Nimrat’s face paled. The reality of it hit like a physical blow.
Meera’s voice softened but stayed serious.
“I can help you only so much as to mediate the meeting. The rest… is up to you.”
Nimrat swallowed hard. “Disciple? I have never even heard of him as a guru.”
Meera smiled faintly, still standing behind her, fingers now tracing light circles on Nimrat’s collarbone.
“He is not a guru of religion, Nimrat. He is a guru of life lessons. You are a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. I would hate to see someone like you ruined when I have the power to prevent it. I can arrange the meeting. That is all I can promise.”
Nimrat turned in her chair, looking up at Meera with searching eyes.
“Are *you* also his disciple?”
Meera met her gaze without hesitation.
“Of course I am. Because of his blessings I was able to conceive my child… and that is why my husband cannot refuse his commands.”
But what Meera left unsaid — the dark, filthy truth that only she, her husband, and Maan Singh knew — was far more erotic, far more depraved than any “blessing” or “life lesson.”
In reality, Mr. Irani — the feared and powerful bureaucrat everyone in Delhi and Mumbai bowed to — had been a complete, willing cuckold for thirty long years.
Three decades ago, when Meera had desperately wanted a child and her husband’s seed proved too weak, Maan Singh had stepped in. For months the tall, commanding Punjabi patriarch had visited their Mumbai apartment almost every night. He would make Mr. Irani sit quietly in the corner chair, fully clothed, while Maan Singh stripped Meera naked on their marital bed. He would fuck her for hours — thick, veined cock stretching her married pussy again and again, flooding her womb with load after heavy load of his potent, Parmanu-laced seed. Meera would moan like a whore, legs wrapped around his waist, begging “Aur zor se, Maan ji… poori tarah bhar do mujhe…” while her husband watched, cock leaking in his pants but forbidden to touch her until Maan Singh had finished breeding her.
Only after Maan Singh had personally confirmed her pregnancy — after he had claimed her body completely — did he allow Mr. Irani to enter his own wife again.
And even now, at 52, whenever Maan Singh came to Mumbai, the same ritual continued. Meera would drop to her knees the moment he entered their home. She would suck his massive cock with the same hungry devotion, then bend over or spread her legs so he could fuck her raw — sometimes in front of her husband, sometimes while Mr. Irani was made to record every thrust on video. Her body still belonged to the hunter. Her pussy still clenched and squirted only for him. Her husband knew. He accepted. He even thanked Maan Singh afterward.
Because in their world, Maan Singh was not just a man.
He was the Master.
And soon… very soon… Nimrat was going to learn exactly what being his “disciple” truly meant.
Nimrat’s voice was barely above a whisper, cracked with the weight of everything crashing down at once.
“How… how do I become his disciple?”
Meera stepped around the chair again, returning to face Nimrat directly. She sat on the edge of the low marble table between them, close enough that their knees almost touched. Her black dress rode up slightly on her thighs, but she made no move to adjust it. Her eyes held Nimrat’s with quiet intensity.
“We have to go to him,” Meera explained, voice steady and low. “You travel to his village — it’s a few hours from Chandigarh, remote, quiet. If he accepts you — and I am sure he will, because you are a woman fighting to get back on her feet, a mother, someone who has suffered loss and still stands tall — then the real process begins. You stay at his place. Not in some guest room. In his home. For either 7 days, 14 days, or 21 days… depending on how much work you have to do.”
Nimrat’s eyes widened. “Twenty-one days?” Her mind raced to the timeline Meera had just painted. “By that time the CBI enquiry… the raids… everything will be over. My boutique, my accounts—”
Meera raised a single finger, cutting her off gently but firmly.
“If you start your journey as his disciple — if you step onto that path the moment we leave here — he will already do the needful. The enquiry will be stalled. The files will disappear from priority lists. Your husband’s influence will be quietly redirected. But you must complete the process. Only then will you be called an actual disciple. Don’t worry about the timing. After the first initiation… you will yourself want to finish it. You will crave it.”
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