⚠️ Author's Note:
Ishaan doesn't just submit--he belongs.
Vikram takes control completely.
Discipline. Ritual. Exposure.
The man who once fucked girls without thinking now begs to be used like a toy.
(Note: The characters now wear new names, Ishaan and Vikram. But the tension, the heat, the fall? Still exactly the same.)
________________________________________
By now, their dynamic had ossified into something both terrifying and perfect.
Not just unspoken.
Unwritten.
Inescapable.
Ishaan didn't ask anymore.
He offered.
No more hesitation.
No more tension.
Only ritual.
Each morning, without fail, Vikram would wake to the same thing.
Ishaan. Naked. On his stomach.
Legs slightly parted. Hole faintly twitching.
Head turned just enough to offer that sleepy, submissive smirk.
Not a word spoken.
He didn't even look back anymore. He didn't need to.
Because this was their religion.
Vikram would sit up, cock already swelling at the sight.
He'd crawl over, part Ishaan's warm cheeks, and whisper--
"My pussy ready?"
Ishaan would sigh into the pillow.
A soft, needy sound.
"Always."
And Vikram would spit. Coat the hole in slick. Smear his precum over the rim. Rub the head of his cock in teasing circles.
The hole opened like it missed him.
Because it did.
Then -- slow, steady, deep -- he'd slide in.
No resistance.
No preparation.
No hesitation.
Just a trained body opening for its owner.
Sometimes it was lazy.
Sometimes rough.
Sometimes silent and sacred -- like he was praying into the ass of the man he owned.
And Ishaan?
He never touched his cock.
He didn't dare.
"You don't cum unless I say," Vikram had warned him early on.
"You don't touch your cock unless it's for me."
Ishaan obeyed.
His cock stayed hard the entire time.
Throbbing into the sheets.
Leaking freely.
And when Vikram finally came -- long, hot spurts deep inside -- Ishaan would moan into the pillow like that was his release too.
But it wasn't.
He didn't get one.
Not yet.
________________________________________
After the morning fuck, they showered.
Vikram would rinse his cock. Ishaan would rinse his hole.
If Vikram felt generous, he'd kneel behind Ishaan, part his cheeks again, and rim him until he trembled.
Sometimes he whispered filth into the wet, twitching skin:
"Good girl."
"Your pussy's loose today."
"Already hungry again, aren't you?"
And Ishaan?
He didn't flinch.
________________________________________
If they stayed in the villa, Ishaan stayed naked.
Always.
It was the rule. Spoken once. Enforced always.
Even if he cooked, cleaned, read, texted friends -- he did it bare-assed.
One morning, while stirring eggs at the stove, Vikram came up behind him, spat on his hole, and slid inside.
No warning.
Ishaan didn't spill a drop.
"Fuck," Vikram whispered. "This is my breakfast."
Another time, Ishaan was on a call with his sister. On speaker.
Vikram knelt beside the couch, pulled Ishaan's thighs apart, and buried his face in his ass.
He licked. Moaned. Spat.
Ishaan gripped the phone tighter, voice shaking as he said, "Yeah di, all good here... just--uh--Goa stuff."
He came on the floor the moment he hung up.
________________________________________
Vikram used him everywhere. On the dining table, bent over beside a plate of toast. On the living room floor, legs up, Vikram holding him open like a toy.
In the pool, Ishaan floating face-down while Vikram fingered him from behind. Against the window frame, just out of sight from the neighbor's yard.
Pressed onto the TV cabinet during an IPL match, getting face-fucked while commentary played in the background.
He'd been used in every room of the ten-bedroom villa.
Every. Single. One.
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And outside?
Even filthier.
They fucked on the boat -- Ishaan bent over the deck railing, Vikram thrusting slowly while the sea rolled beneath them.
They got caught in a downpour one night and fucked under a beach umbrella while drunk tourists screamed around them.
Vikram once took him into a restaurant toilet and made him suck while loud Punjabi music blared outside.
Ishaan gagged. Moaned. Came untouched.
Then wiped Vikram's cum off the floor with his own T-shirt.
"That's your cleaning rag now," Vikram had said.
"Every time I cum, you wear it."
Ishaan wore that shirt the next morning. Still crusted. Still reeking.
________________________________________
They discovered things.
Ishaan discovered his new favorite sexual positions. Vikram lifting him by the hips, fucking him against a balcony railing. Ishaan on all fours on a lounger, hole glistening in sunlight. Standing face-to-face, Vikram holding him up by the thighs and fucking him against the wall.
Ishaan's throat got deeper. He could now take three-quarters of Vikram's cock without gagging. Sometimes more.
His hole was permanently tender. Loose enough that Vikram didn't need fingers anymore.
And Vikram?
He learned that if he rimmed Ishaan for six to eight minutes -- just the right angle, just the right tongue movement -- Ishaan would cum.
Hands-free.
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And the words?
The words changed too.
What used to make Ishaan flinch now made him moan.
"Good girl."
"Slut."
"Whore."
"Cockslut."
"You love being my cumdump, don't you?"
Ishaan didn't fight it.
Because it was true.
He was Vikram's slut. His mouth. His pussy. His toy.
His submission had become a source of pride.
He hadn't just been broken.
He'd been reshaped.
________________________________________
They started sleeping together.
One bed. One routine.
Every night, before sleep, Vikram would use him one last time.
Slowly.
Not like a slut. Not like a quick fuck.
Like a possession. A property.
It started with Ishaan on his knees, sucking Vikram soft, hard, soft again.
Then fingering.
One finger. Two. Three.
Curling, twisting, pushing him open.
Then rimming.
Long, slow, filthy rimming until Ishaan's hole leaked against the sheets.
Then the fuck.
Not hard.
Long.
Steady.
Measured.
Vikram held him by the waist. Or sometimes kissed the back of his neck while thrusting in like a lover.
But it wasn't romantic.
It was ownership.
