15-10-2025, 05:13 PM
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.
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.
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