Celebrityfantasystories

**Shubman’s Dirty Secret – Part 8: The Empty Trap** **FADE IN:** **EXT. PRIVATE FARMHOUSE – OUTSKIRTS OF DELHI – NIGHT** A sprawling colonial farmhouse sits like a glowing lantern behind twelve-foot walls draped in bougainvillea. Security floodlights cut sharp white beams across manicured lawns. The air is heavy with night jasmine and distant city smog. A discreet black banner flutters near the iron gates: “In Memory of Shubman Gill – A Private Gathering for Those Who Knew Him Best.” No press vans. No red carpet. Just the kind of invitation that whispers money, power, and grief. Inside, the trap is set. **INT. FARMHOUSE – MAIN HALL – 9:15 PM** The hall is a carefully staged shrine. Crystal chandeliers throw warm amber light over framed India jerseys, signed bats mounted like relics, and giant photographs of Shubman — mid-drive, laughing in the dressing room, lifting a trophy. Soft jazz drifts from hidden speakers. Waiters in crisp black circulate with single-malt and tiny plates of foo...

**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**...

Delhi hotel, 11:47 p.m. The team had just crushed England in a white-ball cracker. Shubman’s phone buzzed twice in quick succession while he was still toweling off from his shower, cock already half-hard from the endless teasing glances he’d stolen from the seniors all evening. Hardik: *Suite 2801. Now. Bring that greedy fucking cumhole, slut. Door’s open.* Then, ten seconds later: KL Rahul: *Same room, pretty boy. We’re both waiting. Don’t make us come get you.* Shubman’s stomach flipped. His hole clenched hard around nothing. They’d never done this before—never shared him. But the thought of both of them at once, Hardik’s brutal cock and KL’s long, teasing one destroying him together, made his dick throb so violently a fat bead of pre-cum dripped down his shaft. He didn’t even bother with underwear. Just loose grey sweat shorts and a tank top, heart hammering as he padded down the corridor. The door to the presidential suite was cracked open. He slipped inside and locked ...