December 1985, Mumbai, India*
The midday sun cast a golden glow over Bandra's tree-lined streets as Raj stood outside Priya's modest flat, his heart thrumming with anticipation. The faint hum of rickshaws and the distant call of a street vendor selling vada pav filled the air, mingling with the salty breeze from the nearby Arabian Sea. Raj adjusted his crisp kurta, its deep navy fabric catching the light, and pressed the doorbell, the chime echoing softly inside. His mind flickered to the whirlwind of the past five months—his 7-crore fortune, *Pragarti Venture*'s launch, and *The Bharat Front*'s meteoric rise, all fueled by the ROI system's uncanny precision. But today, it was Priya who occupied his thoughts, her radiant smile and fiery spirit a constant pull on his heart.
The door swung open, revealing Priya in a crimson saree that clung to her curves like a second skin, its silk shimmering under the soft light of the flat's entryway. Her eyes, dark and mischievous, locked onto his, and a slow, inviting smile spread across her lips. Raj's breath caught, a familiar heat stirring within him. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, and before a word could pass between them, he pulled her close, his hands finding her waist as his lips captured hers in a deep, hungry kiss. The taste of her—sweet, with a hint of the jasmine perfume she wore—ignited a fire in him. Priya, bold and unapologetic, grabbed his hand and guided it to her hips, pressing his fingers against her soft, rounded curves. Raj's pulse quickened, his kisses growing fiercer, his hands squeezing gently as he savored the electric charge of their closeness, the world narrowing to the warmth of her body against his.
A sharp "cough cough" sliced through the haze of their passion, jarring them back to reality like a splash of cold water. Raj's head snapped toward the sofa, where Jyoti sat, her arms tightly crossed, her face a storm of disapproval tinged with a flush of embarrassment. Her eyes, sharp and judgmental, darted between them, her lips pursed into a thin line. Priya let out a soft, playful laugh, her confidence unshaken as she stepped back, smoothing her saree. Raj adjusted his kurta, his cheeks burning with a mix of desire and awkwardness, and they moved to the sofa, settling across from Jyoti. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the faint hum of a ceiling fan the only sound breaking the silence.
"Are you ready? Let's go to lunch," Raj said, his voice steady despite the lingering heat in his veins, his attempt to steer the moment back to normalcy almost comical in its earnestness.
"I'm ready," Priya replied, her eyes twinkling with that familiar spark that always made Raj's heart skip. "Jyoti just needs to change."
"Five minutes," Jyoti muttered, her tone clipped and her movements brisk as she stood and headed to her room, her footsteps echoing with purpose on the tiled floor.
Priya seized the moment, leaning closer to Raj, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper that sent a shiver down his spine. "Yesterday, we were interrupted, Raj. Today, I want to taste that six-inch cock of yours, and tonight, I want you to fuck me until the stars fade from the sky."
Raj, caught mid-sip of a glass of water from the table, choked, the liquid spraying as he coughed violently, his face reddening with shock and amusement. Jyoti, still within earshot in the hallway, froze, her cheeks burning with shame at her sister's brazen words. She hurried off to change, her footsteps quicker now, as if fleeing the audacity of Priya's declaration. Priya, undeterred, flashed a mischievous grin and slid closer, her fingers deftly unzipping Raj's trousers. She knelt before him, her lips enveloping him with a practiced ease that sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. Raj groaned softly, his head tilting back against the sofa, the world narrowing to the warmth of Priya's touch, her confidence and skill driving him to the edge of ecstasy.
Five minutes later, Jyoti's voice cut through the haze, sharp and exasperated. "Are you done?" she called, reentering the room in a simple green salwar kameez, her arms crossed again, her expression a mix of irritation and discomfort.
"Wait a minute," Priya said, her voice teasing as she resumed, her eyes locked on Raj's with a playful challenge that made his breath hitch. The intensity built, Raj's body tensing as Priya's movements grew more deliberate. Moments later, he reached his peak, a low groan escaping him as Priya swallowed with a satisfied glint in her eye, wiping her lips with a delicate grace that belied the boldness of the act. They quickly composed themselves, Raj zipping up his trousers and Priya smoothing her saree, exchanging a conspiratorial smile as if they'd pulled off a daring heist.
They stepped out of the flat, the warm December air a contrast to the charged atmosphere inside. Raj led them to his Hindustan Contessa, a luxurious 1984 model priced at Rs 83,437, its sleek black exterior and powerful 1.8-liter engine a rare sight in 1985 India, turning heads as they climbed in. The car purred as they drove through Mumbai's bustling streets, navigating past honking rickshaws, crowded vegetable stalls, and the vibrant chaos of the city. Their destination was the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, Mumbai's most opulent venue, its iconic red domes and seafront grandeur a symbol of luxury. Raj had reserved a private dining room, ensuring an intimate setting for their lunch.
After a 30-minute drive, they arrived at the Taj, its marble arches gleaming under the midday sun, the scent of the sea mingling with the aroma of freshly cut flowers in the lobby. The private dining room was a vision of elegance—polished mahogany table, crystal chandeliers casting soft light, and silk drapes framing a view of the Arabian Sea. They settled in, ordering a lavish spread: butter chicken with its rich, velvety gravy, fluffy naan warm from the tandoor, fragrant biryani studded with saffron and cashews, and cool mango lassi to balance the spices. Raj and Priya dove into a lively discussion about *Love Train*, now just three days from its premiere. Post-production was complete, and early screenings had sparked buzz among critics, with whispers of its unique narrative spreading through Mumbai's film circles. The ROI system's projection of 5 crore in profits by mid-1987 loomed large, fueling Raj's confidence in Priya's vision.
Turning to Jyoti, who had been quietly picking at her food, her expression guarded, Raj asked, "What do you do, Jyoti?"
Jyoti sighed, her shoulders slumping as she set down her fork. "I help my father manage our shoe factory, but it's struggling. Foreign brands like Bata and Liberty are dominating with sleeker designs, aggressive marketing, and cheaper imports. The government's low import duties in '85 are flooding the market with foreign goods, and rising costs for leather, labor, and transport are squeezing us dry. We're barely breaking even. In my spare time, I write books as a hobby. I finished my fifth last month—a drama with some romance—but it flopped. Readers didn't connect, and now I'm out of ideas, just staring at blank pages."
Raj leaned forward, intrigued by the passion beneath her frustration. "What kind of books do you write?"
"Mostly dramas, some romance," Jyoti said, her voice softening as she spoke of her craft. "But my last one didn't resonate. I don't know what to write next, and it's frustrating to feel so stuck."
Raj paused, the ROI system sparking a creative idea, its interface flickering in his mind with possibilities. "What if I give you a story to write?"
Jyoti's eyes narrowed, her expression dripping with mockery as she leaned back in her chair. "You? Writing's not a game, Raj. It's not as easy as sticking your cock in a random mouth."
Raj's face darkened, his jaw tightening briefly, but he kept his composure, his confidence unshaken. "What if I give you a *good* story?"
"You?" Jyoti scoffed, her skepticism palpable, her arms crossing tighter as if to shield herself from his audacity.
Priya laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she sipped her lassi. "How about you suck his cock if he delivers a story worth writing?"
Jyoti's face flushed with anger, her voice rising in indignation. "Sister, have you no shame? How can you say such things in front of me?"
"Do you dare to accept the challenge or not?" Priya pressed, her tone playful but with an edge of challenge, her lips curving into a provocative smile.
"Fine," Jyoti snapped, her eyes blazing as she crossed her arms tighter, her posture rigid. "Let's hear it, then."
Raj leaned back, a confident smile spreading across his face as he began weaving the tale of *Baahubali: The Beginning*. In the mythical kingdom of Mahishmati, Shivudu, a fearless young man with a spirit as wild as the rivers, scales a towering waterfall, driven by visions of a mysterious woman whose beauty haunts his dreams. He discovers he's the lost heir of a grand empire, ruled by his fierce mother, Sivagami, and torn by a bitter rivalry between brothers Bhallaladeva and Baahubali. Shivudu's journey to reclaim his father Baahubali's honor unfolds through epic battles, where swords clash under stormy skies, forbidden love that defies royal decrees, and shocking betrayals that shake the kingdom's foundations. For 30 minutes, Raj's voice carried the weight of the saga, his words painting vivid landscapes of cascading waterfalls, golden palaces, and blood-soaked battlefields, each detail laced with drama and intrigue.
Jyoti, initially dismissive, found herself leaning forward, her skepticism melting into awe as the story's grandeur unfolded. Priya, equally captivated, hung on every word, her eyes wide with wonder, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass absently. As Raj reached the climax, he paused for effect, his voice dropping to a low, dramatic whisper. "And then, Katappa, the loyal warrior, killed Baahubali."
Jyoti and Priya gasped in unison, their voices overlapping in a burst of shock. "Why did Katappa kill Baahubali?" they demanded, their eyes wide, their breaths held as if the answer might unravel the universe itself.
Raj grinned, savoring their reaction, his confidence soaring like the Sensex he'd helped push to 600 points. "That's for the next part," he said, leaning back with a smug satisfaction, knowing he'd hooked them both.