“Look at you,” Ansh said, his voice a low growl. His fingers were still wet from the cum he’d scooped from inside me. He smeared a trail of it from my lips down to my chin. “Still leaking my maal. You can’t even hold it in, you greedy little randi.”
He pushed himself off the bed, standing over me, his lund already thick and heavy again. “Get on the floor. Hands and knees. And get the toy.”
My stomach clenched. I slid off the bed, my body protesting, sticky and sore. I retrieved the cool, smooth glass dildo from where it lay on the sheets. The floor was hard under my knees.
“Hila,” he commanded, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, spreading his legs. He leaned back, his hand lazily stroking his cock. “Show me how badly you need to come. But you’re not coming until I say. You fuck yourself to the edge and hold it. You understand me, behenchod?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
I guided the rounded tip to my entrance, still slick and loose from his last creampie. The initial push was easy, the cold glass a shocking contrast to the heat of my body. I gasped as it slid in, the thickest part stretching me wide before settling deep. I began to move, rocking back, fucking myself on it.
The pressure against my prostate was immediate and brutal. Pleasure shot up my spine. A low moan escaped me.
“Louder,” Ansh demanded. “I want to hear every filthy sound. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m… fucking my chut with a toy,” I panted, my hips picking up pace.
“Why?”
“Because you own it. Because I’m your randi cousin.”
“That’s right,” he said, his voice dripping with dark approval. He squeezed the head of his cock, a bead of pre-come glistening. “Look at you. Your own lund is dripping all over the floor again. You’re a fucking mess, Rohit. A desperate, cock-hungry mess.”
I looked down. He was right. My erection swayed, a clear string of fluid connecting it to the floor. The sight, combined with the relentless pressure inside me, was overwhelming. The heat in my balls tightened, a coil ready to snap.
“Ansh… I’m getting close…”
“I know you are,” he said calmly. “I can see your tangein shaking. But you hold it. You hold it or I’ll stop you myself.”
I whimpered, slowing my movements, trying to ride the razor’s edge. The pleasure was a tidal wave, threatening to crash. I bit my lip, my knuckles white on the floor. I was right there, poised on the brink, my whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
He watched me, his eyes hooded, stroking himself slowly. “You look so pretty like this. A chudail on the edge. Begging inside that pretty head of yours. Do you want to come?”
“Fuck, yes, please!”
“Tell me what you want to do with your maal.”
“I want to shoot it everywhere,” I sobbed, my control fraying. “I want to paint the floor, I want to cover my stomach, I want to make a fucking mess, please, Ansh, I need to!”
“Not yet,” he snarled, and he reached down, his hand wrapping around the base of my cock and squeezing hard. The building orgasm slammed into a wall, receding into a painful, throbbing ache. I cried out, my hips bucking uselessly.
“Keep fucking that toy,” he ordered, releasing me. “I want to see you sweat. I want to see tears.”
Tears were already streaking through the dried cum on my face. I obeyed, fucking myself on the glass with renewed, frantic desperation. The pleasure built again, even faster this time, a fiery knot in my gut. I was panting, my vision swimming.
“You’re a natural-born cocksleeve,” he murmured, standing up now, his shadow falling over me. “Look at your chut swallowing that glass. You were built to be filled. You want my lund instead?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes, anything, just let me come!”
“Now,” he commanded.
The word was a trigger. My orgasm erupted, violent and messy. My back arched as my cock convulsed, and thick, white ropes of cum shot from the tip, splattering onto the floor in loud, wet spurts. Jet after jet, it kept coming, painting the wood in a glistening, chaotic arc. I screamed, my body seizing around the toy.
Ansh groaned. He stepped right in front of my face, his lund in his fist. “Open. Wide.”
I opened my mouth, panting.
His release was massive. A thick, gluey glob hit my tongue with a warm, salty splat, filling my mouth instantly. The next pulse was a continuous, heavy gush, flooding over my lips and chin before I could swallow. More spurts covered my nose, my cheeks, my eyelids. It was too much, a hot, endless fountain of cum. My mouth overflowed, thick strands of white dripping down my neck and chest. I gulped frantically, but it kept coming, coating my face, matting in my eyelashes.
“Swallow it all, you madharchod,” he grunted, milking the last thick drops onto my forehead. “Taste what you’ve earned.”
I swallowed, the salty, musky flavor overwhelming. The mess was everywhere. He used his softening lund to smear it around, painting my face like a canvas.
He looked down at me, breathing hard. “Beautiful.” He pulled the toy from me with a slick sound. “Up. Shower. You stink of me.”
He hauled me to my feet, my legs weak. He led me, stumbling, to the bathroom. The tiles were cool underfoot. He turned the water on, hot and steaming, and pushed me under the spray.
He didn’t let me wash myself. He took a cloth, soaped it up, and started scrubbing. His hands were rough, thorough, washing every inch of me. He scrubbed the cum from my face, my hair, my neck. He washed my chest, my back, his hands sliding over my sore ass.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice a whisper in the steam.
I turned, facing the tiled wall. He pressed close behind me, his hard, wet body against my back. I felt his lund, already rigid again, press against the cleft of my ass.
His lips found my ear. “You’re clean on the outside,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “But inside, you’re still dirty. You’re still full of me.” His hands slid around my waist, one moving down to grip my hip, the other wrapping around my cock, stroking me slowly, slick with soap and water. “I’m gonna fuck you right here. I’m gonna pump another load into that chut so deep it’ll never come out. You’re gonna carry my bachha in your pet until it takes root. You understand?”
He positioned the head of his cock at my entrance. I was loose, wet from the shower, but still tight from the earlier abuse.
“Beg for it.”
“Please, Ansh,” I moaned, leaning my forehead against the cool tile. “Fuck me raw against the wall. Fill me up again. Breed your randi cousin, pleasse.
The hot water pounded my back as he pressed against me, his lund a hard promise at my entrance. I was so ready, so open, so his.
But he didn’t push in.
Instead, his hands left my body. The water beat down on my head, drowning out my ragged breath. I heard him move away, the shower curtain rasping open, then his wet footsteps on the tile floor.
“Ansh?” My voice was small in the steam-filled room.
He didn’t answer. I stood there, water running in rivulets down my face, my cock aching and hard. I heard the closet in the bedroom slide open. A rustle of fabric. My heart began to hammer against my ribs.
He came back, his silhouette dark against the lit bathroom doorway. In his hands were lengths of dark, soft rope.
“Out,” he said, his voice flat.
I turned off the water, stepping out onto the bathmat. I was dripping, shivering, completely exposed. He didn’t dry me. He just looked me over, his eyes like black stones.
“Hands together,” he commanded.
I held my wrists out in front of me, a silent offering. He looped the rope around them, his movements efficient, practiced. He pulled it tight, the fibers biting into my wet skin with a firm, secure pressure. Not enough to hurt, just enough to tell me I couldn’t get free.
“You’re mine,” he stated, as if reminding us both. He led me, bound and naked, back into the bedroom. “On the bed. On your back.”
I obeyed, crawling onto the damp sheets, lying down. He pushed my legs apart, wide. He took another length of rope, tied one end to my left ankle, then looped it around the thick wooden bedpost, pulling until my leg was stretched out to the side. He repeated it with my right ankle, tying it to the opposite post. I was spread-eagled, completely open, my chut on blatant display.
He stood back, admiring his work. His own cock stood thick and proud, curving up towards his stomach.
“Perfect,” he breathed. He walked to the side of the bed, leaned down, and captured my mouth in a sudden, deep kiss.
It wasn’t rough. It was devouring. His tongue swept in, claiming me, and I kissed him back desperately, my bound hands twitching between us. The kiss was all wet heat and ownership. I lost myself in it, in the taste of him, the feel of his stubble against my chin. He kissed me like he was starving, and I fed him every moan, every whimper.
He broke away, both of us panting. He kissed down my jaw, my neck, licking the water from my collarbone. His mouth moved lower, over my chest, his tongue flicking a nipple before he sucked it deep into the heat of his mouth. I arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from my throat.
“So sensitive,” he murmured against my skin, his breath hot. “Every part of you belongs to me.” His mouth traveled lower, over my stomach, and I tensed, expecting him to take my cock in his mouth.
He didn’t.
He went lower. He settled between my splayed tangein, his shoulders pushing my thighs even wider apart. And then his mouth was on me, not on my lund, but there—on my stretched, wet, used hole.
“Ansh!” I shouted, my whole body seizing.
His tongue was flat and hot, licking a broad, wet stripe from my perineum up, over the tight ring of muscle. He swirled it, then pushed the very tip inside.
The sensation was electric, shameful, utterly fucking mind-blowing. I thrashed against the ropes, but they held me firm. He ate me out with a ruthless, dedicated hunger, his tongue probing and fucking into my loosened entrance. He was tasting himself, tasting us, cleaning me and claiming me in the most debased way possible.
“You taste like my maal,” he growled, his voice vibrating against my sensitive flesh. “You taste like a well-bred randi. My well-bred randi.”
He pushed two fingers inside alongside his tongue, stretching me, scissoring me open. The dual sensation of his tongue lapping and his fingers probing made me see stars. I was babbling, begging, words tumbling out in a incoherent stream.
“Please… fuck… yes… right there… madharchod, don’t stop… I’m gonna… I can’t…”
“You’re not coming,” he ordered, pulling his mouth and fingers away. I whimpered at the loss. He leaned over me, his face glistening, his eyes wild. He kissed me again, hard, letting me taste the salty, musky flavor of my own hole on his tongue.
“I’m going out,” he said, his lips brushing mine.
The words didn’t compute. “What?”
“I’m leaving. You’re going to stay here. Just like this. Tied up. Open. Thinking about what I’m going to do to you when I get back.” He trailed a finger down my chest, over my straining abs, and tapped the head of my leaking lund. “You’re going to be hard the whole time. You’re going to ache. And you’re going to wait.”
Panic and arousal warred in my gut. “You can’t… please, Ansh, just fuck me now, I need it, I’m so close—”
“You need to learn,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You need to learn what it means to be mine. To be available. To be ready. I could come back in ten minutes. I could come back in two hours. And you’ll be here. Waiting. Needing. Your chut wet and empty and wanting my lund.”
He straightened up, grabbed his jeans from the floor, and stepped into them. He didn’t put on a shirt. He just zipped up, leaving his chest bare, his cock making a tent in the denim. He walked to the door.
“Ansh, please,” I begged, pulling against the ropes. The binds held. My vulnerability was absolute.
He paused at the threshold, looking back at me—a feast laid out and tied down for his pleasure. A dark, satisfied smile touched his lips.
“Think about how deep I’m going to fuck you,” he said. “Think about the massive load I’m going to pump into this greedy chut. Think about my bachha swimming so deep inside you it’ll never find its way out. You’re going to be bred, Rohit. Over and over. Until it takes.”
He switched off the main light, plunging the room into deep shadow, lit only by the faint streetlight glow from the window. My bound form was just a pale shape on the dark bed.
“Wait for me.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
The ache in my cock was a throbbing, insistent pulse. The emptiness inside me was a yawning chasm. Every slight shift made the ropes rub my skin. Every breath made me aware of how exposed I was, how completely helpless. I was his. Utterly. And he was making me feel it. The wait was a torture all its own, a slow, delicious agony that coiled tighter with every passing second. I stared at the door, listening for the sound of his return, my whole body screaming for it.
