Bijayini Dixit pressed her thumb deep into the muscle above her shoulder blade. The knot felt like a marble trapped under her skin. She winced, rolling her neck until it cracked. Saturday deadlift session had left her stiff as old leather. Sweat still clung to her tank top seams from her morning treadmill sprint. Across the gym floor, a guy paused mid-row. His eyes lingered on her stretching form before darting away.

“Problem?” Bijayini called out, voice sharp. He flinched, wiping palms on grey sweatpants. “Just…you looked uncomfortable,” he stammered. Up close, he smelled faintly of sandalwood oil. “My spa’s nearby,” he offered, shifting his weight. “Men only, but…” Bijayini arched an eyebrow. “So unlock it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay.”

The taxi’s suspension groaned over Bombay’s potholes. Bijayini’s breasts jostled beneath her thin sports bra. She caught his reflection—eyes glued to her chest, lips slightly parted. He jerked his gaze away, cheeks flushing crimson. She smiled slowly, deliberately rolling her shoulders back. His knuckles whitened gripping the seat fabric.

“Rough roads,” she murmured, watching his throat work. He mumbled agreement, sweat beading at his temple. When they lurched over a crater, her nipple grazed the tight fabric. His sharp inhale filled the cab. Bijayini let her thigh brush his, a fleeting pressure that made him stiffen. The scent of his nervousness—salt and sandalwood—mixed with diesel fumes through the open window.

The spa entrance was tucked behind a crumbling laundry service, its frosted glass door taped with a handwritten “Closed” sign. A shadow shifted inside before the lock clicked open. Towering in the doorway stood a man with skin like polished obsidian, muscles rippling beneath a thin white vest. “Tariq,” the first man introduced, voice tight. Tariq’s gaze swept over Bijayini, lingering on her collarbones. “Change of plan,” her companion whispered. Tariq’s slow nod echoed through the dim hallway.

Inside, the air hung thick with eucalyptus and damp concrete. Fluorescent lights flickered over cracked tiles. Bijayini’s guide—Rohan, he’d mumbled in the cab—gestured toward a curtained alcove. “Lie face down, please,” Tariq rumbled, his voice a low vibration that hummed in her ribs. As she stripped to her underwear and settled on the vinyl table, the chill raised goosebumps. Rohan’s fingers trembled slightly as he warmed oil between his palms. The first touch on her shoulder blade was tentative, then deepened into a kneading pressure that made her groan. Sandalwood bloomed in the air, earthy and sweet.

“Wait wait guys before you massage me you guys need to say about yourself and your martial status?” bijayini asked as she lay face down. Tariq’s hands paused on her lower back, thumbs digging into the dimples above her hips. “Single,” he answered, his baritone making the vinyl table vibrate beneath her. Rohan’s oil-slicked palms slid up her spine. “Divorced,” he murmured, his breath catching as his fingers traced her shoulder blade’s ridge. Bijayini hummed approval, arching into their touch. “Good. Now… deeper near the armpit.”

The scent of sandalwood thickened as Rohan worked oil into the taut cords of her neck. Bijayini tilted her head, catching Tariq’s reflection in the floor’s cracked tile sheen. His gaze was fixed on the curve where her waist dipped into her hips, fingers splayed possessively over her glistening skin. “Tariq,” she purred, making him startle. “You seem distracted. Watch much porn?” Rohan’s hands froze. Tariq’s thumb pressed hard into the swell of her left buttock. “Sometimes.” His voice had gone gravel rough.

Bijayini laughed, the sound echoing off the damp walls. “What’s your favorite genre, big man? Let me guess…” She shifted, letting her breast spill slightly against the vinyl. “Is it BBC? Bet you like seeing women worship that.” Tariq’s breath hitched—a sharp, audible rasp. His palm slid lower, tracing the edge of her underwear elastic. The oil made his touch glide like liquid heat. “Maybe,” he rumbled, kneading deeper as if testing her resolve. Beneath the table, his stance widened.

Rohan leaned closer, his knuckles brushing her flank. “Bijayini,” he murmured, voice unsteady. “Why… why are you asking this?” His fingers trembled against her ribs. She turned her head, catching his nervous gaze. “Curious,” she whispered, watching a bead of sweat trail from his temple. “You two are touching every inch of me. Shouldn’t I know whose hands I’m melting under?” She arched her back, pressing her ass flush against Tariq’s groin. The unmistakable hardness beneath his thin shorts met her skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Your turn.” Tariq’s voice was thick, his hands spreading oil over her lower back, thumbs dipping beneath her waistband. “What makes *you* wet?” Bijayini smiled into the vinyl. “Well.. I like to watch porn with small girls getting gangbanged by huge men.” The admission hung in the humid air, punctuated only by the slick slide of palms over skin. Rohan’s breath faltered near her ear. Tariq’s kneading slowed, his fingers curling possessively into the swell of her buttock. “But your boobs are not small, why you prefer watching small?” Bijayini chuckled, “Because I like watching those girls getting stretched.”

A low grunt escaped Tariq as his thumbs hooked under her underwear elastic, tugging it down just enough to expose the twin dimples above her ass. The oiled glide of his hands followed the curve, sliding lower until his fingertips brushed the outer swell of her asshole. Bijayini gasped, pushing back against the pressure. “Yes,” she hissed, feeling Rohan’s shaky exhale against her shoulder blade. His fingers traced her ribs, skating lower to graze the underside of her breast. The air crackled with sandalwood and sweat.

Rohan shifted closer, his grey sweatpants now mere inches from her face as he leaned over her back to massage her side. His knuckles bumped against the soft swell of her breast escaping the sports bra. The friction sent a jolt through her. “Careful,” she murmured, not meaning it. His thumb pressed deliberately into the fleshy curve beneath her armpit, his touch lingering on the sideboob. She tilted her head, her gaze level with the pronounced bulge tenting the thin fabric of his pants. It throbbed visibly, straining against the zipper, a thick vein tracing its length. She smiled slowly.

“Tell me,” Bijayini purred, her voice muffled against the vinyl. “What do you boys think of my boobs? What cup size would you guess?” Tariq’s oil-slicked hands stilled on her lower back. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of sandalwood and anticipation. Rohan’s breathing hitched above her. “Big,” he managed, his knuckles whitening where they gripped her waist. “Full.”

Tariq’s low chuckle vibrated through the table. “Guessing is for amateurs.” His thumb traced the edge of her sports bra strap. “Let me cup them. Then I’ll tell you.” His voice dropped to a rumble. “Properly.”

Rohan’s breath hitched as he leaned further over her back, his grey sweatpants now mere centimeters from her nose. The musky scent of his arousal mixed with sandalwood. His fingers worked along her ribcage, skimming the sensitive curve where her sideboob swelled against the vinyl. Each stroke sent electric jolts through her—deliberate, lingering. She could see the thick ridge in his pants pulsing, the fabric stretched taut over an unmistakable, veined outline. A bead of pre-cum darkened the grey cotton. Bijayini’s smile widened. “Go ahead, Tariq,” she murmured, her voice husky. “Show me how good you are at sizing things up.”

The big man’s hands moved with sudden confidence, sliding beneath her torso. In one fluid motion, he hooked his oil-slicked fingers under her sports bra clasp. The snap echoed in the humid room. Cool air prickled her skin as the fabric fell away. Tariq’s rough palms engulfed her breasts immediately, kneading the soft flesh with possessive pressure. “Heavy,” he grunted, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened into peaks. “Like ripe mangoes.” Bijayini arched, moaning as his calloused skin scraped deliciously against her sensitivity. Rohan’s knuckles brushed her cheek, his sweatpants tented obscenely close. She could see the damp spot spreading.

Tariq’s thumbs pressed deep into the swell of her cleavage, spreading warm oil. His fingers traced the underside, lifting and squeezing with rhythmic intensity. “Perfect handfuls,” he rasped, leaning close enough for her to feel his erection against her thigh. “C-cup?” Rohan stammered, transfixed by the jiggle of flesh under Tariq’s grip. Bijayini chuckled breathlessly. “Close. C+ but bra size is C.” Beneath her, the vinyl squeaked as she shifted, letting her nipple graze Tariq’s palm. He rolled the stiff peak between thumb and forefinger. A sharp gasp escaped her—half pleasure, half surprise—as the sensation shot straight to her core.

Rohan’s hands trembled against her inner thigh. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her skin as he worked upward, thumbs digging into the tense muscles above her knees. The scent of arousal thickened, mingling with sandalwood. His fingers drifted higher, skirting her underwear’s edge. Bijayini tensed instinctively. “Shhh, relax,” Rohan murmured, his voice fraying. His knuckles brushed damp curls. Then—slow, deliberate—his thumb parted her folds. A jolt ripped through her. She cried out, arching against Tariq’s kneading palms. Twin sensations collided: the rough play on her nipples, the slick intrusion below.

“Bijayini how about I remove your panty, I can massage there properly,” Rohan whispered, his slick thumb still circling her clit. She could feel the heat radiating from his groin against her thigh, that tented grey fabric pulsing with each shallow breath he took. “Yes,” she hissed, arching her hips upward. The elastic snapped down her thighs, leaving her exposed. Cool air hit her slick folds just as Tariq pinched her nipple hard—a sharp, delicious sting that made her cry out. The contrast was electric: rough hands claiming her breasts while Rohan’s fingers explored her wetness.

“You trimmed the hair? It looks smooth,” Rohan murmured as his oiled thumb parted Bijayini’s folds fully. His fingers traced the swollen petals, slick with her wetness. Tariq’s hands kneaded her breasts with rough expertise—palming the heavy flesh, rolling her nipples until they ached—while Bijayini gasped at the dual assault. The vinyl squeaked beneath her as she arched, pressing her tits deeper into Tariq’s calloused grip. His grey shorts strained against a thick, unmistakable bulge that throbbed with every movement.

Then Rohan part the folds a little and finished another bottle of oil inside her pussy. He poured oil on her pussy lips and rubbed around her clit. Then slowly he inserted the bottle tip and sprayed the oil inside. The cold and hot oil inside was stimulating. She moaned louder as he inserted his finger slowly inside her pussy. He kept pushing deeper while spreading her legs wider. Bijayini gasped at the fullness, arching against Tariq’s relentless kneading of her breasts. His thumbs dug into her soft flesh, circling her nipples until they burned—a delicious counterpoint to Rohan’s slow, slick invasion below. Oil dripped down her inner thighs as Rohan’s finger curled inside her, finding a spot that made her cry out. Tariq chuckled darkly, his shorts straining against an erection so thick the fabric seams threatened to split.

“Am I allowed to suck your beautiful nipples?” Tariq growled, his breath hot against Bijayini’s neck. Before she could answer, his lips closed over her right nipple, sucking hard—the sudden pressure drawing a gasp from her throat. His tongue swirled the stiff peak, rough and demanding. Rohan’s fingers plunged deeper inside her, curling upward to stroke that spongy spot that made her hips jerk. “Fuck!” Bijayini cried out, the word echoing off the damp concrete walls. Her fingers clawed at the vinyl as pleasure coiled tight in her belly.

Oil dripped steadily from Rohan’s knuckles onto the table. He added a second finger, stretching her with delicious friction. “So tight,” he murmured, watching her pussy swallow his fingers whole. His thumb pressed firm circles on her clit, matching Tariq’s relentless suckling. Bijayini writhed between them, her moans rising in pitch. She could feel Tariq’s erection grinding against her face exactly right—the thick ridge hot through his shorts, pressing against her cheekbone with each Suck.

Tariq switched breasts abruptly, sucking Bijayini’s left nipple deep into his mouth while his rough palm kneaded the other. Rohan now has started inserting 4 fingers inside Bijayini’s pussy stretching her slowly. Bijayini gasped as Rohan’s knuckles pressed against her stretched entrance. “Slow,” she breathed, but he didn’t stop—his thumb pressed hard on her clit while his other fingers curled deeper inside her, stretching her walls with slick, deliberate friction. The oil made every movement a wet glide, and she could feel the coolness of the liquid mixing with her own heat. Tariq bit down gently on her nipple, making her arch violently as pleasure and pain blurred together.

Rohan worked steadily, adding his fifth finger slowly, his palm now pressing against Bijayini’s swollen lips. “Relax,” he murmured, though his voice trembled as much as her thighs. The stretch burned deliciously—a full, aching pressure that made her moan into Tariq’s mouth. Tariq released her nipple with a wet pop, switching to the other breast to suckle just as hard. Bijayini’s hips rocked involuntarily, taking more of Rohan’s hand as he pushed deeper, his thumb never leaving her throbbing clit. Oil dripped onto the vinyl beneath them, pooling as her body yielded to the invasion.

“Tariq can I see your thing?” Bijayini gasped, her voice ragged. The big man pulled his mouth from her nipple, leaving a slick trail on her flushed skin. Beneath her, Rohan’s hand worked deeper—his palm now pressing against her stretched entrance, fingers curled upward to stroke that sweet, spongy spot inside. Every thrust sent jolts through her core.

Bijayini reached down blindly, her fingers brushing the straining fabric of Tariq’s shorts. She found the thick ridge, hot and pulsing beneath the damp cotton. “Take it out,” she demanded, tugging at his waistband. With a low growl, Tariq hooked his thumbs into his shorts and underwear, shoving them down his hips in one rough motion. His cock sprang free—a thick, flushed shaft that curved upward, veins standing proud against the rigid length. Eight inches of pure tension, glistening at the tip.

Rohan’s entire hand pressed deeper inside her now, his palm stretching her entrance impossibly wide. The oil slicked every inch, allowing him to sink to the wrist. Bijayini gasped, her inner muscles fluttering around his invading knuckles. The dual assault was overwhelming—Tariq sucking hard on her right nipple, his rough tongue circling the peak, while Rohan’s buried fingers curled upward, pressing relentlessly against that deep, spongy spot. Her hips bucked, desperate for friction against her clit, but Rohan’s thumb maintained its firm, maddening circles. Oil dripped steadily down her inner thighs onto the vinyl.

“Wow your thing is really big,” Bijayini gasped, staring at the thick cock bobbing inches from her face. Pre-cum glistened at its flushed tip, catching the flickering fluorescent light. The scent of musk and sandalwood thickened as Tariq shifted, letting the heavy shaft brush her cheek. Below, Rohan withdrew his oil-slicked hand from her pussy with a wet pop, leaving her gaping and clenching around emptiness. Cool air rushed over her stretched entrance. “Your hole is bigger,” Rohan murmured, tracing her swollen lips with a slick finger. “Ready for more?”

Before Bijayini could answer, Tariq gripped her hair, tilting her head back. His cockhead nudged her lips—hot, salty, demanding. She opened instinctively, tasting him as he pushed past her teeth. The thick girth stretched her jaw wide, muffling her groan. His hips rocked shallowly, feeding her inches while his thumb rubbed rough circles on her nipples. Sandalwood musk filled her nostrils with each ragged breath she took around his shaft. Below, Rohan’s fingers returned, plunging three oiled digits deep into her gaping pussy. The cold air had made her sensitive flesh tighten briefly, but his invasion forced a slick stretch that made her hips jerk upward.

“Good girl,” Tariq growled, thrusting deeper until her nose pressed against his pubic bone. Bijayini choked, tears pricking her eyes as she fought to take him. Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with pre-cum on her throat. Rohan now pushing his whole hand in and out slowly, stretching her pussy around his knuckles. Each withdrawal left her clenching at emptiness before his palm plunged back in. The slick sounds filled the humid room—wet smacks of flesh meeting flesh. Bijayini’s moans vibrated around Tariq’s shaft.

Rohan leaned close, his sweat dripping onto her inner thigh. “Can I?” he rasped, nodding toward her asshole. Before she could respond, his oiled thumb pressed against the tight pucker. Bijayini froze, her body tensing. “Relax,” Rohan urged, circling the rim with slick pressure. “Just a little…” He pushed gently. The burn flared sharp and bright as her muscle yielded. She cried out around Tariq’s cock, her nails digging into his thighs. Rohan’s thumb sank knuckle-deep, stretching her impossibly wider. Twin intrusions—Tariq’s thrusts down her throat, Rohan’s knuckles in her pussy, thumb in her ass—left her trembling.

Tariq’s hips stuttered. “Gonna—” he choked out. His cock swelled, pulsing hot against her tongue. Then salt flooded her mouth—thick spurts hitting the back of her throat. Bijayini gagged violently, coughing semen onto her chin and the vinyl below. Tariq withdrew, his cock glistening and slick. She gasped for air, throat raw, tasting bitterness. Rohan slowly pulled his hand free from her depths. Her pussy gaped, oil dripping onto the table. “Switch,” Tariq commanded, breathing hard. Bijayini turned onto her back, legs spread wide. Rohan positioned himself above her face, his stiff cock hovering near her lips. Tariq knelt between her thighs, his thick tip pressing against her stretched entrance.

Bijayini took Rohan’s cock into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked. He groaned, fingers tangling in her hair. Below, Tariq gripped her hips, the broad head of his cock nudging her slick folds. He pushed—slow, relentless—filling her with an aching thickness that made her cry out around Rohan’s shaft. Her inner walls stretched wide, still loose from Rohan’s fist, but Tariq’s girth was different—solid, demanding. She felt every ridge as he sank deeper. Rohan thrust shallowly into her mouth, his tip hitting the back of her throat. Tears blurred her vision as she struggled to breathe.

Tariq paused halfway, his breath ragged. He drew back slightly, then slammed forward. Bijayini arched violently, the sudden fullness stealing her breath. Rohan’s cock slipped from her lips as she gasped. Tariq gripped her hips tighter, driving into her with rough thrusts that shook the table. Each stroke dragged against her sensitive walls, igniting sparks deep in her belly. She clawed at the vinyl, moaning as Tariq’s pelvis slapped against her ass cheeks. Oil slicked their skin, making wet, rhythmic sounds echo in the humid room. Rohan leaned over her, pressing her breasts together with both hands. His thumbs rubbed her hardened nipples—rough circles that matched Tariq’s pounding rhythm.

Bijayini turned her head, catching Rohan’s cock hovering near her mouth. She took him in eagerly, sucking hard as he groaned. His salty pre-cum coated her tongue. Below, Tariq shifted his angle, grinding deeper against her cervix. The thick ridge of his cockhead rubbed that sweet spot with each thrust. Bijayini cried out around Rohan’s shaft, her thighs trembling. Oil dripped steadily from her stretched entrance onto the vinyl. Tariq’s pace quickened—short, brutal thrusts that left her breathless. His knuckles whitened where he gripped her hips.

Rohan pulled back, letting Bijayini gasp for air. “Harder,” she rasped, her throat raw. He slammed into her mouth again, his balls slapping her chin. Tariq leaned forward, pinning her legs wider. His sweat dripped onto her stomach as he drove into her relentlessly. Bijayini’s inner muscles fluttered—tightening, releasing—around his thick shaft. Her clit throbbed untouched, desperate for friction. She arched, trying to grind against him, but Tariq held her hips firmly against the table. Only his cock moved inside her, stretching her with each deep stroke.

The vinyl beneath her back grew slick with sweat and oil. Bijayini’s fingers scrabbled at Tariq’s wrists, leaving red streaks. “Touch me,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please—” Rohan pulled his cock from her mouth with a wet pop. He reached between her legs, his thumb finding her swollen clit. The sudden pressure made her cry out—sharp, desperate—as he rubbed rough circles. Tariq growled, plunging deeper. Her inner walls clenched hard around him, pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

“Rohan this is loose i think this can fit us both same time,” Tariq growled, his thick shaft buried deep as Bijayini’s pussy stretched around him. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her trembling stomach. Rohan’s thumb paused its rough circles on her clit. “You serious?” he breathed, eyes fixed on Bijayini’s gaping entrance, slick with oil and her own wetness. Tariq withdrew slowly—inch by thick inch—leaving her clenching at emptiness. “Watch,” he commanded, pressing two fingers inside alongside his cock. Bijayini gasped as the stretch intensified, her inner walls yielding around the intrusion. Oil seeped down her thighs.

Tariq withdrew completely, nodding at Rohan. “Your turn. Slide under.” Rohan scrambled beneath Bijayini’s raised hips, his back flat on the vinyl. She straddled his waist, feeling his stiff cock press against her ass. Tariq knelt before her, guiding his thick crown to her swollen lips. “Slow,” Bijayini whispered, but Tariq pushed relentlessly as Rohan’s cock nudged her back entrance. Bijayini froze—muscles tensing—as twin pressures mounted. Tariq’s thumb massaged her clit while Rohan spread her cheeks wide. The burn flared bright as Rohan’s tip breached her asshole. Bijayini cried out, arching backward onto him just as Tariq thrust deep into her pussy.

Oil eased the brutal stretch. Bijayini gasped at the impossible fullness—Rohan’s cock buried deep in her ass while Tariq’s thick shaft filled her front. Every breath made her aware of their dual presence, a heavy ache radiating through her pelvis. Tariq gripped her hips. “Move,” he commanded. She rocked tentatively, the friction igniting sparks across her nerves. Rohan groaned beneath her, his hands clutching her waist. Bijayini’s inner walls clenched rhythmically around Tariq, while her ass muscles fluttered against Rohan’s invasion. Sweat stung her eyes as she found a ragged rhythm—forward onto Tariq’s thrusts, back onto Rohan’s upward grind.

Rohan arched his hips sharply, driving deeper into her tightness. The sudden pressure forced a cry from Bijayini’s throat. Tariq seized the moment, matching Rohan’s pace with brutal precision. Their thrusts synchronized—each forward plunge by Tariq met Rohan’s upward surge. Bijayini trembled, suspended between them. Her clit throbbed untouched, desperate for relief. Sandalwood oil dripped down her inner thighs, mingling with sweat. The vinyl beneath them squeaked violently with each jarring movement.

Tariq’s thumb found her clit at last—rough circles that sent electric shocks through her core. Bijayini gasped, her head snapping back. “Harder!” she demanded, her voice raw. Rohan’s hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging bruises into her skin as he lifted her hips higher. The shift in angle made his cock drag against her inner walls. Bijayini’s thighs shook uncontrollably. Beneath her, Rohan groaned, his muscles straining. “Fuck, she’s clenching—” he panted. Tariq snarled in response, slamming deeper.

Their rhythm grew frantic. Bijayini’s world narrowed to the slap of skin, the mingled scents of musk and sandalwood oil, the slick sounds echoing off concrete walls. Sweat stung her eyes. Rohan’s thrusts grew shallow and urgent, his breath catching. “Gonna—” he choked out. Bijayini felt him pulse inside her ass, the heat blooming as he emptied himself in thick spurts. The sensation triggered her own climax—a violent wave that ripped through her, making her scream around the taste of salt and vinyl. Her pussy clamped down on Tariq’s shaft, milking him as he roared, hips jerking erratically. Hot cum flooded her core, mixing with cooling oil.

Her both holes seems full of cum. She felt sticky and sweaty as the two men pulled out, leaving her gaping and dripping onto the vinyl. Bijayini collapsed back, trembling, as rivulets of warm cum trickled down her thighs onto the oil-slicked table. Tariq stumbled to a nearby stool, his chest heaving, while Rohan slid out from beneath her hips to slump against the damp concrete wall. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of sweat, sex, and sandalwood oil—a heady, humid fog that coated the back of Bijayini’s throat. Her muscles twitched with aftershocks, every nerve ending still alight from the brutal fullness she’d endured.

Tariq wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, his eyes dark and satisfied as they raked over Bijayini’s sprawled form. “Fuck,” he rasped, voice raw. “You took every inch, girl.” Beside him, Rohan nodded, panting heavily as he traced the bruises blooming on Bijayini’s waist. “You are like a wild animal,” he murmured, thumb pressing into a particularly deep mark. Bijayini shuddered, the ache between her legs flaring as cum leaked steadily from her stretched pussy onto the vinyl. The cooling air prickled her skin, raising goosebumps on her oil-slicked thighs.

“Uou guys were really big,” Bijayini murmured, her voice hoarse as she traced a finger through the sticky mess pooling beneath her hips. The vinyl beneath her back was cold now against sweat-slicked skin, the scent of sex and sandalwood oil thick enough to taste. Tariq’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he reached for a towel, his movements languid with satisfaction. “You handled it,” he said, tossing the cloth toward her. It landed half on her stomach.

“Hay are you guys done ? I am still not satisfied.” Bijayini’s voice rasped, echoing weakly against the damp concrete walls. She shifted slightly on the vinyl bed, causing fresh rivulets of cum and oil to trail down her inner thighs. The cooling air pricked her flushed skin, but the deep ache between her legs remained—a hollow, throbbing emptiness where minutes ago she’d been stretched impossibly full. Her nipples still tingled from Tariq’s rough suckling, stiff and sensitive against the chill.

“I am tired,” Rohan muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, his breathing still ragged. “Me too, how can you be not satisfied, how horny are you?” Tariq added, leaning heavily against the wall, his gaze drifting over Bijayini’s glistening body with a mixture of exhaustion and residual hunger. The humid air clung to their skin, thick with the scent of sex and sandalwood. Bijayini arched her back, letting the last drops of cum trickle from her well-used pussy onto the vinyl. “Because,” she whispered, tracing a finger over her swollen clit, “I can still feel the emptiness.”

The door rattled violently—a harsh metallic clang cutting through the heavy silence. “Tariq! You in there? Boss says you missed your shift!” The voice was deeper, rougher, vibrating through the thin metal. Bijayini froze, legs still spread wide, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs. Tariq cursed under his breath, stumbling toward the door as he hastily tugged up his shorts. Rohan scrambled to his feet, grabbing a towel to cover himself. The lock clicked, the door groaning open to reveal a towering silhouette—broader than Tariq, with thick shoulders straining against a faded tank top. Khalid. His eyes swept past his brother, locking onto Bijayini’s naked, oil-slicked form sprawled on the table, her thighs glistening with sweat and spent seed. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. “Well,” he rumbled, stepping inside and letting the door slam shut. “Seems you were busy.”

Khalid’s gaze lingered on Bijayini’s parted thighs, her pussy still gaping and flushed. He ignored Tariq’s muttered excuses, his focus narrowing to the glistening mess between her legs. “Where did you find this sexy woman?” Khalid asked. Bijayini smiled weakly, her hips shifting instinctively toward him. “They were big,” she slurred, trailing a hand over her slick stomach, “but not enough.” Khalid chuckled, low and dangerous, as he stepped closer. The scent of stale smoke clung to his clothes, sharp against the humid musk of the room. He didn’t ask permission—his thick fingers slid between her folds, probing the swollen flesh. Bijayini gasped, arching off the vinyl as he sank two knuckles deep into her loosened entrance. “Still hungry?” he murmured, twisting his wrist slowly. Cum and oil dripped onto his forearm.

Tariq leaned against the wall, watching with hooded eyes. “She took both of us,” he offered, as if it were a challenge. Khalid’s grin widened. He withdrew his fingers and gripped Bijayini’s hips, flipping her roughly onto her stomach. Her breasts pressed against the cold vinyl as he knelt behind her, his knees forcing her legs wide. The bulge in his worn jeans pressed against her ass—hotter, denser than Tariq’s or Rohan’s. Bijayini shivered, anticipation coiling low in her belly. Khalid unzipped his fly, freeing a thick, veined shaft that curved upward. Darker, thicker, *meaner*. Eight and a half inches of rigid flesh, the head already slick with pre-cum. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly.

“Hold her,” Khalid ordered. Rohan pinned Bijayini’s shoulders while Tariq gripped her hips. Khalid’s blunt tip pressed against her oiled entrance—already stretched but nowhere near ready for *this*. He pushed. A ragged cry tore from Bijayini’s throat as her inner walls strained impossibly wide. Khalid grunted, hips driving forward relentlessly. Every ridge of his cock scraped her raw flesh, forcing her open until his pelvis slammed flush against her ass cheeks. Bijayini gasped, her fingers clawing uselessly at the vinyl. “Fuck, she’s tight,” Khalid growled, withdrawing slowly before plunging deep again. The stretch burned hotter this time, deeper. Her pussy clenched violently around the invasion, triggering sharp bursts of pain-tinged pleasure.

He set a brutal rhythm—short, punishing thrusts that made Bijayini’s body jerk forward with each impact. Rivulets of oil and sweat ran down her inner thighs. Khalid leaned over her, his sweat dripping onto her spine. One calloused hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back. “Take it,” he snarled against her ear, his breath hot and reeking of tobacco. Below, his thrusts grew sharper, angling upward to grind against her cervix. Bijayini whimpered, her muscles fluttering around his girth. The ache blended with a rising tide of sensation—each drag of his shaft against her abused walls sparking fresh heat.

Foam began to gather where their skin met—a frothy mix of sweat, oil, and Khalid’s thick pre-cum churned by the frantic motion. It coated her thighs and his groin, white and slick, dripping onto the vinyl in thick globs. Khalid drove harder, faster, the wet slap of their joining echoing sharply in the small room. Beneath her, the table slid slightly with each thrust, squeaking against the concrete floor. Bijayini’s cries pitched higher, muffled against the vinyl as Khalid’s pace became erratic. Rohan tightened his grip on her shoulders, pinning her down while Tariq watched, his own cock stiffening again at the sight.

The foam thickened, creamy swirls clinging to Khalid’s base and her swollen folds. It dripped down her inner thighs, warm and sticky. Khalid grunted, his hips snapping forward—deep, punishing strokes that forced Bijayini’s body upward against Tariq’s hold. Her muscles clenched and released around Khalid’s shaft, milking him as the friction whipped their mingled fluids into a lather. “Fuck—” Khalid choked out, his thrusts growing shallow and desperate. The foam bubbled at their union, catching the dim light like sea spray. Bijayini gasped, the sensation of his cockhead grinding her cervix sending shockwaves through her core.

“Look at her take it,” Tariq murmured, his voice hoarse. Rohan’s knuckles whitened where he pinned her shoulders. Khalid’s rhythm faltered—his hips jerking erratically as his cock swelled inside her. A guttural roar tore from his throat as the first pulse hit, hot seed flooding her depths in thick spurts. Bijayini screamed, her body arching off the table as Khalid emptied himself, each jet triggering violent convulsions in her spent muscles. Cum leaked past his shaft, mixing with foam and oil to pool beneath her hips.

Then the second wave crashed—deeper, more electric than anything before. Khalid’s thrusting cockhead scraped her swollen g-spot with brutal precision. Bijayini’s vision whited out. A primal shriek ripped from her throat as her cunt clamped down with crushing force, milking him dry while her orgasm tore through her—a raw, seismic release that left her trembling. Khalid groaned, slumping against her back as aftershocks wracked her body. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her spine.

Bijayini collapsed onto the vinyl, breath ragged and shallow. A slow, lazy smile spread across her lips as Khalid withdrew, his slick cock slipping free with a wet sound. Cum leaked steadily from her stretched entrance, warm and thick against her thighs. The hollow ache was gone, replaced by a deep, satisfied throb. She traced a finger through the mess pooling beneath her hips—oil, foam, and seed mixing into a pearly sheen. Khalid’s chuckle rumbled low behind her. “Hell of a way to warm up for my shift,” he rasped, wiping his brow. She stretched languidly, muscles loose and spent. “Now *that*,” she murmured, voice husky, “was enough.”

Tariq tossed her a damp towel, his eyes lingering on Khalid’s thick shaft still glistening in the humid air. “You cleaned her out, brother.” Khalid grinned, tucking himself away. “Seemed polite.” Rohan lingered near the door, shifting his weight. Bijayini sat up slowly, wincing at the pleasant soreness radiating through her pelvis. Her nipples brushed against the cool air—still stiff, still sensitive. Khalid’s gaze followed the movement, dark and appreciative. “You’re walking out like that?” he asked, nodding at her oil-slicked skin.

Bijayini stretched, languid as a cat, her muscles humming with exhaustion and utter satisfaction. A deep, resonant tremble ran through her thighs as she eased them closed, the motion slow and deliberate. Cum and oil dripped steadily onto the vinyl, pooling like spilled moonlight beneath her hips. She smiled—not a polite curve of the lips, but a lazy, radiant bloom that lit her entire face. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a heartbeat, savouring the echo of Khalid’s brutal rhythm still thrumming in her core. The raw ache was gone, replaced by a heavy, liquid warmth that seeped into her bones. *Finally*, she thought, the word a sigh inside her skull. *Finally full.*

Khalid chuckled, low and rough, as he zipped his jeans. The sound scraped against the silence like flint on stone. He wiped his palms on his thighs, leaving dark streaks on the worn denim. “Hell of a warm-up,” he repeated, his gaze dragging over Bijayini’s glistening body—lingering on the smudged bruises at her waist, the slick mess between her thighs. Tariq tossed her the towel again, this time landing it squarely on her stomach. The damp terrycloth soaked instantly, sticking to her skin. Bijayini didn’t move to use it. Instead, she traced a fingertip through the pearly pool beneath her hips, mixing oil and seed into swirling patterns. The scent—musky, sweet-salty, undercut by sandalwood—clung thickly to the air. She breathed it in, a contented hum vibrating in her throat.

Rohan cleared his throat, shifting near the door. “We should… clean up.” His voice wavered. Khalid snorted, turning toward a sink crammed in the corner. “Boss’ll skin me if I’m late.” He cranked the faucet, water splattering noisily into a stained basin. Bijayini watched droplets slide down Khalid’s corded forearms as he scrubbed his hands. Her own thighs trembled faintly when she shifted, a fresh trickle of warmth escaping her. The vinyl’s chill seeped into her back, sharp contrast to the furnace-heat still radiating from her core. “Guys what if I gets pregnant?” Bijayini murmured, half to herself, tracing a lazy circle over her lower belly. Tariq paused mid-step, a coarse laugh escaping him. “You worried *now*?” Khalid didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tightened. “You got pills?” he asked flatly, ripping a paper towel from its dispenser. Bijayini shook her head, the movement sending sweat-damp hair clinging to her temples. “Never needed them before.” Khalid’s reflection in a fogged mirror showed a flicker of annoyance. “Should’ve said sooner.” He tossed the crumpled towel toward her. “Morning-after’s in the cabinet.” Bijayini caught it, the rough paper abrasive against her oil-slicked palm. She didn’t move. Her gaze drifted downward, studying the pearly streaks on her inner thighs—Rohan’s seed, Tariq’s, Khalid’s, all mingled. A slow smile touched her lips. “Maybe I don’t mind,” she whispered. Khalid froze. The silence thickened, broken only by the dripping faucet. Tariq’s eyes narrowed. “You serious?” Rohan edged closer, his gaze darting between Bijayini’s satisfied sprawl and Khalid’s rigid back. Khalid finally turned, his face unreadable. He strode to the cabinet, wrenching it open. Pills rattled inside. He slammed a small foil packet onto the vinyl beside her hip. “Your choice,” he growled, not meeting her eyes. “But don’t come crying later.” Bijayini picked up the packet, her fingers lingering on its sharp edges. She didn’t open it. Instead, she pressed it against her sternum, cool plastic stark against fevered skin. Her hips lifted slightly, testing the deep ache within. “Wouldn’t cry,” she breathed. Khalid’s jaw clenched. He grabbed his shirt, yanking it on with rough, impatient movements. “Just get dressed. I’ll call you a cab.” Bijayini’s smile widened, feline and unrepentant. She stretched again, deliberately slow, letting the foil packet slip from her fingers onto the wet vinyl. It landed silently atop the cooling mess. “In a minute,” she murmured, closing her eyes. Khalid muttered a curse, storming toward the door. Tariq lingered, his hungry gaze tracing the path of a drop of sweat sliding between her breasts. Rohan stared at the discarded pills, his throat working silently. Outside, a horn blared—sharp, impatient. Khalid snarled over his shoulder, “Cab’s here. Move.” Bijayini sighed, the sound rich with lingering pleasure. Her fingers finally reached for the towel.

“Why don’t you guys help me clean. Wipe my body .” Bijayini murmured, her gaze lingering on Khalid’s retreating back. Tariq snatched the towel first, rough terrycloth dragging across her breasts as he wiped away streaks of drying oil and seed. His touch held none of the earlier urgency—just efficient swipes that left her skin tingling. Rohan dabbed gingerly at her inner thighs, avoiding the swollen mess between them. Khalid watched from the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Cab’s waiting,” he repeated, voice flat. Bijayini slid off the vinyl table, her legs buckling momentarily. Khalid caught her elbow—a brief, impersonal grip that steadied her before releasing. She pulled on her gym leggings slowly, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to sticky skin. Her sports bra felt tight over sensitized nipples. She didn’t look back as she stepped into the humid night, Khalid’s foil packet forgotten on the oil-stained vinyl.

The cab smelled like stale cigarettes and pine air freshener. Bijayini leaned her temple against the cool window glass, watching streetlights blur past. Every bump in the road sent faint echoes through her sore pelvis—a dull, pleasant ache. She traced the outline of her hidden bruises beneath her leggings. Khalid’s thick grip. Tariq’s sharp fingers. Rohan’s kneading palms. A slow smile touched her lips as she remembered the exact moment Khalid had bottomed out inside her, the way her cervix had throbbed in protest before yielding. The cab hit a pothole. Her breasts bounced heavily against her bra. She caught the driver’s eyes flickering to the rearview mirror. She didn’t adjust her posture.

She fumbled with her keys, the metal cold against her oil-sticky fingers. The door swung open onto warmth and the rich scent of turmeric and frying onions. “Mummy!” A small blur in pink pajamas collided with her legs. Bijayini winced slightly as the impact jolted her stiff shoulders—the original reason for this entire, deliciously deviant detour. She scooped up her daughter, burying her nose in the little girl’s coconut-scented hair. “Hello, my jaan,” she murmured, the rasp in her voice softened. Across the small living room, visible through the arched doorway to the kitchen, stood Vikram. Her husband. Apron tied neatly over his work shirt, wooden spoon in hand. He offered a distracted smile, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat on the faint smudge of oil near her collarbone she hadn’t quite wiped away in the cab. “Dinner’s almost ready. Rough gym session?” His tone was light, but his eyes held a quiet question.

Bijayini set her daughter down gently, the vinyl-scent clinging to her clothes suddenly sharp against the domestic smells. “You could say that,” she breathed, forcing a wider smile. “Bijou got stuck, Mummy!” Her daughter tugged her hand towards a scattered puzzle on the floor. The familiar pressure—the sticky warmth still gathered between her thighs—suddenly felt glaringly illicit in this bright, safe space. Vikram stirred the pot, the rhythmic scrape of wood against metal filling the silence. She knew that rhythm; knew the precise tilt of his head when he was concentrating, the way his brow furrowed slightly. He hadn’t asked about the spa, hadn’t questioned why she’d been gone so long. His quiet acceptance was its own kind of intimacy, a stark contrast to the raw, animalistic claiming she’d just endured.

Three mornings later, Bijayini locked the bathroom door. The plastic stick lay cold on the edge of the sink—the third one. The first two lines had been faint ghosts, easily dismissed. This one glared back at her, stark and undeniable: pregnant. Strangely, the panic she expected didn’t come. Instead, a slow, spreading warmth bloomed beneath her ribs, settling low in her belly—not unlike the pulse after Khalid’s final thrust. At the gym, Rohan’s eyes slid past her, fixed intently on the cable machine weights as he loaded plates. No lingering gaze at her sports bra today, no casual brush against her shoulder as he passed. Just silence and the clang of metal.

That night, after she tucked Dia into bed—her daughter’s sleepy whispers fading behind the closed door—Bijayini slipped into the bedroom wearing only a thin cotton towel knotted loosely above her breasts. Vikram sat propped against the headboard, reading glasses perched low on his nose, engrossed in a thick engineering manual. The lamplight softened the lines of his face. She let the towel fall. It pooled soundlessly at her feet. Vikram’s gaze snapped up, the book slipping from his hands. “Bijou…” he breathed, voice thick. She climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap, guiding his hands to her hips—the bruises Khalid had left were faded yellow-green now, hidden beneath her skin. His touch was hesitant, reverent. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, his movements practiced, gentle. When he entered her, it was slow, careful—a familiar rhythm, shallow and unhurried. Bijayini closed her eyes. It felt… distant. Like listening to rain through thick glass. She arched her back anyway, sighing softly, encouraging him with whispered words she didn’t quite feel. Vikram climaxed quickly, a shuddering gasp against her shoulder. He held her tightly afterward, whispering, “That was… amazing.”

Bijayini lay on her back afterward, staring at the ceiling fan’s lazy rotation. Vikram curled against her side, his breathing deepening into sleep almost immediately. His softening cock rested limply against her thigh—a faint dampness cooling on her skin. She shifted slightly, the emptiness inside her a familiar hollow echo, sharper now. Downstairs, the refrigerator hummed. Outside, a distant siren wailed. She placed a palm low on her abdomen, fingers splayed protectively over the tiny, invisible spark. Khalid’s relentless thrusts flashed through her mind—the brutal fullness, the sharp slap of skin, the way her insides had clenched and milked him dry. She bit her lip until the metallic tang bloomed on her tongue. Vikram murmured sleepily and draped an arm across her waist. Bijayini didn’t move. She kept her hand pressed against her womb, feeling nothing but the quiet, insistent pulse of her own blood, and the phantom ache of a much thicker invasion. Dawn crept gray and silent through the blinds before exhaustion finally pulled her under. She dreamed of heat and foam and a dark, grinning face looming over her.

Morning light slanted across the kitchen table, bright and merciless. Dia chattered happily, kicking her feet under her booster seat as Vikram slid a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs toward her. Bijayini stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against ceramic. Her knuckles whitened around the handle. Vikram glanced at her untouched toast. “Shoulder still bothering you?” he asked softly, refilling her cup. The kettle hissed steam. Bijayini inhaled the scent of Darjeeling and turmeric, steadying herself. “It’s better,” she said, voice unnaturally light. She caught Vikram’s gaze—the quiet worry in his eyes, the gentle lines at their corners. “Something else, Bijou?” The question hung between them. Dia giggled, dropping a piece of egg. Bijayini watched the yellow smear on the tile. She lifted her chin. “I’m pregnant,” she blurted. The words landed sharp and sudden, slicing through the domestic hum. Vikram froze mid-pour. Tea spilled over the rim of her cup, pooling darkly on the saucer.

A slow, bewildered smile spread across Vikram’s face—like sunrise breaking through clouds. He carefully set the kettle down. Disbelief melted into pure, luminous joy. “A baby?” he breathed, the word thick with wonder. Dia clapped her messy hands, sensing the shift. “Baby?” she chirped, mimicking him. Vikram’s laugh burst out—rich, disbelieving, triumphant. He rounded the table, pulling Bijayini into a crushing embrace. “Oh, Bijou!” He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking slightly. Bijayini closed her eyes against the sudden sting in her own. His hands slid protectively down her back, settling warmly over her abdomen—the ghost of Khalid’s brutal grip replaced by tender possession. Dia tugged insistently at Bijayini’s sleeve. “Baby in tummy?”

“Yes, jaan,” Bijayini managed, forcing lightness into her voice. Vikram drew back, his eyes shining. “Twelve years trying for one,” he whispered, tracing her cheekbone with trembling fingers. “And now… now we get *two*?” His gaze flickered toward Dia, then back to Bijayini’s belly. A sudden, boyish grin lit his face. “We need a cricket team, Bijou!” Dia shrieked with laughter, bouncing in her seat. “Team! Team!” Vikram scooped her up, spinning her wildly. Eggs flew. Cups rattled. Bijayini watched them blur together—father and daughter wrapped in shared, uncomplicated delight. The spilled tea seeped silently across the saucer, staining the pristine white ceramic brown. She laughed along, the sound brittle beneath Vikram’s booming joy.

Later, Vikram paced the apartment, phone glued to his ear, announcing the news to his mother, his brother, anyone who would listen. His voice echoed through the small rooms, thick with pride. “Yes, Ma! Finally! Cricket team, ha!” Bijayini leaned against the cool bathroom sink, her reflection stark under fluorescent light. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes. She pressed trembling fingers low beneath her navel, searching for something—anything—besides the lingering phantom fullness Khalid’s relentless thrusts had carved into her memory. Her thumb brushed the faintest smear of dried oil still clinging to her collarbone. She scrubbed at it fiercely with a damp flannel until the skin stung pink. Vikram’s muffured laughter drifted through the door. *His* child. It had to.

But life goes on and they had a boy. Vikram named him Chirnav. Bijayini liked it—a chirp of something new. Their daughter Diya, whom Vikram now fondly called Dipali (“Little Lamp”), flowed naturally into the role of protective big sister. Sixteen years blurred—school plays, scraped knees, Vikram’s steady promotions, Bijayini trading gym leggings for looser tunics as Chirnav grew lanky and quiet. They were that family: solid, unremarkable, four around a dinner table cluttered with textbooks and cricket gear. The oil stain on Bijayini’s soul faded to a watermark.