14-03-2026, 02:22 PM
Chapter 4: Madhavan’s Real-Time Test
Three days later.
The secret lab thrummed with a low, electric hum as Rahul lay sprawled across a narrow cot, its thin mattress dipping under his newly chiseled frame. Three days had vanished in a blur of chemical fog—a harsh brew of the time machine’s alchemy and the whiskey still curdling in his stomach from that reckless crash. Neon tubes flickered overhead, bathing the steel tables in a cold, bluish glow—vials glinted like frozen tears, wires coiled like sleeping snakes—and a sharp tang of antiseptic mixed with faint ozone bit at the air.
Dr. Madhavan stood nearby, mid-40s, sharp jaw set beneath a cap shadowing salt-and-pepper hair. His pristine lab coat swished faintly as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, eyes flicking between monitors and Rahul’s form. Assistants in blue scrubs moved like silent specters—until Rahul stirred. His head thudded like a hammer against stone. He squinted into the harsh light, muscles tightening—unfamiliar, powerful. Beard trimmed close, gray streaks gone; fair skin glowed crisp and youthful, as if time had peeled back a decade and a half.
Madhavan knelt, pressing a stethoscope’s icy disc to Rahul’s bare chest. The cold jolted him awake. “You’re lucky,” Madhavan said, voice smooth but stern. “Booze and chemicals nearly fried your liver. Took extra stabilizers to pull you through the shock.”
Rahul sat up slowly, cot groaning under lighter weight. Body pulsed with raw life—sculpted to twenty: 6'5" lean strength, broad shoulders to narrow waist, abs etched taut. He flexed fingers—no tremble, no ache. Power felt intoxicating, dangerous—like a weapon he hadn’t earned.
Madhavan leaned closer. “Physically twenty. Mentally still thirty-six. Don’t overdo it—strain could shred tissues, reverse gains overnight. Heart, lungs, recalibrated but fragile.”
He pressed a small amber bottle into Rahul’s hand—pills clinked like pebbles. “One every twelve hours. Stabilizers. Miss a dose, clock accelerates.” Thick envelope landed next—30 lakhs rustled. “Your advance. Use wisely. Here’s a contact—brilliant at new IDs for your… new appearance. Extra cash for clothes, whatever.
Lets say its a
Farewell gift from the ‘Madman.’”
Rahul met his eyes—intense dark gaze framed by chiseled jaw, short wavy black hair damp. Stood, legs steady. Shook hand—firm grip made Madhavan’s eyebrow twitch.
“So you mean I’m ready to go out now?” Rahul asked. “Why was I blacked out just a few hours ago?”
Madhavan smiled. “Not hours—three days. Your body panicked after emergence—sudden changes. Needed twenty-four-hour rest; you took seventy-two. Vitals are stable. You’re free to go. Do whatever you want, but remember: return by day 89.”
“Thanks,” Rahul murmured—voice deeper, clearer, youthful timbre laced with old bitterness.
Madhavan nodded. “Shouldn’t let you out. But when you volunteered… I realized it wasn’t just 30 lakhs. Task? Goal? Revenge? Whatever—I won’t ask. Win-win: you get what you want; I get real-time data. This cash is bonus.”
Rahul looked at him, he thought he was just a mad scientist but he analyzed him without saying.. best part he didn't ask what it bothers him that he risked himself with experiement.
Madhavan looked at him and said.
“Real-time test,” he added with a grin. “Let’s see what you do with it.”
Ravi got him all the clothes, files he needed, 20 mins later all set for him to leave the lab. he noted all tablets, took and kept in the bag.
Rahul turned, hugged him impulsively. “Thanks. I won’t forget you.” Madhavan handed a new phone and SIM. “Contact via this.”
Another hug—then Rahul departed.
Warehouse door clanged shut like a coffin lid. Ravi lingered by dented Mercedes, frowning. “Why send him? Should observe.”
Madhavan adjusted cap, sly grin. “Best data from the wild. Keep him here? Idle—no work, no physical stress. I want real world: fights, junk food, sex.
Day 89—we’ll see side effects is there or not. In case of Failure? If his Body betrays him first. We wont have any tag, he would never have any link with us as his fate would end outside our lab. But if he survives Ninety days. Our experiement and finding will flourish and rule the glam world and elite world”
Rahul walked away, envelope tucked in borrowed jacket. Mumbai dawn hummed—honking autos, chaiw,.'s, distant trains. Eyes followed him—women glancing twice, men sizing the tall stranger. Old body invisible; this one commanded space.
He headed to his old PG room first. He tried to open the door with the key. Hearing the noise, An old neighbor opened, squinted. “Who’re you? This is Rahul’s room—how’d you get the key?”
Rahul froze—new face. “I’m his relative. He gave me the key.”
Doubt flickered. “Rahul’s missing—accident rumor. You a thief pretending?”
Others gathered, murmuring. Rahul backed off—no convincing without risk. He feared if his new mask will be revealed out. Walked away fast.
Hailed auto to cheap Andheri lodge—cash, no questions. Dim bathroom mirror: new hero reborn. Fair skin smooth/radiant, high cheekbones sharp, full lips in natural half-smile. Intense dark eyes burned with rooftop rage, now youth-framed—no bags, no dullness. Short wavy black hair fell right, light stubble edged without aging. Shirt clung to defined pecs/shoulders; pants hugged narrow hips/strong thighs.
Stripped shirtless—abs rippled, V-lines to cock stirring at reflection. Hard, thick, ready. Gripped sink, knuckles white.
“Anandhi,” whispered. “You thought I was done. Watch me now.”
He turned the shower on full blast. Hot water cascaded over skin that felt electrified—every droplet hit like a fingertip, nerves singing louder than before. The new body was hypersensitive: water tracing down his chest made his nipples tighten instantly, the stream running over his abs felt like teasing tongues. His cock surged harder than he’d ever known—thicker, heavier, veins pulsing visibly, head already slick and flushed deep red. It throbbed with a power that bordered on painful, lifting straight up against his stomach without needing a single stroke.
He wrapped his fist around it—skin hotter, smoother, grip tighter than memory. First stroke drew a low groan from his throat. Sensitivity was insane; every ridge of his fingers sent sparks straight to his balls. He closed his eyes and let the fantasies flood.
Started with a Bollywood actress—some curvy item girl from last year’s hit song—imagining her oiled body grinding on him. But within seconds the vision twisted, replaced by the one face he couldn’t escape.
Anandhi.
Not the video version. His version. The one he owned.
He saw her flushed cheeks exactly as in the fake clip, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. But now she was looking up at him—young him—mouth open in that same gasp he knew too well. Her 34D breasts heaved, nipples dark and stiff, the same heavy curves he used to worship. Saree bunched cruelly at her waist, meaty hips rolling up desperately, thighs trembling as they locked around his new, stronger waist. Nails digging into his shoulders the exact way they once did—except now she was begging the younger, harder man who could fuck her senseless for hours.
He stroked faster. The new cock felt unbreakable—staying rock-hard even after the first edge, recovery instant. Pre-cum leaked in thick strands, mixing with shower water. He imagined her voice—those soft, rhythmic moans turning sharp and broken as he slammed deep: “Rahul… oh no, Rahul… harder…” Her legs pulling him in exactly like the video, but this time for him, her husband, the man she thought she’d lost.
His hips bucked into his fist on their own. Balls drew up tight. The orgasm hit like a freight train—stronger, longer, more violent than anything in his old body. Thick ropes of cum painted the shower wall, pulse after pulse, and still his cock stayed iron-hard, ready for round two in seconds. The sensitivity made every aftershock feel like a mini-climax.
He leaned against the tiles, breathing ragged, water still pouring. No shame. Only sharper hunger.
This body wasn’t just young. It was built for revenge.
After the bath and the release, Rahul’s mind sharpened.
His plan was simple: Go to the town, befriend Anandhi under a new identity, tell her he’s Rahul’s distant relative. When she’s alone and vulnerable, seduce her. A bitch like her will crave new cock—she’ll succumb. Fuck her mercilessly, then reveal the truth: she just fucked her own husband.
Before the shock fades, ridicule her—tell her he’s young and prime again while she’s aged, out of trend, no match for his energy. Then expose her to the town: let them whisper that Anandhi got fucked by a young stranger for a few thousand rupees. She’ll beg them to believe the young man is her husband; he’ll deny it and walk away laughing.
Perfect humiliation.
But the kids… Riya’s drawings, Rohan’s chatter. Dragging them into adult filth would shatter their peace. He felt a stab of guilt—real guilt. So he adjusted: seduce her, fuck her, reveal the truth, humiliate her at least inside four walls. No public spectacle. Not yet.
One thing stayed locked: he would make her come undone for him again. And she would never see it coming.
He dressed—fitted black shirt, slim jeans, sneakers from a street stall. Contacted Madhavan’s guy—voicemail: “Out south for marriage function. Back in a week.”
Roadblock.
Rahul stared at the new phone for three seconds, then opened the booking app.
He booked a flight to Chennai—leaving in four hours. One-way. Cash. The ID contact was somewhere down south anyway; might as well chase him there, get the papers sorted, then disappear into the town as Rahul himself.
Ninety days. Day 4 ticking.
He grabbed his bag, stepped out into the humid afternoon, and didn’t look back.
Revenge time had officially begun.
Three days later.
The secret lab thrummed with a low, electric hum as Rahul lay sprawled across a narrow cot, its thin mattress dipping under his newly chiseled frame. Three days had vanished in a blur of chemical fog—a harsh brew of the time machine’s alchemy and the whiskey still curdling in his stomach from that reckless crash. Neon tubes flickered overhead, bathing the steel tables in a cold, bluish glow—vials glinted like frozen tears, wires coiled like sleeping snakes—and a sharp tang of antiseptic mixed with faint ozone bit at the air.
Dr. Madhavan stood nearby, mid-40s, sharp jaw set beneath a cap shadowing salt-and-pepper hair. His pristine lab coat swished faintly as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, eyes flicking between monitors and Rahul’s form. Assistants in blue scrubs moved like silent specters—until Rahul stirred. His head thudded like a hammer against stone. He squinted into the harsh light, muscles tightening—unfamiliar, powerful. Beard trimmed close, gray streaks gone; fair skin glowed crisp and youthful, as if time had peeled back a decade and a half.
Madhavan knelt, pressing a stethoscope’s icy disc to Rahul’s bare chest. The cold jolted him awake. “You’re lucky,” Madhavan said, voice smooth but stern. “Booze and chemicals nearly fried your liver. Took extra stabilizers to pull you through the shock.”
Rahul sat up slowly, cot groaning under lighter weight. Body pulsed with raw life—sculpted to twenty: 6'5" lean strength, broad shoulders to narrow waist, abs etched taut. He flexed fingers—no tremble, no ache. Power felt intoxicating, dangerous—like a weapon he hadn’t earned.
Madhavan leaned closer. “Physically twenty. Mentally still thirty-six. Don’t overdo it—strain could shred tissues, reverse gains overnight. Heart, lungs, recalibrated but fragile.”
He pressed a small amber bottle into Rahul’s hand—pills clinked like pebbles. “One every twelve hours. Stabilizers. Miss a dose, clock accelerates.” Thick envelope landed next—30 lakhs rustled. “Your advance. Use wisely. Here’s a contact—brilliant at new IDs for your… new appearance. Extra cash for clothes, whatever.
Lets say its a
Farewell gift from the ‘Madman.’”
Rahul met his eyes—intense dark gaze framed by chiseled jaw, short wavy black hair damp. Stood, legs steady. Shook hand—firm grip made Madhavan’s eyebrow twitch.
“So you mean I’m ready to go out now?” Rahul asked. “Why was I blacked out just a few hours ago?”
Madhavan smiled. “Not hours—three days. Your body panicked after emergence—sudden changes. Needed twenty-four-hour rest; you took seventy-two. Vitals are stable. You’re free to go. Do whatever you want, but remember: return by day 89.”
“Thanks,” Rahul murmured—voice deeper, clearer, youthful timbre laced with old bitterness.
Madhavan nodded. “Shouldn’t let you out. But when you volunteered… I realized it wasn’t just 30 lakhs. Task? Goal? Revenge? Whatever—I won’t ask. Win-win: you get what you want; I get real-time data. This cash is bonus.”
Rahul looked at him, he thought he was just a mad scientist but he analyzed him without saying.. best part he didn't ask what it bothers him that he risked himself with experiement.
Madhavan looked at him and said.
“Real-time test,” he added with a grin. “Let’s see what you do with it.”
Ravi got him all the clothes, files he needed, 20 mins later all set for him to leave the lab. he noted all tablets, took and kept in the bag.
Rahul turned, hugged him impulsively. “Thanks. I won’t forget you.” Madhavan handed a new phone and SIM. “Contact via this.”
Another hug—then Rahul departed.
Warehouse door clanged shut like a coffin lid. Ravi lingered by dented Mercedes, frowning. “Why send him? Should observe.”
Madhavan adjusted cap, sly grin. “Best data from the wild. Keep him here? Idle—no work, no physical stress. I want real world: fights, junk food, sex.
Day 89—we’ll see side effects is there or not. In case of Failure? If his Body betrays him first. We wont have any tag, he would never have any link with us as his fate would end outside our lab. But if he survives Ninety days. Our experiement and finding will flourish and rule the glam world and elite world”
Rahul walked away, envelope tucked in borrowed jacket. Mumbai dawn hummed—honking autos, chaiw,.'s, distant trains. Eyes followed him—women glancing twice, men sizing the tall stranger. Old body invisible; this one commanded space.
He headed to his old PG room first. He tried to open the door with the key. Hearing the noise, An old neighbor opened, squinted. “Who’re you? This is Rahul’s room—how’d you get the key?”
Rahul froze—new face. “I’m his relative. He gave me the key.”
Doubt flickered. “Rahul’s missing—accident rumor. You a thief pretending?”
Others gathered, murmuring. Rahul backed off—no convincing without risk. He feared if his new mask will be revealed out. Walked away fast.
Hailed auto to cheap Andheri lodge—cash, no questions. Dim bathroom mirror: new hero reborn. Fair skin smooth/radiant, high cheekbones sharp, full lips in natural half-smile. Intense dark eyes burned with rooftop rage, now youth-framed—no bags, no dullness. Short wavy black hair fell right, light stubble edged without aging. Shirt clung to defined pecs/shoulders; pants hugged narrow hips/strong thighs.
Stripped shirtless—abs rippled, V-lines to cock stirring at reflection. Hard, thick, ready. Gripped sink, knuckles white.
“Anandhi,” whispered. “You thought I was done. Watch me now.”
He turned the shower on full blast. Hot water cascaded over skin that felt electrified—every droplet hit like a fingertip, nerves singing louder than before. The new body was hypersensitive: water tracing down his chest made his nipples tighten instantly, the stream running over his abs felt like teasing tongues. His cock surged harder than he’d ever known—thicker, heavier, veins pulsing visibly, head already slick and flushed deep red. It throbbed with a power that bordered on painful, lifting straight up against his stomach without needing a single stroke.
He wrapped his fist around it—skin hotter, smoother, grip tighter than memory. First stroke drew a low groan from his throat. Sensitivity was insane; every ridge of his fingers sent sparks straight to his balls. He closed his eyes and let the fantasies flood.
Started with a Bollywood actress—some curvy item girl from last year’s hit song—imagining her oiled body grinding on him. But within seconds the vision twisted, replaced by the one face he couldn’t escape.
Anandhi.
Not the video version. His version. The one he owned.
He saw her flushed cheeks exactly as in the fake clip, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. But now she was looking up at him—young him—mouth open in that same gasp he knew too well. Her 34D breasts heaved, nipples dark and stiff, the same heavy curves he used to worship. Saree bunched cruelly at her waist, meaty hips rolling up desperately, thighs trembling as they locked around his new, stronger waist. Nails digging into his shoulders the exact way they once did—except now she was begging the younger, harder man who could fuck her senseless for hours.
He stroked faster. The new cock felt unbreakable—staying rock-hard even after the first edge, recovery instant. Pre-cum leaked in thick strands, mixing with shower water. He imagined her voice—those soft, rhythmic moans turning sharp and broken as he slammed deep: “Rahul… oh no, Rahul… harder…” Her legs pulling him in exactly like the video, but this time for him, her husband, the man she thought she’d lost.
His hips bucked into his fist on their own. Balls drew up tight. The orgasm hit like a freight train—stronger, longer, more violent than anything in his old body. Thick ropes of cum painted the shower wall, pulse after pulse, and still his cock stayed iron-hard, ready for round two in seconds. The sensitivity made every aftershock feel like a mini-climax.
He leaned against the tiles, breathing ragged, water still pouring. No shame. Only sharper hunger.
This body wasn’t just young. It was built for revenge.
After the bath and the release, Rahul’s mind sharpened.
His plan was simple: Go to the town, befriend Anandhi under a new identity, tell her he’s Rahul’s distant relative. When she’s alone and vulnerable, seduce her. A bitch like her will crave new cock—she’ll succumb. Fuck her mercilessly, then reveal the truth: she just fucked her own husband.
Before the shock fades, ridicule her—tell her he’s young and prime again while she’s aged, out of trend, no match for his energy. Then expose her to the town: let them whisper that Anandhi got fucked by a young stranger for a few thousand rupees. She’ll beg them to believe the young man is her husband; he’ll deny it and walk away laughing.
Perfect humiliation.
But the kids… Riya’s drawings, Rohan’s chatter. Dragging them into adult filth would shatter their peace. He felt a stab of guilt—real guilt. So he adjusted: seduce her, fuck her, reveal the truth, humiliate her at least inside four walls. No public spectacle. Not yet.
One thing stayed locked: he would make her come undone for him again. And she would never see it coming.
He dressed—fitted black shirt, slim jeans, sneakers from a street stall. Contacted Madhavan’s guy—voicemail: “Out south for marriage function. Back in a week.”
Roadblock.
Rahul stared at the new phone for three seconds, then opened the booking app.
He booked a flight to Chennai—leaving in four hours. One-way. Cash. The ID contact was somewhere down south anyway; might as well chase him there, get the papers sorted, then disappear into the town as Rahul himself.
Ninety days. Day 4 ticking.
He grabbed his bag, stepped out into the humid afternoon, and didn’t look back.
Revenge time had officially begun.
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