He could not stay on the bed any longer.
He set her phone back exactly as he had found it, rose as quietly as he could, and went into the bathroom. He locked the door, switched on the light, and pushed his underwear down. His cock sprang free, thick, dark at the head, shiny with the precum that kept welling up. He wrapped his hand around it and began to stroke—long, firm pulls, the wetness making the movement smooth and filthy. He closed his eyes and saw the gallery pictures again: the towel, the black bra, the soft heavy breasts, the panties, her shy half-smile. He saw her sleeping form on the bed outside. He stroked faster, the wet sound of his fist loud in the small bathroom. The orgasm built fast and heavy. When it broke it was almost violent—thick ropes of cum pulsing out of him in long, strong spurts, painting the sink and the mirror, his stomach tightening, a low, broken sound trapped behind his teeth. He kept stroking through it until he was empty and oversensitive, legs unsteady, breath rough.
He cleaned everything carefully—the sink, the mirror, his hands, his cock. He waited until his breathing had slowed. Then he switched off the light, opened the door, and returned to the bed. Sonam had not moved. Her breathing was still deep and even. He lay down on his side facing her, the last of the intense heat still echoing through his body, and finally let his eyes close.
Outside the thin curtains the night continued. Inside the locked room the brother and sister slept on the same wide bed—one exhausted from study and the long day, the other emptied for the moment but already certain that tomorrow the last line between them would no longer hold.
That is how the night in Mirzapur ended, Sir—the manager’s offer, the shy look they shared, the deleted pictures, the strongest hard-on of his life, and the quiet decision that the waiting was finished.
To be continued…
