His hand tightened in her hair, a fistful of silk yanking her head back until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. The lamp's low glow caught the planes of his chest, the dark muscle shifting as he looked down at her, and she felt small in a way that made her insides clench.

"Open, memsahib."

The word curled through her like smoke. She parted her lips, tongue flat against her bottom lip, and watched his jaw tighten. His thumb found her cheek, stroking once, almost tender, before he guided himself to her mouth.

The first touch was salt and heat. The thick head of his cock pressed against her tongue, heavy and foreign, and she tasted him before she understood what she was doing. Her eyes watered. Her throat seized.

He pushed.

She gagged, a raw, animal sound that shocked her, and her hands flew to his thighs. The muscle there was like iron under her fingers, tense and waiting. He held her there, just past her lips, letting her feel the weight of him, the stretch of her mouth around something too big for it.

"Breathe through your nose," he said, and his voice was low, almost gentle. "That's it. Let your throat open."

She tried. The air came in thin, panicked sips, and she felt her body fight her, felt the urge to pull back surge through her shoulders. But his hand was in her hair, not forcing, just holding, and something in the way he waited—patient, certain—made her stay.

Her tongue moved without permission, tracing the vein on the underside of him, and she felt his cock jump against her lips.

"Good girl," he breathed.

The praise flooded her chest, warm and shameful. She looked up at him, her eyes wet, her lips stretched around him, and she saw the hunger in his face. The way he watched her, like she was something precious and filthy at once.

He pulled back, slow, dragging his length across her tongue until only the head remained, then pushed forward again. Shallow. Patient. A rhythm she could survive.

The carpet bit into her knees through the thin lace of her panties. She felt the dampness there, the shameful slickness that had started the moment he stepped into her room, and she pressed her thighs together, trying to hide it from herself.

He noticed. She saw it in the way his eyes dropped, the slight curl of his lip.

"You're wet, memsahib," he said, and his voice was rough, amused. "I can smell you from here."

Her face burned. She tried to pull back, to say something, but his hand tightened in her hair and he pushed deeper, cutting off her protest with the thick heat of him.

She gagged again, harder this time, her throat convulsing around him, and he held her there, his hips still, letting her feel the full depth of him. Her nose pressed against the dark hair at his base, his scent flooding her, musk and salt and something darker. Her hands clawed at his thighs, not pushing, just holding on.

"That's it," he murmured, and his thumb stroked her cheek again, wiping away the tear that had escaped. "Take it like you mean it."

She wanted to hate him. She wanted to shove him away, to tell him this was a mistake, that she was a married woman, a good woman, a sanskari girl who had never done anything like this in her life.

But her mouth was full of him, and her cunt was aching, and she couldn't remember why she was supposed to stop.

He pulled back, letting her breathe, and she gasped, spit stringing from her lips to his cock. Her mouth was sore, her jaw already trembling, and she looked up at him with wet, pleading eyes.

"Please," she whispered, and she didn't know what she was asking for. More. Less. Him to stop. Him to never stop.

"Please what?" His voice was a low rumble, his thumb still stroking her cheek, almost gentle. "Tell me what you want, Neha."

Her name in his mouth was a shock, intimate and wrong. He had never said it before, not once. It was always memsahib, always a servant's address, a distance she could hide behind.

But now he was looking at her like he knew her, like he had already taken something she hadn't meant to give.

"I don't—" she started, and her voice cracked.

"You don't what?" He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You don't want this? You didn't invite me to your room at eleven o'clock? You didn't put on this lingerie and wait for me?"

She shook her head, but the gesture was weak, unconvincing. He saw through it, and his lip curled.

"You're a liar, Neha," he said softly. "But that's alright. I like liars. I like teaching them the truth."

He guided himself back to her lips, and she opened for him without being told. Her tongue met him, flat and welcoming, and she heard the sound he made—a low, rough groan that vibrated through her hands where they gripped his thighs.

He pushed deeper this time, past the point where she had gagged before, and she forced herself to breathe through her nose, to relax her throat, to take him. The taste of him flooded her mouth, salty and musky and unbearably intimate, and she felt her eyes water again, felt the tears spill over her cheeks.

"That's it," he breathed. "Look at you. A married woman on her knees, sucking a servant's cock."

The words should have shamed her. They did shame her, a hot, twisting shame that coiled low in her belly and made her cunt clench around nothing. She moaned around him, a muffled, desperate sound, and he felt it, she knew he felt it, because his hips stuttered, driving him deeper.

She gagged again, but she didn't pull away. Her hands moved from his thighs to his hips, gripping the sharp bone there, holding on as he began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts that tested her, taught her, stretched her mouth around the thick length of him.

"You're learning," he said, and there was something like approval in his voice. "You're a natural, memsahib. A born cocksucker."

She should have been offended. Instead, she felt a thrill shoot through her, a hot, electric pulse that made her suck harder, take him deeper. She wanted his approval. She wanted him to keep looking at her like that, like she was a prize he had won.

His hand tightened in her hair, and he began to guide her, setting a rhythm that was faster, harder, more demanding. Her jaw ached. Her throat burned. Spit ran down her chin, dripped onto the lace of her bra, and she didn't care. She didn't care about anything except the weight of him on her tongue, the taste of him in her mouth, the sound of his breathing growing rougher above her.

"Look at me," he commanded, and she did, her eyes swimming up to meet his. "You like this, don't you? You like having a cock in your mouth."

She couldn't answer, not with him filling her throat, but she nodded, a small, desperate movement that made him groan.

"Say it," he said, pulling back until only the head remained between her lips. "Say you like it."

She gasped, her mouth wet and empty, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them. "I like it. I like—" she swallowed, her throat clicking, "—I like having you in my mouth."

The smile that spread across his face was slow and cruel and beautiful. "Good girl."

He pushed forward again, and this time he didn't stop at her throat. He kept going, his hips pressing forward, and she felt herself open for him, felt her throat accept him in a way that should have been impossible. Her nose pressed against his pelvis, the dark hair of him tickling her skin, and she was completely still, completely full, completely his.

She couldn't breathe. Her throat convulsed around him, a desperate, reflexive clench, and she felt him pulse against her tongue, felt the heat of him, the weight. Her hands clawed at his hips, her nails digging into his skin, and she was on the edge of panic, on the edge of something else entirely.

He held her there, unmoving, letting her feel the full depth of him. His hand was in her hair, gentle now, almost caressing, and his thumb stroked her cheek again, wiping away the tears that wouldn't stop falling.

"You've barely started, memsahib," he whispered.

And then he pulled back, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock across her tongue until it slipped free of her lips with a wet, obscene sound. She gasped, sucking in air, her throat raw and aching, and she looked up at him with swollen, glistening lips.

He was still hard, still thick, the head of his cock slick with her spit and her tears. He looked down at her, and his eyes were dark, predatory, hungry.

"Again," he said.

And she opened her mouth for him, obedient and aching, ready to learn.

She took him again, the way he wanted, the way her body had already learned. Her lips closed around the head, and she heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the tremor that ran through the muscle of his thigh under her palm. The taste of him was familiar now, salt and skin and the faint musk of his sweat, and it settled something in her chest, a craving she hadn't known she carried.

He let her set the pace this time, his hand loose in her hair, and she found herself experimenting, curious despite the shame. Her tongue traced the ridge beneath the head and he groaned, a low, rough sound that made her cunt clench. She did it again, slower, and felt his hips twitch forward.

"Clever girl," he murmured, and the praise was a drug, warming her from the inside.

She wanted more of it. She wanted to be clever for him, to learn what made him make that sound, to map the secret geography of his pleasure with her mouth. She took him deeper, letting her throat relax, and the gag that rose was softer this time, easier to swallow. The carpet bit into her knees and she shifted her weight, the lace of her panties soaked through, and he noticed, she saw him notice, his eyes dropping to where her thighs pressed together.

"Spread your knees apart," he said.

She hesitated, the command landing in her belly like a stone in still water. But her body moved before her mind could object, knees sliding apart on the carpet, and the cool air hit the soaked lace of her panties, a shock that made her gasp around him.

He made a sound of approval. "There she is. The real Neha."

She didn't know what that meant, didn't want to know. She just wanted him to keep looking at her like that, like she was a door he had finally found the key to. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, and his hand tightened in her hair, a fistful of silk pulling her closer, deeper.

The rhythm changed, harder, faster, and she let him take what he wanted, her jaw aching, her throat burning, spit running down her chin. She heard herself make a sound, a desperate, muffled whimper, and he answered with a groan that vibrated through her skull.

"That's it," he breathed. "Take it. Take all of it."

She felt the pulse of him against her tongue, the first twitch of something building, and a wild, reckless thrill shot through her. He was close. She was making him close. She doubled her efforts, her hands gripping his hips, her nails digging into the dark skin of his ass, and she heard his breathing roughen, felt the tremor in his thighs.

But he pulled back, just before the edge, his cock slipping free of her lips with a wet, obscene sound. She gasped, her mouth empty and aching, and looked up at him, confused, desperate.

"Not yet," he said, and his voice was rough, strained. "I want to be inside you when I come."

The words landed like a blow, and she felt herself flood, felt the heat spread through her belly and between her thighs. She had never wanted anything the way she wanted him in that moment, wanted him inside her, wanted him to fill her and break her and remake her.

He pulled her to her feet, his hand still in her hair, and she stumbled against him, her bare breasts pressing into the hard plane of his chest. The lamp's glow caught the sweat on his shoulders, the dark gleam of his skin, and she felt small and fragile and utterly, terrifyingly alive.

He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she fell onto it, the mattress bouncing under her weight. The nightgown was still pooled around her waist, the red lace of her bra and panties stark against her skin, and she lay there, looking up at him, trembling, waiting.

He stood over her, a dark silhouette against the lamp's glow, and his eyes traveled down her body, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing her. His cock was still hard, slick with her spit, and she watched his hand move to it, watched him stroke himself once, twice, and her mouth went dry.

"Touch yourself," he said. "Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me."