Tarun was a man of refined tastes and even more refined vices. At 56, he had seen and done it all, or so he thought, until he laid eyes on his daughter-in-law, Chaitali. With her raven hair, almond eyes, and porcelain skin, she was the very picture of Indian beauty. And with her lithe, nubile body, she was the embodiment of Tarun’s darkest, most forbidden desires.

It had started innocently enough. Chaitali had moved in with her new husband, Tarun’s son, Rohan. Tarun had welcomed her into the family with open arms, lavishing her with attention and affection. He would compliment her on her cooking, her intelligence, her grace. He would brush her hair out of her face when it fell into her eyes, his fingertips lingering on her soft skin just a little too long.

Chaitali was flattered by Tarun’s attention. She had always been close with her father-in-law, and she cherished their bond. She never suspected that Tarun’s affections were anything more than those of a doting father figure.

But Tarun couldn’t help himself. Chaitali was like a drug to him, and he was addicted. He would watch her as she moved about the house, his eyes roving over her body, undressing her with his gaze. He would find any excuse to be alone with her, to touch her, to breathe in her intoxicating scent.

One evening, as they sat on the porch, sipping tea and watching the sunset, Tarun finally gave in to his desires. He reached out and took Chaitali’s hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on her soft palm.

“You know, Chaitali,” he said, his voice low and husky, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. About how beautiful you are, how perfect.”