30-07-2026, 06:32 PM
The wand’s low buzz still hummed against the base of the plug, sending relentless waves through Mohan’s prostate. His cock—dark, veined, impossibly swollen—throbbed in Deepa’s slick fist, the head glistening, slit weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that she smeared back down the shaft with every slow, torturous stroke. He had held on longer than he thought possible: minutes of agonizing build-up, body trembling, tears streaming, the stuffed thong still packed in his mouth making every muffled sob and whimper sound wet and pathetic. The weighted ring pulled mercilessly downward, stretching his balls to a constant, burning ache, but the edge was right there—white-hot, terrifyingly close. One more stroke, one more tug, and he would spill.
Slaaaaaat.
The leather glove cracked across Deepa’s face with vicious force—open palm this time, full power. The sound was wet and meaty, like a slap on raw meat. Deepa’s head snapped sideways so hard her body lurched, one knee sliding out from under her. She caught herself on Mohan’s thigh with a gasp, fingers digging into his skin, leaving red crescents. Her already swollen cheek bloomed instantly—fresh crimson layering over the purple from earlier, the skin hot and buzzing, eye watering, lip split at the corner with a thin bead of blood.
Shamita loomed over her, gloved hand still raised, chest rising and falling with controlled fury.
“You fucking hungry slut,” she snarled, voice low and venomous, every word dripping contempt. “Don’t you understand when to edge him and when to fucking stop? Didn’t I teach you, you whore, when you milked your uncle right here in this same room? Tu madarchod sirf chodna chahiye—bas chudai ke liye bani hai, control nahi seekh sakti?”
Deepa’s breath hitched—half sob, half moan. She didn’t flinch away. Instead she straightened slowly, trembling, eyes glassy with tears and something darker: shame-fueled arousal. Her bare cunt dripped openly now, a thin trail sliding down her inner thigh, pooling on the marble. The strapless top had slipped further; both breasts were fully exposed, nipples painfully hard, chest flushed red from the humiliation.
“Ma’am… I’m sorry…” she whispered, voice cracked and small.
Shamita grabbed her by the hair—fist twisting at the roots—and yanked her head back until Deepa’s throat arched, exposed and vulnerable.
“Sorry isn’t enough,” Shamita hissed. “You almost let him come without permission. You think your greedy little cunt gets to decide when he spills? You think because you’re dripping like a bitch in heat that you can override my rules?”
She released Deepa’s hair with a rough shove that sent the younger woman rocking forward again. Then Shamita turned to Mohan—still on all fours, still sucking desperately at the thong in his mouth, still teetering on that razor’s edge, cock twitching violently in the sudden absence of Deepa’s hand.
“Look at him,” Shamita said, voice suddenly calm, almost tender. She crouched beside Mohan, gloved fingers trailing lightly down his sweat-slick spine until she reached the plug. She gave it a slow twist—clockwise—making him arch and whine around the fabric gag. “He’s been such a good dog. Cried for his wife. Confessed every failure. Sucked your filthy juices dry like I told him. And you almost ruined it because you can’t keep your whore hands patient.”
She clicked the wand off. The sudden silence was deafening—only Mohan’s ragged, muffled breathing and the soft drip of pre-cum hitting the floor.
Shamita stood, towering over both of them.
“Deepa,” she said quietly. “Hands behind your back. Kneel properly. You’re going to watch now. No touching. No speaking. If you so much as twitch toward that dripping cunt of yours, I’ll tie you spread-eagle to the dining table and let the Hitachi run on low against your clit for the next two hours without letting you come. Understood?”
Deepa nodded frantically, fresh tears spilling. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Shamita picked up the edging wand again—this time setting it to a medium pulse, not the teasing low buzz. She knelt behind Mohan, pressing the vibrating head firmly against the flared base of the plug once more, right where it stretched him widest.
Mohan’s whole body seized—a high, broken sound muffled by the thong.
Shamita’s other gloved hand wrapped around his cock—firmer than Deepa had managed, grip perfect, knowledgeable. She began to stroke: slow, deliberate, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb pressing into the frenulum on the downstroke. No mercy. No hesitation.
“You’re going to hold it, Mohan,” she murmured against his ear, voice soft now, almost loving. “You’re going to stay right on this edge for me. Cry harder if you have to. Beg around that slut’s thong if you need to. But you do not come until I say. This cock belongs to me tonight. This orgasm—if you earn it—belongs to me.”
She sped up fractionally—just enough to make his hips jerk helplessly forward, the heavy weight swinging wildly, balls aching, prostate buzzing under the relentless vibration.
Deepa watched from her knees, face burning, cunt clenching on nothing, hands locked so tightly behind her back that her knuckles whitened. She bit her split lip until fresh blood welled, but she didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
Mohan sobbed around the gag—tears pouring, body shaking, cock throbbing in Shamita’s expert grip
The edge sharpened.
Held.
And held.
Shamita smiled—slow, cruel, satisfied.
“Good dog,” she whispered.
And kept stroking.
Shamita’s voice cut through the heavy air like a blade.
“You slut,” she said, calm now, almost bored. “Do what you like. Lick the floor clean. Every drop of his pre-cum, every bit of your dripping cunt juice. I don’t want a single fucking speck left on my marble. Crawl. Tongue out. Like the filthy animal you are.”
Deepa’s eyes widened—shock flickering for half a second—then dropped immediately. She lowered herself forward onto hands and knees beside Mohan, ass high, breasts swaying free from the ruined strapless top. The fresh slap-marks on her face throbbed visibly, but she didn’t hesitate. Her tongue darted out—pink, wet, trembling—and touched the first glistening puddle beneath Mohan’s cock.
The taste hit her: salty, musky, a mix of his endless pre-cum and her own earlier slick that had dripped from the thong before Shamita stuffed it in his mouth. She lapped slowly at first, broad strokes, gathering the thick strings of fluid into her mouth, swallowing with audible gulps. Her cheeks burned hotter with every humiliating lap.
Whaaaaaaaaaaack.
The leather glove cracked across both of Deepa’s exposed breasts at once—hard, simultaneous, the impact flattening the soft flesh for a split second before it bounced back, nipples hardening instantly from the sting. Red welts bloomed in perfect glove-prints across the undersides and tops, the skin flushing angry crimson.
Slaaaaaat.
The leather glove cracked across Deepa’s face with vicious force—open palm this time, full power. The sound was wet and meaty, like a slap on raw meat. Deepa’s head snapped sideways so hard her body lurched, one knee sliding out from under her. She caught herself on Mohan’s thigh with a gasp, fingers digging into his skin, leaving red crescents. Her already swollen cheek bloomed instantly—fresh crimson layering over the purple from earlier, the skin hot and buzzing, eye watering, lip split at the corner with a thin bead of blood.
Shamita loomed over her, gloved hand still raised, chest rising and falling with controlled fury.
“You fucking hungry slut,” she snarled, voice low and venomous, every word dripping contempt. “Don’t you understand when to edge him and when to fucking stop? Didn’t I teach you, you whore, when you milked your uncle right here in this same room? Tu madarchod sirf chodna chahiye—bas chudai ke liye bani hai, control nahi seekh sakti?”
Deepa’s breath hitched—half sob, half moan. She didn’t flinch away. Instead she straightened slowly, trembling, eyes glassy with tears and something darker: shame-fueled arousal. Her bare cunt dripped openly now, a thin trail sliding down her inner thigh, pooling on the marble. The strapless top had slipped further; both breasts were fully exposed, nipples painfully hard, chest flushed red from the humiliation.
“Ma’am… I’m sorry…” she whispered, voice cracked and small.
Shamita grabbed her by the hair—fist twisting at the roots—and yanked her head back until Deepa’s throat arched, exposed and vulnerable.
“Sorry isn’t enough,” Shamita hissed. “You almost let him come without permission. You think your greedy little cunt gets to decide when he spills? You think because you’re dripping like a bitch in heat that you can override my rules?”
She released Deepa’s hair with a rough shove that sent the younger woman rocking forward again. Then Shamita turned to Mohan—still on all fours, still sucking desperately at the thong in his mouth, still teetering on that razor’s edge, cock twitching violently in the sudden absence of Deepa’s hand.
“Look at him,” Shamita said, voice suddenly calm, almost tender. She crouched beside Mohan, gloved fingers trailing lightly down his sweat-slick spine until she reached the plug. She gave it a slow twist—clockwise—making him arch and whine around the fabric gag. “He’s been such a good dog. Cried for his wife. Confessed every failure. Sucked your filthy juices dry like I told him. And you almost ruined it because you can’t keep your whore hands patient.”
She clicked the wand off. The sudden silence was deafening—only Mohan’s ragged, muffled breathing and the soft drip of pre-cum hitting the floor.
Shamita stood, towering over both of them.
“Deepa,” she said quietly. “Hands behind your back. Kneel properly. You’re going to watch now. No touching. No speaking. If you so much as twitch toward that dripping cunt of yours, I’ll tie you spread-eagle to the dining table and let the Hitachi run on low against your clit for the next two hours without letting you come. Understood?”
Deepa nodded frantically, fresh tears spilling. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Shamita picked up the edging wand again—this time setting it to a medium pulse, not the teasing low buzz. She knelt behind Mohan, pressing the vibrating head firmly against the flared base of the plug once more, right where it stretched him widest.
Mohan’s whole body seized—a high, broken sound muffled by the thong.
Shamita’s other gloved hand wrapped around his cock—firmer than Deepa had managed, grip perfect, knowledgeable. She began to stroke: slow, deliberate, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb pressing into the frenulum on the downstroke. No mercy. No hesitation.
“You’re going to hold it, Mohan,” she murmured against his ear, voice soft now, almost loving. “You’re going to stay right on this edge for me. Cry harder if you have to. Beg around that slut’s thong if you need to. But you do not come until I say. This cock belongs to me tonight. This orgasm—if you earn it—belongs to me.”
She sped up fractionally—just enough to make his hips jerk helplessly forward, the heavy weight swinging wildly, balls aching, prostate buzzing under the relentless vibration.
Deepa watched from her knees, face burning, cunt clenching on nothing, hands locked so tightly behind her back that her knuckles whitened. She bit her split lip until fresh blood welled, but she didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
Mohan sobbed around the gag—tears pouring, body shaking, cock throbbing in Shamita’s expert grip
The edge sharpened.
Held.
And held.
Shamita smiled—slow, cruel, satisfied.
“Good dog,” she whispered.
And kept stroking.
Shamita’s voice cut through the heavy air like a blade.
“You slut,” she said, calm now, almost bored. “Do what you like. Lick the floor clean. Every drop of his pre-cum, every bit of your dripping cunt juice. I don’t want a single fucking speck left on my marble. Crawl. Tongue out. Like the filthy animal you are.”
Deepa’s eyes widened—shock flickering for half a second—then dropped immediately. She lowered herself forward onto hands and knees beside Mohan, ass high, breasts swaying free from the ruined strapless top. The fresh slap-marks on her face throbbed visibly, but she didn’t hesitate. Her tongue darted out—pink, wet, trembling—and touched the first glistening puddle beneath Mohan’s cock.
The taste hit her: salty, musky, a mix of his endless pre-cum and her own earlier slick that had dripped from the thong before Shamita stuffed it in his mouth. She lapped slowly at first, broad strokes, gathering the thick strings of fluid into her mouth, swallowing with audible gulps. Her cheeks burned hotter with every humiliating lap.
Whaaaaaaaaaaack.
The leather glove cracked across both of Deepa’s exposed breasts at once—hard, simultaneous, the impact flattening the soft flesh for a split second before it bounced back, nipples hardening instantly from the sting. Red welts bloomed in perfect glove-prints across the undersides and tops, the skin flushing angry crimson.
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