House of Sil and Smoe

Scene One: The Warning

The storm hadn't started yet, but Claire felt it coming.

She wandered the halls of the Mehta estate, barefoot, wearing a soft cotton skirt that clung to her hips in the Mumbai heat. Her white blouse stuck to her back. Her husband, Aarav, had flown to Pune that morning -- a last-minute business trip. She hadn't protested. She rarely did anymore.

This house, his childhood home, still felt like a museum. All marble and shadow. Nothing like Manhattan.

And then, as she turned a corner near the east wing, she saw him.

Rajan Mehta.

Her father-in-law.

He was dressed in black slacks and a crisp grey shirt, sleeves rolled, collar undone, a tumbler of scotch in one hand. He looked like authority carved in stone -- the kind of man people didn't interrupt, didn't question.

His eyes raked over her, slow. Measured.

"You walk like you don't know who owns this house," he said.

Claire stopped, thrown by the tone. Not unkind. But sharp. Commanding.

She lifted her chin. "It's just a house."

He took a step closer. "No. It's a kingdom. And I'm still the king."

His gaze didn't waver. It lingered on the bare skin of her collarbone, the sway of her skirt. Then he walked past her, shoulder brushing hers.

But just before disappearing into the shadows, he added, "Next time you wear something that clings like that, don't act surprised when it draws attention."

Claire didn't move for a long time.

Scene Two: The Control Begins

The monsoon broke late that night. Rain drummed against the tall windows like a secret trying to get in. Claire sat curled on a leather armchair in the lounge, a book in her lap she wasn't reading.

The air was heavy with heat and anticipation.

She looked up when she heard the door open. Rajan entered -- silent, unhurried. Still in the same shirt, sleeves now rolled higher, the top two buttons undone, exposing the firm cut of a chest that hadn't softened with age.

She straightened instinctively.

He didn't greet her. Didn't ask to join her. Just walked to the bar, poured himself a drink, and stood by the window.

"You're up late," he said.

"So are you."

"I don't sleep much. Too many thoughts. Too many debts."

Claire watched him over the rim of her glass. "Is that how you run your empire? With thoughts and debts?"

Rajan turned, leaning against the frame. "You say that like you know what I run."

She shrugged, playing coy. "I don't. Aarav doesn't talk about it."

Rajan smiled -- the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's because Aarav doesn't know."

Claire tilted her head. "And you want to keep it that way?"

"No," Rajan said, stepping closer. "I want you to understand something."

She stayed still as he approached. He didn't sit. Just stood over her, his presence sinking into the air like incense.

"You don't belong to Aarav. Not yet."

Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You haven't taken his name. You don't wear a ring. You don't carry his child. You're still learning what it means to be a Mehta wife."

Claire laughed once -- dry, sharp. "And you're going to teach me?"

"I don't teach," Rajan said, eyes locked on hers. "I show. You follow."

The room went quiet. The only sound was rain and the crackle of fire.

Rajan reached forward -- not touching her, but tugging the edge of her blouse lightly between two fingers.

"Wear white tomorrow," he said. "No bra. Hair down."

Claire's breath caught.

His voice dropped lower. "If you want to live in my house, you follow my rules."

And then he walked out, leaving her stunned -- book forgotten, spine tingling, pulse racing.

Scene Three: The White Dress

The next morning, the rain had paused, but the air was thick with its memory.

Claire stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself.

The dress was white. Thin. Elegant. Expensive. It clung to her hips and barely concealed her nipples beneath the fabric. No bra. No slip. Her hair was loose, tumbling in waves down her back just as he had asked.

She wasn't sure why she was doing this. But she was doing it anyway.

Downstairs, Rajan was waiting by the car. Black again -- shirt, slacks, sunglasses. The driver stood stiff beside him, and a guard opened the door for Claire the moment she stepped out.

He didn't say a word as she slid into the car beside him. But she felt it -- the heat of his gaze. It soaked into her skin more thoroughly than the oils Lata had rubbed into her that morning.

They drove in silence -- through South Mumbai, down into the older parts of the city, where the streets narrowed and the air changed.

She realized very quickly this wasn't just a business tour.

This was a reveal.

They stopped first at a dockyard -- heavily secured, armed men nodding as Rajan passed. Then a warehouse stacked with locked crates, the air inside thick with gun oil and power. Claire kept her chin high, but her heart was hammering in her chest.

The men didn't hide their stares. They looked at her -- her body under the white dress, her curves outlined by every step she took.

Rajan didn't stop them.

At the last stop -- a mezzanine office above a shipping lot -- he finally spoke. His voice close behind her, low and deliberate.

"You feel their eyes on you."

"Yes," she breathed.

"They need to."

Her stomach turned.

"Why?"

"Because you're not his wife anymore."

She turned slowly, meeting his gaze. "Whose am I then?"

He stepped in, brushing her hair back from her shoulder, fingers grazing her throat.

"You're mine," he whispered. "And now they all know it."

Scene Four: The Illusion of Choice

The car ride back was quiet.

Not tense. Just charged.

Claire stared out the window, watching the monsoon-dark city pass in a blur. Her thighs stuck to the leather seat. The white dress clung even tighter now -- damp with heat and sweat and something deeper.

When they arrived at the estate, she walked ahead of Rajan, heels echoing down the marble hallway like defiance. She didn't stop until she reached the lounge again.

Then, she turned.

"I need to understand what this is," she said, voice taut.

Rajan didn't sit. He poured a drink, took a sip, and studied her.

"You're upset because I made them see."

"I'm not your trophy," Claire said. "You flaunted me like one."

"No," he said calmly. "I displayed you."

Her eyes widened. "That's not better."

"You think this is about lust?" he said, stepping closer. "You think I'm obsessed with your tits in white silk?"

He leaned in. "No, Claire. I'm obsessed with control. And right now, you're mine -- and everyone knows it but you."

Claire took a shaky step back. "I didn't ask for this."

"But you wore the dress."

"I was curious."

"No," Rajan said, his voice turning sharp. "You obeyed. And now that you feel how much it wakes something in you, you're afraid."

He circled her slowly, fingers grazing her waist. "You think this is dangerous. But you can't stop thinking about how it felt to walk beside me. Like you mattered. Like you belonged."

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard.

"You want to run?" he said. "Then run. But understand what happens when you do."

He stepped in front of her again.

"You think Aarav could survive knowing you've already moaned for me in silence? That his father's seen the way your thighs clench when I speak?"

Her hand came up -- reflexive.

But he caught her wrist.

Not violently.

With finality.

"You belong to me, Claire," he whispered.

She shook her head -- not because it wasn't true. Because she didn't want it to be true.

Then... softer... broken:

"I don't know how to want this."

"Yes, you do."

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

"Say it."

Her body betrayed her.

Her lips parted.

"I belong to you."

And just like that, Rajan released her wrist... and walked away.

She didn't move for a long, long time.

Scene Five: Claimed

Evening settled over the Mehta estate like velvet -- thick, rich, and inescapable.

Claire had changed. A thin linen wrap now draped over her shoulders, but her body still hummed from the earlier confrontation. She hadn't eaten. She hadn't spoken to anyone. She was still trying to make sense of what she had said... what she had admitted.

She didn't hear Rajan coming until he was right behind her.

"You've been quiet," he said.

She turned to face him.

"So have you."

He smiled faintly. "Then let's change that."

He held out his hand. Not gently. Not asking.

Commanding.

She hesitated -- for a second -- then placed her hand in his.

He led her through the house, not toward the lounge or the study... but toward the center hallway. The marble floor glistened under candlelight. The staff was there -- as if summoned. Maids. Guards. Housekeepers.

All silent.

All watching.

Claire's pulse spiked. "What is this?"

Rajan didn't stop walking.

He only answered when they reached the base of the staircase.

"This is clarity."

And then, with his hand on her waist, he turned her to face the staff.

"She is no longer a guest in this house," he said, voice cool and clear. "She is no longer the wife of the heir."

He pulled her close, his hand resting openly on the curve of her hip.

"She is mine."

Gasps weren't spoken -- but she felt them.

Eyes dropped. Spines stiffened.

Only one person didn't react with surprise.

Lata.

The elder maid stepped forward, head bowed in quiet understanding.

"Lata," Rajan said. "Prepare her."

Claire's voice cracked. "Prepare me?"

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Tonight, you come to my chambers. But not like this."

He let go.

Turned.

Walked away like a man who had spoken law.

Lata approached. Not hurried. Not nervous.

"Come," she said softly.

Claire's legs moved on their own.

And behind her... the house went utterly silent.

Scene Six: The Ritual of Readiness

The room Lata led her to wasn't part of the main wing. It was tucked behind a carved teak door, through a hallway that smelled of sandalwood, rose oil, and something older -- musk and smoke and submission.

Claire had never been here.

But Lata had.

Many times.

The room was warm and dimly lit, its walls lined with silks, antique mirrors, and quiet candles flickering like witnesses. A chaise sat in the center, covered in ivory linen. Two younger maids were already there, heads bowed, hands folded.

They didn't look at Claire.

They knew.

"Undress," Lata said softly.

Claire's breath caught. "I--"

"You're not the first," Lata added, pulling out a carved wooden box. "You won't be the last. But you may be the most dangerous."

Claire stood frozen.

Lata turned to her fully now, meeting her eyes. There was no judgment in her voice -- only truth.

"I've prepared diplomats' wives. Film stars. A French violinist once. All of them thought they could control it. Him. What they didn't understand..." she opened the box, revealing a series of oils, silks, and small glass vials, "...was that the moment they said yes, they were no longer free."

Claire's heart pounded. "He's not... gentle?"

"No," Lata said plainly. "He's thorough."

She took Claire's robe herself, guiding her hands up as she slid the fabric off slowly, reverently.

Then came the oil -- warmed in a dish, golden and thick. The two younger maids began on her legs, working their way upward. Claire gasped as Lata's fingers pressed gently into her hips, then over her belly, her breasts.

She should have felt shame.

But all she felt was heat.

"This oil," Lata said, her voice calm, "will keep your body supple. He is... larger than most. You'll stretch. You'll ache."

Claire trembled.

"How do you know?" she whispered.

Lata met her gaze. "I've seen him. Heard him. Cleaned the bedsheets. Watched the women limp back to their rooms in silence."

Claire's breath hitched. "And they stayed?"

"Some begged to."

Lata knelt now, pressing the final oil between Claire's thighs, rubbing slowly, firmly -- preparing her most intimate places.

"You won't forget this night," she whispered. "And if you do -- your body won't."

When she stood, she retrieved a silken band of deep wine-red and tied it around Claire's throat.

"Not tight," she said. "Just enough to remind you what you are when you walk into his room."

Claire could barely speak. "And what's that?"

Lata stepped back and surveyed her work.

"His."

A knock sounded softly at the outer door.

Lata didn't flinch.

She simply looked at Claire, eyes soft but resolute.

"He's waiting."

Scene Seven: The Unwrapping

The corridor felt longer than before. Wider. Her bare feet moved silently over the marble, the silk robe whispering against her oiled thighs with every step.

The maids had dressed her with reverence.

The robe was pale gold, nearly white, flowing and translucent under candlelight. Beneath it -- delicate black lace. A bra that barely cupped her breasts, a thong that vanished into her skin. The silk ribbon still circled her throat like a brand.

Two guards flanked Rajan's chamber doors. Their eyes lowered as she passed.

The doors opened without a word.

And then -- silence.

Rajan was standing by the window, his back to her, a glass of whiskey in one hand. Shirtless. Trousers tailored and undone at the top. His body lean, hard, carved like something ancient and powerful.

He turned when he heard her.

And froze.

She stepped in slowly, the click of her heels against the marble the only sound. She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

Rajan's eyes devoured her -- from the silk band on her neck to the line of black lace peeking through the open robe.

"Turn around," he said.

His voice was low. Grounded. Final.

Claire obeyed.

She turned in place, slowly. Let the robe shift off her shoulder slightly, exposing a curve of skin. She heard the soft intake of his breath behind her.

When she faced him again, his expression hadn't changed -- but something behind his eyes had.

He stepped forward, his hand brushing the silk at her waist.

"You dressed like a gift."

"I am," she whispered, barely able to breathe.

"Unwrap yourself."

She hesitated. Only a second.

Then her fingers moved to the tie at her waist. She pulled it loose.

The robe slid from her shoulders... and fell.

The lace caught the light -- her nipples visible beneath sheer black fabric, her hips hugged tight, her thighs slick and bare.

She stood still. Offered.

Rajan didn't move.

He walked around her again -- slow, predatory -- until he sat back in the wide leather chair near the fire.

"Come here," he said, spreading his knees.

Claire walked forward. Every step felt like a promise.

Scene Eight: The Dance She Can't Refuse

Claire stood between Rajan's legs, barely breathing.

Her skin glowed under firelight, the black lace clinging to her curves like ink on silk. She could feel the air shift between them. Heat coiling low in her belly. Her thighs trembled from something older than fear.

Rajan didn't speak at first.

He leaned back, legs wide, one hand gripping the armrest, the other cupping his jaw, eyes never leaving her.

"I know," he said finally.

Claire blinked. "Know what?"

"The truth."

He leaned forward slightly.

"You weren't just a consultant. You weren't just styling runways."

Her lips parted, breath catching.

"You danced," he said. "You stripped. You sold your time. Your eyes. Your body."

She said nothing.

"You were an escort, Claire. You gave men fantasies for a price."

Her mouth went dry.

"I didn't choose you in spite of that," Rajan said, voice cool, "I chose you because of it. Because when you were on that stage, you weren't pretending. You were alive."

He stood slowly, circling her again, hands behind his back like a commander inspecting his prize.

"And now," he said, stopping behind her, "you're going to give that to me."

She turned to face him.

"You want me to--"

"I want you to dance," he said, eyes sharp. "For me. The way you used to. The way you need to."

Claire felt it then--rising in her like smoke. That old instinct. That raw rhythm she hadn't let out in years.

She stepped back.

Her hips began to move. Slowly. Like honey sliding down warm skin.

She turned away from him, hands in her hair, back arched. She let the music rise inside her--not from speakers, but from memory. From the club in L.A. From the nights where men begged to touch what they could never have.

Only now, she belonged to one man. And he was watching every move.

She straddled his lap slowly, thighs parting, arms around his neck. Her chest pressed against him, her lace bra rubbing against his skin. She began to roll her hips--soft at first, teasing.

Rajan didn't react.

He sat still. Watching. Letting her move. Letting her offer.

Claire leaned in, lips near his ear. "Do you like it?"

He said nothing.

She ground harder, panting softly, moving like a storm against him.

She reached behind her back, unhooked the bra, and let it fall. Her breasts brushed his chest, warm and bare, nipples stiff from the air and from his eyes.

She danced more--wilder now, letting the old fire burn.

She ran her hands down his chest, unfastened the rest of his shirt, pulled it open. Then she slid lower, grinding hard against the thick ridge growing beneath his trousers.

She wanted a reaction.

And then... she got one.

His hands caught her hips in a bruising grip.

He pulled her still.

His voice was ice and fire:

"I gave you your dance."

He leaned in, hand gripping her throat.

"Now I take my prize."

Scene Nine: The Unmaking

Claire barely had time to gasp before Rajan lifted her from his lap with effortless strength.

He carried her through the candlelit chamber like she weighed nothing, her bare breasts pressed to his chest, her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, her skin flushed from the dance, from the fire she'd tried to control.

But now she wasn't the one in control.

Not anymore.

He threw her onto the bed--not violently, but with claiming. As if placing something that already belonged to him.

Claire propped herself up on her elbows, her body oiled and shining in the dim light. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her thighs ached. Her lips trembled.

Rajan stood over her.

Bare-chested, unhurried, the black of his trousers still half-undone. He didn't speak right away.

Instead, he unbuckled his belt with the same calm he used to make decisions that could shift entire empires.

He let it drop.

Then he stared down at her.

"You think you know what you want," he said.

Her voice was a whisper. "I don't know anything right now."

"Yes, you do."

He climbed onto the bed, crawling over her like a storm rolling in.

His hand found her wrists again. He pinned them above her head, his weight settling between her thighs. His hips pressed against her--slow, heavy, letting her feel the sheer scale of what she was about to take.

"You were made for this," he murmured. "Everything you've been. Every man you've danced for. Every lie you've told."

His free hand dragged down her chest, his thumb brushing over her nipple, teasing her. He started with slow caresses ans then pinching on them to let her know he owns her. But, Claire felt more aroused than she had ever been... her nipples hardening and bulging with each pinch. Rajan put his lips on her nipples as she moaned louder... his tongue licking gently at first then rapidly sucking them deep and ending in brutual bites. He truly owned Claire now.

"All of that... just training."

"For you?" she breathed.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he leaned in--his lips brushing her ear.