My sister

I heard her come in just after five. The front door opened and closed, her college bag hit the floor in the hall, and she called out once, “Bhaiya, I’m home,” the way she always did when our mother was still out. I answered from my room that I was finishing notes. She went to the kitchen, ran the tap, then moved to the sofa. I could hear the television volume low and the soft sound of her scrolling. She was in her usual home clothes by then—loose T-shirt, pajama bottoms, hair untied—because that was what she changed into the moment she returned. She did not know they were coming. She only knew the two boys who had stepped inside once before and left her nervous.

They arrived at six-fifteen. No knock. The door opened and Abhilash’s voice came first, soft and ordinary. “Supriya. We brought something for the evening.” I heard her stand up fast. “You can’t just walk in. My brother is here. You should leave.” Vamsi’s footsteps followed and the latch turned. I came out because her voice had gone thin. Abhilash had a plastic bag. He set it on the table without looking at me. Four bottles, mixers, plastic glasses. Supriya’s eyes moved from the bag to their faces. She was already uncomfortable, shoulders drawn in, one hand gripping the edge of the sofa.

“I don’t drink,” she said. “Please go.” Abhilash smiled the small smile. “One glass. Then we talk and leave. Your brother can stay.” He glanced at me. “Sit there. Don’t speak.” I sat on the single chair against the wall. Vamsi took her phone from the cushion before she could reach it. She had no passcode when the screen was awake. He opened the camera and started recording. The red light blinked. She saw it and her face tightened. “Don’t. Give it back. I’m serious.”

Abhilash opened the first bottle and poured a heavy measure, then mixer until the glass looked harmless. He held it out. She shook her head. He sat beside her, close enough that his leg pressed hers. “You’re already scared. This will make it easier.” His free hand rose and brushed the hair away from her cheek, slow, tucking it behind her ear. She flinched hard. “Don’t touch me.” He did it again, fingers lingering at the side of her neck. Vamsi filmed the touch, then her eyes. Abhilash brought the glass to her mouth. She turned away. His hand caught her chin, steady, and he tipped until she swallowed or spilled. She swallowed. The burn made her cough and her eyes water. “Please stop. I don’t want it.” He waited, then tipped again. Two more swallows. Color started in her cheeks.

He poured a second glass stronger. She tried to push his wrist. He caught her hand, held it, and made her drink. Vamsi recorded her fingers trembling, the way her mouth opened under the glass, the first tear that slipped when she realized they would not leave. Abhilash kept touching her hair between sips, stroking it back, letting his knuckles graze her ear. She was crying quietly now, scared and trying to hide it. “Bhaiya… tell them to go… I’m uncomfortable.” I stayed silent. By the third glass her words had started to slur and her body had gone heavier against the sofa. She kept saying she felt dizzy, that she wanted them to stop, that she was scared. They poured a fourth. She drank because his hand stayed on her jaw and the camera never left her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy, her protests soft and broken.

“Open your mouth,” Abhilash said when the glass was empty.

She shook her head, slow. Tears ran freely. “No… please… I’m drunk… don’t do this… I’m scared.” He slapped her cheek, light but sharp enough to make her gasp. Her mouth opened. He pushed his cock in before she could close it. She gagged at once, the alcohol making her throat loose. One hand stayed in her hair, guiding her forward in short strokes. Spit ran down her chin onto the T-shirt. She cried around him, the sounds wet and muffled, hands pushing weakly at his thighs. “Please—stop—please—I’m scared—” Every word choked. Vamsi moved the phone closer, catching the tears on her lashes, the way her throat worked, the scared glance she tried to send toward me. Abhilash sighed, enjoying the heat and the crying. “Suck. You taste like the drink.” She tried because she was afraid not to. Her tongue moved clumsily. He used her mouth for a long time, pulling back only when she gagged too hard, then sliding in again, telling her how pretty she looked drunk and scared and how the tears made it better.

He pulled out when he wanted a better angle. She coughed, strings of spit on her chest, still crying. Vamsi handed him the phone and took his place. He was thicker. She whimpered, “No more… please no more… I feel sick… I’m begging.” He waited until her mouth opened on another sob, then pushed in deep. She gagged harder, drunk and overwhelmed. He held her hair with both hands and moved her, steady, while Abhilash filmed. She begged in slurred, broken pieces—“hurts… please slow… I’m sorry… please let me go… Bhaiya…”—tears dripping onto his cock. Sometimes a confused sound slipped out of her; she cried harder after, saying she didn’t mean it, she was only scared and everything was spinning. They liked the mix. Vamsi kept her there, fucking her throat slowly, enjoying the wet sounds and the way her hands had stopped pushing and only trembled. When he finally pulled out she was shaking, mouth open, spit and tears on her chin, still whispering please.

Abhilash took the phone back and held it close to her face. “Look at the camera. We’re not finished.” She cried, drunk and hoarse, repeating that she was scared, that she wanted them to leave, that she didn’t know them. He brushed her hair back one more time, gentle now, and told her to open again. She did, because the slaps and the camera and the alcohol had already taught her what happened when she refused. He slid back into her mouth and started again, slower, filming the entire time—the tears, the spit, the scared glassy eyes, the way she sucked because she was too drunk and too frightened to do anything else. Vamsi watched, one hand resting on her shoulder, keeping her in place. The recording ran the whole while, her begging never stopping, only growing smaller and more desperate as they took turns with her mouth and made her stay on her knees on the sofa cushion until both of them were satisfied with how she looked and sounded on the video. They saved it to her phone before they zipped up. Abhilash set the phone on the table, screen still showing her tear-streaked face. “Next time you’ll pour the first glass yourself.” They left her there, crying, drunk, clothes damp with spit, while I stayed in the chair and the sound of their bikes faded down the lane. My mother’s message arrived twenty minutes later. Neither of us had moved.

They did not leave after the video. Abhilash set the phone on the table, still recording, and looked at her where she knelt on the sofa cushion, drunk, spit on her chin, crying in small shakes. “Stand up.” She tried. Her legs folded. Vamsi caught her under the arms and turned her, bending her over the same arm of the sofa so her face stayed toward the camera. She sobbed at once. “Please no more… I’m scared… please I’m drunk…”

Abhilash pulled her pajama bottoms and panties down to her knees. She reached back with clumsy hands. He grabbed her hair, winding it tight, and pushed her cheek to the cushion. “Stay.” His other hand settled on her throat, not squeezing yet, just resting. She felt it and cried harder. “Please don’t choke me… please…” He tightened slowly while he lined up and pushed in. The penetration was deep and sudden. She cried out, the sound cut short when his fingers pressed. He held her hair and her throat together and started thrusting, long strokes that jolted her forward. Every time she tried to speak the grip on her neck made it a gasp. Tears ran sideways across her face into the cushion. “It hurts… please… I’m scared…” The words came broken between thrusts.

He enjoyed the way she clenched. “You’re wet,” he said, voice calm. “Crying and still taking it. Body knows.” She shook her head as much as the hair pull allowed, sobbing that she didn’t want it, that she was only scared and destined to this because they had already decided. The choking made her dizzy on top of the alcohol. When he loosened his fingers she dragged in air and begged again—“please stop, please it feels too much, I’m scared”—then he tightened once more and drove deeper. Her cries turned into smaller, helpless sounds. A moan slipped out when he hit a spot; she hated it and cried right after, saying she didn’t mean to enjoy it, she was only drunk and frightened. He liked that. He told her so, pulling her hair harder, fucking her steadily while the camera caught her tear-streaked face and the hand on her throat.

Vamsi took over without pulling her upright. He grabbed her hair himself, wrapping it around his fist, and pushed in where Abhilash had been. She sobbed at the new stretch. His free hand went to her neck, tighter than before. “Look at the phone,” he said. She tried. The choking made her eyes unfocus. He penetrated her in harder strokes, enjoying the wet sounds and the way she shook. She begged the whole time, voice hoarse and slurred: “please no more… please I’m destined… I’m scared… please let me breathe…” Sometimes the fear and the pressure pulled another confused sound from her; she cried harder afterward, repeating that she was scared, that she didn’t want to like any of it. He kept her there, hair yanked back, throat under his palm, until her legs trembled too much to hold her. Then he loosened just enough for her to gasp and cry properly while he finished deep, holding her hair so she stayed arched.

Abhilash filmed the last moments—the tears, the open mouth, the hand still on her throat, the way she shook when Vamsi pulled out. She stayed bent over the sofa, crying continuously, one hand weakly touching her neck, whispering that she was scared and that they had made her feel it anyway. The recording ran until they stopped it. They left her like that, bottoms at her knees, hair tangled, neck marked by fingers, while she cried and the room spun.

They sent the message while Supriya was still crying on the sofa, bottoms at her knees, my cum drying on her back. Abhilash typed one line to Manogna: “Come to the house. Now. Or the videos go out.” She replied in under a minute that she was on the way. Vamsi locked the front door again and told me to sit on the chair and wait. Supriya begged them not to bring anyone else, voice hoarse. “Please no… I’m scared… please just leave…” They ignored her.

Manogna arrived twelve minutes later. The knock was soft. Abhilash opened the door, pulled her inside by the wrist, and shut it. She saw Supriya half-naked and crying and stopped cold. “What is this? Let her go.” Vamsi took her bag and phone. Abhilash held up his own screen so she could see the fresh video—Supriya’s face, tears, me behind her. “Clothes off. Kneel. Or this reaches your father and the college group before morning.” Manogna’s hands shook. She looked at me, then at Supriya. Supriya whispered, “Please… don’t… I’m scared…” Manogna still stripped because the phone was already recording again. Kurta, leggings, everything. She knelt on the rug beside the sofa, crying before anyone touched her.

Abhilash pointed at me. “Fuck your sister again. Manogna watches. Then you fuck Manogna while Supriya watches.” I stood because Vamsi moved behind me. Supriya sobbed when I stepped closer. “Bhaiya no… please no… I’m begging…” Abhilash grabbed her hair, turned her face to the camera, and held her there. I pushed in. She cried out, the sound raw. I thrust because they told me to keep going until they said stop. Every stroke made her beg louder: “please stop, it hurts, I’m scared, please Bhaiya I’m your sister.” Tears soaked the cushion. Manogna knelt close enough to see everything, her own crying mixing with Supriya’s. Abhilash filmed both faces. I finished inside this time because he said to, Supriya shaking and sobbing while I pulled out.

“Now her,” Vamsi said, nodding at Manogna. They bent Manogna over the opposite arm of the sofa. She tried to stand. Abhilash pushed her down and grabbed her hair. “Stay. He’s going to fuck you.” She looked at me, scared, already crying. “Please don’t… please I’m scared… don’t do this.” I moved behind her because the alternative was worse. She was tight and trembling. When I pushed in she screamed into the cushion and started begging nonstop: “please stop, please it hurts, I’m scared, please let me go.” Supriya watched from the other side, still crying, whispering the same words for her. I thrust the way they ordered—steady, deep—while Abhilash kept the phone on Manogna’s tear-streaked face and Vamsi held her wrists behind her back. She begged the entire time, voice breaking, saying she was scared and didn’t want it and please Bhaiya stop. A helpless sound escaped her once; she cried harder after, repeating she didn’t mean it. They made me stay inside until I came again, Manogna sobbing under me, Supriya sobbing beside her.

They were not done. Abhilash pulled me back and took Manogna’s mouth while Vamsi used Supriya from behind again. Then they switched. Both girls cried and begged continuously—Manogna slurred and scared, Supriya hoarse and desperate—while the phone recorded every tear, every “please stop,” every grab of hair. They made me fuck each of them one more time, short and rough, so the video showed all three of us. Supriya kept saying she was scared and destined to this. Manogna kept saying she was scared and sorry. When it ended they saved everything, told both girls to thank me on camera, and left us on the floor. Supriya and Manogna cried side by side, half-dressed, while I sat against the wall and the bikes faded down the lane. My mother’s message said she was ten minutes away. None of us moved.