The week bled into a rhythm Musab had only dreamed of. Every night brought a new performance from his mother's bedroom—the creak of the bedframe, her moans rising and falling like a song he'd memorized. He'd stand in the hallway some nights, pressed against the wall, cock in hand, listening to her beg for more from whoever his father's friend was that evening. She knew he was there. Sometimes she'd moan louder, say his name in the middle of it—"oh fuck, oh yes, oh Musab—" and then laugh, breathless, while the man inside her kept pounding.
During the days, Atifa grew bolder. She'd brush past him in the kitchen, her hand trailing across his thigh. She'd leave the bathroom door open while she changed, catching his eye in the mirror, letting the towel slip a little lower before she pulled it back up. She'd bend over in the garden, her kurta riding up, showing him the curve of her ass, the damp line of fabric between her thighs. He'd watch. She'd pretend not to notice. They both knew the game.
One afternoon he'd been in his room, sprawled on the bed, scrolling through his phone. The door opened without a knock. Atifa stood there in a loose shirt and nothing else—no bra, the fabric hanging off one shoulder. "I can't find the remote," she said, scanning the room like she hadn't just walked into his space. He watched her move past him, watched the way her hips swayed, the soft jiggle of her breasts under the cotton.
"Check under the bed."
She bent over slowly, arching her back, giving him a full view of her thick thighs and the curve of her ass barely covered by her panties. She stayed there a moment too long, shifting, pretending to search. His cock hardened against his jeans. When she straightened, she caught him staring, saw the bulge, and didn't look away. She bit her lip. "Not there." Then she walked out, leaving the door half open.
He watched her leave. Watched the sway of her. His hand found his cock through his jeans and he squeezed, imagining bending her over his bed, imagining her moaning his name the way his mother did for strangers.
Tonight, he'd get his chance.
Uzair had left after dinner with his friends, saying he'd be back in the morning. Fakhar was in Islamabad on business. The house felt different—emptier, charged, like the air itself was waiting. Musab lay in his bed, listening. Through the walls, he heard his mother's door open, heard the low murmur of a man's voice—new one tonight, he didn't recognize it—and then the familiar sounds began. The wet slide of skin on skin. Sadia's breathy moans building into cries. "Yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me harder—"
His cock strained against his boxers. He wrapped his hand around it, slow, breathing through the ache, not wanting to finish. Not yet. Something was going to happen tonight. He felt it in his bones.
The knock came soft at first. He almost missed it over his mother's moans. Then again, firmer.
He pulled his boxers up, his cock still half hard, and crossed the room. When he opened the door, Atifa stood in the hallway, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.
She was wearing a silk gown the color of midnight—backless, the fabric barely clinging to her shoulders, held together by a single lace at her spine. Her breasts pressed against the silk, her nipples visible, hard, dark. Her hair fell loose past her shoulders, past her back, brushing the top of her ass. The hem stopped just below her thighs. She was barefoot.
His mother's moans drifted through the wall. "Oh god, oh god, yes—right there—fuck—"
Atifa's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to him. She smiled. "Looks like Ammi ji is enjoying herself tonight."
"She always does."
Atifa stepped closer. He could smell her—jasmine oil, warm skin, something underneath that was clean and female and his. "Can you make me scream like that, Musab?" Her voice was low, challenging, hungry. "Can you make me feel what she feels?"
His hand shot out, grabbed her waist, pulled her against him. She gasped, soft, her breasts pressing into his bare chest. "I'm going to fuck your brains out, Atifa." Her name in his mouth tasted like victory. "I'm going to make you forget your own name."
She grinned. "Show me."
He pulled her inside, kicked the door shut behind her. The latch clicked loud in the room. His mother's moans continued through the walls, muffled now, a backdrop. His hands found Atifa's waist, slid up her back—bare skin, warm, smooth. He traced the curve of her spine down to the swell of her ass. She was soft under his fingers, yielding, her body already tilting into his.
He kissed her.
She opened under him like a lock finding its key. Her mouth was hot, wet, hungry. She bit his lower lip, pulled, let go. He tasted copper. She laughed against his mouth. "I've been waiting for this," she breathed. "Watching you. Watching your hands. Wondering what they'd feel like on me."
"Now you know."
His hand found the lace at her back, tugged. The gown fell open. She let it slide off her shoulders, off her arms, puddling at her feet. She stood naked in front of him—her breasts full and round, tipped with dark nipples already tight. Her waist curved in, then flared into hips he could grip, thighs thick and strong. The dark patch between her legs was wet, glistening in the low light.
He lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, her mouth finding his again. He carried her to the bed, laid her down, stayed over her. Her breasts spilled to either side as she lay back, her hair a black halo on his white sheets. She was everything he'd imagined and more.
He lowered his mouth to her neck, tasting salt, her pulse fluttering under his tongue. Down to her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. He took her breast in his mouth, sucked, bit gently. She arched into him, a sound caught in her throat. He circled her nipple with his tongue, flicked it, sucked harder. Her hand found the back of his head, pressed him into her. "Yes," she whispered. "Don't stop."
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, feeling her squirm under him, hearing her breath quicken. His hand slid down her stomach, through the dark hair between her legs, found her wet and hot and ready. She was soaked. His fingers slid inside her easily, one, then two. She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand.
"Fuck, Atifa, you're so wet."
"I've been wet for you all week." Her voice was thick, desperate. "Every time I saw you. Every time I touched myself thinking about you."
He pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth. She watched him taste her, dark eyes locked on his. "You taste like honey," he said.
She pulled his boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already wet. Her eyes went wide, hungry. "Oh god," she breathed. "This thing is so much bigger than your brother's."
"I know."
She sat up, pushed him onto his back, took his cock in her hand. She held it like she was weighing it, running her thumb over the head, spreading the moisture. She lowered her face to it, sniffed—the musk of him, the salt of his pre-cum—and then she opened her mouth and took him.
Her tongue traced the vein on the underside. She licked from base to tip, circled the head, took him into her mouth. Her lips slid down his shaft, slow, taking him deeper. Musab groaned, his head falling back. Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect. She sucked, hollowing her cheeks, and he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of her throat.
She gagged, pulled back, took him again. Deeper this time. Her hand wrapped around the base, working what her mouth couldn't reach. She picked up pace, bobbing her head, her hair brushing his thighs, the wet sounds filling the room.
He grabbed her hair, fisted it, used it to guide her rhythm. "That's it," he growled. "Take it all."
She moaned around him, the vibration traveling through his cock. Her free hand found his balls, cupped them, massaged. She took him deep again, held him there, her throat working around the head. When she pulled back, she was gasping, saliva stringing from her lips to his cock.
"I want you inside me." Her voice was raw, wrecked. "I've been empty for so long, Musab. Fill me."
He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, positioned her on her knees. Her ass was round and perfect, her cunt wet and glistening, her thighs trembling with anticipation. He ran the head of his cock through her folds, watching her shiver.
"You want this, Atifa?"
"Yes, Musab, yes. Fuck me with that cock. I've wanted it for so long. Tear my cunt apart."
He pushed in.
She was tight—so tight he felt every ridge of her gripping him, pulling him deeper. Her walls clenched around him, trying to adjust, to accept. He kept pushing, feeling her stretch, feeling her heat, feeling her take inch by inch until his balls pressed against her clit. She cried out—a raw, broken sound—and that was music.
"Fuck, Atifa. You're so tight."
"You're so deep. Oh god, you're so deep inside me."
He pulled back, slow, almost all the way out, then thrust back in. She gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets. He found a rhythm—deep, even strokes—and she matched him, pushing back onto his cock, meeting each thrust. Her moans grew louder, building with each movement.
"Aaaahhh, Musab, fuck me, fuck your bhabi—"
He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, kept pounding into her. Her hair trailed down her back, brushing against his thighs. Her breasts swung with each thrust, heavy and full. He watched himself slide into her, watched her body take him, watched the way her ass rippled with each impact.
"You feel that?" he growled. "Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes—oh fuck yes—I feel you in my stomach—"
He reached around, found her clit, rubbed in circles. Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the bed, and he followed, staying inside her, grinding into her from behind. Her moans became incoherent, wordless sounds of pleasure that his mother's cries from the next room harmonized with.
He flipped her onto her back, lifted her legs onto his shoulders, and drove into her again. She was open beneath him, vulnerable, her eyes locked on his. He watched her face—the way her lips parted, the way her eyes glazed, the way her body surrendered to every inch of him.
"Look at me." She did. "Who's fucking you?"
"You, Musab. You're fucking me."
"Who owns this cunt?"
"You. You do. It's yours."
He fucked her harder, faster, his hips slapping against hers, the bed creaking beneath them. Her moans became cries, her cries became screams, her body arching off the bed as she came around him—her walls clenching, her thighs shaking, a sound torn from her throat that was pure, animal pleasure.
He didn't stop. He kept fucking her through her orgasm, watching her eyes roll back, feeling her body spasm around his cock. When she came down, he flipped her again, took her from behind, one hand in her hair, one hand on her hip, driving into her with a rhythm that was relentless.
They fucked for hours. On her back. On her stomach. On her side, her leg hooked over his arm. Standing, her pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around him. In every position, every angle, he found new depths in her, new sounds, new ways to make her scream.
She rode him, her breasts bouncing in his face, and he sucked them, bit them, held her hips as she took what she needed. He fucked her from behind while she lay flat, her ass in the air, and she begged him to go deeper, harder, faster.
"Cum inside me," she whispered at some point, her voice wrecked, her body shaking. "I want to feel you fill me."
He was close. The heat building in his balls, the pressure unbearable. He pushed into her one last time, held there, and let go. He came in waves, his cock pulsing, his cum filling her, leaking around the base of him. She moaned through it, her walls milking him, taking everything he gave.
He collapsed beside her, breathing hard, his body slick with sweat. Her chest heaved. Her thighs were wet with him, his cum dripping from her, her cunt open and red and thoroughly fucked.
She turned her head toward him. Her eyes were glassy, her lips swollen. She smiled, weak, satisfied. "That was worth the wait."
He pulled her against him, her back to his chest, his arm over her waist. His hand found her breast, cupped it, thumb stroking her nipple. She was soft and warm and spent. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her jaw.
Her breathing slowed. Her body relaxed into his. She was asleep within minutes, her hand resting over his on her breast.
Musab stayed awake a while longer, listening to her breath, to the distant sounds of the house settling, to the silence from his mother's room. He sucked Atifa's nipple gently, lazily, tasting salt and skin and the faint sweetness of her. His cum was drying on her thighs. She was his now. Bent and claimed and his.
He pressed his face into her hair, breathed her in, and let his eyes close.
Sadia woke to the weight of a tongue between her legs. She was still half-asleep, her body responding before her mind caught up—hips tilting into the warmth, a low moan escaping her throat. She opened her eyes. The man beside her was already buried between her thighs, his mouth working her clit with practiced skill. She didn't bother remembering his name. She just spread her legs wider, let him taste her, let the morning start the way every good morning should.
She came against his mouth, her fingers tangled in his hair, her body arching off the sheets. He didn't stop until she pushed his head away, breathless, shaking. Then she flipped him onto his back, took his cock in her mouth, and returned the favor. They found a rhythm—69, her ass in the air, his tongue deep in her cunt while she sucked him, took him all the way down her throat, felt him pulse against her tongue. He came with a groan, filling her mouth, and she swallowed every drop, licking him clean, then lowered herself back onto his face and let him finish her with his tongue. She came again, her juices covering his chin, her thighs trembling, and she smiled down at him. He was a good boy. She didn't remember his name, but he'd earned breakfast.
He dressed and left. Sadia stood, pulled her silk gown over her sticky, satisfied body. Her thighs were still slick with last night's cum and this morning's pleasure. She walked through the hallway, her bare feet silent on the marble, and stopped at Musab's door. It was cracked open. She pushed it gently, just enough to see inside.
Musab lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head, his chest bare. Atifa was curled against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his stomach. Both naked. Both asleep. The sheets were tangled around their legs, and Sadia could see the evidence of the night—the smear of dried cum on Atifa's thigh, the marks on Musab's shoulder where teeth had found purchase. Atifa's face was slack, peaceful, the kind of deep sleep that only came after being thoroughly fucked. Sadia recognized it. She wore it every morning.
She smiled. Not a small smile. A knowing one. She pulled the door closed, quiet as a breath, and walked downstairs.
The house was still. She went to the TV lounge, settled into the sofa, and waited. Sunlight streamed through the glass doors, catching the dust motes floating in the air. She poured herself a glass of water, sipped it, and listened to the house waking up.
Atifa came down forty minutes later. She had wrapped a white bedsheet around herself, clutched it at her chest. Her dress was in her other hand. Her hair was still damp from a shower, but Sadia could see the marks on her neck—bruises, bites, the evidence of a night well spent.
"Morning, Ammi ji," Atifa said, her voice soft, uncertain.
Sadia looked at her over the rim of her glass. "Indeed it is."
Atifa's cheeks flushed. She looked down, then back up, and Sadia held her gaze. They both knew. The air between them thickened, heavy with understanding. Atifa's lips parted, but no words came. Sadia just smiled, slow, and took another sip of water. Atifa smiled back—small, relieved—and walked toward the kitchen.
Musab came down ten minutes later, his hair messy, his shirt untucked. He looked like a man who'd had a long night and a short sleep. He found Sadia in the lounge, paused, and met her eyes.
"Morning, Ammi."
"Morning, beta." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit. Atifa's making breakfast."
He sat. Atifa emerged from the kitchen with a tray—parathas, yogurt, fruit, tea. She set it on the table, avoiding Musab's eyes. But Sadia saw the way Atifa's hand brushed his shoulder as she leaned past him. A touch that lingered a half-second too long. She saw the way Musab's jaw tightened, the way his hand found Atifa's hip, brief and hidden. They thought they were subtle. They weren't, but she found it charming.
They ate in a strange, warm silence. Sadia watched them both—Atifa's flush, Musab's studied casualness, the way they didn't quite look at each other but didn't quite look away. It was like watching a fire catch. She approved.
The front door opened. Uzair's voice called out, "I'm back." Footsteps in the hallway. He appeared in the doorway, still in last night's clothes, looking tired but pleased. "Morning, everyone." His eyes landed on Atifa, softened. "Hey."
"Hey," she said, her voice flat. She stood, kissed his cheek. "Come. Eat. You must be hungry."
He sat. Atifa served him, her movements automatic. Uzair ate quickly, talking about his night—friends, cards, too much whiskey. Atifa nodded, smiled when appropriate, but her eyes kept drifting to Musab. Sadia saw it. Uzair didn't.
After breakfast, Uzair stood. "Come, Atifa. I need a shower." He took her hand, led her upstairs. She looked back once—at Musab, a flicker of something—before disappearing around the corner.
The kitchen fell quiet. Sadia leaned back in her chair, her teacup in her hands, her eyes on her son. He was staring at the stairs, his jaw tight, his hand wrapped around his own cup a little too hard. She waited until the upstairs door clicked shut.
"So, beta," she said, her voice low, warm. "How was she?"
Musab's head snapped toward her. His eyes searched hers, looking for trap, for judgment. He found neither. She just watched him, patient, curious.
He exhaled. "She was amazing."
Sadia smiled. "Did you open her properly?"
"Properly and deeply."
"That's my boy." She took a sip of tea, watched him over the rim. "She needed that. Your brother doesn't know how to handle a woman like her."
Musab said nothing. His eyes dropped to his cup.
"You also had fun last night." Not a question.
"That's every night, actually."
Sadia laughed, low and rich. "Oh, yes. Your Ammi needs cock every night. Your father's not a good one, but I find my satisfaction." She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her robe falling open just enough to show the curve of her breasts. "But I saw yours last night, beta. Through the crack in the door when you lifted Atifa onto the bed. It's very big. And very thick."
Musab's throat worked. He didn't look away.
"You got that from me," she said. "Your father—average. But you? You got every good gene I had to give." She sat back, her robe still loose, her smile knowing. "Don't forget—I'll get my turn."
A horn sounded from outside. Two short beeps. Then a longer one.
Sadia waved a hand. "Go. That slut is here." She stood, gathered the teacups. "And Musab?"
He paused at the door.
"I'm proud of you."
He didn't answer. He stepped outside into the morning sun.
Nimra's car was parked at the gate, a beat-up Civic she treated like a rally car. She was leaning against the driver's door, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers. She wore ripped jeans, a black tank top under a leather jacket, and a smirk that matched his.
"You're late," she said.
"You're early."
"Same thing." She flicked the cigarette away, slid into the driver's seat. He got in beside her. The car smelled like tobacco and her perfume—something sharp, floral, undercut with sweat.
They pulled away from the gate. She drove fast, one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift. Her eyes flicked to him, then back to the road. "So? How was your night?"
He told her.
He told her about Atifa—the way she'd come to his door, the way her dress had fallen, the way she'd wrapped her mouth around him. He told her about the hours they'd spent, the positions, the sounds she'd made, the way she'd begged for his cum. He told her about his mother's words this morning, about the promise in her eyes. He told her everything, watching Nimra's face shift from amusement to something darker.
Her hand slipped down, found her own thigh, squeezed. Then it slid higher, under the hem of her skirt. She kept driving, but her fingers found her clit through her underwear, rubbing slow circles. Her breath shortened.
"Fuck, Musab. You're making me wet."
"Good."
She bit her lip. Drove faster.
They reached college. Parking lot. She killed the engine, sat there, her hand still between her legs. "We're skipping first lecture."
"Done."
She led him to the arts building, the third-floor bathroom, the one no one used. She locked the door, turned to him, and dropped to her knees. Her hands found his belt, his zipper, pulled his jeans down. His cock was already hard, thick, eager. She wrapped her mouth around it, took him all the way, deep into her throat. He watched her—her head bobbing, her hands on his thighs, her eyes watering but refusing to stop. She sucked him with hunger, with need, the same hunger that had driven her hand in the car.
He pulled her up, turned her around, bent her over the sink. Her skirt hitched up, her panties torn aside. He pushed into her, no warning, no gentleness, and she gasped, braced herself on the counter, met his thrusts with her own.
"Yes, fuck me—"
He did. Fast. Hard. The slap of skin echoing off the tiles. Her moans ricocheted. He grabbed her hips, her hair, her waist. She came around him, clenching, crying out, and he kept fucking her through it, chasing his own release. He came deep inside her, his cum flooding her, and she moaned through it, her body shaking.
They finished. She straightened her skirt, wiped her mouth, and laughed. "Worth skipping lecture for."
He zipped up. "Always."
The day passed. Lectures. Notes. More of Nimra's wandering hands under the desk. He was distracted, his mind on two women—Atifa's body against his, his mother's promise. By the time the final bell rang, he was hard again just thinking about it.
Nimra dropped him at the gate. "Text me what happens tonight." She winked and drove off.
The villa was quiet. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. He went inside. The house felt empty, suspended. He heard a television murmuring from the lounge. His mother's voice, low, laughing at something.
He started up the stairs. He meant to go to his room, to lie down, to think. But as he passed his parents' bedroom, he heard voices. Not just his mother's. Men's voices. Three of them, low and familiar.
He paused.
His feet carried him to the end of the hall, to the small utility closet that shared a wall with his parents' room. He'd discovered the crack years ago—a gap in the paneling, perfectly placed to see the bed. He'd never told anyone. He pressed his eye to it now.
His mother stood in the center of the room. She was naked. Three men surrounded her.
Javed—Nimra's father, broad-shouldered, military posture, a thick cock that was already hard. Amir—his father's friend, lean and silver-touched, stroking himself. And a third man he didn't recognize at first—tall, dark-skinned, a full beard, a cock as thick as his wrist. Then the man turned, and Musab saw his face. It was Atifa's father. Imran.
Sadia stood among them like a queen among subjects. Her head was high, her body open, her hands reaching out to touch each of them, one by one. Javed stepped forward first, pulled her close, kissed her deep. His hands found her ass, squeezed, lifted her. Imran came behind her, gathered her hair in his fist, pulled her head back, bit her shoulder. Amir stroked her breasts, pinched her nipples until she gasped into Javed's mouth.
They passed her between them like a shared meal. She dropped to her knees, her mouth open, and they circled her. Three cocks in her face. She took Javed's in her mouth first, deep, all the way, while her hands worked the other two. Imran held her hair, keeping her still. Amir stroked himself, let her lick his balls, groaned. She switched, took Amir, then Imran, her mouth never empty, her hands always moving.
Imran lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he entered her cunt in one slow, deliberate thrust. She gasped, head back, mouth open. Amir moved behind her, spread her ass, and pushed into her. Two cocks, both thick, both deep. Sadia's moan was a sound Musab had heard a hundred times, but never like this—full, broken, overwhelmed.
Javed lay on the bed. Sadia straddled him, took his cock into her cunt while Amir stayed inside her ass. They fucked her together, Javed thrusting up, Amir driving down, a rhythm that made her body bounce, her breasts swing, her moans turn into screams. "Aaaahhhh—fuck me—yes—"
Javed slapped her ass. "You like this, you cock-hungry bitch?"
"Yes—yes—fuck me—"
Amir bent over her, grabbed her hair, pulled her head back. "Your ass is amazing. Taking it all." He spanked her. Hard. Her skin reddened. She moaned louder.
Javed came inside her. She kept riding him, grinding, taking every pulse. Then Imran was behind her again, pulling her off Javed, bending her over the bed. He pushed his cock into her cunt, still slick with Javed's cum, and fucked her hard and fast while Amir slid into her ass again. She was sandwiched between them, impaled on both ends, and she was laughing—a broken, ecstatic sound. "Yes—yes—both of you—don't stop—"
Amir came in her ass. Imran came in her cunt. She collapsed onto the bed, and Javed knelt beside her, pushed his cock into her mouth, and came on her tongue. She swallowed it all, her throat working, her eyes closed, a smile on her cum-stained lips.
They didn't stop. They fucked her for hours. In every hole. In every position. She took them all, greedily, demanding more, begging for deeper, harder. Musab watched from the crack, his cock in his hand, stroking in time with his mother's moans. He came into his palm, thick and hot, and kept watching.
When they finally finished, she lay sprawled across the bed, her body glistening with sweat and cum, her holes leaking three men's release. They dressed slowly, patting her thigh, kissing her forehead, leaving her with murmured promises of next time. She didn't move. She just lay there, satisfied, ruined, smiling.
Musab pulled away from the crack. He wiped his hand on his jeans, adjusted himself, and walked to his room. His door clicked shut behind him.
Down the hall, in the bedroom, Sadia opened her eyes. She knew he'd been watching. She always knew. She smiled, touched her cum-slicked thigh, and closed her eyes again.