Akhil Akkineni had been invited to the Devarakonda family party by Vijay himself. The sprawling house was packed with celebrities — actors, directors, producers, the usual Hyderabad film circle crowd. Music thumped, drinks flowed, laughter bounced off the walls. Akhil had shown up in a sharp black shirt and jeans, looking every bit the star, but as the night stretched on, the energy started thinning out.
One by one people left. Rides were called. Goodbyes were shouted. Eventually only a small group remained in the living room: Vijay, Anand, Rashmika, and Akhil. Bottles of whiskey and beer littered the table. Akhil was already deep in it, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, laughing too loud at everything. Anand was right there with him, matching him drink for drink, his own grin loose and reckless.
Vijay eventually stood, stretching. “It’s late as fuck. You two are wrecked. Don’t even try driving. Stay. Anand’s room is free. Crash there.”
Rashmika left with Vijay after a few more minutes of lazy conversation. The house went quiet. Only the distant hum of the AC and the occasional clink of glass remained.
Anand led Akhil down the hallway, one hand steadying him when he swayed. The bedroom was large, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, king-sized bed already made. Anand kicked the door shut with his heel.
“Bathroom’s there,” he said, voice thick. “I’m changing.”
He disappeared into the attached washroom. Akhil stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, and started unbuttoning his shirt. By the time Anand came back out wearing only a pair of soft grey shorts and a sleeveless black t-shirt that clung to his chest, Akhil had already kicked off his jeans. He stood there in just black briefs and socks, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor.
Anand raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You need shorts?”
Akhil laughed, the sound low and drunk. “Nah. I sleep like this.” He tugged at the waistband of his briefs once, then let it snap back. “Underwear’s fine.”
They both climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under their weight. They lay side by side at first, talking shit, laughing at half-finished jokes, the alcohol making everything funnier and closer than it needed to be. Their shoulders touched. Then their thighs. The air in the room felt heavy, warm, charged.
Akhil turned onto his side first, facing Anand. His hand landed on Anand’s waist — not carefully, just landed there — and slid under the hem of the sleeveless shirt without thinking. Palm against bare skin. Fingers curling slightly. He pulled Anand closer in one clumsy, instinctive tug.
Anand’s body rolled toward him. Their chests almost touched. Akhil’s knee slid between Anand’s legs and ended up pressed right up under his balls, the hard bone of Akhil’s knee supporting the soft weight of them through the thin shorts. Akhil’s face was buried against Anand’s shoulder, nose brushing the side of his neck, breath hot and whiskey-scented against skin.
Anand’s hand, which had been resting on the mattress between them when they were both on their backs, was now trapped exactly against the thick bulge in Akhil’s briefs. The moment Akhil shifted his hips forward, that bulge pressed deliberately into Anand’s palm.
Akhil made a low, broken sound and pushed harder. His cock was already half-hard, fattening under the fabric, and he ground it slow and filthy against Anand’s open hand. No words. Just the grind.
Anand’s fingers closed around it through the briefs. He didn’t pull away. He squeezed once, testing, then started stroking in time with the slow rolls of Akhil’s hips. The fabric of the briefs grew damp where the head of Akhil’s cock leaked against it. Anand’s thumb dragged over the wet spot, pressing down, rubbing in circles.
Akhil’s breath hitched against Anand’s neck. His hand under the shirt slid higher, palm spanning Anand’s side, fingers digging in. He kept grinding, kept pushing his thickening cock into that tight grip, hips rolling with zero restraint. The knee under Anand’s balls pressed up firmer, lifting them slightly every time Akhil thrust forward.
Anand’s own cock was hardening fast inside his shorts, the tip already leaving a dark spot on the grey fabric. He stroked Akhil harder, more deliberately now, feeling the full length of him through the thin cotton, the heavy ridge of the head, the thick vein along the underside. Akhil’s hips stuttered. A low, filthy groan spilled out of him.
They stayed like that for long minutes — just grinding, stroking, breathing hard against each other, both too drunk and too horny to pretend this was still accidental. Akhil’s cock was fully hard now, straining the briefs, the head pushing past the waistband just enough for Anand’s fingers to brush bare, slick skin. Anand shoved the fabric down further without asking. Akhil’s cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already shiny at the tip.
Anand wrapped his fist around it properly this time. Skin on skin. He stroked from base to tip in slow, tight pulls, twisting his wrist on the upstroke the way he liked it done to himself. Akhil’s hips snapped forward hard. His mouth opened against Anand’s neck and he bit down — not hard enough to mark, just enough to feel teeth.
“Fuck,” Akhil muttered, voice rough. “Keep doing that.”
Anand did. He jacked him steady and filthy, thumb smearing the precome that kept beading at the slit, using it to make the strokes wetter. Akhil’s hand under the shirt moved higher, fingers finding Anand’s nipple and pinching it roughly. Anand hissed and stroked faster in answer.
They shifted without talking about it. Akhil pushed Anand onto his back and climbed half on top of him, still grinding his cock into Anand’s fist while his knee stayed jammed up under Anand’s balls. The pressure made Anand’s cock throb harder inside the shorts. He reached down with his free hand and shoved his own waistband down, freeing himself. His cock slapped up against his stomach, already leaking.
Akhil looked down between them, eyes dark and glassy, and wrapped his own hand around Anand’s cock. They stroked each other at the same time now, fists working in messy, urgent rhythm, hips fucking into the tight grips. The wet sounds of skin and precome filled the quiet room. Akhil’s forehead dropped to Anand’s shoulder again. He was panting, almost growling with every stroke.
It didn’t take long before Akhil’s hips started stuttering more violently. He was close. Anand could feel it in the way the thick cock in his hand swelled even harder, in the way Akhil’s breathing went ragged. Anand tightened his grip and stroked faster, chasing it, wanting to feel Akhil lose it first.
Akhil came with a broken, punched-out sound, cock pulsing hard in Anand’s fist, thick ropes of come spilling over Anand’s fingers and onto both their stomachs. He kept thrusting through it, fucking Anand’s hand until every last spurt was milked out. His whole body shuddered. He slumped heavier against Anand, still holding Anand’s cock but no longer stroking, just gripping it like an anchor.
Anand wasn’t done. He was still rock hard, balls tight, the need sharp and mean. He waited only a few seconds before he pushed Akhil onto his back and climbed over him, straddling his hips. Akhil’s spent cock was still half-hard, shiny with come. Anand reached back, grabbed it, and lined it up against his own hole without ceremony.
He spat into his palm, rubbed it over Akhil’s cockhead, then more spit on his own entrance. He didn’t bother with more. He just sank down.
The thick head pushed in slow and relentless. Anand’s mouth fell open on a long, shaky exhale as the stretch burned and then gave way. He kept sinking until he was fully seated, ass flush against Akhil’s hips, that heavy cock buried deep inside him. Akhil’s hands flew to Anand’s thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks.
Anand started riding him. Slow at first, lifting almost all the way off and then dropping back down in a wet, filthy slide. The sound of it was obscene — skin slapping, the wet squelch of spit and residual come. Akhil’s cock was still sensitive from coming, but it stayed hard under the tight heat of Anand’s ass. Every time Anand dropped down, Akhil’s hips jerked up to meet him.
They locked eyes for a second. Anand’s face was flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and mean with want. He rode harder, fucking himself on Akhil’s cock with short, sharp rolls of his hips, grinding down so the head dragged over that spot inside him that made his own cock jump and leak onto Akhil’s stomach.
Akhil’s hands moved from Anand’s thighs to his ass, spreading the cheeks wider, pulling him down harder onto every thrust. Anand leaned forward, bracing his hands on Akhil’s chest, and started bouncing in earnest. The bed creaked. The wet slap of skin got louder. Anand’s cock slapped against Akhil’s abs with every drop, leaving sticky trails.
Akhil’s head tipped back against the pillow. His mouth was open, breath coming in harsh pants. “Harder,” he rasped. “Fuck yourself on it harder.”
Anand did. He rode him like he was trying to break something, ass clenching tight around the thick length every time he lifted, then slamming back down so the impact jolted through both of them. Sweat was running down his back now, down the groove of his spine. Akhil’s fingers dug into the flesh of his ass hard enough to bruise.
When Anand’s thighs started to shake, Akhil flipped them without warning. He rolled them over in one strong motion, keeping his cock buried the whole time, and pinned Anand on his back. Anand’s legs hooked around Akhil’s waist automatically. Akhil braced himself on his forearms and started fucking into him with deep, brutal strokes.
The change in angle made Anand cry out — a raw, open-mouthed sound that turned into a string of filthy curses. Akhil’s cock dragged over his prostate on every thrust. The wet sound of it was constant now, loud and dirty. Anand’s hands scrambled for purchase on Akhil’s back, nails scraping down the skin.
Akhil fucked him harder. The headboard started knocking against the wall in a steady, obscene rhythm. Anand’s cock was trapped between their stomachs, getting rubbed raw with every thrust, leaking continuously. He was close again already, the pressure building fast and mean in his gut.
Akhil pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in to the hilt. Over and over. Anand’s voice broke on every impact. “Fuck—fuck—right there—don’t stop—”
Akhil didn’t stop. He shifted his angle slightly, driving even deeper, and reached between them to wrap a fist around Anand’s cock. He stroked him in time with the thrusts, rough and fast, thumb pressing hard over the slit. Anand’s back arched off the bed. His legs tightened around Akhil’s waist. He came with a choked shout, cock pulsing hard in Akhil’s hand, come striping both their stomachs in thick, messy ropes.
Akhil kept fucking him through it, chasing his own second orgasm, the tight clench of Anand’s ass around him almost too much. He lasted only a few more brutal strokes before he buried himself deep and came again, groaning low and broken against Anand’s neck as he pumped him full.
They stayed locked like that for a long minute, both breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat and come. Akhil’s cock softened slowly inside him. Eventually he pulled out with a wet sound and collapsed onto his side. Come leaked out of Anand onto the sheets.
They didn’t speak for a while. Just lay there in the dim light, drunk and wrecked and still touching.
Eventually Anand shifted, rolling onto his side to face Akhil again. His hand found Akhil’s cock — soft now, sticky — and gave it a slow, lazy stroke. Akhil’s eyes opened halfway. A small, filthy smile tugged at his mouth.
Anand leaned in and kissed him for the first time, messy and open-mouthed, tasting whiskey and sweat. When they broke apart, Anand’s voice was rough.
“We’re not done.”
Akhil’s cock twitched in his hand, already starting to thicken again.
Anand pushed him onto his back once more and straddled his chest this time, knees on either side of his head. He reached back, guided Akhil’s half-hard cock between his own cheeks, and started grinding on it while he lowered his own spent, sticky cock toward Akhil’s mouth.
“Open up,” he said quietly.
Akhil did. He took Anand into his mouth and sucked, slow and dirty, while Anand kept grinding his ass against the cock growing hard again beneath him. The taste of his own come mixed with the salt of Anand’s skin. Akhil’s hands gripped Anand’s thighs, holding him in place as he took him deeper.
Anand fucked his mouth in shallow thrusts while he reached behind himself and worked Akhil’s cock fully hard again with his hand. When it was rigid and leaking once more, he lifted up, turned around so he was facing Akhil’s feet, and sank back down onto it in one long, continuous slide.
The reverse position let him control the angle perfectly. He started riding again, slower this time, deeper, watching over his shoulder as Akhil’s face twisted with pleasure. Akhil’s hands came up to grip Anand’s waist, guiding the rhythm. Every time Anand dropped down, he clenched deliberately around the thick length filling him.
They stayed like that for a long time — Anand riding him reverse, Akhil’s hands roaming over his back and ass, occasionally spreading him open to watch his cock disappear inside. The wet sounds never stopped. Neither did the low, filthy noises they both made.
When Anand finally leaned forward and braced his hands on Akhil’s thighs, Akhil planted his feet on the mattress and started thrusting up hard, meeting every downward drop with a sharp upward snap of his hips. The force of it made Anand’s breath stutter. His cock, half-hard again already, swung between his legs with every impact.
Akhil’s thrusts grew more frantic. Anand could feel him getting close for the third time. He reached down between his own legs and started stroking himself in time with the fucking, chasing another orgasm of his own. The dual sensation — the thick cock stretching him open and his own fist working his cock — pushed him over the edge faster than he expected.
He came with a low, drawn-out groan, come spilling over his fingers and onto Akhil’s legs. The clench of his ass around Akhil’s cock was enough. Akhil slammed up into him one last time and came hard, flooding him again, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
Anand stayed seated on him until Akhil’s cock finally softened and slipped free. Then he collapsed forward onto the mattress between Akhil’s legs, face pressed to the sheets, breathing hard. Akhil’s hand found the back of his neck and stayed there, thumb stroking slow and absent.
They didn’t move for a long time after that. The room smelled like sex and sweat and whiskey. The sheets were ruined. Neither of them cared.
Eventually Anand rolled onto his back beside Akhil. Their shoulders touched. Akhil turned his head and looked at him in the low light, eyes still heavy-lidded, mouth curved in that same small, filthy smile.
“Stay,” Anand said quietly.
Akhil’s answer was just a low hum of agreement as he closed his eyes.
They stayed tangled together in the wreckage of the bed, both of them too spent and too drunk to move, already half-asleep with the taste of each other still on their tongues.