Shubman and His Dirty Secrets - Episode 6

**INT. ICC CRICKET ACADEMY LOCKER ROOM – MUMBAI – NIGHT (FLASHBACK – THREE YEARS AGO)**

The stadium above has gone dark. Only the low amber emergency lights glow along the tiled floor. Steam still drifts from the showers. The air is thick with sweat, liniment, and raw testosterone.

**VIRAT KOHLI**, thirty-four, stands at his locker in nothing but a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips. Water traces every carved muscle of his chest, the deep V of his pelvis, the dark happy trail disappearing beneath the terrycloth. He is power and command wrapped in skin.

**SHUBMAN GILL**, twenty-four, steps out of the far shower completely naked. Water sluices down the long, sculpted lines of his body—sharp collarbones, smooth chest, narrow waist flaring into powerful thighs. His cock hangs heavy and half-hard from the heat, the head flushed dark. He doesn’t reach for a towel. He walks straight toward Virat, bare feet silent on wet tile, eyes locked with the intensity of someone who has waited years for this moment.

They stop inches apart. Virat’s breath catches.

**SHUBMAN**  

(voice low, trembling with pure want)  

I’ve been wet for you since the day I walked into this dressing room, Virat bhai. Every time you looked at me I felt it. Tell me you want this as bad as I do.

Virat’s hand shoots out, cups Shubman’s jaw hard, thumb dragging across that full, tempting lower lip.

**VIRAT**  

(rough, hungry)  

You sure, kid? Once I touch you I’m not stopping. I’ll fuck you so deep you’ll feel me every time you step on the crease. You’ll be mine—my dirty little secret.

Shubman’s answer is to drop to his knees on the cold tile. He yanks the towel open. Virat’s cock springs free—thick, heavy, veined like marble, already leaking at the slit. Shubman moans like a man starved, eyes glassy with lust.

He swallows Virat to the root in one greedy glide—throat opening, nose buried in dark curls, spit already dripping down his chin in shiny ropes. Virat’s head falls back, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he fists Shubman’s wet hair.

**VIRAT**  

(voice wrecked, filthy)  

Fuck… look at you. India’s golden boy choking on his captain’s cock like a desperate whore. So fucking pretty with your throat bulging around me.

Shubman pulls back only to dive again—faster, sloppier, gagging happily, tears streaming, spit pouring onto his chest. He cups Virat’s heavy balls, tugs them gently, then reaches between his own legs to stroke himself in time. Virat starts fucking his face in deep, possessive thrusts, hips snapping, balls slapping Shubman’s chin.

After minutes of pure throat abuse Virat hauls him up, spins him, bends him over the wooden bench. Shubman’s chest presses against the cool slats, ass arched high, legs spread wide. Virat drops to his knees, spreads those perfect cheeks, and buries his face between them—tongue spearing deep into the tight hole, licking long, filthy stripes from balls to entrance, sucking and biting the sensitive ring until Shubman is sobbing and pushing back desperately.

**SHUBMAN**  

(voice breaking, shameless)  

Please—Virat bhai—eat my ass like you own it. I need your cock inside me. Ruin me. Make me your slut.

Virat stands, spits once on his cock, lines up, and pushes in raw—slow, relentless, inch after thick inch until he’s buried balls-deep. Both men groan in unison. The stretch is obscene; Shubman’s back bows, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure-pain.

Then Virat starts moving—deep, passionate, punishing strokes that grind right against Shubman’s prostate on every thrust. Skin slaps wetly. The bench creaks. Virat’s hand snakes around, fist flying on Shubman’s leaking cock while he bites the back of his neck, leaving a dark, possessive mark.

**VIRAT**  

(growling against his ear, filthy and tender at once)  

This hole is mine now. Every time you smile for the cameras, every century you score, you’ll remember my cock splitting you open. My perfect fucking cumslut. Take it—take every fucking inch.

They fuck like the world is ending—passionate, dirty, desperate. Virat pulls out, flips Shubman onto his back on the bench, hooks those long legs over his shoulders, folds him in half, and drives back in. They kiss through it—messy, open-mouthed, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, spit swapping. Shubman’s nails rake down Virat’s back, drawing blood. Virat spits into Shubman’s open mouth; Shubman swallows it greedily, moaning like it’s nectar.

Shubman cums first—untouched—thick ropes painting his own abs and chest while his hole clenches like a vice around Virat. Virat follows with a roar, burying himself to the hilt and flooding him, pulse after pulse until cum leaks out around his cock with every final thrust.

They stay locked together, foreheads pressed, breathing each other’s air, hearts hammering.

**SHUBMAN**  

(whispering, sated and trembling)  

No one can ever know.

**VIRAT**  

(soft, possessive)  

Our secret. Always.

**END FLASHBACK.**

**CUT TO:**

**INT. CLIFFSIDE VILLA – NORTH GOA – PRESENT DAY – EARLY MORNING**

The master bedroom is dim, shutters half-closed against the rising sun. Virat Kohli lies on the king bed, sheet kicked down to his thighs. The flashback is still burning behind his eyes. His cock is rock-hard, thick and leaking against his abs. Without thinking he wraps a big hand around it and starts stroking—slow, lazy pulls, eyes half-lidded, remembering Shubman’s tight heat, the way he begged, the way he took it.

His breathing grows ragged. The strokes get faster, thumb swiping over the slick head, spreading pre-cum.

The door creaks open.

**HARDIK PANDYA** steps in, shirtless in grey sweats, meaning to wake Virat for the day’s hunt. He freezes. His eyes drop straight to Virat’s fist flying on that thick cock.

Hardik’s own sweats tent instantly. He bites his lip, breath catching.

**HARDIK**  

(voice low, rough)  

Fuck, Virat bhai… you thinking about him too?

Virat doesn’t stop stroking. He looks up, eyes dark with grief and lust.

**VIRAT**  

(hoarse)  

Every fucking second.

Hardik closes the door behind him, locks it. He pushes his sweats down, his own heavy cock springing free—thick, veined, already dripping. He climbs onto the bed beside Virat.

**HARDIK**  

(whispering)  

Then let’s do this together. For him.

They turn toward each other. Virat’s hand leaves his own cock and wraps around Hardik’s. Hardik does the same—big hands gripping each other’s shafts, stroking in perfect sync, slow and filthy. Their foreheads press together, breaths mingling.

**VIRAT**  

(groaning)  

Remember how he used to beg… how he’d ride us like he was made for cock.

**HARDIK**  

(voice breaking, stroking faster)  

That pretty mouth… that tight little hole. Fuck, I miss him.

They jerk each other harder, thumbs swirling over leaking heads, twisting at the tips, spreading pre-cum until both cocks are shiny and slick. Bodies press closer, hips bucking into each other’s fists. No kissing—just raw, shared grief and lust, eyes locked, thinking only of Shubman between them.

They come almost together—thick ropes painting each other’s abs and chests, groaning Shubman’s name like a prayer and a curse.

They stay there a moment, sticky and breathing hard, then clean up in silence. The hunt calls.

**CUT TO:**

**EXT. SECLUDED PORTUGUESE VILLA – NORTH GOA – LATE AFTERNOON**

The five men—Ishan, KL Rahul, Hardik, Virat, Abhishek—move like shadows through the overgrown garden. The fixer, **RAJESH “THE PIMP” MEHRA**, late forties, greasy hair, expensive watch, tries to bolt the second he sees them. Hardik catches him by the collar and slams him against the whitewashed wall.

They drag him inside to the dimly lit sitting room. Phones recording. No mercy.

Rajesh is tied to a wooden chair, sweating, crying.

**RAJESH**  

(voice shaking)  

I don’t know anything—I swear—

**ISHAN**  

(slamming the table)  

You set up the Vasant Vihar meet. Six rich brats. Shubman Gill. You delivered him.

Virat steps forward, calm and terrifying.

**VIRAT**  

The names. All six. Now.

Rajesh cracks in under two minutes, snot running down his face. He slides a burner phone across the table with trembling hands.

**RAJESH**  

(whimpering)  

Aryan Sharma—son of the UP Minister. Rohan and Vihaan Rathore—the Rajasthan twins. Kabir Oberoi, Arjun Khanna, Dev Malhotra. All 18 to 20. Their fathers paid triple. They wanted the golden boy broken. I didn’t know they’d kill him—I swear.

The room goes deathly still.

**KL RAHUL**  

(voice ice)  

You just handed us the six who murdered him.

**ABHISHEK**  

(holding up the phone, eyes burning)  

We have the list. We have the blood.

The five men stand shoulder to shoulder—grief, rage, and unbreakable brotherhood forged in fire.

Outside, the Goa sun bleeds red into the sea.

**VIRAT**  

(soft, lethal)  

Now we hunt.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**