The Monsoon of Forbidden Flames -The Thread She Wove by Agyat.69

The Ahmedabad monsoon of August 2024 wept softly over the city, a curtain of silver rain threading through the air, its rhythm a tender drum against the tin roof of Manthan’s balcony. The scent of wet earth and crushed neem leaves swirled in the damp breeze, mingling with the faint tang of chai simmering somewhere below. Aarohi sat poised on a weathered wicker chair, its creak a quiet heartbeat beneath her, her bare legs tucked beneath a kurti of storm-cloud gray—its fabric clinging to her like a lover’s breath, the neckline a daring plunge that framed the lush, shadowed swell of her breasts, her hips a sculpted curve that whispered of ripe desire. At 22, she was a monsoon goddess—her skin a warm saffron glow, kissed by the rain’s embrace, her hair a torrent of midnight silk spilling past her shoulders, catching the dim light in glistening strands. Her eyes, twin embers rimmed with kohl, burned with a secret too vast, too molten to cradle alone, and her lips—full, kissed with a natural sheen—quivered with the weight of her confession. Manthan, her confidant since college, leaned against the rusted railing, his lean frame draped in a rain-damp shirt, his dark gaze tracing the tremor in her breath as she parted those lips to speak.

“Manthan,” she began, her voice a velvet shiver weaving through the rain’s murmur, “tell me—who dares to kindle the fire between a father and his daughter? Him… or her?”

He tilted his head, raindrops glistening in his tousled hair, a ripple of confusion softening his sharp jaw. “What fire, Aarohi?” he asked, his tone a gentle prod. “What shadow are you chasing now?”

Her fingers curled around a Thums Up bottle, its chill weeping onto her thigh, a bead of water tracing a slow, glistening path down her skin, igniting a shiver she couldn’t hide. “The kind that consumes,” she whispered, her words a sultry ember, “the kind that’s flesh pressed to flesh, breaths tangled in the dark, a blaze no tongue dares name.”

Manthan’s laugh broke sharp, a jagged shard of disbelief slicing the humid stillness. “You’re spinning tales again,” he said, leaning forward, the chair groaning beneath him. “It’s the father—has to be. No girl could…”

“No,” she cut in, her voice a quiet blade, slicing through his certainty with unshaken resolve. “It was me.”

He froze, the laugh choking off, his eyes widening as if the rain had turned to ash. “You’re mad,” he breathed, his tone rough with incredulity. “Aarohi, not you—I don’t believe it. That’s… impossible.”

Her lips curved—a smile fragile yet fierce, her gaze locking with his, a dare shimmering in its amber depths. “I knew you’d fight it,” she murmured, her voice a sultry thread winding through the rain, “but it’s mine—this flame I lit. A man—a father—can’t cross that line. His heart would seize, his soul would choke on guilt, on the weight of every rule he’s ever known. I had to breathe life into it, fan the ember, lead him trembling into the blaze. For him to dare it first? That’s a bridge too far, Manthan—a bridge my papa could never build.”

He shook his head, rain streaking his face, his jaw set with stubborn doubt. “Prove it, then,” he challenged, voice thick as the monsoon air. “Make me see it—because right now, I can’t swallow this, not from you.”

Aarohi’s breath spilled slow, a ribbon of resolve curling into the damp dusk, her
beauty a quiet tempest—her skin radiant, her curves a siren’s hymn beneath the kurti’s cling. “Why you, Manthan?” she said, her voice softening, a tender flame licking the air. “Because I trust you—only you. You’ve walked your own shadows—your nights with your masi, your cousins—I’ve seen the way you carry it, no shame, no judgment. You listen, you feel, you don’t flinch. I need your eyes to see me, your heart to hear me, your mind to guide me. I’m lost—engaged to Karan this month, my love, my life, wedding in five moons, yet this… this fire with my papa won’t fade. You’ve got answers—I feel it—truths I’m chasing in the dark.”

Manthan’s gaze flickered, softening, but doubt lingered, a fortress unbreached. “It’s too wild,” he said, voice low. “Show me it’s real.”

Her eyes flared, a spark of defiance, and she rose, the kurti slipping to bare a sliver of rain-kissed waist, her voice a sultry vow. “Then I’ll bring you the light,” she whispered, “but not today—I’ll return with proof.” She vanished into the rain, her silhouette a ghost swallowed by the downpour, her resolve a steel thread.

Four days later, the relentless monsoon draped Ahmedabad in a shimmering shroud, its tears a delicate veil threading through the humid air as Aarohi returned, her presence a storm breaking the stillness. Her beauty burned sharper now—her kurti a crimson flame licking her skin, clinging to her curves like a lover’s desperate grasp, the fabric tracing the ripe swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the lush flare of her hips with a sheen that caught the rainlight in fleeting, molten glints. Her lips glistened, a glossy rose kissed by the damp, and her eyes—twin embers blazing beneath lashes heavy with intent—held a truth too fierce to cage. She stood before Manthan, who sat rain-streaked and wary, his shirt clinging to his lean frame, his dark gaze flickering with the unease of a man teetering on the edge of belief. She slid her phone across the table, its screen a small, glowing portal, her voice a low, trembling ember that curled into the damp air like smoke. “You wouldn’t believe me,” she said, her words a sultry vow, “so I captured it—watch, and see.” She tapped the screen, and the air thickened, the world narrowing to the flickering life of a video—grainy yet unbearably vivid—her lavender room a shadowed stage where rainlight bled through the window, casting a silver glow over the tangled tableau within.

The quilt lay crumpled beneath them, a crimson sea churned by their restless tide, her father’s kurta shed in a heap—his chest bare and taut at 46, a canvas of quiet strength, his shoulders broad and sculpted from years of toil, his silver-streaked hair a wild crown catching the dim light, his skin glistening with the musk of sandalwood and the day’s sweat, a scent that hung heavy in the frame. Aarohi’s shirt—pale blue, stolen from Naitik’s closet—hung open, its buttons undone to her navel, the fabric parting like a lover’s sigh to reveal her breasts, full and swaying with every breath, their golden curves kissed by the rainlight, her cleavage a shadowed valley that lured the eye into its depths. She straddled him, her thighs—firm, rain-slicked—gripping his hips with a possessive grace, her hair a wild cascade of midnight silk tumbling over her shoulders, brushing his chest as she moved. The video trembled, as if the phone itself quaked under the weight of their intimacy, and then her voice spilled forth—a moan, soft yet desperate, a sound that wove through the rain’s murmur like a thread of pure want, answered by his groan, a low, primal echo that rumbled from deep within him, their bodies locked in a dance of forbidden hunger.

Her hands—delicate yet commanding—slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard planes of his muscle, tracing the faint scars of a life worked hard, before guiding his palms to her breasts. His hands, roughened by years at the textile looms, hesitated—trembling with a guilt he couldn’t voice—then surrendered, cupping her with a hunger that broke free, his fingers kneading her flesh, thumbs brushing her nipples until they peaked, dark and taut against her golden skin, sending a shudder through her frame. She arched into him, her back a sinuous curve, her breasts pressing deeper into his grasp, the rainlight painting her cleavage in stark, shadowed beauty—a lure that held him captive, his eyes locked on her with a pleasure that mirrored her own, a wild, mutual revelry unfurling in the dark. Her hips rolled slow, a deliberate tease, her thighs flexing as she ground against him, the fabric of his pajamas straining against the thick swell of his manhood, its outline a pulsing confession beneath her heat. She reached down—her fingers trembling with a horny ache she’d nursed for months—slipping beneath the waistband, freeing him with a gasp that echoed in the video’s grainy hum.

His cock sprang forth—her first, the only one she’d ever seen—thick and veined, a rigid column of flesh flushed dark with arousal, its tip glistening with a bead of want that caught the light. She paused, her breath hitching, eyes wide with a virgin awe at this forbidden sight—her papa’s manhood, alive and throbbing in her palm, a marvel she’d awakened. Her fingers curled around it, tentative at first, then bold—stroking slow, feeling its heat, its pulse, a thrill that sent a shiver of wet desire pooling between her thighs. She played with it—teasing the shaft, tracing the veins with a fingertip, brushing the sensitive head until it twitched, a toy she’d claimed, her lips parting in a silent moan as she reveled in its power. He groaned—a sound torn from his depths, raw and unbidden—his hands tightening on her breasts, kneading harder, his thumbs circling her nipples as she guided him to her core, her kurti hiked to her waist, her thighs parting wider to welcome him.

She sank onto him—slow, deliberate—her breath a ragged hymn as his thickness stretched her, filling her with a heat that curled her toes, her walls clenching around him in a tight, greedy embrace. The first thrust was a shockwave—deep, primal—her hips rocking to meet him, her ass brushing his thighs as she rode, a rhythm that built with every pulse of rain against the window. Her moans spilled louder—soft cries of “ohh” and “yes”—muffling into the damp air, her hair swinging wild, brushing his chest as she leaned forward, her breasts swaying, nipples grazing his skin with every thrust. His hands slid to her hips, gripping her curves—lush, rain-slicked—guiding her harder, his groans a low growl, his silver hair falling into his eyes as he watched her, lost in her beauty, her hunger. Sweat beaded on her skin—trickling down her spine, pooling in the dip of her cleavage—a glistening sheen that caught the light as her body trembled, her thighs quaking with the rising tide of pleasure.

She shifted—leaning back, hands braced on his knees—her breasts thrust upward, bouncing with each roll of her hips, her cleavage a dark, shadowed tease in the flickering glow, her curves a symphony of motion that lured him deeper. His thrusts quickened—harder, wilder—his manhood plunging into her with a wet, rhythmic slap, her cries sharpening as she clenched around him, her body a taut bow strung with want. She reached down—fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast circles—her moans climbing to a crescendo, a desperate “Papa, yes” slipping free before she bit her lip, the sound a forbidden spark that fueled his own release. His groan tore loose—a guttural hymn—as he pulsed within her, hot and thick, her walls milking him as her climax crashed—a shuddering wave that arched her back, her breasts trembling, her thighs locking tight, her breath a broken sob of ecstasy. They stilled, entwined, sweat-slicked and panting, rainlight bathing their union—a wild, mutual celebration etched in every line of their flesh.

Manthan jolted back, the phone slipping in Aarohi’s hand, a gasp ripping from his throat, raw and jagged. “God—no…” His voice shattered, eyes wide with a shock that twisted into awe, discomfort coiling tight in his chest—a visceral punch of disbelief—then easing as he stared, transfixed. His hands clutched the table’s edge, knuckles white, his breath shallow and trembling.

“Hearing it—‘my papa and me’—it’s a whisper, a jolt you can push into shadows, imagine away,” he rasped, his voice quaking, “but this… seeing you—craving him, him craving you—enjoying each other so wildly, so fully—it’s alive, Aarohi. You’re lost in it—your body singing, celebrating him—pleasure dripping from every curve, every thrust, every moan. It’s not just happening—it’s a fire, a dance, a truth heavier than I could dream, truer than any word you spoke.”

Aarohi’s gaze softened, a tender flame weaving through the rain-soaked air, her lips parting as she watched his disbelief melt into stunned reverence, the video’s intimacy a bridge that carried him into her world.

The rain’s soft weeping draped the balcony in a silver hush, its rhythm a tender echo threading through the charged silence that lingered after the video’s glow faded from the phone’s screen. Manthan sat, rain-streaked and breathless, his hands still gripping the table’s edge, knuckles pale against the weathered wood, his dark eyes wide with a stunned reverence that had swallowed his earlier doubt. The air between them pulsed—thick with the musk of wet earth, the faint tang of chai, and the raw weight of what he’d witnessed. Aarohi stood before him, her crimson kurti clinging to her curves like a lover’s desperate vow, rainlight glinting off the damp fabric, her beauty a quiet storm—her skin a saffron glow, her breasts a shadowed lure beneath the plunging neckline, her hips a sculpted promise that stirred the stillness. Her lips parted, a glossy sheen catching the dim light, and her eyes—twin embers rimmed with kohl—held him captive, a tender flame weaving through the rain-soaked air as she watched his disbelief melt into awe.

Manthan’s breath steadied, a ragged exhale curling into the damp, his voice a low rasp trembling with the aftershock of truth. “Aarohi…” he murmured, leaning forward, the chair creaking beneath him, “tell me everything—from the beginning, from the scratch. How did it start? How is it still burning? I see it now—God, I see it—but I need to know the how, the why, every string you pulled.”

She sank back into the wicker chair, its groan a soft heartbeat beneath her, her fingers tracing the Thums Up bottle’s chill rim, a bead of water slipping onto her thigh, tracing a glistening path that mirrored the shiver rippling through her skin. Her beauty was a monsoon goddess’s hymn—her hair a torrent of midnight silk spilling over her shoulders, her curves a siren’s call beneath the kurti’s cling, her eyes burning with a secret too vast to hold alone. “It’s a tapestry,” she began, her voice a velvet ribbon weaving through the rain’s murmur, soft yet laced with a sultry ember, “woven slow, thread by thread, a fire I kindled in the shadows. It began innocent—pure as the rain falling now—when I was a child, too small to face the night alone. I couldn’t sleep without my papa’s arms—his chest warm against my cheek, his breath a steady tide lulling me into dreams. He was my haven—46 now, but even then, a man of quiet strength, his shoulders broad beneath a kurta of faded indigo, his hair streaked with silver like moonlight on a restless sea, his skin carrying sandalwood’s musk and the day’s sweat, a scent that wrapped me like a lullaby. Our home—a single-story sprawl of textile gold—cradled three bedrooms off a humming hall: his and Mummy’s with its tiled bathroom, Naitik’s a chaos of books, mine a lavender cocoon with a bed draped in crimson quilt. Each night, he’d cross that hall, his slippers a soft slap on the tiles, hug me until my lashes brushed my cheeks, then slip away. It was ours—this bond, a thread from childhood I never cut.”

Manthan’s gaze locked with hers, the rain a gentle drum underscoring her words, his breath shallow as he leaned closer, hanging on every syllable as she wove the tale.

“It held through the years,” she murmured, her voice dipping low, a husky ripple painting the past, “even as I bloomed—past the awkward tangle of adolescence into the fullness of 18, first year of college, August 2022. Naitik was in his third year, both of us racing to classes by 8:30, Papa to his office, Mummy stirring in the kitchen—nothing shifted, nothing broke. No lover then—just me, my skin waking to puberty’s wild song. Every touch was alive—electric—a classmate’s brush in the corridor, a shiver down my spine—and Papa’s hugs? They turned to fire. He was my first—my hero, my sun—his arms the cradle of my world, his touch pure, fatherly, a balm I’d always known. But I felt it twist—a hunger blooming beneath my ribs, a secret I couldn’t name. So I began—softly, secretly—testing his warmth, night after night, my beauty a lure I honed slow. I was ripe—breasts full and high, hips a swaying tease, my skin a golden glow kissed by the monsoon’s breath, my cleavage a shadowed promise in the dark’s hush. I shed my old nightdresses for tighter skins—t-shirts that clung like a lover’s grasp, low-cut to bare the creamy plunge between my breasts, no bra beneath so my nipples teased faint outlines against the fabric. Or I’d steal a shirt—pale blue, oversized—leaving one button near my chest undone, the parting a teasing window to my breasts’ valley, a glimpse that danced with every breath.”

Her eyes flickered with memory, her voice a sensual tide pulling Manthan deeper. “Each night, I’d stand by my bed, hair fluffed to tumble over one shoulder, lamplight tracing my neck’s curve, my body a silent call. He’d come—his kurta soft, his scent a musk that stirred me—and I’d melt into him, my breasts pressing flush against his chest, shifting subtle so his hand grazed me. The first time—accidental—his palm brushed my breast, my nipple hardened beneath the cotton, a jolt of wet heat searing through me, my thighs trembling with a horny ache I’d never tasted. He pulled back, blind to my intent, but I craved it—night after night—pretending sleep’s haze, stirring so his fingers lingered, my curves a lure in the dark. I’d sigh, a dreamy tease, my thigh brushing his core—just a whisper—and feel him twitch, a hard pulse against me, a secret I roused without him knowing. My blood sang—a wild, hidden hymn—his body waking to me, though his mind stayed pure.”

Manthan’s breath hitched, rain streaking the silence, his eyes tracing the fire in hers as she pressed on.

“I grew bolder,” she purred, her voice a velvet ribbon winding tighter, dripping with want, “each moment a step I planted, day by day, string by string. I’d wear those t-shirts—no bra—tight enough to hug my curves, my nipples faint shadows pressing through, or that shirt—two buttons undone now, the fabric parting wider, framing my chest’s shadowed valley, my breasts swaying with every breath. I’d stand by my bed, rainlight filtering through the window, my cleavage a dark tease in the monsoon’s glow, my hips a sinuous sway as I moved. He’d enter—his slippers a soft slap, his kurta carrying that sandalwood musk—and I’d press into him, my body flush, shifting slow until his hand grazed that gap, brushing my breast’s tender heat. I’d feel it—his fingers tremble, linger a heartbeat—then pull away, still deaf to my song. I’d feign sleep’s restlessness—legs stirring, tangling with his, my thigh grazing his manhood—and oh, how it answered—twitching, swelling against me, a reflex he couldn’t cage, a thrill that sent shivers up my spine, my body aching for more. Night after night, I rubbed my backside against him—slow, deliberate—feeling his hardness press to my ass, a hot confession that made me wet, my breath a horny gasp I hid.”

She paused, her lips parting, rainlight glinting in her eyes, her voice a slow burn weaving the next thread. “One night—weeks in—I wore that shirt, three buttons loose, my breasts bare beneath, and he lifted it—his finger trembling, careful not to touch—peering at my chest, my cleavage a shadowed lure, his breath quickening before he dropped it, fleeing with a ragged whisper. I felt it—his lust stirring, a crack I’d carved with patience. Then came that morning—August 2022, rain drumming the roof, a muggy dawn thick with intent. Normally, we’re up by 7:00—Naitik and I to college, Papa to work by 8:30—but I woke late, 8:18, on purpose, Naitik hogging the common bathroom. ‘Mummy, I’m late!’ I cried, darting to their room, the bathroom a tiled haven—marble cool, shower steamy from Mummy’s turn. I stripped, water cascading over me—kissing my breasts, beading on my nipples, tracing molten paths down my thighs, my hair a wet veil. I stepped out—naked, dripping, skin flushed pink, breasts heavy, nipples peaked, thighs parted—‘Mummy, towel!’ I called, voice sharp. ‘Papa, get it!’ Mummy snapped, hands in dough. His slippers slapped closer, and I flung the door wide—bare, glistening, my body a sculpted flame, rainlight painting my curves. He froze, towel dangling, his eyes raking me—shock melting to hunger, my nudity a hammer against his soul. I took it slow—fingers brushing his, trembling with a wild, horny ache—his gaze burned me, his flush a vow as he turned, but I’d shattered him.”

Manthan’s chest rose, rain a soft underscore, his voice a whisper. “And then?”

Her voice deepened, a poetic storm unfurling the climax, rainlight glinting in her amber eyes as she leaned closer to Manthan, her breath a sultry whisper threading through the monsoon’s murmur. “September 2022 sealed it,” she murmured, “two years back—me at 18, no lover, just this fire I’d built with my own trembling hands. I wore that shirt—open to my navel, the pale blue cotton parting like a lover’s sigh, my breasts bare and swaying beneath, their golden curves a shadowed lure in the lamplight’s hush. I turned in his arms, my ass grinding slow against him, a deliberate tease that stirred his manhood—swelling thick, a pulsing heat pressing to my flesh, a crave I’d nursed through sleepless nights. I spun—his hand landing soft on my breast, fingers grazing my nipple—and seized him—hard, throbbing through his kurta—stroking slow, my breath hitching as I saw it for the first time. I’d never glimpsed an aroused cock—his was my awakening—thick and veined, a rigid tower flushed dark with want, its tip glistening with a bead of desire that caught the light like a forbidden jewel. My heart raced—my papa’s manhood, alive in my palm, a marvel I’d roused—awe and heat flooding me, my thighs quaking with a wet, wild thrill as I curled my fingers around its velvet heat, stroking its pulse, tracing the veins with a trembling fingertip, a forbidden toy I couldn’t resist. It was alive—twitching under my touch, a power that sent a shiver of lust through me, my lips parting in a silent moan as I marveled at its beauty, its strength, my body aching to know it deeper.”

She paused, her voice softening, a tender flame weaving a new thread, her gaze distant as rainlight danced in her eyes. “But before that first thrust—there was more, a dance of want that broke me open. I’d turned in his arms, my lips brushing his neck—a tease, a whisper of heat—and he froze, breath hitching, his sandalwood scent wrapping me tighter. I tilted my head, found his mouth—my hero, my safe haven, my center of peace and love—and pressed my lips to his. It was soft—his lips warm, tasting of chai and rain—a spark that bloomed slow, my heart swelling with a wild, aching love as his tongue met mine, tentative then hungry, a forbidden dance that melted me into his chest. I felt it—my first kiss, with him, my everything—a thrill that burned through me, my body trembling against his, my breath a sigh lost in his mouth, my breasts pressing flush to him as his hands slid to my back, pulling me closer. It was everything—love, want, a line crossed—and it lit the fire that followed. His fingers trembled, tracing my spine, slipping beneath the shirt’s edge to graze my bare skin, a touch that sent shivers cascading through me, my nipples hardening against his kurta, my thighs parting instinct with a wet, aching need.”

Her voice dipped lower, a sultry tide spilling forth, her words painting the scene with poetic intimacy. “He didn’t thrust yet—there was more, a foreplay I spun in the dark. My hands roamed—sliding up his chest, fingers threading through the silver strands at his nape, pulling him deeper into that kiss, our tongues a slow, sensual tangle, his breath a ragged hymn against my lips. I pressed my hips closer, grinding soft against his hardness, feeling it pulse through the fabric, a tease that drew a low groan from his throat, his hands tightening on my waist, kneading my curves with a hunger he couldn’t cage. I broke the kiss—my lips trailing down his jaw, tasting the rain and musk on his skin, nibbling soft at his neck as his head tilted back, a shudder rippling through him. My fingers slipped lower—teasing the waistband of his pajamas, brushing the heat beneath—then bolder, freeing him fully, my palm cupping his cock, stroking slow as I kissed his collarbone, my breath hot against his chest. He groaned—a sound torn from his soul—his hands sliding to my breasts, kneading them harder, thumbs circling my nipples until they ached, a spark that sent a flood of desire pooling between my thighs. I arched into him—my shirt falling open wider—guiding his mouth to my chest, his lips brushing my skin, kissing the valley between my breasts, a tender, hungry worship that made me gasp, my body trembling with a wild, horny ache I couldn’t tame.”

She leaned closer still, her voice a poetic storm unfolding the peak, rainlight casting shadows across her face. “Then I guided him—eyes shut tight—pressing his palm deeper, my nipple a spark beneath his touch, and let it bloom—pretended sleep cloaked us. My hands led his cock to my core—my kurti hiked, thighs parted—and he entered me—slow, deep—a shockwave of heat stretching me, filling me with a fullness that stole my breath, my walls trembling around his thickness, a raw, aching pleasure igniting every nerve. I kept my eyes closed—didn’t dare look, didn’t want the awkwardness, the discomfort of his gaze piercing the dream I’d spun. Every thrust was a tide—his hardness plunging deep, a rhythm that rocked me, his groans a low hymn weaving with my muffled moans, sweat slicking my skin as my thighs locked tight, my heart pounding with a mix of want and fear. It was wild—his heat pulsing inside me, my body clenching him, a flood of sensation I’d never known—wet, hot, overwhelming—until he pulsed, hot and thick, a release that sent shivers up my spine, and slipped away, leaving me trembling, eyes shut till his slippers faded down the hall, the room silent but for the rain’s soft weeping.”

Manthan’s eyes widened, rain a soft chorus beyond the balcony, his voice a low murmur breaking the spell. “When you caught his cock—started moving ahead—didn’t your papa stop you? Didn’t he say anything?”

Aarohi’s lips curved, a knowing flicker in her gaze, her voice a sultry whisper laced with truth. “How could he?” she murmured, leaning closer, the kurti slipping to bare a glimpse of her rain-kissed waist. “How could he say no—how could he ask—when his manhood was tight, aroused, throbbing in my hand? Wouldn’t it fault him—paint him guilty—to question why it stood so hard, so eager, if he didn’t want it too? His body spoke—betrayed him—before his voice could find the words. He stayed silent, caught in the tide I’d stirred, and let me lead.”

Manthan’s breath hitched, his gaze steady, and he pressed on, voice soft with wonder. “Do you still keep your eyes closed—when you’re with him now?”

She smiled, a tender flame softening her features, rainlight glinting in her eyes. “No,” she whispered, “only that first time—second night on, I opened them, saw him, felt him, witnessed every moment. It became ours—no shy, no shame—it’s normal now, doesn’t embarrass us. I look into his eyes, see the want there, and let it burn free.”

Her voice softened further, a poetic tide carrying the story forward. “It lives—two years on, me at 20, engaged to Karan this month, wedding in January. Karan’s my wildfire—seven years of love, his hands rough, pinning me, his cock deep as I scream, sated, alive. I’d die for him—bike rides under rain, kisses bruising, our bodies a tangled blaze. But my papa… I crave him too—I start it, always—pressing my breasts to him, guiding his hands, stripping him slow, riding him with moans that echo, my body trembling as he fills me, a secret I can’t shed. No guilt—just want, beside my daughter’s love for my papa, pure as ever. Mummy cooks, Naitik studies—nothing breaks. Why, Manthan? When Karan’s my soul, why this?”

“Aarohi,” he began, his voice a low tide weaving through the rain’s murmur, rich with a quiet wisdom that carried no judgment, only light, “you’re chasing a shadow that doesn’t need catching. You can’t understand it because you’re looking through a lens society pressed into your hands—one that says love and sex must dance as one, that a daughter’s heart can’t hold a flame like this without breaking. But listen—it’s simpler than that, more natural than the rules we’ve built. This fire with your papa—it started in the wild of your youth, when your body woke to its own song, hormones humming a tune you couldn’t silence. He was your first—your hero, your shelter—and that closeness, that trust, turned the key. It’s not love like Karan’s—it’s a thread apart, a hunger born of flesh, not heart, and that’s no sin.”

She tilted her head, rainlight glinting in her midnight hair, her breath shallow as she hung on his words, the Thums Up bottle forgotten in her grip, its chill weeping onto her thigh like a tear she wouldn’t shed. Manthan’s voice deepened, a poetic balm spilling forth. “You feel no guilt, no disgust—why should you? It’s yours—this want—a dance you lead, a rhythm you both step to, free of force or shame. Karan fills your soul—seven years of wildfire, his touch a blaze that leaves you whole, a love you’d bleed for, a future you’ll weave. But this? With your papa? It’s not his rival—it’s a pulse beside it, a secret carved in your skin, a need that doesn’t bow to labels. Society whispers it’s wrong—ties sex to love, to marriage, to rules etched by hands long gone—but those are just shadows on the wall, Aarohi, not the truth of you. Your heart holds him as a daughter still—pure, unshaken—while your body sings a different hymn. They’re not the same, and they don’t have to be.”

Her lips parted, a faint tremor in her breath, and he leaned closer, his voice a tender flame weaving through the rain-soaked air. “You ask why—when Karan’s everything, why this? Because desire doesn’t kneel to logic or guilt—it flows where it will, wild and free, like rain finding its path. You’ve tried to cage it, control it, but it slips through—because it’s not a fault, not a flaw. It’s nature—messy, raw, alive. You and he—you both choose it, no chains, no coercion, just a want that hums between you, a pleasure you’ve claimed. Stop asking why it feels good—it does, naturally, like breath, like rain. The world’s rules are just a guide—lines drawn by others to tame the untamed—but you’ve stepped beyond, found your own rhythm with him, and that’s yours to hold. Don’t twist it with their voices—you’ll only tangle what’s clear. It’s you, Aarohi—your fire, your truth.”

Aarohi’s gaze softened, rainlight catching the flicker of relief in her eyes, her shoulders easing as if a weight had slipped into the monsoon’s embrace. The air stilled, thick with the scent of wet earth and the quiet resonance of his words, a conclusion that didn’t judge or bind, but freed her to see—her love for Karan a blazing dawn, her desire for her father a secret dusk, both alive, both true, both hers. The rain wept on, a gentle hymn to their silence, and in that moment, the balcony held not just a confession, but a peace—a truth shimmering in the monsoon’s tender glow.