Aarav Sharma woke to the low hum of the city already inside his skull.
Mumbai, 7:03 a.m. The sky outside his 14th-floor window was a bruised violet, monsoon clouds stacking like pillows. His cock—thick as a wrist, heavy even when soft—lay across his thigh, pulsing with the same lazy rhythm as the ceiling fan.
He didn't bother with underwear. In a free-use world, fabric was just another courtesy. He stepped into loose linen trousers, the drawstring barely containing the ridge that ran from base to mid-thigh, and headed out.
The elevator was crowded. A college girl in a cropped blazer pressed back against him the moment the doors slid shut. Her ponytail brushed his chest; her scent—mango shampoo and warm skin—filled the small box.
"Morning," she whispered, eyes on the floor numbers.
"Morning," Aarav answered. The rules were simple: ask, offer, accept, or pass. No explanations needed.
She reached behind, fingers sliding under his waistband, measuring the heat of him. A soft gasp left her lips when her palm couldn't close around the girth. "May I?"
He answered by rolling his hips forward. The elevator dinged at the parking level; no one else even glanced over. Phones glowed, earbuds flashed, life continued.
She turned, dropped to a squat, and freed him. The cool air kissed the slick crown already pearling at the slit. She licked once, twice, then took the head between her lips and sucked like she was tasting summer. Aarav threaded fingers through her hair—not guiding, just anchoring—as the elevator climbed back up for the next batch of passengers.
Doors opened. A businessman in a pinstripe suit stepped in, nodded politely, and leaned against the opposite wall. The girl never stopped. Saliva slicked Aarav's shaft; each bob of her head painted her chin glossy. When the car reached the lobby, she stood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiled.
"Thank you," she said, voice husky.
"Anytime," Aarav replied. She walked out bow-legged, thighs pressed together, the faint wet spot on her skirt already darkening.
He tucked himself away—barely—and strode into the morning chaos of Dadar station.
Platform 3 was a river of bodies. Commuter trains screeched in, doors yawning. Aarav boarded the 7:19 Virar fast, found a pole, and let the crowd compress around him.
Hands found him immediately. A woman in a silk saree palmed the front of his trousers, tracing the ridge like reading braille. Another—a teenager with neon-pink headphones—slipped her fingers through his fly and wrapped cool fingers around the root. They worked in tandem, wordless, synchronized by the rocking of the coach.
Aarav's pulse stayed steady. Stamina was his mutation; he could edge for hours, spill only when he chose. He let them play.
The saree woman sank to her knees between two standing passengers. She tugged his trousers down just enough to free the length of him. The train lurched; his cock slapped heavy against her cheek. She laughed—soft, delighted—then swallowed half his length in one slow glide. Her throat fluttered; tears beaded but never fell.
Pink-headphones stood on tiptoes, kissed his neck, and whispered, "Inside me. Please."
Aarav lifted her by the hips—she weighed nothing—and pinned her back to the pole. Her skirt rode up; no panties, of course. He notched the fat head at her entrance, felt her slick coat him, and pushed.
She exhaled a silent scream. Inch by inch he fed her, splitting her open until her pelvis met his. The train rattled over points; every jolt drove him deeper. Around them, passengers swayed, some watching openly, some filming on phones, most simply smiling at the everyday miracle of bodies in motion.
He fucked her in long, unhurried strokes, letting the rhythm of the rails set the pace. Her walls fluttered, clenching in waves. When she came, it was with her face buried in his shoulder, muffling the cry against cotton. He stayed hard, stayed buried, and kept rocking.
Saree-woman rose, licked the girl's slick from his shaft, then took her turn. She bent forward, hands on the seat in front of her, pallu slipping to bare one heavy breast. Aarav slid home in a single thrust. The train announced Dadar in Hindi, Marathi, English. He answered by grinding deep, circling his hips until her knees buckled.
Two stations later, he still hadn't come. The carriage had thinned; those remaining formed a loose circle, stroking themselves or each other, eyes bright with appreciation. Aarav pulled out of the saree-woman, painted thick ropes across the small of her back, and watched the pearly strands slide down the curve of her ass like warm cream.
He tucked away again, trousers sticking to his thighs, and stepped off at Churchgate with the scent of three different women clinging to his skin.
The day had barely begun.