The bedroom was ostentatiously large, as everything in Castor Gupta's life had been.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked South Delhi's most exclusive neighborhood, where old money whispered and new money shouted. Imported Italian marble gleamed under recessed lighting. The bed itself was custom-made, king-sized, draped in silk sheets that cost more than most men earned in a month.
On that bed, tangled in those sheets, Castor had just finished what he did best:
taking what belonged to someone else.
She lay beside him now, her breathing still uneven, dark hair spilled across the pillow. Priya Khanna.
Twenty-eight years old. Married for three years to Rajesh Khanna, a mid-level bureaucrat with political ambitions and a temper that everyone pretended not to notice.
Castor had met her at a charity gala six weeks ago. It had taken him exactly four days to get her number, two weeks to get her alone, and three weeks to get her here.
It wasn't love. It was never love. It was the game, and Castor Gupta had never lost a game in his life.
"I should go," Priya murmured, though she made no move to leave.
Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, and Castor recognized the signs: guilt warring with satisfaction, shame wrestling with the addictive rush of transgression. He'd seen it a hundred times before, in a hundred different women.
The psychology was always the same.
"Stay a little longer," he said, his voice carefully modulated—not commanding, but suggesting. Making her feel like it was her choice, even as he guided her to the conclusion he'd already decided. That was the trick. That was always the trick. Make them think they wanted it. Make them complicit in their own corruption.
She stayed.
Twenty-five years old, and Castor had already accomplished more than most men managed in a lifetime.
The degrees lined his study wall like trophies: medicine from AIIMS, psychology from Cambridge and business management from Harvard. His family's wealth had opened doors, certainly, but it was his mind that had carried him through. Photographic memory. Analytical precision. An ability to read people that bordered on the supernatural.
World chess champion at twenty-two. Published author at twenty-three. Venture capitalist with a portfolio worth hundreds of millions at twenty-four.
And beneath it all, threading through everything like a darker current: the women.
He'd kept count once, years ago, but the numbers had lost meaning. What mattered wasn't quantity. What mattered was the conquest. The challenge. The moment when resistance crumbled and he saw in their eyes the recognition that they were his now, that something fundamental had shifted and could never be unshifted.
Castor grabbed Priya by her thick, waist-length black hair—still braided loosely from the evening—and yanked her head back until her neck arched.
The gold bangles on her wrists clinked together as she gasped.
"Spread your legs like the married slut you are," he ordered in a low growl.
"Show me that wet cunt under your expensive Banarasi saree."
Priya's red chiffon saree was already hiked up to her waist, the heavy gold-embroidered pallu crumpled on the floor.
She obeyed, knees sliding wide on the silk bedsheets, her red lace thong soaked and clinging to her swollen lips. Castor ripped the thong aside with one hand, exposing her dripping, shaved pussy—neatly groomed, just like he had demanded weeks ago.
"You wore the red lingerie I sent you from Paris," he said, tracing a finger along her slit. "Under your saree at the charity gala. While your husband was standing two feet away, talking politics."
Priya buried her face in the pillow, cheeks burning. "Yes... I wore it for you."
He slapped her ass hard—once, twice, three times—leaving bright red handprints on her fair skin.
The sound echoed in the room like a whip.
"Louder. Tell me what you are."
"I'm your randi tonight," she whispered, voice trembling. "Your married randi."
Castor smirked. He freed his massive cock—twenty inches of thick, veined meat, already throbbing. He slapped it heavily against her ass, the weight making her whimper. Precum smeared across her skin, mixing with the faint scent of her jasmine attar.
"You told me Rajesh can't satisfy you anymore," he continued, rubbing the swollen head along her folds. "That he finishes in two minutes. That he never makes you cum like a real man should."
Priya nodded frantically. "He doesn't... please, Castor..."
He slammed into her without mercy—all twenty inches burying deep in one brutal thrust. Her tight desi pussy stretched around him, gripping like a vice. Priya screamed into the pillow, tears streaming down her face, but her hips pushed back greedily.
Castor fucked her like an animal—hard, punishing strokes that made her bangles jingle and her mangalsutra swing wildly between her large breasts. Each thrust forced a choked moan from her throat.
"You'll go home tomorrow with my cum leaking down your thighs," he growled, leaning over her.
"You'll cook dinner for your husband with my seed inside you."
Priya's body shook with shame and pleasure. She was close.
Castor wrapped her braid around his fist like reins and yanked her head back until her spine curved painfully.
"Beg me to breed you. Beg me to fill your womb with my superior seed."
"Please... breed me," she sobbed. "Fill me up. Make me yours. Put your baby in me, Castor."
He sped up, pounding her mercilessly. His heavy balls slapped against her clit with every thrust.
When she came, her walls clenched so hard it hurt, milking him desperately. He didn't stop—fucked her through the orgasm until she was sobbing and begging him to stop.
Only then did he bury himself balls-deep and unleash.
Thick, endless ropes of cum flooded her womb—hot, heavy, far more than any normal man could produce.
He held her pinned down, forcing her to take every drop, marking her as his property. When he finally pulled out, a gush of white semen leaked from her ruined pussy, dripping down her thighs onto the silk sheets.
Castor wiped his cock on her ass cheek, then leaned down and whispered in her ear, breath hot against her skin.
"You're mine now. Every time he sees your mangalsutra, every time he touches you, you'll remember who really owns this body."
Priya collapsed forward, trembling, face buried in the pillow, tears, sweat, and cum smeared across her skin. Her mangalsutra lay twisted between her breasts—a cruel reminder of the husband she had betrayed.
Castor stood, already bored. Six weeks. Then he'd discard her like yesterday's trash.
Married women were his particular specialty. There was something about the betrayal that sharpened the pleasure—not just the physical pleasure, which was transient and forgettable, but the deeper satisfaction of winning. Of defeating an enemy who didn't even know they were in a war until they'd already lost.
Priya's husband was nothing. A small man with small ambitions, the kind who thought securing a government posting made him powerful.
Castor had studied him from a distance, catalogued his weaknesses: insecurity masked as aggression, mediocre intelligence compensated with bluster, a need for control that revealed how little actual control he possessed.
Men like that were easy to defeat. Their wives were lonely, underappreciated, starved for the kind of attention that made them feel seen.
Castor had given Priya that attention. He'd listened to her complaints about her husband's long hours and short temper.
He'd made her laugh with carefully deployed wit. He'd touched her arm at precisely the right moment, held eye contact for exactly the right duration. Each interaction was calculated, a move in a larger game, and by the time she realized she was being played, she was already in too deep to care.
"He's been talking about having a baby," Priya said quietly, still tracing patterns on Castor's chest. "Rajesh, I mean. He wants to start trying."
Castor felt a flicker of something—not quite satisfaction, but close. The timing was exquisite. "And what do you want?" he asked, knowing the answer, knowing that asking the question would make her feel valued in a way her husband never did.
"I don't know," she whispered, and that was answer enough.
He kissed her temple, a gesture of false tenderness that cost him nothing and bought him everything.
She melted into him, and Castor's mind was already three moves ahead, calculating how long he could maintain this before boredom set in.
Six weeks, maybe eight. Then he'd engineer a slow fade, let her down gently enough that she wouldn't make a scene. By then there would be someone new. There was always someone new.
The bedroom door exploded inward.
The sound was shocking in its violence—splintering wood, the crash of the door slamming against the wall. Priya screamed and grabbed for the sheets. Castor's mind, honed by years of competitive chess, assessed the situation with crystalline clarity even as adrenaline flooded his system.
Rajesh Khanna stood in the doorway. He was smaller than Castor, shorter, stockier, with a face red from exertion or rage or both. In his right hand he held a pistol—a Glock 19, Castor's mind supplied uselessly, as if identifying the model mattered when it was pointed at his chest.
"You fucking bastard," Rajesh said, and his voice was surprisingly calm. That was the dangerous part. Men who screamed could be reasoned with, could be talked down. Men who spoke quietly had already made their decision.
"Rajesh, please—" Priya started, but her husband's eyes never left Castor.
"You thought I wouldn't find out?" Rajesh asked, still in that terrible quiet voice. "You thought I was stupid? I know who you are, Gupta. Rich boy genius, right? World champion. Published author. All those fucking degrees on your wall. But you're just a thief. You steal other men's wives because you're too broken to build anything of your own."
The words should have stung, but they didn't. Castor's mind was racing through scenarios: lunge for the gun, try to talk him down, use Priya as a distraction. His krav maga training had covered disarming techniques, but theory and practice were different things, and the distance was wrong, the angle was wrong, everything was—
"I loved her," Rajesh said, and now there was anguish beneath the calm, a crack in the facade. "I gave her everything. And you—you just took her because you could. Because it was a game to you."
"It wasn't—" Castor started, but he didn't get to finish the lie.
The first shot hit him in the chest, and it felt like being kicked by a horse. All the air left his lungs. He fell back against the headboard, and his mind—brilliant, analytical, always three steps ahead—finally caught up to what was happening.
He was going to die.
The second shot hit his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Priya was screaming, a sound like an animal in pain. The third shot missed, punching through the silk sheets and into the imported Italian marble. Castor tried to stand, tried to move, but his body wouldn't obey. Blood soaked the sheets, darker than the silk, spreading like a stain.
The fourth shot hit him in the throat.
There was no pain anymore, just cold. Spreading from his extremities inward, claiming territory with inexorable patience. His vision tunneled. He could hear Rajesh sobbing now, could hear Priya begging, could hear sirens in the distance—too late, always too late.
His last thought, as consciousness bled away like the blood soaking into five-thousand-count Egyptian cotton, was crystalline in its clarity:
Next time, I'll see him coming.
Next time, I'll be untouchable.
Next time,
I WON'T DIE..
Then darkness took him, and Castor Gupta died at twenty-five years old, killed by the husband of a woman whose last name he would have forgotten within a month.
____________________________________
END