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.

And still--his cock throbbed in his shorts. Angry. Leaking. Shameless.

Straight boys don't do this.

Straight boys don't get hard while choking on cock.

And yet.

Here he was.

He pulled off with a wet gasp. "I'm really doing this," he whispered.

Vikram didn't answer.

Just sat there, wide-legged, silent. Watching.

Ishaan moaned softly.

Then leaned in again--slower this time. Sloppier. His tongue dragged up the underside of the shaft, tracing a fat vein.

The taste hit him again--salt, sweat, precum, cock.

Familiar now.

But still wrong.

Still hot.

He thought of the girls who had sucked him before. Their stretched mouths. Dripping spit. Red cheeks. Wide eyes.

He remembered how powerful that made him feel.

Like a king.

Now he was them.

Now he looked like that.

He didn't even realize he was moaning until he felt the vibration ripple through his throat.

Vikram's cock twitched.

Ishaan flinched.

He hadn't meant to enjoy it that much. Hadn't meant to make a sound.

But the cock twitched again. Vikram's breath caught. Thighs tensed.

It felt like praise.

And it made Ishaan want more.

He moaned again--this time on purpose.

And his cock pulsed in his shorts.

The need clawed at him.

He reached for his waistband.

Just a few strokes. Just--

"Focus on my dick," Vikram said. Calm. Firm. With just a flick of amusement. "You can take care of yourself later."

The words hit like a slap.

Ishaan's hand froze.

Then dropped.

Back to his thigh.

Shame bloomed across his face.

He sucked harder.

Faster.

Like he could make up for the mistake.

Like punishment.

Vikram watched. Eyes sharp. Lips twitching faintly with satisfaction.

The shift was complete.

Ishaan was his now.

On his knees. Cock in his mouth. Hands obediently still. Spit running freely.

He sucked like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

His mind blurred.

If I can take this much of him... if I can gag on it... cry for it... moan around it...

What else would I do?

He remembered the truth-or-dare game.

Vikram had said it then--how fuckable Ishaan's ass looked.

He'd laughed it off.

But now--

Now that memory echoed like a prophecy.

And the thought struck like lightning:

Would I let him in?

His hole twitched.

Unbidden. Raw. Real.

He didn't want to notice it.

But he did.

And the shiver that passed through him wasn't from fear.

He sucked harder--trying to bury the thought.

Only for Vikram's cock to throb again--swelling against his tongue. Leaking more precum onto the back of his throat.

It tasted like sin.

Like heat.

Like surrender.

Then--Vikram moved.

Stood.

Slowly. With intent.

And the cock never left Ishaan's mouth.

It stayed lodged between his lips.

Thick.

Heavy.

Claiming.

Ishaan had to crane his neck now, mouth stretched wider, angle worse, tears threatening again.

He was properly kneeling now.

Like a worshipper.

Like a--

Cocksucker.

The word detonated in his mind.

He flinched.

Gagged.

His throat spasmed around the cock.

It was too much.

Too filthy.

Too real.

He wasn't sucking a friend anymore.

He was being used.

And deep down--somewhere dark and terrifying--

He didn't want it to stop.

________________________________________

Vikram stood tall.

Cock still lodged in Ishaan's mouth.

The shift wasn't big--but the power shift was seismic.

Ishaan had to tilt his head back now. Neck strained. Lips stretched wider than before. His jaw screamed, but the cock stayed put--heavy, veined, leaking across his tongue.

He blinked through fresh tears. This new angle made everything harder--breathing, sucking, thinking.

The weight of the cock rested against the back of his mouth like it belonged there.

He should have pulled back.

Should've said something. Moved. Broken the spell.

But he didn't.

He knelt there.

Still.

Letting the cock sit across his bottom lip like it was home.

Vikram just looked down.

And what he saw made his cock twitch.

Ishaan's lips--raw, red, stretched wide. Spit leaked from the corners, trailing down his chin. His cheeks hollowed with effort. And his eyes--

Wide. Glassy. Scared. Needy.

Fucking perfect.

So Vikram moved.

Just an inch.

A slow thrust forward.

The swollen head pushed deeper.

Ishaan gagged, violently.

His body jerked.

Tears spilled.

But he didn't retreat.

Didn't protest.

Didn't stop.

Vikram's hand hovered at the back of his head. Not holding. Just letting him feel the presence.

Another thrust.

Deeper.

Three inches.

Ishaan choked again. His shoulders curled inward, hands clutching his thighs, but he held still.

Held it.

More spit leaked around his lips, down Vikram's shaft, pooling at the base.

Dripping onto his feet.

"You're a fucking mess," Vikram muttered. Calm. Amused.

Ishaan moaned.

He didn't mean to.

It just came out--a helpless vibration around the cock in his mouth.

Vikram's eyes darkened.

Another slow push.

Four inches now.

Ishaan's throat contracted. His back arched. His whole body trembled.

But he stayed there.

Mouth open. Eyes clinging to Vikram's face.

His own cock throbbed untouched. His shorts soaked with precum.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Why does this feel so good?

He couldn't stop moaning.

Couldn't stop sucking.

Couldn't stop falling.

Then--just a little more.

Half an inch.

4.5.

His limit.

He choked.

Hard.

Full-on.

His eyes rolled. His face flushed dark red. He jerked back, coughing, drooling.

Vikram didn't flinch.

Just stood there. Watching.

Panting. Cock slick and angry, twitching with Ishaan's every heartbeat.

"That your limit?" he asked. Curious. Not cruel.

Ishaan nodded, coughing.

Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

His palm came away soaked in spit. And precum.

His own.

"I can't... it's too thick," he whispered.

Vikram smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

"That's fine," he said. "We'll train that pretty throat. You'll take it all eventually."

Ishaan's eyes widened.

He looked up again.

At the cock still standing tall. Still twitching. Still ready.

And he knew it was true.

Vikram wasn't done.

Not even close.

He didn't stand.

Didn't move.

Didn't even wipe his face.

He just opened his mouth again.

Offered himself.

Willing.

Defeated.

Owned.

Vikram gripped the base.

Guided it forward.

Ishaan leaned in like it was inevitable.

Because it was.

He'd begged to suck this cock.

Cried for it.

And he'd do it again.

________________________________________

Vikram's cock throbbed inside Ishaan's mouth.

It had been nearly 25 minutes since he dropped to his knees. His body was wrecked--knees bruised, back aching, jaw barely able to open. But the cock? Still hard. Still thick. Still demanding.

Ishaan didn't know how he was still going.

Somewhere along the way, he'd crossed a line.

This wasn't about experimenting anymore.

This was worship.

And Vikram knew it.

He could feel it--the wet heat of Ishaan's mouth, the rhythm, the surrender. Not just sucking. Serving.

He looked down.

Ishaan's lips were swollen. Red. Shiny with spit. His cheeks hollowed from suction. Face flushed. Eyes--those cocky, defiant eyes--glassy and ruined.

His hands sat limp on his thighs.

Obedient.

And that mouth?

That mouth was doing things no girl ever had.

No hesitation. No flinching. Just need.

Just hunger.

Vikram's balls ached.

Two weeks without release. Not since before the trip. Nothing had gotten him close--until this.

Until Ishaan.

The pressure built fast--deep in his base, along his spine.

He was close.

So fucking close.

He reached down, gripped the back of Ishaan's head.

Firm this time.

No more patience.

No more testing.

"Don't waste a drop."

He didn't whisper it.

He commanded it.

Ishaan moaned.

His whole body flinched at the words. His cock kicked--still trapped, untouched, soaked inside his shorts.

He knew what was coming.

And he wasn't ready.

But he didn't stop.

Couldn't.

Vikram's cock swelled--pulsed hard against his tongue.

Then--

He came.

The first spurt hit the back of Ishaan's throat like fire. Hot. Thick. Shocking.

Ishaan gagged, instinctively tried to breathe--but Vikram's grip held him there.

The second pulse hit harder.

Full blast.

His cheeks filled.

He swallowed fast, choking slightly. Still too much.

The taste slammed into him--metallic, salty, obscene.

The third blast overflowed. Leaked from his lips. Ran down his chin. Onto his chest.

Tears poured from his eyes.

Not from emotion.

From sheer body shock.

The fourth spurt came slower. Ropey. Heavy on his tongue.

I can't.

I can't do this, his brain screamed.

But his mouth stayed open.

His lips sealed tighter.

His cock twitched even harder.

The fifth--final--pulse was cruel. A slow trickle. Like Vikram's balls had emptied but still had more to prove.

Ishaan swallowed it.

All of it.

His lips trembled. His chin was soaked.

His pride?

Gone.

And Vikram didn't release him.

Held him there.

Just a second longer.

Just to own it.

Then let go.

Ishaan pulled back slowly--like surfacing after drowning. His breath came in broken gasps. His face was streaked with spit and cum. His throat burned.

But his cock?

Still hard.

Still. Fucking. Hard.

Neither of them spoke.

The air was thick with sweat and silence.

Ishaan trembled. Knees still on tile. Lips still parted.

Eventually, Vikram stepped back.

Cock still twitching. Dripping.

He looked down at Ishaan one last time.

Then turned.

Walked inside.

Didn't say a word.

Just left him there.

Spent.

Used.

Ruined.

________________________________________

The shower ran hot.

Too hot.

Ishaan stood beneath the stream, motionless. Eyes closed. Letting it bite into his skin.

He didn't touch himself.

Didn't lather up.

Just stood there.

Letting the water scald his lips. His chest. His throat.

Trying to wash away the taste.

But it lingered.

He opened his eyes eventually. Looked at the mirror through the steam.

And what he saw--

His lips were swollen. Puffy. Glossy with leftover spit. His eyes were red. His cheeks streaked with dried tears and salt.

He looked down.

His knees were bruised--angry red circles where bone had pressed tile too long. His thighs trembled. His core felt hollowed out.

His shorts were gone.

And still, his cock twitched.

Not fully hard.

Just... swollen.

Still leaking.

There was a wet stain at the tip. Slow, shameless drip.

He should've been disgusted.

But part of him looked at the marks--at the proof--and felt something else.

Not regret.

Something darker.

Like pride.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He touched the mirror. Forehead resting against the glass.

He didn't cry.

Didn't scream.

Didn't say a word.

Just breathed.

Shallow. Hollow.

When he stepped out, he dried off like a ghost. No thought. Just muscle memory. Wrapped a towel low on his hips. Walked to his room.

Collapsed into bed.

Naked.

Didn't even p

ull the covers.

Too tired to think.

Too tired to feel the way he knew he should.

________________________________________

Elsewhere in the villa--

Vikram lay in bed.

Alone.

Sheets half-kicked off. Sweat cooling on his skin.

He turned once.

Then again.

Then again.

Couldn't get comfortable.

Couldn't stop thinking.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, mind spinning.

An hour passed.

Then another.

But the image wouldn't leave him.

Ishaan's mouth.

His lips.

His eyes.

The sound he made when he swallowed--

It haunted him.

Not because it was wrong.

But because of how right it had felt.

And how badly he wanted to do it again.

________________________________________

Ishaan woke up sore.

Not gym sore. Not hangover sore.

Deeper.

His knees pulsed. Throat raw. Tongue dry.

And his lips... still felt full.

Stretched.

Like they remembered what had been inside them.

He didn't look in the mirror.