The air conditioner hummed steadily, pushing cool air across Suyash's seventh-floor apartment. Outside, the Gokuldham Society neighborhood was waking up to its usual chaotic symphony. Bhide's scooter refused to start for the fourth time. Someone's pressure cooker whistled. Komal shouted at Hathi for leaving wet towels on the bed again.
Normal sounds. Domestic sounds.
But nothing about Suyash's life was normal anymore.
He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and let the inventory scroll through his mind. It wasn't a mental list—it was an actual assessment, the kind a general might make before deploying troops:
Babita. Almost consummated. The elevator incident had unleashed something in her: a hunger that had been growing for years under Iyer's neglect. She was insatiable now and vocal about it. Three days ago, she left a mark on his shoulder that still hasn't faded. She didn't care about the others—she'd made that abundantly clear. Her only demand was that he not ignore her:
Madhavi. Her regular secret lover. Twice a week, sometimes three times. Bhide's spiritual awakening left her untouched for a year before Suyash entered her life. Now, she bloomed like a desert flower after rain. She was gentle, tender, and grateful to the point of tears. Her arrangement was simple: discretion above all else. She couldn't leave Bhide and wouldn't even if she could. But she needed this. She needed him.
Anjali. Resolved. Liberated. Taarak's confession had shattered her guilt and unleashed something primal within her. She approached Suyash, offering her body as a gift she was finally permitted to give. Their nights together were emotional, intense, and healing. She was still learning about her own pleasure—Taarak had never bothered to teach her—and Suyash was a patient instructor.
Komal: The wild card. She cornered him in the room and demanded one night together. But Suyash saw something more in her: potential buried beneath her brash confidence. She had the curves and appetite of a true goddess, but she needed refinement. She just needed refinement.
So he lied. He told her that it wasn't just one night she needed but rather a week of nourishment. A special regimen. "Trust me," he said, his voice low and certain. "Seven days. By the end, you'll understand your body in ways you never imagined."
Curiosity overrode her skepticism, and she agreed.
This was day four. Three more days to go.
Then there was Anita Mishra.
Suyash stood and walked to the window, looking across the compound to the opposite wing of the building. Her apartment was on the third floor, and its balcony was angled perfectly to see the open corridors of his floor. The curtains were drawn, but he could see a silhouette moving behind them. Even in shadow, the shape was unmistakable—the curve of a hip, the sway of a walk, the confident carriage of a woman who knew exactly what she possessed.
Anita was different from the others.
Babita wanted passion. Madhavi wanted tenderness. Anjali wanted liberation. Komal wanted fun.
Anita wanted control.
She was the one who noticed everything. She was the one who would connect the dots that others were too distracted to see. Her eyes tracked him like a predator studying prey—not to consume, but to understand. To find the weakness.
His power hummed beneath his skin: It was the screen-pull ability that let him reach into any digital display and extract whatever he desired. It fed on desire, grew stronger when he lost control, and threatened to expose him when he slipped up.
Anita Mishra made him want to slip.
The knock came at nine.
Suyash opened the door to find Babita leaning against the doorframe with one hand on her hip and the other holding a covered dish. She wore a pale yellow sari—modest by her standards, meaning the fabric was translucent rather than transparent. The outline of her nipples was visible through the thin material. The sari was tied low at her waist, revealing the gentle curve of her belly.
"Breakfast," she said, pushing past him without waiting for an invitation. "Iyer left for a conference in Lucknow. Three days."
She set the dish on his kitchen counter and turned, her eyes sweeping over his bare chest. He had only managed to pull on loose cotton pants before answering the door.
"You're not dressed." Her voice carried a note of approval.
"It's nine in the morning."
"And?" She crossed the small kitchen in three steps, her body pressing against his. Her hand found his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. "I've been thinking about you since I woke up. Do you know how distracting that is? I burned the first batch of poha."
Suyash gently caught her wrist. "Babita—"
"She's watching you, you know."
The words stopped him cold.
Babita smiled, a knowing and slightly sharp expression. "Anita Mishra. I saw her on her balcony this morning. She was looking up at your corridor. The way a woman looks at something she's decided to own."
"You're imagining things."
"I'm observant." She pulled her wrist free and began untying the knot of her sari. The fabric loosened, slipped, and pooled around her feet in a whisper of yellow silk. She stood before him in only a backless blouse and a low-riding petticoat. "There's a difference."
She stepped out of the fallen sari and moved toward his bedroom, glancing back over her shoulder. "Breakfast can wait. I can't."
Much later, Suyash lay in tangled sheets with Babita's head resting on his chest. Her breathing had finally slowed and her body was limp with satisfaction. She had been voracious, almost aggressive, as if she were trying to mark territory that Anita had only briefly explored.
"I don't care about the others," she murmured against his skin. "I told you that."
"I know."
"But her..." Babita lifted her head, her dark eyes meeting his. "She's dangerous. Not to you, but to this. To the balance. She'll want more than the others. She'll want to be the only one."
Suyash ran his fingers through her hair. "You're worried about balance?"
"I'm worried about losing access." Her hand drifted lower, her fingers wrapping around him with practiced ease. He was already half-hard again from her nearness, her scent, and the way her body moved against his. "I've been neglected for years, Suyash. I'm not going back to that. Not for anyone."
She squeezed gently.
"Round two?"
Madhavi arrived at noon, carrying a tiffin of homemade lunch. She claimed to have come to discuss a tailoring order—measurements for curtains that Bhide wanted to replace. The curtains didn't exist, and Bhide hadn't asked for anything. It was their code.
She wore a simple green cotton sari with a yellow border today. Modest. Unremarkable. The kind a devoted wife and mother should wear. But when Suyash closed the door behind her, she set down the tiffin and revealed that she was wearing nothing beneath the saree. The sari was the only layer.
"Bhide is at a society meeting," she said softly, almost apologetically. "He'll be occupied for two hours."
Two hours. They used every minute.
Madhavi was different from Babita. While Babita was fire, Madhavi was water—slow, deep, and flowing. She didn't demand. She received. Her pleasure came in waves rather than explosions. It built and built until she trembled, gasped, and clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in a storm.
Afterward, she lay curled up against his side, tracing idle patterns with her fingers on his chest.
"Anita Mishra came to the boutique yesterday," she said quietly.
Suyash's hand froze on her back.
"She wanted to know about you. Where you came from. What you do. Why you live alone." Madhavi lifted her head, her eyes troubled. "I told her you keep to yourself. That you're kind. That you helped me reach high shelves." A faint blush colored her cheeks at the memory of that encounter—her sari riding up, his body close behind hers, and the spark that ignited everything.
"What else?"
"She asked if you were seeing anyone. I said I didn't know." Madhavi's fingers pressed slightly harder against his chest. "I don't think she believed me. She has eyes that see through things, Suyash. Through walls. Through lies."
He kissed her forehead. "Let her look. There's nothing to find."
Madhavi was silent for a moment. Then, so quietly that he almost missed it, she said, "There's everything to find."
Anjali arrived at dusk.
She didn't knock. She had a key now—one he'd pulled from a home renovation show. It was a duplicate that had never existed before his fingers reached through the screen. She let herself in and found him on the balcony, watching the neighborhood settle into its evening rhythm.
"Taarak is at a book signing in Delhi," she said, stepping out to join him. "Three days."
"Babita's husband is in Lucknow. Also three days."
Anjali laughed—a genuine, surprised sound. "Is the universe coordinating schedules for you now?"
"Apparently."
She leaned against the railing beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. She wore a simple kurti and leggings, which were modest by the standards of this heightened reality. However, the fabric clung to her curves in ways that left little to the imagination. Her hair was loose, falling in waves past her shoulders.
"I talked to Taarak. We talked about everything." Her voice was steady, but he could hear the emotion beneath it. "I told him I knew about the affairs. The women who throw themselves at authors."
Suyash turned to look at her. "What did he say?"
"He didn't deny it. He said..." She took a breath. "He said we both cheated on each other. He said that I can do what I want too, as long as I'm discreet." Her laugh was bitter. "He gave me permission. Like I needed it."
"You don't."
"I know." She turned to face him fully, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I've known since that first night with you. When you held me after I stopped. When you didn't pressure me or demand anything; you just let me be. Taarak has never done that. He takes what he wants and calls it love."
She stepped into his arms, her body fitting against his as if it belonged there.
"I don't want to talk about him anymore," she whispered against his chest. "I want you to take me to bed and make me forget he exists."
He did.
Komal didn't bother with pretense.
She appeared at his door at 9 p.m., wearing a tank top two sizes too small and yoga pants painted on. Her enormous breasts strained against the thin fabric; her nipples were clearly visible through the white cotton. She held up a bottle of wine.
"Hathi is watching cricket. He won't move for four hours." She pushed past him into the apartment, scanning the space. "Is anyone else here?"
"No."
"Good. I'm feeling selfish tonight."
She set the wine on the counter and turned around. In one smooth motion, she pulled her tank top over her head and tossed it aside. Her breasts bounced free—full, heavy, and magnificent. The serum was already working. Her skin seemed to glow with heightened sensitivity. Her nipples were already peaked and dark against her fair complexion.
"Your nourishment is beyond the capabilities of a mortal," she said, her voice carrying a note of amusement rather than accusation. "I'm not stupid, Suyash. I know my own body. The way I've been feeling...it's not natural."
He didn't deny it. "It's a supplement. It's designed to enhance pleasure. There are no side effects or addiction. Just amplification."
Komal cupped her breasts, her thumbs brushing her nipples. A visible shiver ran through her. "Amplification. Is that what you call it? I've been wet all day. Every time I sit down or my thighs rub together, I think about you. About what you're going to do to me next."
She stepped closer, her body radiating heat. "I only asked for one night. You gave me four. With three more promised." Her hand found the waistband of his pants, her fingers curling around the fabric. "What happens on day seven?"
Suyash caught her wrist, his grip firm but gentle. "On day seven, you'll understand what your body is truly capable of. But tonight..." He guided her hand lower and pressed it against the rigid length straining against his pants. "Tonight, we'll continue your education."
Komal's breath hitched. "Then teach me, Sensei."
The bedroom lights were dim. Earlier, Suyash had pulled a silk blindfold from a romance drama—deep crimson and soft as water. He held it up.
"Trust me?"
Komal's eyes gleamed. "I've let you nourish me for four days. A blindfold seems mild in comparison."
He gently tied it around her eyes, plunging her into darkness. Her other senses immediately heightened: the cool air from the AC against her bare skin, the faint scent of his cologne, and his breathing close by.
"Get on your knees," he commanded.
She obeyed without hesitation. He peeled down her yoga pants, discarding them somewhere behind her. She knelt before him in nothing but a thin thong that could barely contain her generous curves.
Suyash freed himself from his pants. The sound of his zipper made her unconsciously lick her lips.
"You're going to use your mouth," he said calmly and instructively. "But not just to please me. "I want you to focus on what you feel: Every texture. Every taste. Every sound you make. Understand?"
"Yes."
He guided himself to her lips. She opened willingly and took him into the wet heat of her mouth. The serum had done more than amplify her physical sensitivity; it had heightened her awareness of pleasure and made every nerve ending sing with possibility.
Komal moaned around him, and the vibration traveled straight to his core.
"That's it," he murmured, his hand threading through her hair, not pushing, just resting. "Feel how your tongue moves. The way you can control the pressure. You're not just doing this for me, Komal. You're learning your own power."
She took him deeper, her throat relaxing with practiced ease. The sounds she made were obscene—wet, hungry, and utterly shameless. Her hands found his thighs, her nails digging in as she set a rhythm that blurred his vision.
When he finally pulled away, a string of saliva connected her lips to his tip. Her chest heaved, her breasts swaying with each breath.
"Good," he said. "Now stand up. Turn around. Bend over the bed."
She moved on unsteady legs and positioned herself as instructed. The blindfold remained in place. Her thong was soaked through, and a dark patch of arousal was visible even in the dim light.
Suyash knelt behind her. Instead of removing her thong, he hooked a finger through the fabric and pulled it aside, exposing her glistening folds to the cool air. She gasped.
"You're dripping," he observed, his voice clinical yet warm. "The serum is doing its job. Your body is becoming more responsive. More attuned."
His thumb found her clitoris and circled it slowly. Komal's entire body jerked.
"Ah...fuck... Suyash..."
"You're going to come like this," he said, maintaining a lazy rhythm with his thumb. "Just from my thumb on your clit. When you do, I want you to say my name, not Hathi's. Not Hathi's. Not anyone else's. Mine."
Her hips bucked against his hand. The wet sounds filled the room. She was already close—the serum had shortened her refractory period and made her practically orgasmic at the slightest touch.
"Suyash... Suyash, I'm—"
"Say it."
"Suyash!"
She shattered, her body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through her. Her inner walls clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled. She collapsed onto the bed, her face buried in the sheets and her ass still presented to him like an offering.
Komal pulled off the blindfold; her eyes were glassy with satisfaction. She looked at him with something new in her expression—not just lust, but genuine wonder.
"Three more days," she whispered. "What happens on day seven?"
Suyash smiled and kissed her forehead. "On day seven, you become a goddess."
After Komal left, walking slightly bow-legged and grinning as if she had won a prize, Suyash stood under the shower and let the hot water pound against his shoulders.
Four women. Four different needs, four different dynamics, four different sets of expectations. And somehow, miraculously, they all knew about each other and didn't care. In this heightened reality, jealousy seemed to function differently. Perhaps they were all so starved for genuine attention that they were willing to share rather than go without.
But Anita...
Anita was different. He could feel it in his bones.
She wasn't starved for attention. She was bored. Vibhuti's unemployment, schemes, and constant posturing amused and irritated her, but they didn't fulfill her. She was a woman of appetite and intelligence, trapped in a marriage to a man who couldn't see past his own reflection.
She'd noticed him.
She noticed him the way a chess master notices an interesting piece on the board. Not with immediate desire, but with strategic interest. She was assessing him. Measuring him. Deciding what he was worth.
The water ran cold. Suyash shut it off and reached for a towel.
His phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. It was a message from an unknown number:
"You've had a busy day. Four visitors. Impressive stamina. —A.M."
His blood ran cold.
He stared at the screen, his mind racing. How did she know? How had she gotten his number? What did she want?
Another message arrived:
"Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone. I'm just observing. You're the most interesting thing to happen to this boring society in years. I want to understand you, Suyash. All of you." —A.M."
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. After a long moment, he typed,
"What do you want?"
The response came almost instantly:
"Everything. But we'll start with tea." Tomorrow. At my place. Vibhuti will be out. Wear something nice." —A.M."
Suyash set down the phone and looked at his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror.
Dangerous woman. Dangerous game.
But he was already playing.
A/N - While updating the harem list, the pictures accidentally got deleted. I'll be more careful from now on! I've re-uploaded the pics, so please check them out. Thank you.