Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

FLASHBACK
 
The generator shed smelled of rose petals and anticipation.
 
Menaka stepped through the door at exactly 10:30 PM, her red saree brushing against the concrete floor like a tongue of flame. The LEDs Karthik had installed cast a warm, forgiving glow across the space—dim enough to hide imperfections, bright enough to see everything. And there was much to see.
 
The mattress dominated the center of the room, covered in white sheets and scattered with rose petals that looked like blood droplets in the amber light. A small table in the corner held bottles of water, soft drinks, and a single bottle of single malt that no one would touch until later—if at all. Condoms were arranged in a neat row on another table, Magnums gleaming under the LEDs like soldiers awaiting orders.
 
And the men.
 
They had arranged themselves in a semicircle facing the door, as if for a performance. Singh stood in the center, his arms crossed, his military bearing lending him an aura of command despite his civilian clothes—a simple white kurta that made him look like a retired general receiving guests. To his right, Sharma fidgeted with his gold-rimmed glasses, his paan-stained teeth visible in a nervous smile. To his left, Karthik leaned against the wall, his gym-honed body relaxed, his eyes sharp and assessing.
 
Mehta and Gupta sat on plastic chairs against the far wall, both of them clutching water bottles like lifelines. And Joshi—sweating, pale Joshi—hovered near the generator, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer.
 
Six men. Six cocks. Six different ways to be filled.
 
Menaka closed the door behind her. The lock clicked into place with a sound like a gunshot.
 
"Good evening, sahabs," she said, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "I believe you've been waiting for me."
 
---
 
Singh was the first to move.
 
He walked toward her slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face. When he reached her, he stopped inches away, close enough that she could smell the sandalwood soap on his skin, see the grey in his neatly trimmed beard.
 
"I drew the ace of hearts," he said, his voice low and rough. "I go first."
 
Menaka inclined her head. "Then take what's yours, Colonel sahib."
 
Singh's hand rose to her face, his fingers tracing her jawline, her cheek, the curve of her ear. He was gentle—surprisingly so, for a man who had spent decades in the army. But there was steel beneath the gentleness, a controlled strength that promised violence held in check.
 
"Beautiful," he murmured. "You are beautiful."
 
Then his hand moved to her neck, and his grip tightened.
 
Not enough to hurt. Enough to command.
 
"On your knees."
 
Menaka sank to the concrete floor, the red saree pooling around her like spilled wine. Singh stood over her, his kurta brushing against her forehead. She could see the outline of his cock through the fabric, thick and half-hard, waiting.
 
"Open it," he said.
 
Her fingers found the drawstring of his pajamas. She pulled, and the fabric fell away. His cock sprang free—not as thick as Dara's, not as long as Banke's, but respectable. Circumcised. Clean. The kind of cock that belonged to a man who took care of himself.
 
Menaka wrapped her fingers around it and looked up at Singh.
 
"Permission to proceed, Colonel sahib?"
 
A murmur of laughter from the men watching. Singh's lips twitched.
 
"Granted."
 
She took him in her mouth.