They gagged her before the tenderness could make her cry.
Sanjay first—cock over her tongue, to the root, her throat closing, a wet ugly sound that was not a word. His bare wrist held her jaw, right where last year’s rakhi would have sat against her cheek. Spit ran off her chin onto her tits. Every short thrust made her breasts jerk, heavy, flushed, the left one swinging into Vivek’s twisting fingers, the right slapping softly against Sanjay’s wrist—the empty place the knot had lived.
He pulled out. A string of spit held from her lip to his cock.
Raja replaced him. Thicker angle. She gagged harder. Her ass clenched in the air, cheeks flexing, hole shining. Vivek went third and used her hair. Her tits swung opposite each other. The left hit her own arm. The right bounced when Raja’s hand squeezed it like a handle, his wrist—last year’s blessed wrist—digging faintly into soft flesh.
Her hands were not idle.
She grabbed all three cocks.
Lined the heads together in her fists—Sanjay, Raja, Vivek—and rubbed them against each other. Wet tips kissing. Shafts sliding, slipping, smearing pre-cum over one another while she pumped. Three flushed heads bumping, shiny, dragged in a tight circle in her palms. Three bare wrists hanging close enough to remember.
“Look,” she rasped, voice wrecked from the gagging. “All of you touching. Don’t act shy now, Bhaiya. Feel them. Last year I tied these hands. Tonight they’re holding each other’s cocks against my stomach. That’s how nasty the festival got. That’s how sweet it is too.”
Sanjay’s jaw locked. Raja swore. Vivek’s hips jerked and his cock slid along Sanjay’s, head to head, while Puja squeezed and rubbed until they were leaking over her fingers and over each other.
She put Sanjay back in her mouth.
Sucked. Gagged. His wrist pressed her face. When he came it was sudden—hot, thick, flooding her tongue. She did not swallow.
She grabbed Raja by the hair and kissed him with Sanjay’s cum still pooled in her mouth. Pushed it into him. Romantic in the slowness of it. Nasty in what he was drinking. Raja made a shocked sound and swallowed because her tongue would not let him do anything else. She broke the kiss, turned, and did the same to Vivek—open mouth, cum shared, a wet filthy transfer until Vivek drank what Sanjay had left in her.
Then she stroked all three heads together again, mixed with spit and what had leaked back out of her lips.
“Now you taste each other,” she whispered, forehead against Sanjay’s. “Drink it. Bhaiya’s cum is in your mouths. Last Rakhi I put a thread on you. This year I put him on your tongue. That’s the blessing now.”
They slapped her for the way she smiled after.
Raja’s palm on her ass first—sharp, the cheek rippling, a red bloom rising under the place his hand had held last year after the tying. Then the other side. Her ass bounced, flesh shaking, the cleft shining with old lube. Sanjay slapped her breast. The tit jumped, nipple dark, a handprint starting to show right where the thread had once brushed. Vivek slapped the inside of her thigh and then her other breast, watching it sway and settle.
