Chapter 6: Breakfast

"This is your daughter's," Aloma said.

The dress hung from her fingers. Light blue fabric with small white flowers scattered across it. Cotton. Probably expensive despite looking casual.

"Obviously," Kunal replied.

He leaned against the doorframe. Still wearing fresh clothes from however long he'd been awake. Dark slacks. A pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Looking ready for a business meeting instead of morning-after conversation with the employee he'd spent the night degrading.

Aloma's grip tightened on the fabric. "I can't wear this."

"You can't leave naked either."

"Where are my clothes?"

Kunal pushed off the doorframe. Moved into the guest room. "Gone."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I threw them away," he said. His tone suggested he was explaining something obvious to a child. "The trash chute. They're already in the building's incinerator by now."

The statement hit her like cold water. Her MISANDRIST shirt. The plaid skirt. Her sheer bra and thong. The choker with the crucifix. Everything that made her look like herself instead of some generic college girl.

"You had no right—"

"Put the dress on," Kunal interrupted.

Aloma looked down at the fabric in her hands. Then at Kunal. Then back at the dress. Her mouth opened to argue further but nothing came out.

She should refuse. Should demand he call her an Uber and wait in another room while she left wrapped in the towel. Should tell him this whole situation had gone too far.

Instead she stood there. Silent. Holding his daughter's dress.

"I'm not asking again," Kunal said.

Aloma's fingers moved to the towel. Found the fold where she'd tucked it closed above her breasts. The gesture was automatic. Trained into her from years of changing in gym locker rooms and public bathrooms.

She pulled the towel loose. Let it drop to the floor.

Standing naked in the guest room felt different than being naked during sex. More exposed somehow. The morning light coming through the windows was bright and unforgiving. No alcohol haze to blur the edges. No heat of arousal to make it feel acceptable.

Just her body on display while her boss watched.

Kunal's eyes traveled over her. Starting at her bare feet. Moving up her legs to the space between her thighs where come from last night had dried on her skin. Lingering on her small breasts. Her flat stomach. The tattoos scattered across her arms and ribs.

His expression gave nothing away. No lust. No disgust. Just observation.

Aloma lifted the dress. Found the neck opening. Pulled it over her head.

The fabric slid down her body. Soft cotton against her skin. Still smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something floral that must have been Anoushka's perfume.

The fit was close. Anoushka was probably taller and had more curves to fill out the chest and hips. On Aloma's smaller frame, the dress hung differently. Tighter in some places. Looser in others.

The hem hit mid-thigh. Shorter than it probably sat on Kunal's daughter. The neckline was scooped but modest. Short sleeves that covered her shoulders.

She looked like she was wearing borrowed clothes. Which she was. Except the borrowing hadn't been consensual and the owner had no idea some strange woman was standing in her father's penthouse wearing her dress.

Aloma's hands moved to smooth down the fabric. The gesture was automatic. Trying to make it sit right even though nothing about this situation was right.

"Turn around," Kunal said.

She turned. Slowly. Let him see the full effect.

The dress had a small zipper in the back that she hadn't closed all the way. Her fingers couldn't reach it properly without help.

Kunal stepped closer. His hand found the zipper. Pulled it up slowly until the dress was secure.

His fingers lingered on her spine. Traced down the fabric. "It fits you better than it fits her."

Aloma didn't respond. Wasn't sure if he wanted a response or was just making an observation.

"She's too tall," Kunal continued. "Too heavy. This dress always looked wrong on her. Too short. Made her look like she was trying too hard."

His hand moved lower. Found the hem. Lifted it slightly.

"But on you," he said, "it looks like it was made for your body."

Aloma stood frozen. His fingers brushed against her bare thigh. No underwear beneath the dress. He'd destroyed her thong on the balcony and hadn't offered any replacement.

"How old is Anoushka?" she asked. The question came out before she could stop it.

"Twenty-two," Kunal said.

Two years younger than Aloma. Recent college graduate based on the photos scattered throughout the penthouse. Pretty girl with her mother's elegant features and her father's height.

And here was Aloma. Wearing her dress. Fucked repeatedly by her father. Standing barefoot in the guest room where Anoushka probably slept when visiting.

Kunal's hand slid higher under the hem. Cupped her ass. Squeezed.

"No marks here," he said. "I was careful."

He had been. During all the spanking and slapping, he'd controlled the force. Left her skin pink but not bruised. Nothing that would show in a dress like this.

"Kitchen," Kunal said. He released her. Stepped back. "Make breakfast."

The command was casual. Like asking her to file reports or update a client spreadsheet.

"What?" Aloma turned to face him.

"You heard me," Kunal said. "Kitchen. Breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. I'll tell you how I like it."

She stared at him. Waiting for some indication this was a joke. Some sign he wasn't serious about having her play housewife in his daughter's dress.

His expression remained neutral. Expectant.

"I'm not your wife," Aloma said.

"Obviously." Kunal walked past her. Headed toward the door. "You're much better at following instructions."

The comment hung in the air. Comparison to his wife. Priya. The elegant woman in all the photos. Mother of his children. Partner of however many years.

Aloma followed him out of the guest room. Through the hallway. Past the master bedroom where family photos watched from expensive frames.

The penthouse looked different in daylight. Last night everything had been ambient lighting and alcohol haze. Now the morning sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows. Showed every detail in sharp focus.

Expensive furniture. Original artwork on the walls. Designer rugs over polished marble floors. The kind of space that appeared in luxury real estate magazines.

They reached the kitchen. The same space where Kunal had bent her over the counter while talking to his wife on the phone. Where he'd made her confess fantasies while his daughter's voice came through the speaker.

The marble counter looked pristine. Clean. No evidence of what had happened there hours earlier.

Kunal moved to one of the bar stools. Sat down. Made himself comfortable.

"Eggs scrambled," he said. "Not runny. Toast with butter. Coffee black with one sugar."

Aloma stood near the entrance. Her feet were still bare against the cold marble. The dress felt strange on her body. Too innocent. Too normal for what she actually was.

"Where's everything?" she asked.

Kunal gestured vaguely. "Eggs in the fridge. Bread in the cabinet above the toaster. Coffee maker is on the counter. Figure it out."

She moved further into the kitchen. Started opening cabinets to find what she needed. The space was organized but unfamiliar. Everything had its place but she had to search for each item.

The pan was in a lower cabinet. Eggs in the refrigerator door. Butter in a covered dish. Bread in a cabinet that also held expensive Italian pasta and imported olive oil.

Aloma cracked eggs into a bowl. Found a whisk in a drawer. Beat them together while the pan heated on the stove.

Kunal watched from his seat. Didn't offer help or additional instructions. Just observed while she worked.

The eggs went into the pan. Started cooking immediately. She stirred them with a spatula, breaking up the curds as they formed.

Toast went into the toaster. Coffee grounds into the machine. She measured by guessing. Hoped she got it right.

"How was your sleep?" Kunal asked.

The question was so casual it took her a moment to process. Like they were colleagues making small talk instead of boss and employee who'd spent the night fucking.

"Fine," Aloma said.

"Guest bed is comfortable," Kunal continued. "Better mattress than the master bedroom. I bought it when my mother-in-law was visiting. She complained about her back."

Aloma pushed the eggs around the pan. They were almost done. Scrambled but not dry.

"Priya's mother stayed here for three months last year," Kunal said. "Worst three months of my marriage. Woman wouldn't stop talking. Had opinions about everything. How I ran my business. How we raised the kids. What we ate for dinner."

The toast popped up. Aloma transferred it to a plate. Spread butter while it was still hot enough to melt.

"She slept in that guest room," Kunal said. "Same bed you slept in. I used to fantasize about her having a heart attack. Just dying peacefully in her sleep so I wouldn't have to listen to another lecture about respecting elders."

Aloma brought the plate to him. Eggs. Toast. Set it down on the counter.

"Coffee's still brewing," she said.

Kunal picked up his fork. Cut into the eggs. Took a bite. Chewed slowly.

"Perfect," he said. "Not runny."

She moved back to the coffee maker. Watched it drip into the carafe. The smell filled the kitchen. Strong and bitter.

Kunal's hand reached out. Grabbed her hip. Pulled her closer to where he sat.

"Come here," he said.

Aloma stepped between his knees. He was still sitting on the bar stool. Put them at nearly the same height.

His hand slid under the dress. Found her bare ass. Squeezed.

"No underwear suits you," he said. "Makes you accessible."

His fingers moved between her legs. Found her opening. Pushed inside without warning.

Aloma's hands went to his shoulders. Steadied herself. The penetration was sudden but her body accepted it. Still loose from last night. Still wet despite everything.

Kunal fingered her slowly. Two fingers moving in and out. His thumb found her clit. Rubbed circles.

"Keep talking," he said. "Tell me about your Monday schedule."

The request was absurd. He wanted her to discuss work while he fingered her in his kitchen.

"Client meeting at ten," Aloma managed. Her voice came out strained. "Social media review at two. Content calendar review at four."

"Which client?"

His fingers went deeper. Hit that spot inside that made her legs shake.

"The restaurant chain," she said. "The one expanding into Bangalore."

"Good account," Kunal said. "Don't fuck it up."

His thumb pressed harder on her clit. The pressure built. Familiar sensation creeping up from her core.

"I won't," Aloma said.

The coffee maker beeped. Finished brewing. The sound was loud in the quiet kitchen.

Kunal pulled his fingers out. Brought them to his mouth. Tasted them.

"Get the coffee," he said.

Aloma's legs were unsteady. She moved to the counter. Found a mug in the cabinet. Poured coffee. Added one sugar like he'd specified.

Her hands shook slightly carrying the mug back to him. Some coffee sloshed over the rim. Dripped onto the saucer underneath.

Kunal took the mug. Sipped. Made a small sound of approval.

"Sit with me," he said. "Eat something."

She hadn't made food for herself. Hadn't thought to.

"I'm not hungry," Aloma said.

"Sit anyway."

There was another bar stool next to his. She climbed onto it. The dress rode up her thighs. She tugged it down.

Kunal cut off a piece of egg with his fork. Brought it to her mouth.

"Open," he said.

She opened. Let him feed her. The eggs were still warm. Tasted like butter and salt.

He did it again. Cut another piece. Fed her. Then took a bite himself.

They alternated. Him feeding her. Then eating. The gesture was intimate. Domestic. Wrong in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

"Your parents still in Kolkata?" Kunal asked.

The question surprised her. He'd never asked about her family before. Never showed interest in her life outside work.

"Yes," Aloma said.

"You visit often?"

"Not really."

Kunal cut more toast. Offered her half.

"Why not?" he asked.

Aloma chewed the toast. Bought time before answering. "We don't get along."

"Catholic parents," Kunal said. "Traditional. Probably wanted you to marry some nice Bengali boy. Have kids. Stop dying your hair and getting tattoos."

He wasn't wrong. Her mother had said exactly those things. Multiple times. In increasingly desperate tones as Aloma approached her mid-twenties without any marriage prospects.

"Something like that," Aloma said.

Kunal finished his coffee. Set down the mug.

"My parents wanted me to marry a Brahmin girl from our community," he said. "Someone with proper family background. Good education. Traditional values."

He gestured vaguely at the penthouse around them.

"I married Priya instead," he continued. "Also Brahmin. Also educated. But not from the family they wanted. Her father was in business. New money. My parents preferred old money and government connections."

Aloma wasn't sure why he was telling her this. Wasn't sure what response he expected.

"They came around eventually," Kunal said. "When they saw the lifestyle I could provide. The grandchildren. The penthouse in the right neighborhood."

He picked up the empty plate. Handed it to her.

"Clear this to the dining table," he said. "Then lean over it."

The shift was immediate. From casual breakfast conversation to sexual command.

Aloma took the plate. Her hands were steadier now. She slid off the bar stool. Walked through the kitchen to where the dining area opened up.

The table was large. Dark polished wood. Eight chairs. The kind of formal dining setup that families used for special occasions.

She set the plate down. Turned to ask where he wanted it specifically.

Kunal was right behind her. Close enough that she could feel his body heat.

"Bend over," he said. "Hands flat on the table."

Aloma bent forward. Placed her palms on the smooth wood. The position pushed her ass out. Made the dress ride up.

Kunal's hand found the hem. Lifted it to her waist.

"This table cost forty thousand rupees," he said. "Custom made. Priya picked it out. Took her three months to decide on the finish."

His hand ran over her bare ass. Squeezed. Spread her cheeks apart.

"The kids do their homework here," he continued. "Anoushka used to study for exams right where your hands are now. My son draws pictures. Gets marker on the wood sometimes."

Aloma heard him unbuckle his belt. Unzip his pants.

"We host dinner parties," Kunal said. "Business associates. Family friends. Everyone sits around this table. Eats expensive food. Pretends to enjoy each other's company."

His cock pressed against her entrance. No warning. No preparation beyond her body's lingering arousal.

He pushed inside. One smooth thrust. Buried himself completely.

Aloma gasped. Her fingers spread wider on the table. Tried to find purchase on the slick surface.

"Stay quiet," Kunal said. "Don't want the neighbors hearing."

His hands gripped her hips. Found the bone beneath Anoushka's dress. Held tight enough to hurt.

Then he started fucking her. Slow. Deliberate. Each thrust was measured. Controlled. Nothing like the frantic violence from last night.

This was different. More purposeful. Like he was proving something.

The dress bunched around her waist. The fabric probably getting wrinkled. Creased from being pushed up and held there.

Aloma's small breasts pressed against the polished wood. The surface was cold. Hard. Unforgiving.

"Priya's parents sat right there last Christmas," Kunal said. He tilted his head toward one end of the table while continuing to thrust. "Her mother made comments about my weight. Said I should exercise more. Take better care of myself."

His pace stayed steady. Deep strokes that hit something inside her. Made her body respond despite her mind screaming about how wrong this was.

"I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up," he continued. "Wanted to say her daughter had gotten fat too. That neither of them had any room to criticize anyone else's body."

Aloma's breathing got harder. The angle pushed him deeper than the positions from last night. Hit different spots.

"But I smiled instead," Kunal said. "Agreed with her. Said I'd join a gym after the holidays. Made nice because that's what you do with family."

His grip tightened on her hips. Fingers digging into bone. Leaving marks that would last days.

"That's what you do in polite society," he continued. "Smile. Nod. Pretend everything is fine. That you don't want to fuck your feminist employee on the dining table while your family is across the world."

The thrusts got slightly harder. Still controlled but with more force behind them.

Aloma's mouth opened. A small sound escaped. Not quite a moan but close.

"I said quiet," Kunal reminded her.

She bit her lip. Tried to suppress the sounds her body wanted to make.

His hand moved from her hip to her hair. Still damp from the shower. Fading red that needed touching up. He wrapped it around his fist. Pulled her head back.

The new angle arched her spine. Made her small breasts lift away from the table.

"This dress looks better on you than her," Kunal said. "Anoushka bought it for some college event. Wore it once. Said it made her look young. Childish."

He thrust harder. Made Aloma's body rock forward.

"But that's exactly how it should look," he continued. "Young. Innocent. Like some college girl getting fucked by her boyfriend's father."

The image was specific. Detailed. Made Aloma wonder if this was another fantasy he'd been building.

"Except you're not my daughter's friend," Kunal said. "You're my employee. Wearing her clothes. Bent over my family's dining table. Taking my cock while the fabric rides up your skinny waist."

His breathing got heavier. The controlled pace starting to slip.

"Tell me you understand," he said.

Aloma's voice came out strained. "I understand."

"Understand what?"

"That I'm wearing your daughter's dress," she said. Each word was difficult. "While you fuck me on your family's table."

"Why?"

The question was cruel. Made her explain her own degradation.

"Because you threw away my clothes," Aloma said. "Because you wanted me to."

"Wanted you to what?"

"Look like her," Aloma said. The admission hurt coming out. "Look young and innocent while you use me."

Kunal's hand tightened in her hair. Pulled harder. Made her scalp burn.

"That's right," he said. "Because you're a good employee. Because you follow instructions. Because when I tell you to put on my daughter's dress and make me breakfast and bend over my table, you do it."

His other hand reached around. Found her clit. Rubbed harsh circles.

The sensation combined with the deep thrusts pushed Aloma closer to the edge. Her body was responding. Building toward climax despite everything her mind was screaming.

"Come for me," Kunal commanded. "On this table. In this dress. I want to feel it."

The orgasm built fast. Too fast to stop even if she wanted to.

Her body clenched around him. Waves of pleasure that made her legs shake. Made her fingers curl against the polished wood.

Kunal kept thrusting through it. Drew it out. Made it last longer than she could handle.

When the waves finally subsided, he didn't stop. Just kept fucking her. Chasing his own finish.

His rhythm got erratic. Lost the controlled pace. Became rougher. More desperate.

Then he slammed deep. Held himself there. She felt him pulsing inside her. Filling her with come for what had to be the fifth or sixth time since last night.

When he finished, he stayed buried. Didn't pull out immediately. Just kept her pinned against the table. His body pressed against her back. His breath hot against her neck.

"This happens every time they're gone," Kunal said quietly. "Every business trip. Every family vacation. Every time Priya takes the kids somewhere. You come here. You do what I say. You let me use you however I want."

He pulled out slowly. She felt come leak out. Run down her inner thighs.

Kunal stepped back. Straightened her dress. Pulled it down to cover her ass. Smoothed the fabric like nothing had happened.

"Do you agree?" he asked.

Aloma stayed bent over the table. Her legs were shaking too much to support her weight. Come was still dripping onto the expensive polished wood.

"Yes," she whispered.