29-07-2026, 06:41 PM
“Details,” Deepa hissed, leaning over his shoulder so her hard nipples brushed his back through the thin strapless top. “Not tourist brochure shit. Tell Ma’am how your cock felt the first time it slid into your wife’s tight little cunt. Tell her how quick you came. Tell her if you thought about anyone else while you were fucking her.”
Mohan’s breath hitched. Sweat beaded along his hairline, trickling down his temple to mix with the dried remnants of Deepa’s slick still smeared across his cheeks and lips.
“Ma’am… she—she was on her back… legs wrapped around me… the bed-sheets were white… hotel room smelled like coconut oil and her perfume… I—I pushed in slow at first… she was so tight… wet… gripping me like she never wanted to let go…”
He paused, chest heaving. The plug felt impossibly bigger now, every word making his inner muscles flutter around it.
“I… I lasted maybe two minutes… maybe less… I tried to hold back but… fuck… the way she moaned my name… I came inside her… hard… filled her up… didn’t even ask if it was okay… just… lost it…”
Deepa’s laugh was soft, cruel. She reached between his legs from behind, fingers curling around the heavy weight and giving it a slow, deliberate tug downward. Mohan groaned low in his throat, knees sliding an inch apart on the marble as fresh pre-cum spilled.
“And did you make her come, Mohanji?” Deepa purred, twisting the word like a knife. “Or did your virgin newlywed cock just pump and dump like a selfish little boy?”
Mohan’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I… I don’t think so, Ma’am… she said it was okay… but I could tell… she didn’t… I tried to keep going but I was too sensitive… I—I pulled out too soon…”
Shamita finally spoke. One word. Quiet. Lethal.
“Pathetic.”
The single syllable landed harder than any whip.
Mohan flinched as if struck. His cock twitched violently, another thick bead of pre-cum sliding down the underside and dripping to join the small puddle beneath him.
Deepa stood up straight, twirling the tawse once in her hand.
“Keep going,” she said. “Tell Ma’am every embarrassing detail. How many times you fucked her that week. How many times you came before she did. How many times you jerked off in the shower thinking about someone else—someone who actually knows how to use a cock like yours.”
She stepped in front of him now, straddling his spread knees so the soaked triangle of her thong hovered inches from his face. The scent of her arousal was overwhelming—sharp, intoxicating.
“And if you hesitate again,” she added sweetly, “I’ll add another kilo to that pretty ring… and Ma’am will decide how many stripes your ass gets for every second you waste.”
Mohan’s entire body trembled—cock throbbing, ass burning, plug pressing, weight pulling, face smeared with another woman’s cunt.
He opened his mouth to continue.
And this time, he didn’t dare lift his eyes.
The air in the room thickened instantly, charged with the sharp crack of leather meeting skin.
Deepa had barely turned her body away from Mohan—still crouched, still smirking with that cruel little twist to her lips—when Shamita’s gloved hand lashed out like a whip. The back of the black leather glove connected with Deepa’s cheek in a resounding crack that echoed off the high ceilings. Deepa’s head snapped to the side, a spray of fine spit flying from her parted lips. Her strapless top slipped half an inch lower; one dark nipple popped free, stiff and exposed.
“How dare you ask the questions I am supposed to ask?”
Shamita’s voice was ice wrapped in velvet—calm, controlled, deadly. She didn’t raise her volume. She didn’t need to. The authority in every syllable made Mohan’s plugged ass clench involuntarily around the thick silicone, the weighted cock ring tugging harder as his body betrayed him with another helpless twitch.
Deepa froze, one hand instinctively rising to her stinging cheek. Her eyes—wide for a split second—dropped immediately to the floor. Submission flooded back into her posture like water finding its level.
Shamita stepped closer, towering over the younger woman in her heels. She lifted Deepa’s chin with two gloved fingers, forcing eye contact.
“Sorry, Mohan,” Shamita said, addressing him without ever looking away from Deepa. Her tone was almost gentle now, conversational, as if she were apologizing for a spilled drink. “She’s still under my training. My little protégé. Eager. Hungry. But sometimes she forgets her place.”
Deepa’s breath came in shallow pants. Her cheek was already blooming crimson, the outline of Shamita’s glove fingers perfectly imprinted across the golden skin.
Shamita released her chin.
Then the glove came again.
Whack.
The forehand slap landed on the same cheek, harder, rocking Deepa’s head sideways.
Whack.
Backhand to the opposite side—clean, precise, the leather snapping against bone with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Whack.
Another forehand, this one catching the tender underside of Deepa’s jaw, lifting her face upward. The force made her breasts bounce inside the barely-there top; both nipples were fully out now, dark and pebbled, betraying how much her body responded even to punishment.
Deepa staggered half a step but didn’t fall. Her knees trembled, thighs slick with fresh arousal that darkened the tiny triangle between her legs even further. Her face was a mess of red—cheeks puffed and hot, lips swollen from the impact, eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. Yet beneath the sting, something hungry flickered: acceptance, almost gratitude.
She was used to this.
Shamita stepped back, flexing her gloved fingers once, twice, as if shaking off the effort.
“On your knees, Deepa,” she said quietly. “Next to him. Hands behind your back. Same position. Show Mohan how a well-trained slut behaves when she’s been corrected.”
Deepa sank immediately, knees hitting the marble beside Mohan with a soft thud. She mirrored his posture perfectly—back straight, chest out, hands clasped tight at the small of her back, eyes fixed on the floor. Her reddened face throbbed visibly; she breathed through parted lips, each inhale shaky. The soaked scrap of lace between her thighs clung obscenely, outlining every swollen fold.
Shamita circled them both slowly, heels clicking like a metronome of control.
“Mohan,” she said, stopping in front of him. She reached down and gripped his chin—gloved fingers cool against his overheated skin—tilting his face up just enough that he could see her without meeting her eyes directly. “You will continue your story. Exactly where you left off. Every pathetic detail. Every time you failed your pretty little wife in bed. And you will do it knowing that if you hesitate, stumble, or dare look anywhere but the floor… the next set of slaps won’t land on Deepa’s face.”
She released him, letting his head drop.
“They’ll land on yours.”
Mohan’s throat worked hard. His cock—still trapped in the heavy ring, still leaking steadily—jerked at the threat. The plug shifted inside him with every terrified swallow.
Deepa, beside him, let out the smallest, softest whimper—not of pain, but of anticipation.
Shamita settled back into her armchair, crossing her legs once more. The leather glove rested casually on her thigh, fingers drumming lightly.
“Begin,” she said.
And this time, the room held its breath.
Mohan’s voice cracked on the first word, raw from the strain of holding himself together.
“Ma’am… I—I fucked her everywhere that week…”
The admission hung heavy in the air. Deepa, kneeling beside him, let out a soft, involuntary whimper—her reddened cheeks still throbbing, nipples straining against the crumpled strapless top, the soaked triangle between her thighs now visibly dripping onto the marble. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak. Shamita’s gloved hand rested lightly on the arm of the chair, fingers flexing once as if remembering the sting they’d delivered.
Mohan kept his eyes glued to the floor, sweat rolling down his temples, mixing with the dried streaks of Deepa’s arousal still painted across his face.
“On the beach… at night… sand everywhere… she was on all fours, ass up, waves crashing… I took her from behind… hard… her moans drowned out by the ocean… I came so fast again… pulled out and painted her back… watched it drip down her spine while she trembled…”
Mohan’s breath hitched. Sweat beaded along his hairline, trickling down his temple to mix with the dried remnants of Deepa’s slick still smeared across his cheeks and lips.
“Ma’am… she—she was on her back… legs wrapped around me… the bed-sheets were white… hotel room smelled like coconut oil and her perfume… I—I pushed in slow at first… she was so tight… wet… gripping me like she never wanted to let go…”
He paused, chest heaving. The plug felt impossibly bigger now, every word making his inner muscles flutter around it.
“I… I lasted maybe two minutes… maybe less… I tried to hold back but… fuck… the way she moaned my name… I came inside her… hard… filled her up… didn’t even ask if it was okay… just… lost it…”
Deepa’s laugh was soft, cruel. She reached between his legs from behind, fingers curling around the heavy weight and giving it a slow, deliberate tug downward. Mohan groaned low in his throat, knees sliding an inch apart on the marble as fresh pre-cum spilled.
“And did you make her come, Mohanji?” Deepa purred, twisting the word like a knife. “Or did your virgin newlywed cock just pump and dump like a selfish little boy?”
Mohan’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I… I don’t think so, Ma’am… she said it was okay… but I could tell… she didn’t… I tried to keep going but I was too sensitive… I—I pulled out too soon…”
Shamita finally spoke. One word. Quiet. Lethal.
“Pathetic.”
The single syllable landed harder than any whip.
Mohan flinched as if struck. His cock twitched violently, another thick bead of pre-cum sliding down the underside and dripping to join the small puddle beneath him.
Deepa stood up straight, twirling the tawse once in her hand.
“Keep going,” she said. “Tell Ma’am every embarrassing detail. How many times you fucked her that week. How many times you came before she did. How many times you jerked off in the shower thinking about someone else—someone who actually knows how to use a cock like yours.”
She stepped in front of him now, straddling his spread knees so the soaked triangle of her thong hovered inches from his face. The scent of her arousal was overwhelming—sharp, intoxicating.
“And if you hesitate again,” she added sweetly, “I’ll add another kilo to that pretty ring… and Ma’am will decide how many stripes your ass gets for every second you waste.”
Mohan’s entire body trembled—cock throbbing, ass burning, plug pressing, weight pulling, face smeared with another woman’s cunt.
He opened his mouth to continue.
And this time, he didn’t dare lift his eyes.
The air in the room thickened instantly, charged with the sharp crack of leather meeting skin.
Deepa had barely turned her body away from Mohan—still crouched, still smirking with that cruel little twist to her lips—when Shamita’s gloved hand lashed out like a whip. The back of the black leather glove connected with Deepa’s cheek in a resounding crack that echoed off the high ceilings. Deepa’s head snapped to the side, a spray of fine spit flying from her parted lips. Her strapless top slipped half an inch lower; one dark nipple popped free, stiff and exposed.
“How dare you ask the questions I am supposed to ask?”
Shamita’s voice was ice wrapped in velvet—calm, controlled, deadly. She didn’t raise her volume. She didn’t need to. The authority in every syllable made Mohan’s plugged ass clench involuntarily around the thick silicone, the weighted cock ring tugging harder as his body betrayed him with another helpless twitch.
Deepa froze, one hand instinctively rising to her stinging cheek. Her eyes—wide for a split second—dropped immediately to the floor. Submission flooded back into her posture like water finding its level.
Shamita stepped closer, towering over the younger woman in her heels. She lifted Deepa’s chin with two gloved fingers, forcing eye contact.
“Sorry, Mohan,” Shamita said, addressing him without ever looking away from Deepa. Her tone was almost gentle now, conversational, as if she were apologizing for a spilled drink. “She’s still under my training. My little protégé. Eager. Hungry. But sometimes she forgets her place.”
Deepa’s breath came in shallow pants. Her cheek was already blooming crimson, the outline of Shamita’s glove fingers perfectly imprinted across the golden skin.
Shamita released her chin.
Then the glove came again.
Whack.
The forehand slap landed on the same cheek, harder, rocking Deepa’s head sideways.
Whack.
Backhand to the opposite side—clean, precise, the leather snapping against bone with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Whack.
Another forehand, this one catching the tender underside of Deepa’s jaw, lifting her face upward. The force made her breasts bounce inside the barely-there top; both nipples were fully out now, dark and pebbled, betraying how much her body responded even to punishment.
Deepa staggered half a step but didn’t fall. Her knees trembled, thighs slick with fresh arousal that darkened the tiny triangle between her legs even further. Her face was a mess of red—cheeks puffed and hot, lips swollen from the impact, eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. Yet beneath the sting, something hungry flickered: acceptance, almost gratitude.
She was used to this.
Shamita stepped back, flexing her gloved fingers once, twice, as if shaking off the effort.
“On your knees, Deepa,” she said quietly. “Next to him. Hands behind your back. Same position. Show Mohan how a well-trained slut behaves when she’s been corrected.”
Deepa sank immediately, knees hitting the marble beside Mohan with a soft thud. She mirrored his posture perfectly—back straight, chest out, hands clasped tight at the small of her back, eyes fixed on the floor. Her reddened face throbbed visibly; she breathed through parted lips, each inhale shaky. The soaked scrap of lace between her thighs clung obscenely, outlining every swollen fold.
Shamita circled them both slowly, heels clicking like a metronome of control.
“Mohan,” she said, stopping in front of him. She reached down and gripped his chin—gloved fingers cool against his overheated skin—tilting his face up just enough that he could see her without meeting her eyes directly. “You will continue your story. Exactly where you left off. Every pathetic detail. Every time you failed your pretty little wife in bed. And you will do it knowing that if you hesitate, stumble, or dare look anywhere but the floor… the next set of slaps won’t land on Deepa’s face.”
She released him, letting his head drop.
“They’ll land on yours.”
Mohan’s throat worked hard. His cock—still trapped in the heavy ring, still leaking steadily—jerked at the threat. The plug shifted inside him with every terrified swallow.
Deepa, beside him, let out the smallest, softest whimper—not of pain, but of anticipation.
Shamita settled back into her armchair, crossing her legs once more. The leather glove rested casually on her thigh, fingers drumming lightly.
“Begin,” she said.
And this time, the room held its breath.
Mohan’s voice cracked on the first word, raw from the strain of holding himself together.
“Ma’am… I—I fucked her everywhere that week…”
The admission hung heavy in the air. Deepa, kneeling beside him, let out a soft, involuntary whimper—her reddened cheeks still throbbing, nipples straining against the crumpled strapless top, the soaked triangle between her thighs now visibly dripping onto the marble. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak. Shamita’s gloved hand rested lightly on the arm of the chair, fingers flexing once as if remembering the sting they’d delivered.
Mohan kept his eyes glued to the floor, sweat rolling down his temples, mixing with the dried streaks of Deepa’s arousal still painted across his face.
“On the beach… at night… sand everywhere… she was on all fours, ass up, waves crashing… I took her from behind… hard… her moans drowned out by the ocean… I came so fast again… pulled out and painted her back… watched it drip down her spine while she trembled…”
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