The sea breeze rattling the French windows of the Kashyap bungalow in Juhu did nothing to cool the suffocating friction in the living room.
Pacing the imported Italian hardwood with a glass of single malt in hand was Mohan Kashyap.
At thirty-five, the co-founder of Maya Mirage Productions was a sharp, undeniably handsome figure.
Lean, sharply dressed in an unbuttoned designer linen shirt, with slicked-back hair and the calculated, predatory gaze of an executive who operated in the high-stakes shadows of Mumbai’s elite syndicates.
He spun around, slamming his crystal glass onto the marble console.
“Are you completely out of your mind, Mohini?!” Mohan barked, his throat tightening in disbelief.
“We had Naseeruddin Shah verbally locked!
We had Arshad Warsi lined up to sign the dotted line for Ishqiya!”
“Do you have any idea how much commercial weight Naseer brings to a rural noir?”
“Who the hell walks away from the finest thespian in the country to hand the lead contracts to two starving nobodies from Aram Nagar?!”
Mohan stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed his wife.
Mohini sat curled in a deep leather armchair.
There was no defensive shouting, no explosive hysteria.
She radiated a strange, heavy tranquility.
A dark, meditative stillness that unsettled him far more than a screaming match.
“You’re hiding something from me, Mohini,” Mohan pressed, his voice dropping into a sharp, demanding cadence.
“You’re ten times more ruthless and pragmatic than I am.”
“You never gamble our capital on charity cases.
What happened at the bungalow today?”
He turned to the bar cart, pouring a fresh cup of dark roast espresso from the machine and extending it toward her.
“Drink this.
Clear your head.”
Mohini looked at the steaming porcelain mug.
For a fraction of a second.
The memory of an impossible, towering titan standing in her office flashed behind her eyes.
His deep velvet baritone echoing through her core:
“I don’t touch coffee, Mohini…
It messes with my purity.”
Her hand recoiled from the mug.
Without a word.
She pushed the coffee away, reaching for a tall crystal tumbler of iced water, taking a slow, steady swallow.
“Sit down, Mohan,” Mohini murmured, her voice laced with quiet, chilling authority.
“We need to talk.”
Mohan frowned, leaning against the armrest across from her as Mohini laid out the afternoon:
The near-fatal slip toward the four-hundred-volt construction wire.
The sudden intervention of a 6’3″ youth who moved with impossible speed, and the instant, burning lust that had driven her to drag him into her private suite.
She recounted the classic Versova trap she had sprung:
Offering the boy a three-picture lead deal in exchange for nightly servitude in her bed.
Mohan chuckled coldly, though a trace of shock flickered in his eyes.
“You tried to lock him on the casting couch?”
“Mohini, you rarely hunt for fresh meat during office hours.”
“You always keep your appetite separate from the balance sheet.”
“That’s why I respect you.”
Their marriage was an unspoken, cynical contract.
They had long abandoned the naive myth of eternal romance.
They lived in an industry built on manufactured fairy tales sold to a gullible public.
While the creators drowned in depravity, infidelity, and substance abuse behind closed penthouse doors.
Mohan brought aspiring starlets and models into his private wing of the villa.
Mohini entertained lovers when she saw fit.
Their sole golden rule was clinical discretion, absolute protection, and no emotional interference with Maya Mirage’s bottom line.
“So he took the bait?” Mohan smirked.
“Another young dog willing to sell his soul for three reels of fame?”
“No,” Mohini whispered.
“He peeled my fingers off his dick like I was a beggar asking for spare change.”
Mohan froze.
Mohini’s eyes darkened.
Her hazel irises dilating with raw, feverish obsession as she described the young man’s refusal.
How he declared that touching a woman was sacred worship, not a cheap transaction for a contract;
How he commanded her to give Vijay and Jaideep their rightful shot; and how he had laid his terms upon her body.
“Are you fucking serious, Mohini?!” Mohan exploded, leaping to his feet, running his hands through his hair in sheer, manic exasperation.
“Tell me I’m having a bad trip!
The most calculating, untouchable woman in this town…”
“The woman who makes studio heads sweat…
completely bent over by a twenty-year-old boy with pretty eyes?!”
“Did he drug you?!
Did he work some cheap black magic on your head?!”
“Shut up, Mohan!” Mohini snapped, her eyes flaring with venomous irritation.
She rose from the chair, stepping into his personal space, her commanding presence forcing him back half a step.
“Do you take me for a fool?!” she hissed, her breast heaving beneath her silk kurti.
“I am a demoness, Mohan!
You know what I am!
You know what I did to survive!”
Mohan’s throat went dry.
The bitter, blood-soaked truth hung silent between them.
He remembered the early days before Maya Mirage.
Mohini had once been an innocent, devoted girl who loved a rising filmmaker with everything she had, carrying his child in her womb.
But when she discovered him laughing in bed with her closest confidante.
Mocking her naivety, treating her devotion as a stepping stone.
Something ancient and monstrous had snapped in her soul.
In cold, unblinking fury.
She had driven her own fists into her abdomen, destroying the fetus to sever the tie, and later orchestrated the brutal, career-ending ruination of both her lover and her friend with ruthless, sociopathic precision.
The innocent girl had died.
The demoness of Versova had been born.
She had never trusted a living soul since.
Not even Mohan.
Yet now, the very same woman was standing before him, trembling with raw surrender.
“He looked straight through my armour, Mohan…” Mohini whispered, her hand rising to gently graze her bruised, swollen lower lip.
“He saw the blood on my hands.
He called me a demoness to my face…
and he didn’t blink.”
“He didn’t run.
He kissed me until my soul caught fire…
and he marked me.”
A dark, wanton shiver travelled down her pussy.
A heavy wetness soaking her silk undergarments as she relived the memory of his massive, calloused hand violently claiming her hip.
“He told me that when I prove my word…
when I elevate those two actors with honesty…
he will come to this house.”
Mohan swallowed hard, goosebumps breaking across his forearms.
Looking into his wife’s dilated eyes.
He saw a terrifying, fanatical hunger he had never witnessed in ten years of marriage.
“Just…
who the hell is he, Mohini?” Mohan rasped.
“No twenty-year-old talks like that.”
“He isn’t a mere man, Mohan,” Mohini laughed softly, a low, throaty purr that made the hair on his neck stand on end.
“He told me Bollywood is just his playground.
Within ten years, he plans to hold global cinema by the throat.”
“I am going to make Vijay and Jaideep stars…
not for the box office, but so I can feel that golden beast break me in half on that bed.”
Mohan stared at her, feeling the carnal madness spiralling in the room.
He stepped forward, placing firm hands over her trembling shoulders, shouting in a tense, grounding whisper:
“Snap out of it, Mohini!
Take a breath!
You’re letting pure lust hijack your brain!”
Mohini blinked, exhaling a ragged breath.
The sudden fog clearing as she stepped back, smoothing down her hair.
“I’m fine…
I’m fine.”
Mohan forced a tight, diplomatic smile, trying to regain his footing.
“Look…
if you signed them, we roll with it.
Jaideep and Vijay have theatre blood.”
“We’ll make Ishqiya work.
But no more unvetted decisions.”
He reached for the remote on the credenza, turning on the seventy-inch LED screen mounted above the fireplace.
“Enough of the office politics.
The MTV underground battle in Worli is streaming live.”
“Let’s see what the indie circuit is serving tonight.
Maybe some fresh bass will clear this air.”
Mohini picked up her glass of ice water, leaning against the back of the sofa, watching the screen as the broadcast resolved into high-definition clarity.
The camera swept across the roaring, five-thousand-strong crowd, finally locking onto the central stage riser.
PFFFFFT!
Mohini violently choked, spraying a mouthful of water straight across Mohan’s chest and jaw!
CRASH!
The crystal tumbler slipped from her numb fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor as ice cubes and water splattered her slacks!
“What the fuck, Mohini?!” Mohan cursed, wiping his face in disgust—
“Look…” Mohini gasped, her voice a hollow, terrified whisper as she pointed a shaking finger at the screen.
“Look at the television!”
Mohan turned his head.
His jaw fell slack.
The breath seized in his windpipe.
Standing in the center of the Worli Amphitheater, bathed in blinding amber strobes and lunar silver light, was a 6’3″ titan.
His leather jacket was discarded, exposing a chiselled, bronzed torso dripping with sweat and blood.
His bleeding fingers attacked the guitar strings with virtuosic, percussive madness.
His raw, bleeding baritone tearing through the stadium speakers:
“Kesariya tera ishq hai piya…
Rang jaaun jo main haath lagaaun…!”
The sheer, suffocating gravity radiating from the young man didn’t just rattle the speakers.
It bypassed the electronics, hitting Mohan’s chest like a physical shockwave!
Mohan staggered back against the console.
His knees trembling under the terrifying, hypnotic authority burning within those liquid-gold irises.
“Just…
what in God’s name is that…?” Mohan breathed in horror.
Beside him, Mohini threw her head back, laughing with unhinged, hysterical ecstasy!
“Yeh insaan nahi hai, Mohan…
Yeh ek aag hai.”
“Yeh ek TANDAV hai!
Jiski tapish poori duniya ko bhasm kar degi, khaas karke iske dushmano ko!”
(This is no ordinary mortal, Mohan…; This is a consuming wildfire, a primordial Tandav whose volcanic wrath will reduce this entire world to ash, especially his enemies!)
She stepped closer to the screen.
Her dilated eyes tracing the fierce, titanic wrath burning behind Rudra’s tears:
“Ab tumhe chunna hai ki iske saamne jhukoge…
ya bhasm hone ko tayyaar ho iski aag mein!”
(Now you must make your choice: will you drop to your knees in surrender…; or are you prepared to be incinerated in his sacred flame?!)
Mohan stood paralyzed.
Looking into those golden eyes.
He saw a devastating, god-like sorrow that operated on an entirely different plane from mortal heartbreak.
The arrogance of the Juhu executive dissolved.
His head subconsciously dipped forward in reverent, terrified submission.
Mohini smiled darkly, her gaze locking onto the television where Jasmine Sandlas clung to Rudra’s hip like an untamed, possessive tigress.
“Dekh rahe ho uss laal baal waali ladki ko…?” Mohini purred, running her hands down her own hips.
“Rudra ki aag ki tapish har heroine ko uski taraf kheenchna shuru kar chuki hai…
Jaise patanga aag ke saamne bina soche-samjhe apne aap ko samarpit kar deta hai.”
(Do you see that red-haired girl beside him…?; The scalding heat of Rudra’s fire has already begun to pull every queen of this industry into his gravity, just like a moth mindlessly throwing itself into the flame.)
She pressed her fingertips against the warm glass of the monitor, whispering with dark, absolute certainty:
“Saari aurat jaat tere saamne jhukegi, Rudra…
Aur tere fauladi lund ki pooja karegi, woh bhi khushi-khushi.”
(The entire feminine world will bow before your feet, Rudra…; And they will joyfully worship your carnal dick until their final breath.)
Mohan slumped heavily into the leather armchair, running a trembling hand over his face.
The reality of the young titan had shattered every calculated rule of the trade.
A hollow, self-deprecating chuckle escaped Mohan’s lips.
He looked up at his wife, his tone laced with dark, voyeuristic submission:
“Mohini…
jab tu isse iss kamre mein laayegi na…
mujhe threesome ka hissa bana lena.
Aur agar woh nahi…
toh kam se kam mujhe ek kone mein baithkar dekhne dena(cuckold).
Main dekhna chahta hoon ki yeh tandav tere seene se kaisi cheekhein nikaalta hai.”
(Mohini…
when you bring him into this room…
make me a part of the threesome.
And if not that…
then at least let me sit in a corner and watch.
I want to see what kind of screams this dance of destruction pulls out of your chest.)
Mohini laughed, a rich, decadent sound echoing through the dark room. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Mohan shook his head, a sudden, curious smirk touching his lips:
“Mohini…
agar mera yeh haal hai, aur main toh poora straight hoon…
toh zara socho, Dharma Productions ke sheeshmahal mein kya toofan macha hoga?”
(Mohini…
if this is my condition, and I’m completely straight…
then just imagine what kind of storm must have been raging in Dharma Productions’ palace?)
Mohini’s smile turned razor-sharp:
“Woh sheesha dekhkar apna lund hila raha hoga, Mohan…
Aur sapne saja raha hoga ki yeh titan uske bistar mein aakar uski cheekhein nikaal de.”
(He must be stroking his dick while looking at the mirror, Mohan…
and dreaming that this titan will come into his bed and make him scream.)
The twisted couple laughed into the midnight air- unaware that across town, the fantasy had already dissolved into humiliating dust.
Bandra West — The Penthouse Office of Dharma Productions
The private executive study was bathed in muted golden backlighting, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, velvet upholstery, and framed platinum discs.
Lounging across an oversized chaise lounge in an embroidered silk robe was Karan Johar.
At thirty-seven, the reigning kingmaker of contemporary Bollywood romance was at the absolute zenith of his commercial leverage.
The international triumph of My Name Is Khan had solidified his empire across the global diaspora.
Karan ran his manicured fingers lovingly over a massive, framed original portrait of Shah Rukh Khan mounted above his desk.
“Shah Rukh se bada mard na koi paida hua hai…
na kabhi hoga,” Karan murmured huskily, his breath brushing against the glass.
“Tu hi mera sultaan hai…
Tu hi mera khwaab hai…”
(No greater man than Shah Rukh has ever been born…
nor ever will be.
You are my sultan…
You are my dream…)
Beneath the silk fabric of his robe, his dick twitched with restless, unrequited desire.
He had spent years worshiping the superstar from an impossible distance, knowing full well that Shah Rukh’s heart belonged entirely to Gauri, viewing Karan strictly as a brilliant director and trusted friend.
Suddenly—
The multi-channel master monitor mounted on his media wall flickered, overriding his personal playlist with the high-priority live feed from Worli.
Karan’s brow furrowed in irritation.
“What is this cheap noise—”
The words died in his throat.
Emerging through the amber smoke on the screen was Rudra.
The sheer, breath-taking symmetry of the youth’s 6’3″ frame.
The dense, sun-bronzed slabs of his chest rippling with raw power; and those piercing, liquid-gold irises burning with ancient carnal authority filled the frame!
BOOM!
A violent, concussive surge of scalding blood flooded Karan’s groin!
His Dick flared to instantaneous, painful rigidity beneath the silk robe, throbbing with a animalistic lust he had never experienced in his life!
The raw masculinity pouring through the screen hit his nervous system like a sledgehammer, tearing through his polished socialite armour!
“My God…” Karan gasped, his pupils blown wide, trembling as his hand dropped down into his robe.
He began to stroke himself with frantic, desperate friction.
His eyes glued to the golden titan on the screen.
His mind spiralling into dark, breathless fantasies of being pinned beneath that Olympian weight, surrendering his empire just to be torn apart by that masculine heat—
HUMMMMMMM.
On screen, Rudra turned his face toward the camera.
His liquid-gold eyes seemed to pierce straight through the broadcast feed, burning across the digital veil with cold, absolute detachment.
SNAP.
The air in the private study turned freezing cold.
A sharp, phantom pressure clamped around Karan’s groin like a vice!
In an instant, the raging heat in his loins died completely.
His dick unravelled, shrivelling into flaccid, numb lifelessness!
A wave of cold nausea and suffocating dread washed over his nervous system, completely severing his libido!
“Ah…
ahh!”
Karan’s knees buckled.
He collapsed forward onto the plush Persian carpet, gasping for air, clutching his groin in raw, humiliated shock.
The clinical realization struck him like ice: absolute psychological impotence.
The titanic presence of the young titan had rejected his depraved lust before it could even formulate into reality!
Karan raised his head from the floor, tears of trembling awe escaping his eyes as he stared up at the glowing screen.
Mohini had been utterly wrong.
Rudra was no high-society boy to be invited into velvet casting suites.
He was not a prince to be groomed, nor a sultan to be seduced.
He was the descending God of Bollywood.
And before the throne of a living God…
even the kings of cinema could only crawl in the dust.
[ Chapter End ]
Author’s Note
Before my explanation, here’s the picture of Mohini and Mohan.
Check it out.
Now back to the main topic.
I know after reading this chapter many of you must have thought: “What did I just read?
I’ve never experienced something like this in my entire life.”
Welcome to my real R18 Bollywood novel.
This is not innocent fantasy.
This is my dark mind unleashed.
I don’t see the world through rose‑tinted glasses.
I belong to a family where truth is raw: my father is a criminal lawyer, my mother a doctor, and I myself am pursuing Psychology at Delhi University.
I sing as a hobby, but writing is my weapon.
Why am I telling you this?
Because the fetus scene you just read is not fiction.
It’s inspired by real cases my mother encountered in her hospital.
I’ve discussed such realities with my father, my relatives in police and forensics.
The world is far more disturbing than the “Sharma ji ka ladka” gossip people cling to.
I study human psychology, and here I’m unleashing it in a cinematic way that will shock you.
Some of you may leave after this chapter – that’s fine.
I never wrote for the faint‑hearted.
And yes, some female readers may act disgusted at my Hinglish dialogues, but deep inside, they love this rawness more than the boys.
Ohh girls, I know how dark you are.
Now let’s talk about Rudra.
His physiology, his aura, his carnal force — everything about him is different, powerful, unforgettable.
When Rudra enters, women surrender, politics burns, betrayal unfolds, drugs and lust collide.
This is the real mythical R18 Bollywood I am going to unleash.
No one can rival me.
So be prepared.
Get ready.
Rudra is coming.