The plug buzzed to life on a low, insistent thrum. I gasped, my body arching off the bed. The vibration was a constant, maddening reminder, right on that sweet, sensitive spot deep inside.
“Comfortable?” Ansh repeated, his smile widening.
“No,” I moaned, my hips squirming. “It’s… fuck… it’s too much.”
“Good.” He leaned down and kissed me, his tongue delving deep. The kiss was a slow, thorough claiming, and I melted into it, even as the plug’s vibrations made my thighs tremble. He pulled back, his eyes dark. “You stay right there. Don’t move. I’ll be back.”
He swung his legs off the bed and walked to his closet. My eyes followed him, my breath coming in short pants. I felt so full, so stuffed, his seed a warm, heavy pool inside me, held in place by the relentless buzz. He rummaged for a moment and came back holding two things: the dark ropes from before, and a new toy. A short, rigid crop with a flat, leather-covered oval at the end.
My heart kicked against my ribs. Anticipation, sharp and sweet, lanced through me.
“You loved the flogger,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He ran the flat of the crop down my chest, over my stomach. “But this… this is for precision. For marking my property in very specific places.”
He tossed the ropes on the bed beside me. “On your stomach. Arms up.”
I turned over, my movements clumsy, the plug shifting inside me and drawing a choked gasp from my lips. I stretched my arms above my head, crossing my wrists. He tied them quickly, firmly, to the headboard again. Then he moved to my ankles, pulling my legs apart and securing each one to a bedpost. I was spread out, exposed, my ass presented to the cool air of the room.
The first touch of the crop was a gentle tap on my left cheek. A tease.
“Remember your count,” he said.
Swish-CRACK.
The sound was sharper than the flogger, a clean, stinging impact that lit a fire across my skin. I jerked against the ropes.
“One!” I called out, my voice already shaky.
Swish-CRACK. On the same spot.
“Two!” The sting bloomed, hot and bright.
He alternated then, painting lines of fire across both cheeks. Three. Four. Five. Each strike was measured, deliberate, landing with a crisp snap that made my entire body tense. The pain was clean, acute, cutting through the haze of pleasure from the plug. It awakened every nerve.
“Your gaand is turning such a pretty shade of red,” he mused, dragging the cool leather oval over the heated skin. “My personal canvas.”
Swish-CRACK.
“Six!”
“You beg so pretty for it,” he growled, landing another on my upper thigh. “Seven.”
“Please, Ansh,” I sobbed, pushing my ass back towards the sting, seeking it out. The dual sensations were driving me insane—the deep, throbbing fullness inside and the sharp, bright pain on my skin. “More… give me more…”
“You want more, randi?” He tapped the crop against my most tender, untouched skin—the crease where my ass met my thigh. “You want me to mark you here? Where you’ll feel it every time you walk?”
“Yes!” I cried, my face pressed into the sheets. “Mark me! Mark all of me!”
Swish-CRACK. The leather bit into that sensitive crease. I screamed, my body bowing against the restraints.
“Eight!”
Another, right beside it. “Nine!”
The pain was a white-hot brand. Tears leaked from my eyes, but my cock was a rigid, leaking rod trapped beneath me. I was a mess of contradictions—sobbing from the hurt, rutting against the mattress for friction.
He dropped the crop. His hand, hot and rough, palmed my burning ass, squeezing the welts. The pressure was agony and bliss.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe. “Tied up. Beaten. Buzzing full of my maal. You were born for this, Rohit. You were born to be my fucked-out, bred cousin.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “Kiss me.”
I twisted my neck, straining, and found his mouth. The kiss was salty from my tears, desperate from my need. I poured every ounce of my submission into it, sucking on his tongue, whimpering against his lips.
He kissed me back, just as desperate, his hands roaming my marked skin. “You’re mine,” he breathed into my mouth. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I panted between kisses. “All yours. This chut is yours, this gaand is yours, my lund is yours…”
“Your pet is mine,” he corrected, his hand sliding around to press low on my stomach. “It’s a fucking factory for my bachha now. And I’m going to keep stocking it.”
He broke the kiss and moved off the bed. I heard the tear of foil, the slick sound of him rolling on a fresh condom. Then his weight was on the bed, kneeling between my splayed legs. His fingers found the base of the plug.
“Ready to feel me replace this?” he asked, his voice a dark promise.
“Please.”
He pulled the plug out slowly. The sensation of it leaving, followed immediately by a slow, hot trickle of his previous load seeping out, made me cry out. I was empty and full at the same time.
He didn’t make me wait. The blunt, fat head of his lund pressed against my sore, used, dripping entrance. He pushed in, not with a slam, but with a slow, inexorable invasion that stole the air from my lungs. He filled me completely, a deep, stretching fullness that went beyond the physical.
“Fuck,” he groaned, sinking to the hilt. “You’re so fucking open. You’re molded for me.”
He began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that had his pubic bone pressing against my welts with every thrust. The sting from the crop flared with each impact, a fiery counterpoint to the deep, claiming pressure inside me.
“This chut,” he grunted, his pace increasing, “is gonna be so full of my maal… it’s gonna be dripping out of you for days.”
“Yes!” I shouted, my voice muffled by the sheets. “Fill me! Pump another massive load into me, madharchod, I want it, I want to feel it leak!”
He fucked me harder, his grip on my hips tight enough to bruise. The bed rocked with the force of his thrusts. The plug had already wound me so tight, and now his cock was hammering my prostate with unerring accuracy.
“You gonna come for me, behenchod?” he snarled. “You gonna milk my lund like a good little randi?”
“I’m close… I’m so close…”
“Not yet,” he commanded, slowing his pace to a maddening, deep grind. He leaned over me, his chest hot against my beaten back. His mouth found my ear. “You come when I’m shooting. You feel that first spurt inside you, then you let go. You understand? Your chut clenches on my maal.”
The demand was filthy, impossible, and it made my vision blur. “I’ll try…”
“You’ll do it,” he corrected, slamming back into a brutal pace. “For me. For your owner.”
I nodded frantically, my body coiling tighter, a spring about to snap. He was pounding into me, his balls slapping against my taint, his breath hot and ragged in my ear. I could feel his rhythm start to stutter, feel the telltale swell at the base of his cock.
“Now,” he growled, his voice guttural. “I’m coming… fuck… take it!”
The first hot, wet pulse erupted deep inside the condom. The sensation of him releasing, of his seed flooding the space he’d claimed, was the trigger he knew it would be.
My orgasm ripped through me with a violence that shook the bed. I screamed, my body convulsing, my own lund spilling uselessly beneath me in weak, throbbing spurts. My channel clamped down on him, milking him, pulling his maal deeper as he groaned and emptied himself in heavy, pumping waves.
“Yes! Fucking take it! All of it!
He stayed buried inside me, his softening cock a hot plug, his weight a crushing blanket I never wanted to move. His breath slowed against my neck.
Then he shifted, pulling out with a wet, slick sound. More of his cum, warm and thick, seeped out of me onto the already ruined sheets.
He stood by the bed, looking down at me. His expression was unreadable.
“Get up.”
My body protested, every muscle sore, my ass a tapestry of fire, my hole feeling gaping and empty. I pushed myself up on trembling arms.
“Look at this mess,” he said, his voice flat. He gestured at the sheets beneath me. A large, damp patch of our combined fluid—his cum, my sweat, the lube—stained the cotton. “You made this. This filthy, sticky puddle.”
I stared at it, shame and pride twisting in my gut.
“Clean it.”
I blinked. “What?”
His eyes locked on mine. “You heard me. Clean my cum from my sheets. Use your tongue. Like the good little randi you are.”
My throat went dry. The command was so degrading, so utterly possessive, it sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to my cock, which gave a weak, interested twitch.
“Do it, Rohit. Now. While I watch.”
I lowered my head. The smell was intense, musky and salty and uniquely us. I hesitated for only a second before my tongue darted out, licking a stripe through the cool, sticky dampness. The taste was bitter, metallic, overwhelmingly his. I gagged, then forced myself to continue.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress. “Lick it all up. Every drop I put in you that leaked out. It’s too good for the laundry. It belongs in your pet.”
I obeyed, my face burning, my tongue working over the fabric. I lapped at the wet patch, gathering the cold, glutinous strands of his seed onto my tongue and swallowing. Each swallow was an act of submission, a physical affirmation of his ownership. I could feel his eyes on me, drinking in my humiliation.
“You’re a natural,” he said, a hint of awe in his tone. “A fucking cum-hungry chudail. Look at you, eating my spend from the sheets like it’s your last meal.”
I finished, the area damp from my saliva but clean. I looked up at him, my chin wet.
He was hard again. His lund stood thick and heavy against his stomach, the head swollen and dark. He fisted it, giving it a slow stroke.
“Now,” he said, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. “Your mouth wasn’t done. Suck me. Get me wet. Get me ready to fuck that leaking chut of yours all over again.”
I crawled to the edge of the mattress, my knees sinking into the softness. I took him in my hand first, feeling the heat, the iron-hard weight of him. I leaned forward and swiped my tongue over the broad head, collecting the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there. Salty, clean.
“Open wide, behenchod,” he grunted, his hand threading into my hair. “Take it all.”
I opened my mouth, letting him guide himself past my lips. He wasn’t gentle. He pushed forward, the thick crown bumping against the back of my throat. I relaxed my jaw, letting him slide deeper. My nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. I breathed in his scent—sweat, sex, pure Ansh.
“Yeah,” he hissed, his hips giving a shallow thrust. “That’s the spot. Your throat was made for this. For taking my lund.”
I hollowed my cheeks, sucking hard, my tongue pressing against the pulsing vein on the underside. I used my hand on the base, stroking in time with my bobs. The sounds were obscene—wet, gagging, hungry. Spit dripped from my lips onto his balls.
“You’re so fucking good at this,” he praised, his voice rough. “What a skilled little cocksucker I’ve trained. Born with a hungry mouth for your cousin’s lund, weren’t you?”
The degradation made me suck harder, my own neglected cock throbbing between my legs. I looked up at him, meeting his dark, possessive gaze as I deep-throated him.
He pulled out, his cock slick with my saliva. “Enough. You’ve got me hard enough to split you in two again.” He looked around the room, then back at me. “But I want to see you wait for it.”
He grabbed the ropes from where they lay on the bed. “On your back. Arms up.”
A chill of anxiety mixed with arousal shot through me. “Ansh…”
“Now.”
I lay back, holding my wrists up. He tied them tightly to the headboard, the familiar bite of the jute a comfort in its cruelty. He didn’t tie my ankles, but the message was clear: I wasn’t going anywhere.
He stepped back, admiring his work. I was spread out before him, bound, marked, my body still glistening with sweat and the remnants of his attention.
“I’m going out,” he said simply, picking up his jeans from the floor. He stepped into them, buttoning the fly over his still-prominent erection. He pulled a clean t-shirt over his head. “I’ll be back. Could be an hour. Could be three.”
My heart began to pound. “You’re leaving me like this?”
He leaned over the bed, his face inches from mine. His kiss was sudden and deep, a brand of ownership. “Yes. I’m leaving you tied up. I’m leaving you aching. I’m leaving you wondering what I’ll do to you when I walk back through that door.” He traced a finger over the welts on my chest from the crop. “Think about it. Let the need build. Let it eat you alive.”
He straightened up, grabbing his wallet and keys from the dresser.
“Ansh, please…” The whine in my voice was genuine, desperate.
He paused at the door, looking back at me over his shoulder. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. “Begging already? Save it for when I get back. I want to hear you scream my name when I finally let you come.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
The ropes held firm. I tugged at them, a futile gesture. The room was still, the only sound my own ragged breathing. The air felt cool on my heated skin. Every sting from the crop, every dull ache in my stretched hole, became a focused point of need. My cock, full and heavy, lay against my stomach, twitching with every frantic beat of my heart.
An hour. Could be three.
What would he do? Another toy? The flogger again? Would he make me clean his cock with my tongue first? Would he fuck me raw immediately, pumping another massive, gluey load into my depths before I could even catch my breath?
The anticipation was a physical torment. I strained against the ropes, my back arching off the bed, seeking friction, finding none. I was utterly helpless. Completely his.
Minutes crawled by. Each one stretched the coil of need in my gut tighter. I stared at the door, my ears straining for the sound of his footsteps in the hall. Every creak of the building made me jump, my cock leaking a fresh pearl of pre-cum onto my skin.
The humiliation of licking the sheets replayed in my mind, the taste ghosting on my tongue. The feel of his lund hitting the back of my throat. The possessive growl in his voice when he called me his.
What new tortures await me?
The question looped in my head, a terrifying, thrilling mantra. I was a bound animal waiting for its master, and the wait itself was becoming the sweetest, cruelest torture of all.
