Puja’s abuse started soft and went ugly.
“Haa—that’s it—that’s the hole. That’s the same chut her clients filled. Aparna Mummy’s son on his sister’s cunt. Eat. Don’t you dare come up for air. If you stop I dial. I’ll make you watch a stranger stretch me while you sit limp.”
He sucked her clit. Two fingers in, crooked. She rode his face, tits shaking, calling him Bhaiya like a slap.
“Good boy. Clean your sister. That’s rented pussy. That’s family pussy. Same wet. Drink it.”
Raja had Sonam on her back on the sofa-end of the room, thighs over his shoulders. He ate her like he was angry at the threat. She held his ears and looked down the line of her own body.
“Yes—there—that’s the hole those men fucked while you were asking about my internals. Clients came in this. You lick it now. Saala, deeper. If I don’t shake, I call. I’ll make you watch a man take your little sister on this same sheet.”
Raja groaned into her. She spat the rest.
“That’s Kalpana Mummy’s daughter. That’s the chut you wanted to smell through a towel. Suck. I’m going to come on my Bhaiya’s tongue and you’re going to swallow like rent.”
Vivek was on the tiles with Akriti standing over him, one foot on the bed, her shaved pussy on his mouth. She pulled his hair and used his face.
“Eat. That’s the hole. That’s where they summed. That’s where they finished and wiped and left. You wanted Anjali Mummy on tiles—start with me. If you go soft in the head I book a man for sunrise and you watch from the door.”
She ground on him. He licked, sloppy, devoted, hands on her ass.
“Behenchod—yes—right there—clients didn’t ask so nicely. You ask with your tongue. That’s my randi hole and my sister hole. Make me come or I put you in the audience.”
They did not last long as a performance. The girls were already wound from the night, from the talk of mummies, from fists on cocks that had not been allowed to finish clean.
Puja came first, thighs clamping Sanjay’s head, a broken Bhaiya—don’t stop—that’s it that’s the hole—wet on his mouth, his nose, his chin. He kept his tongue on her until she shoved him off, twitching.
Sonam followed, a sharp cry she tried to eat and failed, hips lifting off Raja’s face, fingers in his hair hard enough to hurt. She laughed after, wrecked.
“Proud of you. Limp dick, working mouth.”
Akriti came standing, almost falling; Vivek held her ass so she didn’t take him to the floor. She cursed him through it, filthy, fond, and wiped her wet across his lips with two fingers when she could stand again.
“There. Clients can stay in the phone.”
After that there was no speech worth making.
Bathroom. One after another.
Puja first. Water. Piss. A mug over her body, quick, not a film. She came out dripping, did not reach for a towel long enough to count as modest.
Sonam next. The door stayed half open because the lock would have been a joke. Steam. The peach-petticoat story sitting in everyone’s head while a different woman washed.
Akriti last. She spat toothpaste, looked at herself in the small mirror, marked, known, and left the light on for nobody.
