The Unicorn Family
Copyright© 2026 by TheUncommonIndian
Chapter 4: The Rescue
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Rescue - This story is a work of erotic fiction set in an alternate India where polygamy and same-sex marriage are legal and socially accepted. All characters are adults. All relationships are consensual and built on mutual respect and genuine affection.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Celebrity Fan Fiction Rags To Riches School Sharing Mother Son Niece Aunt Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Cream Pie First Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Safe Sex Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Size Teacher/Student Indian Erotica AI Generated
Three months passed. Sanju’s life had become a whirlwind of passion and purpose. He was dating both Harleen and Nancy openly, and both women knew about each other. The legal and social norms of polyamorous dating made it acceptable, even common. They had met once, at Sanju’s insistence, and the encounter had been surprisingly cordial. Nancy, despite her jealous streak, found that she actually liked Harleen--the doctor was smart and kind and clearly made Sanju happy. Harleen, for her part, admired Nancy’s fierce loyalty.
They were not yet a triad, but the potential was there, simmering beneath the surface.
Sanju’s secret life as a tech genius continued. His anonymous apps were helping millions of Indians navigate bureaucracy, access healthcare, and find jobs. His wealth, hidden behind layers of shell companies and offshore accounts, continued to grow. And his mother, a shrewd woman who had guessed more than she let on, simply smiled when he came home with that particular glow that only a woman’s touch could impart.
“Just be careful,” she told him one evening. “And bring them home. Don’t go to hotels. People talk.”
He nodded, understanding the wisdom in her words.
It was on a Tuesday evening that everything changed again.
Sushma lived in the flat opposite his. She was twenty-seven, a milky-white beauty with a body that would make girls weep with envy. Her skin was the color of fresh cream, and her hair was a cascade of dark curls that fell to her waist. Her breasts were magnificent--huge, perfectly round globes that sat high on her chest, so firm and perky that they seemed to defy not just gravity but the very laws of nature. She was an assistant director and choreographer in the film industry, a behind-the-scenes genius who had no interest in being in front of the camera despite the constant offers.
Sanju and Sushma had been best friends for years. She was the one person, besides his mother, who knew about his martial arts prowess. She had seen him practice on the rooftop, his body moving through the ancient forms with lethal grace. She was the one who called him when she needed to vent about her day, the one who brought him homemade biryani when he was coding late into the night.
Tonight, she had called him with a tremor in her voice.
“Sanju, I need a favour. Can you come pick me up from the studio? I ... I don’t feel safe.”
He didn’t ask questions. He just grabbed his keys and went.
The studio was in Film City, a sprawling complex of sound stages and sets. When Sanju arrived, he found Sushma and Anveshi huddled inside a cramped props closet, the air thick with dust and fear. Sushma’s kurti was ripped at the shoulder, the fabric hanging by threads, exposing the milky-white swell of her upper chest. Anveshi was worse off -- a deep gash on her forearm bled steadily, staining her torn sleeve crimson, and her beautiful face was marred by scratches and the beginning of a bruise on her cheekbone. Both women leaned heavily against each other, their legs trembling, their eyes unfocused.
“They drugged us,” Sushma slurred, clutching his arm as soon as he knelt beside them. “Something in the water they gave us. We didn’t drink much, but ... I can’t feel my legs properly.”
“Not enough to knock us out,” Anveshi added, her voice shaky but laced with a desperate fury. “But enough to make us easy targets. They tried ... they ripped at our clothes before we got away. Sanju, they’re still out there, looking for us.”
Sanju’s jaw tightened. He quickly tore a strip from his own t-shirt and bound Anveshi’s bleeding arm as best he could. “Stay here. Don’t move, no matter what you hear. I’ll deal with them.”
“There are five of them,” Sushma whispered, tears cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
He kissed her forehead, then Anveshi’s, tasting salt and fear. “Lock the door behind me.”
The moment he stepped out of the closet, the studio door at the far end of the corridor burst open. Five men poured out, their faces twisted with entitlement and the alcohol they’d been consuming. Vikram led them. The others were armed-- metal rods, a wooden camera stabilizer bar, and in the hands of the largest thug, a thick iron pipe.
“There he is! The little boyfriend,” Vikram sneered, his words slurring. “You think one scrawny kid can protect them? Boys, let’s make an example. Break his legs first, then we’ll have fun with the whores.”
Sanju didn’t waste words. He stepped forward, body dropping into a low, relaxed stance, hands open. The corridor was narrow, limiting how many could come at him at once. He’d use that.
The first two rushed together, the man with the metal rod swinging wildly at his head. Sanju slipped inside the arc, palm-heeling the attacker’s throat with a sickening crunch. The man dropped, gurgling. Without pause, Sanju spun and caught the second man’s wrist -- the one with the wooden bar -- and wrenched it behind his back, using his momentum to hurl him headfirst into the concrete wall. The sickening thud was followed by silence.
But the third man was already on him, landing a brutal kick to Sanju’s ribs that sent a shockwave of pain through his side. Sanju grunted, staggering, and in that split second, the fourth man brought the iron pipe down across his back. The blow was immense, a firecracker of agony that made his vision white out. He fell to one knee, gasping.
“That’s it! Get him!” Vikram screamed.
Sanju forced himself up, ignoring the burning in his back, and caught the next swing of the pipe with his forearm. Bone met iron with a crack that was not a break, but a deep, bruising impact. He trapped the weapon, twisted it free, and used the pipe’s own momentum to smash the man across the jaw. Teeth flew. The man collapsed.
Now Vikram lunged with the knife, slicing through the air in a savage arc. Sanju sidestepped, but the blade caught his shoulder, parting skin and muscle. Hot blood streamed down his arm. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he trapped Vikram’s knife hand, stepped into his guard, and delivered a rapid series of blows -- elbow to the nose, knee to the groin, and a knife-hand strike to the wrist that sent the blade skittering away. Vikram screamed as bones snapped in his forearm.
But the remaining man -- the one who’d kicked him earlier -- had retrieved a heavy camera tripod. He swung it like a baseball bat. Sanju saw it coming, but his body was slow with screaming pain, ribs searing, back a mass of bruises. He couldn’t dodge in time. He took the hit.
The metal connected with his skull with a sound like a melon splitting. Sanju’s world dissolved into stars, then darkness. He didn’t feel his knees buckle. Didn’t hear Sushma’s muffled scream from inside the closet. Didn’t see the sudden, brilliant flash of a phone camera from the far end of the corridor.
Unbeknownst to everyone in that bloody hallway, Sushma had been recording. Through a crack in the closet door, she’d held up her phone with trembling hands, capturing every damning moment -- the drugged state of the women, the weapons, the assault. She’d learned to document everything in the film industry; it was the only way to survive. Now her footage would be their salvation.
But it was another woman who brought the law.
Meera Kapoor, one of the country’s most respected journalists, had been at Film City that evening to be felicitated during a women’s event, which was being held here because three of the other awardees were from the film industry. She’d taken a wrong turn in the labyrinthine corridors, following the sounds of shouting and violence. When she rounded the corner and saw the carnage -- five men, armed, beating a lone figure into the ground while two women’s terrified cries filtered from a closet -- she didn’t hesitate. She dialed 100, barking orders with the authority of someone who had covered war zones, and made the most powerful ministers squirm.
“Police! Ambulance! Now! Film City, Stage 14B, east corridor. Five assailants, one victim down, two women trapped. Send everyone!” She mentioned her name and credentials, which she knew would greatly speed up the help.
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