Chapter 8: Darshan types 'Let's have peacock feather centerpieces' with one hand while kneading Pritha's ass with the other, both laughing as she grinds against his semi-hard cock - their filthy selfies forgotten when Tanish responds enthusiastically to the peacock idea.
The sharp, chemical smell of the new phone’s packaging cut through the room’s familiar scents of old books and sex. Darshan tore the box open with his teeth, his fingers working with a focused, predatory efficiency. He powered it on, the screen glowing like a cold, blue star in the dimness of his apartment.
He tossed the blank device onto the rumpled sheets between them. “There. Untraceable. For us.”
Pritha stared at the sleek, black rectangle. It was a severance. A deliberate, calculated cut from everything that phone in her purse—now silenced, probably shattered under the wheels of some car—had represented. Her old life was buzzing itself into oblivion in a ditch somewhere, and he had just handed her the key to a new, sealed world.
A different, softer buzz started. It came from his own phone, discarded on the wooden desk beside a stack of legal briefs. He glanced at the screen, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. He picked it up and held it out for her to see.
It was a text thread with Tanish. The last message from Tanish was a desperate, rambling paragraph: ‘Pritha, please. I saw the picture. I know you’re with him. Just talk to me. We can fix this. Our wedding… we need to finalize the venue. The priest is asking for dates.’
Darshan’s thumbs flew over the screen, typing a reply. He showed her.
‘Sorry, got distracted. Let’s do something wild. How about a destination wedding? That abandoned textile mill in Naroda? Very atmospheric. We can fuck in the ruins for good luck.’
Pritha’s breath hitched, a strange cocktail of horror and dark, thrilling amusement bubbling in her chest. “You’re insane.”
“I’m honest,” he corrected, his eyes gleaming. He hit send.
The reply was almost instantaneous. Three pulsing dots, then: ‘Who is this? Is this Darshan? Put Pritha on the phone. Now.’
Darshan laughed, a low, rich sound that vibrated through the mattress. He typed again, reading aloud as he did. “It’s Pritha. And I’m a little busy right now. Darshan’s cock is in my mouth. He says hello.”
He tossed his phone aside and reached for her, his hands closing around her waist. He pulled her onto his lap, her back to his chest, so she could see the screen over his shoulder. Her naked skin slid against his, still damp from their previous fucking. He was already hard again, his erection pressing against the small of her back.
“Your turn,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a dark caress. He handed her the new, blank phone. “Unlock it. Set it up. Tell him what we’re really doing.”
Her fingers trembled as she activated the device. The setup was swift, impersonal. She opened a new message thread, her thumb hovering over the keypad. Tanish’s name at the top felt like an epitaph.
Darshan’s hands slid from her waist up to her breasts, his palms rough against her nipples, rolling them between his fingers until she gasped. “Tell him,” he prompted, his voice dropping to a guttural whisper. “Use your words, moti. You’re the lawyer. Describe the scene.”
She began to type, the words appearing on the bright screen, a clinical testimony to her debasement.
‘He’s playing with my tits. They’re so sore. He bites them when he comes.’
Darshan groaned his approval, one hand leaving her breast to snake down between her legs. His fingers parted her folds, finding her clit already swollen and eager. “Good girl. Now tell him what my fingers feel like.”
She typed, her breathing becoming ragged as his fingers worked her with a cruel, precise rhythm. ‘His fingers are inside me. Two of them. He’s stretching me, getting me ready for his cock. I’m so wet for him. It’s running down my thighs.’
“Fuck,” Darshan hissed, his own arousal a palpable heat against her back. He removed his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to her lips. “Taste. Then tell him what you taste like.”
She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to lick her own arousal from his fingers. The taste was musky, primal. She typed with her clean hand, the words a filthy confession. ‘I can taste myself on his hand. I taste like him. I taste like us.’
That was all it took. With a raw, animal sound, Darshan shifted her, turning her in his lap to face him. He guided his cock to her entrance, not asking, just positioning. He looked her dead in the eyes, his gaze black and bottomless. “Now tell him I’m fucking you.”
As he drove up into her, a single, deep, filling thrust, her thumb stabbed at the screen.
‘He’s inside me.’
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, lifting her hips and slamming her back down onto his length, over and over. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with his thrusts. Pritha’s head fell back, a moan tearing from her throat. She could barely see the screen, her vision blurring with each jarring impact.
“Tell him… how it feels,” he grunted, his hands vise-like on her hips.
She fought for focus, her fingers fumbling over the keypad. ‘So deep. I can feel him in my throat. He’s splitting me open.’
“Tell him… you’re coming,” he commanded, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Tell him you’re coming on my cock while he reads it.”
The orgasm was already coiling, a white-hot wire pulled taut in her belly. His words, the illicit, real-time narration, pushed her over the edge. Her body seized, clenching around him in violent, uncontrollable spasms. She typed through the climax, a jumble of letters, a digital scream.
‘im coming im coming oh god im—’
Seeing the message send, feeling her internal muscles milking him, Darshan lost all control. He roared, a sound of pure, triumphant possession, and buried himself to the hilt, his own release pumping into her in hot, endless waves. He held her there, impaled, as he emptied himself, his body shuddering.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. The phone slipped from Pritha’s limp fingers, landing softly on the sheet.
Then, his phone buzzed again on the desk. Once. Twice. A third time.
Darshan, still buried inside her, reached for it. He looked at the screen, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. He held it up for her to see.
Tanish’s final message was just two words.
‘You win.’
Darshan dropped the phone. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her face. He was still hard inside her.
“No, moti,” he corrected softly, his voice thick with promise and possession. “We win.”
“We win.” His voice was a low thrum of possession, his cock still pulsing deep inside her. But the words ignited something else in her, a cold, sharp spark in the wreckage of her old life.
She didn’t move away. Instead, she pressed her palms flat against his chest, her fingers splaying over the damp skin. With a slow, deliberate pressure, she pushed him back onto the mattress, forcing him to withdraw from her body. The loss of him was a sudden, cool emptiness.
“My turn,” she said, her voice not a whisper but a statement. She swung her leg over his hips, straddling him, her knees digging into the sheets on either side of his waist. The city lights from the window caught the sweat still drying on her skin, painting her in streaks of gold and shadow.
He looked up at her, his expression shifting from satiated surprise to keen interest. A slow smile touched his lips. “Is it now?”
She didn’t answer with words. She reached between her own legs, her fingers wrapping around the base of his erection, guiding him to her entrance. She held him there, just the head pressing against her swollen, slick folds, making him wait. She watched his eyes darken, the arrogant control in them flickering.
“You like to talk,” she murmured, her voice husky. “You like to tell everyone what you’re doing to me.” She lowered herself onto him, an excruciatingly slow, inch-by-inch descent that made his breath hitch. His hands flew to her hips, but she batted them away. “No. You don’t get to move.”
She took him all, until she was seated fully, impaled on his thickness. She clenched her internal muscles around him, a tight, deliberate squeeze that drew a guttural groan from his throat. “Now you get to feel it,” she said, leaning forward, her breasts hovering above his face. “You get to feel what it’s like when I take what I want.”
She began to move, a slow, grinding roll of her hips that was entirely her own rhythm. It wasn’t the frantic pounding he imposed; it was a deep, claiming undulation designed to milk every sensation from him. She set the pace, controlling the depth, the angle, the friction.
“This cunt,” she breathed, looking down at him, her hair falling around her face, “isn’t just for you to use. It’s for me to fuck you with.” She rose up until only the tip of him remained inside, then slammed back down, taking him deep in one brutal stroke that made his back arch off the bed.
A raw, shattered sound escaped him. His hands gripped the sheets, his knuckles white. “Pritha…”
“Shut up,” she commanded, increasing her pace, her thighs burning with the effort. Her own pleasure was a coiling storm, but she focused on his, on the unraveling of his composure. She watched the sweat bead on his forehead, the desperate clench of his jaw. “You’re just a thing I’m riding. A hard piece of meat to get myself off on.”
She reached behind her, her fingers finding his balls, cupping and squeezing them with a firm, possessive pressure. He cried out, a strangled, helpless noise. She felt his cock twitch violently inside her, signaling his impending loss of control.
“You’re going to come when I tell you to,” she growled, driving down onto him with punishing force. “Not a second before. You hold it. You fucking hold it for me.”
She was close, the orgasm building like a thunderhead, but she held it back, focusing on the raw power coursing through her veins. She owned this. She owned him in this moment, this brutal, beautiful animal beneath her. She leaned down, her mouth next to his ear.
“Come for me, you corrupt bastard,” she whispered, her voice laced with venom and victory. “Now.”
The command broke him. His body seized, a violent tremor wracking his frame as he erupted inside her, his release hot and endless. The sensation triggered her own climax, a blinding, silent convulsion that ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic, possessive pulses.
She collapsed forward, her chest heaving against his, both of them slick and spent. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, mingling breath. Then, she pushed herself up, looking down at his utterly wrecked face. A slow, dark smile spread across her lips.
She rolled off him, standing on slightly unsteady legs beside the bed. She looked at the new, blank phone on the floor, then back at him. “Get up,” she said, her voice calm, infused with a new, unshakable authority. “We’re not done.”
The silence after her command was thick, broken only by their labored breathing. Darshan’s eyes, dark and assessing, tracked her as she stood naked and formidable beside the bed. A slow, appreciative smile finally cracked his exhausted features.
He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, the movement fluid with a latent strength that belied his spent state. “Lead the way, moti.”
The short walk to the bathroom was a procession of two predators, their bare feet silent on the cool concrete floor. He reached past her shoulder to shove the door open, the gesture inherently proprietary, but she entered first, claiming the space.
She twisted the faucets with a sharp, decisive motion. Water exploded from the showerhead, a sudden, steaming torrent that quickly filled the small, tiled room with a thick, humid fog. It plastered her hair to her skull and sluiced the first layer of sweat and drying come from her skin.
He stepped in behind her, the glass door clicking shut. The water was scalding, and she didn’t flinch. His body pressed against her back, his hands sliding around her waist to splay across her stomach, pulling her into the heat of him.
“Look at you,” he murmured into her wet hair, his voice a low rumble against the drumming water. “My brilliant, filthy victory.”
His hands moved from her stomach, one sliding up to cup a breast, rough and possessive, while the other traveled down, fingers seeking the sore, swollen flesh between her legs. She arched back against him, a sharp gasp escaping as his fingers found her clit, already sensitized and throbbing.
“You’re still so fucking tight,” he growled, working two fingers inside her, stretching her, feeling the residual slickness of his last release. “Still greedy for it even when you’re the one in charge.”
She reached back, one hand tangling in his wet hair, pulling his head to the side to expose his throat. She bit down on the corded muscle, not hard enough to break the skin, but with a claiming pressure that made him groan. His fingers pushed deeper, curling inside her.
“I’m always in charge,” she breathed against his wet skin, her voice steely even as her body yielded to his probing touch. “I choose this. I choose you.”
He spun her around to face him, water streaming down their faces. His mouth crashed down on hers, a devouring, waterlogged kiss that was all teeth and desperate tongue. He walked her back until her shoulders hit the cold, wet tiles, the shock a contrast to the burning water and his hotter skin.
He broke the kiss, his chest heaving. “On your knees.”
She sank slowly, the water cascading over her back, her eyes locked on his as she went down. His cock, half-hard, thickened under her gaze. She took him in her hand, her thumb smearing a bead of moisture from the tip before she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
She didn’t just suck him; she consumed him, her head bobbing in a ruthless rhythm, her throat working to take him deeper with each pass. The sounds were obscenely loud in the tiled enclosure—the slap of water, her guttural gagging, his ragged curses.
“That’s it, take it all, you perfect fucking whore,” he choked out, his hands fisting in her hair, controlling the pace now, fucking her face with short, brutal thrusts.
She pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening shaft. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He hauled her up, turning her roughly to face the wall. He pressed her forward, her cheek against the cool tile, and kicked her legs wider apart. He entered her in one relentless, deep thrust that stole the air from her lungs. He filled her completely, the stretch a familiar, welcome burn.
He set a punishing rhythm immediately, his hips hammering against her ass, each impact echoing in the small room. One hand gripped her hip, the other tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. He watched her expression in the foggy glass of the shower door, her face contorted in a mask of pure sensation.
“This cunt is mine,” he grunted, his voice raw. “You can play at being in charge, but this… this is where you belong. Bent over. Taking my cock.”
She met his thrusts, pushing back against him, her own moans lost in the roar of the water. “It’s my cunt,” she gasped, the words a defiant echo of her earlier power. “And I’m letting you use it.”
Her defiance ignited him. His pace became frantic, a desperate, driving need for culmination. He drove into her, again and again, his body slamming against hers, the pleasure coiling into something unbearable.
“I’m going to come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
“Do it,” she commanded, her own orgasm building, a tidal wave about to break. “Fill me up. Again.”
With a final, shattered roar, he plunged deep and held, his release pumping into her in hot, pulsing jets. The feeling of him emptying inside her triggered her own climax, a violent, shuddering convulsion that ripped through her, her inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic, milking spasms.
He stayed there for a long moment, buried inside her, his weight heavy on her back, both of them supported by the wall, breathing in the steam-filled air. The water began to run cool.
He slowly pulled out, and she turned to face him. Water dripped from their lashes, their breath still coming in harsh pants. He reached for a bar of soap, working it into a lather in his hands with a strange, domestic focus. He began to wash her, his hands moving over her shoulders, her back, her breasts, with a thorough, almost clinical detachment that was more intimate than any kiss.
She took the soap from him and did the same, her hands sliding over the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his stomach, washing away the physical evidence of their act while the psychological marks deepened. They stood under the cooling spray, cleaning each other in silence, a ritual of aftermath.
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. He pushed the door open and stepped out, grabbing a towel and tossing another to her without looking back.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice flat, already looking at the new phone on his desk. “The construction crew is at the mill. We have a mall to build.”
The chill of the air-conditioned SUV was a shock after the steam of the shower. Pritha watched the city blur past, her body humming with a strange, new equilibrium. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was charged, a circuit completed.
Darshan drove with one hand, the other resting on her knee, his thumb making absent, possessive circles. “The Mehta injunction,” he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. “It wasn’t just a win. It was a blueprint.”
She turned her head to look at him, the lawyer in her instantly alert. “How?”
“He didn’t just fold. He gave me names.” A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. “The other lawyer on their team, the one who fought so hard? Aryan Joshi. He’s clean. Too clean. He’s a problem.”
The mill loomed ahead, its broken windows like blind eyes. The site was already swarming with workers and machinery, the growl of diesel engines drowning the whispers of the past. He parked on a rise overlooking the chaos, the future mall a concrete skeleton emerging from the rust.
“Joshi has a wife. A daughter. A reputation.” Darshan killed the engine, the sudden quiet amplifying his words. “He thinks the law is a shield.”
Pritha followed his gaze to the construction, then back to his profile. The pieces clicked into place, a dark and perfect fit. “Every shield has a weakness. You just have to find the right leverage.”
“Leverage is a blunt instrument.” He turned to her, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “I want to break him. Not just win. I want to unmake him.” He reached over, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “You’re going to help me.”
A thrill, cold and sharp, shot through her. This was different from the bribery. This was personal. This was art. “How?”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s ethical. So we make him unethical. We get him in a room. We create a situation. You’ll be there. Your word against his, but my money, my influence, backing your word.” His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, not squeezing, just holding. “We’ll film it. Not the whole thing. Just enough. A compromised moment. He’ll have to choose between his career and his family’s ruin.”
The plan was ugly, brilliant, and utterly without mercy. It was everything she had once fought against. Now, it felt like power. Pure, undiluted power.
“Yes,” she said, the word leaving no room for doubt.
He smiled, a true, full smile that transformed his face. He released her throat and cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “My beautiful, vicious partner.”
He got out of the car, and she followed. The site manager, a harried man in a hard hat, rushed over, spewing updates about foundation depths and steel deliveries. Darshan listened for a moment, then pointed toward the northern wall. “I want the food court there. Pritha, come see.”
He led her away from the manager, through the labyrinth of half-built walls and snaking electrical cables, to a secluded section on the upper floor. The space was raw, open to the elements, with a dizzying view of the construction below. A temporary plexiglass panel, installed to block dust, was all that separated them from the drop.
He backed her against the cool, smudged surface of the glass. The vibration of a jackhammer somewhere below thrummed through the panel and into her spine. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked at her, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity.
“I’m so fucking hard for you right now,” he breathed, his hands going to his belt. “Knowing what we’re going to do. Knowing what you are.”
He unzipped his trousers, freeing his erection. He pushed her skirt up her thighs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear and tearing them down. The thin fabric gave way with a soft rip. He kicked them aside.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Look at what we’re building.”
She turned, her palms flattening against the plexiglass. The world swam below, a chaotic ballet of men and machines working to their design. He pressed against her, his cock nudging at her entrance from behind.
“This is all ours,” he growled in her ear, one hand splaying across her stomach, pulling her back onto him. “Every fucking brick.” He drove into her with a single, deep thrust that stole her breath, filling her completely.
He fucked her against the glass with a relentless, pounding rhythm, his hips slamming into her ass. Each impact jarred her, making the plexiglass shudder. His hand slid from her stomach down between her legs, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
“They’re all down there,” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “All those little ants. And I’m up here, buried in the best cunt in Ahmedabad.”
His filthy words, the illicit thrill of being exposed on the edge of the abyss, the raw possession in his thrusts—it was all too much. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, seizing convulsion that made her knees buckle. She cried out, her forehead pressing against the cool glass.
Feeling her clench around him, he lost all control. With a guttural roar that was swallowed by the construction noise, he plunged deep and held, his release pumping into her in hot, pulsing jets. He stayed there, buried inside her, his body heavy against her back, both of them panting, looking down at their kingdom-in-progress.
He slowly pulled out, his spend leaking down her inner thigh. He tucked himself away, his breathing gradually slowing. He turned her around to face him. His eyes were clear, focused, the fever gone, replaced by a cold, sharp purpose.
He used his thumb to wipe a smudge of dust from her cheekbone. His touch was now practical, assessing.
“Joshi’s firm has a Diwali party next week,” he said, his voice low and steady. “We’ll get him there. You’ll wear something unforgettable.”
She nodded, straightening her skirt, her own mind already working, plotting. The warmth between her legs was a reminder of her complicity, a fuel for the fire to come. She looked past him, at the rising steel and concrete, and then beyond, to the city where Aryan Joshi, a good man, was living his last days of peace.
“I know just the dress,” she said.