This was the one.
No second chance after.
Sanjay came first, deep in her cunt, pulsing, flooding her, hips locked, a broken sound against her breast, that same hand gripping her waist hard enough to leave a shape where a thread used to sit. Puja pulled off him only far enough to keep his cum on her tongue. She kissed Raja while he was still buried in her ass and pushed Sanjay into his mouth until Raja drank. Then Vivek—same kiss, slower, almost loving, same share—until all three had tasted what had just left him.
Raja slapped her ass through his own finish and came in her hole, hips flush, her cheeks quivering around him. Vivek last. Puja jerked him against Raja’s cockhead, still inside her, rubbing the two wet tips together until Vivek spilled over both shafts and over her hands. She licked it. Fed it to Sanjay in a kiss that lingered. Fed the rest to Raja.
They stayed inside her until it was over.
She collapsed forward.
Breasts smashed to Sanjay’s chest, still trembling, still moving with aftershocks. Ass up, leaking from both holes, red from slaps, shining. Inside her. On her tongue. In their mouths. Shared. Three bare wrists resting on her naked body like last year’s festival had never left.
Sanjay, wrecked, still dropped his mouth to her.
He licked her breasts first, cleaning what had run, sucking a nipple clean while his empty wrist lay across the other. Then her stomach. Then he spread her ass with both thumbs and licked her used hole, tasting lube and himself and Raja. Then her cunt, drinking what leaked.
Puja held his hair and did not ask for another round.
“Yes, Bhaiya,” she whispered, tender and filthy in the same breath. “That’s it. That’s where all thirty-seven put it. Mouth. Tits. Pussy. Gaand. Lick it. Drink it. Don’t waste what they paid to leave in me. Last year I tied you. Tonight you drink everyone off me. That’s how we do Raksha Bandhan now. Every year. No new thread. Only this.”
He did.
Tongue in her cunt. Tongue on her asshole. Swallowing. Showing Vivek. Showing Raja.
She came on his mouth one last time—the only orgasm left in her—thighs shaking, voice gone, still calling him Bhaiya like a joke that had become an anniversary.
Afterward nobody pulled her to the sofa.
She stayed on the bed, filthy, smiling at the ceiling, three exhausted men collapsed around her, bare wrists dark with sweat against her skin. The phone lay dark on the floor. Sonam and Akriti waited two days away—Vivek’s mouth on Sonam, Raja’s hands on Akriti, Puja on the sofa, coaching, sore, watching the same remembered hands learn two new bodies.
The RGB light kept shifting.
Violet.
Blue.
Sanjay’s hand stayed on her waist, right where last year’s rakhi would have brushed if anyone had tied it tonight.
She did not move it away.
They slept like people who had been emptied.
Raja on his back, one arm flung off the mattress. Vivek on his side, mouth open, a pillow half over his face. Sanjay behind Puja, palm on her waist, the bare skin of his wrist remembering last year’s rakhi and nothing else. No new thread. Only the habit of that hand finding her in the dark.
