Shubman and His Dirty Secrets - Episode 5

**INT. CLIFFSIDE VILLA – NORTH GOA – 5:47 AM**

The rented Portuguese villa perched on a secluded cliff above the Arabian Sea was supposed to be their war room. Five broken men, bound by the same secret grief, waiting for Abhishek’s algorithms to pinpoint the pimp’s exact bolt-hole. Instead, the night had dissolved into whiskey, silence, and the kind of restless sleep that only the guilty and the grieving ever know.

Abhishek Sharma stood alone in the open kitchen, the first gray light of dawn bleeding through the slatted wooden shutters. He wore nothing but loose black boxer briefs that rode low on his narrow hips, the smooth golden skin of his back still marked with faint bruises from the last time Shubman had gripped him too hard in a team bus bathroom. The coffee machine hissed softly. Abhishek’s fingers trembled as he measured beans—grief had turned every small ritual into a knife.

He didn’t hear the bare feet on the cool terracotta tiles.

Ishan Kishan moved like a ghost, eyes half-lidded, still lost in the dream where Shubman was alive and laughing and spread open beneath him. The silhouette in front of him—same height, same tousled dark hair, same lean athletic frame—triggered muscle memory older than pain.

Ishan’s arms slid around Abhishek’s waist from behind, pulling him back against a warm, naked chest. Ishan’s morning-hard cock nestled hot and heavy between Abhishek’s ass cheeks through the thin fabric.

**ISHAN**  

(voice rough with sleep and longing, lips brushing Abhishek’s ear)  

Good morning, Shubman darling…

Abhishek froze, coffee scoop clattering into the sink. “Ishan, wait—I’m not—”

Ishan’s mouth found the side of his neck, kissing open-mouthed, hungry. One hand splayed possessively over Abhishek’s flat stomach, the other sliding down to palm the growing bulge in his briefs.

**ABHISHEK**  

(breath catching)  

Ishan, it’s me—Abhishek. He’s gone, man. He’s—

The slap cracked across Abhishek’s cheek—sharp, stinging, not hard enough to bruise but enough to shut him up. Ishan’s grip on his waist tightened, almost bruising.

**ISHAN**  

(low, dangerous, still half-dreaming)  

Don’t talk. Just be him for me right now.

Abhishek’s eyes flicked down. Ishan’s cock had slipped free of the loose shorts he wore—thick, veined, already leaking at the tip, curving up angrily against Abhishek’s lower back. The sight hit like a drug. Grief, lust, and the raw need to be useful twisted together in Abhishek’s chest. He sank to his knees right there on the kitchen tiles, turning as he dropped.

Ishan’s hand fisted in his hair, guiding him.

Abhishek took him in slowly at first—lips stretching wide around the thick head, tongue swirling to taste the salty pre-cum. Then deeper. Inch by inch until his nose pressed against Ishan’s trimmed pubes and his throat fluttered around the invasion. He held there, eyes watering, breathing through his nose, letting Ishan feel the tight heat.

**ISHAN**  

(groaning, head falling back)  

Fuck… just like that, baby. Your throat always felt like home.

What started as a “quick” blowjob stretched into something endless. Abhishek worked him like a man trying to erase the morning. He pulled back until only the head rested on his tongue, then sank down again—slow, deliberate, throat convulsing in rhythmic swallows that milked every inch. Spit poured down his chin in thick strands, dripping onto his chest and the floor. Ishan’s hips rocked lazily, fucking his face in long, deep strokes while Abhishek’s hands cupped heavy balls, rolling them, tugging gently.

Minutes blurred. Ten. Fifteen. Abhishek’s jaw ached, his throat raw, but he didn’t stop. He varied the rhythm—fast and sloppy, then torturously slow, hollowing his cheeks, humming around the shaft so the vibrations made Ishan’s knees buckle. He pulled off only to lick long stripes up the underside, suck each ball into his mouth, tongue the sensitive spot behind them, then dive back down until his nose was buried again. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with spit. His own cock strained painfully against his briefs, untouched.

Ishan’s grip tightened, voice breaking.

**ISHAN**  

(whispering, broken)  

Miss you so fucking much, Shubman… take it all for me…

At the twenty-three-minute mark—by the soft glow of the oven clock— Ihsan finally came. He held Abhishek’s head flush against his pelvis, hips stuttering as thick, hot ropes flooded straight down his throat. Abhishek swallowed convulsively, not spilling a drop, throat working until Ishan was spent and softening.

Ishan pulled out with a wet pop, patted Abhishek’s tear-streaked cheek almost tenderly, and staggered back toward the bedroom without another word, shorts still hanging open.

Abhishek stayed on his knees for a long moment, chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny. Cum and spit glistened on his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, stood on shaky legs, and turned to the sink to clean the spilled coffee and the mess on the floor.

The kitchen door creaked again.

KL Rahul stood there in nothing but grey boxer briefs, hair sleep-mussed, eyes sharp despite the early hour. He took in the scene—Abhishek’s red cheek, swollen lips, the faint sheen of spit still on his chest.

**KL RAHUL**  

(quiet, dangerous)  

What happened here?

Abhishek turned, back still to the counter, voice hoarse but steady.

**ABHISHEK**  

Ishan just fucked my throat thinking I was Shubman.

A beat of heavy silence. Then KL Rahul crossed the kitchen in three strides. He stepped in close, arms sliding around Abhishek’s waist from behind, big hands splaying possessively over his abs, pulling him back until Abhishek’s ass pressed flush against the very obvious, rock-hard rod tenting Rahul’s briefs.

Rahul’s lips brushed the shell of Abhishek’s ear, voice a low velvet growl.

**KL RAHUL**  

Well… he’s not wrong about that.

His tongue traced the rim of Abhishek’s ear, slow and wet, then licked a filthy stripe down the side of his neck. Abhishek shivered, feeling the thick length of Rahul’s cock nestle between his cheeks. He pushed back deliberately, rubbing his ass against it in slow circles, grinding the fabric between them.

**ABHISHEK**  

(breath hitching, voice husky)  

Do you really think so?

Rahul’s answer was a dark chuckle against his skin. He spun Abhishek around, lifted him onto the kitchen counter in one smooth motion, and claimed his mouth in a deep, bruising kiss—tongue fucking in like he owned every inch. Hands roamed. Boxer briefs hit the floor. The session that followed was raw, unhurried, and devastatingly intimate.

Rahul fucked Abhishek’s mouth again—slower this time, savoring the ruined throat—then bent him over the counter and ate him open with long, filthy licks until Abhishek was sobbing and begging. When he finally pushed inside, it was bare and deep, one long stroke that made Abhishek’s back arch like a bow. They moved together for what felt like hours—slow, grinding fucks against the counter, then on the kitchen table, then finally carried to the oversized couch where Rahul laid him on his back, legs over his shoulders, pounding him senseless while they kissed like the world was ending.

Abhishek came untouched twice, painting his own abs and chest. Rahul followed the second time, burying himself to the hilt and flooding him deep, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.

They didn’t pull apart. Rahul stayed inside him, softening but still thick, as he rolled them onto their sides on the wide couch. Abhishek curled into his chest, exhausted, wrecked, and strangely safe. Rahul’s cock remained nestled deep in his slick, cum-filled hole, a warm, comforting weight.

Abhishek’s eyes fluttered shut, breath evening out against Rahul’s neck.

He fell asleep like that—impaled, claimed, still connected—while outside the villa the Goa sun rose higher, and somewhere in the old Portuguese district the pimp who had delivered Shubman to his death was still breathing.

For now.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**