Shubman and His Dirty Secrets - Episode 4

**EXT. ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – SOUTH DELHI – NIGHT (CONTINUOUS FROM PART 3)**

Rain lashes the five black SUVs parked in a tight circle. Headlights cut through the downpour like blades. Ishan, KL Rahul, Hardik Pandya, Virat Kohli, and Abhishek Sharma stand under the rusted overhang, hoods up, breath fogging in the chill. The Noida safehouse tip from Abhishek’s dark-web contact had led them here—an empty shell, stripped clean, no fixer, no trace. Just dust and the echo of their own footsteps.

**ISHAN**  

(voice tight, pacing)  

This was supposed to be it. The pimp. The bridge to those six bastards. And it’s a fucking ghost house.

**HARDIK**  

(slamming a fist into the wall)  

We’re chasing smoke while the whole country burns candles for him. I want blood tonight.

Virat stands motionless, eyes scanning the perimeter like a predator. Abhishek hunches over his laptop under a tarp, fingers flying across keys, rain dripping from his lashes.

**ABHISHEK**  

(without looking up)  

Give me twenty minutes. I’m rerouting the trace. The fixer’s burner bounced through three countries. He’s good… but not good enough.

KL Rahul leans against a concrete pillar, arms crossed, staring into the rain. The others’ voices blur. His mind drifts—unbidden, unstoppable—back to the one night that still feels like yesterday.

**KL RAHUL**  

(soft, almost to himself)  

He always said yes… until they made him pay for it.

The rain fades. The warehouse dissolves.

**CUT TO:**

**FLASHBACK – INT. KL RAHUL’S PRIVATE VILLA – GOA – TWO YEARS AGO – NIGHT**

Golden hour has bled into deep indigo. The ocean crashes against the cliffs below the cliffside villa. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls frame the Arabian Sea, waves glowing under moonlight. KL Rahul—thirty years old, sculpted like a Greek statue, smooth chest glistening with post-workout sweat—stands in the open-plan living room wearing only grey lounge shorts that hang dangerously low on his hips.

Shubman Gill, twenty-five then, steps in from the terrace. White team polo unbuttoned, hair still damp from the beach, that devastating half-smile playing on his full lips. He looks every inch the golden boy—sharp jaw, long lashes, the kind of body that makes stadiums roar—but his eyes are pure filth.

**SHUBMAN**  

(voice low, teasing)  

You really flew me out here just to “discuss strategy,” Rahul bhai? Or did you finally admit you want what I’ve been offering since the last Test?

KL Rahul doesn’t answer with words. He crosses the room in three strides, grabs Shubman by the collar of the open polo, and yanks him into a bruising kiss. Tongues slide hot and hungry, teeth nipping, Shubman moaning into his mouth like he’s starving. Rahul’s hands roam—palming the firm globes of Shubman’s ass through his shorts, squeezing hard enough to leave marks.

**KL RAHUL**  

(growling against his lips)  

You talk too much, Gill. On your knees.

Shubman drops instantly, eyes locked upward, that slutty little smirk never fading. He yanks Rahul’s shorts down in one smooth motion. Rahul’s cock springs free—thick, veined, already rock-hard, the head flushed dark and leaking. Shubman licks his lips like it’s dessert.

**SHUBMAN**  

(whispering, reverent)  

Fuck… I’ve dreamed about this one. So much thicker than the others.

He doesn’t tease. He swallows Rahul to the root in one greedy glide—nose pressed to the neat trim of pubes, throat relaxing like it was made for this. Wet, obscene sounds fill the villa as Shubman bobs fast and sloppy, spit dripping down his chin in shiny ropes, eyes watering but never breaking contact. One hand cups Rahul’s heavy balls, rolling them gently; the other slips between his own legs to palm his own aching erection through his shorts.

Rahul’s fingers thread through Shubman’s perfect hair, guiding but not forcing—yet.

**KL RAHUL**  

(breath ragged)  

That’s it… take every fucking inch, you greedy little whore. The whole world thinks you’re innocent. If they could see you choking on my cock right now—

Shubman pulls off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to the glistening shaft. He grins, voice hoarse already.

**SHUBMAN**  

They don’t know shit. I’m a slut for dick, Rahul bhai. Yours especially. Now fuck my face like you mean it.

Rahul does. He grips Shubman’s head with both hands and thrusts deep—long, powerful strokes that make Shubman’s throat bulge visibly. Gagging sounds mix with the crash of waves outside. Tears streak Shubman’s cheeks, but he’s moaning around the cock, hips humping the air, desperate.

After five relentless minutes Rahul yanks him up, spins him, and shoves him face-first against the cool glass wall overlooking the sea. Shubman’s palms slap the glass, back arched deep, ass presented like an offering. Rahul rips Shubman’s shorts down, spits once on his own cock, and pushes in—slow at first, savoring the tight, velvet heat, inch by thick inch until his hips are flush against Shubman’s perfect ass.

**SHUBMAN**  

(gasping, wrecked)  

Fuck—yes—stretch me. I want to feel you for days.

Rahul starts slow and deep, then builds to punishing rhythm—hips snapping, balls slapping skin, the wet sound of flesh on flesh echoing through the villa. Every thrust drags over Shubman’s prostate; the younger man keens, pushing back greedily, begging for more.

**KL RAHUL**  

(grunting)  

You take it so fucking well. Like you were born for this. My secret little cumdump.

He reaches around, fist flying on Shubman’s leaking cock in time with his thrusts. Shubman comes first—untouched almost—shooting thick ropes across the glass, body clamping down like a vice. Rahul doesn’t stop. He fucks him through it, then pulls out, spins him again, and throws him onto the massive white sectional.

They go through three more positions in the next hour—raw, filthy, relentless.

First: Shubman riding him reverse-cowboy, ass bouncing, hands braced on Rahul’s thighs, head thrown back in ecstasy while Rahul slaps his cheeks red and calls him every dirty name he can think of.

Second: Rahul on top in missionary, legs hooked over his shoulders, folding Shubman in half, pounding so deep Shubman’s eyes roll back. They kiss messily the whole time—tongues and teeth and spit.

Third: Rahul takes him from behind again on the terrace floor, under the stars, ocean roaring below. He pulls Shubman’s hair, arches his back, and fills him with three long, deep loads—breeding him until cum leaks out with every thrust. Shubman comes twice more, voice hoarse from screaming Rahul’s name.

When they finally collapse, sweat-slick and spent, Shubman curls into Rahul’s chest, tracing lazy patterns on his abs.

**SHUBMAN**  

(soft, sated)  

This stays between us. My dirty secret… and yours.

**KL RAHUL**  

(kissing his temple)  

Always.

**END FLASHBACK.**

**CUT BACK TO:**

**EXT. ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – SOUTH DELHI – NIGHT (PRESENT)**

Rain still hammers down. KL Rahul blinks, eyes glassy, the memory clinging to him like smoke. The others are staring—he’s been silent for too long.

**VIRAT**  

(quiet, understanding)  

You okay?

**KL RAHUL**  

(voice thick)  

Just remembering why we’re doing this.

Abhishek’s laptop suddenly pings—loud in the downpour. He straightens, eyes widening.

**ABHISHEK**  

Wait—new trace just lit up. The fixer’s main burner. It pinged a cell tower in North Goa twenty minutes ago. Old Portuguese villa district, off the radar. He’s there. Hiding. We’ve got coordinates.

The group snaps to attention. Grief and rage sharpen into focus.

**ISHAN**  

Goa. The same place he took so many of us.

**HARDIK**  

(grinning darkly)  

Then we fly tonight. No more dead ends.

**VIRAT**  

We end this. For Shubman.

They climb back into the SUVs. Engines roar to life. Taillights cut through the storm as they speed toward the airport.

The pimp is in Goa.

And the five broken lovers are coming for him.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**