The car rolled to a halt outside Galaxy Mall—glass towers glowing under neon skies, music thumping from unseen speakers. Mrigank killed the engine, eyes sharp in rearview. "Get out," he said flatly. "Buy clothes." Not a suggestion. A command wrapped in silence that meant more than words.
Gaurav stepped into the mall like he owned it.
No rush.
No hesitation.
Just slow strides across marble floors, drawing eyes instantly—girls between 18 and 24 turned mid-step, drinks pausing at lips, phones lowering from Instagram reels to live-action fantasy walking past: six-pack tension under fitted school shirt,* jawline sharp enough to cut glass,* walk calm but weighted with dominance.*
He chose black—slim-fit formal shirt,* charcoal pants tailored for older men—but on him? They screamed *danger*. He wasn't dressing for age.
He was wearing **power**.
Flirting followed him like shadows—but he didn't glance back once.
Too many wanted him now?
Good.
Let them burn waiting their turn
---
🔹 *Back in car* — engine off but heat still thick
Ms Rita knelt again.
Even after what happened earlier—even after being fucked raw against window till she couldn't walk straight without wince—her boss looked at her and said:
> *"Blowjob."*
His cock wasn't hard this time.
Soft.*
Limp.*
Only half-life pulsing weak beneath work pants dragged down just enough
She hesitated inside mind not body because body obeyed now mind still fought pride dignity self-respect all gone long ago why care one soft suckling act barely worth mention except condition changed circumstance worsened humiliation level max when son sits right there watching same boy who used me as sex toy minutes
Still… she took it.
Lips wrapped soft shaft.*
Tongue swirled base.*
Then—
Engine restarted.
Music rose low and slow—a Hindi remix pulse-matched arousal frequency tuned father's mood exactly right moment next phase begin
---
🔹 Final stop: **Crimson Flame** — Mumbai's most elite rooftop restaurant
Crimson Flame glowed in silence—no guests, no noise. Just polished marble and the scent of sandalwood burning low.
The car rolled up to **Crimson Flame**, Mumbai's most exclusive restaurant—empty tonight, reserved for one purpose.
Inside, Mr. Singh waited—Punjabi business tycoon, empire spanning Delhi and beyond. His family stood beside him: wife draped in a tight one-piece that hugged every curve like silk on fire… and their three daughters.
Gaurav stepped in silence.
Then his father spoke—low, firm:
> "Mr. Singh is a powerful man. We're starting business in Delhi… so both families agreed."
>
> "Your marriage is fixed."
>
> "To his youngest daughter."
No question.
No choice.
Just duty wrapped as destiny.
And Gaurav? He didn't flinch.
He nodded once—as he always did—to power, to control, to the unspoken law passed from father to son: *women are currency.* Love? A myth for weak men.
Mr. Singh stood by the window—turbaned, powerful—a man who built empires from dust. His wife beside him: draped in a sleek one-piece that clung to every curve, her body a forbidden poem written in gold thread and grace.
Three daughters followed.
The eldest—19—mirror of her mother: tall, full-hipped, gown hugging breasts like worship.
The second—17—elegance carved into motion, dress slit high but eyes higher.
And then—
*Avni.*
Smallest.
Frock modest at knees.
Body average… forgettable to most.
But her face?
A goddess carved from moonlight.
Eyes deep calm soul-still kind
Lips parted slightly as if speaking truth only hearts hear
Gaurav felt it—
Not lust.
Something worse.
*Weakness.*
For the first time… pulse didn't race for power or sex or control…
It slowed.
Beat once for *her.*
His father's voice cut through:
"Marriage fixed. Delhi business begins."
And he nodded—as always did—to dominance not love
But inside?
One lie cracked open:
> *I don't want to own her.*
> *I want… something else.*