Through the floor-to-ceiling glass panel of her executive suite at Maya Mirage Productions.
Mohini Kashyap stood in a state of electric, agonizing paralysis.
Pacing behind her, nursing a heavy crystal tumbler of twenty-year-old single malt, was Mohan Kashyap.
At thirty-five, he was a seasoned operator in Mumbai’s cutthroat distribution alleys.
A man who had seen industry titans trade millions under the table without blinking.
Yet right now.
His hands were trembling around the cut glass.
He watched his wife.
In ten years of corporate and marital alliance.
He had never seen the demoness of Versova lose her composure.
She had looked studio moguls in the eye and laughed in their faces.
But standing there, her long thighs pressed tightly together, her manicured nails digging into her palms.
Her chest heaving beneath her emerald silk kurti, she was practically vibrating with raw, uninhibited sexual tension.
Her hazel eyes were fixated entirely on a tall crystal tumbler of iced water resting on the mahogany desk.
“Just who the hell is this boy, Mohini…?” Mohan muttered, the scotch burning his throat as he ran a hand through his slicked hair.
“You don’t get nervous for anyone.
You don’t bow to anyone.
You dominate the men who enter this room…”
“Yet you’re standing there waiting for a twenty-year-old like an ancient priestess waiting for a descending god.”
Mohan stepped forward, reaching out to rest a calming palm on her bare shoulder—
SWOOSH!
Mohini didn’t flinch.
She surged forward with sudden, manic energy, tearing the office door open before the brass handle had even completed its downward turn!
The atmosphere in the room plummeted.
A heavy, suffocating pressure washed across the threshold, so dense and concussive that the liquid inside Mohan’s scotch glass began to ripple in concentric rings.
Stepping into the room was a towering 6’3″ titan.
He wore a dark charcoal windbreaker zipped to the collar, dark sunglasses, a black woollen beanie, and a surgical mask covering his jaw.
Yet even completely shrouded.
The sheer architectural symmetry of his figure commanded the room like an apex conqueror entering a conquered province.
Mohini let out a ragged, shuddering gasp.
She threw herself against his chest!
Her arms locked around his neck, burying her face into the curve of his throat, inhaling with deep, shuddering greed.
The signature deluge of crushed dark vanilla, wild mountain honey, and burning cedarwood flooded her respiratory system, instantly dissolving the razor-wire anxiety coiled in her spine.
“Haaah…” Mohini groaned into his collar, her eyes rolling back in pure, carnal bliss.
Rudra’s large, calloused hand settled firmly against the small of her back, resting there with heavy, grounding ease to steady her trembling hips.
Standing ten paces back.
Mohan stood paralyzed.
The woman in the titan’s arms didn’t look like the hardened demoness who had once destroyed her unfaithful lover.
Her face carried the soft, vulnerable glow of an innocent girl.
A pure, unfiltered devotion Mohan hadn’t seen since their childhood days in Delhi.
CLICK.
Rudra kicked the heavy teak door shut behind him with his heel, the deadbolt snapping into place with clinical finality.
The sound shattered the hypnotic trance.
Mohini stepped back, her chest flushed pink, smoothing down her silk kurti with a breathless, triumphant smirk as she slipped back into her executive skin.
Rudra stripped away the beanie, slid the dark sunglasses down, and peeled the surgical mask off his jaw.
His thick obsidian hair tumbled across his brow.
He turned his head, his piercing, liquid-gold irises locking dead onto Mohan’s frozen figure with a calm, polite nod of greeting.
Mohan’s heart skipped a beat.
Every single micro-movement the youth made.
The unhurried weight of his stride, the exact degree of his head tilt, the effortless cinematic swagger of his hands- felt impossibly calibrated.
It was the presence of a screen titan who had spent forty years commanding 70mm cameras, yet wrapped inside the vibrant, flawless bronze flesh of a twenty-year-old.
And when those golden irises bored into Mohan’s gaze.
Mohan felt the room dissolve.
The piercing gold tore through his expensive linen shirt, his corporate pride, and his cynical defences, stripping his soul bare to the marrow.
For three terrifying seconds.
Mohan understood the sheer, terrifying helplessness Mohini had experienced yesterday.
Rudra’s lips curved into a faint, subtle nod of approval.
It was a master acknowledging an efficient steward.
By every law of the trade.
A thirty-five-year-old producer should have felt insulted by a boy’s condescension.
Yet looking at Mohini’s radiant, proud smile.
The look of a wife who had just watched her partner pass the supreme imperial test.
Mohan felt an intoxicating, bizarre wave of relief wash through his veins.
Mohan cleared his throat, setting his drink down, forcing his professional mask into place as he extended his hand:
“Rudra.
It’s an honour.”
Rudra stepped forward, his massive, bronzed hand engulfing Mohan’s palm.
GRIP.
Mohan’s hazel eyes dilated in sudden, agonizing shock!
The density of Rudra’s hand felt like a hydraulic vice forged of solid titanium.
The small bones in Mohan’s knuckles ground together with a soft, alarming CRACK-POP, sending a white-hot jolt of warning up his forearm!
Mohan was a gym enthusiast who prided himself on heavy deadlifts, but beneath Rudra’s casual, polite squeeze.
His mortal strength was nothing more than dry twigs beneath a falling boulder.
Rudra released the grip with an easy, boyish grin, completely unbothered.
Mohini leaned against the desk.
Her hazel eyes dancing with wicked, teasing amusement.
“You didn’t even have a portfolio when you walked in here yesterday, Rudra…
and twelve hours later, you’re the Rockstar God of the entire nation.”
“Even Sunidhi Chauhan and Shreya Ghoshal posted public tributes calling your voice as a divine gift, and Honey Singh bowed to your percussive guitar style on Orkut.”
Rudra took a seat in the leather armchair, chuckling softly as he waved a dismissive hand.
“An accident of timing, Mohini.
Arijit was crashing in the mud, his spirit was breaking, and Jasmine was standing on the edge of a cliff.”
“I didn’t step on that stage to chase stardom; I stepped up to make sure my brother didn’t lose his fire.”
Mohan’s jaw tightened.
The boy hadn’t even planned the biggest cultural explosion of 2010.
It had simply manifested as a by-product of his protective instinct.
Rudra’s expression sharpened, the playful warmth evaporating as he turned his gaze toward the soundproofed rehearsal bay below.
Through the glass, Jaideep Ahlawat and Vijay Varma were working with the dialect coaches, running lines with fierce, hungry intensity.
“Now tell me, Mohini…” Rudra murmured, his velvet baritone dropping into a cool, challenging tone.
“The two men you called nobodies yesterday…
are they coal, or are they diamonds?”
Mohini exhaled a slow, humble breath, crossing her arms with genuine, ungrudging respect.
“They are raw, unpolished diamonds, Rudra.
Jaideep carries that terrifying, simmering rustic violence”
“The kind of raw theater grit that can rival Manoj Bajpayee or even Irrfan Khan.
And Vijay has that dangerous, coiled-spring unpredictability.”
“They will carry Ishqiya.”
“Good,” Rudra nodded.
“What’s your production timeline?”
“With Vijay and Jaideep, we bypass the bloated egos and endless vanity retakes of veteran stars,” Mohan answered, rubbing his aching hand.
“We estimate sixty days of principal photography across rural Uttar Pradesh.”
Rudra’s golden eyes narrowed into sharp slits.
“Sixty days for a contained, single-location rural noir?”
“If the location scouting is locked, the entire shoot shouldn’t take more than thirty-five days.”
“What’s bleeding the extra month?”
Mohan and Mohini exchanged startled glances.
Most star kids didn’t understand the difference between a call sheet and a boom mic.
Yet Rudra was interrogating their logistical schedule like an experienced line producer.
“The physical shoot isn’t the bottleneck, Rudra,” Mohan explained, leaning against the desk.
“It’s the post-production pipeline.
We just invested in the new ARRI Alexa digital cinema camera packages.”
“The industry is ditching 35mm film stock, but the current European digital colour science is optimized entirely for fair, Caucasian skin tones.”
“On Indian sets, especially in harsh rural sunlight, the sensors render dusky and wheatish complexions as either muddy grey or harsh yellow.”
“Our colour grading suite will need weeks of manual LUT adjustments just to make the footage look organic.”
Rudra smirked.
In the real world of early 2010, the global transition to digital cameras was notoriously plagued by Western colour-science bias.
Post-production houses in Mumbai spent fortunes trying to force European digital profiles to read the rich melanin of South Asian skin.
Rudra reached into his windbreaker pocket.
He placed a sleek, matte-black USB flash drive onto the mahogany surface with a soft, metallic click.
“Plug that into your Avid Media Composer suite,” Rudra commanded evenly.
“Your post-production color-timing is now solved.
The entire film wraps in thirty-five days.”
Mohan blinked, staring at the drive. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“What is this?”
“The future of Asian cinema,” Rudra smiled.
Mohan hurried to his workstation, opening his MacBook Pro, slotting the drive into the USB port.
A high-priority installer executed within seconds.
An icon materialized on the desktop:
A stylized, circular devanagari ‘आ’ seamlessly interwoven with a fluid English ‘S’, glowing in a hypnotic, metallic ruby-gold hue.
“Drag any uncorrected, raw test footage from the Alexa into the timeline,” Rudra instructed calmly.
“Apply the AS-Engine plugin directly over the master video track.”
Mohan clicked the mouse.
GASP!
The breath exploded from Mohan’s lungs!
Mohini rushed to his side.
Her hands gripping his shoulders as they both stared at the twenty-four-inch cinema display in absolute, paralyzed astonishment!
The flat, washed-out test shot of Jaideep and Vijay standing beneath harsh halogen work lights transformed in a microsecond!
The clinical digital grey vanished.
The skin tones blossomed into rich, velvety caramel and deep chocolate-bronze, preserving every pore, every drop of sweat, and every shadow with breath-taking, cinematic warmth.
The highlights rolled off with the creamy, organic soul of Kodak 5219 film stock, yet carried the razor-sharp micro-contrast of high-definition digital!
“How…
how is this possible?!” Mohan stammered, his fingers trembling over the trackpad.
“There’s no rendering delay!
It’s calculating volumetric skin tones in real time!
Who coded this algorithm?!”
“You know the answer, Mohan,” Rudra answered with a quiet, devastating smirk.
Mohini let out a breathless, stunned giggle:
“You built this…
You wrote this code, didn’t you?”
“Our industry suffers from an ancient, pathetic colonial hangover,” Rudra said, leaning back with a cold, raw edge in his velvet voice.
“We buy Western hardware, we accept Western presets, and we spend half our budgets trying to look like cheap Hollywood duplicates.”
“We invented the zero that gave birth to the binary language running those machines, yet we act like beggars waiting for California and Munich to update their software.”
“The Global South needs its own cinematic ecosystem.
And I am building it.”
Mohan turned slowly in his chair, staring at Rudra as if gazing upon an incomprehensible alien intelligence.
“This…
this isn’t just a plugin,” Mohan whispered, his voice shaking with awe.
“This is an architectural revolution.
Just…
who the hell are you, Rudra…?”
Rudra closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, a soft, chilling whisper leaving his lips:
“The God of Bollywood.”
The words struck the room like thunder.
Mohan slumped back into his leather chair.
The scotch glass completely forgotten as the liquid pooled across the carpet.
Every word Mohini had spoken yesterday.
Every mad, prophetic claim about this boy choking the global film industry within ten years-slammed into Mohan’s brain with terrifying, undeniable reality.
The young man wasn’t just an actor; he was an unstoppable, multidimensional force of nature.
Mohini’s manicured finger traced the glowing ruby-gold logo on the screen.
Her voice low and curious:
“What does ‘AS’ stand for, Rudra?”
Rudra’s golden eyes softened, an ancient, sacred warmth flickering in his gaze:
“It stands for my mother.
Ayesha Shroff.”
“The woman whose honour was dragged through the mud by tabloid cowards.”
“I made her a promise…
that this city will bow before her name.”
Mohan and Mohini froze.
The final piece of the puzzle fell into place with concussive force.
Jackie Dada’s hidden son…
The legendary Marathi heartthrob whose raw, unpolished masculinity had ruled the 1980s, and the ethereal aristocratic beauty who had turned down Miss World pageants to stand by her husband.
The sheer, terrifying genetic perfection staring back at them wasn’t an anomaly.
It was the ultimate, concentrated culmination of Bollywood royalty.
Mohan let out a long, ragged exhale.
A wave of sanity and deep commercial relief washing over his face:
“Jackie Dada’s boy…
Of course.
It all makes sense now.
You’re one of us.”
Rudra observed Mohan’s subtle shift in posture, recognizing the psychological defence mechanism.
To the insular, dynastic minds of Bollywood, an outsider possessing god-like intellect was a terrifying threat; but an insider.
A prince born of their own soil- was someone they could accept, worship, and rally behind.
Rudra didn’t correct the illusion.
He would let them believe he was a loyal son of the system, until the Trojan horse was wheeled directly into the palace throne room.
Mohini opened the online banking portal on the laptop, her fingers flying across the keys.
BEEP.
Rudra’s iPhone 3GS buzzed in his pocket.
He slid it out, raising an eyebrow at the automated transaction notification:
[ HDFC Bank: Account credited with INR 1,000,000.00 from Maya Mirage Productions.
]
“Ten lakhs?” Rudra asked, glancing up.
“This is a beta build.”
“That beta build saves our production fifty lakhs in colour grading suites and two weeks of post-production delays,” Mohini smirked, her eyes gleaming with dark business acumen.
“In this trade, time is blood.
Consider it a down payment on your genius.”
Mohan stood up, clutching the flash drive like a holy relic.
His eyes burning with frantic excitement.
“I’m heading straight down to the photo studio!
I want to test this engine on the preliminary look tests for Jaideep and Vijay right now!”
Without waiting for a response.
Mohan dashed through the double doors, completely forgetting to pull the latch shut behind him.
The heavy mahogany doors clicked ajar, leaving the private executive suite engulfed in a heavy, charged silence.
Rudra rose to his feet, walking over to the desk.
He reached out, picking up the crystal tumbler of iced water Mohini had stared at earlier, bringing it to his lips.
Before the cold water could even slide down his throat—
Two warm, trembling hands slid beneath his windbreaker, wrapping tightly around his chiselled waist!
A soft, voluptuous chest pressed flush against the broad valleys of his back, and Mohini buried her face into the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent with frantic, intoxicating hunger!
“Rudra…” Mohini whimpered huskily, her hot breath burning against his skin.
“You smell even more potent than yesterday…
The cedarwood, the honey…
It’s making my head spin.”
“And your body…
My God, your muscles feel like carved iron…”
Her manicured hands roamed across his abdomen, tracing the rock-solid eight-pack ridges.
Her palms catching fire from the sheer metabolic heat radiating through his flesh.
She pressed her hips firmly against his backside, whispering with wanton, breathless desperation:
“Yesterday I thought you were just an extraordinary boy…
but today, half the women in this city are crying your name.”
“Actresses, producers’ wives, models…
they’re all losing their minds over you.”
“You’re an addiction, Rudra.”
Rudra set the glass down, turning slowly within her grasp.
His golden eyes looked down into her flushed face.
His velvet voice dropping into a dangerous, teasing purr.
“And isn’t that exactly what you wanted, Mohini?”
“I want my reward…” Mohini groaned, her hazel eyes dilated into black voids of raw, carnal lust.
“I signed your actors.
I gave them lead contracts.
I honoured my word…
Now give me a taste of what you promised.”
Her trembling hands dropped to his waistline.
With frantic, breathless speed.
Her manicured fingers flicked open the steel buckle of his belt, popping the brass button of his denim jeans!
SHWIP!
Her fingers closed around the dense, scalding girth of his Carnal Dick.
“Haaah!”
Mohini’s breath hitched in sheer, paralyzed shock!
The sheer colossal scale of his manhood was terrifying.
It was an iron monolith- thick, heavily vascular, radiating concussive heat that scorched the sensitive skin of her palm.
Her hand couldn’t even close around the dense circumference.
She brought her trembling fingers to her nose, inhaling the dark vanilla, wild honey, and potent masculine virility clinging to her skin.
Her knees completely buckled, a heavy, scalding deluge of arousal instantly soaking her lace undergarments!
“So big…” she whimpered, her mouth watering with desperate, primal thirst.
“So hot…
I need to taste this.”
“I need this inside me…”
She dropped her knees to the Persian rug, reaching out to drag his denim and briefs down his muscular thighs—
GRIP.
Rudra’s large, calloused hand caught her wrists, holding her back with immovable, effortless restraint.
His golden gaze looked down at her with calm, unyielding discipline.
“Not here, Mohini.
This is an office.
There are sixty crew members on the floor below.”
“Someone could walk in at any second.”
Mohini looked up at him from her knees.
Her eyes swimming with tears of carnal frustration, weeping in breathless, shameless begging.
“Please, Rudra…
Mujhe ek baar tumhara fauladi lund choosne do!”
“Main paagal ho rahi hoon isse choosne ke liye…
please, main bheekh maangti hoon, sirf ek baar!”
“Sirf choosna hai mujhe, vaada karti hoon uske alawa kuch nahi karoongi…
please!”
(Please, Rudra…
Just let me suck your dick once!; I am losing my damn mind with the urge to swallow it…
please, I am begging you on my knees, just this once!; I only want to suck it, I swear on my life I won’t ask for anything else…
please!)
Rudra looked down at the desperate demoness of Versova, grovelling at his feet like a starved supplicant.
He sighed softly.
His 50 percent current body was rapidly accelerating toward his previous life prime physique.
His sheer pheromonal gravity was too devastating for a mortal woman in the grip of lust.
If he denied her completely.
The psychological tension would shatter her focus for the production.
Rudra released her wrists, offering a slow, measured nod.
Mohini let out a sob of pure, euphoric gratitude!
With trembling, reverent fingers.
She pulled his briefs down, freeing the colossal monolith into the air.
The Carnal Dick sprang forth which hit her cheek.
A thick, iron-veined, its flared purple crown throbbing with devastating masculine power!
“Kitna mota lund hai…” Mohini whispered in dazed, breathless worship, her eyes wide with carnal terror and awe.
“Maine aaj tak itna bada lund nahi dekha kisi mard ka…
aur itna majboot, ekdum lohe jaisa…”
“Aaj khoob choosungi!”
(What an impossibly thick dick…; I have never seen such a massive tool on any man in my entire life…
and so unyielding, forged like solid iron…
Today I will devour every inch!)
She leaned in, pressing her nose against the base of the shaft, inhaling the concentrated, divine musk of dark vanilla and wild honey.
The aroma bypassed her sanity, intoxicating her brain like pure opium.
Suddenly, at the slit of the flared crown—
A single, thick, pearlescent drop of pre-cum nectar welled forth!
Before the glistening bead could fall to the rug.
Mohini flicked her warm, pink tongue outward, catching the droplet cleanly upon the centre of her tongue!
SLURP.
The taste detonated across her palate!
It didn’t taste like bitter, alkaline mortal seed.
It was an exquisite, mind-melting nectar of crushed honeycomb, raw vanilla, and divine ambrosia!
Her pupils blown completely wide.
Mohini looked up into Rudra’s glowing golden eyes, whispering in dark, manic ecstasy:
“Tum sach mein insaan ho ya koi bhagwaan…?”
(Are you truly a mortal man, or are you a living God…?)
She opened her mouth wide, unhinging her jaw to swallow the massive, throbbing crown into her throat—
CREAK.
The unlatched mahogany door swung open!
A stack of glossy photographic contact sheets slipped from a pair of manicured hands, fluttering down to hit the parquet floor with a soft, echoing rustle!
Mohini froze, her lips hovering half an inch from the head of his dick.
Rudra turned his golden eyes toward the entrance.
Standing frozen in the doorway was a thirty-one-year-old woman of breath-taking, voluptuous majesty.
Dressed in an unbuttoned, mustard-yellow raw silk saree draped loosely over a low-cut crimson blouse.
Her voluptuous, hourglass frame radiated heavy, unapologetic Indian desi sensuality.
Her dusky skin glowed like warm honey.
Her deep brown eyes were wide and expressive beneath thick, natural arches, and her full, luscious lips were parted in sheer, paralyzed astonishment.
She was the undisputed reigning empress of content-driven Hindi cinema.
The lead actress of Ishqiya, and the woman who would soon reincarnate the mythic, carnal ghost of Silk Smitha across Indian screens:
Vidya Balan.
Vidya stood glued to the threshold.
Her gaze dropping straight past Mohini’s kneeling form, locking dead onto the colossal, throbbing iron monolith standing proudly between Rudra’s thighs.
Her breath seized in her throat.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
In the dead, echoing silence of the executive suite.
A single, dazed, and breathless whisper escaped Vidya’s parted lips:
“Hey Devi Maa…
Kitna bada hai…”
(Holy Mother of God…
It is monstrously huge…)
[ Chapter End ]
Author’s Note
Haha, I know many beautiful and handsome readers will laugh and giggle after reading those dark Hinglish dialogues.
Let me clarify a few things.
First — whenever I describe Rudra’s dick, I call it the “Carnal Dick”
That word carnal is symbolic.
It’s meant to mark his difference from ordinary men, to imprint in your mind that his presence, his body, his aura are not just physical but mythic.
Second — yes, I often write about smell.
Some readers may wonder why I’m obsessed with it.
But think about it: why do the biggest personalities casually spend lakhs on a 10 ml bottle of perfume?
Because scent is power.
A good fragrance imprints itself deeply – especially on women, who have a stronger sense of smell.
They may not admit it openly, but they love to steal a sniff, a peck, a kiss.
If you make them comfortable, respect them, never judge them, they reveal their carnal side and that side is beautiful, worthy of worship.
I also want to share something personal: every scene Rudra experiences with the women in this story comes from my own life.
These are not random fantasies, they are drawn from my real encounters, which is why they feel natural, organic, and cinematic.
I am someone who has lived fully, enjoyed many things, and carried those experiences into my writing.
That’s why Rudra’s journey feels so authentic because it is rooted in truth.
Now I want to mention something serious.
We live in a country where we pray to Kamakhya Devi and the Shiv Lingam, symbols of union and creation, yet we treat sex as taboo.
That hypocrisy is what I’m exposing.
My own sex education came not from school but from my parents – even my mother spoke openly, and my elder sister teased me playfully to shatter my innocence.
For me, sex is not shameful; it is sacred, powerful, and human.
And yes, society wears two faces.
In many rural areas, culture is preached loudly, but hidden taboos and crimes often thrive.
At the same time, cities have their own share of exploitation and hypocrisy.
The truth is, hypocrisy exists everywhere — it just wears different masks depending on where you are.
That’s why I write the way I do: to strip away those masks and show the raw truth beneath.
Finally,
I want to thank Mehul_07, Kaustubh_Tulsyan_9070, Celestialbeing_20, and Nuhash.
Thank you brothers for giving me the 5‑star reviews, it means a lot.
Now I only need one more review so my rating becomes visible to everyone.
Much love and gratitude!