Ranveer Singh – Private Residence, Mumbai. Night.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the phone screen and the distant city lights bleeding through the half-drawn curtains. Ranveer Singh lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the massive bed, one arm folded behind his head, the other holding the phone above his face. He was wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs that sat low on his hips. The air-conditioning hummed quietly. Outside, Mumbai never truly slept, but inside this room it felt sealed off from the world.
He was scrolling Instagram on a fake account. The profile picture was some generic shirtless gym photo he’d grabbed years ago. Username something forgettable. Bio empty. He used it the way other men used porn: quietly, privately, with the volume off and the door locked. He flicked past stories of actresses in soft lighting, past old co-stars posting gym selfies, past carefully curated vacation shots. His thumb moved almost automatically. Every few swipes he lingered on a particular body, a particular smile, a particular stretch of skin.
*Look at that one. Tight waist. That one has the kind of mouth that would look filthy wrapped around a cock.*
His own cock stirred against the soft cotton of his boxers. He ignored it for now. This was the ritual. Build it up. Let the hunger accumulate.
Then an advertisement slid into the feed. Bright, simple, direct. Grindr. The rainbow logo. A tagline about finding men nearby who wanted the same things. Ranveer stared at it longer than he meant to. He had heard of the app, of course. Everyone had. But he had never downloaded it. Too risky. Too close to the real world. Instagram was safe distance. Grindr was coordinates and timing and the possibility of actual skin.
He sat up a little. The phone felt heavier in his hand.
*Just look. You don’t have to do anything.*
He tapped the ad. The App Store opened. One more tap and it began downloading. His heart was already beating harder. When the icon appeared on the home screen he opened it without giving himself time to second-guess. Create account. Fake name. Age slightly adjusted. Bio carefully written in the private notes of his mind first: dominant, kinky, into control, into using a willing body hard. No limits listed that would scare the truly hungry ones away. For the profile photo he scrolled through his own camera roll until he found the old *Befikre* still — himself in tight black underwear, body angled, face half in shadow. Enough of the body to draw attention. Not enough of the face to be instantly recognizable in a sea of shirtless Ranveer Singh fakes that already flooded every gay app in India.
He posted it.
The first messages arrived within minutes. He answered a few with short, teasing replies. Sent a couple of the same underwear shot to men who asked for more. Sexted in clipped sentences: what he would do, how he would use a mouth, how he would leave marks. His cock was fully hard now, tenting the front of his boxers. He kept one hand away from it on purpose. The denial sharpened everything.
Then a new message appeared.
**bollywoodcutie69:** i have place and my likes matches your bio. I am looking for wild kinky master like you, i'm into everything u mentioned you can slap me, spank me, spit in my mouth, spit on my face, piss on me, i'll suck ur dick and balls, i'll eat ice cream with your thick 8 inch cut dick, i'm deep throat sucker. Shall we meet? but i will not share pics only direct meets.
Ranveer read it twice. The words landed like heat in his gut. His cock jerked hard enough that he had to press the heel of his hand against it through the fabric.
*Fuck.*
He typed back, thumbs a little unsteady.
**You:** Why no VC? Prove you’re real.
He didn’t wait. He hit the video call button immediately, camera off on his end. The phone rang once, twice—
And connected.
For half a second there was only darkness and the sound of someone breathing. Then a hurried movement. The other man had answered by accident and was trying to hide. But the phone had already caught a fraction of a second of the room: a familiar wall, a familiar photograph in a frame, the edge of a shoulder, the unmistakable line of a jaw.
Ranveer’s stomach dropped and then tightened with something darker.
He knew that face. He had known that face for years. Premieres, award shows, industry parties, the occasional shared cigarette on a balcony when the cameras were gone. Ranbir Kapoor.
The call ended almost as fast as it had started. The other man had killed it.
Ranveer sat very still on the edge of the bed. His cock was still hard. His mind was racing.
*He didn’t know it was me. He answered a stranger’s call. He has a place. He listed every filthy thing he wants done to him.*
He stood up. Pulled on a clean white baniyan that clung to his chest and the same black boxers. No jeans yet. He needed to move. He needed to get there before the other man could invent an excuse or disappear.
The address had come through in the brief window before the call died — a location pin dropped almost as an afterthought in the chat. Ranveer memorized it, closed the app, and left the phone on the bed for a moment while he found keys and a loose black shirt he didn’t bother buttoning. He took the phone again only when he was already heading for the door.
The drive was short. Traffic was light at this hour. His mind would not quiet.
*He wants to be slapped. Spit on. Pissed on. He wants a thick cut cock fed to him like ice cream. He wants his throat used. And he answered a video call from a stranger while sitting in his own house.*
Ranveer parked a little ways down the quiet lane. Walked the rest. The building was familiar in the way certain industry addresses become familiar — not because you visit often, but because you know who lives there. He found the right door. Knocked once, firm.
There was a pause. Then the sound of bare feet. The door opened a crack, then wider.
Ranbir Kapoor stood there in soft grey sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, hair slightly messy, eyes still carrying the startled look of someone who had just almost been caught. For a second neither of them spoke.
Ranveer stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Closed the door behind him. The soft click of the lock felt loud in the quiet apartment.
Ranbir’s throat moved. “I… was expecting—”
“Someone,” Ranveer finished. His voice was calm, almost casual. He walked further in, looking around as if he had every right to be there. The living room was low-lit, a half-empty glass of something amber on the side table, the phone face-down on the sofa.
Ranbir recovered enough to gesture toward the kitchen. “Drink?”
“Yeah.”
Ranbir poured two fingers of whisky into a clean glass and brought it over. Ranveer took it, sat down on the sofa, and stretched one arm along the backrest. He looked at Ranbir the way he looked at a scene partner he was about to push harder than expected.
“You responded pretty fast,” Ranveer said, taking a slow sip. “Were you waiting for someone?”
Ranbir’s ears colored slightly. He stayed standing, then forced himself to sit on the edge of the opposite chair. “I was just… online. Killing time.”
Ranveer’s gaze drifted to the phone still lying face-down. Then to the framed photograph on the wall — the same one that had flashed for a fraction of a second on the video call. He nodded toward it.
“Where was that photo taken?”
Ranbir glanced at it, confused for a second. “Old set still. Why?”
“Just wondering.” Ranveer’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You usually sit here when you’re on your phone? Late at night. Looking for something specific.”
The air between them tightened. Ranbir’s knee bounced once before he controlled it. He took a drink from his own glass to buy a second.
Ranveer kept his voice light, almost conversational. “Must be convenient. Own place. No one to walk in. You can say whatever you want. Ask for whatever you want.”
Ranbir’s eyes flicked up, searching Ranveer’s face for how much he knew. The uncertainty was delicious. Ranveer let the silence stretch. He shifted on the sofa, the movement making the front of his boxers pull tight for a moment. He didn’t adjust them.
“You answer video calls from strangers?” Ranveer asked, still mild. “That’s brave. Or desperate. Haven’t decided which yet.”
Ranbir’s jaw tightened. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to pick up.”
“But you did.” Ranveer took another sip. “And for a second the camera caught something. Enough.”
He set the glass down on the low table and leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The baniyan stretched across his chest and shoulders. His voice dropped a fraction.
“You looked like you were waiting. Sitting here in the dark. Phone in your hand. Thinking about getting used the way you wrote in that message.”
Ranbir’s breath had gone shallow. He didn’t deny it. The silence itself was an admission.
Ranveer let his eyes travel slowly over Ranbir — the soft mouth, the column of his throat, the way the loose t-shirt hung on his frame, the faint outline of his cock starting to thicken against the grey sweatpants. He felt his own answering hardness and made no effort to hide it.
“You’ve been thinking about it for a while, haven’t you?” Ranveer said quietly. “Not just tonight. The idea of someone walking in here who doesn’t give a fuck about your name. Someone who will slap you when you get too loud. Spit in your mouth when you open it. Use your throat until your eyes water. Someone who will piss on you if that’s what you asked for.”
Ranbir’s fingers tightened around his glass. A flush had climbed his neck.
Ranveer sat back again, spreading his knees a little wider. The movement was deliberate. “I’m planning to change my Instagram handle,” he said, almost offhand. The words landed soft and precise. “Thinking of something new. Bollywoodcutie69. What do you think?”
The name hung in the air between them like a match held too close to dry paper.
Ranbir’s eyes widened just enough. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. For a long second the only sound was the low hum of the air-conditioning and the distant traffic.
Ranveer watched the realization move across Ranbir’s face in stages — confusion, recognition, the sudden understanding that the man sitting on his sofa was the same man who had just read every filthy line he had typed to a stranger. The same man whose underwear photo he had been staring at minutes earlier. The same man who had driven across the city after seeing half a second of video and decided not to stay a stranger.
Ranveer’s voice stayed light, almost playful, but there was iron underneath it now.
“Cat got your tongue, cutie?”
Ranbir set the glass down carefully, as if sudden movement might break something. His voice came out rougher than usual. “How long have you known?”
“Since the call connected.” Ranveer tilted his head. “You should be more careful what you answer. Or maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is exactly what you were hoping for.”
He stood up slowly. Crossed the small distance between sofa and chair. Stopped in front of Ranbir, close enough that Ranbir had to look up. The front of Ranveer’s boxers was clearly tented now. He made no attempt to hide it.
“You listed a lot of things you want done to you,” Ranveer said. “Slapping. Spanking. Spit. Piss. Throat-fucking. Eating ice cream off a thick cut cock. Deep-throat specialist, according to you.” His eyes dropped to Ranbir’s mouth. “That true?”
Ranbir’s tongue flicked out, wet his lower lip without thinking. He didn’t look away. The fear was still there, but underneath it something hotter was rising — the same hunger that had made him type those words to a stranger in the first place.
Ranveer reached down and hooked two fingers under Ranbir’s chin, tilting his face up. The touch was firm but not yet cruel.
“I’m going to give you everything you asked for,” he said quietly. “But first you’re going to admit it out loud. Tell me who you were waiting for tonight. Tell me what you wanted him to do to you.”
Ranbir’s breath shuddered. His cock was fully hard now, tenting the soft grey fabric. He swallowed once.
“I was waiting for someone who wouldn’t care who I am,” he said, voice low. “Someone who would use me. Slap me if I got too loud. Spit in my mouth. Fuck my throat until I gagged. Piss on me if he felt like it. Treat me like a hole that exists to get wrecked.”
Ranveer’s fingers tightened just enough to keep Ranbir’s face tilted up. His other hand dropped to the waistband of his own boxers and pushed them down far enough for his cock to spring free — thick, cut, already leaking at the tip, the length Ranbir had described in the message without knowing he was describing the real thing.
“Good,” Ranveer said. “Because that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”
He stepped in closer, until the head of his cock brushed Ranbir’s lower lip.
“Open.”
Ranveer didn’t ease in. He pushed forward in one smooth thrust, sliding over Ranbir’s tongue and straight toward the back of his throat. Ranbir made a choked sound and tried to pull back on instinct. Ranveer’s hand shifted from chin to the back of Ranbir’s head and held him there.
“Take it,” Ranveer said, voice low and rough. “You said you’re a deep-throat sucker. Prove it.”
He fucked into Ranbir’s mouth with short, controlled strokes, watching the way Ranbir’s eyes watered almost immediately. Spit started to gather at the corners of Ranbir’s mouth and drip down his chin. Ranveer pulled back just long enough for Ranbir to drag in a ragged breath, then pushed in again, deeper this time, until Ranbir’s nose was pressed against the dark hair at the base of his cock.
Ranbir gagged hard. His hands came up to Ranveer’s thighs, not quite pushing, more like anchoring himself. Tears spilled over. Ranveer held him there for three long seconds, then released the pressure enough for Ranbir to cough and gasp.
A thick string of spit connected Ranbir’s lower lip to the head of Ranveer’s cock. Ranveer wiped it with his thumb and smeared it across Ranbir’s cheek.
“Messy already,” he murmured. “Good. I like you messy.”
He slapped Ranbir across the face — open palm, sharp, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to sting and leave a pink mark. Ranbir’s head turned with the force of it. A soft, broken sound left his throat. His cock jumped visibly inside the sweatpants.
Ranveer did it again on the other side. Then he grabbed a fistful of Ranbir’s hair and pulled his mouth back onto his cock.
“Suck. Properly this time. Balls too. You promised.”
Ranbir obeyed with a kind of desperate eagerness. He took the head into his mouth and sucked hard, then worked lower, licking along the shaft, mouthing at the heavy balls, sucking one into his mouth while his hand stroked the length. Spit ran freely down Ranveer’s cock and onto Ranbir’s wrist. Every time Ranbir looked up, eyes glassy and wet, Ranveer rewarded him with another light slap or a rough thrust that forced his cock back into Ranbir’s throat.
After several minutes Ranveer pulled free with a wet sound. Ranbir was breathing hard, lips swollen, chin shiny with spit.
“Stand up. Clothes off. All of it.”
Ranbir rose on slightly unsteady legs and stripped. T-shirt first, then the sweatpants and whatever he had on underneath. His cock stood hard and flushed against his stomach, the head already wet. Ranveer looked him over slowly — the lean muscle, the soft trail of hair, the way his nipples had tightened.
“On your knees again. Hands behind your back.”
Ranbir dropped. The position pushed his chest out and left his mouth at the perfect height. Ranveer stepped in, took his cock in hand, and slapped it lightly against Ranbir’s cheek, then his mouth, then the other cheek. Each wet impact left a smear of precome.
“Stick your tongue out.”
Ranbir did. Ranveer spit directly onto it. The thick strand landed and began to slide. Ranbir’s eyes fluttered but he kept his tongue out. Ranveer spit again, then pushed his cock back into the open mouth and started fucking it in earnest — deeper strokes, less restraint. The wet sounds filled the quiet apartment. Ranbir’s throat worked around him, gagging, drooling, taking it anyway.
When Ranveer finally pulled out, Ranbir’s face was a wreck — spit, tears, precome, hair sticking to his forehead.
Ranveer hooked a hand under Ranbir’s arm and hauled him up, then bent him over the arm of the sofa. The position left Ranbir’s ass high and exposed. Ranveer ran a hand over one cheek, then the other, then brought his palm down hard. The crack of skin on skin was loud. Ranbir jerked and let out a sharp moan. Ranveer spanked him again, and again, until both cheeks were pink and hot under his hand. Between strikes he rubbed the heated skin, then slid two spit-slick fingers down the cleft and pressed against Ranbir’s hole.
“You want to get fucked tonight?” Ranveer asked, voice rough.
“Yes,” Ranbir breathed.
“Beg for it properly.”
“Please. Fuck me. Use me. I need it — please—”
Ranveer pushed one finger in. Ranbir was tight but not unprepared; the muscle gave after a moment of resistance. Ranveer worked him open with patience that felt almost cruel, adding a second finger, scissoring, curling, while his other hand continued to land occasional sharp spanks. When he judged Ranbir ready enough he spit into his palm, stroked his own cock once, and lined up.
The first push was slow and relentless. Ranbir’s back arched. A broken sound tore out of him. Ranveer kept going until he was fully seated, hips flush against the warm, spanked cheeks. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, feeling the tight heat clench around him.
Then he started to move.
He fucked Ranbir with long, deep strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. Every thrust punched soft, punched-out sounds from Ranbir’s throat. Ranveer reached forward, grabbed a fistful of hair, and pulled Ranbir’s head back so he could see the wrecked expression on his face.
“This what you wanted when you typed all that shit to a stranger?” Ranveer growled. “A cock splitting you open in your own living room?”
“Yes — fuck — yes—”
Ranveer spanked him again while he fucked him, the dual sensations making Ranbir shake. He spit on the small of Ranbir’s back and watched it run down into the cleft where his cock was disappearing. Then he pulled out suddenly, spun Ranbir around, and shoved him down onto his knees again.
“Open your mouth. Tongue out.”
Ranbir obeyed instantly. Ranveer held his cock at the base and let a thick stream of piss arc out. It hit Ranbir’s tongue first, then his chin, then ran down his chest. Ranbir’s eyes went wide but he didn’t pull away. He kept his mouth open and took it, some of it spilling over his lips and down his throat. When the stream slowed, Ranveer pushed his cock back into the wet, open mouth and fucked it a few times, mixing the taste of piss and precum.
Then he hauled Ranbir up again, bent him back over the sofa, and slammed back inside in one hard thrust. The pace turned brutal. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Ranveer reached around and wrapped a hand around Ranbir’s neglected cock, stroking him in time with the thrusts.
“You’re going to come with my cock in your ass and my hand on your dick,” Ranveer said against his ear. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”
Ranbir was beyond coherent words — only broken moans and the occasional choked “please” and “harder.” His body tightened suddenly. He came with a shattered cry, spilling over Ranveer’s fist and the side of the sofa. The clenching of his hole dragged Ranveer over the edge right after. Ranveer buried himself to the hilt and came hard, pulsing deep inside Ranbir, hips jerking with each spurt.
For a long moment the only sound was their ragged breathing.
Ranveer didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed pressed against Ranbir’s back, one hand still loosely wrapped around Ranbir’s spent cock, the other braced on the sofa. When he finally eased free, a thick trickle of come followed, running down the inside of Ranbir’s thigh.
He turned Ranbir around, looked at the mess of his face — spit and piss and tears and come — and felt a dark, satisfied heat settle in his chest.
“Still think changing my handle to bollywoodcutie69 is a good idea?” Ranveer asked, voice rough but edged with something almost like amusement.
Ranbir’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a wrecked smile. His voice was hoarse when he answered.
“Only if you plan on using it to find me again.”
Ranveer wiped a thumb through the mess on Ranbir’s cheek and pushed it past his lips. Ranbir sucked it clean without being told.
“Oh, I plan on using a lot of things,” Ranveer said. “Starting with your mouth again in about ten minutes. We’re not finished. You still haven’t eaten ice cream off my cock like you promised. And I still haven’t decided how many more times I’m going to come down your throat before I let you sleep.”
He guided Ranbir back down to his knees with a firm hand on his shoulder. Ranbir went willingly, eyes already glassy again, mouth already opening.
The night was still young.
And Ranveer Singh intended to use every filthy promise bollywoodcutie69 had typed — thoroughly, repeatedly, and without mercy.