Greedy sex

Sravya stopped meeting my eyes the morning the envelope thickened again. She carried her pillow to the spare room and pushed the dresser in front of the door. She ate what the room left on the floor outside it and did not answer when I said her name in the hall. She was scared of me. I saw it in the way her shoulders locked when my footsteps passed and in the way she waited until the house went quiet before she crossed to the bathroom. I had the money that could not leave the walls, the food that refilled itself, the clothes she no longer wore. The restlessness still moved under my skin like something that had not been fed.

I went to the room because the voice was already there. You want her the way she was, it said. Name it.

I stood in the empty space and said I wanted a copy of Sravya—youthful, untouched, tight enough that every inch would drag. The vibration under my feet deepened. I went downstairs. The copy was on the couch in one of the thin dresses, skin smoother than the real one’s, eyes half-closed. I pulled the dress up. She was small and closed when I touched her. I worked one finger in; she gasped, the resistance sharp. I pushed my cock against that tightness and forced the head in with short thrusts while she cried out, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She tried to twist away. I held her hip and kept going, deeper once she opened a fraction, her voice breaking on every stroke. I recorded it—the stretch, the tears that ran when I bottomed out, the way her nails dug into the cushion. She whimpered the whole time. I fucked her through an orgasm that sounded like pain, then finished inside her and said I wanted her gone. The couch was empty. The real Sravya did not come out of the spare room.

The room spoke again that night. Name the others.

Nishta’s copy appeared in the kitchen. I pushed her to her knees and fed her my cock until she gagged, eyes watering, spit running down her chin while I held her hair and thrust into her throat. She choked and tears fell. I recorded it, then bent her over the table and pushed in from behind. She was tight. She cried into her arm as I forced the length deeper, hips snapping, her ass reddening under my hands. She sobbed through it. I fucked her until she shook and came with a broken sound, then finished and sent her away.

Prachi next. She took me in her mouth until her jaw ached and mascara ran, then I flipped her onto the couch and took her doggy. She cried when I bottomed out, voice high and cracked, fingers slipping on the fabric while I kept the phone on her face. Navya was smaller. I had to rock the head in slowly while she pleaded in a small voice, then fucked her harder once she opened, her sobs muffled against the cushion. Sakshi lay on her back, legs pushed up, tears running into her hair as I drove into her and recorded every thrust. Each one disappeared when I was done. Each recording stayed on the phone. Sravya heard the sounds through the door and did not come out.

The room did not let the hunger settle. Two at once.

I named Nishta and Sakshi. They knelt side by side. I made them take turns on my cock until both were crying, spit and tears on their chins, throats raw. Then I bent them over the couch and fucked them in turn—Nishta first, tight and whimpering, then Sakshi, who sobbed when I pushed all the way in. I switched between them, recording the reddening skin, the way they reached back even while they cried. They came shaking. I finished across both and sent them away.

Navya and Prachi followed. Then rotations of three. Two on their knees sucking while I fucked the third from behind, their mouths wet and desperate, tears falling, then all three bent over so I could move between them, doggy, deep, their voices breaking. I recorded every angle—the stretch, the pain on their faces, the way their bodies jolted. The restlessness sharpened instead of fading. Even inside them I wanted the next one tighter, the next cry louder.

The room answered before I finished the thought. A dangerous one. For them first. Name him.

The bull appeared in the kitchen the next morning—broader through the shoulders, quiet, eyes that did not soften when the copies cried. I named Nishta. She knelt. He pulled his cock free, thicker than mine, and pushed into her mouth. She gagged hard on the first deep stroke, eyes streaming, hands pushing at his thighs while he held her head and fucked her throat until spit ran and she choked. He did not slow. I recorded it. Then he bent her over the table and forced himself into her from behind. She screamed into her arm, the stretch too much, tears falling while he drove in with heavy thrusts, one hand in her hair, the other gripping hard enough to mark. She cried the whole time. He fucked her through the sobs until she shook and came, then finished inside her. I sent her away. He waited.

Sakshi’s copy choked on him until she cried, then took him doggy against the counter, voice breaking, ass red. Navya pleaded when he pushed in; he ignored it and fucked her harder, her hands slipping, her sobs loud. Prachi took both of us—one cock in her mouth while the other drove into her from behind, then switching, her body shaking, tears on the table. Threesomes followed: two copies bent over, the bull and I moving between them, their mouths and cunts filled, tears on the cushions, voices raw. The bull never spoke. He simply used them the way the room had shaped him to, dangerous and precise, and they took it until they vanished. Sravya stayed behind her door. She heard the worst of it. She did not come out.

I had the recordings of them crying. I had the bull who stayed at the table. I had everything the room had given. The itch under my skin did not quiet. I went upstairs again.

Now the copy of her, the voice said. While the real one is still inside.

I named Sravya’s copy once more—youthful, virgin-tight. She appeared on the couch. I pulled the dress up and pushed into the resistance slowly at first, then harder, recording the tears that formed when I forced deeper, the way her voice cracked, the way she clawed the cushion and came sobbing around me. I was still inside her, hips moving, when the front door opened.

The real Sravya stood in the entrance with the grocery bag in her hand. She saw the copy on the couch, dress pushed up, my cock buried in her, tears on the copy’s face, the phone recording. She saw the bull standing to one side. The bag hit the floor. She did not speak. She did not move. The copy looked exactly like her. The room’s voice was soft against my ear.