Thrust. Another. Deep and savage.

"I've owned this fuckhole since 2021. You just needed reminding."

Ishaan gasped, shattered. "Vikram, I, please..."

"You want to cum?"

Ishaan nodded, eyes wide, breathless. "Yes. Please. I need..."

Vikram looked down. Ishaan's cock was rock-hard, flushed, bulging out of the lace, dripping steadily onto the dusty floor. One more thrust and he'd explode. He was right on the edge.

"No."

Ishaan choked.

"You don't get to cum. Not yet. Not after this mess."

Vikram added, "you'll walk around this wedding with a loaded cock, hard and aching, while my cum leaks out of your used ass. And you'll thank me for it. Because you don't deserve to cum until I say. You're a dickless little panty-whore until I let you earn that finish."

Vikram pulled out just slightly, enough to make Ishaan's body clench desperately around the cock that had been stretching him for minutes. Then he stopped moving.

To Ishaan's shock, Vikram's hand smacked his ass again, twice. Hard. Loud. Then his fingers reached up and pinched both nipples through his shirt, hard enough to make Ishaan arch and yelp.

"Focus somewhere else," Vikram murmured. "Not on your cock. You don't cum unless I let you."

Ishaan whimpered, shaking. His hole ached. His cock pulsed. But Vikram wasn't done.

He reached forward, grabbed the base of Ishaan's shaft, and squeezed tight, thumb and forefinger forming a makeshift clamp.

"Let it build. Let it hurt. Let it leak. But you don't spill a fucking drop."

Ishaan gasped, the pressure shocking him back from the brink. His balls ached. His nipples stung. And his cock, still hard, still exposed, jerked helplessly against the table, denied.

Only when Vikram felt him pull back from the edge, only then, did he release his grip, spit down on Ishaan's hole again, and slam back in with brutal force.

Vikram watched Ishaan's whole body twitch, legs unsteady, nipples still red from the abuse. His cock throbbed violently, purple and slick, bobbing helplessly in the air like it was begging for contact. Vikram didn't touch it. Didn't need to. The friction of lace rasping against Ishaan's inner thighs, the raw glide of cock over a hole already wrecked, it was enough to keep him on the verge.

What followed wasn't lovemaking. It was claiming. Final. Dirty. Loud. The kind of fucking that left no doubt who belonged to whom.

The table creaked beneath them. Marigolds spilled to the floor.

Vikram's thrusts turned erratic, sloppier, meaner. And then he came.

He gripped Ishaan's hips tighter, rutted deep like a dog, and snarled, "take my load, fucktoy," as his cock thickened and twitched.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, held there, and emptied inside Ishaan in long, thick spurts. Ishaan could feel the heat flood into him, sticky, claiming, obscene. It leaked out almost immediately, dripping down his thighs.

Vikram didn't pull out.

He stayed for a moment. Buried. Breathing hard. Letting Ishaan feel every throb of his cock inside him.

And Ishaan?

Ishaan just folded forward, forehead against the wood, cock still twitching, untouched, denied. Lace soaked. Hole wrecked. Filled and leaking.

"You're dripping," Vikram murmured, mouth near his ear.

"I know," Ishaan whispered.

Vikram finally slid out, slow, deliberate, and a long trail of cum spilled from Ishaan's hole, running down to his knees.

Ishaan's hole fluttered open in the aftermath. The lace, still bunched to the side, clung sticky to the crease of his thigh. His muscles spasmed involuntarily, clenching around nothing, as if begging to be filled again.

Vikram bent, grabbed the pink plug from where it had fallen earlier, now coated with slick and petals and dirt. He didn't clean it.

He handed it to Ishaan.

"Put it in your pocket. You don't get it back."

Ishaan took it with shaking fingers, the toy still warm. He tucked it inside the inner pocket of his sherwani. His body was trembling, sticky, and full.

Vikram pulled his pants back up, buckled his belt like he'd just finished a chore.

"You'll walk out like nothing happened," he said, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. "Smile for the cameras. Stand beside the groom. And let my cum drip out of you every time you take a step."

"By the time the wedding is over, your churidar will be sticking to your thighs from the slick. And if anyone hugs you too close, they'll smell me. You'll smell like the man who bred you."

Ishaan adjusted his clothes. Tried to tuck his cock back in, but the lace was ruined, stretched out, damp with shame. His churidar was stained, at the thigh, at the seat. He panicked.

But the sherwani was long enough to hide it. Barely.

He looked up. "I'm yours," he whispered, hoarse.

Vikram smirked.

"I know."

And then he left.

No kiss. No goodbye. No softness.

He walked out, blending back into the music, the chanting, the celebration.

Ishaan stayed behind for another two minutes, catching his breath. He wiped the table clean of the slick his cock had spilled.

As he reached for the buttons of his sherwani, his hands trembled, not from exertion, but from how ruined he felt. The fabric dragged over oversensitive skin, brushing his leaking tip, which still refused to soften. Each movement threatened another dribble. His thighs were sticky. His stomach was tight. His nipples still burned from Vikram's pinches. And his brain? Fucked to mush.

________________________________________

Ishaan stepped out into the light.

The wedding was still roaring. Trumpets and drums. Laughter. Rice flying.

And Ishaan?

He walked out plugged, pantied, leaking, and finally, undeniably owned.

By the time Ishaan stepped back onto the lawn, the varmala was already over. A burst of petals exploded over the mandap, and the pheras had begun.

Ishaan was still semi-hard. The lace clung damply to his skin, his cock bulging obscenely against the inner fold of the churidar. Every step made it twitch. He walked awkwardly, stiff-hipped, one hand near his crotch, pretending to smooth his sherwani pleats just to hide the outline of his shame.

Aditi caught sight of him near the seating area. She approached, fanning herself. "Where were you during the varmala?" she asked, teasing. "You look like you just sprinted from the hills. Sweaty much?"

Ishaan forced a smile, adjusting the collar. "Was on the other side of the lawn. Didn't hear the call. Sun's brutal."

He didn't let her get close. One step nearer and she'd smell Vikram's cum on him, musk, sweat, and something sweet that clung to his skin like a confession. Worse, she might notice the faint round bulge of the plug in his pocket, sticking out against the drape of brocade.

He backed away with a polite nod and drifted toward the buffet zone with a few college friends.

As he rejoined the wedding crowd, Ishaan paused.

Tanmay was seated alone, a little apart from the rest, eyes locked on the pheras. Everyone else was crowding around the buffet.

"Lunch?" Ishaan offered as he passed.

Tanmay didn't look away. "Not hungry."

Ishaan nodded, unsure what else to say. Something about Tanmay's expression, tight and unreadable, made it feel like he shouldn't ask more.

He joined the group, trying not to limp, trying to walk like his thighs weren't sticky with another man's cum. Mukul, holding a plate of chaat, glanced down for half a second, then up at Ishaan's face with a raised eyebrow.

Ishaan's stomach flipped. He followed the gaze, then realized: his churidar knees. Dusty, creased, faintly grey where the white had scraped the courtyard stone. From kneeling. From sucking cock like a dog in heat.

"You trip or something?" Mukul asked, half-laughing, half-curious.

Ishaan forced a shrug. "Lost my balance during the bhangra."

Mukul chuckled and turned away.

Ishaan clenched. The plug shifted. Cum threatened to leak again. He didn't know what was worse, that Mukul had noticed, or that he hadn't seen the real mess.

Vikram was across the lawn, laughing with another group. They didn't speak. Didn't need to. But Ishaan could feel it, the weight of the load still inside him. The damp trail that curved down his inner thigh with every shift. The way his hole twitched when he crouched to scoop some paneer onto his plate.

Then a smack.

A casual tap landed on his ass.

He jumped.

Anshul, oblivious, just grinned. "Move ahead, yaar. You're blocking the pulao."

Ishaan laughed thinly. Inside, he clenched. Hard. Too much movement and he'd be dripping down his ankle.

The pheras circled to a close. Priests chanted. Family clapped. Vikram made eye contact across the crowd, eyes slow and dark and full of promise.

Ishaan swallowed.

His cock still hadn't softened.

And all he could think was: Please... please let him let me cum when we get back to the room.