Alice in Wonderland: The Farmhouse Feast

The farmhouse lay an hour south of Lahore, past the last toll plaza where the Ravi’s flood-plain flattened into endless fields of sugarcane whispering in the hot wind, the air thick with the sweet rot of harvest and distant woodsmoke. Alice had come because her cousin Sana had begged—just one night, baji, no parents, no questions, a escape from the suffocating propriety of family gatherings—and because the fiancé in Virginia had sent another sterile voice note about visa interviews, his voice flat as the spreadsheets he attached. She was twenty-seven now, on a week’s leave from Bahrain, her hair loose for once, brushing the waist of a black cotton kurti that clung to her hips like a second skin, the fabric damp with sweat from the humid night. The party had started at sunset: fairy lights strung between ancient mango trees like captured stars, a DJ spinning Atif Aslam remixes that pulsed through the ground, trays of seekh kebabs sizzling with charcoal heat, neon mocktails glowing in plastic cups. By midnight, the girls had begun to drift away in their Uber Blacks, chaperoned by brothers or drivers, their laughter fading into the darkness. Alice stayed. She always stayed, drawn to the edge where propriety ended and something raw began.

The five men were the last to linger—thirty-somethings with Lahore Gymkhana memberships, start-up money that bought them freedom, and eyes that had stripped her bare all evening. Omair, tall and fair, beard groomed like a Bollywood extra with wax that gleamed under the lights, owned the land through his father’s textile mills, his presence commanding the space like a king. Bilal, stocky with laughing eyes that crinkled at the corners, ran a logistics firm and smelled of Cuban cigars, the smoke curling from his fingers as he gestured animatedly. Zain, quiet and watchful, carried a Leica that never left his neck, the camera strap worn from constant use, his gaze behind the lens predatory and artistic. Faraz, the loudest, tech-bro energy crackling like static, kept quoting crypto prices between gulps of Murree vodka, his voice booming over the music. Hamza, the cousin of a cousin, medical rep with a Rolex he touched like a talisman, his smile slick and knowing. They had watched her all evening—how she danced alone when the floor emptied, hips swaying to the beat, kurti riding up to reveal a sliver of midriff; how she refused the joint passed around but accepted the second glass of something pink and fizzy, the alcohol loosening her limbs, making her skin flush.

When the DJ packed up, speakers silencing with a final thump, Omair found her on the veranda, barefoot on the cool marble, kurti damp at the back from the heat, clinging to the curve of her spine. “Pool house is cooler,” he said, voice low and inviting, his hand brushing her elbow. “AC’s on. Come.” His touch lingered, thumb circling the soft skin inside her arm.

She followed. Of course she did, the heat in her belly igniting at the promise in his eyes, the same fire that had burned since Karachi, since Bahrain.

The pool house was a low brick annex behind the main haveli, its windows shuttered against the night, a single bulb glowing amber over a daybed piled with embroidered cushions in faded silks. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the air thick with the scent of chlorine from the pool outside and the faint mustiness of disuse. Someone had left a bottle of Black Label on the teapoy, half-empty, condensation beading on the glass, and a bowl of pistachios, shells cracked open like secrets. The door shut with a soft thud, sealing them in. Five silhouettes arranged themselves—two on the daybed, legs spread in anticipation; two on the thick carpet, kneeling; one leaning against the shuttered window, arms crossed, watching.

Alice’s pulse thudded in her ears, louder than the fan’s whir, her skin prickling with awareness. She should have felt fear, the weight of five men in a locked room. Instead the old heat unfurled low in her belly, a liquid fire spreading to her thighs, her breasts, making her nipples ache against the lace of her bra. She stood in the centre of the room, kurti sticking to her skin with sweat, and waited, breath shallow, anticipation coiling tight.

Omair spoke first, stepping close enough that she felt the heat radiating from his body. “You’re not like the others.” He said it like a fact, not a compliment, his hand cupping her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. “They leave. You stay.” His eyes bored into hers, dark with intent.

Bilal laughed, low and rumbling, from the daybed. “She knows what she wants.” He patted the cushion beside him, an invitation laced with command.

She didn’t correct him. The truth was simpler: she couldn’t leave, couldn’t deny the pull.

Zain lifted the Leica, the shutter clicking once, twice, the flash strobing white and capturing her flushed face, the way her chest rose and fell. “For memory,” he murmured, voice husky, zooming in on her eyes, wide and wanting. Alice’s nipples tightened further against the cotton; the sound of the camera was a tongue on her skin, invasive and arousing.

Faraz moved behind her, fingers brushing the nape of her neck, gathering her hair into a fist, pulling gently to expose her throat. “Say no if you want,” he said, breath warm against her ear, lips grazing the lobe. “We’ll call you a car.” His free hand slid down her side, tracing the curve of her hip.

The word formed in her throat—no—but it dissolved before it reached her lips, melting into a soft exhale that might have been surrender, her body leaning back into him.

Hamza was already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a chest dusted with hair, his Rolex catching the light. “Safe word’s mango,” he joked, but his eyes were serious, stripping her with a gaze that promised thoroughness.

They undressed her slowly, reverently, the way one unwraps something expensive and breakable, their hands everywhere at once. Kurti over her head, the fabric whispering against her skin, revealing a black lace bra she’d bought in Bahrain on impulse, the cups sheer enough to show the dark aureolas beneath. Faraz’s mouth found the hollow between her breasts, tongue tracing the lace edge, teeth nipping at the swell until she gasped. Bilal knelt, untying the drawstring of her shalwar with deliberate tugs, letting the fabric pool at her feet in a soft puddle. She wore matching panties, lace soaked through, the crotch dark and clinging. Omair hooked a thumb under the waistband and peeled them down slowly, the lace catching briefly on her hips, dragging over the curve of her ass before surrendering, exposing her completely—her mound trimmed neat, lips swollen and glistening.

Naked, she was magnificent—long waist tapering to generous hips, heavy breasts that swayed with each breath, the soft curve of her belly leading to the dark triangle between her thighs, slick with arousal that trailed down her inner legs. Zain’s camera clicked again, flash strobing white, capturing every inch, the light harsh on her flushed skin. She didn’t flinch; instead, she arched slightly, offering herself to the lens.

They arranged her on the daybed like a tableau, a living sacrifice. Omair sat at the head, legs spread wide, guiding her mouth to his cock—thick, uncut, already leaking pre-cum that smeared her lips as she took him in. She tasted salt and the faint bitterness of whiskey from his earlier drinks, her tongue swirling around the head, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked. Bilal and Faraz took her hands, wrapping her fingers around their shafts—Bilal thicker, veins pulsing under her palm; Faraz longer, the skin hot and velvet-smooth—guiding her strokes in rhythm with her bobbing head. Hamza knelt between her legs, spreading her open with his thumbs, exposing her pink inner folds, clit swollen and begging. His tongue was broad, flat, lapping from entrance to clit in one slow, deliberate stroke that made her moan around Omair, the vibration drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

Zain set the camera on the teapoy, angled to record every angle, the red light blinking like an eye, then joined the fray. He sucked her nipples in turn, teeth grazing the sensitive peaks, pulling them taut before releasing with a pop, while Hamza’s tongue delved deeper, two fingers sliding inside her, curling to hit that spot that made her thighs quake, her juices flooding his mouth. The room filled with wet sounds—her mouth slurping on Omair, Hamza’s fingers fucking her with obscene squelches, the slick stroke of her hands on Bilal and Faraz, pre-cum slicking her palms.

They rotated without words, a seamless choreography of lust. Bilal lay back on the daybed, his stocky frame sinking into the cushions; they lifted her onto him, impaling her in one smooth drop onto his girth. She gasped at the stretch, walls fluttering around him, accommodating his thickness as he filled her completely, the head nudging her cervix. Faraz moved behind her, hands spreading her ass cheeks wide, exposing her puckered hole. He spat once, the saliva warm and dripping down her crack, before pressing the head of his cock against her tighter entrance. She tensed—no one had ever taken her there—but Omair’s hand stroked her hair, murmuring shh, breathe, let it happen, his voice a soothing command. She did, relaxing as Faraz pushed in slowly, the burn exquisite, a ring of fire that morphed into pleasure as he seated fully, the two of them filling her so completely she saw stars, her body stretched to its limits, every nerve screaming.

Zain and Hamza stood on either side, cocks in her hands now, guiding her rhythm as she rocked between Bilal and Faraz, the daybed creaking under the assault; sweat slicked their skin, bodies glistening. Someone turned off the bulb—only the pool’s underwater lights filtered through the shutters, painting them in shifting turquoise hues, shadows dancing like underwater phantoms.

They weren’t finished. Omair stood, cock slick from her mouth, veins throbbing, and moved behind Faraz. “Hold her steady,” he told Bilal, voice rough. Faraz withdrew just long enough for Omair to take his place, sliding into her ass with a groan that vibrated through her, his thickness stretching her anew. Then Faraz stepped forward, guiding his length into her mouth, the taste of her own ass faint on him. Bilal remained buried in her cunt, thrusting up to meet Omair’s downward strokes. Three cocks now—one in her pussy, one in her ass, one stretching her throat to its limit. Airtight. She couldn’t breathe for a moment, only feel: the impossible fullness, every hole claimed, the slap of hips against her ass and thighs, the wet choke of her own saliva as Faraz fucked her face, his balls slapping her chin. Her body shook; tears streaked her temples, mixing with sweat; her hands clawed at the cushions. Zain and Hamza stroked themselves beside her, waiting their turn, occasionally reaching to pinch a nipple hard or slap her breast, the sting heightening her overload.

The rhythm was brutal and perfect, a piston of flesh. Bilal thrust up, grinding against her clit; Omair down, his balls slapping her perineum; Faraz fucking her face until her lips were numb, throat raw. She came again, harder than before, a silent scream around Faraz’s cock, her body convulsing between them, walls milking Bilal and Omair in rhythmic spasms, fluids gushing around Bilal’s base. Bilal groaned first, spilling deep inside her cunt in hot jets that overflowed, dripping onto the cushions. Omair followed, pulsing in her ass, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. Faraz pulled out to paint her face and breasts, thick ropes cooling on her skin, dripping from her chin onto her heaving chest.

They moved her again, insatiable. Onto her back, legs over Hamza’s shoulders, folded nearly in half as he pounded into her sopping cunt, balls slapping her ass with wet smacks. Zain lay beneath her, mouth on her clit, tongue flicking relentlessly as Hamza kept thrusting, his saliva mixing with the mess between her legs. Omair and Bilal took her mouth in turns, one then the other, their cocks slick with previous loads, until her jaw ached and her lips were swollen, bruised purple. Faraz, recovered and hard again, slid underneath Zain, lifting her hips to tongue her ass, probing the stretched hole while Hamza continued, his tongue rimming her sensitively.

She lost track of orgasms. They blurred into one long, shuddering wave, her body a conduit for their pleasure, every thrust pushing her higher. Someone came on her back—Bilal, she thought, the heat striping her spine in sticky lines. Another in her mouth—Omair, bitter and thick, forcing her to swallow. Hamza pulled out to paint her belly, ropes landing on her navel, pooling there. Zain was last, gentle almost in contrast, entering her missionary-style, her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on hers in a deep, devouring kiss as he came deep inside, whispering her name like a prayer, his release mixing with the others.

After, they lay tangled in a heap of limbs and sweat, the fan stirring the heavy air laden with the scent of sex—musk, semen, her own sharp arousal. Alice’s body ached in places she didn’t know could ache—thighs burning from being spread, jaw throbbing, the tender stretch of her ass a constant reminder, semen leaking from every orifice, pooling on the cushion in a viscous puddle. Someone—Hamza—fetched a damp towel from the pool house sink, cleaning her with surprising tenderness, wiping her face, her breasts, between her legs where the mixture was thickest. Omair poured water into a glass from a bottle, held it to her lips; she drank greedily, throat raw from moans and cocks.

Zain retrieved the camera, showed her the screen: a blur of limbs and shadows, her face ecstatic and unrecognisable, eyes rolled back, mouth open in perpetual gasp. “Delete if you want,” he said, thumb hovering. She shook her head weakly. Keep it. A trophy.

Dawn was a pale line under the shutters when they dressed her—panties ruined and discarded, shalwar tied loosely around her hips, kurti buttoned crooked, stains hidden in the folds. Bilal found her dupatta, draped it over her shoulders like a shroud. Omair walked her to the veranda where a driver waited, engine idling softly, the night air cool on her flushed skin. The others stayed behind, silhouettes against the pool’s glow, lighting cigarettes, their laughter low.

In the car, she watched the farmhouse shrink in the rearview, her body a map of their use—bruises blooming on her hips, bite marks on her breasts, the slow drip of them all mingled between her legs, soaking the seat. A secret she would carry back to Bahrain, to sterile ORs and a fiancé who would never guess why she sometimes smiled at nothing, her hand slipping between her thighs in memory.

The driver glanced in the mirror, concern etching his face. “Ma’am, you okay?”

She met his eyes, calm despite the tremor in her core. “Perfect,” she said, and meant it, every aching inch.

Back in Lahore, the city woke to another humid morning, muezzins calling faintly in the distance. Alice showered until the water ran clear, scrubbing with scented soap until her skin was pink, but the memories lingered, etched in her flesh. She dressed in fresh clothes, hair braided tight, and slipped the memory card from Zain’s camera—palmed from his pocket while he dozed—into her purse. A souvenir. A promise of more.

Some doors, once opened, became the only way through, leading to darker, hungrier rooms.