Deepthroat Homework

Shut Up and Suck 👅

[embed]Holy Tongue 👅 Two Men and a Templemedium.com

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The shower was still running when Raj said something I had been thinking for hours.

We were on the bed — me cross-legged in one of Steve’s t-shirts and nothing else, Raj leaning against the headboard in just his kurta pants, bare-chested, scrolling through his phone like we hadn’t just spent the last two hours at a sangeet ceremony pretending we weren’t all thinking about fucking. The suite smelled like leftover chai and jasmine garlands someone had draped over the mirror, mixed with that faint hotel-soap-and-skin scent that sticks to everything after a few days.

“You know,” Raj said, not even looking up, “Steve told me you give head like you’re in a rush to finish a chore.”

I threw a pillow at him. “Wáng bā dàn. He did not say that.”

Raj caught it one-handed, finally glancing at me with that slow, crooked smile — the one that made his jaw look sharper, cheekbones cutting shadows in the low lamplight. “He didn’t use those words. But I read between the lines.” He tossed his phone aside. “You want to learn how to do it properly, or you want to keep winging it?”

And look — I should’ve told him to fuck off. That’s the normal response. But there’s something about the way Raj talks, this calm, unrushed authority, like he’s offering you something rare and you’d be stupid to say no. He never asks twice.

“Define properly,” I said.

*That’s my girl. He sat up straighter, rolled his shoulders. “I’ll teach you. Steve’s going to help.”

The bathroom door opened right on cue. Steve walked out, toweling his hair, grey joggers slung low on his hips, no shirt. Water still beading on his collarbones, trailing down through the sparse hair on his chest to that soft line beneath his navel. He looked between us and immediately knew something was up.

“What?” he said, suspicious.

“Sit down,” Raj told him.

Steve looked at me. I shrugged.

He sat on the edge of the bed, towel around his neck, knees apart. He smelled like hotel bodywash — eucalyptus, something minty — and underneath it, warm skin. Clean sweat.

Raj got off the bed and stood behind me, hands on my shoulders. His palms were dry and warm, fingers long enough to wrap over my collarbones. “First thing,” he said, close to my ear, “stop thinking about the finish line. You’re not trying to make him come. Not yet. You’re trying to make him stupid.”

I snorted. “He’s already — “

“Hey,” Steve said.

Raj squeezed my shoulders once. “Get on the floor. Between his legs.”

The carpet was thick under my knees, that expensive hotel pile that leaves marks. I shuffled forward until my chest was between Steve’s thighs, my hands resting on his kneecaps. From this angle I could see the outline of him already — half-hard, twitching against the thin cotton. Mumbai heat and post-shower warmth had him flushed all the way down his neck.

Raj crouched beside me, one knee on the floor, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his ribs. “Pull them down. Slow.”

I hooked my fingers into Steve’s waistband and dragged. He lifted his hips without being asked — good boy instinct, I swear — and the joggers slid to his thighs. His cock fell against his lower belly, thick and flushed pink, curving slightly left the way it always does. Uncut, the foreskin half-retracted, a bead of pre-cum already catching the lamplight.

Cào. No matter how many times I’d seen it, there was always that little pulse of oh between my legs.

“Don’t touch it yet,” Raj said. He was watching my face, not Steve’s dick. “Breathe on it first.”

“Breathe on it?”

“Mm-hm. Close. Let him feel your mouth before you use it.”

I leaned in. Hovered maybe an inch away. Exhaled slow and warm across the head, and Steve’s thigh tensed under my left hand. His cock twitched, jumping a centimeter closer to my lips like it was reaching for me.

“Ssshit,” Steve whispered.

Keep going. Jesus, keep going. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white.

“See?” Raj said. “You haven’t even touched him and he’s already leaking. That’s what anticipation does. Now — tongue first. Not your lips. Flat tongue, base to tip, like you’re tasting him. One long stroke.”

I pressed my tongue flat against the underside of his shaft, right where it met his balls — warm, salty, that faint musk that clung to his skin no matter how recently he’d showered — and dragged upward. Slow. Feeling every ridge, every vein, the way his cock throbbed against my tongue like a second heartbeat. When I reached the tip I let it flick across the slit and tasted salt. Sharp. A little sweet.

“Nnnh — “ Steve’s hips shifted. His hand found the back of my head but Raj caught his wrist.

“No. Hands off. She’s learning.”

Steve groaned but obeyed. Both hands returned to the mattress. His abs flexed with the effort of staying still.

Raj’s voice was low now, right next to my ear, his breath tickling the side of my neck. “Now wrap your lips around just the head. Not too tight. Gentle suction — like you’re pulling a mango off the pit.”

“That’s the most Indian thing you’ve ever said,” I muttered, and Raj laughed — this quiet, dark sound that went straight to my cunt.

But I did it. Wrapped my lips around the swollen head, let my tongue press into the sensitive ridge underneath — the frenulum, Raj called it — and sucked. Softly. Like pulling nectar.

“Fuuuck,” Steve breathed. His head dropped back. The muscles in his neck went taut, tendons standing out, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“Good,” Raj said. “Now here’s where most women mess up. They go deep too fast, start bobbing, lose the rhythm. I want you to take him in inch by inch. Stop when you feel resistance. Don’t force it.”

I sank down. One inch — the head disappearing past my lips, stretching them, that warm fullness pressing against my palate. Two inches — the shaft thickening, veins rubbing against my inner lip. Three — I could feel the curve of him pushing toward the back of my throat and my gag reflex fluttered.

“Stop there,” Raj said. His hand came to rest on the back of my neck. Not pushing. Just… grounding. “Swallow once. It opens your throat.”

I swallowed. And felt him slide another inch deeper. The sound that came out of Steve was barely human — this broken, guttural “aahh” that vibrated through his whole body and straight into my mouth.

“That’s it,” Raj murmured. “Now pull back. Slow. Let the suction do the work.”

I pulled off with a slick, nasty pop. A thick string of spit connected my lower lip to the tip of Steve’s cock, glistening. His dick bobbed in front of my face, shiny and swollen, absolutely drenched.

“Use your hand now,” Raj said. “Wrap around the base. Firm grip — tighter than you think. He can take it. Twist on the upstroke while your mouth works the top half.”

I wrapped my right hand around the base of Steve’s cock. It was slippery — spit and pre-cum mixing into something nastily wet — and I squeezed. Harder than I normally would. Steve’s breath hitched.

“Oh god. Oh fuck. She’s actually — ”

“Tighter,” Raj said.

I squeezed again and Steve moaned. Not the polite kind. The ragged, helpless kind that comes from somewhere deep in the chest. I took the top half back into my mouth and started the rhythm — hand twisting up, lips meeting it, tongue swirling the head on every upstroke, and that wet schlck-schlck-schlck sound filling the room alongside Steve’s increasingly unhinged breathing.

“The balls,” Raj said, almost an afterthought. “Other hand. Don’t ignore them. Roll them — gently. Like dice you don’t want to drop.”

My left hand cupped his balls — warm, drawn up tight against his body, soft skin over that firm weight — and I rolled them between my fingers. Steve’s thigh slammed shut against my shoulder and I heard him swear in a voice I’d never heard before. Something cracked. Something that sounded almost like a sob.

“That’s worship,” Raj said, and his voice had dropped to something thick and rough. He wasn’t unaffected. When I glanced sideways I could see the tent in his kurta pants, the outline of him straining against white cotton. “You see the difference? You’re not servicing him. You’re dismantling him.”

I was. Steve was wrecked. His chest heaving, a flush spreading from his face down to his pecs, mouth hanging open, these punched-out little “ah, ah, ah” sounds falling out of him every time I bottomed out. His cock was so hard it felt like it could crack — this rigid, throbbing heat filling my mouth, leaking steadily against my tongue.

Raj leaned in closer. His lips brushed my earlobe. “Now deep-throat him. All the way. Hold it.”

I breathed through my nose. Relaxed my jaw, opened my throat the way he’d taught me, and sank. All the way. Until my nose pressed into the coarse hair above his shaft and his cockhead lodged in my throat and I held — eyes watering, drool spilling down my chin, the world narrowing to the pulse of him inside me and the ache of my jaw and the sound of Steve saying my name like a prayer, over and over, “Camila, fuck, Camila — “

I pulled off gasping. A mess. Spit everywhere — on my chin, on his thighs, on my borrowed t-shirt. Steve stared down at me with glassy, unfocused eyes, his cock twitching against his belly, shiny and swollen and absolutely ruined.

Raj handed me the chai from the nightstand. Still lukewarm. I took a sip, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked up at both of them — Steve trembling on the mattress, Raj kneeling beside me with that calm, satisfied expression, like a sculptor admiring unfinished marble.

“Lesson two,” Raj said quietly, pulling his kurta over his head, “is what to do when there’s two of them.”

I set the chai down and shifted my weight forward on my knees, the carpet pressing warm grooves into my skin.

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