Virat jolted awake in the tangled sheets of his king-sized bed, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, his body a slick inferno of unspent need. The dream clung to him like a lover's sweat—vivid, profane flashes of Ishani's lithe form writhing beneath him, her cries of "Mama" twisting into moans of surrender as he claimed her, thrust after merciless thrust, her tight heat milking him dry. His cock throbbed painfully against the damp confines of his boxers, pre-cum soaking the fabric in a sticky testament to his depravity. He groaned low, raking a hand through his disheveled hair, the room spinning in the pre-dawn haze. At 42, he was no stranger to dark urges, but this... this was a descent into hell, familial bonds fraying under the weight of his obsession.