The sudden drop in television volume was a bucket of ice water. Masi’s voice, sharp with suspicion, sliced through the door. “Ansh? Rishav? Is everything alright in there? It got very quiet.”
Ansh’s body, a heavy, sweating weight on top of him, went rigid. Rishav’s heart tried to claw its way out of his throat. The warm, thick seep of his cousin’s cum from his ass felt like a blazing, incriminating beacon.
“Just… wiping down the table, Ma!” Ansh called out, his voice impressively steady despite the way his breath hitched. “Spilled some water. Everything’s fine.” He didn’t move, his lips pressed against Rishav’s shoulder blade.
They stayed frozen, a statue of illicit passion, until they heard the television volume rise again, a sign of temporary appeasement. The tension didn't leave the room; it just coiled tighter, transforming back into a different kind of heat.
Ansh pushed himself up slowly. His cock, slick with their mixed fluids, slid out of Rishav with a soft, wet sound, followed by another gush of warmth onto the kitchen floor. The air smelled of sex and curry, a nauseating, intoxicating combination.
“On your knees,” Ansh commanded, his voice a gravelly whisper. He didn’t give Rishav time to comply, grabbing his shoulder and manhandling him off the table, spinning him around and forcing him down onto the hard tile. Rishav’s knees protested, but the fire in his gut roared in approval.
Ansh stood over him, his spent cock already beginning to thicken again, glistening and filthy. “Look at the fucking state of you. Look at the state of me. My cum is dripping out of your wrecked asshole and all over my dick.” He fisted his cock, stroking it slowly back to full, terrifying hardness. “You see that? That’s your fucking cousin. That’s you.”
Rishav’s mouth watered. The need was a physical ache in his jaw. “Ansh… please.”
“Please what?” Ansh taunted, slapping his hard length against Rishav’s cheek. The sting was electric. “Use your words. Tell me what you want. Beg me for it.”
“Fuck my mouth,” Rishav begged, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. He reached for his own half-hard cock, his fingers wrapping around the sensitive flesh, stroking himself to full hardness under Ansh’s predatory gaze. “Please, Ansh. I need to taste you again. I need your fucking cock in my throat while I jerk off. I want to swallow your load.”
A dark, victorious smile spread across Ansh’s face. “You’re a greedy fucking slut, you know that? My perfect, greedy little cousin.” He placed the head of his cock against Rishav’s parted lips. “Open up. Take it. Show me how much you want it.”
Rishav opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the broad head, tasting the potent mixture of their essences. The flavor was musky, salty, and uniquely Ansh. It was the most addictive thing he’d ever known.
Ansh didn’t wait. He pushed forward, his grip tightening in Rishav’s hair, and fed his cock into his mouth. Rishav relaxed his throat, taking him deep, his nose pressing into the coarse thatch of dark hair at the base. He moaned around the intrusion, the vibration making Ansh curse.
“Yeah, that’s it. Suck it. Suck your cousin’s fucking dick.” Ansh began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm, fucking his mouth with the same possessive intensity he fucked his ass. Each thrust pressed deeper, making Rishav’s eyes water.
Rishav’s own hand was a blur on his cock, stroking in time with Ansh’s thrusts. The dual sensations were overwhelming—the stretch of his throat, the taste of Ansh, the friction on his own aching length. He was lost in a feedback loop of pleasure, each sensation amplifying the other.
“You like that, don’t you?” Ansh grunted, his hips snapping forward. “You like getting your face fucked while you play with your little dick. You’re a fucking natural-born cocksucker, Rishav. Made for this. Made for me.”
The filthy praise sent another jolt through him. He redoubled his efforts, sucking harder, bobbing his head to meet Ansh’s thrusts. His spit was dripping down his chin, onto his chest, mixing with the sweat and the last remnants of cum on his skin. He was a mess. He was perfect.
“I’m close,” Ansh warned, his voice strained. His thrusts became shallower, faster, more frantic. “You ready? You ready to swallow every fucking drop?”
Rishav nodded frantically, his hand moving faster on his own cock, his own climax coiling tight in his balls. He wanted this. He wanted to taste Ansh’s release, to have that final, ultimate proof of ownership.
Ansh’s body tensed. With a guttural groan, he shoved himself as deep as he could go and held, his cock pulsing violently in the back of Rishav’s throat. The first hot, salty jet hit his tongue, and Rishav swallowed instinctively. The second was thicker, and he swallowed again, his throat working around the pulsing length. The taste was intense, primal, and he drank it down, wanting all of it, accepting every last drop of his cousin’s seed.
The feeling of Ansh coming in his mouth, the violent pulsing against his tongue, was the final trigger for his own orgasm. His back arched, and he came with a silent, shuddering cry, his release splattering onto the floor between his knees, his ass clenching around nothing, milking the ghost of Ansh’s cock.
For a long moment, Ansh held his head there, his softening cock resting on his tongue. Finally, he pulled out with a wet sigh. Rishav gasped for air, his chin glistening.
Ansh looked down at him, his eyes black with lust and satisfaction. “You swallowed it all,” he murmured, a statement of fact.
“Every drop,” Rishav panted, his voice hoarse.
A wicked gleam returned to Ansh’s eyes. He was still semi-hard. “Good. Now, turn the fuck around and bend over that table again. That was just an appetizer. My dick is still hungry for that fucking ass.”
The command was a lightning strike to Rishav’s nervous system. His body, still trembling from the recent throat-fucking, instantly flared back to a state of raw, aching need. He scrambled to obey, his movements clumsy, his knees protesting as he pushed himself up from the floor.
He turned, his back to the table, and bent over, placing his palms flat on the cool wood. He pushed his ass out, a lewd, silent offering. The air felt cold against his wet, stretched hole, which still pulsed with the memory of Ansh’s possession. A fresh trickle of cum escaped, tracing a warm path down his inner thigh.
Ansh’s hand, rough and possessive, landed on the small of his back, pressing him down further. “That’s it. Present that pretty, fucked-out cunt for me. Just a fucking ruin, isn’t it? Still dripping my last load and already begging for the next one.”
Rishav heard the slick, wet sound of Ansh spitting into his own palm, then the warm, crude press of his fingers against Rishav’s entrance, smearing the leaking seed, working him open just enough. It was a perfunctory gesture, a formality. His body was already Ansh’s to use.
“You’re moving here,” Ansh growled, his voice thick with a dark, victorious lust. He positioned the broad, insistent head of his cock at Rishav’s waiting hole. “To my city. You’re not a hotel hookup anymore, Rishav. You’re my live-in slut. My personal breeding project.”
The words were a promise that made Rishav’s insides clench with desperate want. “Yes, Ansh. Yours.”
Ansh drove forward. Not with the brutal, shattering force of before, but with a deep, relentless, claiming pressure that sank his entire length into Rishav’s body in one smooth, continuous motion. It was a possession, a sealing of a deal.
Rishav gasped, his fingers curling against the table. The fullness was absolute, a deep, internal stretch that felt more psychological than physical now. Ansh was inside him, claiming not just his body, but his future.
“You feel that?” Ansh grunted, his hands gripping Rishav’s hips, his thumbs digging into the flesh. He began to move, a slow, deep, piston-like rhythm that was infinitely more intimate than any frantic pounding. Each withdrawal was a profound loss, each thrust a perfect, overwhelming reclaiming. “You feel my dick in the home it’s gonna own? This is your life now. This feeling. Every. Fucking. Night.”
“I want it,” Rishav moaned, the words muffled against the wood. “I want your cock every night. I want to be this full all the time.”
“You will be,” Ansh promised, his voice strained with the effort of his controlled, deep strokes. He leaned over, his chest pressing against Rishav’s sweaty back, his lips against his ear. His pace remained devastatingly steady. “I’m gonna keep you perpetually stuffed. I’m gonna fuck you before work. I’m gonna fuck you the second you walk through the door. I’m gonna wake you up in the middle of the night by shoving my hard dick into your sleepy, willing hole.”
The vivid, filthy promises painted a picture of a life Rishav hadn’t known he’d craved. He pushed back against Ansh’s thrusts, meeting each deep drive, wanting to take him even deeper. “Yes! Fuck, Ansh! Just like that!”
“I’m gonna lose count of how many loads I pump into you,” Ansh whispered, his control starting to fray, his deep thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. “I’m gonna lose track of which one might be the one that finally takes. You think about that? You think about my seed swimming so deep inside you, looking for a place to grab hold? Looking to turn this perfect fuck-hole into a fucking womb?”
The graphic description, the terrifying, thrilling reality of the breeding fantasy, sent Rishav’s arousal skyrocketing. His cock, trapped between his stomach and the table, was leaking a steady stream of pre-cum onto the wood.
“I think about it all the time,” Rishav confessed, the admission torn from him. “I want it. I want to feel it. I want to know I’m full of you in a way that can’t be cleaned up.”
That was it. That was the confession that shattered the last of Ansh’s restraint. “Fuck!” he roared, and his rhythm broke into a frantic, pounding fury. He was no longer making love; he was branding, marking, implanting. His hips slapped against Rishav’s ass, the wet, rhythmic sound a frantic tattoo of possession.
“This is it!” Ansh chanted, his voice guttural, lost to the animal need. “I’m breeding you right now, Rishav! This load is for keeps! Take it! Take my fucking seed! Milk it out of me! Clench that dirty cunt around my dick and don’t you dare let a single drop out!”
Rishav obeyed, clenching his muscles rhythmically around the pistoning length, milking him, begging for it without words. The pleasure was a white-hot supernova, building at the base of his spine.
“I’m coming!” Ansh shouted, burying himself to the hilt and holding, his body seizing. Rishav felt the hot, pulsing flood, a scalding rush that felt deeper, hotter, more potent than any before. It was a promise. It was a claim. It was a deposit on a future.
The intense, claiming heat and the violent pulses against his prostate triggered Rishav’s own climax. He came with a silent, shuddering cry, his release spilling onto the table beneath him, his body convulsing around Ansh’s still-pulsing cock.
They collapsed over the table, a sweating, trembling heap. Ansh’s weight was a furnace on his back, his softened cock serving as a thick plug, holding the immense, hot load inside. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, synced breathing and the distant hum of the television.
Slowly, Ansh pushed himself up. His cock slipped out with a soft, wet sound, followed by a heavy, warm gush that poured down Rishav’s thighs. Ansh traced a finger through the mess on Rishav’s skin, his touch almost reverent.
“Look at that,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You’re overflowing. My fucking masterpiece.”
He helped Rishav stand, his grip firm. Rishav’s legs buckled, but Ansh held him up, pulling him into a deep, consuming kiss. It wasn’t tender; it was possessive, a claiming of his mouth after claiming his body. Rishav could taste himself on Ansh’s tongue, the salty, musky evidence of their union.
The kiss broke, and Ansh rested his forehead against Rishav’s, their breath mingling. “My place has two bedrooms,” he said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “But you won’t be using the second one. Your bed is mine. Your body is mine.” His hand slid down, cupping Rishav’s ass, his fingers tracing his wet, stretched entrance. “This… is mine.”
Before Rishav could form a coherent thought, a sharp, impatient knock rattated the kitchen door. Masi’s voice, laced with a suspicion that had curdled into something darker, cut through the wood. “Ansh. Rishav. Open this door. Right now.”
