The air is thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and Master’s absolute control. My wrists are still bound to the towel rack, the coarse fabric digging into my skin, a constant reminder of my place. I am a display. A piece of art painted in cum and shame. And I am forced to watch the masterpiece being ruined beside me.
Master Ansh’s hips are a piston, driving into Aryan’s prone, trembling body with a brutal, metronomic precision. Aryan’s face is a mess of tears and spit, Professor Pritam’s cock still fucking his mouth in time with Master’s thrusts. Rohan and Vikram kneel on either side, their hands guiding Aryan’s limp ones up and down their hard cocks.
“You see this, Dhruv?” Master snarls, his eyes locking with mine, burning with a possessive fire. “You see what you wrought? This is your doing. Your curiosity led him here.”
“Yes, Master!” The affirmation is a desperate sob. “I made him your slut! I did it!”
“Professor,” Master’s voice is a sharp crack of command, though his rhythm never falters. “Switch. My good boy’s mouth is looking empty. I want to hear him choke.”
Professor Pritam pulls his wet cock from Aryan’s lips with a slick pop. He strides toward me, his expression a mask of detached academic arousal. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back against the cold tile, and he rams his length into my mouth, down my throat, in one brutal, unforgiving motion.
I choke instantly. My body convulses, my throat seizing around his girth. Tears blind me. I can’t breathe. The sensation is a violent invasion, a perfect counterpoint to the degrading spectacle I’m forced to watch.
Master’s thrusts into Aryan become erratic, brutal. “I’m gonna fill him, Dhruv! I’m gonna breed this virgin ass with my cum! Watch it happen!”
Aryan’s eyes are rolled back in his head, his body a limp, used doll being manipulated by the four men. Master slams home one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and roars his release. I see Aryan’s body jolt with the force of it, a fresh, broken sob escaping his lips as he’s filled, claimed, ruined.
Master pulls out slowly, and a river of his white release immediately flows from Aryan’s red, stretched hole, dripping onto the tile.
The silence is heavy, broken only by our ragged breaths. Master steps back, his own cock still glistening and hard. His gaze, dark and satisfied, slides from Aryan’s wrecked form to me, still impaled on Professor Pritam’s dick.
“Keep fucking his throat, Professor,” Master says, his voice a low, chilling purr. “I want to hear him gag. I want to see those pretty tears.”
Professor Pritam obeys, setting a deep, rhythmic pace, each thrust making me choke and sputter. My world narrows to the brutal invasion of my throat and the sharp, piercing gaze of my Master.
“You both performed… adequately,” Master states, circling us. “Aryan, you took your first true claiming like a desperate, weeping whore. It was acceptable.” He stops behind me, his hand stroking my sweaty flank. “And you, Dhruv. You watched. You took your professor’s cock down your throat without complaint. You understood your role as my exhibition.”
The praise, wrapped in degradation, makes my caged dick ache with a painful throb. I try to moan around the cock in my mouth, the sound a wet, gurgling plea.
“I’ve decided we’re taking a break from this classroom play,” Master announces, his voice cutting through the humid air. “The theory has been established. Now for the practical exam. A real test of submission.”
Professor Pritam slows his thrusts, letting me gasp for a precious breath of air.
“There’s a club,” Master continues, his fingers tracing the outline of my cage, making me shiver. “Private. Discreet. A place where good little slaves are put on display for an appreciative audience. Where they learn what true, public humiliation feels like.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. A club. With people. Watching.
“Aryan will need to be prepared. He’s too fresh. Too new. He needs to be broken in properly, made presentable.” Master’s hand leaves my cage and grips my chin, forcing my tear-filled eyes to meet his. “That is your task, Dhruv. Your only purpose until I say otherwise.”
He nods at Professor Pritam, who finally pulls his softening cock from my bruised lips. I gasp, dragging in ragged breaths, my throat raw and aching.
“You will prepare him,” Master commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You will use your mouth, your hands, your experience. You will open him up, stretch him, get him ready to be shown off. You will make his ass greedy and hungry for any cock that might want to use it tonight. You will make him beg for the attention of strangers. And you will do it now.”
He unties the towel from the rack. My arms fall limply to my sides, blood rushing back into them with a painful prickling sensation. I drop to my knees on the cold tile, swaying with exhaustion.
Aryan is still on all fours, trembling, Master’s cum dripping from him in steady rivulets. He looks shattered.
“Go on, Dhruv,” Master says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Show me how well you train my property. Show me how you beg for his hole to be ready for its debut.”
I crawl forward on my knees, the lingering aches and pains a symphony of my submission. I position myself behind Aryan. The smell of Master’s release is potent, musky, claiming. I look up at Master, my eyes wide with a mix of fear and desperate need to please.
“Please, Master,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from the throat-fucking. “Please, let me prepare his ass for you. Let me get him ready to be your perfect, public slut. I need to taste your cum leaking from his hole. I need to make it hungry for more.”
“Then get to work, you filthy cocksucker,” Master growls, his approval a physical heat in my veins. “Make me proud.”
I lean in, my heart pounding. I don’t hesitate. This is my worship. My tongue extends, and I give one long, flat, cleansing lick from Aryan’s trembling balls all the way up his perineum to his abused, dripping entrance.
Aryan jolts, a sharp gasp escaping him.
The taste is explosive. Bitter, salty, musky—the pure, undiluted essence of Master Ansh. I moan against his skin, the sound vibrating through us both.
“That’s it,” Master murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “Clean your Master’s claim off him. Then get him messy all over again. Make him yours to give away.”
I dive in, my tongue becoming a frantic, worshipping instrument. I lap up every drop of seed I can find, swirling my tongue around his rim, pushing inside to gather more. Aryan whimpers, his body trembling, but he doesn’t pull away. He pushes back, a silent, broken plea for more.
“You hear that, Aryan?” I mutter against his wet skin, my voice husky and low. “You’re going to be put on display. Everyone is going to see what a good little fuckhole you are for Master. They’re all going to want a turn.” I push two fingers into my own mouth, coating them with spit, and then press them against his entrance. “I have to get you ready for that. I have to stretch this pretty hole so it can take any cock Master offers it. You want that, don’t you? You want to be a good, useful slut for him?”
“Y-Yes…” Aryan whimpers, his voice broken.
“Yes, what?” I demand, working one spit-slick finger inside him. He’s so tight, still clenching from Master’s brutal fucking.
“Yes, I want to be a good slut!” he cries out, his voice cracking with a mixture of pain and dawning, horrific arousal.
“Good boy,” I purr, curling my finger, seeking that spot inside him that I know will unravel him completely. “Now beg for it. Beg for me to open you up. Beg for me to make you a perfect, hungry hole for Master’s audience.”
I feel Master’s intense gaze on me, his approval a tangible force. I look up, my finger buried deep in Aryan’s ass, my chin glistening with their mixed fluids.
“Please, Dhruv…” Aryan sobs, pushing back onto my hand. “Please, prepare me. Stretch me. I need to be ready. I need to be a good slut for Master’s club. I’m begging you. Make me filthy for them.”
