⚠️ Author's Note:
This chapter is filth.
Ishaan learns what it means to gag, obey, beg--and still be denied.
His best friend owns his mouth and ass.
And something deeper starts to crack open.
(Note: The characters now wear new names, Ishaan and Vikram. But the tension, the heat, the fall? Still exactly the same.)
________________________________________
The Bluetooth speaker had died after midnight. The pool lights were out. Even the insects had gone quiet. The only sound left was breathing--short, shallow, uneven.
Ishaan's knees ached.
They were dug into the edge of the mattress, pressed to the cold tile. No cushion. Just bone on ceramic. He knew they'd be bruised by morning. They already throbbed with a dull, pulsing ache. But he didn't move.
Because pain was easier than facing what was in front of him.
Vikram stood like a statue in the dark, looming, silent. His cock was hard--thick, proud, veiny, flushed dark under the terrace light. It jutted out from his body like it had been waiting.
Waiting to be claimed.
Ishaan had touched it once. Briefly.
It wasn't enough.
Now it just hovered in the air, a wordless command.
No pressure. No instruction.
Just there.
His thighs trembled. His mouth was dry. His own cock throbbed inside his wet swim shorts, pinned and leaking.
He didn't know what he was doing.
No. He did.
And that's what terrified him.
"I don't have to," he said, barely a breath. "We can stop. Call it a night."
Vikram didn't speak. Didn't move. Just watched.
Ishaan wasn't really offering to stop.
He was stalling. Waiting for an out that neither of them wanted.
The floor got harder by the second. His spine shifted to ease the pressure. His jaw locked.
He looked up.
Vikram was still staring. Still silent.
From above, Vikram took it all in: Ishaan on his knees. Shirtless. Sweat glistening on his lean torso. Neck taut. Back arched. His ass--unfairly round in those too-small shorts--peeking out like it knew what this was.
And his cock. Thick and twitching under damp fabric.
But it was his eyes that got Vikram.
Those dark, confused, defiant eyes.
Begging for permission to fall apart.
Fuck, Vikram thought. Look at him.
The boy who never lost bets. Who got his dick sucked behind club bathrooms and bragged the next day.
Now kneeling.
Silent.
Posture begging.
Vikram didn't move. Didn't smirk. His cock twitched, aching behind the silence.
He remembered the last blowjob he'd gotten--a girl in second year. Pretty lips. Too much teeth. Couldn't open wide. Didn't like the taste. He got soft halfway through.
It was fine.
This?
This was something else.
Ishaan hadn't even opened his mouth yet, and Vikram was already close.
He could guide him. Tell him where to lick. How to open.
But no.
He needed Ishaan to figure it out.
To learn the cock by feel. By taste.
To worship it.
The air thickened.
Ishaan's hands clenched.
All he did was look at me, Ishaan thought. Just looked. And now I'm here.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Then--
"Need an invitation?" Vikram said, voice low, almost sarcastic--but undeniably hot.
Ishaan flinched.
His eyes dropped back to the cock. Heavy. Veined. Jaw-achingly thick.
Not something you tasted lightly.
Something you braced for.
He leaned in.
Slow. Hesitant. Lips parting.
Tongue out.
First flick--salt, sweat, skin.
Vikram's cock twitched.
Ishaan flushed.
Another lick. Slower. Up the shaft. Veins, heat, the pulse beneath.
Then--he wrapped his lips around the head.
His jaw stretched.
His mouth filled.
He pushed--inch by inch.
The ridges, the weight, the taste.
His lips sealed. Cheeks hollowed.
He moaned.
Couldn't help it.
His cock throbbed in his shorts, leaking uncontrollably. His knees screamed. But he stayed.
Mouth full.
Eyes fluttering.
Right where he wasn't supposed to be.
What the fuck are you doing, his brain hissed.
But deeper down--another voice answered:
Don't stop.
He eased off. The cock popped free with a wet smack. Spit trailed.
Then he went back in.
Deeper.
Two inches.
Thicker now. Tongue flattened. Jaw protesting.
He gagged once, pulled back, gasping.
Vikram didn't say a word.
Just watched.
Watched Ishaan lean in again--mouth slick, jaw trembling, eyes glassy.
Vulnerable.
Not just sucking cock.
Learning it.
Vikram's cock throbbed.
Ishaan moaned.
Not from shame.
From need.
His hand stroked the shaft gently. Other hand braced on Vikram's thigh.
Three inches.
He gasped when the head hit the back of his mouth.
Paused.
How much more?
Another half inch.
Then--
He gagged.
Hard.
Spit sprayed. He coughed into his fist.
But something stirred in his chest.
He'd taken half of it.
Half of this monster cock.
And Vikram was still hard as stone.
Ishaan looked up--face flushed, lips red, hair clinging to sweat.
He met Vikram's eyes.
And that's when it hit him:
This isn't where a guy like me belongs.
Not kneeling. Not sucking dick. Not gagging on cock.
But here he was.
And when Vikram didn't look away--didn't flinch, didn't smirk--just stared like he deserved this...
Ishaan's cock twitched again.
His hand stroked.
His mouth opened.
And he dove back in.
Because something in him wanted more.
Needed more.
And as the thick cock pushed past his tongue again--
He realized:
He fucking liked it.
________________________________________
Ishaan's knees were killing him.
The tiles offered no mercy. Cold, hard, biting into bone. He shifted--just slightly--but even that threatened his balance. And he couldn't lose rhythm now.
Not when he was finally sucking cock like he meant it.
Spit dripped from his chin. His lips moved over Vikram's shaft in slow, deliberate motions. One hand gripped the base, the other steadied him on Vikram's thigh. He'd fallen into a rhythm--somewhere between instinct and desperation.
Like he had something to prove.
Like he could control the filth if he just set the pace.
Then came the line.
Low. Calm. Unbothered.
"Hands off."
Ishaan froze.
The words weren't loud. Weren't cruel. But they changed everything.
He looked up, just briefly.
Vikram stared down at him--quiet, still, unreadable. But his eyes held something new. A flicker of ownership.
Ishaan's chest tightened.
His fingers stayed curled around the shaft.
But slowly--like giving something up--he let go. First from the thigh. Then from the cock.
His hands dropped to his own legs. Clenched into fists.
Now it was just his mouth.
Just his lips. His tongue. His throat.
No more control.
Only submission.
He leaned back in.
And everything changed.
Without his hands, every inch of cock he took felt... deeper. Heavier. Realer.
No more illusion of control. Just stretch. Heat. Pressure. Hunger.
He parted his lips around the swollen head. His jaw already ached, but he didn't care.
An inch.
Then two.
Then three.
His throat fluttered. Gag reflex triggered.
But he didn't pull back.
Didn't whimper.
Didn't stop.
Tears welled in his eyes. He blinked, but they spilled anyway--slow trails down flushed cheeks.
He'd never cried during sex.
Never sucked a dick before last night.
And now?
Now he was full of one.
Swollen lips. Burning throat. Wet spit pooling around his mouth.
