yet, he felt more ruined than he'd ever been.

He closed the door quietly behind them.

And thought: Maybe, if I'm obedient. If I give him everything now, maybe he'll let me cum before reception.

He turned toward the mirror.

Ishaan stripped.

Not on command. Not from a glance. Just because he wanted to.

He unbuttoned the sherwani slowly, his fingers trembling slightly at the collar. He slid the brocade down his arms, careful not to disturb the lace panties underneath. They clung to his skin like guilt. Or sin.

He folded the jacket neatly over the back of a chair. Then looked up.

In the mirror, he saw it: his knees, dusty, grass-stained, bruised from kneeling in the storage corridor earlier. The black lace panties hugged his hips tightly, the front stained dark from leaking pre, the back still glimmering faintly from the mess Vikram had pumped inside him earlier.

He reached to peel the waistband down.

"Those stay on."

Vikram's voice, calm. Sharp. A knife's edge wrapped in silk.

Ishaan froze. Then nodded. He dropped his hands.

He hadn't even heard Vikram walk behind him.

Vikram moved past him toward the bathroom. As he reached the door, he paused, glancing at Ishaan's reflection in the mirror.

Vikram answered him without looking. "Don't shower. Just wash your face. I want the scent on your skin when we walk into that reception."

Ishaan's heart stuttered. "Yes," he whispered.

"And clean the plug. Properly. You'll need it again tonight."

Vikram disappeared into steam.

Ishaan gathered the pink plug from his sherwani pocket and followed.

Inside the bathroom, Vikram stepped into the shower without ceremony. Water hissed to full blast. The steam swelled fast, blurring everything but the dark outline of his body, broad back, thick thighs, water streaming down carved muscle like he'd never even fucked someone raw an hour ago.

Ishaan stood at the sink, setting the plug on the edge.

It was filthy. Still streaked with slick, a speck of petal stuck to the base.

He washed it slowly. Thoroughly. His fingers lingered, rubbing along the curves, remembering the way it had plugged him so perfectly. He dried it carefully and set it aside again.

Then he sat on the toilet and finally let himself go, his body trembling a little as he emptied out the last of the wedding's violation. His ass was sore. The relief was physical, but the shame was deeper. That he needed to reset before being used again.

He wiped gently. Washed his hole, nothing more. Just enough to not feel gross. The cum on his thighs? That stayed.

He washed only his face and neck. No soap below the collarbone. As he dried off, he glanced toward the mirror.

Vikram's eyes met his through the fog.

He was rinsing now, the water rolling off smooth, dark skin. His cock, still formidable, even relaxed, hung between his thighs like a warning.

Ishaan swallowed.

"Please..." he whispered. "Can you... fuck me again? Just once before the reception? I need to cum."

The water didn't stop. Neither did Vikram's hands, he lathered his chest slowly. "No."

"Please," Ishaan breathed. "I need to cum."

"No."

The answer wasn't cruel. Just absolute.

Ishaan bit his lip and nodded. He turned and left the bathroom.

That was it. That was all he got.

By the time Vikram stepped out of the shower, water dripping from his shoulders, towel slung around his neck, he looked like nothing had happened. Again.

He walked straight onto the balcony, still naked, and lit a cigarette.

"Bring the black one."

Ishaan grabbed the plug, still warm from the towel. Stepped outside. The stone beneath his bare feet was cold, textured, grounding.

Vikram didn't look at him. He exhaled, slow, lazy.

"On your knees. Out here."

Ishaan sank without hesitation.

The floor scraped his knees immediately, reopening bruises from earlier. His thighs trembled as he settled. His breath fogged in the cool air. Lace hugged his hips like a brand. The plug still sat in his hand, warm, slick, obscene.

And above him?

Vikram, naked and calm, smoking like this was routine. One leg propped against the railing, cock hanging heavy, half-hard, glistening faintly in the fading light.

Ishaan's hands shook. He held up the plug like an offering.

This is me now. Plugging myself at a man's feet. Outside. On stone. While he watches.

His cock pulsed behind the lace. He was already leaking.

Vikram glanced down. "Lick it."

Ishaan obeyed.

He brought the black plug to his mouth and dragged his tongue along the bulb. The silicone shone. Then again, longer this time, slower. Like it was a cock. His lips parted slightly. He let it slide against the edge of his tongue, then licked the base.

His cock hardened almost immediately, pressing against the inside of his panties.

Vikram chuckled.

"Can't believe you're hard again. Just from plugging yourself. Filthy little thing."

Ishaan whimpered, thighs twitching.

"Do it."

He spit into his palm, slicked the toy, then leaned forward.

The lace slid aside easily now. His hole pulsed open, loose, ready. When he pressed the plug to the rim, it almost slipped in too fast.

Still, he took his time, just to feel it.

The pressure. The stretch. The pop as it settled deep.

He gasped.

Vikram smoked.

"Look at that," he murmured, stepping behind to tug the panties snug over the plug's base. "Your hole still opens like a mouth for me."

Ishaan stayed there, on his knees, plug seated, cock twitching behind lace, until Vikram stubbed the cigarette and turned away.

"Now," Vikram murmured, pressing a palm flat between Ishaan's shoulder blades. "Let's get you dressed like a prince. So you can walk around that reception with my plug twitching in your hole and my cum drying on your thighs."

"Yes," Ishaan whispered.

They returned inside. The evening sun painted gold onto the bedspread. Everything looked too quiet, too clean, for what had just happened.

The suits waited in pressed precision, charcoal for Ishaan, midnight for Vikram.

Vikram dressed first. Crisp shirt, trousers, cufflinks, tie. His movements were practiced, unhurried.

Ishaan watched in silence. Then moved to his own garments, tugging the pants up carefully. The plug seated itself deeper. The lace was damp again, clinging to his leaking cock. A spot had already started to form. The dress shirt scratched over his nipples.

When he reached for his tie, Vikram stepped in.

Adjusted it for him. Smoothed the collar.

Then, his thumb pressed right against the wet spot at Ishaan's crotch.

"You're leaking again."

Ishaan's breath caught.

"I'll try to—"

"Don't."

The thumb pressed harder. Ishaan twitched.

"I want you dripping through dinner."

Ishaan nodded, glassy-eyed.

Vikram handed him a second cigarette. They lit up again by the window, two silhouettes, one sharp and powerful, the other aching and ruined.

By the time the clock hit 5:30, Vikram checked his watch.

"Reception starts in five," he said.

Then Vikram turned him toward the mirror.

He stood behind him, one hand on his chest, the other sliding down to press the base of the plug through his trousers. One small push.

Ishaan inhaled sharply, his knees threatening to give.

"Walk out like a prince," Vikram whispered. "Stand like a man."

His lips brushed Ishaan's ear.

"But know I'm the only one who knows what you really are."

________________________________________

The lawn glittered beneath fairy-lights and a thousand mirrored sequins. Saris shimmered in jewel tones. Men in tuxedos raised champagne flutes. Children ran between fire pits and flower carts while music floated from the stage, a sitar's lazy hum undercut by the occasional tabla thump. It was the kind of scene families framed. And into it walked Vikram and Ishaan.

Vikram looked untouched by the chaos. Tuxedo tailored to perfection, hair in place, smile polished like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. He walked with long strides and easy confidence, shaking hands, posing for photos, laughing like nothing in his world had ever been out of control.

Ishaan followed one step behind.

He was dressed just as sharply, charcoal tux hugging his frame, tie knotted crisp at the collar, but each stride was a private war. The plug inside him throbbed like a second pulse. The lace clung tight, a constant reminder he wasn't walking free. He could feel the last of Vikram's cum dried on his thighs beneath the fabric, thick, sticky, undeniable. His dick was hard again.

He couldn't stop smiling, either, because the cameras were everywhere. College friends. Kunal's family members. Every time a flash went off, he felt like it was capturing the truth beneath his clothes: I'm plugged. I'm leaking. I'm a man stuffed full of another man's cum and smiling through it.

And Vikram knew it.

That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made Ishaan feel like he might explode from it.

They made their way down the central aisle between lanterns and cocktail tables. Vikram greeted relatives with warmth, that perfect effortless charm. Ishaan trailed dutifully, nodding at greetings, mumbling thanks when someone complimented his suit. Trying to still himself only made things worse. The plug nudged deeper. The slick spread.

Then came the first blow.

Vikram greeted relatives with warmth, his hand resting lightly on Ishaan's lower back. Once, just once, his thumb slid low enough to graze the plug's base through the tux, a touch so quick it might not have happened.

He kept walking. Because he didn't get to stop.

Later, Vikram peeled away toward a conversation with Aditi, she looked stunning in a cocktail sari, gold-threaded and sleek against her frame. Ishaan saw her gesture, smile, tuck hair behind her ear. She leaned in slightly as they spoke, hand casually brushing her hip.

They talked for less than a minute.

Ishaan watched from across the lawn, nursing a lime soda. Not because he was jealous, at least, not like he had been earlier, but because he couldn't stop wondering.

Was that what Vikram liked? Clean, flirty, light girls like Aditi?

Had something happened during the baraat, when they stepped away together?

He studied Vikram's posture, calm, cool, casual. There was no heat in it. No lean. No flirt. He said something. She laughed. It ended there.

Ishaan exhaled.

Of course it wasn't real. It was just theatre. Just one more scene in a show where Ishaan had the starring role. Because this wasn't about Aditi.

It was about reminding Ishaan that Vikram could do whatever he wanted.

And Ishaan? Ishaan would still be the one plugged and aching at his side.

Vikram reappeared with a fresh drink and slipped beside Ishaan in a knot of college friends discussing the playlist. Someone cracked a joke about the DJ refusing requests. Harsh rolled his eyes and muttered that his Spotify queues were better than this, and everyone laughed.

Someone started queuing bhangra on someone's phone speaker just to prove a point, and soon half the group was mid-debate about who'd danced better at Kunal's sangeet.

Ishaan half-laughed. Right then, Vikram's hand slid behind him and gave his ass a full, hard squeeze.

Not a playful one.

A grip. Full palm. Possessive.

Ishaan's knees buckled slightly. The plug shifted. His cock throbbed. He laughed too late, too loud, praying no one noticed.

No one did.

The conversation kept flowing, complaints about volume, which cousin danced best, someone asking where the rum had gone.

Vikram didn't even look at him. Just nodded along like it was nothing.

Ishaan's cock twitched violently. He didn't dare check if anything had shown.

If I cum right now, he thought, if I cum in this fucking suit, I'll never recover.

The bruise blooming under the tuxedo was already forming.

Ishaan exhaled slowly, trying to gather himself.

A few minutes later, a soda appeared at his elbow.

"You're impossible to pin down tonight," Trisha said with a grin.

Ishaan turned, she looked radiant. Lehenga in a soft green, hair up, skin glowing in the golden light of the reception canopy.

"Thanks," he said, too fast.

She handed him the glass. "Hydrate. You look flushed."

He forced a chuckle. "Blame the heat."

He took a sip. The bubbles stung his tongue, and the shift in posture made the plug settle deeper. His cock throbbed. The lace stuck tighter. He winced.

Trisha cocked her head. "You sure you're okay?"

Ishaan nodded. "Just, long day."

And then she did it. She reached out, touched his wrist lightly.

The gesture was sweet. Grounding. Completely innocent.

And Ishaan's mind betrayed him.

For half a second, he imagined kissing her. He imagined taking her on drives, brushing hair from her cheek, planning which Sunday they'd go to Blossom Bookstore or maybe Ranga Shankara for a play. Taking her to a brunch café. Introducing her to his parents. She was sweet. Smart. The kind of girl you dated. Married.

And then her fingers moved slightly.

And all he could think about was how soaked his cock was beneath the tux. How the plug was pushing into his ass. How the only person he wanted touching him was the man who had bent him over a garland table and whispered filth into his mouth.

She said something else. He barely heard it.

Her voice blurred under the sound of Vikram's in his memory: "You're not even pretending you're a man anymore."

Ishaan blinked. "Sorry, what?"

Trisha tilted her head, studying him. "You always look like you're halfway between running and disappearing."

Ishaan exhaled, caught off guard. "Maybe I'm just waiting for the right person to make me stay."

It came out too smoothly, half genuine, half deflection. He didn't know if he meant it, but the line had rolled off his tongue like muscle memory. The old instinct: flirt, charm, misdirect. Especially with women. Especially when things got too close.

"I said, we're both back in Bangalore Monday, right? Maybe we get coffee?" She smiled, a little shy now. "You seem... interesting. When you're not looking over your shoulder."

He nodded. "Yeah. Coffee sounds great."

She pulled out her phone. Air-dropped the contact.

He saved it. Gave her a smile. Tried to picture texting her next week. Tried to imagine what a normal afternoon would feel like again.

He wondered if he will ever call her? Maybe. Maybe when this ends. Maybe when I need to feel normal again. But not now. Not while I'm leaking through lace and begging to cum from a plug.

He knew he didn't deserve someone like Trisha. Not now. Not like this.

Then groomsmen call came over the loudspeaker, one big group photo by the floral arch before the cake-cutting. Laughter and whistles followed as men in tuxedos shuffled toward the mandap, shoving each other with the comfort of ten-year friendships and too many shared hangovers.

Ishaan found himself in the front row. He didn't protest.

Trisha stood off to the side, adjusting a cousin's hair for the shot. Aditi was somewhere behind him, he could hear her voice, light and teasing, tossing a line at one of the twins.

Vikram slid in behind Ishaan at the last second. The photographer adjusted for height, focused.

As the photographer raised the camera, Vikram leaned in and whispered, "Try not to cum in your panties, whore. Or do. It won't matter, you'll beg either way."

Flash. Ishaan's breath caught. Eyes wide. Smile frozen.

The camera flash caught only his grin. No one looked lower. Nobody saw anything.

Except Vikram.

As the groomsmen dispersed in twos and threes, someone frowned.

"Wait, wasn't Tanmay supposed to be in this?"

A cousin glanced around. "Shit, he's the best man. Where is he?"

Kunal adjusted his stole and muttered, "He didn't want to. Said to let him be."

That was strange. Tanmay wasn't the type to skip spotlight moments.

Ishaan's brows knit. He and Vikram exchanged a quiet glance.

Vikram's hand brushed Ishaan's elbow, "Be right back."

Ishaan watched him cross the lawn alone, find Tanmay leaning against a tree near the drinks counter, nursing something dark in a heavy glass.

They exchanged a few words, brief, quiet. Tanmay shrugged. Vikram nodded once, said something else, and returned.

"All good?" Ishaan asked.

Vikram didn't elaborate. "Work stuff. He'll rally."

Ishaan let it go. He already had too much heat, too much ache, too many thoughts crowding his head to carry anyone else's mood tonight.

Later, under the soft haze of fairy-lights and melting candles, Ishaan caught sight of Aditi again.

She was by the punch station now, laughing with a guy Ishaan vaguely remembered as someone's cousin from the U. S., tall, animated, clean-cut. They shared a joke. Aditi nudged his arm. The guy grinned like he'd just won a prize.

Vikram passed them on the way to the bar. A nod. A laugh. A parting smile.

That was it.

No flirtation. No lingering touch. No glint of anything underneath.

Just surface-level noise.

Ishaan watched Aditi for a beat longer. Confident. Sharp. Unapologetically flirting because she could.

And suddenly he saw it.

She was who he used to be.

Unbothered. Charming. Always halfway into a next date before the last one even ended.

But Ishaan? He wasn't that anymore. He didn't flirt. He didn't chase.

He served.

He ached.

He obeyed.

And he liked it.

Vikram had never wanted Aditi.

He'd used her to remind Ishaan: You're not who you used to be. You're mine now.

________________________________________

After the cake was cut and plates were scraped clean, after whisky refills and second rounds of mocktails, after polite goodbyes from distant aunts and fumbled hugs from drunk cousins, Vikram reappeared at Ishaan's side.

He didn't speak.

Just a hand to the shoulder. A glance.

Come.

They slipped around the edge of the marquee. Past discarded plates, crates of spare flower baskets, a few paan vendors taking a smoke break.

They ducked into a back corridor.

Quiet. Cool. Jasmine-scented.

Vikram turned and shoved Ishaan against the stucco wall.

One arm slammed across his collarbones. The other hand cupped his jaw and angled his face up with effortless force, fingers pressing into his cheeks until his lips parted.

And then he kissed him.

Not a kiss. A claiming. A mouth forced open and filled.

Vikram bit down on Ishaan's lower lip just hard enough to bruise, just enough to say: you don't get to want unless I give it to you.

Ishaan moaned, soft and choked, his body already squirming against the wall. His palms splayed helpless beside him, the texture of painted stucco digging into his fingertips. Every nerve in his body funneled to where Vikram's thigh shoved forward between his legs.

The plug jerked upward.

The lace squeezed tighter.

His cock spasmed again, soaked, twitching, useless.

Then he spun Ishaan around.

One rough grip on the shoulder, one twist at the waist, and Ishaan's front hit the wall. His hands splayed out to catch himself, but he didn't fight it. He pressed into the stucco like a man submitting to execution.

Vikram's chest was at his back now. Hot. Solid. Dominant.

And then came the grind.

Vikram's hips rolled forward, deliberately slow. His hard cock, still free inside his tux trousers, pressed against Ishaan's ass, the fabric barely muting the pressure. The plug inside Ishaan shifted deeper with each motion, sending sparks up his spine.

Ishaan whimpered again, louder this time.

He felt filthy. Ruined. Plugged and panting and trying not to cum just from being ground into like a toy.

Vikram's mouth slid to his ear.

"You want me to fuck you right now, don't you?"

Ishaan nodded desperately, forehead against the wall.

Vikram pressed harder, hips grinding in a slow, firm rhythm. Each stroke made the plug rock inside him.

"I bet if I pulled your trousers down right here, you'd be dripping all over the fucking floor."

Ishaan gasped. His knees buckled.

Vikram caught him, one hand back on his hip, the other now palming his throat, just enough pressure to hold him still. Not choking. Just owning.

"You want it, slut?"

Ishaan barely managed: "Yes. Please. I'll cum... I can't—"

But the grind stopped.

Vikram's mouth was at his ear again. A whisper. Low. Cold.

"Patience."

He pulled back.

"Few more drinks with the gang. Then you're mine again."

He adjusted his jacket like nothing had happened. Smoothed his cuffs. Straightened Ishaan's lapels with practiced grace.

Ishaan stood against the wall, limp. Trembling. Plug-seated. Cock soaked. Mouth wrecked from the kiss.

It took a full ten seconds before he could turn around.

And when he did, Vikram was already halfway down the hallway. Striding. Composed. Beautiful.

Ishaan inhaled, then followed.

Still aching. Still leaking.

Still plugged for a man who never had to ask twice.

He walked out into the lawn, tie perfect, lapels sharp, cum-soaked lace hugging a cock that wouldn't calm down. The fire-pits danced. Laughter rang out.

No one knew what was pulsing inside him. Except one man.

________________________________________

The music had finally slid from thumping DJ remixes to a drowsy acoustic playlist, unplugged Kishore Kumar drifting over stacked buffet tables, half-melted candles, and a dance floor littered with rose-petal confetti. Most relatives were queuing at the valet or hunting down missing children; the planners were boxing leftover pastries. That left one loose knot of stubborn twenty-somethings claiming a patch of grass between two patio heaters.

They had dragged over wicker chairs and a battered ice bucket. Someone's phone acted as a speaker, someone else's stainless tumbler kept refilling with Old Monk from a bottle cradled in a shoe. Tanmay presided in his crumpled tux shirt, bow tie hanging like a casualty. Beside him lounged Anshul, Mukul, Rishabh, Santosh, Himanshu, and Harsh, jackets off, collars open, eyes vascular with victory and exhaustion.

Ishaan clocked it instantly that Tanmay had shown up. After skipping the groomsmen photo, after that quiet moment by the tree, he was here now, drink in hand, loud again.

Vikram and Ishaan reached the circle last.

From afar anyone would have said they looked identical to the rest, two well-tailored silhouettes sliding into the banter. Up close, the differences were hairline cracks only one person could see.

Vikram: midnight-blue suit, silk pocket square, glasses of rum vanishing effortlessly in his hand. Shoulders looser than they'd been all week, the tiniest curl at the corner of his mouth whenever he glanced at the man one step behind him.

Ishaan: charcoal three-piece that still reeked faintly of marigold dust, cheeks pink from champagne, a smile cinched too tight. Under layers of wool a black plug rode deep, the lace of stolen panties clinging damp to his skin. Every swing of his leg smeared old slick higher on his thigh; he couldn't tell if the damp spot on his trouser front was visible or paranoia.

Vikram draped an easy arm across the back of Ishaan's chair, the gesture a protective big-brother pose to anyone half looking. But the heel of that hand settled exactly where Ishaan's collar met flesh, thumb stroking once, twice, a silent breathe for me.

The circle cheered their arrival.

"About time! Groom's parents were packing up the bar!"

Tanmay nudged a spare tumbler toward Ishaan. "Breakfast of champs?"

Ishaan accepted, throat working. The sip burned, rum and melted ice, but mostly the knowledge that the touch at his nape wouldn't let him slump, wouldn't let him forget who owned his posture now.

They talked cricket scores. They ranked hostel dares. A debate broke out over which city's pani-puri could wipe out the rest of the subcontinent. Ishaan found himself laughing, sharp bursts, half a beat late, because each joke made the plug pulse, each laugh clenched him around its girth. Each laugh tightened something he couldn't unclench.

Vikram never once moved the hand from Ishaan's neck. His voice, when he joined the banter, was mellow. His fingers tapped without pattern, though to Ishaan they felt like code.

Toast number three sloshed into the grass. Tanmay grinned and leaned back in his wicker chair, the firelight catching on his teeth.

"Okay, but real talk, what the fuck did I walk in on this morning?"

The group quieted just enough for the question to land.

Tanmay turned, theatrically widening his eyes. "I push open their door to check if they're alive, and this man's lying there like the aftermath tab on Pornhub, naked, red all over, face buried in the mattress like he just got used and forgotten."

The boys howled. Mukul whooped. Rishabh choked on his drink. Laughter burst out like fireworks.

"I swear," Tanmay added, "blanket half off, ass in the air, back looking like he got manhandled by this guy." He pointed a lazy thumb at Vikram.

Harsh whistled. "God damn, Ishaan. You let Vikram tap that ass, I want a piece too."

More howls. Backs were slapped. Someone knocked over a glass. Tanmay leaned in like he was doing stand-up.

Harsh grinned, cocking his head. "But seriously, what were you even doing knocked out naked in a room you were sharing with another dude?"

Ishaan blinked, took a beat, then shrugged like he was used to this. Like he'd rehearsed it in a mirror.

"I was drunk. Slept weird. You probably saw a crease from the bedsheet and built a fantasy around it." He sipped his drink. "You lot read way too much into a naked guy being comfortable around friends."

Tanmay cackled. "Comfortable? Bro, you were laid out like a fucking menu."

Ishaan rolled his eyes. "Don't be jealous because I look good passed out."

The table burst into another wave of laughter, and for a second it felt like the moment would pass.

Vikram didn't miss a beat. He sipped his drink, gaze mild. "To be fair, he did crawl into my bed at 2 a. m. moaning about how sore he was. I assumed he needed... deep tissue relief."

The table erupted again. More whistles, backslaps, groans of mock horror.

Even Ishaan laughed, tight, eyes darting, face flushed.

But before the circle could move on, Mukul leaned forward, wagging his drink. "Vikram, real question, how long were you working that fat ass before he tapped out?"

Vikram added lazily, "Even after the third round, he was begging for more."

That broke them.

Himanshu practically doubled over. "Fuuuck. I'm never sharing a room with either of you again."

Ishaan shook his head, trying not to combust. He lifted his glass and stared Tanmay down. "You clowns wouldn't know what to do with me even if I offered."

He smirked, mouth curved sharp. "And I don't do charity."

Through it all, Vikram's arm didn't budge from Ishaan's chair. His thumb idly grazed the back of Ishaan's neck, a gentle flick, like a private punctuation mark to the performance. A reminder. You played that well.

Another round of cheers. The topic finally slid toward who still had bruises from barefoot bhangra and which cousin passed out behind a potted palm.

And yet, Ishaan noticed it. Tanmay, loud, dramatic, throwing his arms wider than needed. Laughed a little too hard. Like someone trying just a little too hard to be the center of the joke and trying not to disappear.

Ishaan didn't say anything.

Just leaned into the weight of Vikram's arm at his neck.

________________________________________

A breeze tugged at the fairy-lights. Trisha and Vanya wandered over barefoot, stilettos dangling from one hand, anklets catching the light. Trisha squeezed in right beside Ishaan, closer than comfort, but familiar. Vanya curled up opposite by the heater, already scrolling through photos.

Not long after, Sonali strolled in with Sarthak from the bride's side, sharp navy suit, shy dimple, clearly smitten. Sonali laughed at something he whispered; their shoulders brushed. The table buzzed, new face, new teasing. Sarthak took it well, topping up tumblers, charming the boys.

Vikram greeted him, asked about Delhi traffic, a harmless segue. While he spoke, his other hand slid off Ishaan's neck, drifting down his spine like a secret, curling under the back of his blazer. He found the curve above Ishaan's ass and squeezed. Firm. Claiming. Hidden from view.

At the same time, Trisha leaned in and dropped her head on Ishaan's shoulder. Her bangles clinked as she sighed, "I'm tipsy and tired."

From the outside: a soft, almost romantic tableau. Her head on his shoulder, his boyfriend-like stillness. What no one saw was the possessive grip under his blazer.

Trisha murmured, cheek still against his suit. "Do you ever stop overthinking?"

Ishaan blinked. "Only when I'm dancing. Or drinking. Or..." He stopped himself. Swallowed. "Not often."

Vikram's hold eased, but his face never betrayed the theft of dignity happening inches below table height.

Trisha smiled into his shoulder. "You should try stopping sometime. Might suit you."

Ishaan didn't answer. His focus had splintered, half lost in her perfume, half drowning in the heat where Vikram's hand sat just above the small of his back, hidden, demanding.

No one noticed.

Time slid past like candlewax, conversations thinning, laughter softening, the night settling into that last, golden lull before goodbyes.

Trisha was too drunk to finish her drink. She pushed herself up from the grass with a groan, stilettos dangling from her fingers, eyes heavy.

"I'm gonna crash before I start singing Kishore songs at strangers."

Trisha looped an arm around Ishaan's neck in a loose, drunken hug. Her hair smelled like jasmine and champagne.

"Text me when you're back in Bangalore, okay?" she said, cheek brushing his shoulder.

Ishaan hesitated. He almost said yes. Almost made the promise.

But all he gave her was a soft "Get home safe."

Trisha smiled anyway, swaying slightly as she wandered back toward the dwindling crowd near the heaters.

Before she could get far, Vanya was already beside her, slipping an arm around her waist and guiding her gently toward the rooms.

They left with soft laughter and careful steps, anklets chiming into the distance.

Phone alarms chirped like guilty birds, flight alerts, cab reminders, boarding passes surfacing in inboxes. Harsh groaned into his tumbler. Tanmay raised his glass with a grin. "To the last idiots standing!"

"Wait," Anshul added, lifting his drink higher, "One proper one for Kunal and his dulhan. First wedding in the gang. May it be full of love, sex, and slightly manageable in-laws."

More cheers. Someone passed around the final pour of Old Monk.

Vikram stood and stretched lazily. "We should head."

"Now?" Mukul blinked. "You guys have time, no?"

Ishaan rose beside him, adjusting his cuffs. "Barely. Two hours to pack and get to the airport."

Santosh frowned. "Weren't you flying out tomorrow?"

Vikram answered before Ishaan could open his mouth. "He had to move it up. Ishaan's office pulled him in early."

Ishaan nodded, grateful for the save. The lie settled between them like another shared secret.

Mukul cackled. "Make sure he keeps his pants on this time!"

Laughter sparked. Vikram deadpanned: "He'll be screaming louder than Kunal's wife tonight anyway."

More laughter.

They offered handshakes, quick hugs. Ishaan flinched only once, when Anshul pulled him too close, but no one noticed.

As they finally turned down the path, Vikram let his hand rest gently on the small of Ishaan's back. Just a warm, steadying touch. Command wrapped in comfort.

The night air was cooler now. A breeze lifted flower petals from the grass.

Halfway to the suites, where no one could hear, Vikram's hand dipped lower. This time, not a brush. A shove, firm and unyielding. His finger pressed hard against the base of the plug through Ishaan's trousers, using it like a handle to shove him forward a step.

Ishaan staggered, breath catching in his throat.

Vikram leaned in behind him, voice a low, filthy thread. "I should've told them," he murmured. "Let them know how I turned their alpha bro into a panty-wearing slut."

Ishaan's breath hitched. He kept walking.

The path back to the suite was dim, lit only by scattered fairy lights and a single dying lantern. The night was ending. But not for them.

Not yet.

________________________________________

The hallway was dead silent as they turned the corner, just a few ghostly lights flickering over faded carpet and forgotten garlands. His chest rose in uneven jolts. Not from running, just the weight of what was about to happen. His body still buzzed from that last shove in the dark. The way Vikram's hand had pressed the plug against his prostate through his trousers. The way he couldn't stop leaking through the lace ever since.

The door clicked open. They stepped into the suite.

Ishaan's fingers were already at his waistband before the door shut behind them. No hesitation. No performance. He stripped out of his pants in one smooth tug, kicked them toward the corner. Then the shirt, the undershirt. All gone. What remained, just the black lace panties, soaked nearly translucent now, felt like the only truth left on his body.

He stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard. His cock was only half-hard, too strung out from the rollercoaster of the reception, the corridor kiss, the threat of being caught, and the ache of the plug seated inside him all night. The lace clung indecently to his thighs and hips. The fabric at the front was plastered to his dick, the wetness dark and unmistakable.

Behind him, Vikram shut the door. Slow. Final.

He didn't speak. Just watched.

Then his jacket came off.

Vikram didn't do anything halfway. His clothes came off one by one, deliberate and calm. First the cufflinks, laid flat on the side table. Then the tie, unspooled in a lazy slide. Shirt next, buttons undone with military precision, sleeves rolled off those thick arms like something out of a fantasy Ishaan didn't deserve. The trousers were last, dropped in a single fluid motion.

Vikram stood bare, untouched, as if the wedding hadn't happened, as if the whole day had just been foreplay.

And he was hard.

Heavy. Dark. Slapping gently against his thigh as he walked past Ishaan to the suitcase on the bed. Not a glance at his own arousal. He didn't need to check if Ishaan noticed.

Ishaan swallowed.

"Start packing," Vikram said, voice low, almost casual. "We're leaving in thirty."

Ishaan moved instantly. But the tension between his legs was no longer ignorable.

The air inside the suite felt too still. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for someone to break.

Ishaan moved quickly, almost mechanically, dragging his half-empty suitcase onto the bed. His fingers fumbled with the zippers, the clasps, the discarded cufflinks he hadn't bothered to collect from yesterday's chaos. There was nothing gentle about how he handled his clothes, shirts balled, kurtas crumpled, the collar of one sherwani still faintly streaked with someone else's glitter from the sangeet. None of it mattered. He wasn't trying to fold. He was just trying to move. Trying not to think about how damp the lace had become against his cock.

Behind him, Vikram was calm. Too calm.

He packed like he fucked—efficient, precise, quietly devastating. He stood naked at the second bed, folding his tailored shirt into crisp halves, rolling his belt tight, tucking his cufflinks into their velvet pouch. His body moved like it had no memory of the way it had used Ishaan over the last 48 hours. Like none of it had even touched him.

Ishaan hated how much he noticed that. The clean, clinical detachment.

Because Ishaan wasn't clean. Not even close.

His skin still smelled faintly of cum. His ass ached. His thighs stuck together when he moved. And the toy inside him had settled at an angle that made every shift, every stretch, feel like a pressure point of heat. His cock was pulsing. Not hard. Not soft. Just... full. Damp. The lace clung tight, darkened where it had absorbed every pulse of his need, a humid imprint stretching outward from the head of his cock.

He stole a glance at Vikram.

Nothing. Not even a glance back.

He returned to packing, throwing in his cologne, his half-used lotion, a tie he didn't remember wearing.

And then his hands stopped.

The ache between his legs, low, slow, horrible, finally cracked something open inside him.

He turned slightly, just enough for his voice to reach the other side of the room. "Sir..."

No answer.

Ishaan swallowed. His hands drifted back to the edge of the suitcase.

"Please... can I cum?"

Still silence.

Ishaan pressed on, the words breaking loose. "I've been good. All night. I wore what you wanted. I let you fuck me wherever you wanted. I haven't touched myself. Not since..." He swallowed again, voice hitching. "Not since you denied me this morning. Please."

Vikram didn't pause in folding his undershirts. "You think begging now will change that?"

Ishaan's breath hitched. He turned, fully now, facing Vikram from across the room. The black lace clung to his hips like a punishment. He arched slightly, hands slipping to his thighs.

"I'll do anything," he whispered. "You want me to scream louder than Kunal's wife? I'll do it. Want me to crawl out of here? I'll do that too. Just... fuck me, sir. Please. I need it."

His voice cracked on the last word.

Vikram didn't speak. But he looked.

The smallest shift of his gaze. From the suitcase to Ishaan.

And Ishaan moved.

He stepped away from the bed, placed one hand on the low dresser, and arched his back deliberately, slowly.

Twerked once. Twice. The lace strained as he rolled his hips, the cheeks of his ass parting just enough to expose the edge of the plug.

"Look at me," Ishaan whispered. "Bent over like your whore. Plugged and panting. You don't even have to prep me, I'm open for you. I've been open all night."

His voice went softer, more desperate. "I'll cum on command. I'll scream into the sheets. I'll beg you not to stop. Please. I don't want gentle. I don't want sweet. I want you to fuck me so hard I forget my name."

There was a pause. Vikram stepped toward him, slow. Still naked. Still fully hard.

Ishaan met his gaze, already trembling.

"I'll do it while I finish packing," he whispered. "Just say yes. Just tell me I get to cum."

Vikram raised a brow.

"Then finish packing."

Ishaan gasped softly, shocked at his own willingness, but moved immediately. He turned, hands flying over his belongings, stuffing his charger, his worn-out boxers, an extra pair of socks into the suitcase. He didn't dare look up. He just felt the lace rub tighter with every bend of his spine, the pressure of the plug nudging his prostate with every movement.

He folded the last shirt with shaking fingers. Tossed it in. Slammed the lid.

He looked up.

Vikram was standing right behind him.

Eyes dark. Cock thick. Expression unreadable.

"Bend over the suitcase."

________________________________________

Ishaan didn't hesitate.

The moment Vikram gave the command he moved like the word itself yanked his spine forward. His palms landed flat on top of his crumpled clothes, the lid of the suitcase cool beneath his skin. He bent low, folded at the waist, arched deliberately, offering everything.

He didn't look back.

Didn't need to.

The air between them had changed, thicker now, humming with inevitability. Vikram hadn't laid a finger on him since they entered the suite, and yet Ishaan felt every breath behind him like a shadow across his skin.

The lace panties cut across his cheeks, barely hiding anything. Thin black straps bit into his hips. The triangle of fabric riding over his ass had been soaked through hours ago, and the stretch of bending forward exposed the plug, glinting under the lamplight, slick and obscene.

Each breath scraped the edge of a moan. He could feel the way his own cum had crusted slightly inside the lace, the way it clung to his thighs, the way the plug twitched with every heartbeat. He was already shaking, and nothing had happened yet.

Vikram stepped in close. "Remember what I said to them? That you were begging for more? All of them laughing like it was just banter? Fuck, I should've pulled you into the middle of that circle, bent over, panties down, and shown them it wasn't a joke. Let them see how easily you open up for me."

The words pierced worse than any thrust. Because they were true. He'd laughed with them like it was all pretend, like the joke hadn't come from a real place. But here he was, face-down, split open, choking on the echo of a punchline he'd helped sell.

Vikram's hand slid up his back, slow and deliberate, pressing between his shoulder blades until Ishaan's chest flattened further against his own clothes. He could feel the embroidery of his sherwani pressing into his nipples. The texture was wrong, itchy, humiliating. This was what he had worn with dignity at the baraat. Now it was just padding under his knees. Cum would stain it by morning.

Vikram leaned in, his mouth right against Ishaan's ear.

"You can cum," he whispered, his voice like a leather strap pulled tight. "But this orgasm will cost you. You just made your hotel stay a lot more difficult."

Ishaan whimpered, barely audible. A nod, frantic.

"And you don't make a sound," Vikram added, firmer now. "Not one. Understood?"

Another nod.

Ishaan braced himself.

Vikram's fingers moved to the lace.

The panties were so soaked they slid aside like nothing. Just one small tug and the strip of black fabric peeled away from Ishaan's crack, revealing the plug, the mess, the way his rim clenched like it had been waiting for this exact violation.

Vikram didn't comment. He didn't need to.

He simply gripped the base of the plug, twisted it slightly, just enough to make Ishaan's hips twitch, and then pulled it free in one smooth, wet motion.

Ishaan gasped, biting his tongue instantly to smother the sound.

The plug slipped out with a slick pop. His hole fluttered open around the absence, gaping slightly. Cum leaked with it, Vikram's seed from earlier, still warm deep inside him.

Ishaan's face burned. He pressed it harder into the suitcase, nose buried in the collar of his own shirt, lips against fabric that still smelled of rosewater and sandalwood.

Then: a hand in his hair. Firm. Controlling.

Vikram pulled him up just enough to see the mirror. Not to speak, just to look.

Their eyes met through the reflection—Ishaan, flushed and open, hair mussed, lace peeled to the side; Vikram, towering, eyes dark with ownership.

"You want to see what you are now," Vikram murmured. "Look."

And then he pushed Ishaan back down, face-first into the suitcase.

Vikram placed the used plug directly onto the pile of packed clothes, nestled right on top of Ishaan's folded kurta. Like it belonged there.

Ishaan felt everything.

Then: silence.

A shift in air pressure.

And then, the head of Vikram's cock at his entrance.

No words now.

No warning.

He pressed forward.

Raw. Bare. Slow.

Ishaan's eyes rolled back. His entrance stretched wide to take him. The burn was immediate. The heat, unbearable. His thighs trembled as he tried not to cry out. The angle, bent over the suitcase, shoulders down, ass high, made it worse. Made it perfect.

Vikram filled him inch by inch.

His cock was thicker than Ishaan remembered. Or maybe he was just too sensitive. Too empty. Too ruined from days of denial. Either way, he couldn't breathe.

The moment Vikram bottomed out, Ishaan felt it like a second heartbeat. A presence that stole air.

He didn't move.

Didn't dare.

Vikram did.

He gripped Ishaan's hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. And then he fucked him.

Hard.

No rhythm, no buildup.

Just a brutal, pounding rhythm, using Ishaan's bent-over body like a thing. Like a hole that belonged to him.

Each thrust slammed Ishaan against his own clothes. His knees shifted, the lid of the suitcase creaking under his weight. His cheek ground into the sherwani fabric. His eyes stung.

And through it all, he couldn't touch himself.

Didn't need to.

Still semi-hard, his cock twitched uselessly with every slap of Vikram's hips, trapped under lace that smothered it into submission.

But it didn't matter.

Because he was already leaking.

Already on the edge.

Already there.

Vikram slammed in again, deep, hard, deliberate.

"Maybe I should've invited them," he grunted, grinding deep. "Let the whole gang see how I turned you into a submissive slut."

Another thrust, harder. Ishaan whimpered into the fabric beneath him.

"You think they wouldn't line up?" Another snap of hips. "With that fat ass, smooth skin, that slim little waist?"

Ishaan's fingers curled into the sheets. His mind screamed no, but his cock twitched, traitorous and wet behind the ruined lace.

Vikram thrust again, meaner now. "Your hole's tighter than any girl I've ever fucked." A pause. Then a cruel chuckle. "You think Harsh wouldn't want a taste? Or Tanmay? They'd fight to be next."

Ishaan's breath hitched. Shame coiled hot under his ribs. I don't want that. I don't want them.

But his hips pushed back anyway. His body was begging even as his mind recoiled.

Vikram drove in once more, brutal, punishing.

"But none of them would break you like I do." His voice dipped lower. "None of them would make you leak like this."

One final thrust, so deep it shoved Ishaan forward an inch.

And Ishaan came.

No warning. No hands. Just ruined.

His body convulsed. His toes curled in the carpet. His jaw clenched around the scream that almost ripped loose.

In the half-second before his vision blurred, his mind flickered to a hotel room he hadn't seen yet. A bed too wide. A window too bare. A mirror tilted toward where he'd kneel again.

It was only an image. But it hit like a prophecy.

And his cock spasmed behind the soaked lace, spurting thick, hot release into the panties, the air, and onto the open suitcase.

It landed on his kurta.

Dripped into the fabric.

Soaked into his travel clothes.

He came like a plug-pulled dam, spilling across his own clothes, hips twitching, no touch needed.

He stayed frozen, face in his suitcase, panting through his nose.

But Vikram didn't stop.

For one bright, shocking second Vikram felt his own thighs tremble, a warning shiver that he was nowhere near done.

Power always did this to him, made hunger outlive release, made a body that should have been satisfied coil tighter instead.

He didn't even acknowledge it.

He just kept fucking him. Relentless. Possessive.

Each thrust now louder, sloppier, Ishaan's second mouth a wet, used thing, fluttering open and trying to stay filled.

The lace bunched around Ishaan's thighs. The slick from his ruined orgasm mixed with the sweat between his legs. His knees burned. His back ached. And still, Vikram took him, like this was just the beginning.

Because it was.

And then Ishaan collapsed.

His arms gave first, elbows buckling, fingers splaying helplessly across the rim of the suitcase before slipping off entirely. Then his legs, thighs shaking, knees folding. His whole body just folded in on itself, a heap of overstimulated, undone flesh.

He slid sideways, crumpling to the floor next to the half-packed luggage, panting like he'd just run ten flights. His entrance was still open, twitching, red and gaping. The lace panties were a wet tangle halfway down his thighs, glued to his skin with slick and shame.

Vikram stood above him, panting only slightly.

And then he moved.

He grabbed the suitcase, one hard yank, and shoved it aside, the wheels scraping angrily across the tile. The plug wobbled on top, then rolled off and clinked onto the floor.

Ishaan flinched at the sound.

He didn't speak. Couldn't.

His orgasm had left him gutted. Not sated, ruined. His cock, still leaking inside the lace, lay soft and useless against his thigh. His hole throbbed open and empty.

And yet, he wasn't finished.

He knew it. Knew it in the way Vikram stood above him. Knew it in the slow, deliberate stretch of Vikram's shoulders as he rolled his neck. Knew it in the weight of silence that hung between them.

Vikram crouched beside him.

"On your knees," he said.

Ishaan whimpered. Tried to push himself upright. Slipped once.

The tile was cool. Smooth. Unforgiving.

When he finally got into position, knees wide, ass up, arms slack on the floor, he must've looked pathetic. Ruined. Ruined, and still presenting.

Still ready to be used.

Face down. Cheek pressed to the tile. Back arched as much as he could manage. The panties still hung around his thighs. His cum had soaked the gusset, the fabric dark and obscene.

On the night-stand, Ishaan's phone buzzed, a call from the cab driver they'd booked for 2:30 A. M.

Vikram glanced at the screen, let it ring out; the clock could wait, the lesson couldn't.

Vikram stepped behind him.

And mounted him like an animal.

No warning. No gentleness. No grace.

Just one brutal grip on Ishaan's hips, and then he shoved back inside, deep and vicious.

Ishaan screamed into the floor.

Or tried to.

It came out as a strangled choke, a muffled cry against the tile, a sob he never gave permission to form. His hands spasmed on instinct, palms dragging across the floor like they were searching for something, anything, to hold onto.

But there was nothing.

Just cold tile. Just his own wrecked breathing.

And Vikram.

Fucking him like he didn't care if the suite walls cracked.

Vikram's hips slammed against Ishaan's ass, each thrust louder than the last. The slap of skin on skin echoed. The wet sounds were obscene: slick, raw, animal. There was no rhythm now. Just power. Just relentless, furious dominance, Vikram plowing into him like he needed to prove something to the floor beneath them.

Ishaan took it.

Knees spreading wider. Face dragging across the tile. Cum from his ruined orgasm still smeared across his thighs, mixing now with sweat, spit, slick.

He didn't think. He couldn't.

Every thrust blurred into the next.

Then it happened.

He moaned.

He didn't mean to. It just slipped out, a sharp, helpless sound, high in his throat, torn from the very center of him.

Vikram froze.

Only for a beat.

Vikram's palm hovered mid-air for a second. Ishaan froze. No noise.

Then he grabbed both of Ishaan's wrists and wrenched them backward, pinning them together at the small of his back with one massive hand.

Ishaan arched, startled. His chest pressed lower. Ass lifted higher.

The other hand?

Came down hard.

A slap. A real one. Full palm.

The sound cracked across the suite, echoed off the windows, bounced off the closet door.

Ishaan screamed into the floor.

Not a word. Not a plea.

Just a raw, animal sound, a choked sob from a man who knew he'd crossed a line he hadn't meant to.

Vikram didn't say anything for a second.

Then: "Did I say you could speak?"

Ishaan shook his head violently. The movement rubbed his cheek against the cold tile, dragged a tear sideways across his nose.

He couldn't even answer. Not properly.

His voice was broken glass.

Vikram leaned lower, pressing his weight across Ishaan's back.

Still holding his wrists together in one hand.

Still deep inside him.

Still hard.

"Quiet," he hissed against Ishaan's ear. "Or you will receive hundred spanks this time."

Ishaan nodded, frantic.

Then Vikram started again.

But it was different now.

Slower. But deeper. Each thrust deliberate, crushing, designed to stretch Ishaan around him in a way that bordered on cruelty. The angle, his back pinned, wrists trapped, left Ishaan helpless. He couldn't arch. Couldn't grind. Couldn't do anything but take it.

Take every inch. Every slap. Every humiliating roll of hips against his sore, leaking body.

He sobbed silently.

Tears hit the tile.

But he made no more sounds.

Because he was learning.

Because Vikram was teaching.

Because somewhere inside him, under the ache and the slick and the trembling surrender, he liked this. He wanted this.

Wanted to be the man on the floor, face down, wrists pinned, mouth shut, fucked until he forgot how to stand.

The slap mark on his ass burned.

The stretch inside him felt endless.

And the worst part and the best part was that his cock was twitching again.

Still soft. Still useless. But leaking, pulsing, aching to be ruined again.

He didn't dare cum a second time.

Not without permission.

So he held it.

Barely.

Vikram's breathing started to change.

Faster. Thicker.

He was close.

He pressed harder across Ishaan's back now, body covering his completely, like a wolf pinning prey.

The thrusts turned erratic. Rougher.

Then a pause, just one. Vikram stilled deep inside him. Ishaan panted, unmoving, afraid to twitch. For a breathless moment, all Ishaan could hear was the ring of his own heartbeat. Then Vikram shifted, grinding in slow, cruel circles, as if testing how much deeper he could carve.

One final slam, deep, hard, to the root.

And then he stilled.

His cock throbbed.

Ishaan felt it, every pulse of it, every shot of heat flooding him. He clenched involuntarily.

They stayed like that for a long time. Face to the floor.

The room was silent.

The kind of silence that only arrives after destruction, when everything has already been said, when every last sound has been spent, when even the walls seem exhausted from what they've witnessed.

Ishaan stayed where he was, kneeling, face to the cold floor, sweat gluing him to the tile. His arms trembled where they lay splayed to either side, too weak to tuck in, too numb to support him. His knees burned, pressed deep into stone. His thighs quivered every few seconds, aftershocks from what had been done to him.

And above him?

Vikram.

Still inside.

Still holding him down with nothing but weight and breath.

His chest rose and fell slowly, calmly, as if they hadn't just spent the last half hour defiling every corner of civility they had left. His cock pulsed inside Ishaan, still hardening again, slowly, with the sick inevitability of a man who hadn't had enough.

Ishaan didn't move. He didn't dare.

The floor beneath him smelled like his sweat and Vikram's cum. His own release, the ruined one, the helpless one, had dried sticky against his thigh and stomach, trapped under the damp lace that still clung like a second skin.

Vikram's hand slid from his wrists to the base of his skull. Not to hold him, but to press him into the floor. One inch deeper. Just enough to make the tile feel like a threat.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Vikram pulled back.

Not fast.

Not abrupt.

Just one slow, wet slide, his cock dragging out of Ishaan's body, pulling with it a trail of cum so hot it made Ishaan flinch. He gasped into the floor, more from the emptiness than the stretch.

He expected words.

Expected a command, a slap, a mocking whisper.

But Vikram said nothing.

He reached for the plug.

Ishaan heard it before he saw it, the soft scrape of silicone against wood as Vikram picked it up from where it had rolled under the table.

A pause.

And then: the plug pressing back against his used, ruined hole.

No lube. No warning. Just the same way it had gone in before, to hold in everything Vikram had left inside.

Ishaan whimpered.

But he didn't resist.

He opened for it, his hole twitching like it recognized the shape. The slickness from Vikram's second load made the entry easier, and the plug popped back in with a wet, obscene sound that made Ishaan's breath stutter.

Vikram stood.

His shadow loomed above. Ishaan, still on all fours, raised his head slowly.

Vikram's cock gleamed with slick, half-hard and heavy, unapologetic. It bounced slightly as he walked around to Ishaan's front.

A hand gripped Ishaan's hair.

Gentle. Firm. Final.

Vikram tugged him forward.

"Clean it."

Ishaan's lips parted without hesitation.

He took the head into his mouth, tasted himself first, salt and shame; then Vikram, musk and victory.

Two measured bobs. Then a pause.

Ishaan's jaw trembled; his throat fluttered around the tip. He almost gagged on need, not length.

Vikram's fingers threaded into Ishaan's hair and stilled him. "Breathe," he ordered, voice low.

A single inhale through Ishaan's nose, hot, shaky.

Only when the breath steadied did Vikram release his grip and nudge forward again.

Now the rhythm resumed. It wasn't a blowjob. It was a ritual. A surrender. A sealing.

By the time Vikram pulled out, Ishaan's lips were shiny, mouth slack, eyes half-lidded like a drunk.

He looked up, swollen-lipped, slack-eyed, mouth still shiny.

Vikram just smirked faintly. Then walked toward the bathroom.

"I'll shower. You don't."

"Wipe off. That's it."

The water hissed on.

Steam billowed out almost immediately, fogging the mirror, blurring Vikram's silhouette behind the frosted glass.

Ishaan remained on the floor a moment longer, face flushed, chest sticky with sweat, nipples sore from scraping the carpet. He finally moved, slowly, awkwardly.

Ishaan reached for the panties. They were still tangled low around his thighs, soaked, stretched, useless. The lace had gone loose in places, threads pulling at the seams, the gusset barely holding together after being drenched and used.

He pulled them up anyway and got up.

They clung even worse now. Hung lower on his hips, crooked, obscene. The loosened lace framed his wrecked hole like it had been tailored for display. They didn't even look like underwear anymore.

They looked like branding.

The towel felt rough against his abused skin. He dabbed more than wiped. Didn't touch his thighs, didn't dare. Every step made the plug nudge deeper. Every lean forward shifted the cum deeper inside him.

He washed his face at the sink.

His reflection looked foreign. Lips swollen. One cheek red. A faint bite mark near his collarbone. He ran his fingers along his jaw, dazed.

He was dressed like a man earlier tonight.

Now he looked like a possession. Something worn. Something claimed.

He didn't shower.

He didn't even remove the panties.

He just stepped back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, towel still in hand, thighs trembling every time the plug shifted.

Vikram emerged ten minutes later.

Clean. Refreshed. Calm.

He towelled his hair dry, then began to dress without a word, black joggers, fitted crew-neck, cologne dabbed on his throat like it was just another day.

Ishaan watched. Still in just the panties.

"Get dressed."

Ishaan stood.

"Sweats. The light ones. No boxers."

His breath caught.

He found the light grey pair from his duffel, the ones he never wore in public. Too thin. Too clingy. They hung low on his hips, and the panty line cut straight across the seat, clearly visible through the fabric. The front showed a wet patch, darker than the rest, right where the lace kissed his cock. The back was worse, slick had bled through from the plug, forming a faint dark circle under the waistband.

Then the shirt, too small, too short. It rode up every time he raised his arms, exposing the small of his back.

Ishaan dressed in silence.

He could feel Vikram's eyes on him the entire time.

By the time he stood ready, duffel zipped, suitcase shut, it was past 3:30 A. M.

________________________________________

Ishaan stood by the door, jittery, fingers tight on his suitcase handle. The hallway outside was dead quiet, but every nerve screamed at him.

What if someone saw him?

What if Tanmay came out for a smoke?

What if Harsh forgot something and doubled back?

What if someone smelled it on him, the sweat, the cum, the slick mess still clinging to his skin?

He adjusted the strap of his duffel, trying to angle it behind him.

The suitcase he kept just in front, shielding the worst of the wet spot across his groin.

Vikram didn't comment.

He opened the door. Held it.

"Move."

Ishaan stepped out into the hall, body tight, legs stiff. The plug shifted with every stride. The lace was clammy now, humid from hours of denial. His cock, barely soft, leaked in quiet pulses beneath it, barely soft.

The hallway smelled of dying flowers and lemon polish.

Not a soul in sight.

But the real test wasn't the hallway.

It was the resort grounds.

They passed fairy-lit arches, crumpled flower petals, folded mandap chairs. A lone waiter was sweeping near the reception tent, half-asleep.

Ishaan looked straight ahead, duffel in front, suitcase behind, posture rigid.

They reached the path toward the car park, and that's when Ishaan's breath caught.

Aditi.

Standing alone near the valet stand, heels in one hand, phone in the other. Waiting for her own cab.

His stomach dropped.

He tried to angle away, tried to melt behind Vikram's frame, but it was too late.

She looked up. Smiled.

"Hey! You guys heading out too?"

Vikram, ever smooth, greeted her like nothing had happened.

"Yeah. Early flight. We wanted to beat the rush."

She chuckled. "Smart. I'm regretting not sleeping."

Her eyes flicked once toward Ishaan.

He looked back, just once, and smiled weakly. Prayed the shadows hid the wet spots. Prayed the sweatpants looked like just sweatpants. Prayed the smell of sex didn't cling to him like a second skin.

Vikram clapped Ishaan lightly on the shoulder.

"Help the driver with our bags?"

Ishaan nodded, voice locked in his throat.

He ducked away, dragged both suitcases to the cab, grateful for the movement, for the angle, for the chance to not be looked at.

When he returned, Vikram was still chatting. Easy. Effortless. Like he hadn't just used Ishaan like a rag five minutes ago.

Ishaan tried to open the cab door.

Vikram stopped him.

"Wait."

He pulled Ishaan back by the shoulder, gentle, friendly-looking. But the grip was tight. Possessive. His fingers pressed into the same skin he'd marked hours earlier.

Aditi didn't say anything.

Maybe she saw something. Maybe she didn't.

Eventually, her phone buzzed. Her cab arrived.

She waved a sleepy goodbye and vanished into the night.

Vikram finally let go.

"Inside."

Ishaan climbed into the cab.

Every shift of his thighs made the slick inside him spread. The wet patch was cold now. Visible. But it didn't matter.

No one else was here.

Just them.

Just one final exit.

And the cab pulled away.

________________________________________

The cab door shut with a soft, muffled thud behind them.

And just like that, the wedding was over.

Ishaan didn't breathe for the first few seconds. The transition, from resort ground to taxi leather, from marigold chaos to air-conditioned silence, was disorienting. Unreal.

The car smelled like cheap citrus freshener and worn upholstery. Somewhere far ahead, an old radio hummed out static. The driver didn't look back, didn't ask questions. Just adjusted his rearview mirror and started the ignition.

Vikram slid into the backseat next to him without a word.

The streetlamps streaked gold across his cheekbones as the vehicle eased forward. Mussoorie's hills dipped away into shadow behind them. The resort disappeared in the rearview, swallowed by tree-lined curves and foggy mountain dark.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Sacred. Thick with aftermath.

Ishaan let himself sink into the seat.

He didn't speak.

Didn't ask where they were headed.

Didn't ask what came next.

His body was beyond asking.

Every muscle trembled slightly, not from fear, not even from cold, but from a kind of deep, inner exhaustion. The plug was still nestled deep inside him, steady as a second heartbeat. Every bump in the road nudged it. Every curve sent a ripple through his thighs. The lace panties were soaked through, slick glued to his skin, cum drying on his taint, the sweatpants clinging in ways that felt unforgivable.

But in the dark?

With no eyes?

It didn't matter.

He exhaled.

The first full exhale in what felt like hours.

And then, quietly, slowly, like a puppet collapsing into gravity, he leaned sideways and laid his head on Vikram's shoulder.

Not a dramatic gesture.

Not a demand for comfort.

Just, a truth.

A body seeking heat.

A boy coming home to the only thing that felt like safety after being torn apart.

Vikram didn't flinch.

Didn't shift.

He just slid his arm around Ishaan's shoulders like it was second nature. Like it had always belonged there.

His thumb rested against the top of Ishaan's shoulder blade. No pressure. No rhythm.

Just a claim.

They sat like that for a long while.

Ishaan's body melted into him, his spine curled, his knees drew up slightly, thighs still sticky. His head stayed tucked against Vikram's shoulder, cheek pressed to soft cotton. The scent of Vikram's post-shower cologne lingered faintly in the collar. His own breath slowed. Slowed again. Then again.

It didn't take long before his eyes slipped shut.

Not sleep.

Not fully.

But that twilight space where thought stops and body floats.

Where submission isn't a role, but a nervous system response.

His breathing softened. Deepened. Every breath carried a kind of confession, not in words, but in rhythm. In the slow way he curled closer. In the sighs that kept slipping from his nose. In the way his fingers, still resting on his thigh, twitched like they didn't quite believe the war was over.

And Vikram?

He didn't move.

His gaze stayed locked on the road ahead. Eyes sharp. Posture still.

He hadn't said a single word since they entered the car.

But his grip around Ishaan's shoulder never loosened.

That told Ishaan more than anything.

It said: you did well.

It said: I've got you now.

It said: you're mine until I say otherwise.

And Ishaan, for the first time in a long time, didn't resist the thought.

He just drifted there, plugged, soaked, marked, still sore from the spanking, still stretched from the fucking, and let the ride carry him toward whatever came next.

The city lights fell away behind them.

The road stretched on.

And somewhere near the edge of sleep, Ishaan murmured, soft as breath:

"Thank you..."

He didn't even know if it was audible.

Didn't care.

Maybe Vikram heard it. Maybe not. Either way, it was true.

Vikram glanced down at the boy curled against his shoulder.

His eyes traced the faint flush still on Ishaan's cheek, the outline of the panty seam through the thin sweatpants, the small, involuntary pulses of his thighs every time the car jostled. Ishaan looked young like this. Quiet. Just a used, obedient body breathing on his shoulder—not broken, devoted.

Vikram felt his cock twitch faintly at the thought. Not out of hunger, not yet, but out of anticipation.

Because this was just the start.

The wedding was over.

The audience was gone.

The curtain had fallen.

Now, they were going to rehearse the private act. The one that didn't end with applause. The one that didn't ask for permission.

Vikram leaned down slowly, his breath brushing the shell of Ishaan's ear.

"You'll follow every command I give you," he said softly. "Until we check out."

A pause.

Then, firmer:

"Understand?"

Ishaan didn't lift his head.

Didn't blink.

Just nodded.

"Yes, sir."

His voice was rough silk. Half-asleep, half-aroused. Raw from earlier, but steady.

Vikram smiled.

Not kind. Not cruel.

Just satisfied.

He squeezed Ishaan's shoulder once, then returned his eyes to the road.

The sun hadn't risen yet.

The sky was still ink blue, laced with the last shadows of night.

But inside the car?

The leash was already coiled tight.

And Ishaan? He was already bracing for the next tug.

________________________________________

???? You've reached the end of the wedding.

Thank you for reading this far—through the lace, the denial, the filth, and the fall.

Based on your feedback, I've decided to continue the story. The private hotel stay will be released as 1 additional chapter in this series. I haven't started writing that, and hence it will take some time (at least a fortnight). Thank you for your patience.

But this isn't the end.

I want to keep exploring Ishaan and Vikram, not just their sex, but their lives. What does control look like at 33? 45? 57? I have ideas for a sequel (a long, multi-decade series). If that's something you'd read, let me know.

I also want to begin a spin-off focused on Tanmay, someone who deserves a different kind of story, just like every member of this group eventually will.

So tell me: What should I write next?

More Vikram and Ishaan? Or Tanmay's story?

Drop a comment. Let's see how far we can take this.