"Rohan, beta, (beta means son in hindi an Indian language) turn that music down!" Arjun shouted from the bathroom , his voice barely rising above the bass thumping through Rohan’s bedroom walls. The humid Mumbai air clung to everything, making even the smallest noise feel louder.
Rohan sighed and paused the song, tossing his phone onto the bed. Pharmacy textbooks lay scattered across his desk, half-open and forgotten. He wasn’t in the mood to study—not when his thoughts kept drifting to the guys in his college, the way they laughed and touched each other casually. He knew his dad would never understand. Arjun was the kind of man who talked about cricket and marriages, not about boys who liked boys.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above Rohan, doing little to cut through the stickiness of the afternoon. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, the thin fabric of his vest clinging to his chest. His mom had left for her sister’s place in Pune yesterday, leaving just him and his dad in the cramped flat—not that she’d notice much even if she were here. Between her shifts at the hospital and her endless temple visits, she barely had time to ask him about his day, let alone his secrets.
Down the hall, the sound of the shower running cut off abruptly, and Rohan heard the bathroom door creak open. His dad, Arjun, stepped out, the worn wooden floorboards groaning under his weight. Even through the half-open bedroom door, Rohan could see the thick mat of dark hair covering his father's broad chest, glistening with leftover droplets of water. At 45, Arjun's body was still hard—years of lifting weights and training clients at the local gym had carved his frame into something intimidating. His shoulders were wide enough to fill a doorway, and the damp towel slung low around his waist barely hid the powerful curve of his hips.
Rohan couldn’t help but stare, his throat going dry as his eyes traced the thick, dark trail of hair leading down his father’s stomach. It disappeared beneath the towel, but not before he caught the deep dip of Arjun’s navel, shadowed and inviting. His dad’s beard was trimmed short, the salt-and-pepper strands catching the light as he ran a hand through it, shaking off the last droplets of water. When Arjun grinned at something—probably some stupid joke in his head—his teeth flashed white, contrasting against his sun-darkened skin. Rohan’s pulse kicked up. He’d seen his dad like this a hundred times, but today, the heat in the air made everything feel… different.
Arjun paused in the hallway, catching Rohan's lingering stare through the half-open door. A slow smirk spread across his face as he flexed his biceps casually, the muscles bulging under his damp skin. "What, beta? Your dad looking hot, huh?" he teased, his deep voice rough with amusement.
Rohan's cheeks burned, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. His father stepped into the room, the towel riding even lower on his hips as he moved. The scent of soap and sweat clung to him, mixing with the humid air. Arjun playfully flexed again, this time turning slightly to show off the thick curve of his back. "All those years in the gym paying off, na?" he laughed, running a hand down his own chest, fingers brushing over a nipple.
As Arjun raised his arms to stretch, Rohan's breath hitched—his dad's armpit was fully exposed, a dark, dense bush curling damp with sweat.
The thick hair glistened under the ceiling fan's weak light, strands clinging together in a way that made Rohan's throat go dry. He could smell the musky tang of his father's sweat mixed with soap, raw and masculine. His gaze locked onto the shadowed hollow beneath Arjun's raised arm, the way the hair matted against flushed skin. Rohan's fingers twitched against his thigh, itching to touch.
.
A rush of heat flooded his groin so suddenly it made his shorts tighten. He shifted uncomfortably, but there was no hiding the stiff tent pressing against the thin fabric. His pulse hammered in his ears—this had never happened before, not with his dad standing right there, half-naked and grinning., The towel slipped another inch, revealing the top of his thick pubic curls, black as the hair under his arms.
"Enough for today, son," Arjun chuckled, unaware of Rohan's predicament. He ruffled his own wet hair, droplets flying. "Lemme finish making lunch for us." His fingers lingered near the towel knot, adjusting it absently—Rohan watched, hypnotized, as his father's thick fingers brushed the bare skin just above his thigh. "You have a surprise from my side too," Arjun added with a wink. "See yah."
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind his father, Rohan exhaled sharply—as if he'd been holding his breath underwater. His fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the bed, nails digging into the cheap polyester sheets. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this. Not with *him*.
A bead of sweat rolled down Rohan's temple as his mind replayed the last few minutes—the way his father's damp chest hair had curled tight against his skin, the thick vein running down his bicep when he flexed, the careless way the towel had dipped lower… Rohan's shorts strained painfully. He'd gotten hard before, sure, but never this fast, never this *hot*, and certainly never because of his *dad*. The realization punched through him like a fist to the gut. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but the images wouldn't fade—Arjun's smirk, his hairy pits glistening, that fucking *towel*—
College had been easier. Safer. Crushing on his roommate's older brother or staring too long at his friend's uncle when he picked them up after lectures—those were harmless, distant attractions. Normal, even. But this? The way his pulse roared in his ears right now, the sticky heat between his thighs—this wasn't just some passing fantasy. His father's scent still clung to the air, masculine and musky, and Rohan's dick twitched in response.
"Rohan! Lunch!" Arjun's voice boomed from the kitchen, accompanied by the clatter of plates. Rohan flinched, pressing his knees together. He couldn't walk out there like this, tented and trembling. He grabbed a pillow and jammed it onto his lap, willing the throbbing ache to subside. But closing his eyes only made it worse—now he saw his father's thick fingers adjusting that damn towel, the way his hips had swayed slightly as he left the room.
The smell of garlic and cumin drifted down the hall, mixing with the lingering scent of his father's sweat still clinging to Rohan's bedsheets. He inhaled sharply—his dad always cooked extra spicy when he was in a good mood. Rohan's stomach growled even as his cock twitched. Fuck. How was he supposed to sit across the table now? Every time Arjun leaned forward to serve more curry, his vest would ride up, showing that trail of hair leading down... Rohan bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.
"Beta, thanda ho jayega!" Arjun called again, tapping his spoon against a metal dish impatiently. The sound jolted Rohan into motion. He grabbed the pillow tighter against his lap and shuffled sideways off the bed, keeping his thighs pressed together. The mirror above his dresser caught his reflection—flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to his forehead, eyes too wide. He looked guilty. He *was* guilty.
The plate of chicken curry and steaming rice sat half-eaten in front of Rohan, his fork pushing the food around more than eating it. Every time his dad leaned forward to scoop more onto his own plate, the loose neckline of Arjun's vest gaped, revealing that thick trail of hair Rohan couldn't stop staring at. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look at his own food instead. "Finish properly, beta," Arjun said around a mouthful of rice, nudging Rohan's elbow with his own. "Growing boys need protein." The casual touch burned like a brand.
Rohan shoved the last few bites into his mouth too fast, barely tasting the spices. "Done," he mumbled, standing abruptly. His chair screeched against the tile. Arjun frowned up at him, a drop of curry clinging to his beard. "So fast? You feeling okay?" Rohan nodded stiffly, already backing toward the hallway. "Just... homework." He turned before his dad could reply, his pulse hammering in his throat as he fled to his room. Behind him, he heard Arjun chuckle. "Kids these days," his dad muttered, the sound muffled by another mouthful of food.
The moment Rohan slammed his bedroom door shut, his knees gave out. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the mattress as if it could anchor him. The ceiling fan spun uselessly above, doing nothing to cool the feverish heat crawling up his neck. He could still smell his father’s sweat lingering in the air—musky and thick, mixed with the sharp tang of the curry from lunch. His throat tightened.
Rohan’s shorts strained against his cock, the fabric damp with pre-cum where it pressed against the swollen head. He gritted his teeth, refusing to touch himself even as his hips twitched involuntarily. The image of his father’s hairy pits glistening under the fanlight burned behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Worse—the way Arjun had smirked, like he *knew*, like he was teasing him on purpose. But all knows arjun has no idea about his son's liking towards boys he is not straight......
A desperate whine escaped Rohan’s throat as his fingers finally, *finally* slid beneath the waistband of his shorts. The moment his fingertips brushed his leaking tip, his whole body jerked—too much, too fast. He needed more. Needed to *see*. With trembling hands, he yanked his shorts down just enough to free his aching dick, the cool air a shock against his flushed skin. His fist closed around himself with a wet sound, already slick with pre-cum.
Rohan crept down the hallway on bare feet, heart hammering so loud he was sure his dad could hear it through the thin walls. The door to Arjun's bedroom stood slightly ajar, the dim glow of the ceiling light spilling onto the scuffed floor tiles. He paused outside, listening—just the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the distant honking of Mumbai traffic twelve floors below. Swallowing hard, he nudged the door open wider with his elbow. Opened the door but his dad is not there...
His breath caught. The bed was empty, sheets rumpled but cool—Arjun hadn't been there for a while. Rohan's pulse jumped as he turned toward the living room. And then he saw him.
.
Arjun was sprawled across the sagging hall sofa, one muscular arm thrown over his face, mouth slightly open in deep sleep. His vest had ridden up on one side, exposing the full, dense bush of his left armpit—thick black curls matted with sweat, the hollow beneath glistening in the afternoon heat. Rohan's mouth watered. His father's chest rose and fell slowly, each breath making the wiry hairs twitch. The scent hit him first—raw musk, salt, the faint spice of old deodorant clinging to damp skin.
Rohan's fingers twitched at his sides as he stared at his sleeping father—the way Arjun's vest had twisted up, exposing more skin than usual, the slow rise and fall of his hairy chest, the thick, dark trail leading down to where his shorts bunched loosely at the hips. His cock throbbed violently, precum dripping onto the floor in thick, sticky strings. He couldn't stop himself anymore—his hand flew to his aching dick, gripping it tight as his hips bucked forward helplessly. The sight of his dad's armpit, damp and matted with curls, sent electric jolts down his spine. His strokes turned frantic, rough, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his balls tightened. "Papa—" The word slipped out unbidden, choked with need, just as his orgasm ripped through him. Hot ropes of cum shot across the floor, splattering near Arjun's bare feet, his toes twitching slightly in sleep. Rohan bit his lip hard to stifle a moan, his thighs trembling as the last pulses spilled over his fingers.
.
Panting, he wiped his sticky hand on his shorts, his heartbeat still wild in his ears. Shame prickled at the edges of his high—he'd just jerked off staring at his sleeping father like some creep. But the scent of Arjun's sweat still clung to the air, musky and thick, and Rohan's spent cock twitched weakly in response. He needed to clean up before his dad woke. With shaking legs, he fetched a rag from the kitchen, wetting it under the tap as quietly as possible. The water was warm from the pipes, doing little to wash away the evidence splattered near Arjun's bare feet. His father snorted in his sleep, shifting slightly, and Rohan froze—but Arjun just rolled onto his side, his vest riding up further to expose the full curve of his hairy back. Rohan's throat tightened as he swiped the rag quickly over the tiles, his own cum mixing with the dampness.
The walk back to his room felt endless, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a gunshot. He didn't dare look back at the sofa, where his father's deep snores now rumbled through the apartment. His shorts were still damp with sweat and cum, sticking uncomfortably to his thighs as he shut his bedroom door behind him with a soft click. The ceiling fan spun lazily above his bed, useless against the heat still clinging to his skin. Rohan peeled off his soiled clothes with clumsy fingers, tossing them into the laundry basket before collapsing onto the mattress face-first. The sheets smelled like him—like shame, like sweat, like something he couldn't name. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of Arjun's sleeping form burned behind his eyelids—the way his chest had risen and fallen, the thick thatch of armpit hair glistening—
A sharp knock on his door jolted Rohan awake. "Beta, come out na, dinner's ready!" Arjun's voice boomed through the wood, too loud, too close. Rohan's stomach twisted—he hadn't meant to fall asleep, hadn't meant to dream of his father's rough hands pinning him against the mattress, that musky sweat dripping onto his tongue— "Rohan?" The doorknob rattled. "You alive in there?"
Rohan scrambled up, sheets tangling around his bare legs. "Yeah, yeah—coming!" He grabbed the first shirt he found—one of Arjun's old gym tees, the fabric still faintly smelling of his father's deodorant—and yanked it over his head as he stumbled to the door.
The moment he opened it, Arjun's broad frame filled the doorway, his beard freshly trimmed and his thick arms crossed over his chest. The vest he wore clung to his damp skin—he must have just showered again—and Rohan's gaze dropped instinctively to the dark trail of hair peeking above the waistband of his shorts. "Finally," Arjun huffed, stepping aside to let Rohan pass. "I made your favorite—prawn masala. Extra spicy, just how you like it." His fingers brushed Rohan's lower back as he guided him toward the kitchen, the touch burning through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt.
.
The table was already set, steaming plates of rice and prawns glistening under the flickering kitchen light. Arjun sat down with a grunt, his thighs spreading wide under the table, knees bumping against Rohan's as he reached for the water jug. "So," he said around a mouthful of food, grinning as spicy oil dripped down his chin. "I told you na, I have a surprise for you." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the dark hairs on his wrist catching Rohan's eye. "Do you want to know about that?"
Rohan nodded, swallowing hard. His father's knee pressed firmly against his own now, warm and solid through the thin fabric of his shorts. Arjun leaned in closer, the scent of his spicy dinner mixing with the musk of his freshly showered skin. "Your grand dad is coming tomorrow," he announced, squeezing Rohan's thigh suddenly. "Vimal. He's staying for two weeks."
Rohan choked on his water. His grandfather—the towering, broad-shouldered man who'd raised Arjun with iron fists and louder laughter—was coming *here*? To their tiny Mumbai flat? His pulse jumped as images flooded his mind—Vimal's thick mustache twitching when he scolded them as kids, his huge hands lifting weights in their old backyard, the way his vest sleeves strained around his biceps...
.
Arjun chuckled, mistaking Rohan's silence for excitement. "Haan, baap is bringing all his army stories and his *special* whiskey," he said, winking as he scooped more prawns onto Rohan's plate. The mention of whiskey made Rohan's throat tighten—Vimal always got handsy when drunk, clapping backs too hard, ruffling hair too long. Last summer, he'd hugged Rohan for a full minute, his barrel chest crushing him against that thick belly, the wiry gray hairs of his chest scratching through his thin shirt...
The doorbell rang at exactly 11 AM the next morning, sharp and impatient—just like Vimal himself. Rohan's fingers trembled as he unlatched the chain, the metal cold against his damp palms. The door swung open, and there he stood: Colonel Vimal Rathod (Retired), all 6'7" of him blocking the hallway light, his thick mustache bristling over a grin. The man was a mountain—broad shoulders straining the seams of his crisp white kurta, the buttons pulling taut over his slightly soft middle. Age had softened his military-hardened body just enough to give him a proper dadbod, the kind that made chairs groan when he sat. His beard, more salt than pepper now, couldn't hide the deep dimple in his chin—or the way his belly button dipped darkly beneath the thin fabric, just like Arjun's.
l.
Rohan's throat went dry. Up close, Vimal's chest hair spilled out from his half-unbuttoned collar, wiry gray curls mingling with stubborn black ones. The scent of old leather and sweat rolled off him in waves, undercut by the sharp sting of his signature cologne—something from the 80s that clung to his skin like a second uniform. "Chhotu!" Vimal boomed, yanking Rohan into a crushing hug before he could react. The man's belly pressed warm and solid against him, that deep navel Rohan had inherited pressing through the thin fabric of his grandfather's kurta.
Rohan gasped as Vimal suddenly grabbed his face between thick, calloused palms—his thumbs rough against the smoothness of Rohan's cheeks. "Look at you," Vimal murmured, his dark eyes scanning Rohan's features with unnerving intensity. The mustache tickled Rohan's skin as Vimal leaned closer. "All grown up now." Before Rohan could blink, Vimal planted a wet, bristly kiss on his left cheek—then the right—the scratch of his beard lingering long after he pulled away. Rohan's skin burned where his grandfather's lips had touched, the scent of mint and whiskey thick on his breath.
Behind them, Arjun laughed loudly. "Papa, (dad)you'll smother him!" He clapped Rohan on the back—hard—making him stumble forward into Vimal's chest again. The older man didn't let go. Instead, Vimal's massive hands slid down Rohan's back, fingers splaying wide over his spine as he held him there. Rohan could feel every ridge of his grandfather's thick fingers through his thin t-shirt, the heat of those palms searing into his skin.
Vimal chuckled, the vibration rumbling through Rohan's entire body where they touched. His breath hitched—this close, he could smell the musk beneath his grandfather's cologne, something earthy and male that made his pulse spike. The wiry gray chest hairs tickled his nose through the open collar of Vimal's kurta, the scent of old sweat and leather clinging to them. Rohan's knees wobbled. His cock twitched violently in his shorts, already half-hard from the overwhelming press of Vimal's body against his own.
Then Arjun stepped forward with a grin, arms wide. "Dad!" he laughed, wrapping his thick arms around both of them. Rohan gasped as he was suddenly crushed between two massive bodies—his father's damp heat against his back, his grandfather's solid warmth in front. The contrast was dizzying; Arjun's smooth, hairless chest pressed tight against Rohan's shoulders while Vimal's wiry gray curls scratched his collarbones. Their combined scents flooded his nose—Arjun's gym sweat and coconut oil, Vimal's whiskey breath and old-man musk—and Rohan's cock throbbed painfully against his grandfather's thigh.
Vimal finally broke the embrace with a hearty slap to Rohan's back—so hard it sent him stumbling sideways into the dining table. "Go, beta, freshen up," Arjun chuckled, already pulling out chairs as Vimal dropped his army duffel with a thud. Rohan didn't need telling twice. He fled down the hallway, their booming laughter following him—Vimal's deep baritone mingling with Arjun's teasing tone as they settled at the table.
The moment Rohan's bedroom door clicked shut, he pressed his forehead against the cool wood, breathing hard. His t-shirt clung to his back where Vimal's sweat had soaked through the fabric. He could still feel the imprint of those rough palms spanning his spine, the scratch of chest hair against his collarbones. Shakily, he peeled off the damp shirt, tossing it onto the bed just as muffled voices carried through the wall—Vimal's rumbling "Arre, this whiskey is shit, beta," followed by Arjun's playful defense of his liquor cabinet.
Rohan slumped onto his mattress, hands trembling as they hovered over his aching erection. What the fuck was happening to me? Yesterday, it was dad's glistening pits and that damn slipping towel. Today? *grandfather's* thick belly pressed against me, and I felt turn on ... This is very new .those huge hands gripping his face, the wet scratch of his mustache against Rohan's cheeks. He groaned softly, fingers finally dipping beneath his waistband. His cock pulsed angrily at the memory—Vimal's wiry chest hair spilling from that half-buttoned kurta, the whiskey-and-mint heat of his breath, the way his belly had felt so *solid* when Rohan stumbled into him.
From the living room, his grandfather's booming laugh rattled the walls. "Arre, beta, bring some ice!" Vimal's voice was all gravel and command, just like when Rohan was small and those same hands would lift him onto broad shoulders. Except now Rohan was imagining those same fingers pinning him against the mattress instead, that barrel chest smothering him with its weight. He bit his lip hard, hips bucking into his own grip. The scent of Vimal's old-man cologne still clung to Rohan's skin where he'd been kissed—scratchy and musky, nothing like the coconut oil his dad used.
The apartment door slammed—Arjun leaving for his evening gym shift—and Rohan jolted upright. He scrambled into fresh shorts, his pulse hammering as he listened to Vimal rummage through their tiny kitchen. Bottles clinked. Ice cracked. By the time Rohan shuffled out, Vimal had already claimed the entire sofa, his bulk spilling over both armrests, bare feet propped on the coffee table. The TV blared some old war movie, gunfire echoing as Vimal took a swig straight from the whiskey bottle. "Come, beta," he slurred, patting the sliver of cushion left beside him. "Sit."
Rohan edged onto the sofa, thighs pressing together. Vimal's knee bumped his—hot, solid—the wiry hair there catching on Rohan's thin pajamas. The whiskey bottle glistened in Vimal's grip as he offered it. "Drink," he commanded, breath thick with alcohol. Rohan hesitated—then took a sip, coughing as fire burned down his throat. Vimal laughed, deep and rumbling, his belly shaking beneath the stretched tshirt.His hand—massive, calloused—clapped Rohan's thigh and *stayed* there. "Weak," Vimal teased, thumb rubbing circles through the fabric. Rohan's pulse jumped.
The black-and-white war movie flickered on the screen, gunfire and dramatic music filling the small living room. Vimal chuckled at some battlefield tactic, his whiskey-loosened belly jiggling slightly under his stretched t-shirt. Rohan's fingers twitched where they rested on his own thigh—then, feigning playful teasing, he suddenly tugged up the hem of Vimal's shirt, grandpa look at this big belly!" he giggled, voice pitched higher to mask his shaking. His index finger plunged straight into the deep, warm hollow of Vimal's navel before the older man could react—sinking in to the second knuckle with shocking ease. The skin there was softer , the walls of that indent clinging snugly to his finger as he began slow, deliberate circles. On screen, soldiers charged across a muddy trench; Rohan's pulse thundered louder than the movie's explosions.
Vimal's breath hitched—just once—before he threw his head back with a booming laugh, the wiry gray hairs of his belly shaking. "Arre, Chhotu!" he slurred, whiskey sloshing dangerously in the bottle still gripped in one hand. His other hand—thick-fingered, heavy—came down to ruffle Rohan's hair roughly. "You used to do this when you were small, no? Always poking your tiny fingers into Papa's belly button like some naughty kitten." The warmth of Vimal's palm lingered on Rohan's scalp as he chuckled, mustache twitching. "But now?" His voice dropped, whiskey-rough and teasing. "What kind of fun are you getting from this, boy?"
Rohan's throat tightened at the question, but he forced a grin—wide, innocent—as he twisted his finger deeper into that warm hollow. "I just love making you laugh, Grandpa," he lied, voice light even as his pulse hammered against his ribs. His fingertip curled deliberately against the sensitive inner walls of Vimal's navel, pressing hard enough to make the older man's breath hitch. "Remember how you used to tickle me until I cried? Payback time!" He punctuated it with another sharp jab inward, relishing the way Vimal's belly muscles clenched reflexively around his knuckle.
Vimal's laughter rumbled through the sofa, whiskey-slurred and loud, his thick fingers tightening in Rohan's hair. "Cheeky bastard," he growled, but there was no real anger—just that rough affection that always made Rohan's stomach flip. The movie's explosions faded into white noise as Vimal shifted, his thigh pressing hotter against Rohan's, the wiry hairs catching on thin pajama fabric. "You always were too clever for your own—
Rohan barely registered when his eyelids grew heavy—the heat of Vimal's body beside him, the rhythmic scratch of his grandfather's thumb against his scalp, the musk of whiskey and old-man sweat wrapping around him like a blanket. His last conscious thought was the wet sound of Vimal taking another swig from the bottle, the glass clinking against his ring.
The ringing phone sliced through Rohan's sleep like a knife. He jolted upright, disoriented, his cheek sticky where it had been pressed against Vimal's shoulder. The TV now showed static snow, the war movie long over. Vimal snored beside him, his belly rising and falling steadily, rohan ignored that.. shirt rucked up to expose that deep navel Rohan's finger had been buried in earlier. The whiskey bottle lay tipped over on the coffee table, dripping onto the floor in lazy drops.
Rohan stumbled toward the landline, his heart pounding—both from sleep and the lingering warmth of Vimal's body against his. The receiver felt cold in his sweaty palm. "H-hello?" His voice cracked.
.
"Beta, why you sound like you just ran marathon?" Arjun's laugh vibrated down the line, tinny yet familiar. Gym noises clanged behind him—weights dropping, locker doors slamming. "Papa passed out on sofa again, haan? That whiskey always knocks him out faster than my right hook."
Rohan's grip tightened on the receiver. His father's breathy chuckle sent heat crawling up his neck—that particular laugh Arjun only used when spotting someone at the gym, all low and throaty. "I—I thought you were coming home after your shift," Rohan managed, eyes darting to Vimal's sprawled form. The older man's tshirt had ridden up completely now, exposing the full swell of his belly, that deep navel glistening with sweat under the flickering TV light.
"Change of plans, beta." The line crackled as Arjun shifted, the murmur of male laughter swelling behind him. "Ran into the boys from weightlifting club—they're throwing a party at Deepak's place near Marine Lines. His new German supplements came in..." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "The *strong* ones, you know? So we're testing them tonight." A rough laugh. "Don't wait up—I'll crash there. And don't wake Papa, haan? That whiskey hits him like truck.
Rohan's throat clicked as he swallowed. The receiver grew slippery in his palm. "But—your work clothes—"
Arjun's snort crackled down the line. "Beta, who cares about dirty shirts when we're bench pressing till sunrise?" Gym laughter swelled behind him—deep, masculine chuckles that made Rohan's spine prickle. "Eat the leftover biryani, haan? And listen—" His voice dropped, roughened by whatever pre-workout powder he'd already swallowed. "Don't try moving Papa to bed. he is not going to wake up till morning just go eat and sleep in your room let him sleep there..
The dial tone buzzed harshly in Rohan's ear. He stared at the receiver for three full seconds before hanging up, his pulse thrumming at his temples. Slowly, he turned toward the sofa—toward the mountain of a man sprawled across it. Vimal's snores rattled the framed photos on the wall, his thick arms flung wide, one hairy thigh slipping off the cushion. The whiskey bottle lay empty near his bare feet, glistening under the TV's static glow. Rohan's breath hitched. His grandfather's shirt had ridden up completely now, exposing the full expanse of his belly—soft with age but still powerfully broad, the thick trail of graying hair leading down to where his shorts bunched low on his hips. That deep navel—the one Rohan's finger had been buried in earlier—glistened with sweat, puckered slightly from the night's heat.
Rohan's knees hit the carpet before his brain registered moving. The rough fibers scraped his shins as he crawled forward, drawn helplessly toward Vimal's sprawled form. His grandfather smelled of mably and musk now, the cologne faded to leave something earthier underneath. Rohan's fingers trembled as they hovered over Vimal's exposed belly—then, with a sharp inhale, he pressed his entire palm flat against that warm expanse. The skin was softer than he'd imagined, the wiry hairs tickling his knuckles as his hand slid lower, toward the waistband of Vimal's shorts. His pulse hammered so loudly he feared it would wake the old man. But Vimal only snorted, shifting slightly—his thigh flopping wider, granting Rohan access.
A sudden noise from the hallway snapped Rohan's attention away—the creak of their neighbor's door opening, the shuffle of slippers on the landing outside. His whole body froze, fingers hovering just above Vimal's waistband. Fuck. Anyone could walk past their open windows, glance through the sheer curtains and see—
Rohan scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table in his haste. The front door was still unlocked—had been since Vimal arrived—swinging slightly ajar in the humid Mumbai breeze. His bare feet slapped against the cool tile as he hurried down the hallway, every nerve buzzing with frantic energy. The door's metal latch felt cold under his trembling fingers as he shoved it shut, twisting the deadbolt with more force than necessary. Safe. Now no one would—
A wet snort from the sofa made him freeze mid-turn. Vimal had shifted onto his side, one beefy arm flopping over the back cushions, his belly now fully exposed where his shirt had twisted upward. The dim light caught the sweat-slicked trail of graying hair leading from his navel down beneath the waistband of his shorts. Rohan's mouth watered.
He moved like a thief—knees sinking silently into the carpet beside the sofa. Vimal's breath smelled of whiskey his parted lips glistening. Rohan's fingers curled around the hem of the stretched t-shirt, peeling it upward millimeter by millimeter, revealing inch after inch of weathered skin. The fabric caught momentarily under Vimal's armpit, damp with sweat, releasing with a soft *snap* that made Rohan's pulse spike. Then—bare. The full expanse of his grandfather's torso lay exposed: the thick pelt of graying chest hair, the heavy curve of his belly, those dusky brown nipples pebbled slightly from the ceiling fan's breeze.
Rohan's breath came in shallow gasps as he finally tugged the t-shirt free from Vimal's broad shoulders, the damp fabric peeling away with a whisper of cotton on sweat-slicked skin. His grandfather's chest rose and fell steadily beneath him, the wiry gray hairs glistening in the dim light. Rohan's tongue darted out to wet his lips—then, without thinking, he bent forward and dragged the flat of it over Vimal's left nipple, tasting salt and musk and the faint tang of old cologne. The nub hardened instantly under his mouth, and Rohan groaned, sinking his teeth into the fleshy areola with a hunger that shocked him.
Vimal stirred with a grunt—but didn't wake—his thick fingers twitching against the sofa cushion. Emboldened, Rohan crawled upward until their faces hovered inches apart, his knees bracketing Vimal's meaty thighs. Up close, his grandfather's military mustache was even more impressive—thick, silver-streaked, perfectly groomed despite the whiskey haze. The wiry hairs tickled Rohan's upper lip as he leaned closer, heart hammering against his ribs. He hesitated for only a second before pressing their mouths together.
.
Vimal's lips were chapped but warm, slack with sleep. Rohan licked tentatively along the seam of them, tasting whiskey . When he bit gently at the fuller bottom lip, Vimal exhaled sharply through his nose—a hot gust of whiskey breath that made Rohan moan. He slid a trembling hand into his grandfather's thick hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back. The mustache scratched deliciously against his chin as he deepened the kiss, tongue probing past those stained teeth.
Then—an impulse seized him. Rohan broke away, panting, and immediately latched onto Vimal's earlobe instead. The fleshy nub was thick between his teeth, warm and slightly salty. He sucked hard, relishing the way Vimal's breath hitched—then darted his tongue into the whorled cavern of his grandfather's ear. The taste was overwhelming: waxy, musky, decades of built-up oil and dust and cologne residue. Rohan groaned against the shell of Vimal's ear, his tongue thrusting deeper, lapping at the ridges with obscene wet sounds.
"You're so fucking sexy, Grandpa," Rohan panted between licks, the words tumbling out in a desperate whisper. His free hand roamed lower, kneading the soft swell of Vimal's belly. "I'm going to eat you completely today—every inch." He punctuated it with another deep thrust of his tongue into that hairy ear canal, the vibrations making Vimal twitch beneath him.
Rohan reluctantly pulled away from the ear—strings of saliva glistening between his lips and Vimal's lobe—and began trailing wet kisses down the side of his grandfather's neck. The skin there was leathery and sun-spotted, dotted with wiry silver hairs that caught between his teeth. He sucked hard just below Vimal's jawline, tasting sweat and salty manly essence, his fingers finding and pinching those thick brown nipples simultaneously. The dual stimulation made Vimal's breath hitch—a ragged inhale that wasn't quite a snore anymore.
Dropping lower, Rohan dragged his tongue through the thicket of gray chest hair, each wiry strand catching against his lips. The musk here was overwhelming—with the musk sweat and something hotter that only his granddad got deep into the skin. He nuzzled into the warm hollow between Vimal's pectorals, inhaling deeply as his hands kneaded the soft sides of his grandfather's belly. The flesh yielded beautifully under his fingers, dimpling slightly with each squeeze.
His mouth watered as he finally reached his destination—that deep, puckered navel he'd fingered earlier. Up close, it was even more mesmerizing—the skin slightly darker around the rim, the walls glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Rohan exhaled shakily, his breath ghosting over the damp curls surrounding it before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the very edge. The taste exploded across his tongue—salt and something earthy, uniquely *Vimal*—as he laved his tongue in slow, deliberate circles around the rim.
Then, without warning, he plunged two fingers straight into that warm hollow, burying them to the knuckle. The walls clenched tight around his digits, hot and silky, just like he'd imagined. Rohan groaned against his grandfather's belly, tongue following his fingers inside—laving at the inner folds with broad, wet strokes while his fingers pistoned ruthlessly. The navel stretched obscenely around his intrusion, the skin flushing pink from friction as spit dribbled down Vimal's sides in shiny trails.
Vimal's belly jumped under his mouth. A rough groan rumbled from his chest—half-asleep but unmistakably *responsive*. Aghhhhh. He curled his fingers deeper, scissoring them apart to stretch the tight ring of muscle wider. His tongue worked in tandem—lapping, sucking, drinking the musky salt of his grandfather's sweat pooled inside. The taste was intoxicating, primal. He could feel Vimal's abdominal muscles twitching beneath his lips, the older man's breathing growing ragged despite his drunken stupor.
Rohan's free hand trembled as it slid lower—over the crest of Vimal's belly, through the wiry thicket of silver hair—until his fingertips brushed elastic. The waistband of Vimal's pajamas sat low on his hips, already damp with sweat and precum. Rohan hooked his thumbs into the fabric on either side, hesitating only a moment before yanking downward in one sharp motion. The material resisted briefly—snagging around the thick swell of Vimal's hips—then gave way with a soft *rip* of stitching.
The sight punched the air from Rohan's lungs. His grandfather's cock stood at full mast—a thick, veined pillar of flesh that curved slightly upward, flushed deep red at the tip where beads of precum glistened. Bushy silver pubes framed it wildly, wiry curls matted with sweat. Rohan's mouth watered at the musky scent that wafted up—pure, unfiltered *man*, aged like whiskey and twice as intoxicating.
Vimal's pajama pooled around his thick thighs, the fabric damp with sweat and whiskey spills. Rohan's breath hitched as he took in the full sight—his grandfather's cock stood proudly at attention, perfect 9 inch thick, veined beast of flesh that looked even more impressive fully exposed. The shaft pulsed slightly, the broad head glistening with droplets of precum that trailed down the underside. Bushy gray pubes surrounded the base, wiry and unkempt, the scent of musk and aged sweat rising from them in waves. Rohan's tongue flicked out instinctively, his fingers trembling as they hovered just inches away.
With a shaky exhale, Rohan wrapped both hands around the thick shaft—his fingers barely meeting around the girth—and gave an experimental tug. The skin was velvet over steel, hot and slightly sticky with sweat. Vimal's hips jerked involuntarily at the contact, a rough groan rumbling from his chest as his cock twitched between Rohan's palms. Emboldened, Rohan tightened his grip and began stroking in earnest—long, slow pulls from root to tip, twisting his wrists on the upstroke just the way he liked it himself.
Precum dripped freely now, coating Rohan's fingers in slick strands that stretched obscenely as he worked. Vimal's breathing turned ragged—each exhale punctuated by a soft "hnngh" as his belly quivered beneath his stretched shirt. Rohan watched, mesmerized, as his grandfather's cock darkened to a deep, angry red, the veins standing out like ropes under flushed skin. He tightened his grip near the base, feeling the pulse of blood beneath his fingertips, then dragged upward in one torturously slow motion that made Vimal's toes curl against the sofa cushions.
Unable to resist any longer, Rohan leaned forward—his tongue darting out to catch the bead of precum trembling at the slit. The taste exploded across his tongue—bitter-salty, thick with musk—and he moaned against the swollen head, swirling his tongue around the ridge to collect every drop. Vimal twitched violently beneath him, a choked sound escaping his slack lips as Rohan sucked the tip between his teeth, teasing the sensitive slit with the pointed tip of his tongue.
Then, with a sharp inhale through his nose, Rohan took the entire length in one swift motion—burying his face in wiry gray pubes as Vimal's cock hit the back of his throat. His eyes watered instantly, gag reflex kicking in as the thick shaft stretched his lips obscenely wide. Saliva dripped down his chin, slicking the veined underside as he pulled back just enough to gasp—then plunged down again, nose crushed against musky skin.
Vimal's hips jerked off the sofa with a ragged "AUHHHH—" his calloused hands flying to fist in Rohan's hair. The younger man groaned around the cock stuffing his throat, relishing the scrape of nails against his scalp as he bobbed faster—sloppy, wet, no technique beyond pure hunger. Each retreat left the glistening shaft exposed for a split second before Rohan plunged down again, nostrils flaring against wiry silver pubes, throat muscles fluttering wildly around the invading girth.
"B-bas—" Vimal slurred, fingers tightening convulsively—but drunk strength was no match for Rohan's desperation. The old man's attempt to shove him away only made Rohan hollow his cheeks harder, sucking like a man starved as precum flooded his tongue. Vimal's thighs trembled violently, his bare feet scrambling for purchase on the coffee table as Rohan pinned his hips down with both hands—nails digging into fleshy love handles while his head pistoned relentlessly.
Then—inspiration struck. Rohan released one hand from Vimal's waist, darting upward to pinch his grandfather's left nipple between thumb and forefinger—twisting viciously at the same moment he swallowed around the cockhead. The reaction was instantaneous: Vimal's entire body arched off the sofa with a guttural "AUHHHH—WHO—WHO ARE YOU—LEAVE ME—AHHH FUCK—" His hands flew to Rohan's head, not to push away but to clutch desperately at his hair, hips bucking wildly as spit and precum splattered across his own belly.
Rohan pulled off with an obscene *pop*, panting as he watched Vimal's cock twitch violently—still rock-hard despite his grandfather's bleary confusion. The old man's mustache twitched as his head lolled sideways, whiskey-glazed eyes barely focusing on Rohan's face before slipping shut again with another slurred groan. Drunk or not, his body knew what it wanted—his thighs falling open wider as if inviting Rohan back down between them.
That thick, musky scent hit Rohan first—raw and unfiltered where Vimal's pajamas had been peeled away. His grandfather's thighs splayed wider in sleep, revealing what no woman had ever touched: a tight pucker nestled between wiry silver curls, still virgin-pink despite the man's age. The sight punched the air from Rohan's lungs. Straight men were such wasted opportunities—all that untouched territory just waiting to be claimed.
Drool slicked Rohan's chin as he dragged his tongue upward from Vimal's balls, following the thick seam of his perineum until his nose bumped against that forbidden ring. The musk here was overwhelming—decades of sweat and neglect concentrated into one potent patch of skin. Rohan inhaled greedily, tongue darting out to trace the crinkled edges, tasting salt and something darker. The muscle twitched under his lips, clenching instinctively as he blew a warm breath across it.
Vimal's entire body jerked violently when Rohan's tongue breached him—a ragged "HEY!" tearing from his whiskey-slack lips as his hands scrambled for purchase on the sofa cushions. His grandfather's thighs clamped around Rohan's head instinctively, but the younger man only buried deeper, flattening his tongue against the quivering pucker with obscene wetness. "YOU BITCH—DON'T—AHHHHH—" Vimal's protest dissolved into a shuddering moan as Rohan's nose pressed insistently against his balls, the dual sensation of warm breath and slick tongue-tip circling his rim short-circuiting his drunken resistance.
Rohan groaned against Vimal's hole, the vibration making his grandfather's toes curl against the coffee table. He laved broad stripes over the tight ring—now glistening with his spit—before plunging two fingers into his own mouth to coat them thoroughly. The moment his slick fingertips returned to Vimal's entrance, the old man's hips bucked wildly—but Rohan pinned him down with an iron grip on his hairy thigh while simultaneously swallowing his cock to the root.
The stretch was obscene—Vimal's rim sucking hungrily at his fingers while his throat convulsed around the thick shaft. Rohan scissored his digits ruthlessly, relishing the way his grandfather's muscles fluttered around the intrusion, tighter than any virgin boy he'd ever taken. Above him, Vimal's protests dissolved into slurred Punjabi curses—his hands alternately pushing at Rohan's head and fisting in his hair as pleasure overrode drunken outrage.
Rohan could feel it building—the way Vimal’s thighs trembled under his palms, the cock in his throat pulsing hotter with each ragged breath his grandfather took. The old man’s hips jerked erratically, no longer trying to shove him away but fucking upward into the wet heat of Rohan’s mouth with desperate, drunken thrusts. A thick vein along the underside throbbed against Rohan’s tongue, the taste of precum flooding his senses as Vimal’s balls drew up tight against his chin.
“Nnngh—FUCK—fucking—stop—ahhh GOD—” Vimal’s slurred curses dissolved into a guttural moan as Rohan hollowed his cheeks, sucking viciously while his fingers worked deeper into that clenching heat. The moment Vimal’s back arched off the sofa, Rohan knew—his grandfather was right there, teetering on the edge, his entire body tensing like a bowstring. Then, with a choked cry, Vimal came, his cock jerking violently as the first thick spurt hit the back of Rohan’s throat.
The taste was overwhelming—bitter-salt, muskier than he’d imagined, laced with whiskey and something primal. Rohan swallowed greedily, throat working around the pulsing shaft as Vimal’s hips bucked erratically, pumping rope after rope of cum into his waiting mouth. Some spilled past his lips, dripping down his chin in thick white strands, but Rohan kept sucking, milking every last drop until Vimal’s thighs trembled uncontrollably.
Vimal’s hands fisted in Rohan’s hair, pulling hard enough to sting, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his orgasm ripped through him. “F-fuck—fucking—ahhhh—” His voice cracked, slurred with alcohol and pleasure, hips jerking weakly as Rohan licked the oversensitive head, savoring the final twitches. The cum was thick, coating Rohan’s tongue like warm honey, the bitterness mingling with the salt of sweat and the lingering burn of whiskey. He swallowed again, lips sealed tight around the softening cock, refusing to waste a drop.
Slowly, reluctantly, Rohan pulled back, his fingers still buried deep inside his grandfather’s ass. Vimal’s hole fluttered around his digits, hot and slick with sweat and saliva, clenching rhythmically as aftershocks rolled through him. Rohan twisted his fingers experimentally, dragging a groan from Vimal’s throat—half-protest, half-pleasure. The old man’s thighs trembled against his shoulders, still spread wide, his belly rising and falling rapidly . Rohan watched, mesmerized, as a bead of sweat rolled down the crease of Vimal’s hip, vanishing into the wiry gray curls.
The kitchen was only a few steps away. Rohan hesitated, fingers still hooked inside his grandfather, reluctant to pull out—as if Vimal might snap shut the moment he withdrew. But the thought of pushing in dry made him wince. With one last slow scissor of his fingers, he finally slipped free, earning a shuddering gasp from Vimal. The old man’s hole gaped slightly, pink and glistening, already missing the intrusion.
Oil. Something slick. Rohan’s bare feet slapped against the tiles as he rushed to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets with frantic urgency. His fingers closed around a half-empty bottle of coconut oil—the same stuff Vimal massaged into his joints after baths. Perfect. He sprinted back, nearly slipping in his own precum puddled on the floor.
Vimal lay exactly as he’d left him—sprawled drunk and wrecked, cock still glistening with spit and cum, thighs spread obscenely wide. His hole pulsed visibly, clenching around nothing, the pink pucker flushed darker from Rohan’s fingers. Without hesitation, Rohan popped the bottle cap with his teeth and poured a thick stream directly onto that twitching entrance. The oil pooled in Vimal’s crease, dripping down his taint in slow, shiny rivulets. Rohan smeared it with two fingers, working the slickness into the wrinkled skin until it shone.
His own cock throbbed violently as he oiled himself next—fisting his length with rough, hurried strokes, coating every inch until his hand slid effortlessly. Precum mixed with the coconut oil, making his grip slicker, hotter. Vimal groaned when Rohan pressed the blunt head against his loosened rim, his drunken body instinctively resisting for half a second before yielding. Rohan didn’t stop—didn’t *let* him stop—shoving forward in one brutal thrust that buried him halfway to the hilt. The stretch was obscene, Vimal’s body swallowing him greedily, the old man’s hole clamping down like a vice as his back arched off the sofa with a choked “AAHHH—FUCKING—STOP—”.
Then—knocking. Sharp. Rapid.
Rohan froze mid-thrust, his cock buried halfway inside Vimal's tight heat, the old man's hole still spasming around him. The knocking came again—sharp, insistent—followed by Arjun's voice cutting through the haze of lust: "Rohan? Open the door, beta."
Vimal's whiskey-glazed eyes flew open, suddenly alert with panic. His meaty hands scrabbled at Rohan's hips, fingernails digging into bare skin as he tried to shove the younger man off. "Get—get OFF—" he slurred, voice hoarse from screaming, mustache quivering with outrage. But Rohan couldn't move—couldn't breathe—his entire world narrowed to the impossible tightness squeezing his cock and his father's impatient footsteps shifting outside.
Arjun knocked louder. "Rohan? Why is this door locked?" The knob rattled violently, sending a fresh wave of terror through Rohan's spine. With a wet squelch, he ripped himself free from Vimal's clenching hole—both of them gasping at the sudden emptiness—only for his neglected cock to twitch violently in the humid air. Precome strung obscenely between his tip and Vimal's still-gaping pucker, stretching thin before snapping onto his grandfather's twitching rim.
No time. No fucking time. Rohan grabbed his shaft with a slick hand and pumped frantically—three rough strokes while pinching Vimal's left nipple between his teeth. The old man's back arched beautifully, his hole flexing in rhythmic pulses that pushed out globs of oil and spit. "You—filthy—AUHHH—" Vimal's protest turned to a shuddering moan as Rohan twisted the nipple harder, his hips jerking forward involuntarily—cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum splattered across Vimal's used hole and quivering asscheeks.
The first shot hit dead-center—white streaks painting the wrinkled pucker before dripping downward in glossy strands. Rohan gasped, shaking his dick violently to spray the rest across Vimal's taint and thighs, marking him in sticky stripes. His grandfather's body twitched with each hot splash, drunken mumbles dissolving into Punjabi bad words as cum pooled in the crease of his ass.
Rohan stuffed himself back into his briefs with trembling hands, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his oversensitive cock. Vimal was already snoring again—mouth slack, mustache twitching with each whiskey-thick exhale. The blanket lay crumpled at their feet; Rohan snatched it up with one hand while wiping cum from his grandfather's hole with the other, smearing the mess hastily across Vimal's hairy thigh before yanking the blanket over his hips.
The knocking turned thunderous. "ROHAN!" Arjun's voice boomed through the front door. Rohan staggered backward, nearly tripping over Vimal's discarded pajama bottoms as he scrambled for the lock. His fingers slipped twice on the slick bolt before it finally clicked open—just as Arjun's shoulder connected with the wood. The door flew inward, sending Rohan stumbling into the shoe stand .
Arjun stood framed in the doorway—sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his torso, biceps straining against the damp fabric. His nostrils flared at the thick musk hanging in the air—whiskey, sweat, something sharper underneath. "What happened to you, beta?" His voice dripped with exhaustion and suspicion as he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. "I'm standing here knocking over ten minutes."
Rohan’s throat tightened as Arjun’s sweat-damp shirt brushed against his bare arm, the scent of his father’s musk—salt and heat and the faint tang of the gym—flooding his senses. "What happened to you, beta?" Arjun repeated, his dark eyes scanning Rohan’s flushed face, the sheen of sweat on his neck, the way his briefs clung obscenely to his half-hard cock. "I’m standing here knocking over ten minutes." A drop of sweat slid down Arjun’s temple, disappearing into the coarse stubble along his jawline. Rohan’s fingers twitched at his sides, still slick with coconut oil and cum.
"Sorry, Dad," Rohan mumbled, ducking his head to hide the guilty flicker in his eyes. His pulse roared in his ears, loud enough he was sure Arjun could hear it. "I—I slept." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but the alternative—confessing that he’d just fucked his grandfather’s ass raw on this very sofa—was unthinkable. Behind him, Vimal snorted in his sleep, the sound muffled by the blanket Rohan had yanked over him. The old man’s bare foot twitched, toes curling against the armrest.
Arjun sighed, rubbing his stubbled jaw with a calloused hand. The movement pulled his damp shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the outline of his nipples beneath the thin fabric. Rohan’s throat went dry. "Okay, my champ," Arjun said finally, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Go sleep now." He ruffled Rohan’s hair absentmindedly, his fingers lingering just a second too long—enough to make Rohan’s breath hitch.
The scent of Arjun’s sweat—musky and warm—clung to Rohan’s nostrils as his father turned away, already unbuttoning his shirt. "Tomorrow we visit farmhouse," Arjun called over his shoulder, the fabric sliding down his broad back. "Party with my gym friends." Rohan’s pulse spiked at the thought of his father shirtless among muscular men, his cock twitching painfully in his damp briefs.
Vimal snorted in his sleep again, shifting under the blanket. One hairy thigh peeked out, glistening faintly where Rohan hadn’t wiped properly. Arjun didn’t notice—too busy toeing off his shoes, his socks damp with sweat. "Shower first," he muttered, peeling his undershirt up. Rohan’s breath caught at the strip of taut belly revealed—the trail of hair leading down, down—
Arjun paused mid-stretch, shirt rucked up under his armpits. "Why you staring sweetboy?" Daddy is hot aff...His voice wasn’t angry—just curious, tired. Rohan’s throat clicked when he swallowed. "Nothing, Dad." But his gaze dropped lower anyway, to the sweat-darkened waistband of Arjun’s track pants, clinging to his hips. The fabric stretched tight when Arjun bent to pick up his shoes—so tight Rohan could see the outline of his father’s thick cock resting heavily against his thigh.
Then—without warning—Arjun lunged. His forearm hooked under Rohan’s knees, the other behind his shoulders, lifting him clean off the floor. "D-DAD—" Rohan gasped, instinctively clutching at Arjun’s neck as his bare legs dangled over his father’s arm. The position forced him to press flush against Arjun’s chest—
—where heat radiated through the damp shirt. The scent of sweat and something muskier flooded Rohan’s nose as Arjun adjusted his grip, fingers slipping under the waistband of Rohan’s briefs for better purchase. Calloused fingertips grazed the swell of his asscheek, sending sparks up his spine. "Still baby, no?" Arjun chuckled, breath warm against Rohan’s temple as he started up the stairs. Each step jostled Rohan against his father’s chest—the friction of Arjun’s stubble against his forehead, the way his thighs bounced against the iron-hard bicep supporting them.
Rohan’s breath hitched as Arjun’s fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of his thighs, the playful grip bordering on possessive. His father’s biceps flexed beneath him with each step up the staircase, the veins standing out like ropes under sun-darkened skin. The scent of Arjun’s sweat—musky and thick with the acrid tang of gym rubber—flooded Rohan’s nostrils as his bare legs swung against his father’s torso, the friction making his cock twitch against the damp fabric of his briefs.
"Still my baby boy, huh?" Arjun murmured, his breath hot against Rohan’s temple as he adjusted his grip. His thumb slipped under the waistband of Rohan’s briefs again, this time brushing the sensitive dip where thigh met ass. Rohan’s toes curled involuntarily, his hips bucking forward until the outline of his erection pressed against Arjun’s damp undershirt. The rough cotton scratched his leaking tip through the thin fabric—a delicious friction that made him whimper. Arjun throw him on bed softly and say get a good sleep tomorrow it is a night party and kissed Rohan's head which made Rohan even more horney ..
Lying stiffly on his mattress—still throbbing, still aching—Rohan clenched his fists in the sheets and replayed every second of Vimal’s unraveling. The memory burned: how his grandfather’s hole had pulsed around his fingers, how his drunken protests had melted into moans. He’d been so close—so fucking close—to burying himself completely inside that tight heat. Now, with Arjun’s footsteps fading down the hallway, frustration prickled under Rohan’s skin like sweat. Would Vimal even remember? Would he wake at dawn, confused and sore, and chalk it up to whiskey dreams? The thought made Rohan’s cock twitch against his stomach—a fresh bead of precum staining his briefs.
He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow—still imprinted with the ghost of Arjun’s scent from when he’d carried him. The musk lingered: salt and spice and something deeper, earthier—like the dark crevice between his father’s thighs after hours of lifting weights. Rohan inhaled sharply, imagining it—the thick, humid stink of Arjun’s hole after a brutal workout. Would it be darker than Vimal’s? Tighter? Would the sweat pooled there taste like iron and leather, bitter with the ache of overworked muscles?
His fingers crept downward, slipping under the waistband of his briefs to stroke himself in slow, slick circles. The precum smearing his tip mixed with leftover coconut oil from Vimal’s ass—the scent making his stomach clench. He pictured Arjun bent over a gym bench, track pants sliding down to reveal the dusky pucker clenched tight between his cheeks. How many of those muscular friends had glanced at it? How many had wondered what it’d take to pry that virgin hole open? Rohan’s breath hitched as he twisted his wrist, thumb brushing the underside of his cock where the skin was thinnest, most sensitive.
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