Adultery Flowers of The Mansion

[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.