He held there. Just the head of him, fat and hot, pressed to the wet seam of her, and the pressure was a promise that hadn't been kept yet. His thumb found her chin, pressed it up until her throat stretched and her eyes had to come off the red dot and onto his face. He was older than the others — grey in his stubble, a heavy fold of belly above the cock he was feeding into her — and his eyes were flat, bored, the way a man looks at a chore he's done a thousand times.

"Say it," he said.

Her mouth was dry. The words came out thin and cracked, barely a sound at all. "Thank you."

"Louder."

"Thank you," she said, and her voice broke on the second word, because he was already pushing, already opening her, and the stretch of it dragged a sound out of her that had nothing to do with thanks.

He went in slow. That was the cruelty of it — slow the whole way, an inch at a time, so she felt every ridge and vein of him part her, felt her own cunt give way around him like wet silk, felt her body do the thing it always did now, open and clench and make room. The second man's hands closed on her thighs and wrenched them wider, wider than she could have held them herself, and the cool air of the room touched the slick heat between her legs where she was stretched around the third man's cock.

"That's it," the second man said. He had a low, easy voice, almost kind, and his thumbs were pressing bruises into the soft of her inner thighs. "Let him all the way in. Don't be shy now."

She wasn't shy. That was the thing she couldn't say, the thing she'd have choked on even if she'd tried. She was full — so full her belly felt tight with it — and her hips were already lifting off the mattress, tilting up to meet him, and her cunt was fluttering around his length in little greedy pulses she couldn't stop.

The first man stepped up to the side of the bed and put his cock against her lips.

She hadn't even heard him move. One moment the air above her was empty, the next the blunt head of him was smearing wetness across her mouth, and he was looking down at her with his jaw set and his hand already closing in her hair. "Open," he said.

She opened. He pushed in past her teeth, past her tongue, until the head of him bumped the back of her throat and her eyes watered and she made a wet, gagging sound around him. He didn't pull back. He held there, in her throat, and the third man was moving now, drawing out of her cunt and driving back in, and the two of them had found a rhythm already, a slow seesaw, one pushing in as the other pulled out, and she was caught between them, filled at both ends, her body a thing being worked.

The whir was soft. She heard it over the wet sounds of her own mouth — the little motor of the old woman's phone, and then the shuffle of her feet on the floorboards as she came closer, close enough that Neha could smell her, that old rosewater and the sourness beneath it.

"Hold her head still," Auntie Shobha said. "I want to see her face when he fills her."

The first man's hand tightened in her hair and pushed her down, and she took him deeper, her nose in the coarse hair at his root, the smell of him thick and male and overwhelming. Her throat worked around him, swallowed, gagged. Spit ran from the corner of her mouth and down her cheek and into her ear, and she heard herself making small helpless sounds, mm, mm, mm, timed to the thrusts.

"Look at her," the old woman said. Her voice had gone soft with something that sounded like wonder. "Look at the little sanskari wife now. Two cocks in her and she's not even fighting."

Neha's eyes were streaming. She couldn't answer. She couldn't do anything but take it, and the taking was all there was — the thick weight of the first man down her throat, the slow brutal drag of the third man in her cunt, the second man's hands spreading her open like he was showing her off to the room.

The third man changed his angle. He hitched her hips up higher, one hand flat on her belly to hold her, and on the next thrust the head of his cock dragged over something inside her that made her whole body jerk. She moaned around the cock in her mouth, a long broken sound, and her cunt clamped down on him so hard he grunted and his rhythm stuttered.

"There," he said. "There it is." And he kept hitting it, kept grinding over that spot with every thrust, and Neha's hips were bucking now, her heels digging into the mattress, her hands fisted in the bedspread because no one had told her what to do with them and she needed something to hold.

"She's going to come," the second man said. He said it like he was reporting the weather. "Look at her cunt. She's going to come on his cock."

"Not yet," Auntie Shobha said. "Not until I say."

The third man slowed. Not stopped — slowed, drawing it out, long deep strokes that turned her insides to hot liquid, and Neha wanted to scream. She wanted to beg. The words were there in her throat, jammed up against the cock that was still filling it, and she couldn't get them out, could only make a sound that was half sob and half plea.

The first man pulled out of her mouth. She gasped, dragged in air, her lips swollen and wet and her chin slick with her own spit.

"Please," she said. Her voice was wrecked, a rasp. "Please—"

"Please what?" The old woman's face appeared above her, upside down, the sharp eyes glittering in the sliver of hallway light. The phone hovered at the edge of Neha's vision, the red dot steady. "Say it properly. Say what you want."

Neha's chest heaved. The third man was still moving in her, slow and deep, and every stroke pushed the words closer to the surface. "Please let me come," she said. "Please, Auntie, let me come on his cock, please—"

"Good girl," Auntie Shobha said, and the two words went through Neha like a hand. "Go on, then. Come on his cock like the randi you are."

The third man didn't need to be told twice. He fucked into her hard and fast, short brutal thrusts that jolted her whole body up the mattress, and the first man's cock was back at her lips and she took it without being asked, moaning around it, and the second man's fingers found her clit and pressed and rubbed in tight circles, and it was too much, it was everything at once, and Neha came.

She came with her mouth full and her cunt clenching and her thighs shaking in the second man's grip, and the sound she made was muffled and animal, half-swallowed by the cock in her throat. Her vision went white at the edges. Her hips lifted clean off the bed and the third man followed her up, driving in deep, and she felt the hot pulse of him spilling inside her, felt it in the deepest part of her, and her cunt milked him through it, clenching and releasing and clenching again.

"That's it," the third man grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."

He held himself there, buried to the root, and she lay stretched beneath him, twitching, her thighs still held wide by the second man's hands, her mouth still full of the first man's cock. The red dot's whir was the loudest thing in the room now, a steady insect drone, and the old woman's breathing had gone quick and shallow the way it did when she was pleased.

The third man pulled out. The wet sound of it was obscene — a slow slick drag, and then the cool air on her gaping, dripping cunt, and she felt his cum start to seep out of her and run down between her cheeks and onto the bedspread.

"Don't you dare close your legs," Auntie Shobha said. "Let it show. That's the whole point, isn't it, beti? Let the camera see what a good little whore you are."

Neha's legs stayed open. She couldn't have closed them if she'd tried — the second man's hands were still there, still spreading her, his thumbs stroking the wet crease of her thigh in a way that was almost gentle. He was watching her cunt, watching the cum leak out of it, and when he looked up at her face his eyes were dark and hungry.

"My turn," he said.

He let go of her thighs and moved between them, and the first man pulled his cock out of her mouth and stepped back, and for a moment Neha was empty — empty and open and dripping, her cunt still fluttering from the orgasm, her lips still shaped around a cock that wasn't there anymore. She dragged in air. Her chest ached with it.

The first man's hand closed in her hair again, tilting her head back, and she looked up at him. He was still hard. Still wet from her mouth.

"Open," he said again, and pressed his cock against her lips, and she understood that the waiting was over, that they were going to use her until the old woman was satisfied, and that her mouth was next.

She opened. He slid back in, and the taste of him was already familiar — salt and skin and the faint bitterness of her own throat, the wet heat of a mouth that had been used and would be used again. Her jaw ached. She hadn't noticed until now, but it did, a dull throb at the hinge, and she let it ache and took him anyway, her tongue flat along the underside of him, feeling the thick vein there pulse against her.

Between her legs, the second man had his hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it, and she felt the blunt pressure of him nudge against her swollen, dripping entrance — the same place the third man had just emptied himself, still slick with it, still open. He didn't push in. He rubbed the head of himself through the mess, up and down the seam of her, and she heard the wet sound of it, obscene and loud in the quiet room.

"Look how wet she is," he said, almost to himself. "That's not even her own, is it? That's him leaking out of her, and she's still wet for more."

Auntie Shobha made a small sound of approval from somewhere above and to the left. "She's a good little vessel," she said. "Empty her and she fills right back up. That's what I always said about these soft ones — the softer they look, the more they can hold."

The second man pushed in. He was thicker than the third, and slower, and her whole body arched off the mattress with the size of him — a long, low sound pulled out of her throat around the first man's cock, muffled and desperate. Her hands fisted the bedspread again, knuckles white, and she felt the fabric twist under her grip, felt the coarse weave of it bite into her palms.

"There she goes," the old woman said, and the phone came closer, the whir of it loud, the red dot a small hot eye hovering at the edge of Neha's vision. "Look at her take it. Look at those legs — she's not even fighting him, she's pulling him in. Say it, beti. Say what you are."

Neha's mouth was full. She couldn't answer. The first man's hand tightened in her hair and he pushed deeper, holding her there, and she gagged around him, her throat working, tears squeezing out from the corners of her eyes and running hot into her hair. The old woman laughed — a dry, papery sound — and said, "That's answer enough."

The second man set a rhythm, deep and grinding, his hips slapping against the backs of her thighs, and the sound of it filled the room — skin on skin, wet, the creak of the old bed frame beneath them. His hands were on her hips now, pulling her down onto him with each thrust, and she felt every inch of him drag out and drive back, felt her cunt stretch and clench around the thickness of him, felt the wet slide of the third man's cum being pushed out of her and running down the crack of her ass.

She was going to come again. She felt it building, a tight hot coil low in her belly, and she tried to hold it back, tried to be still, but her body wouldn't listen — her hips were already lifting to meet him, her heels digging into the mattress, and the sound she was making around the cock in her mouth was climbing, getting higher, getting desperate.

The second man felt it. "She's close again," he said, and there was a grin in his voice. "The old woman's right. She's a greedy little thing."

"Let her," Auntie Shobha said. "Let her come. I want to see her face when she does it with a cock in her mouth."

The first man pulled out of her mouth — just far enough that she could breathe, just far enough that she could gasp, and the gasp turned into a cry as the second man drove in deep and ground against that spot inside her. Her eyes flew wide. She saw the ceiling, the cracked plaster, the bare bulb swaying slightly, and then her vision blurred and her whole body locked and she came, hard, her cunt clamping down on him in waves, her thighs shaking, her mouth open and empty and making a sound that wasn't words.

"That's it," the second man grunted. "That's it, milk it out of me—"

He held himself deep and she felt him spill — hot pulses of it, filling her where she was already full, and the sensation of it, the wet heat of it, pulled another broken sound out of her. She was still twitching when he pulled out, and she felt the combined mess of them both start to seep out of her, thick and warm, running down onto the bedspread.

"Don't you dare," the old woman said, and the phone was right there, the red dot watching. "Don't you dare close those legs, beti. Let it all come out. Let the camera see how full you are."

Neha's legs stayed open. The first man's cock was still hard against her lips, waiting, and she understood — the waiting was over, and her mouth was next.