The first thing Suyash noticed was the weight.
It was not an unpleasant weight. Far from it. Babita's smooth, toned leg was possessively draped over his right thigh. Her calf pressed against his morning hardness with the casual intimacy of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing—even in sleep. Her breathing was slow and even. Her full lips were slightly parted. Her long black hair spilled across his shoulder like liquid silk.
On his left, Anjali's head rested on his chest, her soft, warm body curled against his side. One of her hands lay flat on his stomach, her fingers splayed as if, even in her sleep, she needed to feel him breathing beneath her touch. Her round face was peaceful, her doe eyes closed. The faint scent of spices still clung to her skin from last night's cooking.
The silk sheets, pulled from a luxury hotel ad, were tangled around their naked bodies, a testament to the hours they'd spent together before exhaustion finally claimed them. Suyash remembered Babita's insatiable mouth, Anjali's tender whispers, and how they passed him back and forth like a shared feast.
He should have been content.
He wasn't.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his flat, Gokuldham Society was stirring to life. Jethalal's voice carried up from the compound, shrill and aggrieved. "Bhide! Someone used my newspaper before me again!" Popatlal coughed somewhere below—the lonely, theatrical sound of a man who wanted the world to know he was suffering.
Sounds of ordinary life. Mundane. Predictable.
His women—his devoted, eager, perfectly trained pets—deserved better than stolen moments and whispered secrets. They deserved freedom. They deserved to worship him openly, without thin walls or prying eyes.
Suyash sighed and reached for the remote. The massive television screen flickered to life. He flipped through the channels until he found it: Swiss Family Robinson. The story of a family shipwrecked on a lush island and living in blissful isolation. The women on screen wore almost nothing—sarongs tied low, breasts bare, bodies sun-kissed and free.
His fingers tingled.
Desire.
The power fed on desire. Watching those carefree castaways, Suyash felt a surge of want so intense it made his teeth ache.
He wanted that. An island where his harem could truly be his. No husbands to tiptoe around. No society to judge them. Just eleven obedient, adoring women and their master.
The details came together with practiced ease.
The husbands: Most were irrelevant. Taarak knew about Anjali's affair with him and didn't care. Their marriage was a convenient fiction. Jethalal and Daya's marriage existed only on paper. She was Suyash's devoted onee-san now, and Jethalal was too obsessed with Babita to notice anything. Iyer was perpetually absent. Hathi was too tired and fat to care about Komal's activities.
The only complications were Bhide and Vibhuti. Bhide was naturally suspicious, always watching and judging. Vibhuti was possessive of Anita despite his wandering eyes. They would require management—distractions, false trails, or something else to occupy their small minds while their wives enjoyed real pleasure.
The island: He would create it. He would pull elements of ecology from nature films, overlay them onto a barren atoll, and wrap the whole thing in a cloaking field like those seen in sci-fi serials. Hidden from satellites. Invisible to radar. It would be a paradise that existed only because he willed it.
The journey: A private charter. An AI pilot system with no human crew to witness and no loose ends. A "freak storm" forced the plane off course. A soft landing on a shallow reef.
His role: Coordinator. Guest liaison. He was the man who made arrangements. His women followed his lead without question—they were trained to obey and please him.
The power hummed. Suyash slid out of bed, careful not to wake his sleeping companions. Naked, he walked to the television, his reflection ghosting across the screen's surface—that of a young master with hungry eyes and fingers that shimmered with an unreal light.
Time to build their paradise.
---
He dialed into a nature documentary showing aerial footage of a barren atoll in the Andaman Sea. A blank canvas.
Then, he pulled inspiration from Swiss Family Robinson and The Blue Lagoon, fantasy films with enchanted forests. He layered a lush jungle over the bare rock and added cascading waterfalls and trees heavy with fruit that would bear year-round. Freshwater springs that tasted like Evian. A lagoon so clear it glowed turquoise.
The power drained from him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His hand trembled. But through the screen, he could feel the island—real and waiting for him.
He found an old sci-fi serial about a civilization hidden by "magnetic anomalies." He adopted the concept, wrapping it around his island like an invisible shroud. Satellites would see only empty ocean. Radar would show static. Planes would reroute without knowing why.
His vision blurred. He steadied himself.
Worth it.
—
He pulled out a glossy magazine advertisement: "Tranquil Blossoms: Exclusive Wellness Retreat for the Discerning Woman." He examined the branding, legitimacy, and paper trail. Attendee list: Six women. One coordinator: Suyash Shrivastava, guest liaison.
The men received a separate notification for a "Gents' Housekeeping Challenge" with prizes. Harmless. Humorous. It would be enough to distract Bhide and Vibhuti with competition while their wives enjoyed their master's attention.
He pulled a private charter jet from a luxury commercial fleet. It was sleek and white with a cream leather interior and champagne chillers.
He switched to Interstellar for the crew. He developed an Advanced AI Pilot System with a holographic interface. He programmed it with three directives: transport passengers, maintain the illusion of a human crew via holograms, and execute a soft landing. Then, it was to de-manifest completely.
No witnesses. No loose ends. No extra mouths to feed.
The power burned through him. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the entertainment unit and gasped. The AI alone had cost more than a dozen luxury cars. Complexity carried weight.
But it was done.
Finally, he conjured a "freak tropical depression" worthy of a disaster film—just enough to force the plane off course and through the cloaking field toward the island. It made a controlled glide onto the reef. A gentle bump. The AI announced "minor technical difficulties," then guided them down.
When the women disembarked onto the white sand, the plane would power down. The holographic crew would flicker and dissolve into static. The cockpit would be empty. Only waves.
Paradise.
Behind him, the bed rustled. Babita's sleepy voice called out, "Suyash? Come back."
He turned around. She was propped on one elbow, the sheet barely covering her breasts. Her dark eyes were heavy-lidded and hungry. She knew her place. She loved it.
"What were you doing?" she asked, eyeing his naked body and the sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Making arrangements." He slid back into bed and pulled her close. "A trip. Somewhere private. A retreat. You'll receive the invitation today."
Anjali stirred, blinking awake. "A retreat?"
"Ladies only." His hand moved from Babita's thigh to Anjali's hip. "I'll be there as the coordinator. I'll make sure all your needs are met."
Babita's eyes lit up with pure, uncomplicated desire. "All our needs?"
"Every single one."
Anjali pressed against his other side, her soft body warm and willing. "When do we leave?"
"Soon." His fingers found Babita wet and ready. "First, let me give you a preview."
What followed was a lazy, indulgent morning. They moved together in perfect harmony, trained to please him and each other. Babita rode his fingers while Anjali kissed her. Anjali lowered herself onto his mouth while Babita stroked him back to full hardness. They moaned his name like a prayer, their bodies his to command.
When he finally entered Anjali, slowly and deeply, her gasp was swallowed by Babita's kiss. He let himself forget the exhaustion, the drain, and the elaborate scheme. There was only this: the heat of his women, their complete devotion, and the symphony of their pleasure.
He made them both come twice before letting himself follow, spending inside Anjali as Babita's clever fingers worked her clit and their combined moans filled the air.
Afterward, they lay tangled and sated.
"I love mornings like this," Anjali murmured.
"Every morning should be like this," Babita agreed.
Suyash stared at the ceiling, his power humming contentedly as it replenished itself slowly. The drain had been significant, but the island was real. Waiting. Hidden.
On the nightstand, his phone buzzed. The ladies' group chat exploded.
Tranquil Blossoms Retreat: Congratulations, ladies! You've been selected for an exclusive, all-expenses-paid wellness retreat!" Departure: Friday at 8:00 a.m. Private charter. Pack light. Suyash Shrivastava will accompany us as the guest liaison.
Replies flooded in:
Komal: Nude beach?! Please say yes!"
Daya: Should I bring my own towels?"
Madhavi: This seems convenient.
Anita: I'm in! Vibhuti can wonder where I am.
Babita: I'm already packing. Or rather, unpacking. Less is more.
Anjali: Tarak won't even notice I'm gone. He's probably with Priyanka anyway."
Suyash smiled. His harem were eager. They knew their desire. They followed their heart without question.
The men's group chat received a separate notification:
Gokuldham Gents' Challenge: While the ladies rejuvenate, it's your time to shine, gentlemen! The best-maintained household will win a premium home theater system. Daily inspection photos are required.
Jethalal: "I will win!" Daya left everything perfect!
Taarak: Anjali's absence means I can work undisturbed. Excellent.
Iyer: I'm in Chennai that week anyway.
Hathi: Komal said I should participate. She wants the prize.
Bhide: It's a competition in discipline and cleanliness. Finally, something I can excel at! Though, I find the timing suspicious.
Vibhuti: "Anita is going on a 'wellness retreat' without me? Hmmm. I'll win this challenge and then investigate."
Suyash chuckled. Bhide and Vibhuti were the only ones with enough brain cells to be suspicious. But their "investigations" would lead nowhere. The retreat was legitimate on paper. The island was invisible. Their wives would return sun-kissed, satisfied, and utterly devoted to him, with nothing but vague stories of yoga and meditation.
He set the phone aside and pulled his women closer.
The game had begun.
No one—not the suspicious Bhide, not the possessive Vibhuti, and certainly not the power humming beneath his skin—would ever know that he had orchestrated every detail.
After all, he was the coordinator. The guest liaison. The man who made arrangements for his beloved harem.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
—