Shubman and his dirty Secret - Episode 1

The Wankhede floodlights still pulsed like a heartbeat long after the final ball had been bowled. Mumbai had roared for Shubman Gill the way it roared for few others—eighty-seven elegant runs, wrists flicking like silk, that boyish smile flashing to the cameras as he lifted his bat to the stands. Twenty-seven years old, India’s golden boy, the face of a thousand endorsements, the heir to Tendulkar’s poise. In the post-match press conference he had sat in crisp whites, hair perfectly tousled, voice soft and humble: “The team did the work. I just tried to stay in the moment.”

No one saw the hunger beneath the smile.

By the time the team bus rolled into the curved driveway of the Taj Mahal Palace, the city’s humid night air clung to his skin like a second jersey. Shubman’s body was still electric—calves tight from the crease, quads burning, the deep V of his pelvis outlined under the thin fabric of his tracksuit. He slipped away from the victory dinner with a quiet excuse about recovery. The others clapped his back, laughing, calling him the match-winner. They had no idea the real victory he craved had nothing to do with runs.

In the private elevator to the twenty-second floor, he leaned against the mirrored wall and let his hand drift down, palming the half-hard line already straining against his briefs. His reflection stared back—sharp jaw, dark eyes glittering with mischief, full lips parted. *They think I’m innocent,* he thought, a slow smirk curling. *They have no fucking clue how badly I need cock tonight.*

He stepped into the presidential suite the BCCI had booked under a false name and left the lights low. The Mumbai skyline glittered through floor-to-ceiling glass like scattered diamonds. Shubman peeled off his jersey slowly, letting the cool air kiss the sweat-cooled ridges of his abs, the faint trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. His chest was smooth, nipples already tight. He texted one word to Ishan Kishan.

*Room 2203. Now.*

Ishan arrived in under ten minutes, still in his team hoodie, hair damp from the shower. The moment the door clicked shut, Shubman was on him—pushing him back against the wall, mouth crashing down in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. No preamble. No shy smiles. Just raw need.

“Been thinking about your dick since the twentieth over,” Shubman growled against Ishan’s lips, voice already wrecked. His hands shoved the hoodie up and off, palms mapping the thick muscle of Ishan’s shoulders, the heavy slabs of his pecs. “You gonna make me beg for it like a good little slut, or are you just gonna give it to me?”

Ishan’s laugh was dark, surprised. “Fuck, Gill. You’re in heat tonight.”

Shubman dropped to his knees on the thick carpet, yanking Ishan’s track pants and briefs down in one motion. The thick, heavy cock sprang free, already leaking, the head flushed dark. Shubman’s mouth watered. He looked up through his lashes, eyes gleaming with pure filth.

“Feed me,” he whispered, and swallowed Ishan to the root in one smooth glide.

The groan Ishan let out echoed off the marble. Shubman’s throat worked around him, nose pressed to the neat trim of pubes, tongue swirling, spit already dripping down his chin in shiny strands. He bobbed fast, sloppy, hungry—cheeks hollowing, eyes watering, moaning like the cock in his mouth was oxygen. One hand cupped Ishan’s heavy balls, rolling them, the other snaked between his own legs to rub his aching erection through his pants.

Ishan’s fingers twisted in Shubman’s hair, guiding but not controlling. “That’s it… take every inch, you greedy fucking whore. Look at you—India’s poster boy choking on teammate cock like it’s your real job.”

Shubman pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to the glistening shaft. “I am a whore for it,” he panted, voice hoarse. “Any dick. Yours. Anyone’s. I don’t care. Just need to be filled.” He stood, shoved his own pants down, and bent over the glass dining table, ass presented, back arched deep. “Fuck me raw. Now.”

Ishan slicked himself quickly with the bottle from the nightstand and pushed in—slow at first, then one brutal thrust that buried him balls-deep. Shubman cried out, the stretch burning so perfectly he saw stars. The city lights blurred as Ishan started pounding him, hips slapping loud against the firm globes of Shubman’s ass. Every stroke dragged over his prostate, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure up his spine.

“Harder—ruin me,” Shubman begged, pushing back, meeting every thrust. His own cock slapped wetly against the glass, leaking a steady puddle. “Want to feel you leaking out of me when I bat tomorrow.”

Ishan gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, railing him mercilessly. The wet, obscene sound of skin on skin filled the suite. Shubman came first—untouched—shooting thick ropes across the table with a broken sob, body clamping down like a vice. Ishan followed with a guttural groan, burying himself deep and flooding him, pulse after pulse of hot cum.

They stayed locked together, panting. Ishan kissed the back of Shubman’s neck almost tenderly. “You’re insane tonight.”

Shubman smiled against the cool glass, cum already trickling down his thigh. “I’m just getting started.”

Ishan left twenty minutes later, dazed and sated. Shubman didn’t bother cleaning up. The ache in his ass only made him hungrier. He showered quickly, water cascading over every carved line of his body—the wide shoulders, the narrow waist, the long, powerful legs that could drive a ball to the boundary or spread wide for a stranger. He slipped into a loose white robe, nothing underneath, and ordered room service. Not for food.

The waiter who arrived was young—maybe twenty-three—olive skin, sharp cheekbones, nervous smile. His name tag read *Rahul*. Uniform crisp, trousers tight over what looked like a promising bulge.

Shubman opened the door wider than necessary, robe slipping off one shoulder. “Hey… sorry, I’m starving after the match. Come in.”

Rahul wheeled the trolley inside, eyes flicking to the half-naked cricketer, then away quickly. Professional. Shubman could smell the curiosity.

He closed the door, leaned against it. “You watch the game?”

Rahul nodded, setting out the silver domes. “Yes, sir. You were brilliant.”

Shubman stepped closer, close enough that the scent of his body wash—sandalwood and musk—mixed with the faint hotel soap on the boy. “Call me Shubman.” His voice dropped. “And tell me… do you ever get tired of serving people who get everything they want?”

Rahul swallowed. “I… I like my job.”

Shubman’s hand brushed the waiter’s wrist, light but deliberate. “I like giving people what *they* want.” He let the robe fall open completely. His cock was already half-hard again, curving up against his stomach, the head still shiny from earlier. “And right now I want you to use me.”

Rahul’s eyes widened, breath catching. “Sir… I’m not—”

“You’re hard,” Shubman murmured, stepping in until their bodies almost touched. “I can see it. I can smell how much you want this.” He dropped to his knees again—second time tonight—and mouthed at the growing bulge through the trousers. “Let me suck you. I’m really fucking good at it.”

The zipper sounded loud in the quiet suite. Rahul’s cock was long and slender, uncut, already leaking. Shubman worshipped it—slow licks up the underside, swirling around the head, then taking him deep until his nose pressed to the zipper. Rahul’s hands fluttered, unsure, then gripped Shubman’s hair as the cricketer moaned encouragement around him.

“Fuck… you’re actually doing this,” Rahul gasped.

Shubman pulled off just long enough to grin up at him, lips shiny. “I do this all the time. Anyone. Everyone. I’m a slut for dick, Rahul. Now fuck my throat and cum wherever you want.”

The waiter lost control. He thrust shallowly at first, then deeper, using Shubman’s mouth like a toy. Shubman took it all, gagging happily, tears streaking his cheeks, one hand jerking himself in time. When Rahul came it was with a choked cry, flooding Shubman’s tongue. He swallowed every drop, then stood, spun the boy around, and bent him over the same glass table.

“My turn,” he whispered, already slicking himself with leftover lube and spit. He pushed in slow, savoring the tight heat, the way Rahul whimpered and pushed back. They fucked like animals—Shubman’s hips snapping, hand wrapped around Rahul’s reviving cock, dirty praise spilling from his lips. “Good boy… take my cock. Hotel staff getting railed by the guy you cheered for tonight. Filthy, isn’t it?”

Rahul came again, untouched this time, painting the glass. Shubman followed, filling him deep, then pulling out to watch his cum drip down the waiter’s trembling thighs.

“Clean up and go,” Shubman said softly, kissing the boy’s shoulder. “Tell no one. This is our secret.”

Rahul left on shaky legs, eyes wide with disbelief and gratitude.

Shubman still wasn’t done.

The hotel’s private gym on the twenty-fourth floor was open twenty-four hours. He pulled on a black tank and shorts that clung to every ridge of muscle and took the service stairs. At 2:17 a.m. the gym was empty except for the night trainer—a tall, broad-shouldered Punjabi guy named Karan, late twenties, veins standing out on his forearms, sweatpants doing nothing to hide the heavy swing between his legs.

Shubman started with light weights, letting Karan spot him. Each rep made his tank ride up, exposing the deep cuts of his obliques, the happy trail. He caught Karan staring.

“You’re stronger than you look on TV,” Karan said, voice low.

Shubman racked the bar and turned, stepping into the trainer’s space. “You have no idea how strong I can be.” His hand brushed the front of Karan’s sweats. “Or how much I like being weak for the right man.”

Karan’s breath hitched. “You’re… straight, right? The papers—”

Shubman laughed, low and filthy, and sank to his knees right there on the rubber floor between the weight benches. “I’m whatever gets me fucked.” He yanked the sweats down. Karan’s cock was thick, heavy, uncut, the kind that stretched you open and made you forget your own name. Shubman worshipped it—long, sloppy licks, sucking the balls, rimming the head until Karan was leaking steadily.

“Bedroom,” Karan growled, hauling him up.

They barely made it to the trainer’s small staff room at the end of the corridor. Karan threw him onto the narrow bed, ripped the shorts off, and buried his face between Shubman’s cheeks—tongue spearing deep, eating him out like a man starved. Shubman moaned loud enough to wake the floor, pushing back, riding the tongue.

“Fuck me—please—split me open.”

Karan slicked up and drove in raw, one long stroke that made Shubman scream into the pillow. The trainer fucked like a machine—deep, punishing strokes, one hand fisted in Shubman’s hair, the other slapping his ass red. Shubman came twice, once hands-free, once with Karan’s fist flying on his cock, painting his own abs. Karan pulled out at the last second and painted Shubman’s face and chest with thick ropes, marking him.

They lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling, the room smelling of sex and rubber mats.

“You do this a lot?” Karan asked, tracing a finger through the mess on Shubman’s stomach.

Shubman smiled, lazy and sated for the first time all night. “Every chance I get. It’s my dirty little secret. The harder I play on the field, the harder I need to get fucked off it. Keeps me sharp.”

He showered in Karan’s tiny bathroom, dressed, and slipped back to his suite just as dawn began to bleed pink across the Arabian Sea. Cum still leaked from him in both holes; his lips were swollen, ass deliciously sore. In the mirror he looked exactly like the clean-cut hero the world adored—except for the faint bite marks on his collarbone and the glazed, satisfied gleam in his eyes.

Shubman Gill, India’s brightest star, touched his reflection and whispered to himself, “Tomorrow night, Delhi. New city. New cocks.”

The secret was safe. For now.

And he was already planning who to seduce next.