29-07-2026, 06:43 PM
His cock jerked violently at the memory, the heavy one-kilo weight swinging forward and back, tugging mercilessly at his stretched sac. Another thick rope of pre-cum slid free, stretching long before snapping to join the growing puddle beneath him. The plug shifted inside with every clench, pressing right against that spot that made his thighs shake.
“By the pool… daytime… she was in that tiny red bikini… we snuck behind the changing cabanas… I pinned her against the wall… legs around my waist… fucked her standing… her bikini bottoms shoved to the side… she bit my shoulder to stay quiet… I lasted longer that time… maybe five minutes… but still… I finished inside her again… felt her clench around me… but she didn’t come… not really…”
Deepa’s breathing grew ragged beside him—short, needy pants. Her hands, clasped behind her back, flexed and unflexed as if fighting the urge to touch herself. The slap-marks on her face had deepened to angry purple-red; she looked wrecked, beautiful, utterly owned.
Mohan swallowed hard, voice dropping lower.
“In the shower… every morning… she’d soap me up… her hands everywhere… then she’d drop to her knees… suck me slow… but I’d always pull her up… bend her over… take her against the tiles… water running down us… I’d grip her hips so hard I left bruises… came on her ass… watched it swirl down the drain with the suds…”
He paused, chest heaving. The room was silent except for the faint wet sounds of his leaking cock and Deepa’s shallow breaths.
“On the balcony… late night… city lights below… she leaned over the railing… dress hiked up… no panties… I fucked her from behind again… slow at first… then faster… her hair in my fist… she whispered my name like a prayer… I tried to make it last… really tried… but the way she pushed back… fuck… I lost it… pulled out at the last second… came across her thighs… she shivered… said it felt good… but I knew… I knew she was faking the moans by the end of the week…”
His voice broke on the last word. Shame burned hotter than the welts on his ass.
Shamita leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, gloved hands clasped under her chin. Her eyes—dark, unreadable—traveled slowly over his trembling body: the broad shoulders slick with sweat, the thick arms locked behind his back, the brutally weighted cock straining upward, the plug stretching him open, the wedding ring still glinting on his finger like a cruel joke.
“Everywhere,” she repeated softly, tasting the word. “And yet… nowhere that mattered. You used her body like a convenience, Mohan. Pumped your need into her and left her wanting. Again. And again.”
She rose, heels clicking once, twice, as she closed the distance. She stopped directly in front of him—close enough that he could smell her perfume, spiced and commanding.
“Look at me.”
It was the first time she’d ordered it.
Mohan’s head lifted slowly, reluctantly. His eyes—wide, glassy, pupils blown—met hers. The weight pulled harder as his posture shifted; he bit back a groan.
Shamita reached down, gloved fingers curling under his chin, tilting his face higher.
“You’re going to tell me the rest,” she said, voice velvet over steel. “Every single time you failed her. Every time you came too soon, pulled out too early, left her aching. And when you’re done… you’re going to thank me for showing you what real control feels like.”
Her thumb brushed across his lower lip—slow, deliberate—smearing the remnants of Deepa’s slick even further.
“Then,” she continued, “I’m going to let Deepa ride that pathetic, over-eager cock of yours… but only after I’ve edged you until you’re sobbing. And you will not come until I say. Not until you’ve earned it.”
She released him, letting his head drop again.
Deepa let out a tiny, broken sound beside him—half moan, half plea.
Shamita returned to her chair, settling in like a queen.
“Continue,” she commanded.
Mohan’s entire body shuddered.
He opened his mouth.
And started again.
Mohan’s broad shoulders began to shake. The first tear slipped free, carving a clean path through the dried streaks of Deepa’s arousal on his cheek. Then another. His voice cracked, thick with shame and something rawer—regret that had been festering for months.
“Ma’am… I feel so bad… I couldn’t satisfy her. Not the way she deserved.”
He sucked in a ragged breath, chest hitching. The heavy cock ring pulled downward with every tremor, the one-kilo weight swinging like a cruel reminder between his spread thighs. His cock—still brutally hard, still leaking—bobbed helplessly, pre-cum dripping in slow, steady strings to the marble below.
“So… after I came… every single time… I gave her oral. I fingered her. I—I buried my face between her legs… licked her clean… sucked her clit until she arched… pushed two fingers, then three inside her… curled them the way she liked… made her come around my hand, around my tongue… I wanted to satisfy her… I could with my mouth and fingers… she’d moan my name, pull my hair, shake… she’d come hard… but…”
His words dissolved into a broken sob. Tears fell freely now, splashing onto his thighs, mixing with the sweat and pre-cum. The plug in his ass shifted as his muscles clenched in distress, pressing mercilessly against his prostate and forcing another involuntary twitch from his trapped erection.
“But she needed… a better performance. She needed me to last. To fuck her properly. Not just… clean up after myself like some… some pathetic boy who can’t control his own cock.”
The sobs came harder—deep, wrenching sounds that made his whole body rock forward on his knees. The weighted ring jerked with each movement, stretching his balls tighter, the pain sharp enough to cut through the haze of humiliation but not enough to soften his agonizing arousal.
Deepa, kneeling beside him, stayed perfectly still—hands locked behind her back, face still flushed and swollen from Shamita’s slaps—but her own breathing had turned shallow, eyes fixed on Mohan’s tear-streaked face. A fresh trickle of her arousal slid down the inside of her thigh, visible even in the low light. She bit her lower lip hard enough to leave marks, but she didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move without permission.
Shamita watched in silence for a long moment, letting Mohan’s sobs fill the room like music. Then she rose—slow, deliberate—heels clicking across the marble until she stood directly in front of him again.
She crouched gracefully, bringing her face level with his bowed head. One gloved hand reached out, cupping his wet cheek—not gently, but firmly. Her thumb brushed away a tear, then pressed into the soft skin under his eye, forcing him to look up at her through blurred vision.
“You’re crying because you know the truth, Mohan,” she said quietly, voice low and intimate, like a secret shared between lovers. “You weren’t enough for her. Your cock failed her. Your stamina failed her. You had to use your mouth and fingers like crutches because the main event was over before it began.”
She tilted his chin higher, making him meet her gaze fully now—eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown, tears still falling.
“And yet here you are… on your knees in front of two women who don’t belong to you… cock harder than it’s ever been… ass plugged, balls weighted, face painted with another woman’s cunt… leaking like a faucet just from confessing how badly you disappointed your wife.”
Her gloved fingers slid down, tracing the line of his jaw, then lower—over his throat, feeling the frantic pulse there—until she wrapped them loosely around the front of his neck. Not choking. Just holding. Possessing.
“You’re going to keep crying,” she murmured. “Let it all out. Every tear you should have shed the first time you left her unsatisfied. Every sob for every time you came too soon and pretended it was enough.”
She tightened her grip just enough to make his breath hitch.
“And while you cry… you’re going to thank me. For every failure you’re confessing tonight. For every time you’re going to be edged, denied, used, and still not allowed to come until I decide you’ve earned the right to feel what real satisfaction looks like.”
Mohan’s sobs quieted into shuddering gasps. He nodded—small, frantic—tears still streaming.
“Thank you… Ma’am…” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Thank you… for—for letting me… confess…”
Shamita’s lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile.
“Good boy.”
She released his throat and stood, stepping back to survey him: the proud bodybuilder reduced to a sobbing, leaking, trembling mess—wedding ring mocking him from his finger, plug stretching him open, weight dragging him down, face a ruin of tears and shame.
She glanced at Deepa.
“Deepa. Fetch the edging wand. The one with the variable settings. We’re going to see how many times we can bring him right to the edge before those tears turn into begging.”
Deepa rose silently, cheeks still burning red, and moved toward the inner room on unsteady legs.
Shamita settled back into her chair, crossing her legs once more.
“Crawl to me, Mohan,” she said softly. “Knees and palms. Keep crying. Keep thanking me. And when you reach my feet… kiss them. Show me how grateful you are that I’m finally going to teach you what it means to satisfy someone properly.”
Mohan’s body obeyed before his mind could catch up.
He dropped forward onto all fours—the heavy weight swinging painfully between his legs, the plug shifting deeper with every movement—and began to crawl.
Still sobbing.
Still thanking her.
Still harder than he’d ever been in his life.
Deepa returned from the inner room on silent feet, the variable-speed edging wand clutched in one hand like a sacred implement—black, sleek, thick silicone head already humming faintly on its lowest setting as she approached. Her face was still flushed and swollen from the slaps, cheeks puffy and hot, lips parted in shallow breaths. But Shamita didn’t let her get close yet.
Shamita rose smoothly from her chair, gloved hand extended in silent command. Deepa froze mid-step.
“Give it to me,” Shamita said, voice low.
Deepa handed over the wand without hesitation. Shamita set it carefully on the arm of the chair—out of Mohan’s immediate reach—then turned her full attention to the younger woman.
Without a word, Shamita hooked two gloved fingers under the thin strings at Deepa’s hips. The soaked black triangle peeled away from her cunt with a wet, obscene sound—fabric clinging stubbornly to swollen, glistening folds before finally releasing. A thick strand of her arousal stretched and snapped, landing on Deepa’s inner thigh like a silver thread.
Deepa shivered violently, knees buckling for half a second, but she stayed upright—trained, obedient.
Shamita held the dripping thong up between thumb and forefinger, letting Mohan see how saturated it was: the lace darkened almost to black, heavy with her juices, the scent sharp and heady even from where he knelt.
She stepped forward, crouched once more in front of Mohan—still on all fours, still sobbing quietly—and gripped his jaw with her free hand, forcing his mouth open wide.
“Open wider, dog.”
Mohan obeyed instantly, tears still streaming, tongue flat and waiting.
“By the pool… daytime… she was in that tiny red bikini… we snuck behind the changing cabanas… I pinned her against the wall… legs around my waist… fucked her standing… her bikini bottoms shoved to the side… she bit my shoulder to stay quiet… I lasted longer that time… maybe five minutes… but still… I finished inside her again… felt her clench around me… but she didn’t come… not really…”
Deepa’s breathing grew ragged beside him—short, needy pants. Her hands, clasped behind her back, flexed and unflexed as if fighting the urge to touch herself. The slap-marks on her face had deepened to angry purple-red; she looked wrecked, beautiful, utterly owned.
Mohan swallowed hard, voice dropping lower.
“In the shower… every morning… she’d soap me up… her hands everywhere… then she’d drop to her knees… suck me slow… but I’d always pull her up… bend her over… take her against the tiles… water running down us… I’d grip her hips so hard I left bruises… came on her ass… watched it swirl down the drain with the suds…”
He paused, chest heaving. The room was silent except for the faint wet sounds of his leaking cock and Deepa’s shallow breaths.
“On the balcony… late night… city lights below… she leaned over the railing… dress hiked up… no panties… I fucked her from behind again… slow at first… then faster… her hair in my fist… she whispered my name like a prayer… I tried to make it last… really tried… but the way she pushed back… fuck… I lost it… pulled out at the last second… came across her thighs… she shivered… said it felt good… but I knew… I knew she was faking the moans by the end of the week…”
His voice broke on the last word. Shame burned hotter than the welts on his ass.
Shamita leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, gloved hands clasped under her chin. Her eyes—dark, unreadable—traveled slowly over his trembling body: the broad shoulders slick with sweat, the thick arms locked behind his back, the brutally weighted cock straining upward, the plug stretching him open, the wedding ring still glinting on his finger like a cruel joke.
“Everywhere,” she repeated softly, tasting the word. “And yet… nowhere that mattered. You used her body like a convenience, Mohan. Pumped your need into her and left her wanting. Again. And again.”
She rose, heels clicking once, twice, as she closed the distance. She stopped directly in front of him—close enough that he could smell her perfume, spiced and commanding.
“Look at me.”
It was the first time she’d ordered it.
Mohan’s head lifted slowly, reluctantly. His eyes—wide, glassy, pupils blown—met hers. The weight pulled harder as his posture shifted; he bit back a groan.
Shamita reached down, gloved fingers curling under his chin, tilting his face higher.
“You’re going to tell me the rest,” she said, voice velvet over steel. “Every single time you failed her. Every time you came too soon, pulled out too early, left her aching. And when you’re done… you’re going to thank me for showing you what real control feels like.”
Her thumb brushed across his lower lip—slow, deliberate—smearing the remnants of Deepa’s slick even further.
“Then,” she continued, “I’m going to let Deepa ride that pathetic, over-eager cock of yours… but only after I’ve edged you until you’re sobbing. And you will not come until I say. Not until you’ve earned it.”
She released him, letting his head drop again.
Deepa let out a tiny, broken sound beside him—half moan, half plea.
Shamita returned to her chair, settling in like a queen.
“Continue,” she commanded.
Mohan’s entire body shuddered.
He opened his mouth.
And started again.
Mohan’s broad shoulders began to shake. The first tear slipped free, carving a clean path through the dried streaks of Deepa’s arousal on his cheek. Then another. His voice cracked, thick with shame and something rawer—regret that had been festering for months.
“Ma’am… I feel so bad… I couldn’t satisfy her. Not the way she deserved.”
He sucked in a ragged breath, chest hitching. The heavy cock ring pulled downward with every tremor, the one-kilo weight swinging like a cruel reminder between his spread thighs. His cock—still brutally hard, still leaking—bobbed helplessly, pre-cum dripping in slow, steady strings to the marble below.
“So… after I came… every single time… I gave her oral. I fingered her. I—I buried my face between her legs… licked her clean… sucked her clit until she arched… pushed two fingers, then three inside her… curled them the way she liked… made her come around my hand, around my tongue… I wanted to satisfy her… I could with my mouth and fingers… she’d moan my name, pull my hair, shake… she’d come hard… but…”
His words dissolved into a broken sob. Tears fell freely now, splashing onto his thighs, mixing with the sweat and pre-cum. The plug in his ass shifted as his muscles clenched in distress, pressing mercilessly against his prostate and forcing another involuntary twitch from his trapped erection.
“But she needed… a better performance. She needed me to last. To fuck her properly. Not just… clean up after myself like some… some pathetic boy who can’t control his own cock.”
The sobs came harder—deep, wrenching sounds that made his whole body rock forward on his knees. The weighted ring jerked with each movement, stretching his balls tighter, the pain sharp enough to cut through the haze of humiliation but not enough to soften his agonizing arousal.
Deepa, kneeling beside him, stayed perfectly still—hands locked behind her back, face still flushed and swollen from Shamita’s slaps—but her own breathing had turned shallow, eyes fixed on Mohan’s tear-streaked face. A fresh trickle of her arousal slid down the inside of her thigh, visible even in the low light. She bit her lower lip hard enough to leave marks, but she didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move without permission.
Shamita watched in silence for a long moment, letting Mohan’s sobs fill the room like music. Then she rose—slow, deliberate—heels clicking across the marble until she stood directly in front of him again.
She crouched gracefully, bringing her face level with his bowed head. One gloved hand reached out, cupping his wet cheek—not gently, but firmly. Her thumb brushed away a tear, then pressed into the soft skin under his eye, forcing him to look up at her through blurred vision.
“You’re crying because you know the truth, Mohan,” she said quietly, voice low and intimate, like a secret shared between lovers. “You weren’t enough for her. Your cock failed her. Your stamina failed her. You had to use your mouth and fingers like crutches because the main event was over before it began.”
She tilted his chin higher, making him meet her gaze fully now—eyes red-rimmed, pupils blown, tears still falling.
“And yet here you are… on your knees in front of two women who don’t belong to you… cock harder than it’s ever been… ass plugged, balls weighted, face painted with another woman’s cunt… leaking like a faucet just from confessing how badly you disappointed your wife.”
Her gloved fingers slid down, tracing the line of his jaw, then lower—over his throat, feeling the frantic pulse there—until she wrapped them loosely around the front of his neck. Not choking. Just holding. Possessing.
“You’re going to keep crying,” she murmured. “Let it all out. Every tear you should have shed the first time you left her unsatisfied. Every sob for every time you came too soon and pretended it was enough.”
She tightened her grip just enough to make his breath hitch.
“And while you cry… you’re going to thank me. For every failure you’re confessing tonight. For every time you’re going to be edged, denied, used, and still not allowed to come until I decide you’ve earned the right to feel what real satisfaction looks like.”
Mohan’s sobs quieted into shuddering gasps. He nodded—small, frantic—tears still streaming.
“Thank you… Ma’am…” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Thank you… for—for letting me… confess…”
Shamita’s lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile.
“Good boy.”
She released his throat and stood, stepping back to survey him: the proud bodybuilder reduced to a sobbing, leaking, trembling mess—wedding ring mocking him from his finger, plug stretching him open, weight dragging him down, face a ruin of tears and shame.
She glanced at Deepa.
“Deepa. Fetch the edging wand. The one with the variable settings. We’re going to see how many times we can bring him right to the edge before those tears turn into begging.”
Deepa rose silently, cheeks still burning red, and moved toward the inner room on unsteady legs.
Shamita settled back into her chair, crossing her legs once more.
“Crawl to me, Mohan,” she said softly. “Knees and palms. Keep crying. Keep thanking me. And when you reach my feet… kiss them. Show me how grateful you are that I’m finally going to teach you what it means to satisfy someone properly.”
Mohan’s body obeyed before his mind could catch up.
He dropped forward onto all fours—the heavy weight swinging painfully between his legs, the plug shifting deeper with every movement—and began to crawl.
Still sobbing.
Still thanking her.
Still harder than he’d ever been in his life.
Deepa returned from the inner room on silent feet, the variable-speed edging wand clutched in one hand like a sacred implement—black, sleek, thick silicone head already humming faintly on its lowest setting as she approached. Her face was still flushed and swollen from the slaps, cheeks puffy and hot, lips parted in shallow breaths. But Shamita didn’t let her get close yet.
Shamita rose smoothly from her chair, gloved hand extended in silent command. Deepa froze mid-step.
“Give it to me,” Shamita said, voice low.
Deepa handed over the wand without hesitation. Shamita set it carefully on the arm of the chair—out of Mohan’s immediate reach—then turned her full attention to the younger woman.
Without a word, Shamita hooked two gloved fingers under the thin strings at Deepa’s hips. The soaked black triangle peeled away from her cunt with a wet, obscene sound—fabric clinging stubbornly to swollen, glistening folds before finally releasing. A thick strand of her arousal stretched and snapped, landing on Deepa’s inner thigh like a silver thread.
Deepa shivered violently, knees buckling for half a second, but she stayed upright—trained, obedient.
Shamita held the dripping thong up between thumb and forefinger, letting Mohan see how saturated it was: the lace darkened almost to black, heavy with her juices, the scent sharp and heady even from where he knelt.
She stepped forward, crouched once more in front of Mohan—still on all fours, still sobbing quietly—and gripped his jaw with her free hand, forcing his mouth open wide.
“Open wider, dog.”
Mohan obeyed instantly, tears still streaming, tongue flat and waiting.
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