Adultery Flowers of The Mansion

[Deeraaan]

The monsoon had left Kolkata's streets slick and steaming, the air thick with jasmine and decay. Inside the marble-floored foyer of the Roy mansion, Mrs. Indrani Roy adjusted a strand of pearls at her throat, her silk sari whispering as she moved toward the disturbance at the gate. A figure hunched in the downpour, skeletal and dripping, one arm clutched awkwardly against his chest like a broken bird's wing.

"Babu, have mercy," the man rasped, his voice raw as gravel under a boot. Water streamed from his threadbare shirt, pooling around bare feet crusted with dirt. "The truck... it crushed my hand." He uncurled his fingers just enough to reveal swollen, purple knuckles glistening in the porch light.

Indrani’s lips tightened. Disgust warred with duty—charity was expected of the Roys, pillars of Kolkata’s elite. Behind her, her daughter-in-law, Aparna, peered over her shoulder, plump fingers twisting the gold bangles on her wrist. "He’ll die out here, Ma," Aparna murmured, her doe eyes wide with performative pity.

The servants had gathered silently, their expressions unreadable. It was old Subodh, the gardener, who broke the stillness. "He’s no beggar, Memsaab," he said softly. "Saw him near the docks last week. Ran when the security officer vans came."

But Indrani waved him off. "Bring him to the servants' quarters. And fetch Dr. Mukherjee." Her gaze lingered on the intruder’s sunken cheeks, the fever-bright eyes that darted from her jewels to Aparna’s full hips. A tremor of unease prickled her spine—something feral in that stare, like a street dog eyeing meat.

In the cramped, damp servants' quarters, the man called himself Ratan. He sat hunched on a cot, Dr. Mukherjee's thick fingers prodding the grotesque swelling of his hand. Ratan hissed through yellowed teeth, his gaze darting past the doctor's shoulder to where Aparna lingered near the doorway. Her silk kurta clung to the curve of her waist, the damp monsoon air making the fabric sheer where it stretched across her breasts. She shifted, uncomfortable under his unblinking stare, yet didn't leave. "Will he recover, Doctor?" she asked, her voice soft with a concern that felt rehearsed.

"Broken metacarpals," Dr. Mukherjee grunted, splinting the mangled hand with rough efficiency. "He'll need weeks of rest. No work." He packed his bag, casting a dismissive glance at Ratan's gaunt frame and threadbare clothes. "Keep it clean, or gangrene sets in." As the doctor left, Ratan slumped back, feigning exhaustion. His eyes, however, tracked Aparna's every movement – the nervous flutter of her hands smoothing her sari, the slight part of her lips as she breathed. He let a whimper escape. "Water... please, Memsaab?"

Aparna hesitated, glancing towards the main house where her husband, Vikram, would be engrossed in his ledgers. Duty warred with instinct. Finally, she poured water from a clay pot into a tin cup. Her fingers brushed his as she handed it over, a fleeting, electric contact. Ratan drank slowly, letting water trickle down his chin onto his filthy shirt, his gaze locked on hers. "You are... kind," he rasped, imbuing the words with a raw vulnerability that belied the calculation behind his sunken eyes. "Like a goddess."

Later that night, the mansion slept under the drumming rain. Ratan slipped from his cot, his broken hand a dull, manageable throb. He moved with unsettling silence, a shadow flitting past the snoring cook. His destination: the family wing. He paused outside Aparna's bedroom door, pressing his ear against the heavy teak. Inside, the rhythmic murmur of Vikram’s snoring was punctuated by Aparna’s restless sigh. Ratan’s lips curled into a thin, predatory smile. He traced a filthy fingernail down the polished wood, leaving an invisible mark. Then, soundless as smoke, he retreated, melting back into the servants' quarters before dawn’s first grey light touched the high windows. The hunt had begun.

Days blurred into a performance of pathetic gratitude. Ratan shuffled through chores assigned out of pity – polishing silverware under Subodh’s suspicious gaze, sorting lentils with clumsy fingers. He made himself small, harmless, his eyes perpetually downcast. Yet, his presence seeped into the household’s rhythm. He’d "accidentally" brush against Aparna’s arm as she passed, his touch lingering a fraction too long. He’d catch her eye when Vikram droned on about business, offering a fleeting, conspiratorial look of shared boredom that made her flush and glance away. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was a raspy whisper laden with suggestive undertones masked as reverence. "The rain makes the garden smell like jasmine, Memsaab," he’d murmur as she walked by, watching her hips sway. "Like your perfume."

The heat intensified, clinging like wet silk. Indrani Roy found him one afternoon near the verandah, ostensibly tending to wilting orchids. Sweat plastered his thin shirt to his bony frame. He looked up, meeting her imperious gaze not with submission, but with a startling intensity. "Forgive me, Memsaab," he breathed, his voice thick. "The heat... it reminds me of the fever that took my mother." He let his gaze drop, feigning weakness, swaying slightly. A flicker of something – not pity, but a primal recognition – crossed Indrani’s stern face before she snapped, "Get back to work!" Yet she watched his retreating figure, the sharp angles of his shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his walk, long after he vanished into the shadows.

The monsoon broke violently one evening. Thunder shook the mansion. Vikram was stranded at his club. In the dimly lit drawing room, Indrani sipped brandy, her posture rigid. Aparna paced nervously, her silk nightgown clinging damply. Ratan appeared silently in the doorway, holding a flickering kerosene lamp. "The storm," he rasped, his eyes gleaming in the low light, darting between the two women. "It frightens you." It wasn't a question. He took a hesitant step forward, the lamp casting long, dancing shadows that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks and the unsettling hunger in his stare. The air crackled, thick with the storm’s fury and something else, unspoken, dangerous. Aparna’s breath hitched. Indrani’s knuckles whitened around her glass. He stood poised, the ugly intruder in their sanctuary, sensing the fragile dam of their propriety beginning to strain.

[Saima Naaz]

Wonderful and beautiful starting. Please don't hurry up for early sex encounter. Please let there be slow and steady seduction and erotic and double of naughty conversations.

[KGB]

Wonderful and beautiful story has been started.

[Introvert]

Fantastic and fabulous story

[Deeraaan]

Thank you all for the replies

It's my first story so please give me suggestions or ideas how to continue it

[Deeraaan]

Later, alone in her bedroom, Aparna couldn’t shake the image of his eyes on her. The humid air felt suffocating. She paced, the silk whispering against her thighs. A soft knock startled her. Not Vikram’s firm rap. This was tentative, almost furtive. She opened the door a crack. Ratan stood there, silhouetted against the dim corridor light. He held out a single, bruised gardenia, rainwater still clinging to its petals. "For the goddess," he whispered, his voice rough velvet. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts beneath the thin nightgown, lingered there, hot and possessive. Aparna felt a flush spread from her chest to her cheeks, a confusing mix of alarm and a forbidden thrill coiling low in her belly. Her hand trembled as she took the flower, her fingers brushing his calloused ones. He didn’t move away. The silence stretched, charged, broken only by their breathing and the drumming rain. His eyes, dark pools in the gloom, promised things she dared not name.

Downstairs, Indrani poured another brandy. The storm mirrored the turmoil inside her. She recalled the raw vulnerability in Ratan’s voice when he spoke of his mother, the deliberate sway of his hips as he walked away. Charity? Or something darker, more primal? She wandered towards the verandah doors. Lightning flashed, illuminating the garden – and the figure standing just outside, drenched. Ratan. He wasn’t looking at the storm. He was looking up, directly at her window. Their eyes locked across the downpour. He didn’t flinch. Slowly, deliberately, he ran a thin, dirty hand down his own chest, over his flat stomach. A silent, obscene gesture. Indrani gasped, frozen. Disgust warred with a sudden, shocking heat that pooled between her legs. She stumbled back from the window, heart pounding, the taste of brandy and shame thick on her tongue. The storm raged on, but the real tempest had just begun inside the marble walls.

Aparna clutched the bruised gardenia, its scent cloying and sweet. Ratan hadn’t moved from her doorway. His eyes, black pits in the dimness, devoured her – the sheer silk clinging to her heavy breasts, the curve of her belly, the trembling of her thighs. "The storm frightens you," he rasped, not a question. His voice was like gravel scbanging velvet. He took a half-step forward, invading the space. Aparna should have slammed the door. Should have screamed. Instead, a whimper escaped her lips. His good hand, rough and calloused, lifted slowly. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. His fingers hovered inches from the swell of her breast, tracing its outline in the humid air. "So soft," he breathed, the heat of his words washing over her skin. "Like moonlight on milk." The forbidden thrill coiled tighter, a serpent of lust uncoiling low in her belly. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her nipples hardening visibly against the thin silk. She was drowning in the raw, ugly hunger radiating from him.

He saw her body respond. Saw the flush deepen, the slight arch of her back pushing her breasts towards his phantom touch. A flicker of triumph lit his sunken eyes. "Let me stay," he murmured, his voice dropping to a guttural whisper. "Just... guard your door. From the thunder." His gaze slid down, lingering on the shadowed cleft between her thighs. "From other... fears." His meaning was unmistakable. The air crackled. Aparna’s hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles white. Every instinct screamed danger. Yet, the heat pooling within her was undeniable, a molten ache demanding release. She saw Vikram’s distracted indifference, felt the suffocating weight of Roy propriety. And this ugly, skeletal man promised fire. Her lips parted. No sound came out. But she didn’t close the door. She held his gaze, trembling, her silence a louder answer than any word. The rain hammered the roof, a frantic drumbeat echoing the frantic pulse pounding in her throat, between her legs. The goddess was poised on the precipice.

Downstairs, Indrani paced her opulent bedroom. The obscene image of Ratan’s filthy hand tracing his own body burned behind her eyelids. Disgust warred with a treacherous, liquid warmth that made her silk nightgown feel abrasive against her sensitive skin. She poured another brandy, the glass trembling. Lightning flashed again. Without conscious thought, she drifted back to the verandah doors. Peered out. He was still there. Drenched, skeletal, a drowned rat gazing up at her window. Their eyes met once more across the deluge. This time, he smiled. A slow, knowing curl of thin lips that held no warmth, only predatory intent. Then, deliberately, he lifted his splinted hand – the symbol of his supposed helplessness – and pressed it against the front of his soaked trousers, cupping himself. Rubbing slowly. A silent, vulgar declaration. Indrani gasped, a sharp intake of breath that felt like a sob. Horror choked her. Yet, beneath it, a shocking bolt of pure, forbidden arousal seared through her core. Her knees weakened. She clutched the doorframe, her gaze locked on his obscene gesture, unable to look away. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest of shame and raw, unwelcome desire tearing through her.

The mansion slept, unaware. Ratan remained outside Aparna’s door, a gaunt sentinel. He heard her ragged breathing through the wood. Smelled the faint musk of her arousal mingling with the gardenia’s sweetness. He knew her resolve was crumbling. Inside, Aparna pressed her thighs together, trying to stifle the insistent throb. The image of his hungry eyes, his hovering hand, played on a loop. She touched the silk over her nipple, gasped at the electric jolt. Imagined his rough fingers replacing hers. His mouth, hot and demanding. The thought was filthy, degrading… and unbearably exciting. She sank onto the edge of her bed, the gardenia crushed in her damp palm. The scent filled her nostrils, thick and intoxicating. Outside her door, the shadow shifted. A soft, rhythmic scbanging sound began – fingernails, slow and deliberate, dragging down the polished teak. The sound slithered into her room, into her mind, stroking the coiled serpent inside her. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. The scbanging stopped. Silence. Then, his voice, a raw whisper slipping under the door: "Let me taste your rain, Memsaab."

Indrani couldn't tear herself from the verandah doors. Below, Ratan’s obscene pantomime continued – the slow, deliberate rubbing against his soaked trousers, his eyes locked on hers. Lightning flashed, illuminating the stark bulge beneath the wet fabric. Horror warred with a molten pull deep within her. She remembered Vikram’s polite, passionless touches. Remembered decades of sterile perfection. This… this was raw, ugly *life*. A tremor ran through her. Her own hand, seemingly of its own volition, drifted down. Through the thin silk, her fingers brushed the sensitive flesh between her legs. She gasped, shocked at her own wetness, at the desperate ache echoing his crude display. She pressed harder, mimicking his rhythm, a moan escaping her lips. Below, Ratan saw her silhouette shift. Saw the hand move. His smile widened, predatory and triumphant. He pressed harder against himself, thrusting his hips slightly, a vulgar, silent command. Indrani’s eyes fluttered shut. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, her fingers working faster, lost in the shameful, exhilarating taboo unfolding beneath the storm’s fury. The marble fortress was breached. The huntress was becoming the prey.

Inside Aparna’s room, the whispered command – *"Let me taste your rain"* – hung in the humid air like a physical touch. The scbanging fingernails had ignited something primal. Her thighs were slick. The crushed gardenia’s scent mingled with her own musk. Trembling, she stood. The bolt slid back with a soft, decisive click. The door opened just enough. Ratan filled the space instantly, smelling of wet earth, sweat, and danger. His good hand shot out, rough fingers closing around her wrist, pulling her against his bony frame. His other arm, the splinted hand useless, pinned the door shut behind him. His eyes devoured her – the sheer nightgown, the heavy breasts straining against silk, the trembling curve of her belly. "So much sweetness," he rasped, his breath hot on her neck. His free hand slid up her thigh, bunching the silk, fingers finding the soaked heat beneath. Aparna cried out, not in protest, but in shocked relief. His touch was electric, demanding. He pushed a thick finger inside her, curling it expertly. Her knees buckled. He held her up, grinding his hardness against her soft thigh. "You drip for the gutter rat," he growled, biting her earlobe. "Show me." He withdrew his finger, glistening, and pressed it to her lips. Eyes wide with horrified arousal, she tasted herself on his skin – salt and musk and surrender. A whimper escaped as her tongue flicked out, cleaning him. Ratan groaned, low and feral. "Good girl," he breathed, pushing her towards the bed. "Now show me *all* your rain."

He didn't kiss her. Conquest wasn't gentle. He shoved her onto the silk covers, the damp nightgown tearing easily under his frantic hands. Her heavy breasts spilled free, nipples hard and aching. He fell upon them, mouth hot and greedy, sucking, biting, marking the milky skin. Aparna arched, crying out, fingers tangling in his greasy hair, pulling him closer. His hand plunged between her thighs again, two fingers now, thrusting deep, scissoring, finding that swollen bud. She writhed, incoherent sounds spilling from her lips – half-sob, half-plea. He watched her unravel, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "Beg," he commanded, his voice thick. "Beg the gutter rat to fuck his goddess." Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with sweat. "Please," she gasped, hips lifting off the bed, meeting his thrusting fingers. "Please... Ratan..." He grinned, yellowed teeth flashing. He fumbled with his trousers, freeing himself – thick, veined, ugly. He positioned himself at her slick entrance. Leaned close, his breath hot on her face. "Tell me whose cunt this is." Aparna moaned, lost in sensation. "Yours," she breathed. "Only yours." He slammed into her in one brutal stroke, tearing a scream from her throat that echoed through the grand room. "This... this is *violence*." He began to move, deep, punishing thrusts, filling her, stretching her, claiming her. Her cries turned ragged, ecstatic. She wrapped her thick thighs around his bony hips, pulling him deeper, meeting every savage plunge. The storm raged outside. Inside, the aristocratic lady shattered, remade into something hungry and base beneath the ugly criminal’s relentless possession. He owned her thunder. He owned her rain.

Downstairs, Indrani remained frozen at the verandah doors. The rhythmic groan of Aparna’s bedframe, muffled cries, the unmistakable slap of flesh on flesh – it drifted down the grand staircase, carried on the humid air. Each sound was a branding iron on Indrani’s mind. She could still see Ratan’s silhouette against the wet glass, rubbing himself obscenely. Now, she knew what it meant. What he was doing *right now* to her daughter-in-law. Disgust curdled in her stomach, fierce and choking. Yet, beneath it, a molten river surged. Her own fingers, still slick from her frantic touch, trembled against the cool glass. She pictured it: Aparna’s plump, yielding body pinned beneath that scrawny frame. The savage thrusts. The cries torn from her throat – cries that sounded less like pain and more like desperate ecstasy. Indrani’s breath hitched. Her free hand slid beneath the waistband of her silk pajamas, fingers finding the slick heat waiting there. She pressed her forehead harder against the glass, eyes squeezed shut. The sounds from above intensified – a guttural male groan, a high, keening wail from Aparna. Indrani moaned softly, her fingers circling, mimicking the rhythm she imagined above. Shame burned her cheeks, but the arousal was stronger, primal. She imagined *herself* upstairs. Imagined Ratan’s rough hands on her own softer curves, his mouth on her heavy breasts, his ugly hardness filling her. The fantasy was vile, intoxicating. Her hips rocked against her hand. The storm outside mirrored the chaos within – thunderclaps punctuating Aparna’s cries, lightning illuminating Indrani’s reflection: a respectable matron, fingers buried in her cunt, lost in the depraved symphony orchestrated by the gutter rat she’d let inside.

The splinted hand was a clumsy weight, but Ratan used it. He pressed the rough plaster cast against Aparna’s soft, heaving belly, pinning her down as his hips pistoned. Her plump thighs gripped his bony flanks, slick with sweat. Milky flesh rippled with each brutal thrust – her heavy breasts bouncing wildly, the curve of her belly jiggling, the sculpted swell of her hips yielding beneath his assault. He drank in the sight: the aristocratic lady reduced to a writhing, moaning animal beneath him. Her perfect fat was his playground. He buried his face in the pillowy softness of her breasts, biting a swollen nipple, savoring her gasp. "Feel it?" he growled against her skin, thrusting deeper, harder. "Feel the gutter rat claiming his temple?" She whimpered, arching, her fingers clawing at his back. Her body was pure, decadent surrender – softness enveloping his hardness, her thunder thighs trembling as he drove her towards a shattering climax.

Downstairs, the sounds were a siren song. Indrani leaned against the cool glass, her fingers frantic now. Each cry from above – Aparna’s high, broken wails, Ratan’s guttural groans – sent jolts of liquid fire through her core. She pictured it: the ugly, scrawny frame dominating the lush, voluptuous body. The violent claiming. The utter debasement. Her own fingers mimicked the rhythm she imagined – hard, deep circles on her swollen clit. Shame was a distant whisper drowned out by roaring lust. She imagined Ratan’s filthy hands on *her* heavy breasts, his mouth sucking her ripe nipples, his lean hips slamming between *her* plush thighs. The fantasy was obscene, undeniable. A choked moan escaped her lips as she pictured him forcing her legs apart, that thick, ugly cock spearing into her own neglected wetness. Her hips bucked against her hand. The storm outside was forgotten; the only tempest was the one consuming her dignity, leaving only raw, hungry need.

Ratan felt Aparna’s inner walls clench like a silken fist around him. Her body shuddered violently, a raw scream tearing from her throat as climax ripped through her. He laughed, a harsh, triumphant sound. "That's it, goddess," he rasped, pounding into her convulsing heat. "Drench me." He didn't stop. He rode her through the aftershocks, his own release building like a storm surge. He watched her face – flushed, tear-streaked, utterly ruined and beautiful in her surrender. Her plump body was slick, marked, *his*. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside her, claiming her fertile royal womb with his gutter seed. He collapsed onto her, his bony frame pressing into her softness, breathing in the heady scent of sex and crushed gardenia. The huntress lay conquered, her perfect curves molded around his ugliness. One down. The matriarch was next. He could almost taste her shocked arousal drifting up the stairs.

[Kgngff]

Nice n erotic , But amidst this beautiful metaphorical xtravaganza , the sudden n constang toggling b/w scenes , of indrani n aparna , is making it a bit unclr at times..
Also indrani downstairs... & he is looking up at her windows ! How ? Few pegs befuddle her to that xtreme ?? both saas n bahu r seemingly missing the same vikram ???.

[Rumana]

Extremely hot and erotic story

[Fuckstar]

The story looks erotic but the narration is very confusing..... Sometimes Aparna sometimes Indrani...... It's very difficult to understand who is sitting where...... Plus I think Ratan got to fuck Aparna very easily and very quickly...... Like least effort.....

[Pinkboy]

Fantastic update

[Deeraaan]

Indrani’s knees gave way. She slid down the glass door, silk pajamas rucked around her hips, fingers soaked and trembling. Aparna’s final, shattered scream echoed in her skull, followed by Ratan’s triumphant roar. The silence that followed was worse – thick with imagined panting, the wet sounds of possession. Her own climax ripped through her, sharp and shameful, leaving her gasping against the cold marble floor. Disgust warred with a gnawing emptiness. She’d just come to the sounds of her daughter-in-law being violently taken by that… creature. And she’d *wanted* it. Wanted to be the one pinned beneath that scrawny frame. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, a stark contrast to the furnace inside. She pulled her hand away, staring at the glistening evidence of her betrayal. Vikram’s face flashed in her mind – dignified, distant. Ratan’s leer replaced it, promising filth and fire. The marble felt cold. Her body felt hollow. The storm had passed outside, leaving only the dripping eaves and the suffocating silence of the violated mansion. Down the hall, a door creaked open. Soft, hesitant footsteps padded across marble. Indrani froze. Aparna? Coming downstairs? Now? Covered in the criminal’s sweat, his seed? Panic seized her. She scrambled to pull up her pajamas, wiping her hand frantically on the silk. The footsteps paused outside the verandah doors. Indrani held her breath, pressed against the glass in the dark, praying the shadows hid her dishevelment. The handle turned. The door swung inward. Aparna stood silhouetted in the dim light from the hall. Her torn nightgown hung open, revealing bite marks on her heavy breasts. Milky thighs glistened. Her eyes, wide and shell-shocked, met Indrani’s across the threshold. Neither spoke. The air crackled with shared degradation. Ratan’s victory hung between them, thick and obscene. The fortress had fallen. The prey had come to the huntress.

Ratan watched from the shadowed landing above, leaning against the cool wood railing. The splinted hand throbbed dully, a reminder of his vulnerability. Worth it. Below, the two women stood frozen in the aftermath – the voluptuous daughter-in-law trembling in her ruined silk, the matriarch crumpled on the floor, silk pajamas askew, shame radiating off her like heat. He smelled their mingled musk even from here – Aparna’s fresh violation, Indrani’s frantic self-pollution. His thin lips curved. The gardenia’s scent, now laced with sex, clung to the air. He’d cracked Aparna wide open, left her dripping his gutter seed into her royal womb. Now, Indrani… her horrified arousal was palpable. He’d seen her silhouette at the window, seen her hand move. She’d watched him rut her daughter-in-law and gotten off on it. The respectable marble fortress was rotten inside. He shifted, adjusting the painful hardness still straining against his trousers. The hunt wasn’t over. It was just beginning. He’d make the matriarch beg louder than her daughter-in-law. He’d watch them both drown in his filth. The first drops of dawn light crept through the stained glass, painting the carnage below in lurid shades of rose and gold. Ratan faded back into the shadows, a gaunt ghost savoring the ruin. The storm had passed. The real tempest was just stirring.

Indrani couldn’t look away from Aparna’s ruined nightgown, the bite marks blooming like dark roses on her milky breasts. The girl’s thighs glistened, slick with sweat and… *him*. Disgust choked Indrani, thick and acrid. Yet, her own thighs clenched, remembering the frantic pressure of her fingers, the shameful peak she’d reached listening to Aparna’s cries. Her gaze flickered to Aparna’s swollen belly, imagining the gutter rat’s seed already pooling deep inside. The thought sent a forbidden pulse of heat through her own neglected core. She scrambled to her feet, pulling her pajamas closed with trembling hands, desperate to hide the wet patch between her legs. "Aparna," she whispered, voice raw. "What… what have you done?" The question hung in the air, absurd. They both knew. They’d both participated – one actively, one voyeuristically. The shared degradation was a suffocating shroud.

Aparna flinched as if struck. Tears welled in her wide, shell-shocked eyes. "He… he made me," she breathed, voice trembling. But the lie withered instantly under Indrani’s knowing gaze. Her plump shoulders slumped. A shudder ran through her voluptuous frame. "I couldn’t stop him," she amended, softer. Then, horrifyingly, a ghost of something else flickered in her eyes – a dazed, sated exhaustion. She touched her bruised lips. "He… he owns me now." The confession, whispered into the dawn silence, was more devastating than any scream. Indrani felt a fresh wave of nausea, mixed with a treacherous stab of envy. That ugly creature had claimed her daughter-in-law’s perfect, fertile body, filled her womb, and left her broken… yet somehow *alive* in a way Indrani hadn’t felt in decades. The cool marble floor seemed to tilt beneath her.

The silence stretched, thick with unspeakable truths. Then, a soft creak echoed from the grand staircase above. Both women froze, hearts hammering against their ribs. Slowly, deliberately, they turned their heads upwards. Ratan stood halfway down the stairs, leaning casually against the banister. Dawn light caught the sharp angles of his scrawny frame, casting long, predatory shadows. He wasn’t smiling. His dark eyes, flat and assessing, moved slowly from Aparna’s tear-streaked face, down her trembling, marked body, then settled on Indrani. His gaze lingered on the hastily closed pajamas, the flush still staining her neck. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The message was clear in that cold, knowing stare: *You’re next.* He took a single, deliberate step down towards them. The huntress met the hunter’s eyes. Terror warred with a molten, shameful anticipation deep in her belly. The fortress had fallen. Now came the spoils.

Indrani’s breath hitched, trapped in her throat. The weight of his gaze pinned her like a butterfly – seeing the frantic arousal beneath her dishevelment, smelling her own betrayal mixed with Aparna’s violation. She wanted to scream, to order him out, to shield her broken daughter-in-law. Yet, her feet felt rooted to the cold marble. Her traitorous body remembered the phantom pressure of his imagined thrusts, the forbidden heat that had flooded her as she listened. Aparna whimpered beside her, shrinking back against the verandah doorframe, her torn silk barely clinging to her voluptuous curves. Ratan descended another step, his movements unhurried, deliberate. The splinted hand hung uselessly, but his good hand flexed slightly, fingers curling as if already anticipating the soft, yielding flesh awaiting him. His eyes never left Indrani’s, stripping her defenses bare. The dawn light felt like an interrogation lamp.

He reached the bottom step. The air crackled. He stopped mere feet from Indrani, his scent – sweat, rain, sex, and raw danger – washing over her. He ignored Aparna completely now, his entire focus a crushing weight on the matriarch. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze traveled down her body: the heavy swell of her breasts beneath the silk, the curve of her belly, the plush thighs hidden by the pajamas. Indrani felt stripped naked. Then, his good hand lifted, not to touch her, but to gesture vaguely towards the grand salon behind her. His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, devoid of mock deference now, pure command. "In there. Now." It wasn't a request. It was an order to the new master of the house. Indrani’s legs trembled violently. Shame screamed. Lust roared louder. She took a single, faltering step backward towards the shadowed salon doorway. The hunt was over. The claiming had begun.

Aparna watched, frozen, as her mother-in-law obeyed. The sight was more shattering than her own violation. Indrani Roy, the unassailable pillar of Kolkata aristocracy, shuffling towards degradation like a sleepwalker. Ratan finally glanced at Aparna, his eyes cold. "Go clean yourself," he growled. "And be quiet." The dismissal was absolute. Aparna fled towards the servants' stairs, clutching her torn gown, the echo of his possession still slick between her thighs. Indrani stood just inside the salon’s gloom, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the dawn. The scent of old leather and polish couldn't mask the musk radiating from her own body. Ratan closed the double doors behind them with a soft, final click. The sound echoed like a tomb sealing. He turned, silhouetted against the dim light filtering through the curtains. He didn't speak. He simply advanced, his scrawny frame radiating terrifying purpose. Indrani backed up until her calves hit the edge of a heavy mahogany desk. Nowhere else to go. His rough hand shot out, fingers tangling in the silk at her neckline. With one brutal yank, the pajama top tore open. Her heavy breasts spilled free, pale and trembling in the gloom. He stared, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. "Rich milk," he murmured, his free hand already closing possessively over the soft, yielding flesh, kneading hard. Indrani gasped, pain and pleasure lancing through her. His thumb found her stiffening nipple, pinching cruelly. She cried out, arching into the pain. His eyes locked onto hers, triumphant and merciless. "You watched," he accused, his voice thick. "You listened. You touched yourself while I fucked your son's wife." His hand slid down her quivering belly, fingers hooking into the waistband of her silk pants. "Now," he breathed, pulling them down, exposing her plush thighs, the dark triangle of curls, "you'll taste what you craved." He shoved her roughly backward over the desk. The huntress lay conquered, awaiting the gutter rat's feast.

The polished wood was cold against Indrani’s bare back. Her heavy breasts flattened against the chill surface, nipples painfully hard. Ratan loomed over her, his bony frame blocking the slivers of dawn light. He didn’t hesitate. His good hand gripped her plump thigh, forcing it wide, exposing her completely. His gaze burned over her exposed flesh – the soft curve of her belly, the trembling mound, the slick evidence of her shameful arousal. A cruel smirk twisted his lips. "So wet for me, *Maa Saheb*?" he mocked, his voice thick with contempt. "After watching me ruin your *bahu*?" Before she could answer, his head dipped. His mouth, hot and demanding, covered her. Indrani gasped, back arching off the desk as his tongue plunged deep – a filthy, invasive violation. He devoured her, sucking hard on her swollen clit, lapping at her wetness with obscene hunger. Disgust warred with blinding pleasure. She tasted herself on his tongue, mixed with the phantom memory of Aparna’s cries. Her hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of that degrading friction. He growled against her flesh, fingers digging into her thunder thigh, holding her open. "Beg," he commanded, lifting his head, saliva glistening on his chin. "Beg for your gutter rat to fuck you." Tears streaked Indrani’s temples. Her body screamed *yes*. Her dignity screamed *no*. The words choked her. "P-please…" she whispered. He slapped her inner thigh – sharp, stinging. "Louder!" "Please!" she cried, the dam breaking. "Fuck me! *Please*!" Triumph flared in his eyes. He fumbled with his trousers, freeing his thick, ugly cock. He spat onto his palm, slicking himself roughly. No tenderness, no preamble. He shoved her legs wider, the edge of the desk biting into her soft hips, and drove into her with one brutal thrust. Indrani screamed – a raw sound torn from her soul as he filled her, stretching her neglected passage, claiming her with savage ownership. He pistoned into her, his bony hips slamming against her plush flesh, the wet slap of skin echoing in the grand salon. Each thrust hammered home her surrender. She was no longer the matriarch. She was his whore. And as his gutter seed flooded her royal womb, she clung to him, sobbing, utterly broken.

Ratan collapsed onto her, his sweat-drenched skin sticking to her milky softness. His breath rasped hot against her neck. Indrani lay pinned beneath his scrawny weight, feeling his seed leaking from her, pooling on the cold wood beneath her hips. Shame was a lead blanket, but beneath it, a terrifying emptiness yawned. He’d taken everything – her dignity, her family’s honor, her very self. Yet, her traitorous body still hummed with the aftershocks of that brutal claiming. He lifted his head, his dark eyes boring into hers. "Remember this," he hissed, spitting a glob of saliva onto her heaving breast. It landed with a wet splat, trickling down the curve. "You belong to me now. Both of you." He pushed himself off her, tucking his spent cock away with casual obscenity. Indrani slid bonelessly off the desk, crumpling onto the Persian rug, silk pajamas torn around her ankles. She watched, numb, as he adjusted his splinted hand, then turned towards the salon doors. He paused, glancing back. His gaze swept over her naked, trembling form, a final, dismissive assessment. "Clean yourself up," he ordered, his voice flat. "And send breakfast to my room." He walked out, leaving the doors wide open. Indrani shivered, exposed and ruined. Down the hall, a soft sob echoed – Aparna. The fortress wasn’t just breached; it was defiled. And the conqueror expected to be served.

Indrani dragged herself upright, clutching the torn silk to her chest. The grand salon felt cavernous, suffocating. The scent of sex and her own degradation clung thickly. She stumbled towards the hallway, desperate for refuge. As she passed the staircase, she froze. Aparna stood halfway up, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, her tear-streaked face pale as marble. Their eyes met. No words were needed. The shared horror, the shared shame, the shared, impossible arousal – it hung between them like a poisonous fog. Aparna flinched, pulling the shawl tighter over her bruised breasts. "He… he told me to bring him breakfast," she whispered, her voice raw. Indrani’s stomach churned. The gutter rat demanded service from his royal whores. She nodded stiffly, unable to speak. The silence stretched, broken only by the dripping eaves outside. Then, a door clicked open upstairs – Ratan’s door. Both women flinched. The message was clear: *Obey.* Aparna turned and fled silently up the stairs. Indrani watched her go, the plump curves moving beneath the thin shawl. Her own thighs were sticky. Her womb felt heavy with his filth. The hunt was over. The servitude had begun.

Indrani retreated to her private sitting room, locking the door. Leaning against it, she slid down to the floor, trembling violently. She stared at her hands – the hands that had pleasured herself to the sounds of her daughter-in-law’s bang. She could still smell him on her skin. A wave of nausea hit her, followed by a treacherous pulse of heat between her thighs. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images assaulted her: Ratan’s ugly frame pinning Aparna, his mouth on Indrani’s own flesh, the brutal invasion, the flood of his seed. A choked sob escaped her. She was the matriarch, the guardian of tradition. And she’d begged for it. Begged for the gutter rat to ruin her. The lock clicked. Her heart stopped. The door handle turned slowly. She scrambled back, clutching her torn clothes. The door didn’t open. But a low chuckle echoed through the wood – Ratan’s chuckle. He knew she was there. He knew she was broken. He owned the locks too. Indrani buried her face in her knees, the taste of her own degradation thick on her tongue. The fortress walls were paper. The predator was inside. And he was hungry for more.


Can give suggestions how to continue the story but make sure the male members unaware of everything

[Rumana]

Extremely hot and exciting writing.

[Threesome]

Marvelous and fabulous update

[M¡Lf€@TeR]

Next 1 pls bro

[Deeraaan]

Outside, the Roy mansion presented its usual facade of aristocratic grace. Indrani Roy, impeccably dressed in a silk sari, her hair coiled perfectly, presided over the Ladies' Benevolent Society tea with practiced serenity. Her smile was warm, her voice calm as she discussed fundraising for the new orphanage wing. Beside her, Aparna Roy, dbangd in elegant chiffon, poured tea with steady hands, her laughter light as she complimented Mrs. Ghosh’s new pearl necklace. Her voluptuous curves were hidden beneath the flowing fabric, her eyes clear and bright. No trace of the night’s degradation marred their perfect performance. They were pillars of Kolkata society – kind, charitable, utterly respectable. Inside their silk blouses, hidden bruises throbbed. Beneath their petticoats, the phantom ache of violation lingered. They smiled, poured tea, and pretended the world wasn’t rotten at its core.

Ratan drifted through the grand halls like a ghost. His limp was more pronounced today, the splinted hand resting innocently against his dirty shirt. He paused by the grand piano in the music room, running a grimy finger along its polished surface, leaving a faint smudge. He lingered in the library, pulling out a rare leather-bound volume, handling it with clumsy, soiled fingers before carelessly sliding it back askew. He shuffled past the drawing room where Indrani entertained, catching her eye through the open door. For a fleeting second, his lips twitched – not a smile, but the barest hint of a triumphant, predatory smirk. He saw the subtle tightening around her eyes, the almost imperceptible tremor in her hand as she lifted her teacup. He owned the fear behind her serene mask. He owned the flinch beneath Aparna’s gracious smile as he shuffled past her later near the verandah. He owned the grand piano, the leather books, the marble floors. But his most prized possessions weren't things. They were the women who wore silk and poured tea, their bodies still humming with his possession beneath their fine clothes. The uncrowned king surveyed his conquered kingdom.

Indrani’s laughter rang clear and bright during the Kolkata Heritage Society luncheon. “Absolutely, Mrs. Chatterjee,” she agreed, her voice warm and assured, “restoring the old North Calcutta mansion is paramount.” Her elegant fingers gestured gracefully, the heavy gold bangles chiming softly. Inside, her skin crawled where his spit had landed, dried and unseen beneath her pristine sari blouse. Every polite chuckle felt like grit in her throat. She watched Mrs. Ghosh sip her tea, utterly oblivious. If she only knew the taste that lingered beneath Indrani’s own tongue. Aparna, arranging delicate sandesh on a silver platter nearby, caught her eye. A flicker of shared, panicked understanding passed between them before Aparna looked swiftly down, her cheeks flushing beneath her expertly applied powder. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on Indrani’s ribs, making each breath shallow. She smiled wider, discussing architectural preservation, while her womb felt heavy with the filthy seed of the man shuffling innocently in the garden outside.

Aparna knelt gracefully beside a low table in the Ladies' Wing of the city hospital, demonstrating embroidery stitches to a group of recovering women. Her voice was gentle, encouraging. “Like this, see? Small, even stitches.” Her hands moved with practiced ease, the delicate silk thread flowing smoothly. Beneath her flowing kurti, the bite marks on her breasts throbbed dully. The memory of his rough hands gripping her thunder thighs, forcing them apart, flashed behind her eyes. She focused fiercely on the needle piercing the cloth, the tiny, perfect stitch. One of the women complimented her patience. Aparna smiled, soft and kind. “It’s about calm focus,” she murmured, her stomach churning. Calm focus was the fragile dam holding back the floodwaters of remembered violation – the savage thrusts, the guttural commands, the searing stretch of him filling her. She pictured the vial hidden deep within her vanity drawer. *Focus. Stitch.*

Indrani presided over the Roy Foundation meeting in the mansion’s library, her posture regal, her voice decisive. “The scholarship fund for underprivileged girls must be doubled,” she declared, tapping the budget ledger with a perfectly manicured finger. Her gaze swept the assembled trustees, commanding respect. Inside, a phantom ache pulsed deep within her womb, a visceral reminder of Ratan’s brutal claiming. The polished mahogany desk beneath her palms felt cold, echoing the chill of the desk she’d been bent over. She saw Vikram’s approving nod from the head of the table. A wave of nausea threatened. She swallowed it down, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Education is their armor,” she stated firmly. Her own armor felt paper-thin, stained. Later, alone in her bathroom, she’d lock the door, retrieve the discreet bottle from behind a false panel, swallow the bitter pill with trembling hands, washing it down with water that tasted like ashes. *Armor.*

Ratan shuffled past the library doors, carrying a bundle of freshly laundered linens – a menial task assigned to the ‘pitiful’ injured servant. His gaze flickered into the room, lingering on Indrani’s composed profile. He saw the tension in the set of her shoulders, the slight tremor in her clasped hands resting on the ledger. He caught Aparna’s scent lingering near the verandah doors – gardenia soap layered faintly over the musk he knew intimately. A slow, silent smirk stretched his thin lips. He knew the rituals. The careful swallowing of pills bought discreetly from a back-alley chemist, the frantic washings, the desperate attempts to scrub his ownership from their royal wombs. Their bodies took his seed, but their fear denied him heirs. It amused him. Their frantic precautions were just another form of submission. He owned their terror too. He shuffled on, the scent of their hidden shame clinging to the air like his victory.

[Ramva]

Top story. Very Hot

[Kgngff]

Much improved!
& these plots r as usual , fascinating ..

[CIS17]

Amazing update

[Deeraaan]

The stifling afternoon heat dbangd over the mansion like a shroud. Indrani found herself drawn to the shaded verandah, seeking respite she knew she wouldn’t find. Aparna was already there, perched stiffly on a wicker chair, pretending to read a fashion magazine. Her gaze was distant, unfocused. The silence between them was thick, charged with unspoken horrors and shared, illicit knowledge. Indrani sank into the chair opposite, the wicker creaking beneath her weight. She watched a bead of sweat trace a path down Aparna’s neck, disappearing beneath the high collar of her blouse. Her own skin prickled, remembering the brutal heat of his mouth, the scbang of his teeth. She opened her mouth to speak – perhaps platitudes, perhaps shared despair – but the words died as Ratan materialized silently from the garden shadows. He leaned against a marble pillar near the steps leading down to the lawn, watching them. Not with overt menace, but with a possessive stillness that froze the air. He didn't speak. He simply existed, a gaunt monument to their ruin. Aparna’s knuckles whitened on her magazine. Indrani felt a treacherous flutter low in her belly. His gaze was a physical touch, stripping away the silk, reminding them both of their raw, aching vulnerability beneath.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Ratan pushed off the pillar. He didn’t approach the verandah directly. Instead, he shuffled slowly down the shallow steps onto the manicured lawn, stopping amidst a cluster of fragrant night-blooming jasmine bushes. He bent slightly, his splinted hand awkwardly tucked near his chest, his good hand reaching out. He plucked a single, perfect white jasmine bloom. The gesture was incongruous – almost tender. He lifted the flower, its delicate scent carried faintly on the humid breeze towards the women. His dark eyes lifted, locking onto Indrani’s. There was no leer, no crude demand. Just a profound, unsettling intensity. He raised the jasmine bloom slightly, his gaze holding hers, an unspoken offering suspended in the twilight. Indrani’s breath caught. The simple beauty of the flower against his grimy hand was jarring, obscene… yet undeniably compelling. It spoke of a possessiveness that wasn't just brutal, but strangely claiming. Aparna watched, mesmerized, her magazine forgotten in her lap.

Later, under the cloak of darkness, Indrani found the single jasmine bloom resting on her silk dressing gown on the chaise lounge. No note. Just its pure white petals against the deep blue silk, radiating sweetness in the stillness. She picked it up, the stem cool between her fingers. She brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. The fragrance was clean, intoxicating. It shouldn’t belong to him. Yet, it did. And he’d given it to *her*. The memory of his intense gaze flooded back, stripping away the terror, leaving only a bewildering ache. She traced the velvety petals. It felt like the first fragile thread spun by a spider who wasn’t just a predator, but an artist weaving a web she couldn't escape. Desire, sharp and confusing, pierced her shame. She didn't crush the flower. She placed it carefully in a tiny crystal bud vase on her vanity, where dawn light would catch it.

Two nights later, heavy rain lashed the windows. Indrani, restless, paced her dimly lit bedroom. A soft tap at the connecting door to her private sitting room froze her blood. Not Aparna’s tentative knock. This was deliberate. Knowing. Her hand flew to her throat. The door opened silently. Ratan stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the faint glow from the sitting room. He wore only loose trousers, his chest bare, the lines of his scrawny frame stark in the gloom. Rainwater glistened on his skin. He didn’t speak. He simply walked towards her, his movements fluid now, predatory grace replacing the shuffle. He stopped inches away. The scent of rain, earth, and raw male heat enveloped her. He lifted his good hand, not to grab, but to gently brush a stray hair back from her temple. His touch was startlingly soft, yet electric. His dark eyes searched hers, seeing the war within – the terror, the disgust, and the undeniable pull. "You tremble," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through her bones. "Not from fear alone." He leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek. "Let me warm you." The words weren't a command, but a dark, irresistible invitation. Indrani closed her eyes. The fortress was dust. The spider’s silk held her fast. She leaned into his touch.

His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down the column of her neck, feather-light. His other hand, the splinted one, rested lightly on her hip, a claim without force. He bent his head, his lips finding the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. The kiss was soft, lingering, a shocking contrast to his previous brutality. Indrani gasped, her body betraying her, arching instinctively towards the heat of him. His mouth moved lower, tracing the delicate lace edge of her nightgown, his tongue a hot brand against her skin. He pushed the silk aside, exposing the heavy swell of her breast. His gaze lifted, locking with hers, filled with a possessive hunger that stole her breath. "So beautiful," he breathed, the reverence in his voice a terrifying counterpoint to his ugliness. His mouth closed over her nipple, suckling gently, then harder, sending jolts of pleasure-pain radiating through her core. Indrani’s fingers tangled in his coarse hair, not pushing away, but holding on as waves of forbidden sensation crashed over her. This wasn't violation. This was seduction, deep and perilous. Her moan was soft, involuntary, a surrender whispered into the storm’s rhythm.

His hands slid down her trembling sides, gathering the silk of her nightgown, lifting it slowly, exposing her thighs, her belly, the dark thatch of curls. He knelt before her, his gaze devouring her nakedness. His good hand cupped her mound, fingers sliding through her slickness with deliberate, agonizing slowness. "Already wet for me," he murmured, his thumb circling her swollen clit, drawing a choked cry from her lips. "Wet and waiting." He leaned forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her inner thigh, then higher. His tongue laved her folds, tasting her deeply, intimately. Indrani cried out, her legs buckling, only his arms holding her upright as he feasted on her. The pleasure was blinding, degrading, exquisite. He worshipped her body with his mouth, drawing out her climax with relentless skill until she shattered against him, sobbing his name into the rain-lashed night. As the tremors subsided, he rose, pulling her against his hard, lean frame. His arousal pressed insistently against her belly. "My turn," he rasped, his voice thick with need.

He guided her backward to the bed, laying her down gently amidst the silk sheets. He stripped off his trousers, his thick cock springing free, straining towards her. He climbed over her, his weight settling between her parted thighs, his dark eyes holding hers captive. "Look at me," he commanded softly. She obeyed, mesmerized. He positioned himself, the blunt head pressing against her slick entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by excruciating inch, filling her aching emptiness. Indrani gasped, arching, her body welcoming the invasion, the perfect stretch. He began to move, a deep, rhythmic thrusting that was nothing like the brutal claiming before. This was slow, deliberate, possessive. His hips rolled against hers, grinding her clit with each stroke, drawing out sensations that coiled tighter and tighter. He kissed her deeply, his tongue tangling with hers, stealing her breath. His hand cupped her breast, thumb teasing her nipple, while his splinted arm braced beside her head. His gaze never left hers, a dark intimacy binding them as tightly as their joined bodies. "You're mine," he breathed against her lips, each thrust punctuating the claim. "All mine."

The slow, deep rhythm built into an undeniable crescendo. Indrani clawed at his back, her moans mingling with his low groans. She felt the pressure building within her again, sharper, deeper, centered where he filled her so completely. He shifted, angling his hips, hitting a spot that made her cry out, stars bursting behind her eyelids. His thrusts grew harder, faster, losing the measured control, driven by primal need. "Come for me," he growled, his voice ragged. "Come on my cock." The command unleashed her. She convulsed around him, her climax tearing through her with shocking intensity, a silent scream locked in her throat. Her inner walls clenched him, milking him, triggering his own release. He buried himself deep, shuddering, a guttural groan escaping him as he spilled into her womb, hot and claiming. He collapsed onto her, his sweat-slicked skin pressed against hers, his breath hot on her neck. They lay entwined, the only sound their ragged breathing and the drumming rain against the windows. His seed pulsed inside her, a warm, undeniable brand. He didn't pull away. He held her close, possessively, in the aftermath of a ruinous intimacy that felt terrifyingly like belonging.

Dawn painted pale streaks across the rumpled silk sheets. Indrani lay awake, Ratan’s scrawny arm dbangd heavily across her waist, his breathing deep and even. His seed still seeped from her, a sticky reminder staining the sheets beneath her hips. Shame prickled, but it was distant, muted beneath a bone-deep exhaustion and a treacherous sense of… satiation. His crude claim – *"You're mine"* – echoed in the stillness. It wasn’t just a threat anymore. It felt like a terrifying truth settling into her marrow. She stared at the ceiling, the ornate plasterwork blurred by unshed tears. The fortress wasn’t just breached; its stones had dissolved. She was adrift on a dark, unfamiliar sea, anchored only by the weight of the gutter rat’s arm. A soft knock echoed at her bedroom door – the maid, with morning tea. Panic flared. Indrani gently extricated herself from Ratan’s grasp. He grunted, shifting but not waking. She scrambled naked from the bed, grabbing her torn nightgown, frantically wiping herself clean with a corner of the sheet before padding silently to the door. She cracked it open just enough to take the tray, her voice a carefully modulated whisper. "Leave it. I’ll ring later." She closed the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood, the scent of Darjeeling tea clashing violently with the musk of sex and submission clinging to the air. The performance had begun anew, but the stage felt impossibly small, the audience terrifyingly close.

Downstairs, Aparna moved through the breakfast preparations with mechanical precision. Her fingers trembled slightly as she arranged rose petals in a crystal bowl for the centerpiece. Vikram chatted amiably about market fluctuations, oblivious. Every sound – the clink of silverware, Vikram’s voice – felt amplified, brittle. Her gaze kept flicking towards the staircase landing. When Ratan finally shuffled into view, descending slowly with exaggerated care for his splinted hand, Aparna froze, a spoon hovering mid-air. He looked disheveled, his cheap shirt wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes. Yet, his gaze swept over her with undisguised ownership, lingering on the high neckline of her blouse where hidden bruises throbbed. He didn’t stop. He shuffled past the dining room doorway towards the kitchen entrance. Vikram glanced up. "Ah, Ratan! Feeling better this morning?" Ratan paused, offering a subservient nod. "A little, Sahib. Thank you." His voice was raspy, thick with sleep… and something else. Aparna saw the knowing flicker in his eyes as they met hers for a split second before he disappeared towards the servants' quarters. Vikram turned back to his newspaper. Aparna’s hand tightened on the spoon handle. The casualness of his presence, the silent acknowledgment passing between predator and prey in the heart of her domestic sanctuary, was more violating than the violence itself. She felt exposed, raw, yet bound by an invisible chain radiating from the man who had just walked past her husband.

Indrani descended the grand staircase later, impeccably dressed in a cream silk sari, her hair coiled flawlessly. She greeted Vikram with a serene smile, her voice steady as she discussed the day’s schedule. Inside, her skin crawled where Ratan’s sweat had dried unseen beneath her blouse. Every nerve ending felt hypersensitive, attuned to the faintest sound from the direction of the kitchen. As she poured tea, her hand betrayed her – a minute tremor rattled the delicate porcelain cup against its saucer. Vikram glanced up, concerned. "Headache, Ma?" Indrani forced a wider smile, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Just a little tired, beta. The rain kept me awake." She saw Aparna watching her from across the table, a flicker of shared, panicked understanding passing between them before Aparna quickly looked down at her untouched toast.

Ratan emerged silently from the pantry doorway, balancing a tray laden with fresh fruit. His gaze swept over Indrani like a physical caress. He paused deliberately beside her chair, his bony fingers brushing her shoulder as he placed a bowl of sliced mangoes before her. The contact was fleeting, disguised as clumsiness. "Apologies, Memsahib," he mumbled, his eyes downcast. Vikram waved dismissively. "Careful with that hand, Ratan." But Indrani felt the phantom heat of his touch sear through the silk. His nearness flooded her with conflicting currents – revulsion warring with a treacherous pulse of remembered pleasure deep in her core. She stared at the mango slices, glistening like forbidden jewels, unable to lift her spoon.

Later, Vikram departed for his club. The heavy front door clicked shut. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Indrani stood frozen in the suddenly cavernous foyer. Aparna hovered near the drawing-room archway, twisting her hands. From the shadowed corridor leading to the back stairs, Ratan materialized. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, no pretense of servitude now. His dark eyes pinned Indrani first, then slid to Aparna. "The master's gone," he stated, his voice a low rasp that vibrated in the stillness. "Time for his dogs to heel." He jerked his chin towards the darkened salon – the room of their defilement. Aparna whimpered softly, shrinking back. Indrani drew a shaky breath, the memory of polished wood against her bare skin vivid. Her silk-clad legs trembled. Yet, a traitorous warmth pooled low in her belly. She met Ratan’s gaze, saw the command, the anticipation. Without a word, she turned and walked towards the salon door, her spine rigid, her submission absolute. Aparna followed, a silent ghost. The conqueror watched his spoils march willingly towards their degradation.

Inside the salon, heavy dbangs blocked the harsh afternoon sun. Dust motes danced in the gloom. Ratan closed the doors behind them, the click echoing like a tomb sealing. He didn't touch them immediately. He circled slowly, a predator assessing his cowering prey. His gaze stripped them bare beneath their fine silks. Indrani stood near the infamous desk, her heart pounding against her ribs. Aparna hovered near a velvet chaise, trembling. Ratan stopped before Indrani. His good hand lifted, not roughly, but deliberately. He traced the high neckline of her blouse with a single grimy fingertip. The touch was feather-light, yet it seared her skin. "Silk," he murmured, his voice thick with contemptuous admiration. "Hiding the marks I left." His finger dipped lower, tracing the swell of her breast above the fabric. Indrani shuddered, a gasp escaping her lips. Not fear alone. His eyes darkened, reading her treacherous response. He leaned closer, his breath hot on her cheek. "You remember the taste of my cock, *Maa Saheb*?" he breathed. "How it filled you?" The vulgar words, spoken softly, were more devastating than any shout. Her knees weakened. She remembered. The slow, deep claiming in the storm, the terrifying intimacy, the shattering climax. Shame warred with a desperate, liquid heat pooling low in her belly.

He turned abruptly, his attention snapping to Aparna. She flinched, shrinking back against the chaise. He closed the distance in two strides. His splinted hand grabbed her wrist, not painfully, but with unbreakable firmness. His other hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head back. "And you," he rasped, his eyes boring into hers. "My little whore. Do you dream of my hands on your fat thighs?" He saw the flush spread across her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils. He knew. He released her hair, his hand sliding down her neck, over the frantic pulse, down to cup her heavy breast through the chiffon. He squeezed, possessive, cruel. "Tell me," he commanded softly. Aparna whimpered, her eyes wide with terror and unwanted arousal. "Y-yes," she choked out, the confession ripped from her. A slow, triumphant smile spread across Ratan's thin lips. He pulled her against his scrawny frame, grinding his obvious arousal against her soft belly. "Good bitch," he growled, biting her earlobe. Aparna moaned, her body betraying her, melting against him.

He pushed her roughly onto the chaise. She landed with a soft gasp, her legs instinctively parting. Ratan didn't follow her. He turned back to Indrani, who stood frozen, watching Aparna's degradation. He approached her again, stopping inches away. His gaze was a physical weight. "You watched," he stated, not a question. "You watched me take her first." He reached out, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her inner arm. Indrani trembled violently. "Did you touch yourself?" His voice was a low purr, seductive and vile. "Thinking of my cock splitting her open?" The image flashed, vivid and obscene. Indrani closed her eyes, unable to deny the truth. Her silence was answer enough. Ratan chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound. He grabbed the neckline of her blouse, tearing it open with brutal efficiency. Buttons scattered across the polished floor like pearls. She gasped, exposed. He didn't ravage her. He traced the curve of her breast, his touch surprisingly gentle, possessive. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "Today, *Maa Saheb*," he whispered, his voice thick with dark promise, "you watch me fuck her. And then..." His tongue flicked against her earlobe. "...you'll beg me to fuck you." He pushed her towards a plush armchair facing the chaise. "Sit. Watch." Indrani stumbled back, collapsing into the chair. Her silk sari pooled around her. Horror warred with a treacherous, molten anticipation deep within her core. She watched him turn towards Aparna, his movements predatory, deliberate. Her breath hitched. The forbidden romance bloomed, rotten and irresistible. She loved the horror. She craved the degradation. He owned her. Utterly.

Ratan loomed over Aparna on the chaise. His splinted hand pinned her wrist above her head. His good hand gripped the waistband of her salwar, ripping the delicate fabric down her plump thighs. She whimpered, trembling, her jelly belly quivering. He shoved her knees apart, exposing her slick folds. "See?" he rasped, glancing back at Indrani. "Your sweet daughter-in-law. Dripping for me." He ran a finger through Aparna's wetness, then brought it to his lips, tasting her. Aparna moaned, arching unconsciously. He smirked. "Filthy little slut." He freed his thick cock, already hard and glistening at the tip. He positioned himself at her entrance. Indrani watched, transfixed, her own thighs clenching. He thrust deep in one brutal stroke. Aparna cried out, her body arching off the chaise. He began pounding her relentlessly, the wet slap of flesh echoing in the gloom. He gripped her thunder thighs, spreading her wider, driving deeper. He watched Indrani watching him. "See how she takes it?" he grunted, pistoning his hips. "See how she loves it?" Aparna's moans grew louder, desperate. Her eyes rolled back. Indrani's hand crept unconsciously between her own legs, pressing against the silk, feeling the answering heat bloom. She was drowning in the depravity. She was loving it. Ratan saw her hand move. His grin widened. Triumphant. Savage. "Beg!" he snarled at Aparna. "Beg for it!" "Please!" Aparna sobbed, her voice breaking. "Please! Harder!" Indrani's fingers pressed harder against her own aching core. The spider’s web tightened. The surrender was complete.

[Ramva]

Fuck them in different poses bro