Silk and Scandal
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4: Fractured Vows
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 4: Fractured Vows - The passionate forbidden love between a British Duke and a beautiful Calcutta Temptress in the 1860's
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa White Male Indian Female Masturbation Oral Sex Petting
Dawn broke sullen over Calcutta, monsoon haze mirroring Jim’s turmoil as he paced his hotel suite, Anaya’s soaked-sari image burned into his mind—petite body pinned to the wall, smoky black eyes pleading choose me. Her noble offer echoed: Say I seduced you. I’ll vanish. Temptation gnawed—legacy safe, her as secret mistress in a London flat, stolen nights of her clenching heat. Father’s solicitors hammered: alliances crumbling, estates teetering. Ned’s voice haunted: Dukedom first. Yet love—raw, irrevocable—roared louder, visions of her shattered vulnerability post-climax twisting his gut. No more half-measures.
The Wavering
Breakfast at the Bengal Club reeked of cigar smoke and judgment, colonial peers eyeing him like a leper. Ned slid into the seat opposite, face etched with worry. “Jim. Word’s wildfire—exhibition boycott brewing. Marry her? Ravenswood falls.” A cable lay open: Disinherit if persists. Honor above heart. Father.
Jim’s fist clenched the china, cracking it. “Honor? Hiding her shames us both.” Blue eyes blazed, decision crystallizing. “I choose her. Publicly. Today.”
Ned sighed, loyal steel bending. “Madness. But ... you’re the man she forged. I’ll stand witness.” A reluctant clap on the shoulder—brotherhood sealed.
Across town, Anaya faced her own abyss. Father’s rage thundered: “No Desai weds a scandal-monger! Kapoor waits—honor restored.” Servants packed her trunks; aunties wailed. Petite frame trembled in her chamber, smoky eyes tracing paisley sketches—lovers’ knots mocking her fracture. He’ll take the exit, her heart whispered defeat, fingers slipping between her thighs one last time, circling her slick clit to memories of his slow thrusts, yours gasped in ecstasy. Climax crested lonely, tears salting the release—falling absolute, release her price.
The Dark Low
Midday found Jim at the exhibition’s climax gala, the hall packed with glitterati. Kapoor preened center-stage; Anaya stood peripheral, emerald silk radiant but her eyes hollow. Jim mounted the dais uninvited, his voice booming: “Ladies, gentlemen—the Desai designs are Ravenswood’s crown. And Miss Anaya Desai...” Pause, heart slamming. “ ... will be my Duchess.”
Gasps erupted—fans snapping, murmurs tsunami. Kapoor sneered; her father blanched. Anaya’s smoky gaze lifted, widening in shock—hope warring despair. Jim descended, pulling her into a spotlit embrace, his lips claiming hers publicly—tongues tangling defiant, her petite curves molding to him amid scandalized coughs. Hands roamed bold: his spanning her waist, hers fisting his lapels, heat flaring core-deep despite the stares.
The crowd fractured—some applauding novelty, elites fleeing. Ned flanked them, chin high. “Well struck, old man.”
But fallout lashed: Jim’s proxy stormed off, alliances severed. Anaya’s family disowned her mid-kiss—”No Desai whore!” Father spat, turning away. Her world crumbled; tears pricked smoky depths.
Choice Forged
Private aftermath: his suite, door bolted, rain weeping at the windows. Anaya collapsed against him, her sari pooling as he stripped them bare. “You chose ... us?” Voice breaking, small hands exploring his chest reverently.
“Forever.” Jim lifted her, her legs wrapping his waist, impaling her on his thick length against the door—slow, claiming thrusts amid sobs. Eyes locked: hers wrecked with love, his fierce vow. “No hiding. My Duchess.” His hips rolled deep, grinding her clit; she keened, nails raking his back, walls fluttering vise. Climax shattered shared—her scream husband, his roar spilling seed, binding them amid ruin.
Collapsed entwined, whispers sealed: “London. We’ll rebuild.” Her smoky gaze glowed—dark low conquered, love triumphant.
Yet whispers lingered outside—Ton exile loomed. Ned toasted later: “To scandal’s survivors.”
The Ceremony Unfurls
Sunset bled crimson over the Desai gardens, lanterns swaying in the monsoon aftermath, the air heavy with jasmine and anticipation. Jim stood at the floral mandap—a canopy of marigolds and silk—his sherwani crimson and gold, fusing his English tailoring with Anaya’s bold paisley embroidery, his sword at his hip a ducal echo. Heart hammered; disinheritance cables burned in his pocket, but his blue eyes fixed on the garden path. Ned flanked him, resplendent in a kurta, murmuring: “Steady, old man. Those eyes await.”
Anaya emerged, a petite vision in an ivory sari woven with silver threads—the low-draped bodice hugging her breasts, the skirt whispering against her slender legs, the dupatta veiling smoky black eyes that pierced the lace like midnight stars. Henna bloomed intricate from her palms up her arms, vanishing beneath blouse sleeves to secrets only Jim knew. Aunties trailed, silver trays bearing sindoor and rice; her father’s absence ached, but her chin lifted defiant, her steps gliding to him. Guests hushed—loyal merchants, Ned’s coterie, even a few scandal-curious elites—electric under the open sky.
Hands joined under the pandit’s chant, thumbs circling palms in ritual heat—her small grip electric, their pulses syncing. The Registrar stepped forward crisp: “James Ashbourne, do you take Anaya Desai as wife, in sickness and health?”
Jim’s voice rang: “I do.”