⚠️ Author's Note:
The party ends. The trip ends. The use doesn't.
This is the hardest chapter.
Ishaan is broken open, and Vikram might be breaking too.
No closure. Just need.
(Note: The characters now wear new names, Ishaan and Vikram. But the tension, the heat, the fall? Still exactly the same.)
________________________________________
December 31st. Their last night in Goa. The night everything ends.
Downstairs, the villa throbbed with chaos.
Music blasted through the open doors--basslines and Bollywood mashups distorted through worn-out Bluetooth speakers. Sparklers lit the lawn like mini-fireworks. Someone poured shots directly into another guy's mouth, and beer ran in sticky rivulets down the kitchen counter, ignored.
It was a party.
It was supposed to be.
But Ishaan wasn't looking at the fireworks or the drinks or the people.
He was staring across the room.
At Vikram.
Vikram stood near the kitchen, half-lit by orange LEDs, wearing that sleeveless black tank that showed his arms off like a fucking threat. He was talking to someone, maybe laughing. But his eyes were already locked on Ishaan.
Ishaan's cock stirred in his thin shorts.
The ones Vikram had told him to wear. The loose blue cotton ones that clung to his thighs and rode up between his cheeks when he moved.
He couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop thinking.
He wanted it. Now.
He shifted closer. Pretended to reach for a drink.
Vikram didn't say a word.
He just reached behind Ishaan casually--and grabbed a handful of ass.
Firm. Full. Claiming.
Ishaan sucked in a breath.
Vikram's fingers didn't stop. They pressed, hard, through the fabric, until they found the shape of the hole. That familiar give. That soft ring, worn-in and waiting.
Ishaan's knees almost buckled.
Vikram leaned in and whispered, low and filthy.
"You're already leaking, aren't you?"
Ishaan nodded. Just slightly. Jaw clenched.
Vikram's middle finger pushed harder--right into the crack, knuckle-deep through fabric, trying to find the entrance like he owned it.
"You fucking cockslut," Vikram hissed. "You can't even wait till midnight, can you?"
Ishaan whimpered.
Vikram's hand stayed right there. Squeezing. Digging. Rubbing slow circles over the thin barrier of shorts like he was trying to memorize the shape of the boypussy he'd trained.
"Go upstairs," he ordered. "My room's balcony. Door's open. No shorts. Shirt only."
Ishaan's breath hitched.
Vikram's teeth grazed his earlobe. "We've got one hour. After that, we're back before midnight like good boys."
He slapped Ishaan's ass once, fast, through the shorts.
The sound disappeared under the music. But Ishaan felt it in his spine.
He left without a word.
Walked calmly across the room. Past their friends. Past the pool. Up the stairs.
Vikram watched him go.
________________________________________
He climbed the stairs slowly, every step stretching the thin fabric tighter between his cheeks.
His hole throbbed. His cock pulsed.
Every sound from the party below felt distant--like the real night hadn't started yet.
The bedroom door was unlocked.
Of course it was.
Ishaan slipped inside the balcony, heart hammering. The room was dim. One yellow bulb lit the corner. The rest was shadows and sex-stained air.
He shut the door behind him and pulled off his shorts.
No underwear. No modesty. No turning back.
He stepped out onto the balcony. Cool air kissed his thighs, his hole, his cock.
The wind teased the hem of his white shirt. The one that barely covered anything.
He leaned on the railing.
Spread his legs.
And waited.
Anyone could've walked in.
Anyone could've seen from a room in the opposite villa.
A light flicked on briefly in that room. Ishaan's heart stopped.
But he didn't move.
The room across the balcony was empty again--for now. But someone could come back. A guest. A stranger.
That was the thrill.
That was the point.
________________________________________
Vikram arrived a minute later.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
He just walked up behind Ishaan, grabbed both ass cheeks, and spread them wide.
The hole was right there.
Twitching. Puckered. Already wet.
Vikram spit.
A long, thick rope that landed square on the hole and dribbled down the taint.
"Of course you're ready," he muttered.
Ishaan whimpered, head bowed. "I couldn't wait."
"You're disgusting."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm your dirty little fucktoy."
Vikram lined up.
Didn't wait. Didn't tease.
He shoved in.
One brutal thrust.
Ishaan screamed.
The sound cut through the wind, sharp and wet and obscene.
Below them, someone on the lawn laughed. A firework cracked in the distance.
Then--
"Ishaan? You up there?"
Kunal.
Ishaan's body froze.
Vikram clamped a hand over his mouth, still fully buried inside him.
He leaned down. Growled into his ear.
"One sound and I pull out. And no more orgasms tonight."
Ishaan trembled.
His cock throbbed--leaking precum that streaked his thigh.
Below, Kunal moved on. Oblivious. Gone.
Vikram waited three seconds.
Then pulled out an inch--
And slammed back in.
Ishaan's moan got swallowed by Vikram's palm.
"You like almost getting caught?" Vikram whispered. "You like being my little hole in the open?"
Ishaan nodded frantically.
"Say it."
Vikram removed his hand.
"I'm your slut," Ishaan gasped. "I'm your hole. Your cock sleeve. Use me."
Vikram began to fuck.
Hard. Deep. Loud.
The slap of skin echoed against the balcony rail.
Ishaan's shirt bunched up over his back. His ass glistened in the moonlight. Vikram's cock pistoned in and out of that twitching hole with brutal rhythm.
"You used to be a man," Vikram hissed. "Now look at you."
Ishaan choked. "I--I don't care."
"You're just a pussy now. My boypussy. And it's ruined."
He grabbed Ishaan's hips, forced them wider, pushed deeper.
"Fucking made for me."
"I am," Ishaan sobbed. "Only for you."
"You leaking yet?"
"Y-yeah--don't stop--"
Vikram yanked out. The emptiness made Ishaan shudder.
Vikram shoved him to his knees.
Came across his face in thick, hot ropes.
One on the cheek. One on the lips. One across his open mouth. Ishaan caught it on his tongue. Swallowed. Begged for more.
Vikram gripped his cock at the base, aimed, and smeared the swollen head across Ishaan's open mouth--painting it with spit, precum, and leftover slick.
"I'm not done." he growled, voice dark and wrecked.
Ishaan didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
His eyes were glazed. His cheeks flushed. He was trembling from the inside out.
Vikram stepped forward. Bent. Grabbed him under the thighs.
And lifted him clean off the floor.
Ishaan gasped--a shocked, broken sound--as his back hit the wall, his body suspended midair. His legs instinctively locked around Vikram's waist. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. And between them, his cock throbbed--pressed against Vikram's abs, sticky and leaking.
Vikram didn't wait.
He lined up--spit-slick, cum-warmed, fully hard--and slammed in.
Ishaan screamed.
It wasn't a yell. It wasn't a cry.
It was a guttural, punched-out sound of disbelief. Of pain. Of overwhelming, brutal pleasure.
No balance. No support. No mercy.
Vikram held him suspended, thighs hooked over his arms, fucking upward like a machine--piston strokes, deep and filthy. Every thrust shoved Ishaan up against the wall, making the glass rattle behind him.
"F-fuck--" Ishaan gasped. His voice broke. His head fell back.
His cock leaked between them, sandwiched between sweat-slick skin and need. A bead of precum welled at the tip, fat and glistening. Vikram felt it smear across his own stomach.
He looked down. Smirked.
"Your dick's crying for it," he growled. "Doesn't even need your hand anymore."
Ishaan's whole body shook. "I--I can't stop--I don't even try--Vik--"
"I fucking trained you."
Vikram slammed in again--deep, brutal, possessive.
"You're my fucktoy. My hole. My pussy. Mine."
Ishaan let out a sob. His hands clawed at Vikram's back, his legs tightening in reflex.
And then--
He came.
Midair.
No hands. No warning. Just a helpless, full-body convulsion as his cock jerked and sprayed hot, thick spurts between them. His cum painted their stomachs, his own abs, Vikram's chest. It was raw. Shameful. Glorious.
But Vikram didn't stop.
He fucked through it. Through the orgasm. Through the overstimulation. Through Ishaan's trembling moans and the tightening walls of his stretched, ruined hole.
He kept thrusting. Fast. Angry. Owning.
Until he finally snarled, shoved all the way in--buried to the root--and emptied himself.
A second load. Hot. Heavy. Pouring into the same hole he'd already wrecked. Filling him again.
Ishaan whimpered.
And when Vikram finally pulled out, slowly, thick and twitching, Ishaan slid down the wall like his spine had melted.
He collapsed onto the cold tile.
Legs wide.
Cock twitching, softening against his belly.
His mouth was still wet.
His hole?
Gaped wide. Pink, raw, dribbling slick.
A puddle began to form under him--his own cum smeared between his thighs, Vikram's second load dripping out slow and sticky.
Fireworks cracked in the sky overhead. Bright flashes painted their bodies in bursts of gold and red and violet.
But Ishaan didn't look up.
He couldn't.
He was too wrecked. Too used. Too full to feel anything but his own ruin.
And he loved it.
________________________________________
The fireworks had finished.
Sparklers fizzled in the lawn. Music picked back up. Laughter, cheers, someone yelling "Shots!" from the kitchen. Goa's New Year chaos resumed.
Ishaan and Vikram slipped back into the party like nothing had happened.
Ishaan wore the same white shirt as earlier--thin, sheer, loose around his chest. Same shorts too. Still no underwear. His hole was still raw. Leaking filth. Still pulsing like it hadn't been satisfied.
And Vikram?
Vikram kept his hand on the small of Ishaan's back as they descended the stairs. A quiet claim of ownership. His thumb occasionally slid lower, just brushing the waistband of Ishaan's shorts.
Then lower.
Two steps before the living room, Vikram leaned in and whispered:
"How many of the guys down there do you want me to offer your hole to?"
Ishaan froze.
