Chapter 7: BDSM played
The climax wasn’t an end. It was a detonation that left the air in the room permanently ionized, charged with a spent but restless energy. Vishal collapsed over my back, his weight a warm, damp blanket, his breathing ragged against my shoulder blade. Swati still held my face, her thumbs now smearing the tears I hadn’t even felt leak from my eyes. We were a tangled, panting sculpture.
Slowly, he slipped out of me. The emptiness felt cavernous. He rolled onto his side next to me, spent, a sheen of sweat covering him like a second skin. I crumpled onto the sheets, my body humming, every nerve ending singing the same chorus: more.
I turned my head. Swati was watching Vishal with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. It was possessive, hungry, and curiously clinical. She reached out and traced a lazy finger through the sweat on his chest.
“My turn,” I heard myself say. My voice was hoarse, scraped raw.
Vishal gave a breathless laugh, his eyes closed. “Give a man a minute, Nupur. Or an hour. Christ.”
“No,” I said, pushing myself up on wobbly arms. The soreness was a distant memory, burned away by a newer, hotter fire. “I want to watch. I want to see him take you. Right now.”
Swati’s lips curved. She liked this. This new, demanding version of me.
“You heard her, Jiju,” Swati said, her finger now circling his nipple. “Get to work.”
Vishal opened one eye. “I’m tapped out, Swati. Seriously. You two have drained me. I need a parole.”
He was soft, lying there amid the wreckage of the sheets, a beautiful, exhausted weapon. The sight of him, so definitively finished, stoked something stubborn and greedy in me. I wanted the machine running again. I wanted to see the power in him directed at her, with me bearing witness.
“Please,” I coaxed, crawling over to him. I placed a hand on his stomach, feeling the muscles flinch. “Just for a little bit. For me? I want to see how you fuck my didi. I need to see it.”
He shook his head, a genuine, weary resistance. “Nupur, I can’t. It’s not a switch. I’m sensitive. It’s actually… it’s almost painful right now.”
A spark lit in Swati’s eyes. A dangerous, problem-solving glint. “Painful, huh?” She slid off the bed and padded naked to the walk-in closet. We heard the sound of a drawer opening, the rustle of fabric. She returned not with clothes, but with two sleek, metallic objects that clicked softly in her palm.
Handcuffs.
Not the fuzzy, novelty kind. These were police-issue, cold-looking steel.
“Wow,” I breathed, the word all air.
Vishal’s other eye opened. He pushed up on his elbows. “Swati. No. Come on.”
“You’re being uncooperative,” she said, her voice devoid of its earlier warmth. It was the voice she used with underperforming code. “Our guest wants a show. You’re the star. Time to perform.” She tossed one cuff onto the bed beside him. “Wrists. Together. Or I’ll get the rope from the garage and we can do this the less comfortable way.”
He stared at her, a war playing out on his face. Exhaustion, annoyance, and a dark, reluctant thrill. He knew this side of her. It was the side that matched his own latent need for chaos, the side usually buried under spreadsheets and grocery lists. With a grunt that was half-protest, half-surrender, he picked up the cuffs. The metallic snick as he fastened them around his own wrists was the loudest sound in the room. He held his bound hands up, a silent, challenging offering.
The dynamic shifted instantly. The power leached from his prone body and flooded the room, settling over Swati and me. He was our captive. Our toy.
“Better,” Swati purred. She looked at me. “He says he’s too sensitive. Too soft. Fix it.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I moved between his legs. He was soft, as he’d said, spent and vulnerable. I leaned down, but didn’t take him in my mouth. Instead, I looked up at Swati.
“How?”
“Use your tongue,” she instructed, settling herself on the edge of the bed like a director in a chair. “Just the tip. Tease him back to life. He’s overstimulated, so be cruel. Make him hate it and love it. Make it hurt.”
I lowered my head. The scent of him, of us, was musky and thick. I licked a slow, flat stripe from base to tip. He jerked, a sharp inhale through his teeth.
“Easy,” he hissed.
I ignored him. I focused on the most sensitive part, the frenulum, tracing it with the very point of my tongue in tiny, maddening circles. It was a clinical, precise torture. He was soft, the skin ultrathin and reactive. Every lick was an electric jolt. He flinched, his bound hands twisting, the cuffs chinking.
“Fuck, Nupur… stop. It’s too much.”
“It’s not enough,” Swati corrected from her perch. “Keep going. He’ll tell you to stop right up until the moment he’s begging you not to.”
So I continued. A blend of licking and soft, blowing breaths. Painful for him, agonizingly slow for me. I watched, fascinated, as the biology ignored the protests. Blood reluctantly began to flow back, a stubborn, gradual resurrection. He cursed, straining against the cuffs, his hips trying to twitch away from the sensation. But his body betrayed him. Slowly, defiantly, he began to harden again under my relentless, tender abuse.
“See?” Swati said, satisfaction coating her words. “He’s a good dog. He just needs the right motivation.”
He was fully hard now, standing thick and angry against his stomach. The process had been a violation, and it showed in his eyes—a wild, captured fury mixed with intense arousal.
“Now,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “I want to see him fuck you.”
Swati didn’t need telling twice. She got on the bed, moving with a predator’s grace. She positioned herself on her hands and knees, her back arched in perfect presentation. “Guide him in,” she told me over her shoulder. “He’s useless with his hands tied. Do it for him.”
I shuffled on my knees to Vishal’s side. I wrapped my hand around him, feeling the fierce, heated throb. He was rigid, a captive bolt of lightning. I aimed him, pressing the head against Swati’s entrance. She was already wet, glistening. With a soft push from me, he slid into her.
A low, guttural moan escaped her. A matching groan was torn from Vishal. He could do nothing but receive the sensation, his bound hands fisted helplessly on the mattress beside him.
“Move,” Swati commanded him.
He tried. With his hands bound in front, he could only use the thrust of his hips. It was an awkward, truncated motion, all the more sensual for its limitation. Each slow, deep push was a massive effort of core strength. He had to work for it. He had to feel every single second of it.
“That’s it,” Swati sighed, pushing back against him. “Just like that. Fuck your wife with your hands tied, you bastard. Fuck the sister who just wrecked you.”
The dirty talk ignited something in the air.
“You love this, don’t you?” Vishal grunted, his voice strained with effort. “Both of you. A pair of filthy, voyeuristic sluts. Using me up.”
“Yes,” I hissed, my eyes glued to where their bodies joined. “We are. Your sluts.”
“Say it again,” Swati demanded, dropping onto her forearms, pushing her ass higher.
“You’re my dirty little sluts,” he growled, driving into her with more force. The bedframe protested. “My wife and my whore-in-law. Is this what you wanted? To turn our bed into a fucking brothel?”
“Yes, Jiju,” I whispered, the taboo title a thrill on my tongue. “Call me your whore.”
Swati’s composure was fracturing into something beautifully crude. “Harder, you pathetic excuse for a man. Can’t even fuck me properly without your hands. Is that all you’ve got?”
Her taunt spurred him. He fucked her with a furious, constrained rhythm, his biceps corded with the effort of keeping his balance. I was dizzy with watching, but the heat in me was a furnace with no outlet. I needed to be part of the circuit.
I moved. I crouched down beside them, my face level with their union. Then I bent lower. I took his balls, heavy and tight, into my mouth. I didn’t suck, just held them, a warm, wet weight on my tongue. Then I squeezed gently with my lips.
He shouted, a raw, ragged sound. His hips stuttered. “Fuck! Nupur, don’t—”
I squeezed again, a little harder, rolling them. A direct line to his spine. He cursed filthily, a stream of obscenities that coated us all, but his thrusts into Swati became harder, more erratic, driven by the dual sensations.
I released him, a new idea flashing. I scrambled behind them. The view was obscene and perfect: Swati’s face buried in the sheets, Vishal’s powerful back straining, the muscles clenching with each drive. I leaned in and bit the firm curve of his ass.
Not a love bite. A sharp, possessive clamp of my teeth.
He yelped, then laughed, a harsh, shocked sound. “You bitch!”
“She likes it,” Swati mumbled into the mattress, her voice muffled but thrilled. “She’s marking her territory. On my husband’s ass.”
I did it again, on the other cheek. He was breathing in ragged gasps now, a man being played from every angle. The power was an addictive drug. I looked at Swati, at the other entrance, glistening and untouched. A wild thought, born of this new, shared dominion, took hold.
“Didi,” I said, my voice shaky with audacity. “Let him take you there.”
Swati stilled. Vishal paused, his body hovering over hers. She turned her head, one eye visible, looking at me over her shoulder. The consideration was real. This wasn’t in any script. It was a leap.
“Yeah,” she breathed after a heartbeat, a daredevil smile touching her lips. “Yeah, okay. Do it.”
My hands were trembling. I reached between them, my fingers finding him, slippery with her. I guided him back, not to her pussy, but lower, pressing the head against the tight, clenched rosette of her ass.
“Easy,” Vishal whispered, all earlier taunts gone, replaced by a strained concentration. “Slow, Nupur. For Christ’s sake, go slow.”
I pushed his hips gently. He resisted, then yielded. There was a moment of impossible tightness, a gasp from Swati that was all sharp intake, then a slow, inexorable give as the head of him pop inside.
“Oh god,” Swati moaned, the sound ripped from deep within her.
He was in. Just the tip. He held there, shuddering, his bound hands useless.
“Now fuck her,” I commanded him. It was my turn.
He began to move, shallow, careful thrusts. The sensation for him was clearly overwhelming, a vise-like grip. Swati’s face was a mask of intense, confounding feeling—pain, fullness, a shocking intrusion that was morphing into something else. She was taking him, in every way possible.
And I still had no outlet. The sight of him, bound and helpless yet fucking my sister in the ass, unlocked a final, vault-deep layer of depravity in me. A surprise for the surpriser.
I moved closer behind him. I spat on my fingers, wetting them thoroughly. As he pushed into Swati, his body stretched taut, I reached around his hip, my hand sliding down the cleft of his own ass.
He froze. “What are you—”
My middle finger found his entrance, a tight, forbidden knot of muscle. I pressed.
He screamed. Not a scream of pleasure, but of pure, unadulterated shock and violation. “NO! Nupur, DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!”
I dared. I pushed, working my finger against the resistance. It was dry, tight, invasive. It was a power reversal so complete it made my head spin.
“You little cunt!” he roared, trying to buck away, but he was buried in Swati and his hands were bound. He was trapped. “I’ll kill you for this! I swear to god, I’ll fucking break you!”
“You love it,” I whispered, my voice trembling with the magnitude of what I was doing. I pushed harder, my fingertip breaching the ring of muscle. He cried out, a strangled, animal sound.
Swati turned her head, her eyes wide. She saw what was happening. A fierce, approving grin split her face. “Oh, baby sister. You brilliant, dirty bitch.”
“Get her off me, Swati! Make her stop!” he begged, but his hips were still making tiny, involuntary thrusts into her ass, his body a confused map of violation and perverse stimulation.
I worked my finger in deeper, to the first knuckle. The intimacy was absolute, shocking. He was swearing, promising violent, detailed revenge, cursing my name, calling me every vile thing in his extensive vocabulary.
And we loved it. All three of us. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and this new, raw edge of conquest. Swati met his thrusts now, groaning as he hit depths in her that made her eyes roll back. My finger was buried in him, a claim as profound as any. We were a circuit of mutual possession, a triangle of beautifully distributed power and humiliation.
He was shouting, but his shouts were losing coherence, dissolving into guttural, pleasured sobs. He was close. We all were. This twisted, three-way knot was pulling impossibly tight.
“Come on, you bastard,” Swati grunted, pushing back against him ferociously. “Give it to me. In my ass. Like the slut you married.”
His insults died in his throat, replaced by a ragged, broken cry as his body seized. I felt the rhythmic clench of his internal muscles around my finger, a profound, intimate pulse. Swati shuddered beneath him, a second, silent climax wrenching through her. The sight of them, joined in that most forbidden way, both coming while he was helplessly bound and penetrated, triggered my own orgasm—a deep, rolling wave that washed through me with no touch but the psychological fire of what I was witnessing and doing.
We collapsed.
A slow, groaning disentanglement. I pulled my finger free. He slid out of Swati. The handcuffs clinked as he rolled onto his back, his chest heaving. For a long time, the only sounds were our shattered breaths.
Swati was the first to move. She got up, wincing slightly, and fetched a key from her closet drawer. She knelt beside Vishal and unlocked the cuffs. The metal fell away, revealing faint red marks on his wrists. She leaned down and kissed each mark.
He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re both insane,” he mumbled, but there was no anger left, only a profound, exhausted awe.
I crawled up the bed and lay on his other side, my head on his shoulder. I could smell my own scent on his skin. Swati curled against his other side. We were a spent, sticky, contented tangle.
“Revenge, huh?” I whispered into the quiet, daring to reference his screamed promises.
One of his eyes slid open. He turned his head and looked at me. The fury was gone, replaced by something darker, more promising. A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips—the ambitious, charming one that always meant trouble.
“Oh, you have no idea,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “No idea at all.”