Rohit Saraf had been under Ishaan Khatter’s wing for three months. What started as industry advice—scripts, auditions, how to hold a frame—had slowly become something thicker, heavier. Ishaan was older, sharper, with that quiet intensity that made people lean in. Rohit was the one who always stayed late, the one who laughed a little too long at Ishaan’s dry jokes, the one whose eyes lingered when Ishaan rolled up his sleeves.
It began with small things. A hand on the shoulder that stayed a second too long. Shared cigarettes on the balcony of Ishaan’s apartment after late-night script sessions. Rohit would sit cross-legged on the floor, looking up, while Ishaan paced and talked about character arcs. Rohit would nod, but his gaze kept dropping to Ishaan’s mouth, the way his throat moved when he swallowed water, the faint outline of his cock against soft cotton lounge pants.
One rainy Thursday the city was drowned in grey. They were in Ishaan’s living room. Scripts scattered. Empty coffee cups. Ishaan was stretched on the couch, one arm behind his head, talking about a scene Rohit had to shoot the next week. Rohit sat on the floor between Ishaan’s knees, supposedly taking notes on his phone, but the notes were nonsense. He kept glancing up.
“You’re not listening,” Ishaan said, voice low.
Rohit looked up, lips parted. “I am. I’m just… distracted.”
“By what?”
Rohit set the phone aside. He rose onto his knees, hands resting lightly on Ishaan’s thighs. The fabric was warm. He could feel the muscle underneath. “By you,” he said simply. “You’re always talking about the work. But you never notice how I look at you when you’re not looking.”
Ishaan’s breath caught. He didn’t push Rohit’s hands away. “Rohit—”
“Don’t.” Rohit’s voice was soft, almost shy, but his eyes were not. “I’ve been waiting for you to see it. Every time you lean over me to correct a line, I smell your cologne and I get hard. Every time you laugh and throw your head back I want to put my mouth on your throat. I’ve jerked off thinking about your hands. About your voice telling me what to do.”
Ishaan’s cock twitched visibly under the thin material. Rohit saw it. He smiled, slow and filthy.
“See? You feel it too.” He slid his palms higher, thumbs brushing the inner seams of Ishaan’s pants. “You’re hard right now. Because of me. Because your little mentee is on his knees between your legs talking about sucking you.”
Ishaan’s hand came down and tangled in Rohit’s hair, not pushing, just holding. “This is a bad idea.”
“Then tell me to stop.” Rohit leaned in and pressed his mouth against the growing bulge. He didn’t kiss it yet—just breathed, hot and open, so Ishaan could feel the damp heat through the cloth. “Tell me to get up and leave. Or let me show you how good I can be for you.”
Ishaan’s fingers tightened. “Fuck.”
Rohit nuzzled the hard line of Ishaan’s cock, lips parted, tongue flicking out to wet the fabric. “I’ve thought about this so many times. You on this couch. Me on my knees. You calling me names while I choke on your dick. You using my mouth like it’s just another hole that belongs to you.”
He mouthed along the length, slow, deliberate, until the front of Ishaan’s pants was dark with spit and precome. Then he looked up through his lashes. “Can I take it out, Ishaan? Please? I’ve been so good. I’ve waited. Let me taste you.”
Ishaan’s other hand came down, cupping Rohit’s jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip. “You talk too much.”
“Then shut me up.”
Ishaan’s eyes darkened. He pushed his thumb into Rohit’s mouth. Rohit sucked it immediately, wet and eager, tongue swirling. Ishaan watched him for a long moment, then pulled his hand free and shoved the waistband of his pants down. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Rohit made a soft, hungry sound and leaned in, but Ishaan held him back by the hair.
“Look at it,” Ishaan ordered, voice rough. “Look at what you did.”
Rohit stared, lips shiny. “It’s big. Fuck, it’s so thick. I’ve imagined it stretching my throat. Stretching my ass.”
“You want it that bad?”
“I need it.” Rohit’s voice cracked with lust. “I’ve been wet for you for weeks. Every time you touch me I get hard. Every time you say my name I want to drop to my knees. I’m your mentee, right? So mentor me. Teach me how to take your cock. Use me.”
Ishaan’s grip tightened. He guided Rohit’s face closer until the head of his cock brushed those open, eager lips. “Open.”
Rohit opened wide. Ishaan pushed in—slow at first, just the tip, letting Rohit taste the salt of precome. Rohit moaned around it, eyes fluttering. Then Ishaan fed him more, inch by inch, until Rohit’s nose was pressed against the dark hair at the base and his throat was full.
“That’s it,” Ishaan growled. “Take it. All of it. Look at you—already choking and you still want more.”
Rohit gagged softly, tears pricking, but he didn’t pull away. He stayed, swallowing around the thick length, hands gripping Ishaan’s thighs. When Ishaan finally let him up for air, a string of spit connected Rohit’s lips to the cock.
“Again,” Ishaan said.
Rohit dove back down, sucking harder, messier. He bobbed his head, taking Ishaan deep, then pulling off to lick the shaft, to mouth at the balls, to spit on the head and smear it with his tongue. “You taste so fucking good,” he panted between strokes. “I want you to fuck my face. Use me. Call me your whore. Tell me I’m nothing but a hole for your cock.”
Ishaan’s hips jerked. He held Rohit’s head still and thrust up, fucking into that wet heat with short, sharp strokes. The wet sounds filled the room—obscene, rhythmic. Rohit took it, eyes watering, spit running down his chin onto his shirt.
When Ishaan pulled him off again, Rohit was wrecked—lips swollen, face flushed, cock straining hard in his own pants.
“Clothes off,” Ishaan ordered. “All of them. Now.”
Rohit scrambled to obey. He stripped fast, kicking his jeans and underwear aside, peeling off his shirt. His cock slapped against his stomach, already leaking. Ishaan looked him over slowly, openly.
“Turn around. Show me that ass.”
Rohit turned, bending over the coffee table, presenting himself. Ishaan stood, pants shoved further down, and stepped behind him. He ran a hand over one cheek, then the other, then delivered a sharp slap that made Rohit jump and moan.
“You like that?”
“Yes—fuck, yes. Slap me again. Harder.”
Ishaan spanked him again, harder, watching the skin pink. Then he spread Rohit’s cheeks with both hands and spat directly onto his hole. The warm spit landed and began to slide. Ishaan rubbed it in with his thumb, pressing just the tip inside.
“Tight,” he muttered. “You’re going to feel every inch when I open you up.”
Rohit pushed back against the thumb. “Do it. Finger me. Stretch me for your cock. I want to be ready for you. I want you to wreck me.”
Ishaan worked him open slowly—first one finger, then two, scissoring, curling, finding the spot that made Rohit’s knees buckle. He added more spit, more pressure, until Rohit was panting and rocking back, fucking himself on Ishaan’s fingers.
“Listen to you,” Ishaan said, voice low and filthy. “Sounding like a desperate little slut. My mentee. Begging to get his ass filled.”
“I am,” Rohit gasped. “I’m your slut. Your whore. Your randi. Please, Ishaan—please fuck me. I need your lund inside me. I need you to own this gaand.”
Ishaan pulled his fingers free. He spat again, thick and wet, and slicked his cock with it. Then he lined up, the blunt head pressing against Rohit’s stretched hole.
“Say it again.”
“I’m your randi,” Rohit moaned. “Tera randi hu mein. Fuck me. Use me. Make me take it.”
Ishaan pushed in.
The stretch burned. Rohit cried out, high and broken, as the thick cock forced its way inside—slow, relentless, until Ishaan was buried to the hilt. They both stayed still for a moment, breathing hard. Then Ishaan pulled back and thrust in again, deeper, harder.
“Fuck—yes—ahhh—” Rohit’s voice cracked. “So big—you’re so fucking big—filling me up—”
Ishaan set a rhythm, deep and punishing. Each thrust punched a moan out of Rohit. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and filthy. Ishaan gripped Rohit’s hips hard enough to bruise and fucked him like he meant it—long strokes that dragged over that sweet spot every time, then short, brutal ones that made Rohit’s ass jiggle.
“Take it,” Ishaan growled. “Take every inch, you little whore. This is what you wanted, right? Your mentor’s cock splitting you open.”
“Yes—yes daddy—fuck me—ahh babe use me—” Rohit babbled, lost in it. “Spit in my mouth—please—open your mouth bitch—make me taste it—”
Ishaan leaned over him, one hand fisting in Rohit’s hair, yanking his head back. He spat into Rohit’s open, waiting mouth. Rohit swallowed it greedily, moaning around the taste.
“Good bitch,” Ishaan said. “Swallow it. You’re nothing but a hole right now. My hole. Whom do you belong to?”
“You,” Rohit gasped. “I belong to you. Tera randi. Your slut. Your whore. Fuck me harder—slap me—gaali do babe—”
Ishaan slapped his ass again, hard, then the other side. He reached around and wrapped a hand around Rohit’s leaking cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “You want gaali? Fine. Saale. Behnehod. Randi. Look at you—bent over like a fucking whore, taking cock like you were made for it. Kya mal hai be tu. You have a sexy ass, babe. This gaand was made to be used.”
Rohit was shaking, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Yes—call me that—call me your randi—your bitch—suck me—no, wait—fuck my throat again—I want to taste you while you ruin me—”
Ishaan pulled out suddenly. Rohit whimpered at the loss. Ishaan flipped him onto his back on the couch, shoved his legs up, and drove back in in one hard thrust. Then he leaned down and forced his cock into Rohit’s mouth at the same time—awkward, filthy, perfect. Rohit choked and sucked, spit everywhere, while Ishaan fucked his ass and used his throat like both holes belonged to him.
When he pulled out of Rohit’s mouth, strings of spit connected them. “Open your mouth, bitch.”
Rohit opened. Ishaan spat again. Rohit swallowed and begged for more.
“Get down on your knees, bitch,” Ishaan ordered.
Rohit scrambled to the floor. Ishaan stood over him, cock slick with spit and Rohit’s own precome, and slapped it against Rohit’s cheek, then his lips. “Suck me. Clean it. Taste your own ass on my dick.”
Rohit obeyed, sucking messily, eyes locked up at Ishaan. He took it deep, gagging, then pulled off to lick the shaft, to mouth the head, to spit on it and stroke it with both hands while he looked up like a devoted whore.
“Whom do you belong to?”
“You. Only you. Tera. I’m your slut. Your whore. Your randi. Use me however you want. Fuck my face. Fuck my ass. Slap me. Spit on me. Call me names. I’m yours.”
Ishaan hauled him back up, bent him over the arm of the couch, and slammed back in. This time there was no slow build—just hard, relentless fucking. The couch creaked. Rohit’s moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure. Ishaan reached under and jerked him roughly.
“Come for me,” Ishaan ordered. “Come while I’m buried in your slutty little gaand. Show me how much you love being used.”
Rohit came hard—spilling over Ishaan’s fist and the couch, body locking up, hole clenching tight around the thick cock inside him. Ishaan fucked him through it, not slowing, chasing his own release.
“I’m gonna fill you,” Ishaan growled. “I’m gonna pump this whore full. Take it. Take my cum, you filthy bitch.”
He slammed in deep one last time and came, pulsing hot inside Rohit, grinding against him as he emptied every drop. Rohit moaned at the feeling, at the heat, at the claim.
They stayed locked together for a long moment, both breathing hard. Then Ishaan pulled out slowly. Cum leaked from Rohit’s used hole. Ishaan watched it, then pushed two fingers back in, scooping some out and feeding it to Rohit’s open mouth.
“Swallow.”
Rohit did.
Ishaan pulled him up into a messy, filthy kiss—tasting himself, tasting Rohit, tasting the night.
“Next time,” Ishaan murmured against his lips, “you’re going to beg louder. And I’m going to make you earn every inch.”
Rohit smiled, wrecked and glowing. “Yes, daddy. Whatever you want. I’m your randi. Use me whenever you want.”
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the mentorship had already become something else entirely—something raw, dirty, and nowhere near finished.