House of Sil and Smoe

Warning: This is a very dark story containing many disturbing themes such as noncon, humiliation, degradation, corruption, sexual slavery, misogyny, sadomasochism and more. Do not read this story unless you are okay with extreme content relating to the listed themes.

I do not condone or endorse any of the activities described in this story. Sexual fantasies can be a fun and safe way to explore fetishes but always treat real people with respect. Fantasize responsibly.

Scene Eleven: The cold, unforgiving marble

The silence was thicker than the dark.

Claire stirred slowly, every nerve raw. The bed still smelled of him -- spice, musk, leather, power. Her skin was slick with sweat and oil, marked in places she hadn't known could hold memory. Her legs trembled when she sat up.

Rajan didn't speak. He was turned away, one arm draped over the pillow where her head had rested, chest rising and falling in slow, sated rhythm. He might have been asleep. Or just done with her.

She didn't care.

Not right now.

She rose, quietly.

The silk ribbon lay on the floor beside the bed, a glint of deep red in the low amber light. She picked it up. Slipped it around her neck with trembling fingers. Not tightly. Just enough to feel it.

Then she found the robe--still warm from her body--and pulled it around herself. It clung to her, damp and translucent. A second skin.

Her feet found the marble.

Cold. Unforgiving. Real.

Each step away from Rajan's chamber echoed faintly through the long corridor. The firelight faded behind her. The house stretched out in silence before her. Guards watched without looking. Maids lowered their eyes.

No one said a word.

Not to her.

She walked like a ghost until she reached the east wing, opened her door, and stepped inside her room.

Her room.

Not his.

Not theirs.

Just hers.

She collapsed onto the bed.

Not with grace.

With surrender.

The ceiling above her spun slowly in the dimness, and the past--the woman she'd been--rose up around her like fog.

Aarav.

He had been a game at first.

The sharp, Western-educated heir with perfect hair, a trust fund, and that casual charm women fell into. Claire had known how to play that game. She'd leaned into it--wore the right dresses, tilted her chin at the perfect angles, laughed like sin and silk.

She hadn't loved him then.

She'd wanted the world he came from.

The name.

The security.

The empire.

But something had shifted. Somewhere between New York and that first Diwali in Mumbai, between lazy hotel mornings and the way he'd looked at her like she mattered when no one else did--she had started to care.

He was gentle.

Too gentle.

Not a king like his father, but a man trying to be kind in a family that had forgotten how.

And now... now he was coming back.

Three days.

He would return in three days.

What would she say?

What would he see when he looked at her?

Would he smell his father on her skin?

Would he know?

Claire buried her face in the pillow and bit down on a sob.

Not because she regretted it.

But because she didn't.

And that--God help her--was the most terrifying thing of all.

Scene Twelve: The first assignment

The sunlight in Mumbai never felt gentle.

It spilled harsh and golden across the Mehta estate's breakfast terrace, heating the polished stone and casting long shadows from the ornate pillars. Birds called from the gardens beyond, but the air was heavy -- as if the monsoon hadn't truly left.

Claire sat alone at the table.

The spread was immaculate -- fruits glistening like jewels, fresh breads still warm, silver teapots steaming gently beside carved dishes of spiced eggs and saffron rice. She hadn't touched a single thing.

She stared at it blankly.

She still hadn't slept.

Her robe had been replaced with a pressed cream dress -- modest, simple, too crisp for how her body still ached underneath.

She heard him before she saw him.

Rajan's footsteps were never rushed. They were deliberate. Like someone who'd already decided the ending.

He stepped into the light and sat opposite her.

Poured his tea first.

Didn't greet her.

"You've passed your test," he said casually.

Claire looked up. Eyes blank. "What test?"

He took a sip, watching her over the rim of his cup.

"The test of loyalty. Of silence. Of usefulness."

She stared at him as if seeing a stranger in the daylight.

He went on, unbothered. "I made the right choice when I let you seduce my naïve son. You've done well, Claire. You'll do better."

Her stomach turned.

"What does that mean?" she asked, her voice low.

"It means," Rajan said, leaning forward slightly, "you're not just a woman in my bed. You're an asset now. And I want you to meet someone."

Claire's jaw tensed. "I'm not going to be your pawn."

"You already are," he said simply. "But if it helps--think of it as diplomacy."

She didn't respond.

So he continued, tone shifting, harder now. "The man is a minister. Transportation. He controls the clearances for new highway routes in Maharashtra. And I need a corridor open--discreetly."

Claire's fingers tightened around her napkin. "And you want me to entertain him?"

Rajan's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I want you to impress him. Charm him. Make him feel important. How far you go..." he shrugged, "...depends on what he needs. And how much you want to keep wearing silk instead of cheap heels in a Vegas backroom."

Claire flinched.

"I didn't ask for this."

"No," he agreed. "You asked for security. For power. For status. And now that you've tasted what it feels like to belong to something greater than yourself, don't pretend you want to crawl back to a half-life."

Silence fell.

Only the rustle of wind in the banyan trees.

A single tear slipped down Claire's cheek.

She didn't brush it away.

"When?" she asked softly.

Rajan's voice was absolute.

"Tonight."

Scene Thirteen: The Minister

The gates to Minister Dhir's bungalow opened without a word.

The compound was sprawling but discreet -- high stone walls wrapped in ivy, guards in plain clothes pretending not to watch, and a Mercedes parked beneath the portico like it hadn't moved in hours. The Mumbai air was thick with jasmine and dusk.

Claire stepped out of the car.

Little black dress, nails painted on. Black silk, backless, sleeveless, hem ending just above the danger point. Loubitons clicking softly on white marble. Red lipstick -- not vulgar, but lush, carefully chosen. Like everything tonight.

The guards didn't ask her name.

They already knew.

A steward led her inside. Cool air met her skin -- sandalwood, whisky, and money thick in the air. The lounge was masculine and understated. Dark wood. Leather. A low bar cart beside the fire.

And him.

Minister Dhir.

Tall. Late fifties. Hair salt-and-pepper but thick. Shoulders still squared by old military posture. He wore a dark Nehru jacket over slacks, no tie, collar open. Fit. Composed. But when he saw her, he straightened -- as if instinct reminded him to.

He smiled, slow and deliberate.

"Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Now I understand Rajan's confidence."

Claire smiled back, a practiced tilt of the head. "He speaks highly of you."

"Lies, most of them," Dhir chuckled. "But I'll allow them... if they bring such company."

He gestured to the bar. "Scotch? Or shall I guess something colder?"

"Scotch is perfect," she said, crossing the room with unhurried grace.

His eyes followed her -- openly, shamelessly -- taking in the curve of her hips, the gleam of her bare back. She could almost hear Rajan's voice: "Let him look. That's part of your power."

Dhir poured two glasses and handed her one. Their fingers brushed.

He let it linger a second too long.

Claire took a sip. "You have a beautiful home."

"It's quiet. Too quiet, most nights," he replied. "But then again, I don't usually have such radiant guests."

She smiled, careful not to blush. She'd worn confidence like armor before. But tonight, it had weight.

"I'm sure you have many admirers," she said.

"None that walk in looking like Manhattan sin," he said, stepping closer. "Or wear danger on red lips."

She held his gaze. "Do I?"

"Oh yes," Dhir said, swirling his drink. "But controlled. That's what makes it potent."

They stood in silence for a beat, the fire crackling behind them.

Then Dhir leaned in -- not too close. Just enough.

"Your father-in-law," he said, voice quiet but crisp, "really knows his way. He understands leverage. Timing. How to get what he wants."

Claire didn't respond.

Dhir turned, walked toward the hallway, and paused.

"Why don't you head to the bedroom," he said, not looking back. "You'll find everything you need is laid out there."

Claire blinked. "I'm... sorry?"

He glanced over his shoulder -- a half-smile, unreadable.

"You'll know what i want when you see it."

Scene Fourteen: The lair of the serpent

The door shut behind her with a soft but final click.

Claire stepped forward slowly.

This wasn't a bedroom.

It was a stage. A shrine. A trap dressed in silk shadows.

The walls were a deep, consuming black -- not paint, but padded leather, stitched in diamond patterns that caught the dim red light and gave it texture, depth. The ceiling was mirrored. The air smelled of sandalwood and sex, warm with breath and intent.

Every step she took echoed faintly on the polished black marble.

Then she saw it.

The bed -- large, framed in stainless steel, four posts rising like pillars of control. From each corner hung leather restraints, gleaming buckles catching the low light. The sheets were red satin, wrinkled only at the foot where something had been carefully arranged.

Her outfit.

No -- her uniform.

A high-gloss black latex thong, narrow as a whisper, sat folded like lingerie on display. Beside it, a matching bra -- or what passed for one. Shiny latex cups framed the breasts but left them entirely exposed, designed only to squeeze and lift. Silver nipple clamps, already adjusted to medium tension, were clipped neatly to the edges, attached by a fine chain that shimmered like jewelry -- or threat.

To the right of the bra, a small black object rested on a folded hand towel: a vibrating Lovense toy, curved for precision, wireless and silent. Balanced across it was a simple ivory card.

A note. Handwritten.

"Insert it. Then wait on the bed. Knees spread. Hands behind your back.

You are being watched."

-- D.

Claire's throat tightened.

She stared at the card, at the toy, at the polished steel mirror across from the bed that would reflect her every angle. She could almost feel the weight of eyes on her already -- behind glass, behind cameras, behind the carefully arranged silence.

Her hand drifted to the doorknob.

She turned it.

It didn't budge.

Locked.

She yanked it again -- harder this time. Still nothing. The handle refused to move, sealed as cleanly as a vault. She moved to the velvet-draped window, shoved the curtain aside.

Iron bars.

Not brutal. Not obvious. But there.

Beyond them, moonlight gilded the edge of the garden.

And two shadows stood just out of reach -- upright, still. Guards. Stationed without comment. Their presence didn't need announcing. It only needed to be understood.

Claire backed away, pulse sharp and high in her throat.

Her reflection caught in the ceiling mirror: pale skin, red lips, fear and fury swirling in her eyes like twin storms.

She turned back to the bed.

The clamps. The thong. The command.

They hadn't given her a choice.

But they had given her a role.

And whether she would play it in defiance... or surrender...

...was entirely up to her.

Scene Fifteen: The submission

Claire stood motionless, the note still trembling lightly between her fingers.

The latex thong gleamed like spilled oil on the red sheets. The clamps, small and silver, seemed to hum with anticipation. The Lovense -- sleek and curved -- sat like a secret waiting to be told.

And still, she hesitated.

Her breath came shallow. Her heart was pounding--but not only from fear.

This is who I am now.

The thought hit her like thunder in a vacuum.

Her eyes blurred for a moment, but not from tears. From memory.

Vegas.

She could still smell the cheap perfume that clung to the velvet of the Champagne Room. Still feel the sticky floors under bare feet. She'd shared that apartment on the Strip with three other girls, all chasing the same lie in different heels. No privacy. No heat in winter. Roaches that didn't even bother to hide when the lights came on.

Stripping hadn't been glamour. It had been survival. Not pole routines under spotlights, but bruises on her thighs from dancing too long for too little. Men who grabbed. Men who didn't tip. Men who pressed her against the wall in back rooms and breathed tequila and smoke into her ear like they owned her.

And she had let them.

Because rent was due.

Because hunger didn't care about pride.

Because she'd told herself just one more month, and then I'll leave.

But she never had.

Not until Aarav. Not until Rajan. Not until this. This isn't a trap, she told herself. It's a trade.

She moved to the bed and picked up the thong first -- a wisp of latex that clung to her fingers like a second skin. She stripped slowly, methodically. The little black dress slipped from her shoulders and puddled at her feet. She stepped out of it, naked now, exposed in the dim, red-hued light.

Her body was tall, lean, curved in the right places with the kind of softness that came from rich food and richer bedding. Her breasts were high, natural, tipped with dusky pink nipples already half-peaked from anticipation or shame or both. A faint sheen of sweat shimmered down her stomach -- a remnant of adrenaline, or arousal, or the lingering heat of the room.

She pulled the thong up slowly, easing the latex over her hips, adjusting it between her legs until it disappeared in a slick, tight line. It molded to her like liquid, hugging every contour of her ass, framing her sex in a way that felt more obscene than nakedness.

Next came the bra -- or what passed for it.

She clipped it at the back, the latex tugging her breasts upward, centering them in the open half-cups. Her nipples jutted out brazenly, exposed, vulnerable. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the clamps.

She took a breath.

Then fastened the first clamp with a soft, metallic click.

A sharp pinch of sensation made her gasp, hips twitching involuntarily.

Then the second.

A pulse of pain that melted into heat.

The chain between them swayed slightly with every breath, sending tiny shocks down her spine.

Her hands moved next to the Lovense toy.

Warm. Curved. Smooth.

She lifted it gently, heart hammering as she sat on the edge of the bed, legs spreading instinctively. She traced herself once -- wet, aching, already open. Then she pressed the toy against her folds, teasing herself without meaning to.

Her head tilted back as she slid it in -- inch by inch -- until it nestled perfectly inside.

A quiet moan escaped her lips.

Her thighs quivered as she closed them, sealing it in place.

Then, as instructed, she moved to the center of the bed.

She knelt.

Back straight. Knees wide. Hands behind her back. Head up.

The clamps tugged lightly with every movement. The toy throbbed silently within her, not yet alive but threatening.

The mirror across from her reflected everything -- her naked restraint, her open thighs, her breasts bared like an offering, gleaming under red light.

She looked at herself.

A girl who once danced for scraps.

A woman now dressed for power.

She didn't know what was coming next.

But she was ready.

Or so she told herself.

Scene Sixteen: The Game Within the Game

Minister Dhir watched her from behind a wall of silence.

The monitor glowed in front of him--sharp, high-definition, capturing every angle of Claire as she knelt obediently on the satin-red sheets, skin gleaming, lips parted, breasts heaving beneath the silver chain that connected the clamps pinching her nipples.

He didn't blink.

His cock throbbed painfully against the front of his trousers, pulsing with every shift of her hips, every flicker of hesitation in her eyes as she stared at herself in the mirrored ceiling. She was raw and regal and trembling on the edge of something deeper than shame.

He hadn't touched her.

Not yet.

But she was already unraveling.

Dhir picked up the small remote beside him, thumb hovering over the dial.

Time to begin.

He pressed the first setting--mild, rhythmic vibrations. A tease. Enough to stir her, not consume her.

On the screen, he watched her react.

Claire flinched slightly. Her mouth opened, a small gasp slipping past her lips. Her thighs twitched. The toy hummed inside her, stroking her in slow waves like a whispered threat.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on the monitor as he unzipped his trousers, freeing himself. Thick. Hard. Veined. Already leaking with need.

On screen, Claire shifted again, the chain on her chest swinging delicately with each breath. Her back arched--just barely--as the toy vibrated again, longer this time. Her hands stayed locked behind her, obedient. But her eyes closed. Her lips moved.

Whispers. Pleas.

He turned the intensity up.

The toy surged.

Claire cried out, hips rocking forward against nothing. Her legs spread wider, desperate for more, for pressure, for contact that would send her over the edge. Her nipples were flushed, red and tight, tugged forward by the clamps. Her breasts bounced with each jolt of pleasure.

Dhir stroked himself slowly, watching her come undone.

She moaned again--louder now. Sweat beaded on her stomach. Her thighs quivered.

So close.

So eager.

The screen filled with her--head thrown back, mouth slack, eyes wide and glassy as she began to crest.

Then--

He stopped it.

The toy went silent.

Instant. Cruel.

Claire's whole body tensed. Her eyes flew open. A strangled sound escaped her throat--shock, disbelief, frustration.

She rocked forward on her knees as if chasing the sensation, but it was gone. Her hands gripped her own wrists behind her back. She was panting, helpless, wrecked.

Dhir stood.

He adjusted himself quickly, tucking his length back into his trousers with a grunt. Then he picked up the item he'd prepared: four black leather cuffs, stitched with red thread. Heavy-duty. Lined with suede. Designed for comfort--but built for control.

He walked to the door.

Unlocked it.

Opened it.

Claire didn't turn. She didn't have to.

She felt him enter the room.

The air changed. The heat shifted.

His voice was calm. Deliberate.

"I like watching you suffer."

She trembled--half from the words, half from the absence of what she'd nearly had.

He stepped closer, cuffs dangling in one hand like an offering. Or a sentence.

"But I like what comes after even more."

He stopped in front of her..

The cuffs dangled from his hand--black leather, steel-buckled, uncompromising. Claire's breath caught.

Her eyes widened. "Wait--"

He didn't.

In one swift, practiced motion, Dhir seized her wrist, wrapping the first cuff tight around it. Then the second. She tried to resist--instinct more than intent--but he was faster. Stronger.

He pressed her back against the bed, spreading her arms wide to each of the steel posts. Click. Click. The locks engaged.

Her legs came next--pushed apart, lifted, bound to the lower poles until her thighs were splayed and trembling, sex exposed beneath the glossy black thong.

Claire writhed, the movement yanking the clamps on her nipples and sending sharp stings through her chest. She gasped.