Two girls on the opposite building’s balcony, perhaps 7th or 8th floor, stepped out for their evening tea. They were in their mid-20s, casual pajamas, hair tied up, giggling about something on one of their phones. One of them glanced across the small gap between buildings out of habit — then froze.“Riya… look. Is that…?”Riya followed her friend’s gaze. Her eyes widened.Krishnansh’s head and upper chest were clearly visible through the railing bars — face flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with a mix of pain and forced pleasure. His massive pecs bulged out between the gaps, clamped nipples stretched downward by the chain, red marks and bite marks visible even from that distance. His bound hands gripped the railing tightly, knuckles white. He was moaning softly — low, breathy sounds that carried on the evening breeze — head tilted back slightly, seductive smile flickering on and off his lips as if he were performing for someone.The girls couldn’t see the fans behind him. Couldn’t see the masked man eating his ass, the one stroking his cock, the camera tripod recording from inside, or Arham filming from the adjacent balcony. From their angle, it looked like Krishnansh was alone on the balcony, tied in a bizarre, public display, moaning and smiling like he was enjoying some kind of kinky solo performance.“Is that… Krishnansh Arora?” one whispered. “The footballer? The Instagram guy?”The other pulled out her phone. “No way… it is him. What the hell is he doing?”They zoomed in. His face was unmistakable — even with tears and sweat, even with the strange expression. They started recording discreetly, whispering to each other.“He’s… tied up? And moaning? Is he doing this on purpose?”“Look at his pecs… they’re all marked up. And he’s smiling at something…”Back on the balcony, the fans had just placed a second large, transparent glass bowl beneath Krishnansh’s hanging cock — right next to the first one that already held his previous load. The new bowl was empty, crystal clear, waiting.One fan grabbed Krishnansh’s cock from behind — the same one who had been teasing his hole. He pulled it backward between Krishnansh’s legs, stretching the shaft painfully downward toward the bowl.“Time to fill another one,” he said, voice low and mocking. “Your fans want to see how much you can give.”He started stroking — slow, teasing pulls, fingers sliding over the slick shaft, thumb circling the head in lazy spirals. Every stroke stretched Krishnansh’s cock back further, making him hiss in pain, hips jerking uselessly against the restraints.At the same time, the fan who had been eating his ass stood up again. He pressed the head of his cock against Krishnansh’s slick, spit-wet hole — rubbing, circling, dipping just the tip inside then pulling out again. Teasing. Torturing. Never fully entering.Krishnansh’s moans turned frantic — high, pleading. He looked straight into the main camera, forcing the seductive smile even as tears ran down his cheeks.“Please… milk me… I want to fill the bowl… please… stroke me harder… tease my hole… I need it…”The stroking fan sped up — hand flying over the stretched cock, thumb grinding the slit. The teasing fan kept rubbing his cockhead against the hole — shallow dips, pulling out, making Krishnansh clench and beg.“Cum for us,” the stroking fan growled. “Fill the bowl. Show everyone how much your cock can give.”Krishnansh’s body locked up. A choked, desperate cry tore from his throat as he came again — weaker than before, but still thick ropes shooting downward into the second glass bowl. The spurts were shorter, but they landed inside the clear glass with wet splashes, slowly filling it halfway.The fans cheered softly behind him.“Good boy,” one said. “Halfway already. Keep going.”Krishnansh collapsed forward against the railing, head hanging through the bars, tears dripping, body shaking.From the opposite balcony, the two girls kept recording, whispering in shock.“He just… came… into a bowl… while tied up… what is happening?”Across the way, Rohan — Krishnansh’s teammate — was still filming from his own balcony, phone shaking in his hand, face pale as he watched his friend get used in public.Krishnansh felt all of it — the eyes, the cameras, the exposure.
The fan behind Krishnansh — the one who had been teasing his hole for so long — finally stopped rubbing. He pressed the thick, slick head firmly against Krishnansh’s stretched, spit-wet pucker and pushed forward in one slow, deliberate motion.The tip breached the rim with a sudden pop. Krishnansh’s eyes flew wide open, body jerking hard against the railing bars.“No—no—wait—please—!” he gasped, voice cracking into a high, panicked plea. “Not inside… not like this… mercy—!”But the fan didn’t stop. He kept pushing — slow, steady, inch after inch — stretching Krishnansh’s virgin hole open around his thick cock. Krishnansh cried out, the burn sharp and overwhelming, his rim clenching desperately around the invading shaft. The fan groaned low in his throat, hands gripping Krishnansh’s hips hard enough to leave bruises.“Fuck… so tight,” he muttered. “First real cock in this hole… gonna open you up good.”Krishnansh’s head thrashed as much as the zip ties allowed. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Please… take it out… it hurts… I can’t… mercy—!”The fan ignored the begging. He sank deeper — slow, relentless — until his hips finally met Krishnansh’s ass, cock buried to the base. Krishnansh let out a broken sob, body trembling, hole stretched painfully wide around the thick length.Then the fan started to fuck him.Slow, deep thrusts — pulling out almost to the head, then sliding back in all the way, bottoming out with each stroke. Every push ground against Krishnansh’s prostate, sending unwanted jolts of pleasure through the pain. Krishnansh’s cock — still hard and leaking — twitched violently with each deep thrust, pre-cum dripping steadily into the glass bowl below.Meanwhile, the fan stroking him from the front kept milking — tight, steady strokes, thumb circling the glans on every upstroke, keeping him right on the edge. The two sensations combined were torture: the cock stretching and filling his ass, the hand relentlessly pumping his shaft.Krishnansh’s moans turned frantic, voice hoarse and pleading.“Please… stop… I can’t… I’m gonna cum… please…”The fan behind him thrust harder — deeper — hips snapping forward with more force.“Cum for us,” he growled. “Fill that bowl again. Show everyone how much your ass loves getting fucked.”The stroking fan sped up — hand flying over the slick shaft, twisting at the head.Krishnansh’s body locked up.A raw, choked scream tore from his throat as he came — thin, watery spurts shooting downward into the second glass bowl. The load was weaker than before, but it splashed into the half-filled bowl, adding to the white pool already there. His cock pulsed painfully in the fan’s hand, milking out every last drop while the cock in his ass kept thrusting slow and deep.When it was over, Krishnansh collapsed forward against the railing — head hanging through the bars, tears dripping, body shaking violently.The fan in his ass pulled out slowly — Krishnansh whimpering at the emptiness — then slapped his ass hard.“Good boy,” the fan said. “Look at that — another load for your fans.”The stroking fan scooped the fresh cum from the bowl and brought it to Krishnansh’s lips.“Eat it,” he ordered.Krishnansh opened his mouth weakly. The fan fed him the cum — warm, sticky — making him lick and swallow every drop while tears streamed down his face.
The fans took turns fucking Krishnansh’s ass now — one after another, no breaks, no mercy.The first fan who had taken his virginity pulled out with a wet pop, cock glistening, and slapped Krishnansh’s ass hard. “My turn’s done. Next.”Another fan stepped up immediately — thicker, rougher. He lined up and pushed in with one long, steady thrust, bottoming out in a single motion. Krishnansh cried out, the stretch burning fresh all over again, hole clenching around the new cock. The fan started fucking him deep and slow at first, then faster, hips snapping against Krishnansh’s glutes, balls slapping loudly against his taint.At the same time, two other fans knelt in front of him (one inside the balcony, one reaching through the railing bars) and worked his cock together — one stroking the shaft fast and tight, the other cupping his balls and tugging them downward, milking him relentlessly toward the second glass bowl that already had a decent amount of cum from the previous load.Krishnansh’s moans turned into constant, broken sobs — body jerking between the cock pounding his ass and the hands milking his cock. He kept his face toward the camera as much as the head-restraint allowed, forcing out seductive, pleading words between gasps.“Fuck… yes… fill my ass… milk my cock… please… I’m your cum bull… give me more…”The fan fucking him sped up — deep, brutal thrusts that slammed against his prostate every time. The milking hands matched the rhythm — stroking faster, thumbs grinding the glans, squeezing his balls until he screamed.He came again — eighth load — thin, watery spurts shooting downward into the second bowl. It splashed against the glass, adding to the white pool until it was nearly full. His cock pulsed weakly in the fans’ hands, milking out the last drops.They didn’t stop.They switched again — the current fan pulled out, another took his place, pushing in deep and starting to fuck him immediately. The milking hands never left his cock — stroking, edging, keeping him hard and leaking even though he was empty.By the time the ninth fan started fucking him, the second bowl was full — overflowing slightly, cum dripping down the sides onto the balcony floor.They placed a third glass bowl under him.Krishnansh was sobbing openly now.“Please… I can’t… there’s nothing left… my balls are empty… my dick hurts… please stop…”But the fans kept going — one fucking his ass deep and steady, another milking his cock with both hands, stretching it back toward the new bowl, teasing the head until he whimpered.It took longer for the ninth load — almost painful, his body fighting to produce anything. When he finally came, it was just a few weak dribbles — barely enough to coat the bottom of the third bowl. He cried harder, head hanging through the bars.“I can’t… I’m done… no more cum… please…”The fans laughed.One of them reached up and turned on the balcony lights — bright white floodlights that snapped on, illuminating Krishnansh’s entire naked body like a spotlight. Now he was fully visible — head, bound hands, bulging pecs, clamped nipples, hard cock being milked, ass being fucked — all lit up clearly for the entire building and the night sky.Krishnansh didn’t even realize at first. He was too far gone — body numb, mind blank.But then he felt the lights — hot, exposing — and looked up.The building opposite had people on their balconies now. Windows with lights on. Phones pointed his way. Rohan was still there, recording. The two girls from earlier were still filming too.He was lit up like a stage.Eight loads already milked out of him — fucked in turns, cock stroked and edged, cum collected in bowls like he was a farm animal.He was left begging — voice hoarse, broken.“Please… no more… I can’t produce anymore… I’m empty… please… let me go…”
The fans weren't done. Not even close.One of them stepped forward with the same unmarked vial from earlier — the "secret liquid" that had forced Krishnansh's body to keep producing long after it should have run dry. He grabbed Krishnansh's hair through the railing bars and yanked his head back sharply."Open wide, bull," he said. "Time for another dose. You're gonna give us way more than ten tonight."Krishnansh's lips parted on instinct — too broken to resist. The fan poured the bitter-sweet liquid straight down his throat. Krishnansh gagged, coughing, but swallowed every drop. Within seconds the familiar hot rush hit him again — blood flooding his groin, balls tightening with unnatural fullness, cock swelling back to painful hardness even though it had nothing left to give.The fan who had just fucked him pulled out with a wet pop, slapped Krishnansh's ass hard enough to leave a fresh handprint, and another immediately took his place — thicker cock sliding in deep in one smooth thrust. Krishnansh's hole clenched around the intrusion, already loose and slick from the previous rounds.At the same time, two fans knelt in front of him again. One wrapped both hands around Krishnansh's cock and started milking — fast, tight strokes, thumbs grinding the raw glans. The other cupped his balls, tugging them downward rhythmically, forcing whatever tiny reserves remained to the surface.Krishnansh sobbed openly now — voice hoarse, tears streaming endlessly down his face."Please… no more… I’m empty… there’s nothing left… it hurts so much… mercy… please…"They ignored him.The cock in his ass started thrusting again — deep, steady, slamming against his prostate with every push. The milking hands never slowed — stroking, squeezing, edging him toward another impossible peak.It took agonizing minutes. Krishnansh's body fought — no strength, no cum — but the liquid was merciless. His cock throbbed painfully, pre-cum leaking in thin strings into the overflowing bowls below.Finally — impossibly — the ninth load came. Just a few weak dribbles, splashing into the third bowl, barely adding to the white pool.The fans cheered softly."Nine," one said. "One more. Give us ten, bull."Krishnansh cried harder, head hanging through the bars."I can't… please… I’m done… no more cum… I’m begging…"The fan fucking him thrust harder — deeper — grinding against his prostate. The milking hands sped up — stroking frantically, thumbs pressing the slit open."Cum," the fan growled. "Tenth load. Now."Krishnansh's body seized one last time. A strangled, exhausted sob tore from his throat as he came — a tiny, pathetic dribble, just enough to drip into the third bowl and make it officially full. Three bowls completely filled — thick, white evidence of his total surrender.The fans stepped back slightly, admiring their work."Ten loads," one said, voice full of awe. "Our bull actually did it."Krishnansh collapsed forward against the railing — head hanging through the bars, tears falling endlessly, body shaking with exhaustion. He couldn't believe it. These guys had actually forced ten loads out of him. Ten.He thought it was over.But they didn't stop.The fan who had just fucked him pulled out and slapped his ass."We want more," he said. "You're our cum bull. You keep giving until we say stop."They switched again — another cock sliding into his ass, another pair of hands milking his cock toward the overflowing bowls.Krishnansh begged — voice raw, broken, tears streaming."Please… no more… I can’t… I’m empty… there’s nothing left… mercy… please…"They ignored him.The thrusting continued. The milking continued.Against all odds — against every limit his body should have had — the liquid forced another load out of him. Eleventh — just a few weak drops, barely anything. Then a twelfth — even less, a pathetic dribble that barely added to the mess in the bowls.Three bowls completely filled — overflowing, cum dripping down the sides onto the balcony floor.Krishnansh was utterly exhausted — body limp, shaking, voice gone, tears falling endlessly. He couldn't speak anymore. Couldn't beg. Could only whimper softly, head hanging through the bars, pecs still stretched, cock red and raw, hole gaping and leaking.The fans finally stepped back, admiring their work."Twelve loads," one said. "Our bull is the best."The camera kept rolling.From the opposite balconies, Rohan and the two girls were still recording — phones shaking, faces pale with shock as they watched the entire scene unfold.Krishnansh felt nothing anymore.He was completely spent.Completely broken.
The fans finally untied Krishnansh from the railing. His wrists were raw from the zip ties, red marks circling them like bracelets. His head had been pushed forward for so long that his neck ached when they pulled him back. The nipple chain was unhooked last — the clamps coming off with sharp pain as blood rushed back into the swollen buds. Krishnansh hissed, tears still falling silently.They half-carried, half-dragged him back inside the flat. The balcony lights were turned off behind him, but the damage was done. The camera tripod was still recording, red light blinking steadily.Inside the living room, they let him collapse onto the floor — naked, trembling, cum drying in sticky patches on his pecs, abs, thighs. His cock hung limp and abused between his legs, red and swollen from the endless milking. His hole throbbed, gaping slightly, leaking lube and spit.The fans stood around him, catching their breath, some still stroking themselves lazily, masks hiding their faces but not their satisfaction.The front door opened.Arham stepped in — calm, composed, as if he had just gone for a casual walk. He had been watching everything from the adjacent balcony and the hidden feeds. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and looked down at Krishnansh on the floor.For a long moment, no one spoke.Then Arham started clapping — slow, deliberate applause that echoed in the quiet room."Good work," he said, voice warm and approving. "All of you. Especially you, Krishnansh. Twelve loads. Three full bowls. You truly are the perfect cum bull."Krishnansh didn’t move. He just lay there, curled slightly on his side, tears still slipping from his eyes onto the carpet.Arham walked closer and crouched down beside him, resting a hand lightly on Krishnansh’s sweat-damp shoulder."Your life would have been so different," Arham said softly, almost gently. "If you had given me those ten loads that first night — or even the second time you came to me — none of this would have happened. No cage. No public balcony. No fans taking turns on you. No Rohan recording you from his balcony two floors down. No girls filming you for their group chats. Just one session. Ten loads. And freedom."Krishnansh let out a broken sob — quiet, defeated."I… I know…" he whispered. "I regret it… I regret everything…"Arham nodded, like a teacher acknowledging a student’s mistake."I know you do," he said. "But regret doesn’t change the past. It only shapes what comes next."He stood up, looking at the fans."Help him up. Let him clean himself. Then send him home."The fans lifted Krishnansh gently — almost reverently — and guided him to the bathroom. They let him shower alone. He stood under the hot water for a long time, scrubbing at the cum, the spit, the marks on his body. But no amount of soap could wash away the shame.When he came out, wrapped in a towel, Arham was waiting."You’re free to go," Arham said. "For now. But remember — Choice 2 means you belong to me. Whenever I call, you come. Whenever I want a load — or ten — you deliver. Or everything goes public. Everything."Krishnansh nodded mutely, eyes down.He dressed in the torn remains of his clothes — shirt ripped, shorts shredded. The fans watched him leave with satisfied smiles.He walked out of the flat, down the hallway, into the elevator.When he reached his own apartment building, he took the stairs to avoid anyone seeing him like this.He opened the door quietly.Prerna was asleep on the couch — she must have waited up.He stood there in the dark, looking at her peaceful face.He had no idea how to explain the bruises, the marks, the way his body shook.He had no idea how to tell her he had just been used by five strangers on a balcony while the whole building watched.He had no idea how to keep going.But he had to.Because he had chosen freedom.And freedom had a price.He walked past her, went to the bathroom, and locked the door.He looked at himself in the mirror — bruised, marked, broken.And cried silently.
The next morning Krishnansh dragged himself out of bed before the sun was fully up. Prerna was still asleep, curled on her side, the faint bruises on her neck hidden under her hair. He stared at her for a long moment — guilt twisting like a knife in his gut — then quietly changed into his football kit: tight shorts, compression shirt, cleats in his bag. He left without waking her.The practice ground was already buzzing when he arrived. His teammates were warming up — jogging, stretching, passing balls. Rohan spotted him immediately from across the field. Rohan’s face was hard, jaw set, eyes locked on Krishnansh like he was looking at a stranger.Krishnansh tried to avoid eye contact. He dropped his bag near the bench and started lacing his cleats, pretending to focus on the task. But Rohan walked straight over, cleats crunching on the grass.“Krish,” Rohan said, voice low but sharp. “We need to talk. Now.”Krishnansh kept his head down. “Later, man. Practice first.”Rohan grabbed his upper arm — not rough, but firm enough that Krishnansh couldn’t pull away.“No. Now.”He steered Krishnansh away from the others toward the side of the ground, then through the narrow corridor to the empty shower room attached to the changing area. The door shut behind them with a heavy thud. The place smelled of damp tile and old soap. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.Rohan let go of his arm and turned to face him.“I saw you last night,” Rohan said, voice shaking with barely controlled anger and confusion. “On your balcony. 8th floor. Tied up. Naked. Head through the railing. Guys all over you. One eating your ass. Another stroking your dick. You were moaning… smiling for a fucking camera. What the hell was that, Krish?”Krishnansh stared at the floor. His mouth opened, closed. No words came out.Rohan stepped closer. “I recorded it. I still have the video. I haven’t shown anyone yet. But I need to know what’s going on. Are you in trouble? Blackmailed? Is this some fucked-up kink you’re into now? Talk to me.”Krishnansh’s eyes filled with tears. He shook his head slowly. “I… I can’t… please… don’t ask…”Rohan exhaled hard through his nose. His expression shifted — anger mixing with something darker, hungrier.“Fine,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to say anything? That’s okay.”He stepped even closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper.“Then get on your knees.”Krishnansh’s head snapped up. “What?”Rohan didn’t repeat himself. He grabbed the waistband of his football shorts and shoved them down in one motion. His cock sprang free — massive, thick, already half-hard, veins bulging along the shaft, heavy balls hanging low.Krishnansh’s eyes widened. He took an instinctive step back, back hitting the tiled wall.“Rohan… no… I’m not… I can’t…”Rohan didn’t listen. He grabbed Krishnansh’s shoulder and pushed him down — not violently, but firmly enough that Krishnansh’s knees buckled. He sank to the cold tile floor, face inches from Rohan’s hardening cock.“You don’t have to explain anything,” Rohan said, voice low and thick. “Just open your mouth. Give me what you were giving those strangers on the balcony. Suck it. Sloppy. Deep. Make it good.”Krishnansh’s lips trembled. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He looked up at Rohan — his teammate, his friend — pleading silently.Rohan grabbed the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.“Don’t make me ask again.”Krishnansh’s mouth opened — slow, reluctant. Rohan didn’t wait. He pushed forward, sliding his thick cock past Krishnansh’s lips and deep into his mouth in one smooth thrust.Krishnansh gagged immediately, eyes watering, hands coming up to Rohan’s thighs in reflex. Rohan held his head steady and started thrusting — slow at first, then deeper, making Krishnansh take every inch. Spit ran down Krishnansh’s chin, dripping onto his shirt. He moaned involuntarily around the shaft — muffled, choked sounds.Rohan groaned low. “That’s it… just like that… fuck… you’re good at this…”He fucked Krishnansh’s mouth harder — hips snapping forward, balls slapping his chin. Krishnansh’s throat worked around him, gagging, tears streaming, but he didn’t pull away.He couldn’t.Not anymore.Rohan’s grip tightened in his hair. “Swallow it all,” he growled.He thrust deep one last time and came — hot, thick ropes shooting straight down Krishnansh’s throat. Krishnansh choked, swallowing frantically, some spilling from the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin.When it was over, Rohan pulled out slowly, cock still half-hard, glistening with spit.Krishnansh stayed on his knees, gasping, tears falling, face flushed and messy.Rohan looked down at him for a long moment.“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said quietly. “But if you ever need help… I’m here.”He pulled his shorts up, turned, and walked out of the shower room without another word.Krishnansh stayed on the floor, alone, tasting Rohan in his mouth, feeling the weight of everything he had lost.He didn’t know how to get up.He didn’t know how to go home.
Arham called every 7–12 days.Never a warning. Never a pattern. Just a simple text:“Tonight. 9 PM. Same place. Tight clothes. No underwear.”And Krishnansh went.Every single time.He told Prerna he had late sponsor meetings, emergency team strategy sessions, night shoots for a new brand deal, gym consultations. She believed him — or at least pretended to. She stopped asking questions after the third or fourth time he came home smelling faintly of lube and other men’s cologne. She just kissed him deeper those nights, fucked him harder, as if trying to reclaim every inch of him that had been taken away.At Arham’s flat (or sometimes rented hotel suites, private gym locker rooms after hours, even once in the back of a tinted van parked near the practice ground), the routine was always the same.Strip.
Kneel.
Smile for the camera.
Beg like he wants it.
Let whoever was there — fans, buyers, sometimes just Arham and one or two trusted “assistants” — use his mouth, his ass, his pecs, his cock.
Cum as many times as they demanded.
Eat it if they told him to.
Thank them afterward.Sometimes it was three loads.
Sometimes six.
Once it was fourteen in a single five-hour session — he passed out twice, woke up to cold water on his face and a cock already pushing back inside him.Rohan knew.After that first forced blowjob in the shower room, Rohan never asked for explanations again. He just started taking what he wanted.Locker room after practice.
Back seat of the team van during away matches.
His apartment when his girlfriend was out of town.Rohan never kissed him. Never sucked him. Never let Krishnansh top.
He just pulled his shorts down, grabbed Krishnansh’s hair, and fucked his mouth until he gagged and swallowed.
Then flipped him over a bench, lubed him roughly with spit, and fucked his ass until he cried out.
Always silent.
Always rough.
Always ending with Rohan pulling out and cumming across Krishnansh’s back or face.Afterward Rohan would zip up, pat Krishnansh’s cheek almost tenderly, and say the same thing every time:“Don’t tell anyone. And don’t stop smiling on the field.”Krishnansh never told anyone.He kept smiling in every reel.
Kept flexing those pecs.
Kept running sprints like nothing was wrong.Prerna never knew.She never saw the bruises on his hips from being gripped too hard.
Never noticed the way he flinched when someone slapped his ass playfully during practice.
Never heard the quiet sobs he muffled into his pillow when he came home at 2 AM smelling like strangers.She just saw her boyfriend — the strong, beautiful, successful Krishnansh Arora — who loved her, fucked her, held her, made her feel safe.And he did love her.That was the cruelest part.He still loved her more than anything.Every time he fucked her — gentle or rough — he did it with everything he had left.
Every time she came in his arms, he felt like maybe he could still be good.
Maybe he could still deserve her.But every time Arham texted, every time Rohan cornered him in the locker room, every time he had to drop to his knees for another masked fan, another buyer, another “assistant”, he felt another piece of himself disappear.He kept the secret.He kept the smile.He kept the reels going.He kept fucking Prerna like she was the only thing keeping him alive.And he kept going to Arham whenever summoned.Because the videos were still there.Because freedom had a price.
And he was still paying it.
Every single day.
Forever.
(End)
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