Thriller The Game!! Season 2 : Sex & Politics (updated - 20th nov 2025)

[kingqueenjoker]

< 1 year after the incidents of rupa's tryst with fire.....present day>



Chandrani's palms felt sticky with nervousness as she were looking outside the car unaware of what ashok was telling , her knuckles white with tension. The setting sun had barely kissed the horizon, and the city was already bustling with the murmur of the day's busy happenings. She took a deep breath and glanced at the rearview mirror, her heart skipping a beat as she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her eyes looked tired, but the excitement of today's event shone through the shadows underneath.

In the backseat, Rehan was engrossed in his video game, oblivious to his mother's inner turmoil. She couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for involving him in this mess, but she had no other choice. The past two months had been a rollercoaster, with the political landscape of the country resembling a battleground after the shocking assassinations of Jorawar and Karim Khan. Their deaths had sent tremors through the political arena, leaving everyone on edge. Yet, amidst the chaos, she had managed to keep her ambition afloat. Today was the culmination of her hard work, her chance to be declared as one of the nominees for the vice president of the party's women's wing in Delhi.


Her in-laws, who had been invited to witness her triumph, were buzzing with excitement. They had always been her strongest supporters, encouraging her to pursue her dreams and often bragging about her potential to anyone who would listen. They were thrilled to be part of her moment of glory, their chatter filling the car with a sense of familial warmth. Chandrani forced a smile and nodded along to their words of encouragement, her thoughts racing with the events that had led her to this point.

Finally, the car pulled up to the grand entrance of the party headquarters, a gleaming tower of steel and glass that loomed over the surrounding buildings. The sight of the bustling crowd and the flashing cameras made Rehan's eyes widen in awe, while Ashok's parents marveled at the grandeur of the place. Chandrani's stomach churned with nerves as she stepped out of the car, her simple blue sari feeling almost out of place amidst the sea of designer clothes and expensive jewelry. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, reminding herself that she had earned her place here.

Inside, they were greeted by KK, a party veteran with a warm smile and a firm handshake. "Madam," he said, his eyes twinkling with respect. "Khyam Sahib is eager to speak with you."


Chandrani's heart skipped a beat. This was it, the moment she had been waiting for. She nodded gracefully, and Ashok, ever the supportive husband, offered his arm. "I'll be right back," she assured her in-laws, her voice a mix of excitement and nerves.

They walked down the opulent corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors. The walls were adorned with portraits of past party leaders, their stern gazes following her as she moved deeper into the heart of the headquarters. The air was thick with the scent of ambition and power, and Chandrani could feel it seeping into her very pores.

As they approached the small group standing little bit away from the crowd of psrty workers, mid level leaders and media, KK stepped aside, giving them a knowing smile. "Good luck," he whispered, before leaving.

Khyam and Nitin Jhunjhunwala, the new defacto boss of the Awam Vikas Party in the wake of Karim Khan's assassination, were deep in conversation. The sight of them together, both having risen to power on the heels of tragedy, sent a chill down Chandrani's spine. Their rise to power mirrored each other's, a grim reminder of the ruthless world of politics she had chosen to navigate. She had never met Nitin before, but she knew his reputation as a shrewd and cunning player in the party's hierarchy.


Deb spotted her and Ashok approaching, and his eyes lit up with a mischievous spark. He broke away from the huddle and strolled over, his hand outstretched. "Chandrani, my dear," he said, his voice oozing charm. "I've heard so much about you."

Chandrani took his hand, her heart racing. She could feel the electricity of their earlier encounter crackling between them, despite the professional facade they both wore like armor. She introduced Ashok, who shook Deb's hand firmly, his eyes assessing the newcomer. Deb was dressed in a tailored suit, looking every inch the successful businessman he was rumored to be.

"Ah, Ashok," Deb said, his smile widening. "I've heard so much about you. Your wife is quite the catch." His gaze flickered to Chandrani, and she felt the heat of his stare as he added, "Her...skills are unparalleled." The innuendo was so subtle that only someone who knew what had transpired could catch it, and she watched with amusement as Ashok's expression remained neutral.

Ashok nodded politely, seemingly oblivious to the hidden meaning behind Deb's words. "Thank you," he said, his voice even. "Chandrani is indeed special."


Chandrani felt a blush creep up her neck, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She couldn't help but rub her nose, a subtle gesture that only Deb would understand. It was a silent acknowledgment of the intimate secret they shared, a secret that had started out as a simple deal but had evolved into something much more intense and passionate. The way Deb had fucked her earlier that day...may be it was hardly about 5minutes.... was still vivid in her memory, his cock pounding into her with a ferocity that had left her breathless and craving more.

Ashok, on the other hand, remained blissfully unaware of the double meaning behind Deb's words. He nodded politely, his expression unreadable. Chandrani could almost see the wheels turning in her husband's mind as he sized up the other man. Despite the situation, she couldn't help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction. Ashok had no idea that the very man who was praising her in such a way had just had his cock buried deep inside the pussy of his beloved sanskari wife.


Khyam and Nitin Jhunjhunwala approached them, their smiles broad and their eyes gleaming with excitement. They exchanged pleasantries, both men praising Chandrani and Deb for the successful deal they had brokered. Chandrani felt a warmth spread through her chest, basking in the glow of their praise. It had taken a lot of work, a lot of late nights and tense negotiations, but she had done it. She had proven herself to be more than just a pretty face, more than just a trophy wife. She was a player in this cutthroat game of politics and business.

Khyam leaned in, his voice a low whisper that was for Chandrani's ears alone. "There's been a slight change in plans," he said, his eyes flicking to the podium where a group of men were huddled together, talking in hushed tones. "There will be one more nomination for the VP of the women's wing in Delhi."

Her heart sank, but she kept her smile firmly in place. "Oh?" she replied, her voice a picture of innocence. "From whom?"

Khyam's eyes gleamed as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "From Rana's camp," he murmured. "But don't worry, the numbers are in our favor. You will win."

Chandrani felt a flicker of annoyance, but she kept her smile in place. "Thank you for the assurance," she said sweetly. "m counting on it khyam saab"

As Ashok escorted his father to the washroom, leaving her alone with the three men, the conversation took a turn towards the political alliance.


"Chandrani," Khyam said, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Rana will be announcing the nominee from his camp after the alliance is made official."

Her heart racing, Chandrani nodded, trying to hide her trepidation behind a mask of polite interest. "I see," she murmured, her voice a carefully cultivated blend of calm and confidence.

The room was a whirlwind of activity as the alliance announcement grew nearer. Politicians and their entourages milled about, the air thick with the scent of ambition and the murmur of hushed conversations. The three men, Khyam, Deb, and Jhunjunwala, left her side to ascend the podium, their footsteps echoing in the grand hall. Chandrani watched them go, visibly nervous.

Her eyes searched the crowd for a glimpse of Rehan, her heart aching to see her son. Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she finally spotted him in the corner, giggling as he played with another child. A young woman in her mid-twenties hovered nearby, her eyes shimmering with affection as she watched the children. Chandrani recognized the motherly glow about her; it was the same glow she had once had when Rehan was that age. The sight brought a wistful smile to her face, but it quickly disappeared as she took in the woman's youthful beauty and the way her sari clung to her body.

Approaching the pair, Chandrani felt a twinge of jealousy. It was as if she were looking at a younger, more vital version of herself. She watched as Rehan introduced her to the boy, his face beaming with innocent excitement. "Mamma, this is Sonu!" he exclaimed, gesturing to the dark-haired boy.

Sonu looked up, his eyes lighting up with a smile that mirrored his mother's fiery spirit. "Hi, Aunty," he chirped, his voice filled with the unbridled joy of a child unaware of the complex webs of desire and deceit that wove through the adult world.

"Hello, Sonu," Chandrani said, her voice warm as she returned the smile.
"i m chndrani..."she smiled to  the mother of the kid.She looked at chandrani, her eyes assessing and with a smile greeted bck, " i am rupa singh"  . Chandrani felt a flicker of recognition in those depths, a spark that told her that Rupa  is her version of ambition and ruthlessness  from her days in the NGO. The woman's handshake was firm, her grip unyielding. She had the look of someone who had seen the world and its darker corners, a look that spoke of battles won and lost, of passion and determination that had left its mark on her soul.

Rupa was dressed in a simple yet elegant sari, her figure slim and athletic. The way she held herself spoke of confidence and poise, a stark contrast to the woman Chandrani had been when she was in her twenties, fighting for the same causes. She wondered if Rupa had ever felt the desperation and the yearning that had once driven her to do whatever it took to succeed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rupa," Chandrani said, her voice a cocktail of sweetness and steel.

The podium was a whirlwind of flashing lights and eager voices as CM arrived.soon after, the alliance between the Lok Shakti Party and the Awam Vikas Party was announced. The crowd roared with approval, a testament to the power of unity in the face of adversity. Hiralal Rana, the ambitious youth leader, took the stage, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Chandrani. A smug smile played on his lips as he announced Rupa as the nominee for the Vice Presidential position, and Chandrani felt the ground shift beneath her feet. She had underestimated her opponent's pull and Rana's ruthlessness.


Rupa stepped forward, her poise and confidence radiating through the podium. She delivered a rousing speech, her voice clear and strong, the epitome of a new-age leader ready to take on the world. Her son, Sonu, watched her with wide eyes, clutching onto his father's hand. Bhuvan, Rupa's husband, beamed with pride, his gaze never leaving his wife. Chandrani felt a stab of envy, not just for Rupa's success but for the unabashed love and support she received from her family.

But then, as if the political drama wasn't enough, Khyam took the stage, his eyes locking onto Chandrani's. He announced her as the nominee for the same position from the alliance's side, and the room erupted in cheers. Ashok's claps were the loudest, his pride in his wife's achievement evident. Chandrani felt a rush of exhilaration and fear. Two rivals, two powerful women, fighting for the same throne. This wasn't just a political race; it was a battle of wills and wits.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Chandrani took the podium. She spoke of her vision for the party, her voice steady and strong, echoing the same passion she had once had for her NGO. She talked about empowerment and change, about a future where everyone had a voice. The audience was captivated, their cheers a thunderous affirmation of her words. But she couldn't shake off the feeling of Rupa's eyes on her, a silent challenge.


The two women stood side by side for the photo session, forced smiles plastered on their faces. The cameras flashed, capturing the tension in the air as they subtly postured and angled themselves to look more dominant. Each flash felt like a silent volley in their unspoken war, a battle of beauty and brains. They knew that in three months, it would be their gameplan and not their smiles that would win the day.

Rupa's eyes glinted with a challenge, her teeth flashing like a shark's smile as she leaned slightly forward to claim more space in the frame. Chandrani felt the heat of her rival's body and the electric charge of their shared ambition. They were both seasoned players, one forged by fire while other by ambition,and this was just the opening act.

As the camera clicks echoed, the room grew warmer, the tension palpable. The air conditioning seemed to falter, the air thick with the scent of their perfumes, the smell of anticipation, and the faint hint of rain that had begun to fall outside. Each flash of the camera was like a lightning strike, illuminating the brewing storm between them, yet they remained poised, their smiles never wavering.

Chandrani felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine, a mix of the heat and the pressure of the moment. Rupa, ever the tactician, had chosen to stand so that the light from the windows fell across her face, highlighting her youthful features while casting Chandrani in a slightly less flattering glow. Yet Chandrani did not falter, her eyes locked onto the camera, her mind racing with thoughts of how she could outsmart this woman who had stolen the spotlight.

The thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, ominous growl that seemed to mirror the silent challenge that passed between them. Rupa's hand brushed against Chandrani's arm, a gesture that could have been mistaken for camaraderie but was instead a deliberate show of possession. She had claimed her place in this political arena, and she had no intention of letting go without a fight.

As the flashes from the cameras lit up the room like strobe lights, Chandrani felt the first drops of rain patter against the glass windows. The storm outside was a stark reminder of the tempest that was brewing within her. She had come so far, sacrificing so much of herself in the pursuit of power, only to be thrown into this unexpected battle with a woman who has same fire in her belly just like hers, a woman who could threaten everything she had built.


-------------------------------------------End of season 1 -----------------------------------------------------------------

[aravindkkumar08]

Now it's clear both women fights for power but ultimately the loser will be their husbands and sons. What happened when they found about their wife's multiple affair or infidelity.

[Vikramvines]

thanks buddy for your feedback - m aware of your taste - full of perversion and cock and bull story.
few days back you were pleading to make people fuck instead of giving feedback on plot - its a story not some cheap stuff with only sexual activity...full of  crap...Tc
if people dnt like it - i will close it..!!!

Just chill yrr... What ever i told earlier was about Rupas episodes..Your Chandrani episodes are simply commendable... How much efforts u put in the story is easily visible.. Actually I was tired of waiting Chandranis episodes so in frustration I wrote something very bad.. For which I apologize from bottom of my heart and take may harsh comment back...
Keep updating..

[garamrohan]

Excellent and steaming narration kingqueenjoker. Just found this thread and read the first update. Enjoyed a lot.

[Saikarthik]

Superb excellent foundation for season 2

[kingqueenjoker]

Season 2 v2.0 - coming up soon !

[aravindkkumar08]

Are you continuing in this thread or you update the story in already opened new thread?

[rp7575]

Where is update

[kingqueenjoker]

Where is update

Editing is in process. expect it in a day or two.

[kingqueenjoker]

The taxi door slammed shut, leaving Kunal Sarkar coated in a fine layer of grit. His suit jacket felt like a damp dishrag against his skin. Outside, horns blared in an endless, angry chorus, punctuated by the sharp stink of diesel fumes. Forty minutes crawling through potholed streets. Forty minutes stewing in the stagnant heat. His collar was soaked.

He pushed open the apartment door, the cool air hitting him like a blessing. "Sheila?" Silence answered him. He kicked off his ruined shoes, leaving dusty prints on the polished floor. The bedroom door was ajar, light spilling out. He shuffled towards it, drawn by the faint, sharp smell of citrus and alcohol.

Inside, Sheila stood before the full-length mirror, utterly absorbed. She wore a sleeveless noodle strap blouse, and a siphon saree shimmering cobalt dress Kunal hadn't seen before. Her back was to him. One arm was raised, fingers deftly smoothing deodorant stick over the smooth, bare skin of her armpit. The muscles in her shoulder flexed. She didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him standing there, sweat-stained and defeated.
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[url=https://xossipy.com/editpost.php?pid=6063239#]
"Traffic was hell," Kunal rasped, his voice thick with the dust and frustration coating his throat. "Absolute hellhole. Took forty minutes just from Marine Drive. The taxi AC died halfway..." He trailed off. The rhythmic *shhhk-shhhk* of the deodorant stick against her skin was the only sound. The sharp, floral-chemical scent of the deodorant filled the small space, mingling unpleasantly with his own stale sweat. "Sheila? Did you hear me?"

"Hmm." Sheila lowered her arm, examining the smooth, hairless skin critically. She tilted her head, catching the light on her jawline. The saree sparkled faintly like crushed sapphires. Kunal watched a single bead of moisture trace a path down her spine before disappearing beneath the fabric. He felt invisible, a ghost in his own hallway.

"Traffic was hell," Kunal repeated, louder this time, stepping into the bedroom doorway. The scent of her expensive deodorant – something floral and aggressively clean – warred with the damp, earthy smell clinging to him. "Absolute hellhole. AC died. Forty minutes crawling through that mess." He gestured vaguely behind him, towards the choked city. She picked up a silver tube of lipstick, unscrewed it with a precise click, and leaned closer to the mirror, her focus absolute.

Kunal shuffled towards the ensuite bathroom, peeling off his sweat-stained jacket. The cool tiles felt good under his socks. He splashed lukewarm water on his face, the grit stinging his eyes. When he looked up, dripping, Sheila’s reflection was still framed in the mirror behind him. She was smoothing the lipstick expertly, the color a bold, dangerous red. "Going somewhere?" he asked, toweling his face roughly.

"Hmm." The sound was dismissive, automatic. She blotted her lips on a tissue, leaving a perfect crimson kiss-print. Kunal watched her pluck an invisible lint fleck from her saree’s shimmering fabric. "Shoaib’s in town," she stated, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. Her gaze was cool, assessing, like she was inspecting merchandise. "Dinner meeting. Potential investor." She turned, the saree whispering disobediently, and picked up a small clutch purse from the dresser. "Crucial for the boutique."

Kunal’s stomach clenched. Shoaib. The name tasted like spoiled milk. Tall, perpetually tanned Shoaib with his easy laugh and imported watches. The investor who always seemed to be "in town" whenever Sheila needed "urgent" consultations. Kunal gripped the damp towel tighter, knuckles whitening. "Dinner? Now? It’s..." He glanced at his own watch, smeared with grime. "...barely past six. What about Soham?"

Sheila snapped her clutch shut with a decisive click. Her eyes flickered over Kunal’s disheveled state – the wilted collar, the dust clinging to his trousers – with barely concealed impatience. "Soham," she enunciated crisply, "is at Mrs. Plunkett’s. Maths tuition. Ends at seven-thirty." She swept past him, the black siphon saree whispering promises Kunal would never hear. The aggressive floral deodorant scent lingered like a taunt. "He’ll be dropped home. dnt be late and finish the dinner early "

Kunal scrambled after her into the living room, desperation loosening his tongue. "Right, Shoaib," he blurted, forcing a chuckle that sounded like gravel in a tin can. "Big investor, eh? Maybe I should tag along? Keep an eye on things? Make sure he doesn't... invest *too* enthusiastically?" He gestured vaguely, hoping the feeble joke masked the gnawing suspicion.

Sheila paused near the hallway mirror, adjusting a stray curl. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her freshly painted lips. "You?" she echoed, her voice dripping with amused condescension. She turned fully, her black siphon saree catching the light like dark water. "Kunal Sarkar, chaperone? Protecting me from the big, bad Shoaib?" Her laugh was a short, sharp bark, devoid of warmth. "Darling, please. You'd spend the entire dinner sweating into your napkin and stammering about monsoon forecasts."

She stepped closer, invading his space. The aggressive floral deodorant overwhelmed Kunal's senses, a sharp contrast to his own stale sweat. Her eyes, sharp and mocking, raked over him from his dusty shoes to his damp, thinning hair. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that vibrated with cruel amusement. "Even if," she hissed, the words precise and cutting, "Shoaib insists I see the 'view' from his attached bedroom suite, and fucks me dry against his imported silk curtains... you'll just sit there at the dining table, nursing your lukewarm soup, praying it ends quickly. Or maybe you'll sneak off to the lobby and call your mommy to complain?" A cruel smirk played on her lips. "You won't have the balls to step in. Not even if you hear me moaning at full volume through the door. Not even if I come back limping, struggling to walk straight after he's finished pounding me raw..." She paused, tilting her head, her gaze boring into his. "Hoping I didn't limp *too* noticeably when I came back for your mommy to understand."

Kunal felt the words land like physical blows. His face burned, a mixture of humiliation and impotent fury. He wanted to shout, to grab her shoulders, to shake her. Instead, he stared at the intricate pattern of her saree, the cobalt shimmer suddenly looking like prison bars. His throat tightened, choking off any retort. He could only manage a strangled sound, a pathetic wheeze escaping his lips. Sheila’s laugh was short, sharp, devoid of any warmth. "Exactly," she stated, the finality in her voice absolute. She straightened, the picture of cool composure, while Kunal felt like a puddle of grime on the polished floor.

But then, something shifted in Sheila’s expression. The cruel amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of something softer, almost weary. Seeing him shrink before her – shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, radiating a palpable misery – seemed to pierce her usual armor. She sighed, a long, slow exhale that deflated some of her aggressive posture. "Kunal," she said, her voice losing its razor edge, becoming almost gentle. She stepped closer again, this time without invasion. Her hand reached out, hesitant at first, then settled lightly on his damp forearm. "Look at me." He flinched but slowly raised his eyes. Hers held a trace of apology now, mixed with exasperation. "That was... too much. I'm sorry. Truly." Her fingers squeezed his arm lightly. "You don't need to worry like this. I *can* take care of myself. Trust me, okay? It's just business. Shoaib talks big, that's all." She offered a small, conciliatory smile. "He’s harmless."

Kunal felt the unexpected warmth of her touch seep through his sleeve. The scent of her aggressive floral deodorant softened against his skin, mingling strangely with the lingering grit and his own dampness. He stared at her, bewildered by the sudden shift. Her apology felt genuine, disarming his simmering anger. A choked sound escaped him, not a wheeze this time, but something closer to a sob caught in his throat. "Sheila..." he managed, his voice thick with unshed tears and confusion. He didn't pull away from her touch.

"Shh," she murmured, stepping fully into him. Her arms slid around his waist, pulling him close against the cool, smooth fabric of her saree. Kunal stiffened for a second, unused to this tenderness, then melted into her embrace. His arms wrapped tentatively around her shoulders, his cheek resting against the top of her head. He inhaled the complex scent – perfume, deodorant, the faint trace of hairspray – and beneath it, the familiar, comforting smell that was uniquely Sheila. The tension bled out of him, replaced by a shaky vulnerability. "It’s okay," she whispered against his chest. "Just trust me. I can handle Shoaib. Handle myself. Always have." Her hand rubbed slow circles on his back. "Harmless talk, that's all it ever is."

Kunal clung tighter, burying his face in her hair. The memory of her cruel words still stung, but this unexpected warmth was a balm. "Mmmph," he mumbled into her scalp. "Just... dinner? Promise?"

"Just dinner," Sheila murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his damp shirt. "Business talk over prawns and wine. Nothing more." She pulled back slightly, cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed away a smear of grime near his temple. "You look exhausted. Go shower. Wash that traffic off."

Kunal nodded, the fight drained out of him. Her sudden tenderness felt like a lifeline. "Your parents," he mumbled, remembering. "They're arriving tonight. For the trip tomorrow. To Meera's for the Puja." The reminder hung between them – a fragile peace offering tied to family duty.

Sheila pulled back slightly, her expression softening further. "I know, Kunal," she said, her thumb tracing the worry lines near his temple. "I haven't forgotten. Dinner won't be long. Shoaib’s flight leaves early tomorrow; he won’t linger." She offered a reassuring smile, squeezing his shoulders. "I'll be back by nine, ten at the absolute latest. Plenty of time to help Mum settle in." Her gaze flickered towards the hallway clock. "Just... go shower. You smell like a monsoon drain."

Kunal shifted his weight, his eyes darting nervously towards the shimmering cobalt saree clinging to her curves. "Sheila... about the dress," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He gestured vaguely towards her neckline, the intricate dbang revealing a hint of cleavage. "It's... stunning. Really. But... my parents? When they arrive tonight? They're... traditional, you know? Mum especially. Seeing you in..." He trailed off, cheeks flushing crimson. "It's just... quite bold for them."

Sheila paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the knob. A flicker of understanding softened her features. "Oh, Kunal," she sighed, a hint of exasperation mixed with affection. "Don't worry your dusty little head." She flashed him a quick, reassuring smile. "I'm not planning a grand entrance in this. It's purely for Shoaib's investor theatrics. I'll change *before* I come back home. Straight back into something respectable for Mum-ji. Promise."

Kunal shifted his weight, the damp towel forgotten in his hands. His brow furrowed slightly. A spark of bewildered defiance, fueled by exhaustion and the lingering sting of her earlier cruelty, flickered. "But... why?" he blurted out, his voice raspy but tinged with genuine confusion. "Why wear... *that*," he gestured vaguely at the shimmering cobalt saree clinging to her curves, "if you have to go through the whole palaver of changing back? Seems like extra hassle." He managed a weak, tongue-in-cheek smile. "Unless Shoaib insists on inspecting the merchandise personally?"

Sheila paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. A slow, enigmatic smile spread across her freshly painted lips – not the cruel smirk from before, but something deeper, more private. It held a hint of amusement, a touch of weary pragmatism, and perhaps a sliver of the sharp-edged reality Kunal usually avoided. Her eyes met his, sharp and knowing. "Oh, Kunal," she murmured, her voice low and surprisingly gentle. "Sometimes, darling, the packaging *is* the product. Especially in boutique business." The smile deepened, a silent commentary on Shoaib, on Kunal’s naivety, on the entire exhausting charade. "First impressions matter. Even," she added, her gaze flickering over his disheveled state, "if they’re just impressions." Without another word, she turned the knob and slipped out into the hallway. The sharp click of her heels echoed briefly on the marble floor before fading, leaving behind only the faint, aggressive floral ghost of her deodorant and Kunal’s profound bewilderment.

Alone in the sudden quiet, Kunal sagged against the doorframe. Relief, thick and unexpected, washed over him. She hadn't exploded. She hadn't twisted his clumsy accusation into another reason for contempt. She'd almost... *understood*. That final enigmatic comment about packaging and impressions felt less like a dismissal and more like a weary acknowledgment of a shared, unspoken game. He pushed off the frame, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Maybe Shoaib *was* just harmless bluster. Maybe Sheila *could* handle herself. The phantom sting of her earlier cruelty lingered, but it was dulled now, buried under the surprising warmth of her touch and the pragmatic strangeness of her exit.

The apartment felt cavernous without Sheila's sharp energy. Kunal shuffled towards the kitchen, the polished floor cool under his socks. His parents. Arriving tonight. For the trip to Meera's tomorrow. The thought propelled him into action. He grabbed a bucket and mop from the utility closet, filling it with lukewarm water and a generous splash of disinfectant. The dusty footprints he'd tracked in earlier became his immediate target. He scrubbed vigorously, the rhythmic swish-swish filling the silence. Each stroke erased a trace of the city's grime, and perhaps, a little of his own humiliation. He moved systematically: wiping down the hallway console table where Sheila had dumped her keys, polishing the brass handle she'd touched, even dusting the framed photo of Soham grinning toothily on his fourth birthday.

The Uber glided to a stop beneath the glittering portico of The Grand Imperial. Sheila stepped out, the cobalt siphon saree catching the valet's appreciative glance. The aggressive floral deodorant felt like a shield against the hotel's opulent chill. Inside, the lobby was a symphony of hushed tones and gleaming marble. Her heels clicked decisively, echoing the frantic rhythm of her thoughts. Mustaq Ali. The name thudded against her ribs like a fist. His latest threat, delivered via a clipped phone call that morning, replayed: *"Final week, Sheila. Settle the principal, or I settle it my way. Your boutique makes nice collateral."* Three years of hemorrhaging cash, hidden behind optimistic spreadsheets and frantic juggling of credit lines. this is something she did not let her parents or even her husband , kunal knew. Shoaib wasn't just a potential investor tonight; he was her lifeline. She needed an extension on the loan *he'd* already given her, plus fresh capital to stall Mustaq's predatory grasp. The sheer impossibility of it tightened her throat.

As the elevator doors slid shut, Sheila automatically adjusted her pallu, pulling the shimmering siphon fabric lower across her collarbones. The cool metal reflection showed a woman radiating brittle confidence. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Kunal’s bewildered question echoed: *"Why wear that if you have to change back?"* Oh, Kunal. Sweet, oblivious Kunal. If only she could tell him the raw calculus. She wore the saree precisely *because* it showcased skin, hinted at curves beneath the dbang. It was ammunition. For Shoaib, whose eyes lingered too long, whose "business dinners" always ended with suggestive murmurs about "nightcaps" in his suite, this was bait. A little catalyst to grease the wheels of agreement. Make him *want* to say yes. The thought curdled her stomach, but desperation was a potent disinfectant. She took a deep breath, the floral deodorant sharp in her nostrils. Packaging *was* the product tonight.

The elevator chimed softly, opening onto the hushed luxury of the executive floor. Sheila strode towards Shoaib’s suite, her heels sinking into plush carpeting. Her earlier mocking words to Kunal flashed unbidden: *"Even if he fucks me dry... you'll do nothing."* A bitter truth, perhaps. But another truth clawed its way up: if Shoaib indeed demanded sex tonight as the price for saving her boutique, she’d have no real choice. Mustaq Ali’s thugs weren't metaphorical. She’d walk into that bedroom. She’d plaster on a smile, use every ounce of charm, every evasion tactic honed over years – feigned headaches, sudden calls about Soham, promises for "next time." But if he insisted? If he pinned her to those imported silk curtains? Her stomach clenched. Gleefully? Never. Resignedly? Absolutely. Survival wasn't pretty. It was a transaction written in sweat and shame, paid in installments of dignity. She’d pay it. For Soham. For the boutique that was her last shred of independence. Kunal’s imagined paralysis wasn't weakness; it was her grim reality. She’d avoid that bed with every weapon she possessed. But she’d climb into it if survival demanded.

A grim chuckle escaped her lips, startlingly loud in the quiet corridor. *Well, Sheila,* she thought wryly, *at least you don’t have to sneak into some mall bathroom stall tonight.* The absurdity was almost comforting. If Shoaib was determined to hump her, he’d likely strip her nude himself. Efficient, really. No frantic changing in cramped public toilets afterward. She could just... get dressed again afterward. Slip back into her respectable salwar kameez right there in his suite. Wipe away the smeared lipstick, smooth her hair, become Sati-Savitri incarnate before stepping back into her role as dutiful wife and daughter-in-law. The image was grotesquely funny: spread-eagled and moaning one minute, demurely folding her hands and asking Kunal’s mother if she needed tea the next. *Legs wide open for exploration,* she mused darkly, *every angle covered.* Shoaib wasn't known for subtlety or restraint. Her smile tightened into a grimace. *Just... please, God,* she silently pleaded, *don’t let him leave me limping.* Kunal noticing *that* would be... complicated. Especially with his parents arriving.

She raised her hand to knock on the heavy suite door, her knuckles hovering inches from the polished wood. The siphon saree felt suddenly heavy, like armor she didn't want to wear. The aggressive floral deodorant seemed cloying now, a desperate shield against the transaction ahead. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm the frantic flutter in her chest, she rapped twice – sharp, professional taps.

The door swung open almost immediately. Shoaib stood there, already grinning, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't tall; Sheila always forgot that. But his presence filled the doorway – expensive charcoal suit jacket open over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair. His gaze swept over her, lingering appreciatively on the cobalt dbang clinging to her hips, the hint of cleavage revealed by the low pallu. "Sheila! Right on time," he boomed, stepping aside. "Come in, come in. You look... spectacular. Investment-worthy already." His chuckle was low, intimate. The suite beyond was vast, all muted golds and deep blues, dominated by a panoramic city view glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows. A small dining table was set near the window, candles flickering beside covered dishes.

Sheila stepped inside, the plush carpet swallowing her footsteps. The scent of expensive cologne – sandalwood and spice – battled with the lingering floral deodorant she wore. "Shoaib," she smiled, the practiced warmth reaching her eyes. "Thank you. The suite is magnificent." She moved towards the table, projecting calm confidence. "I brought the revised projections. The boutique's Q3 numbers are exceeding..."

Shoaib waved a dismissive hand, his grin widening as he closed the door with a soft click. "Numbers later, Sheila. Relax! First, a drink. Celebrate potential." He strode to the wet bar, pouring a generous splash of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "Single malt? Your favorite."

Sheila forced a smile, accepting the glass. "Thank you, Shoaib." She took a small, controlled sip, the smoky peat burning her throat. She started towards the dining table again, a deliberate move to anchor the evening in business. "The projections show a clear path to profitability by Q4 if we secure..."

Shoaib intercepted her smoothly. His tumbler clinked onto a side table. Before Sheila could react, his hand slid firmly around her waist – not on the stiff silk of her saree, but beneath the dbang, finding the bare skin of her midriff. His fingers were warm, possessive, digging slightly into the soft flesh above her waistband. "Always rushing to business," he chuckled, his voice thick. He didn't let go. Instead, he applied gentle pressure, guiding her firmly away from the table, deeper into the suite towards the plush seating area near the panoramic windows. "Relax first. Enjoy the view."

Sheila froze mid-step. The contact was electric, unwanted. Her usual repertoire flashed through her mind – the artful twist away, the feigned stumble, the sudden urgent phone call. But Mustaq Ali’s snarled threat echoed louder than her instincts. *Settle the principal, or I settle it my way.* She forced her muscles to unclench. A subtle recoil was instinctive, a slight stiffening in her shoulders, but she didn’t pull away. She let herself be steered. The cool silk of her saree brushed against his forearm as they walked. His thumb rubbed slow circles on her bare skin. "The city looks beautiful tonight," she managed, her voice carefully neutral, devoid of warmth but lacking overt protest. She stared out at the glittering skyline, focusing on a distant blinking antenna light, phthalo blue against the black.

Shoaib chuckled, low and satisfied. He guided her onto a plush velvet sofa facing the windows. He sat close, his thigh pressing firmly against hers through the thin silk. He didn't release her waist. "Beautiful indeed," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her profile rather than the view. He took a slow sip from his tumbler. "Now, Sheila," he said, his tone shifting abruptly to business, though his hand remained possessive. "We can talk. But," he paused, swirling the amber liquid, "I don't have much time tonight. need to meet few folks and got flight tommorow too. Very early." He looked directly at her, his smile sharpening. "So, be concise. What is it you *really* need?"

Sheila’s breath hitched. *Concisely?* Her meticulously crafted proposal – the revised projections, the Q3 surge, the projected Q4 profitability with *just* a little more capital – evaporated like smoke. Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through her gut. Mustaq Ali’s snarling face flashed behind her eyes. She’d planned a slow build, a logical argument showcasing her competence, proving she wasn’t a charity case. Now, stripped of preamble, her request sounded naked, desperate. "I... Shoaib," she stammered, forcing her voice level. "The boutique is exceeding targets. Q3 numbers are strong." She gestured vaguely towards her discarded bag containing the tablet. "But... unforeseen expenses. Supplier delays... penalties." The lies felt thick on her tongue. "I need... an extension on the existing loan repayment. Just six months. And..." She swallowed hard. "...a small top-up. To cover operational gaps until Q4 profits solidify." She avoided his eyes, staring at the phthalo blue light blinking in the distance.

Shoaib chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. He leaned back, swirling his whisky, his hand still resting possessively on her bare midriff. "Sheila, Sheila," he sighed, shaking his head slowly. "My CA already ran your numbers. Yesterday." He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air. "The projections? Optimistic. The penalties? Significant." His gaze sharpened, pinning her. "Frankly, darling, the boutique looks less like an investment and more like a... liability." He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "In fact," he murmured, the words dropping like stones, "I was planning to ask you tonight... for the immediate return of the principal. Twenty-five lakhs. By next week."

Sheila froze. The glittering cityscape blurred. Twenty-five lakhs? Next week? It was impossible. Mustaq Ali’s deadline crashed into Shoaib’s demand, crushing the air from her lungs. Her meticulously rehearsed pitch dissolved into ash. She stared at him, stunned into silence, the practised smile cracking at the edges.

Shoaib watched her reaction with detached amusement. He took another leisurely sip of his whisky, the ice clinking softly. "You know, Sheila," he mused, his gaze drifting deliberately from her face down the cobalt dbang clinging to her hips, "I lose interest in things... terribly fast." He paused, letting the crude implication hang thick in the air like cheap perfume. "Even beautiful things." His eyes flicked back to hers, cold and assessing. "The thrill fades. Especially," he added, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "when the packaging promises more than the product delivers."

Sheila’s spine stiffened. The insult landed like a physical blow. Her boutique. Her desperation. Her *body*. All laid bare as inadequate merchandise. She forced her chin up, meeting his gaze. "Shoaib," she began, her voice tight but controlled, "if you’d just look at the revised—"

"Revised?" Shoaib cut her off, swirling his whisky dismissively. "Sheila, darling, maybe being an entrepreneur isn’t your cup of tea." He leaned closer, his breath warm and smelling of peat smoke. "Some women aren’t built for risk. Better to return home. Be a good Bharatiya nari. Tend to that husband of yours." His eyes flickered with cruel amusement. "He seems... manageable."

Sheila didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, deliberate movement: she rose from the sofa. As she stood, her pallu shifted, slipping lower across her collarbones, intentionally granting him a fuller view of her cleavage beneath the shimmering siphon. She took a step towards him, closing the distance until she stood directly before his seated form. Leaning down, her lips brushed dangerously close to his ear, her whisper low and charged. "Goody-goody? Hardly. And my ass," she murmured, the word deliberate, vulgar, "has been on the line more times than I can count to get here. Risk doesn't scare me."

Shoaib’s detached amusement vanished. His gaze snapped from the exposed skin to her eyes, sharpening with renewed, predatory interest. He leaned forward slightly, a slow, sensuous smile spreading. "Putting that... *ass*... on the line?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Doesn't it worry you, Sheila? That putting it out there... might just get it fucked?" His hand lifted, hovering near her hip.

Sheila seized the spark in his eyes. *Mortgage*. The word flashed like neon. She didn’t retreat. Instead, she leaned fractionally closer, her whisper a deliberate rasp against the silence. "Worry? Darling, I didn’t just put it *on* the line. I mortgaged it. To the hilt." She held his gaze, letting the vulgarity hang. "Yes, sometimes it got... fucked. Brutally. Men like you," she added, her tone brittle yet oddly pragmatic, "don’t hand out freebies." Her smile was thin, resigned. "It’s the price of getting out of the woods."

Shoaib’s hand, hovering near her hip, finally landed. Not gently. His fingers dug into the curve of her waist beneath the saree’s dbang, possessive and assessing. His other hand traced the line of her jaw, calloused thumb brushing her lower lip. "Mortgaged," he echoed, a dark chuckle rumbling low in his chest. His eyes, locked on hers, held a predatory gleam. "And tell me, Sheila... did you *enjoy* paying that price?" His thumb pressed down slightly, smudging her lipstick. "Did that tight big ass learn to like the pounding?"

Sheila didn’t pull away. She met his gaze head-on, the resignation in her smile hardening into something flinty. "Enjoy?" Her laugh was short, sharp, devoid of humour. "Darling, think of it like a Fixed Deposit. High yield, painful entry." She leaned infinitesimally closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I don't offer it to Kunal. He wouldn't know what to do with it. Reserved... for emergencies. For men who understand leverage." Her eyes flickered towards the bedroom door, then back to his. "Only when absolutely necessary to get out of the woods."

Shoaib’s predatory grin widened, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips again, smearing the colour further. "An FD? High yield?" He chuckled, low and appreciative. "Practical woman. And tonight? Does tonight feel... necessary?" His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him. The scent of whisky and sandalwood enveloped her. "Is the woods closing in?"

Sheila didn’t flinch. A resignation settled over her features, twisting into a mocking smile – sharp, bitter, yet strangely detached. She met his gaze squarely. "You always wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?" Her voice was flat, devoid of surprise. "From the very first meeting."

Shoaib’s predatory grin widened, unashamed. "Yes," he breathed, fingers tightening on her waist. "From the moment I saw you walk into that investor pitch. That tight ass swaying in that saree... I knew."

Sheila’s mocking smile sharpened. "There are no freebies," she stated flatly. "Two-year extension on the loan. Ten lakhs top-up. Sign the papers tonight." She paused, letting the demand hang. "Then you can have my ass."

Shoaib’s predatory grin faltered slightly. His mouth opened—likely to haggle, to demand concessions—but Sheila cut him off instantly. "No," she snapped, her voice brittle steel. "Every time you’re in town," she continued, the words clipped and pragmatic, "you can have it. But *only* if the papers are signed *now*. Tonight." Her eyes drilled into his. "This isn’t a negotiation, Shoaib. It’s a transaction."

He studied her face—the mocking resignation, the utter lack of pretense. The raw pragmatism was unexpectedly potent. A slow, appreciative smirk replaced his hesitation. "Businesswoman till the end," he murmured, his hand sliding lower, squeezing her ass possessively through the silk. "Fine. Deal." He released her abruptly, striding towards the suite’s sleek desk. He pulled a laptop from a drawer, his fingers tapping rapidly. "Drafting the amendment now. Two-year extension on the principal repayment, ten lakhs additional credit line." He glanced back, his gaze lingering on her hips. "Effective immediately upon my… signature."

Sheila watched him, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Relief warred with revulsion. He typed swiftly, pulling up a standard loan amendment template. "Inspect the terms," he commanded, swiveling the laptop screen towards her. The legalese swam before her eyes, but the key figures were clear: 25 lakhs principal repayment deferred by 24 months, +10 lakhs credit. She scanned it quickly, forcing herself to focus. "Agreed," she breathed, her voice tight. "Fine. Get it printed. My lawyers will draft the final version on stamp paper tomorrow, and we’ll sign it then. Meanwhile," she added firmly, "email that draft to me *now*. Official communication."

Shoaib chuckled, hitting send with a flourish. "Done. But what about the deal sweetener, Sheila?" His gaze was predatory again, lingering on her hips. "Tonight feels... rushed."

Sheila forced a conspiratorial smile. "Patience," she murmured, stepping closer. "This weekend. Soham and Kunal are visiting my sister-in-law in Pune." She leaned in, her whisper brushing his ear. "Whole weekend. No interruptions. Tonight?" She shrugged, a deliberate dismissal. "I need to get back. Kunal’s parents arrived." She gestured towards the bathroom door. "Mind if I change? Can’t greet them in this... packaging."

Shoaib’s grin returned, wider now. "Of course." He waved a dismissive hand towards the bathroom. "Be quick." As Sheila disappeared inside, he turned back to the laptop, printing the amendment confirmation. The lock clicked softly behind her.

Inside the marble expanse, Sheila leaned against the cool door, trembling. *Done.* The email confirmation glowed on her phone screen. Two years. Ten lakhs. Breathing shallowly, she peeled off the treacherous siphon saree like shedding poisoned skin. The cool air hit her bare shoulders. She scrubbed at her smudged lipstick with a hotel towel, the abrasive fabric scbanging her skin raw. From her oversized tote, she pulled out the simple cotton salwar kameez—sky blue, modest cut, Kunal’s mother approved. She dressed swiftly, fingers fumbling on the buttons. The floral deodorant felt suffocating now; she splashed cold water on her face, patting it dry. The reflection showed a strained woman, eyes shadowed but posture rigid. Respectable. *Sati-Savitri incarnate.*

Emerging, she found Shoaib holding a freshly printed sheet. His gaze flickered over her transformation—demure salwar kameez replacing the cobalt temptation—and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Changed your packaging already?" he remarked dryly, handing her the document. "Bit of a downgrade."

Sheila folded the paper crisply, tucking it into her bag. "Practicality," she countered smoothly. "The saree served its purpose." Her smile was tight, professional. "Saturday afternoon work?"

Shoaib's eyes narrowed, assessing her sudden transformation—the modest neckline, the loose fabric hiding curves he'd mentally cataloged moments ago. "Bit sudden, this respectable matron act." His chuckle held an edge. "Worried hubby might sniff the desperation?"

Sheila slung her tote over her shoulder, the printed amendment confirmation safely tucked inside beside her folded cobalt weapon. "Practicality," she repeated, her voice crisp as starched cotton. "The saree opened doors. This," she gestured lightly at her salwar, "keeps them from slamming shut." She offered a tight, transactional smile. "Saturday afternoon. Text me the suite number."

Shoaib leaned against the desk, swirling the dregs of his whisky. "Early bird gets the worm," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the high neckline hiding the skin he’d tasted moments ago. "Or in this case... the ass." His chuckle was low, predatory. "Don’t forget the packaging."

Sheila paused at the suite door, her hand on the brass handle. She didn’t turn. "Packaging?" Her voice was cool silk. "It’s reusable. Unlike excuses." She glanced back over her shoulder, a flicker of dark amusement in her eyes.

Shoaib snorted, swirling his whisky. "Excuses? Like rushing back to hubby and in laws tonight? I won't hear that whine on Saturday, Sheila. No sudden 'family emergencies'."

Sheila turned fully now, leaning against the heavy door. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips – not warm, but sharp-edged, acknowledging a shared, ugly truth. "Family emergencies?" Her laugh was a soft, bitter scbang. "Darling, look at me. Married. Kid." She gestured loosely at her demure salwar. "Did that ever stop any of the others? The investors ? The suppliers? The politicians?" Her gaze locked onto his, utterly devoid of illusion. "Not one of those assholes hesitated. Not one spared me because I wore a mangalsutra." Her voice dropped, thick with dark pragmatism. "They stripped me nude. drained me dry. Only *then* did they leave." She shrugged, the movement economical. "I don't expect you to be different, Shoaib. Why would you? You paid."

Shoaib raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued now. He gestured vaguely at her transformed appearance. "So... camouflage? Every day? Slip into this... respectable matron act?" He took a step closer, peering at her face. "To keep that gullible husband of yours blissfully ignorant? Maintain the family balance?"

Sheila paused, her hand still on the cool brass door handle. A harsh, brittle laugh escaped her. "Camouflage?" She turned fully, meeting his gaze dead-on. "No. Only when absolutely necessary." Her voice dropped to a low, icy murmur. "Like when I have to be nude. Riding a politician in his bedroom." She watched the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "While my husband waits downstairs in the lobby. Patiently. Thinking my 'meeting' is running late." Her smile was a razor-thin slash. "That’s when I wear the camouflage *afterwards*. To walk out looking like I just reviewed spreadsheets." She shrugged, the gesture utterly devoid of emotion. "Not balance, Shoaib. Damage control."

She didn’t wait for his reaction. She turned the handle, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped into the plush hallway. She didn’t glance back. The soft thud of the door closing behind her echoed like a tomb seal. Her heels clicked a sharp, rapid tattoo on the marble floor as she strode towards the elevators, the folded amendment confirmation a heavy secret in her bag. Her face, reflected in the mirrored elevator doors, was a mask of weary pragmatism, the demure salwar kameez a stark contrast to the raw transaction sealed moments before.

Inside the elevator, descending, Sheila leaned against the cool metal wall. A sudden, bone-deep dryness clawed at her throat, a physical echo of the emotional dehydration the encounter had inflicted. She felt parched, hollowed out. *Water*. She needed water desperately. The hotel bar was just off the lobby. She could grab a bottle. Kunal and his parents could wait five more minutes. She needed to wash the taste of lies and Shoaib’s cheap whisky from her mouth. The story she’d spun – the politicians, the nude negotiations, the husband waiting obliviously downstairs – was mostly fiction, tailored to feed Shoaib’s predatory ego and make her seem like a hardened player. Mostly. The core truth, the bitter kernel she’d wrapped in lurid fantasy, was that yes, on two -three desperate occasions, chasing a crucial clearance permit stuck in bureaucratic hell,or greasing the wheels for a zone approval for one of the showroom.when she chased a MP for environment clearence for a showroom in posh lucrative area..but on all the occassion, after exhausting days playing political entourage, the summons came late, to anonymous suites. all the men, old enough to be her father, hadn’t hesitated despite her mangalsutra. But they *had* listened to her request not to record when she would masterbate them for their fragile old body and eyes of a top beuracrat or used condoms when she insisted to one of those powerful figgure in political corridor, signed the papers afterwards without any drama, while she hastily dressed, and ordered their drivers to drop her discreetly near home. Transactional. Degrading. Necessary to escape woods. The rest? Pure embellishment. Fuel for Shoaib’s weekend fantasies. She had zero intention of fulfilling that promise. The amendment was signed; his leverage evaporated Saturday morning with a sudden "family crisis".

[ray.rowdy]

I guess this part was posted previously, on a separate thread. Still, a nice job. Keep it up. Eagerly waiting for the next.

[rp7575]

Please chandani wala dalo

[kingqueenjoker]

-- One week later --  
The political cauldron bubbled over. Newspapers screamed headlines about the fierce VP race between Chandrani and Rupa, their photos plastered beside venomous editorials. Chandrani’s phone buzzed relentlessly—allies pledging support, rivals whispering threats, journalists demanding comments. She felt like a chess piece in a game where the board kept catching fire.

--  
That humid afternoon, Chandrani stood before her wardrobe, debating between a peach chiffon saree and a turquoise linen suit. Ashok waited by the door, car keys jingling impatiently, while Rehan bounced a tennis ball against the hallway wall. "Mummy, hurry! I’m starving!" he whined. She’d promised them biryani at their favorite lakeside restaurant—a rare family moment amidst the chaos.

Her phone buzzed like an angry hornet on the dresser. Khyam’s name flashed, sharp and unavoidable. She answered, her free hand tightening on the hanger. "Khyam Saab?"  
His voice cut through the line, brisk and commanding. "Cancel your plans. Be at Hotel Grand Sea View by seven tonight. The Jhunjhunwala group’s hosting a junket—industrialists, party donors. Your presence is non-negotiable."  
A cold ripple spread through her chest. Junkets meant champagne, cigar smoke, and hands sliding too low under banquet tables. Ashok frowned, catching her stiffened posture. "Problem?" he mouthed. She forced lightness into her voice. "Of course, Khyam Saab. I’ll be there.".

Hanging up, she spun toward Ashok, her face sculpted into apologetic dismay. "Ashok, *yaar*, I’m so sorry—that was Sarojini Devi." She invoked the stern widow who chaired Delhi’s Women’s Commission—a name Ashok respected and feared. "She’s convened an emergency strategy session tonight. Something about Rana’s camp leaking our welfare-fund proposals to the press." She sighed, rubbing her temples theatrically. "If we don’t counter this, Rupa will spin it into gold by morning."

Ashok’s frown deepened, but the mention of Sarojini Devi pricked his civic conscience. "Now? On a Saturday?"  
"Politics never sleeps, *jaanu*," Chandrani murmured, stepping close to smooth his collar. Her fingers lingered, warm and reassuring. "Take Rehan. Go to the lakeside. Order extra kebabs—my treat." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just enough to soften his irritation. "I’ll join if I escape early. Promise."

Relief surged through her as Ashok finally nodded, ruffling Rehan’s hair. "C’mon, champ. Double biryani day!" Their footsteps faded down the hall, the slam of the front door echoing like freedom. Alone, Chandrani sagged against the wardrobe, the peach chiffon slipping from her grip. *Liar*, hissed a voice in her head. But survival demanded sacrifices—and truth was the first casualty. She dressed carefully: a deep maroon silk sari, gold earrings sharp as daggers. Armor for the battlefield ahead.


By six, the humid Delhi dusk clung to her skin as her taxi pulled up to the opulent facade of the Grand Sea View Hotel. Crystal chandeliers spilled light onto the marble steps, a stark contrast to the darkening sky. Just as she stepped onto the entrance carpet, her phone vibrated urgently. Khyam’s name flashed. "Where are you?" His voice was clipped, tense. "Don’t go to the ballroom yet. Come directly to my suite. Room 712. Now." He hung up before she could question.

Chandrani frowned, puzzled. Suite? Why not meet with the donors? Yet a flicker of relief washed over her. The pressure of walking into that glittering shark tank alone made her pulse race. And truthfully, she desperately needed a moment—and a luxurious washroom—to compose herself, smooth her sari, and touch up her makeup after the sticky taxi ride. The suite offered privacy; the crowded ballroom did not.

She navigated the hushed corridors of the seventh floor, her heels sinking into plush carpet. Room 712. She hesitated, took a breath, and knocked firmly. The door swung open almost instantly.

SUMMARY^1: Arriving at the hotel, Chandrani receives an abrupt call from Khyam redirecting her to his suite instead of the ballroom. Relieved to avoid facing the donors alone, she heads to Room 712 seeking privacy to compose herself, only to find the door opening immediately upon knocking.

Khyam stood silhouetted against the suite's ambient lamplight, clad impeccably in a deep navy Armani Nehru jacket. His expression was unreadable—a mask carved from polished stone. He didn't speak, merely stepping aside to grant her entry. Chandrani expected his gaze to linger, perhaps with the familiar flicker of appraisal or the veiled possessiveness she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, his eyes slid past her, scanning the empty hallway before he shut the door with a soft, definitive click. The silence stretched, thick and unnerving, broken only by the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning. He moved past her toward the suite’s elegant sitting area, leaving her standing awkwardly near the entrance, the scent of his expensive sandalwood cologne hanging heavy in the air.

"Tonight," Khyam began, his voice low and urgent as he poured two fingers of single malt into crystal tumblers, "isn't about champagne flutes and hollow pleasantries downstairs." He handed her a glass without meeting her eyes. "Rana’s maneuvering behind closed doors. Jhunjhunwala’s group is wavering—they’re terrified of Rana’s street power and whispers that Rupa offers… *access*." He finally looked at her, his gaze sharp as a scalpel. "I need you to forge alliances. *Personal* alliances. With men who control votes, funds, and fear." He gestured toward a closed door off the main living area. "In there. Three men crucial to swinging Jhunjhunwala’s bloc. Deb you know. The other two? Prakash Malhotra, who owns half of Delhi’s media outlets, and Vikram Oberoi, whose shipping empire funds half our coastal candidates. They’re skeptical. Of you. Of us."


Chandrani’s knuckles whitened around her glass. The smoky whisky burned her throat, but the chill in her spine was colder. Prakash Malhotra—the kingmaker whose tabloids crucified female politicians for imagined scandals. Vikram Oberoi—rumored to collect political favors like rare coins, paid in flesh or secrets. Deb’s presence was no comfort; their last encounter pulsed like a fresh bruise beneath her silk sari. Khyam leaned closer, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Win their confidence. Charm them. Assure them you’re not just Rana’s pawn-in-waiting. The election hangs on this. *Your* nomination hangs on this." His eyes dropped pointedly to the slit of her sari, revealing her calf. "Use every asset you possess."

The words landed like shards of ice. She wasn’t here to negotiate policy; she was the sacrificial lamb offered to appease wolves. A tremor ran through her, the maroon silk whispering its betrayal. Khyam turned toward the inner door, his hand on the knob. "Deb asked for you specifically," he added, a flicker of something unreadable—contempt? Amusement?—in his eyes. "He remembers your... *persuasive* talents." The click of the unlocking door echoed like a gunshot in the hushed suite.


Khyam paused, his gaze sweeping over her conservative maroon sari, the modest gold earrings, the carefully pinned hair. A slow, sardonic smile curved his lips. "Tell me, Chandrani," he murmured, the smooth velvet of his voice laced with acid, "you aren’t planning to greet Prakash and Vikram dressed like a grieving Sati Savitri widow ready to lecture them on morality?" He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "This isn’t some dusty party workers' meeting where you rally the troops with righteous speeches. Downstairs is a battlefield of silk and scotch, and your virtue," his eyes lingered pointedly on the high neckline of her blouse, "is the least interesting weapon you possess tonight. Remember who you need to *convince*, not convert."

Chandrani met his gaze steadily, a flicker of defiance quickly masked by practiced calm. She didn't flinch at the insult. Instead, a slow, deliberate smile touched her lips – not warm, but sharp, calculating. "Khyam Saab," she said, her voice smooth as honey poured over steel, "may I use your washroom? Just for a moment." She gestured subtly towards the gleaming en-suite door. "A touch-up, you understand."

Khyam’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her unexpected composure. He gave a curt, almost dismissive nod, waving his hand vaguely towards the door. "Be quick," he muttered, turning his attention back to his whisky glass, swirling the amber liquid as if studying its secrets. "The wolves grow restless."

SUMMARY^1: Khyam mocks Chandrani's conservative attire as ineffective for wooing the powerful men, emphasizing seduction over virtue. Unfazed, Chandrani requests to use his washroom for adjustments, displaying unexpected composure that makes Khyam suspicious but granting permission.

Chandrani slipped into the lavish washroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her. She didn’t deliberately lock it; the latch was stiff, and her mind was already racing ahead—calculating angles, assessing risks. The cool, tiled space offered sanctuary, smelling faintly of lemon disinfectant and expensive soap. She leaned against the marble vanity, breathing deeply. The maroon silk sari *was* deliberately modest—Ashok’s trusting eyes saw pious devotion, not political armor. Downstairs, she knew, would be a parade of ambitious wives and mistresses dbangd in scandalous chiffon, flesh strategically displayed like bargaining chips. Chandrani wouldn’t compete; she’d redefine the game.

With practiced efficiency, she uncapped her lipstick—a deep crimson—and leaned toward the well-lit mirror. The peach chiffon she’d almost chosen flashed in her memory, discarded for its vulnerability. *Too soft*, she’d thought. *Too much like surrender.* She traced her lips, sharpening their Cupid’s bow into a weapon. Foundation smoothed the faint worry lines. Kohl darkened her eyes until they gleamed like obsidian shards. Each stroke was preparation for the hunt. Setting the lipstick down, her fingers moved to the hidden hooks of her blouse. The silk whispered as it parted. The clasp of her bra released with a soft *snick*. Cool air prickled her skin—

The door creaked open. Khyam leaned against the frame, tumbler in hand, eyes sharp as shards of glass. His gaze swept downward, past her startled gasp, past the hands that flew instinctively to shield herself—too late. His breath hitched, a fractional pause that echoed louder than words.

Her fingers clamped desperately over her nipples, knuckles white against flushed skin. The rest—the swell of her breasts, the vulnerable curve beneath—lay shockingly exposed. Silk pooled at her waist, the unhooked blouse gaping like an accusation. The air conditioner’s hum vibrated against her bare skin. *Idiot*, her mind screamed. *The latch was stiff, not locked—*

Khyam didn’t move. He stood framed in the doorway, the amber scotch forgotten in his grasp. His gaze wasn’t predatory hunger; it was cold, clinical assessment—a sculptor examining flawed marble. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of her panic and his sandalwood cologne. "Covering the essentials, I see," he remarked, his voice unnervingly calm. "Though perhaps not the *strategic* ones." He took a deliberate sip from his tumbler, his eyes never leaving hers, ignoring the trembling hands shielding only the peaks. "Modesty is admirable in a temple, Chandrani. Not in a war room."

SUMMARY^1: Khyam unexpectedly enters the washroom to find Chandrani partially exposed while adjusting her attire. Though startled and embarrassed, she seeks cover, but Khyam observes her clinically, criticizing her misplaced modesty and emphasizing the pragmatic demands of their political "war room."

He moved then, impossibly smooth. Three steps closed the distance. His free hand shot out, not rough, but implacable—a politician parting a crowd. He gripped her wrist, knuckles pressing into delicate bone, and wrenched her shielding hand aside. She gasped, a choked sound swallowed by the marble walls. His other hand followed, peeling her left hand away with surgical efficiency. Her arms fell limply to her sides. There was nowhere to hide. The vanity’s unforgiving light illuminated every inch—the full, heavy swell of her breasts, the flushed areolas tightening under the cool air, the puffy nipples already stiffening in shock and shame.

Khyam didn't speak. His gaze, sharp as broken obsidian, raked over the exposed flesh. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his empty hand. Not the whisky tumbler. His fingers, cool from the glass, brushed the outer curve of her right breast. A tremor ripped through Chandrani. His thumb traced the plump swell, circling inward with agonizing slowness until the rough pad grazed the hardened peak. He pinched, rolling the sensitive nub between thumb and forefinger. Her breath hitched, sharp and involuntary.

SUMMARY^1: Khyam forcibly removes Chandrani's shielding hands, leaving her fully exposed. He intently examines her breasts before deliberately touching her right nipple, causing her intense discomfort and involuntary reactions.

His gaze locked onto hers. "These," he murmured, his voice a low scbang against the marble silence, his thumb still tormenting her nipple, "have sucked the ambition out of many fools." His other hand rose, mirroring the assault on her left breast, fingers closing possessively around the soft weight. Chandrani stood frozen, naked from the waist up, pinned not by force but by the sheer, paralyzing shock of exposure. His fingers tightened, squeezing the yielding flesh, making the dark areolas pucker tighter still.

"They've swallowed promises, secrets... probably swallowed lots of bastards whole," Khyam continued, a cruel, mocking smile twisting his lips. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, sandalwood and scotch thick in the air. "But those days are over, Chandrani." His thumbs pressed hard against her stiffened peaks, sending a jolt of unwanted sensation through her. "From tonight, these," he gave another hard, possessive squeeze, "these *melons*," his voice dripped disdain, "will only go into the mouths of men who can deliver the President's chair to *you*..." He paused, letting the humiliation sink in, his eyes boring into hers, devoid of lust, filled only with calculation. "...and who will buy *me* the my politcal ambition." His thumbs flicked her nipples sharply, dismissively. "Consider it a strategic realignment of assets."

SUMMARY^1: Khyam declares Chandrani's breasts as tools no longer for personal gratification but solely for strategic political advancement. He asserts they must only "go into the mouths" of men capable of delivering significant power to her presidency and his political ambitions, framing her sexuality as a transactional asset.

Chandrani whimpered, a sound trapped deep in her throat. Her hands trembled at her sides, useless. "But... Khyam Saab..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, thick with shame and desperation. "My...m married. i have..fa..family... Ashok..." The plea was feeble, pathetic even to her own ears. She was bargaining with morality in a den of wolves.

Khyam didn't reply. His gaze, cold and assessing, remained locked on hers in the mirror. His thumbs gave her nipples a final, sharp, dismissive tweak—a silent command, not a caress. Then, moving with unnerving calm, he turned her fully towards the vast mirror, forcing her to confront her own exposed reflection: flushed face, terrified eyes, breasts held captive in his hands. His fingers found the intricate folds of her maroon silk sari at her waist. With practiced efficiency, he unwound the pleats, the expensive fabric pooling like discarded snakeskin around her ankles with a soft *whoosh*. Next came the petticoat; he untied the drawstring knot at her waist, letting the thin cotton slip down her legs. Chandrani stood frozen, hypnotized by the reflection, by the sheer impossibility of the situation unfolding under the harsh bathroom lights. She watched her own hands clutch the edge of the cold marble basin slab, knuckles bone-white, as if anchoring herself against the tidal wave of degradation.

He didn't speak a word. His hands settled firmly on her hips, guiding her torso forward. Instinctively, mechanically, Chandrani bent at the waist, pressing her bare stomach against the cool marble surface. Her gaze remained locked on the mirror, witnessing her own transformation: a respectable politician, wife, mother—now stripped, bent, exposed. The cold air from the AC vent overhead stirred the sparse dark curls between her legs, making them flutter against the vulnerability beneath. She felt utterly naked, physically and psychologically, the vanity lights illuminating every curve, every fold, every tremor.

Khyam’s fingers trailed down her spine, tracing the dip of her lower back before spreading possessively over her buttocks. He kneaded the soft flesh, almost clinically, as if appraising livestock. His eyes met hers in the reflection—a predator assessing prey. His lips brushed her ear, the scent of whisky sharp and invasive. "Wider," he commanded, his voice a low rasp devoid of tenderness. "Open yourself." A tremor shook her, but she obeyed, shifting her feet apart on the cool tiles, exposing the dampened glistening folds completely. His thumb slid lower, pressing against her slick entrance, circling slowly. Chandrani gasped, her knuckles whitening on the basin edge. "You'll ensure it?" she choked out, her voice strained, desperate to anchor this horror to purpose. "The Presidency? No matter what?"

He nodded once, curtly, his gaze unwavering. "Done." His thumb hooked into the elastic waistband of her last barrier—the flimsy lace panties. With a single, efficient tug, he yanked them down to her ankles. The cold air kissed her swollen mound, lifting the sparse dark curls. Fully nude now, her reflection trapped her: flushed face, heavy breasts swaying slightly with each ragged breath, legs splayed like an offering. Khyam’s palm landed sharply on her right buttock—a stinging slap that echoed off the marble. Her cry was swallowed by the room’s sterile silence.

"Spread," Khyam commanded again, his voice devoid of pity. She obeyed, trembling.

Chandrani turned her head slowly, sensuously, her dark kohl-rimmed eyes locking onto his in the mirror. Sweat beaded at her hairline. "Khyam Saab..." Her voice was a husky whisper, thick with unshed tears that somehow sounded like desire. "Please... not too rough." She swallowed hard, her exposed throat working. "I need to walk... downstairs. To meet Prakash, Vikram... Deb." Her gaze pleaded, raw and vulnerable beneath the calculated seduction. "If you mark me... if I limp... how will I forge your alliances? How will I *smile* while they touch what you’ve..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang—*used*, *ruined*—in the humid air between them.

Khyam’s eyes narrowed. His fingers, tracing the puckered rim of her asshole, paused. He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "No marks," he conceded, his voice flat. His thumb pressed insistently against the tight furl. "Spread properly. Wider." Chandrani obeyed instantly, arching her back further, pushing her buttocks high and apart. The fluttering pink knot of her asshole was fully exposed now, glistening faintly under the harsh lights. Khyam leaned closer, his breath hot on her sensitive skin. "Lube?" Chandrani gasped out, the word thick with shameful anticipation. "Is there...?"

He ignored her plea. His thumb pressed harder, the dry friction brutal against her delicate opening. She whimpered, her knuckles bone-white on the basin edge. "Stop the theatrics," Khyam snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass. "Tell me, Chandrani," His thumb circled the straining pucker, relentless. "Is tonight the grand premiere? Will this," he jabbed the tip of his thumb cruelly against her hole, making her cry out sharply, "be the first time you walk into a glittering party, smelling of another man’s sweat... *and seed*?"

Chandrani squeezed her eyes shut against the mirror’s merciless gaze. The cool marble pressed into her belly. "No," she whispered, the confession ripped from her throat, raw and jagged. "Not... not the first."

Khyam’s thumb stopped its cruel circling. The silence grew thick, charged. Then, abruptly, his hands clamped onto her hips and hauled her upright, spinning her to face the mirror. Her eyes flew open, colliding instantly with her own reflection—utterly naked, flushed, trembling. Her gaze darted down, refusing to meet the terrified woman staring back. Khyam crowded behind her, trapping her against the vanity, his navy jacket rough against her bare shoulder blades. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice low and venomous. "Look," he commanded, forcing her chin up with bruising fingers. "Look at yourself. See what ambition has carved." His other hand slid possessively over her belly, then lower, cupping the damp curls between her thighs. "This trembling piety? This downward gaze? It’s a lie." His fingers parted her folds, exposing the slick pink core. "You weren’t closing your eyes in shame moments ago, Chandrani. You were anticipating me. Needing me. Because you know exactly what opens doors tonight."

She flinched, a soft whimper escaping her lips as his fingers probed deeper, invading her slickness. His eyes locked onto hers in the mirror, cold and assessing. "Don’t pretend to be Sati Savitri now," he hissed, his fingers curling inside her, drawing a choked gasp. "You stood ready to get fucked right here against this marble vanity for your Presidency." He withdrew his hand, glistening wet, and brought it deliberately to her lips. The scent of her own arousal mingled with his sandalwood cologne. "Taste," he ordered. "Taste the price." When she hesitated, frozen, his thumb smeared the slickness roughly across her trembling mouth. "Own it. Or walk out that door and lose everything."

Chandrani swallowed hard, humiliation burning hotter than the whisky. Her tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting the tangy betrayal. The gesture—forced, degrading—stripped away her last shred of illusion. *This wasn’t seduction.* It was a stark reminder of her place. A transaction laid bare under the vanity lights. She met Khyam’s gaze in the reflection, the defiance gone, replaced by a hollow resignation. She nodded once, sharply. Understanding dawned, cold and clear: he hadn’t wanted sex; he’d wanted her broken. Ready.

Khyam stepped back, wiping his glistening fingers casually on a folded hand towel. "Good," he murmured, his voice flat, devoid of triumph. "Now get dressed. Quickly." He turned away, leaving her trembling before the mirror. Chandrani moved mechanically. Her fingers, numb and clumsy, rehooked her bra, pulled up the cotton petticoat. She rewound the maroon silk sari with trembling efficiency, her movements swift and silent. The fabric felt heavy now, not armor, but a shroud. She smoothed the pleats, adjusted the pallu, her reflection showing only a composed mask—eyes dark and hard as obsidian, lips crimson and sealed. She didn’t glance at the discarded lace panties pooled like a forgotten secret on the tiles.she wore a strapless blouse displaying her  boobs seductively.

He watched her from the doorway, leaning against the frame, swirling the dregs of his whisky. "Ready?" he asked, though it wasn't a question. Chandrani nodded, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, on the ornate brass handle of the suite door. She felt hollowed out, the cold marble phantom pressure still against her belly, the phantom sting on her rear. She walked past him, head high, spine rigid, the silk whispering promises of power she no longer believed in. The scent of her own arousal lingered faintly beneath the sandalwood and scotch.

Khyam’s low chuckle stopped her just as her hand reached the door handle. "Tell me, Chandrani," he murmured, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Was this your inaugural performance? Getting fucked bare-assed on a washroom vanity slab… moments before stepping out to charm the wolves?" His eyes, sharp and predatory in the dim hallway light, raked over her immaculate sari. "Quite the pre-party ritual. Sets the right tone, wouldn't you say?"

Chandrani paused, her spine stiffening. The phantom sting of his slap burned fresh on her skin. She turned slowly, meeting his gaze. Humiliation coiled hot in her chest, but she refused to let it show. Instead, a brittle, defiant smile touched her crimson lips. "Actually, Khyam Saab," she replied, her voice unnervingly smooth, like shards of glass wrapped in velvet. "This vanity slab? It lacks… *ambiance*." She tilted her head, a calculated pause hanging in the air thick with unspoken degradation. "The last time I was thoroughly fucked just before a Page-3 gala like this…" Her smile widened, cold and sharp. "...it was in the back of a Rolls Royce Phantom. Much softer leather. Far less… clinical." She let the implication linger – the luxury, the power implied by the car, the sheer audacity of the confession.

Khyam’s smirk faltered. His fingers tightened around his tumbler. "Is that so?" His voice held a forced lightness, a politician’s mask slipping slightly. He hadn’t expected this counter-narrative, this claiming of her own degradation.

Chandrani leaned in, close enough for her breath—sweet with mint yet thick with the metallic tang of her own slickness—to ghost over his ear. Her whisper was silk over broken glass. "Oh, yes." Her eyes, dark pits in the mirror’s reflection, held his captive. "That night... Ashok was inside the Grand Imperial ballroom, drunk on expensive Scotch, boasting about my virtue." A bitter, brittle laugh escaped her. "Our son? Sipping mango kulfi in the lobby fountain courtyard, blissfully ignorant." Her hand rested lightly on the cold brass door handle. "And me?" Her lips curled in a parody of a smile. "Dragged out by that man. *‘Just a quick word about the funds,’* he said, right in front of Ashok." The memory sharpened her voice. "He didn’t waste time on *dialogue*, Khyam Saab."

Her knuckles brushed the doorframe as she turned fully to face him. "He shoved me into that Rolls Royce Phantom. Broke the clasp of my pearl necklace—*snap*—just like that." Her fingers mimicked the motion near her throat. "Silk ripped. *Hard*. Against soft leather seats that smelled of cigars and arrogance." She paused, watching Khyam’s knuckles whiten around his tumbler. "He fucked me so violently," she murmured, her tone detached, clinical, "that my diamond bangle cracked against the walnut veneer." Her gaze dropped pointedly to her bare wrists. "Ashok found it later. *‘Must have knocked it off dancing,’* he said." A cruel laugh escaped her. "Afterwards? That man smoothed his bespoke suit, handed me a wet wipe, and dropped me right back at Ashok’s elbow." She leaned closer, her sari’s pallu brushing his arm. "They spent the rest of the evening discussing cricket averages and monsoon predictions." Her whisper dropped to a venomous purr. "Ashok patted his shoulder. Called him a *‘true gentleman.’*"

Khyam stared, the ice clinking violently in his glass. Chandrani arched a brow. "You see?" Her fingers traced the intricate gold border of her sari, her eyes gleaming with merciless amusement. "You think you invented humiliation? You’re a clumsy amateur." She tapped her temple. "A *real* player makes the destruction invisible. Leaves the husband clueless." Her smile widened. "He made me laugh politely while his cum still dripped down my thighs."

Rage flashed behind Khyam’s eyes—cold, controlled fury. He slammed his tumbler onto a side table. "Enough." His voice was dangerously soft. "Your filthy history won't save you *next time*, Chandrani." He stepped closer, invading her space. "After tonight? After you secure my alliances?" His gaze raked over her silk-clad form. "*I* won't be so gentle. *I* won't bother with whispers." His finger jabbed towards the washroom door. "*I* will bend you over that vanity slab properly. Rip whatever flimsy pretense you're wearing." His lips twisted. "And teach you what happens to whores who forget who holds the leash."

Chandrani didn't flinch. Instead, a brittle laugh escaped her painted lips. "Oh, Khyam Saab," she sighed, her voice dripping with mocking pity. "Threats? Really?" She leaned in conspiratorially. "Let's suppose I win this Presidency... thanks to Prakash's money, Vikram's media empire, and Deb's... *enthusiasm*." Her smile turned icy. "Think of the promises I'll have made! The *favors* owed." She tapped a crimson fingernail against his chest. "I'll be fucking *so* many men just to keep my head above water..." Her eyes widened in theatrical innocence. "...you might need to book an appointment weeks in advance!" She paused, letting the vulgarity hang. "And *if*," she emphasized, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "*if* your name somehow crawls its way to the top of that very long list..." She tilted her head, surveying him with contempt. "...I truly hope your *performance* is better than your dialogue."

Khyam’s face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple. He grabbed her silk-clad forearm, fingers digging deep. "You insolent bitch—"

Chandrani jerked free before he could finish, the movement sharp and fluid as a blade. Her smile didn’t waver. "Careful, Saab," she murmured, adjusting her pallu with deliberate grace. "That’s your future President’s arm." She turned toward the hallway leading to the ballroom, heels clicking like a metronome on the marble. "Shall we? Prakash Malhotra detests tardiness. I hear he bites."

[ray.rowdy]

Nice. Keep going.

[StoryReader1]

Pl cont

[rp7575]

[kingqueenjoker]

Khyam’s eyes narrowed, rage simmering beneath his politician’s mask. He fell into step beside her. "Tell me," he snapped, the words clipped and jagged. "All these men—every alliance you’ve spread your legs for... Did you savor any of it?" He gestured mockingly toward the distant sounds of the gala. "The industrialist? The media mogul? my former brother with his clammy hands?" He leaned closer. "Or was it all just... *duty*?"

Chandrani paused mid-stride near the suite’s elevator. The mirrored doors slid open, casting back their reflections—his fury coiled tight, hers unnervingly serene. She turned slowly, her deep red lips curling into a wicked smile. Her kohl-rimmed eyes locked onto his, gleaming with deliberate mischief. One hand rose gracefully, adjusting an invisible strand of hair, while the other remained poised near the elevator button. She let him stew in the silence for a beat—long enough for his knuckles to bleach white around the clutch of his whisky glass.

"Oh, Khyam Saab," she purred, her voice dripping with theatrical nostalgia. "Such a sensitive question." Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against her lips. "Duty? Always." She leaned in conspiratorially, the scent of her sandalwood perfume mingling with the lingering tang of betrayal. "But savor?" A low, husky laugh escaped her. "Only once." Her gaze drifted past him, as if recalling a distant shore. "Goa. My bachelorette trip, years ago." She paused, savoring the tension thickening the air between them. "Met this Nigerian diplomat—tall as a mahogany tree, shoulders like granite." Her tongue flicked out, tracing her upper lip. "He took me against the balcony railing of Taj Fort Aguada." Her eyes snapped back to Khyam’s frozen expression, sparkling with cruel delight. "Monsoon winds howling, waves crashing *right* below us." She shivered dramatically. "*That* man didn’t talk. Didn’t bargain. Just... impaled."

Khyam’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "Impaled?" he echoed, the word brittle.

"Mm." Chandrani hummed, stepping into the elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing them in mirrored silence. Her reflection smiled—serene, untouchable. "Like a butterfly pinned to velvet." She tapped the 'Lobby' button. "He didn’t ask for my future husband’s policies or my father’s connections. Just lifted my skirt and..." Her hand mimed a swift, brutal thrust. "*Silence*. Only salt spray and my silk tearing." She sighed, the sound dripping with false wistfulness. "Shame piyali interrupted. Barged onto the balcony demanding dessert." Her laugh was ice shattering. "Poor girl thought I was seasick."

Khyam leaned against the brass railing, swirling his near-empty tumbler. "Such a pity," he sneered, the words sharp as cut glass. "All that... vigor. Cut short." He eyed her with theatrical regret. "Leaving your business, unfinished." His gaze traced the swell of her breasts beneath the sleeveless blouse. "Must have been... frustrating."

Chandrani didn't look at him. Her reflection in the elevator mirror held a ghost of a smile, brittle and knowing. "Not at all," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr that vibrated faintly in the enclosed space. She tilted her head just slightly, a cascade of dark hair brushing the silk at her shoulder. "He finished. Thoroughly." Her reflection's gaze met Khyam's in the polished steel. "He fucked my *brain* out. With that magnificent ten-inch cock." A faint tremor ran through her, not shame, but remembered intensity. "Took me again and again." Her voice thickened, intimate. "Against the railing. On the balcony tiles. On the soaking wet chaise lounge... till dawn painted the Arabian Sea gold." She chuckled softly, darkly. "Had to limp back to my suite." Her reflection arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

Khyam's sneer vanished, replaced by a sharp calculation. He leaned closer, his whisper slicing through the elevator's hum. "Your husband. Ashok." His eyes tracked her reflection's reaction with predatory intensity. "Wasn't he... suspicious? Of the limp?"

Chandrani’s expression didn’t flicker. Only her fingers tightened infinitesimally on her clutch. "He noticed," she admitted, her tone brisk, detached. "Two days before the wedding." She gave a brittle shrug. "Told him I twisted my ankle dancing barefoot on Fort Aguada’s wet tiles." A ghost of her earlier mocking smile touched her lips. "Easier to explain than... well." Her gaze slid pointedly towards his own trousers. "*You* understand." The elevator chimed softly, signalling their descent's end. The polished steel doors slid open, revealing the opulent chaos of the Grand Imperial lobby—a kaleidoscope of glittering saris, sharp tuxedos, and the ceaseless murmur of power brokering. The scent of tuberose garlands and expensive perfume washed over them.

She didn’t step out immediately. Instead, she turned fully to face Khyam, blocking the threshold. Her posture was suddenly rigid, the brittle defiance replaced by something colder, harder—a blade sheathed in silk. The bright lobby lights etched sharp lines around her eyes. "Khyam Saab," she began, her voice low, stripped of all theatrics. "*As I said earlier*." Her gaze pinned him, unwavering. "I know my duty. I know I must spread my legs... frequently... for the aspiration i harbour..." The vulgar words hung flatly between them, devoid of shame. "For the party. For my chair.." Her chin lifted fractionally. "But I understand the game. I know *what* to do. And *when* to do it."

She took a half-step closer, close enough for Khyam to see the faint tremor in the gold thread of her sari pallu. "So stop worrying," she commanded, her whisper slicing through the distant gala hum.

"And in return?" Her voice dropped to a raw scbang. "You protect me. Shield tme." ." She swallowed hard, the movement stark in her throat. "And you deliver what you promised." Her gaze locked onto his, desperate. "The Presidency of the Women's Wing. My *seat*. Uncontested. Secured before Durga Puja."

Khyam watched her, his expression unreadable granite beneath the lobby's blinding chandeliers. he nodded.

He guided Chandrani through the swirling vortex of sequins and power suits toward Prakash Malhotra and Vikram Sen—two pillars in the Grand Imperial's glittering pantheon. Prakash, bulky in his Savile Row tuxedo, stood like a fortified bank vault, his eyes shrewdly assessing Chandrani’s approach. Vikram, lean and perpetually amused, swirled an amber drink, his gaze lingering on the daring décolletage of her sleeveless blouse.

"Chandrani, resplendent as ever," Prakash murmured, his deep voice a gravelly purr. He clasped her hand briefly, fingers brushing her knuckles—an assessment disguised as courtesy. Vikram grinned, teeth flashing white. "Deb was raving about you earlier, Chandrani," he said, his tone playful yet sharp as a stiletto. "Couldn’t stop praising your… *persuasiveness*. Said only Chandrani could turn a policy debate into a captivating spectacle." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Almost made me jealous I wasn’t the one being… *convinced*."

Chandrani felt the blush bloom hot across her cheeks, a treacherous flush she couldn’t suppress. Deb’s praise? The word "persuasiveness" echoed, heavy with innuendo. *Had Deb told Vikram? Had he boasted about fucking her?* The memory of her moments with deb in the hotel room in goa —the stale whiskey breath, the hurried grunts against her ear in that stifling archive room. Her stomach clenched. She managed a brittle smile, her gaze darting instinctively toward Khyam. "Deb is too kind," she murmured, forcing lightness into her voice. "Though I suspect his compliments stem more from shared whisky bottles than policy victories."

Khyam’s hand settled firmly on the small of her back, a possessive anchor against the treacherous tide of Vikram’s insinuation. His touch felt like a brand through the silk. "Deb possesses… colourful enthusiasms," Khyam interjected smoothly, his voice neutral steel. "But Chandrani’s talents extend far beyond mere charm." He subtly shifted her half a step toward Prakash Malhotra, a deliberate maneuver. Prakash’s gaze, sharp and assessing, lingered on her flushed face, then dropped pointedly to the daring display of her strapless blouse. Chandrani felt exposed, raw beneath his scrutiny.

The discussion turned sharp-edged, navigating the treacherous currents of alliance-building with the Lok Janashakti Party. Prakash grunted about "ideological concessions," Vikram murmured slickly about "electoral arithmetic," and Khyam countered with "strategic pragmatism." Chandrani forced herself to contribute, her voice unnaturally bright, weaving superficial suggestions about rural women’s self-help groups – politically safe, utterly insignificant. The words felt like ash in her mouth as Prakash leaned closer, his expensive cologne cloying. "Your blouse," he remarked casually, swirling his scotch, "is distractingly unorthodox for a pious party symbol. Is that the new strategy? Titillation over policy?" Vikram chuckled softly. Chandrani’s smile froze, the blush deepening into a crimson stain of humiliation. She could feel Prakash’s gaze like fingers tracing her exposed skin.

A flicker of movement beyond Prakash’s bulky frame snagged Chandrani’s attention. Standing slightly apart, near a potted monstera dripping with emerald leaves, was a man she hadn’t noticed before. He wore a tailored Jawahar suit in deep charcoal grey, the fabric straining slightly across broad shoulders and a thick, powerful neck. He looked well into his fifties. His face was brutal terrain – a heavy brow shadowing deep-set eyes, a nose crooked from old breaks, a jaw like quarried granite, and a close-cropped beard shot through with streaks of iron grey. He wasn't conventionally handsome; he was formidable, projecting an aura of coiled, untamed energy that seemed incongruous amidst the polished politicians. He held no drink, only a thin file folder tucked under one thick arm. His gaze, heavy-lidded yet unnervingly direct, was fixed not on the centre of their group, but solely on her.

The discussion veered sharply toward the recent assassination of LJP leader Subhas Mishra at his farmhouse retreat. Vikram Sen sighed theatrically, swirling his scotch. "Such... *untidiness*. Mishra was careless. Leaving himself exposed like that?" Prakash Malhotra grunted, a sound like stones grinding together. "Careless? Or convenient? Eliminated just before the council vote?" His shrewd eyes narrowed. "One less seat to appease now, wouldn’t you say, Khyam Saab?" Khyam’s reply was smooth, dismissive. "Tragic opportunism. Common in our chaotic times." His hand tightened imperceptibly on Chandrani’s back.

Suddenly, the brutal-faced man in the charcoal Jawahar suit detached himself from the shadows of the monstera. He moved with startling quietness for his bulk, closing the distance in three strides. Without a word, but with a swift, meaningful glance at Prakash, he thrust the thin file folder into the industrialist’s waiting hand. Prakash’s thick fingers flipped it open immediately, scanning the top page. "Javed," he acknowledged the man gruffly, not looking up. Jawahar nodded once, his deep-set eyes flickering briefly—dispassionately—over Chandrani before retreating silently to his post near the foliage, a sentinel swallowed by the lobby’s artifice.

Prakash snapped the folder shut, the sound sharp as a gunshot amidst the soft murmur of the gala. His gaze, cold and speculative, pinned Khyam. "Mishra wasn't just eliminated, Khyam Saab," he stated, his gravelly voice lowered but carrying lethal clarity. "He was *cleansed*. Found in his pool. Naked. Throat slit ear-to-ear." Prakash’s thumb tapped the folder. "Forensics suggest... surgical precision. Not the usual thugs."

Vikram chuckled, swirling his drink. "My channel is running the 'tragic accidental drowning' angle," he said, flashing Chandrani a knowing smirk. "Ratings gold, naturally. But," he leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically, "*I* still don't have the scoop on the *who*. That poolside footage... suspiciously vanished."

Prakash snorted derisively. "Your gossip mill, Vikram? Amateur hour." He slapped the folder against his thigh. "*My* network is formidable. Embedded deep." He gestured sharply towards Javed, still half-hidden by the monstera's shadow. "*Javed!* Capture the moment. Faces of our... united front." His command cracked through the air. "For posterity."

Vikram's smirk faltered, replaced by irritation as Javed lumbered forward. The bulky man raised a sleek smartphone, its lens cold and impersonal. Prakash hooked an arm possessively around Chandrani’s silk-clad waist, pulling her stiffly against his side. Khyam slid smoothly into frame beside her, his politician’s smile perfectly calibrated. Vikram, caught flat-footed, scrambled to compose himself, his drink hastily handed off to a passing waiter. The flash exploded – a blinding white burst etching their forced alliance onto digital memory. Prakash leaned in, his gravelly voice a rumble vibrating through Chandrani's shoulder blade. "Proof we move *together*, Chandrani," he murmured, too close, the scent of expensive tobacco thick on his breath. "Before… complications arise."

Chandrani’s gaze locked onto Javed as he lowered the phone. The brute’s heavy-lidded eyes weren't assessing Prakash’s staged unity. They were fixed unblinkingly on *her*, tracing the exposed curve of her shoulder where the sari pallu had slipped, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the thin silk. It wasn't the leering appraisal of politicians like Deb or Prakash. This was raw, primal hunger – a predator sizing up prey. A tremor, not entirely unpleasant, shot through her. Shame coiled hot in her gut, warring with a forbidden thrill. *Enjoyed it?* The thought hissed, unbidden. Had Khyam’s degradation, Prakash’s belittlement, Vikram’s sly insinuations… had they scbangd her raw enough that *this* brute’s undisguised lust felt like… validation? Her cheeks burned anew, but she held her spine rigid, refusing to look away.

Vikram, visibly ruffled by Prakash’s command and Javed’s abrupt intrusion, stepped forward, reclaiming his discarded scotch from the waiter. His practiced smirk returned, sharper now. "Proof we move together?" He echoed Prakash’s words with deliberate irony, swirling his drink. "How very cinematic, Prakashji. Though," his gaze flickered pointedly towards Javed, who stood immobile, eyes still fixed on Chandrani, "I doubt your formidable *network* includes… paparazzi." Vikram’s chuckle held an edge. "*My* channel runs news, Prakashji. Not staged family albums." He gestured vaguely towards the buzzing gala. "The *real* story is still out there. Mishra’s killer walks free while we pose."

Khyam smoothly detached himself from Chandrani’s side, placing a reassuring hand on Vikram’s tense shoulder. "Vikram Saab," he murmured, his voice low and conciliatory, yet firm. "A moment? The Finance Minister just arrived. He’s been… unsettled by Mishra’s demise. Needs reassurance about coalition stability. Your insights on media perception would be invaluable." Khyam’s gaze swept the crowd, landing on a huddle near the champagne fountain where an anxious-looking man in a Nehru jacket fidgeted. Vikram hesitated, glancing between Prakash and Chandrani, his irritation momentarily warring with professional ambition. The lure of influencing the Finance Minister trumped bruised ego. He gave Prakash a curt nod. "Later, Prakashji. We’ll revisit… staging." With a final glance at Chandrani – lingering on her exposed shoulder – Vikram allowed Khyam to guide him away, swallowed instantly by the glittering throng.

Prakash Malhotra’s grip on Chandrani’s waist tightened possessively the moment they were alone. His head dipped close; the sudden assault of stale cigar breath and cloying sandalwood cologne made her flinch. "That husband of yours, Ashok," Prakash rumbled, his gravelly voice vibrating against her ear, thick with lecherous approval. "He's a damn fool about policy, Chandrani. But the man knows how to pick a wife." His thumb pressed deliberately against the curve of her hip, sliding lower to trace the contour beneath the silk sari. "You have a truly… *magnificent* ass." Chandrani’s smile froze into a brittle mask of polite acceptance, her spine rigid against the violation. She managed a slight, graceful nod. "You’re too kind, Prakashji," she murmured, the words ash in her mouth. Before she could pull subtly away, Prakash seized her hand, his eyes gleaming with predatory charm. "You’ll honour me with the next dance, Chandrani? Make an old man’s night?" His gaze didn’t waver, demanding acquiescence.

Chandrani’s eyes flickered instinctively beyond Prakash’s bulk, finding Javed instantly. The brute hadn’t moved. He remained rooted near the monstera, a tumbler of amber whiskey clutched in one thick hand. His stare—heavy, unblinking, utterly devoid of social grace—was locked onto her with unnerving intensity, tracing the line Prakash’s thumb had just mapped. A reckless coil of defiance sparked low in her belly. *Let him watch*. She’d endured Khyam’s calculated degradation, Vikram’s slick insinuations, Prakash’s crude pawing. This raw, untamed hunger? It felt disturbingly honest. "It would be my pleasure, Prakashji," Chandrani purred, her voice thick with false warmth, letting him lead her onto the crowded dance floor.

Prakash guided her clumsily into the swirling crush of bodies, his hand crushingly possessive on her waist. The orchestra swelled—a syrupy Bollywood ballad—and Prakash lumbered into motion. His steps were heavy, arrhythmic, his expensive shoes scbanging the polished marble. "You move like water, Chandrani," he rumbled against her temple, his breath hot and sour with expensive scotch. His hand slid lower, kneading the curve of her hip deliberately through the silk sari. "So supple. So... responsive." Chandrani forced her body to relax against the intrusive pressure, her smile fixed and dazzling under the chandelier light. "You flatter me, Prakashji," she murmured demurely, her gaze darting subtly over his shoulder. Javed hadn’t shifted. He leaned against a marble column now, sipping his whiskey slowly, his gaze never wavering from her. It wasn't admiration; it was appraisal—cold, assessing, primal.

As Prakash clumsily spun her, Chandrani deliberately arched her back, letting the sari pallu slip further off her shoulder. The icy burn of Javed’s stare intensified, tracking the exposed skin like a laser sight. Prakash grunted appreciatively, misinterpreting the gesture. "See? Instinct," he chuckled thickly, pulling her closer until the stiff fabric of his tuxedo jacket dug into her ribs. Chandrani focused past his shoulder, locking eyes across the distance with Javed. His expression didn’t flicker. No smile, no frown. Just... observation. Raw and unblinking. She held the stare for a fraction longer than necessary, a secret thrill coiling low in her belly beneath Prakash’s pawing hands. *Let him see.*

The music shifted to a faster rhythm, forcing Prakash into ungainly shuffles. Chandrani used the momentum to subtly twist away, creating precious inches of space as she navigated his stomping feet. Her gaze darted again—Javed hadn’t moved from his column. He brought the tumbler to his lips slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers. The amber liquid caught the chandelier light. Prakash seized her waist tighter, stumbling against her momentum. "Damn politicians," he muttered sourly against her hairline, his breath humid. "All talk, no spine. Need men who *act*." His hand slid lower, dangerously close to her buttock. Chandrani stiffened, her smile tightening. She glanced back towards Javed. His jaw clenched visibly, the only crack in that granite facade. A sharp pulse of satisfaction shot through her. *Not so unmoved after all.*

She felt Prakash’s thick fingers brush the swell of her hip, dipping lower still. Chandrani braced herself for the crude squeeze she knew was coming. But her eyes remained locked with Javed’s—and she saw it. A subtle tightening around his heavy-lidded eyes, a flare in their dark depths. It wasn't jealousy; it was pure, predatory possessiveness. As Prakash’s palm clumsily cupped her buttock through the silk, Chandrani didn’t flinch. Instead, a low, forbidden heat spread beneath Prakash’s pawing hand. She arched her back slightly, pressing *into* the unwanted touch, her gaze still pinned defiantly to Javed’s. The thrill wasn't Prakash's clumsy groping; it was the raw, silent fury radiating from the brute across the floor, the way his knuckles whitened around his glass. She *wanted* him to see.

Javed’s jaw shifted. He drained the whiskey in one savage gulp, the tumbler vanishing into his suit pocket. Without breaking his stare—a silent promise etched into the brutal lines of his face—he turned abruptly and melted into the crowd, disappearing near the banquet hall entrance. The sudden absence felt like a physical blow. Chandrani’s breath hitched, the heat cooling into a sharp pang of loss. Prakash misinterpreted her shudder, chuckling wetly against her neck. "Feeling that rhythm now, hmm?" he slurred.

"Who *is* he?" Chandrani breathed, turning her head slightly within Prakash’s clumsy embrace. Her whisper was raw silk against the blaring music. "That man… Javed. He watches like a hawk circling prey."

Prakash stiffened momentarily, his pawing hand stilling on her hip. He followed her gaze towards the now-empty column, his expression hardening into grudging respect. "Javed?" A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, devoid of humour. "He’s not a hawk, Chandrani. He’s a fucking *jackal*. My jackal." Prakash leaned closer, his stale breath hot on her ear. "Need a problem erased? A rival silenced? Evidence burned before the cops even smell smoke? Javed handles it. Cleanly. Efficiently." His thumb dug into her silk-clad waist. "Men like him don’t circle prey, darling. They *consume* it."

Chandrani felt a chill prickle her spine despite Prakash’s suffocating closeness. "Murder?" The word escaped her lips softer than a sigh, barely audible over the orchestra’s crescendo.

Prakash didn’t answer. A booming gong suddenly reverberated through the Grand Ballroom, silencing conversation. The Master of Ceremonies announced dinner. Prakash released her instantly, his attention snapping toward the banquet hall entrance like a hound scenting prey. "Food," he declared, already turning. "We move."

Inside the lavish dining hall, Chandrani found herself seated beside Prakash at a long mahogany table dbangd in white damask. Khyam and Vikram flanked him opposite. Silver cloches covered steaming dishes. Prakash tore into the discussion immediately, leaning across the pristine linen. "Mishra's is gone..no more problem...but we have deb to deal with it, he holds the money and ringmaster too ", he hissed, stabbing the air with a butter knife. "LJP is fractured. Weak. We offer their regional bosses cabinet posts – Agriculture, Water Resources. Meaningless titles, real power stays here." He tapped Vikram's wrist. "Your channels spin it… grief, unity, stability." Vikram nodded, scribbling notes onto a linen napkin. Khyam remained impassive, swirling his water goblet. "And the vote?" he murmured. Prakash grinned, predatory. "Fear works faster than favors. Javed ensures… compliance."

As Prakash detailed his plan – leveraging Javed’s ‘network’ to apply pressure across vulnerable Lok Janashakti MPs – Chandrani volunteered to serve the aromatic lamb rogan josh, hoping for distraction. Rising gracefully, she lifted the heavy silver salver. Walking behind Prakash’s chair, she leaned forward to spoon fragrant curry onto his plate. The movement pulled her magenta silk sari pallu taut, dipping low at her waist. Unintentionally, a crescent of smooth skin was revealed just above the intricate gold embroidery of her blouse – the delicate curve of her navel momentarily visible. She felt it instantly: a focused, searing heat. Javed stood immobile against the nearby pillar, his tumbler of whiskey forgotten. His heavy-lidded stare, predatory and unnervingly precise, zeroed in on that exposed sliver of flesh above her sari’s border. It felt like a physical touch, intimate and invasive.

A spark of defiance flickered within Chandrani. Catching Javed’s unblinking gaze, she arched a single, questioning eyebrow – a silent challenge laced with mock annoyance. Deliberately, slowly, she adjusted her pallu with her free hand, pulling the silk upwards to meticulously cover the vulnerable spot. Her eyes, fixed on his, conveyed icy reproach: *Know your place.* She held the look for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, before smoothly turning back to serve Vikram Sen. The air crackled with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on.

Prakash slammed a meaty fist on the pristine damask. "Enough whispers! Deb holds the purse strings *and* the LJP puppets!" he barked, flecks of lamb rogan josh spraying onto the linen. His voice cut through the clatter of silverware stilling immediately. "LJP’s carcass is picked clean. We strike *now*, while the stench of Mishra still chokes the corridors." He jabbed a thick finger towards Vikram. "Your anchors scream ‘coalition crisis’ at primetime. Plant whispers Deb orchestrated Mishra’s... cleansing." Vikram’s eyes glittered with predatory excitement as he leaned forward, napkin forgotten. "The phantom poolside footage… leaked just so? Imply Deb’s men were seen lingering?"

Chandrani remained unnaturally still beside Prakash, the phantom burn of Javed’s gaze on her covered waist still prickling her skin. She focused on the intricate gold paisley pattern of her sari border, the cloying scents of saffron and cardamom suddenly oppressive. Prakash’s gaze swung back to her, heavy and appraising. "Strategy needs rest, Chandrani." His voice dropped to a low rumble, thick with false concern masking command. "This gala drains prettier flowers than you." He signalled dismissively towards the pillar where Javed stood sentinel. "*Javed!* You’ll drop Chandrani home efficiently. My driver knows the route." Prakash’s eyes lingered on her flushed throat. "Ensure she… refreshes properly. Big days ahead."

A flicker of genuine amusement sparked within Chandrani, cutting through the fatigue and humiliation. Dropped off by Prakash's personal assassin? It was absurd, dangerous, yet perversely thrilling. This brute who consumed rivals wasn’t circling prey anymore; he was being offered the kill on a silver platter for Prakash’s convenience. She met Prakash’s expectant stare, her practised smile softening into something almost genuine. "Your thoughtfulness touches me, Prakashji," she murmured, dipping her head demurely. "Javed’s efficiency is… legendary." She lifted her gaze, catching Javed’s impassive stare across the ruined tablecloth. He hadn't flinched, hadn't acknowledged the order. But Chandrani saw the minute tightening of his jaw beneath the brutal lines of his face. Her nod was slight, deliberate. "Of course. Thank you."

The sudden silence of Prakash’s luxury sedan enveloped Chandrani the moment the heavy door clicked shut. The gala’s garish light and oppressive chatter were replaced by cool leather upholstery and the low thrum of the powerful engine. Javed occupied the driver's seat, his immense frame filling the space, radiating a contained heat Chandrani felt even from the passenger side. The partition window separating them from Prakash’s driver remained firmly closed. They were entirely alone. Chandrani shifted subtly, the silk of her sari whispering against the seat, deliberately angling her body towards him. She caught his scent – gun oil, faded tobacco, and something earthy, primal – sharp against the car’s sterile new-leather smell. An unexpected thrill coiled low in her belly. *Finally.*

"Ghaziabad," Chandrani began, her voice deliberately soft, almost melodic against the engine’s purr. She let her gaze drift over his profile – the brutal ridge of his brow, the thick corded neck disappearing into the starched collar. "That’s Prakashji’s stronghold. Is that… home for you too?" She leaned fractionally closer, the subtle shift causing her sari pallu to slip, revealing a bare shoulder gleaming faintly in the dashboard lights.

Javed’s eyes remained fixed on the rain-slicked road unfolding before them. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the exposed skin shimmering inches away. "hmmm," he stated flatly, his voice rough gravel scbanging against silence. "mere area hai." His grip on the steering wheel didn’t shift, knuckles stark white against the leather. No tremor, no flicker.

Chandrani tilted her head, shifting closer still. The scent of his sweat mingled with gun oil filled the space between them, sharp and unnerving. "Ghaziabad," she pressed, letting her voice soften, inviting. "Such a tough place. Were you always... like this?" Her gaze traced the thick scar bisecting his jawline, disappearing beneath his collar. "Strong? Capable?"

Javed’s knuckles tightened fractionally on the wheel. "Sab kuch sikha hai," he answered, low and clipped. *Learnt everything.* His eyes remained glued to the highway, rain streaking the windshield like liquid shadows. He didn't glance at her shoulder, didn't acknowledge the deliberate proximity. Chandrani felt a prickle of irritation beneath her skin. Alone in this leather cocoon, the power dynamics should have shifted. Yet his indifference felt heavier than Prakash’s pawing.

Undeterred, she let her fingers brush lightly against the cool leather of the center console, edging closer to his thigh. "And family?" she pressed, injecting warmth into her tone. "dnt you have someone at home… surely someone waits?" Her knee bumped against the gearshift, a calculated accident. The heat radiating from his body was immense, like standing near a furnace.

Javed shifted gears smoothly, the motion economical. "Kisi ko intezaar nahi karna chahiye," he replied, his voice devoid of inflection. *No one should wait.* He finally glanced sideways, a flicker so brief it might have been imagined. His dark eyes met hers – not predatory, not assessing, but utterly, chillingly blank. "Sabka apna kaam hai." *Everyone has their own work.* The dismissal was absolute. Chandrani recoiled internally, the heat in her belly cooling into sharp chagrin. Alone, powerful, deliberately inviting… and he saw only a job? Prakash's crude appraisal suddenly felt preferable.

Without warning, the sleek sedan shuddered violently. A harsh, grinding clank echoed from the engine bay. The car lurched sideways onto the highway shoulder, tires screeching protest on the wet asphalt before shuddering to a halt beneath a flickering sodium lamp. Silence crashed in, broken only by the drumming rain.

Chandrani jerked forward against her seatbelt, heart pounding. "Kya hua?" Her voice sliced through the sudden stillness. Javed flicked hazard lights on, the orange blink cutting eerie patterns in the downpour. He didn’t glance her way. "Technical snag," he stated flatly, unbuckling his belt with economical movements. "Generator coupling." The door swung open; cold, rain-lashed wind swept into the warm cabin, carrying the tang of wet earth and diesel. Javed vanished into the storm.

Chandrani hesitated only a second. The isolation was electric, charged with possibility. She stepped out, silk sari instantly plastered to her legs by the driving rain. The highway stretched empty in both directions, swallowed by darkness and the relentless drumming on asphalt. Sodium light haloed Javed’s broad back as he bent over the open hood, steam mingling with rain vapor. She moved closer, the chill forgotten beneath a reckless heat pooling low in her belly.

"Engine trouble?" Her voice cut through the downpour, sharper than intended. Javed didn’t straighten, his silhouette rigid against the glare. tiny rain drops plastered his hair against his skull, traced rivulets down the thick cords of his neck. Chandrani edged alongside, letting the sodden pallu cling heavily to her hips. She saw his focus remain locked on the engine block, fingers probing dark metal, utterly absorbed. Frustration pricked her skin, hotter than the steam. This wasn’t indifference; it was *challenge*. Deliberately, slowly, she hooked a wet finger beneath the top edge of her sari’s dbangd fabric where it met her midriff blouse. With agonizing slowness, she slid the silk downward – not much, just an inch. Enough for the soaked magenta to cling lower, revealing the deliberate hollow dip above her waistband. Enough to expose the intricate henna tracery encircling her navel, gleaming wetly under the sodium glare.

His hands froze. The rhythmic drumming of rain on the hood filled the sudden stillness. He didn't turn his head, but Chandrani saw the tension coil through his shoulders, the minute tightening where neck met jaw. She leaned in, close enough that her breath misted the cold chrome beside his knuckles. Her whisper cut through the storm's roar: "Generator coupling? Or..." She paused, letting her gaze trace the scar disappearing into his collar. "...something harder to handle?" Her lips curved, a ghost of a smile inches from his rain-slicked arm. Her fingertip brushed the exposed skin just above her navel – a deliberate touch, cold and inviting. "Are you sure *you* can handle it?"

A low rumble escaped him, swallowed instantly by the wind. "Sab handle kar sakta hu," he growled, turning his head fractionally. His eyes, dark and fathomless, finally locked onto hers. Not cold now. Burning. *Everything*. His gaze didn't flicker downward, remained fixed on her face with unsettling intensity. He gestured sharply towards the engine bay's depths. "Rod slip ho gaya." *Rod slipped.* "Bonnet hold karo." *Hold the bonnet.* He didn't ask. Ordered.

Chandrani stepped forward, her silk plastered to her body. The engine's heat radiated against her thighs. The bonnet, slick with rain and grease, felt massive. She pressed her palms flat against the cold metal edge, leaning her slight weight against it to keep it raised. The posture pulled her torso taut, forcing her arms high above her head. Instantly, the sodden silk sleeves of her blouse rode up, exposing the deep, shadowed hollows beneath her arms. The damp fabric clung awkwardly, pulling tight against her ribs. She felt the sodium light spill into the vulnerable curves, the cool air hitting the sensitive skin. She didn't flinch. She waited.

Javed bent low, his shoulder nearly brushing her hip. He reached deep into the engine bay with a thick wrench. The wrench clanged against metal, echoing sharply in the rainy stillness. Chandrani heard the wet rasp of his breath beside her ear. She felt his gaze flicker upwards, past the wrench, past the steaming engine block. It wasn't a glance; it was a slow, deliberate scorching trail. It traced the trembling line of her sari border where it met her exposed waist, lingered for a suffocating moment, then climbed higher, settling on the exposed flesy armpits of her left arm. His stare felt like physical pressure against that intimate curve – hot, intrusive, utterly consuming. He didn't look away. He ogled. Raw. Unapologetic. Possessive.

Chandrani shifted her grip subtly on the slick bonnet edge, deliberately flexing the muscles of her raised arm. The movement deepened the hollow, stretching the thin skin tauter, glistening under the sodium light. A droplet of rainwater traced a slow, icy path down the vulnerable skin. Javed’s wrench froze mid-turn. His breathing hitched, audible even over the drumming rain. His knuckles whitened around the wrench handle. Chandrani tilted her head slightly, catching his rapt gaze locked onto her armpit. A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips. "Kya dekha ja raha hai itni gahrai se, Javed?" she murmured, her voice low, husky, carrying effortlessly through the storm. *What are you staring at so intently?* She paused, letting the question hang, thick with implication. "Kya pehle kabhi aurat ki baagal nahi dekhi?" *Haven't you seen a woman's armpit before?* She arched her brow, the challenge sharp and glittering in her eyes.

He didn't answer. His gaze didn't waver. Instead, he slowly straightened, abandoning the wrench deep within the engine bay. Rain plastered his shirt to broad shoulders, outlining thick muscle. He turned fully towards her, his movements deliberate, predatory. Chandrani kept her palms pressed firmly against the cold bonnet, maintaining her exposed posture. She felt the raw hunger radiating from him, hotter than the steam rising from the engine block. He took a single step closer, invading her space. His rough scent – gun oil, wet earth, sweat – enveloped her, sharp and primal against the rain-fresh air. His eyes, dark and burning, finally left the intimate hollow and travelled up her arm, tracing the line of her throat, settling on her defiant face. Inches separated them. She felt the heat of his breath mingle with the cool rain on her skin.

"This car," Chandrani breathed, her voice a low purr cutting through the drumming rain. She tilted her head towards the sleek sedan, its hazard lights blinking feebly beneath the sodium glare. "So… *fucked*." A cold droplet traced a path down her exposed side. "Stranded here, ass up in the dark, on this lonely highway." She shifted her weight slightly, the movement pulling the sodden silk tighter across her hips. Her gaze locked back onto his, challenging. "You should hurry, Javed." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, edged with dark suggestion. "Fix it fast. Or…" She paused, letting the implication hang thickly in the storm-lashed air. "...someone else might come along. Someone who sees an… opportunity." Her eyes dropped pointedly to his broad hands, then flicked back up, gleaming. "Someone who might decide to fuck this broken ass… *properly*."

Javed’s stare remained fixed on her face, a furnace burning behind the stillness. He didn’t move towards the engine. Instead, his gaze slid downwards, slow and deliberate, tracing the wet silk clinging to her torso. It lingered over the deliberate exposure above her waistband, the intricate henna gleaming wetly, then travelled lower still to where the sari pooled, heavy and suggestive, between her thighs. His jaw tightened audibly. A low growl vibrated deep in his chest, barely audible over the rain's roar. It wasn’t anger. It was raw, uncontained hunger.

"You," he rasped, the word rough as sandpaper. His voice dropped, thick with contemptuous irony. "Your ass..." He gestured vaguely towards her hips, his knuckles white. "...bahut valuable hai. Big politicians ka... dessert." A sneer twisted his scarred lips. "Prakash Malhotra... Khyam... Vikram Sen. Unki plate mein hi rakha hai." *Reserved on their plate.* He took a half-step closer, invading her space. The heat radiating off him was suffocating. "Mera kaam hai... ensure koi chhota michwa... touch na kare." *Ensure no small-time rat touches it.* His dark eyes burned into hers, devoid of Prakash’s crude lechery, replaced by chilling possession. "After all..." He paused, letting the words hang heavy. "...*you* are the impending President of the Women's Wing." He spat the title like venom. "But..." He leaned in, his breath hot against her rain-chilled ear. "...danger... woh alag cheez hai." *Danger… that’s something else.*

Chandrani didn’t recoil. The absurdity, the terrifying power-play, sent a jolt of reckless adrenaline through her veins. She laughed, low and throaty, the sound carrying over the drumming rain. Her body arched subtly against the cold bonnet edge, emphasizing the curve he’d just condemned. "Danger?" she echoed, her voice dripping with mocking sweetness. Her eyes, glittering with defiance, locked onto his. "Kya danger, Javed?" *What danger?* She tilted her head, letting her gaze travel deliberately down his soaked shirt, lingering meaningfully at his belt. "Kya tum..." she paused, her whisper slicing through the storm’s roar, "...kya tum mujhe *abhi* bang karne wale ho?" *Are you going to bang me now?* A slow, deliberate smile curved her rain-slicked lips. Her voice dropped lower, husky, charged. "Kya tum mera... ass... *fuck* karoge?" *Will you fuck my ass?*

The raw vulgarity hung suspended between them, stark against the storm. Chandrani saw the flare in Javed’s eyes—not shock, but a visceral eruption of primal heat mixed with fury. His breath hitched audibly. His hand, still slick with engine grease, shot out. Not to strike, not to grab her throat. It clamped hard onto her hip, fingers digging possessively through the soaked silk, pulling her violently towards him. Her back slammed against the cold, wet flank of the sedan. Rainwater sprayed her face as his immense frame caged her in. The bonnet crashed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

“Karne ka mann bahut karta hai, Madam President,” Javed rasped, his voice thick with suppressed lust and bitter sarcasm. His breath, hot and smelling of tobacco, fanned across her rain-slicked lips. His hips pressed flush against hers, pinning her to the car. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal burn through the layers of fabric. “Par…” His gaze raked down her body with brutal intensity. “…gaadi ka engine dead ho gaya.” *The car engine is dead.* . “Mechanic ko call karna padega.” *Need to call mechanic.* He released her hip abruptly, leaving a deep imprint on the silk, and pulled a sleek, black phone from his pocket.

As Javed punched numbers, the sudden chirp of Chandrani’s personal phone sliced through the storm’s drumbeat. Ashok’s name flashed on the screen. Relief warred with sharp irritation. She slid the answer button. “Ashok?” Her tone was breathless, deliberately strained.

“Chandrani, it’s past midnight! Where are you?” Ashok’s voice crackled, thick with exhaustion.

Chandrani leaned against the car’s rain-slicked flank, watching Javed’s silhouette as he barked Hindi into his phone a few paces away. The mechanic’s name—Raju—drifted through the downpour. “Still… at Prakashji’s dinner,” she lied smoothly, injecting a flutter of faux fatigue into her tone. The sodium light caught the violent imprint of Javed’s grip on her hip silk. “So many discussions. I’ll stay at Manju’di’s tonight—her place is closer.” She paused, letting the drumming rain fill the silence. “How… how is babai?”

Ashok’s sigh rattled down the line. “Fell asleep with his story book again. Asked for you twice.” His voice softened. “Don’t push yourself, Chandrani. Politics can wait.”

Chandrani watched Javed snap his phone shut, the harsh lines of his face illuminated by a passing truck’s headlights. “Politics never sleeps,” she murmured, forcing lightness into her voice. “Give babai my kiss. Goodnight.” She ended the call before Ashok could probe further, slipping her phone back into her blouse. The lie settled cold in her stomach. Manju’di lived halfway across the city.

Javed stalked back towards her, rainwater dripping from his jawline. “Raju will come. but cant tell when.” His eyes flicked to the dark imprint on her hip silk, then away. The predatory hunger had banked, replaced by coiled impatience. Restless energy radiated off him as he paced the narrow shoulder, boots splashing in puddles.

“Could be hours,” he growled, gesturing vaguely towards the highway’s ink-black expanse swallowed by the storm. His gaze landed on a cluster of faint, hazy lights shimmering like distant fireflies low in the darkness beyond a scrubby embankment. “Small settlement. Shanties. Temporary shelters.” He stated it flatly, a neutral assessment. “Dry shelter. Chai. Better than standing here.” He didn’t look at her, his posture rigidly turned away. A muscle jumped in his scarred jaw. He wasn’t suggesting; he was reporting options. Waiting was unbearable.

Chandrani leaned back against the cold, rain-lashed sedan, the scent of wet earth and Javed’s lingering gun oil sharp in her nostrils. The sodden silk clung to her thighs. She tilted her head, studying the distant flicker of the slum lights through the curtain of rain. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips as she deliberately echoed his earlier phrasing. “Dry shelter? Chai?” Her voice was husky, laced with deliberate ambiguity. She shifted her weight, letting the wet silk pull taut against her hips. “Or something... else entirely?” She paused, letting the drumming rain fill the silence. Her eyes, dark and glittering, locked onto his profile. “Kya tumhare dimaag mein... wohi chal raha hai, Javed?” *Is that what's running through your mind?* She took a half-step closer, invading his space. The rain plastered stray hairs to her temples. “Kya tum mujhe uss jhopadpatti mein le ja kar... bang karne wale ho?” *Are you taking me to that slum to bang me?*Her gaze dropped pointedly, lingering below his belt before snapping back up. " main kyu jau hmm?"

Javed leaned against the rust-streaked sedan, rainwater dripping from his sharp jawline onto the grease-stained collar of his uniform. His knuckles, scarred and thick, tapped a slow rhythm against the wet metal. In the flickering sodium light, his gaze drifted toward the distant cluster of slum fires shimmering like dying stars through the monsoon curtain.

"Out here," he murmured, his voice rough gravel under the rain's roar. "Alone. Broken car like ripe fruit." His eyes slid sideways to Chandrani, soaking silk plastered to her hips. "Anyone could come. Truck drivers." A pause. "Loaders." Another. "*Thugs*." The last word landed like a brick. He pushed off the car, boots splashing mud as he took a step closer. The scent of wet earth and sharp sweat thickened the air. " fancy car, fancy woman..." He gestured vaguely at her silhouette. "...akeli." His stare dropped pointedly to the dark wet patch where the sari clung between her thighs. "ek nahin..harami kutte or suawro ka jhund" His voice dropped to a low growl. "Line banake..ek ek karke." A slow, deliberate lick of his lips. "*apki gand marenge."

Chandrani didn't flinch. She leaned back harder against the cold metal, the chill seeping through the silk. Her laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. "Is that your fantasy, Javed? Or... a threat?" She arched her neck, exposing the rain-slicked column of her throat. "Thinking of joining the line?" Her gaze traced the jagged scar disappearing into his collar. "Or just... watching?.."
" main socha ap meri gand bachoge ..na ki marte hue dekhoge"

Javed stared at Chandrani intently for a moment, his eyes burning holes into hers. Without a word, he turned abruptly. "Chalo." His voice was clipped, final. He strode towards the embankment, boots sinking into the mud, not looking back. Chandrani hesitated, the shroud of rain swallowing him. Then she followed, silk tangling around her ankles, climbing the slippery slope towards the distant haze of kerosene lamps. The shanty town materialized out of the gloom – a maze of corrugated tin and tarpaulin, stinking of sewage and woodsmoke. Javed moved with predatory familiarity, turning down narrow alleys where shadows swallowed the feeble light. He stopped before a low, rust-streaked door and hammered twice with his fist – sharp, authoritative knocks that echoed in the dripping stillness.

The door scbangd open. A gaunt young man peered out, eyes widening at Javed before flickering nervously over Chandrani’s soaked, clinging finery. Javed barked a few low words in rapid Hindi Chandrani couldn’t catch. The young man nodded vigorously, ducking back inside. Javed gestured curtly with his chin towards the dark doorway. His eyes met Chandrani’s – a silent command, devoid of warmth. Chandrani stepped past him into the cramped gloom. A single kerosene lantern hissed on a rickety wooden table, casting long, dancing shadows. A neatly folded cot hugged one wall; a makeshift partition of stained sackcloth screened a tiny area barely large enough to crouch in – the ‘neck-height washroom’. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, stale tobacco, and something vaguely medicinal.

Chandrani stood rigidly by the cot. Outside, the rain muffled voices but sharpened whispers. She strained to hear. Javed’s low rumble. Then the other man’s voice, hesitant, curious: "*Saab, yeh... rand hai kya? Abhi... chodne wale ho?*" *Sir, is she... a whore? You going to fuck her now?* The words punched Chandrani’s gut. Not shock, but a bizarre, unnerving resonance. *Rand*. Whore. Prakash’s crude dessert plate. Khyam’s calculating gaze. Vikram’s smirk. Her carefully traded intimacies for political leverage. Wasn’t she exactly that? A high-profile courtesan trading flesh for power? Favors instead of cash? Tonight, it felt undeniable.

The door groaned open. Javed loomed in the doorway, rainwater dripping onto the packed-earth floor. He ignored the young man hovering behind him. His eyes, shadowed and intense, scanned Chandrani’s soaked form. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to wipe the rainwater trickling down her neck into her damp blouse. The kerosene light flickered across his scarred jaw, hardening its lines. His silence was heavier than Prakash’s lechery. He stepped inside, shutting the door with a definitive click. The bolt scbangd home. The sound echoed in the cramped space. Alone. The predatory stillness returned. Chandrani felt it coil around her ribs, tightening her breath. She saw the calculation in his eyes – the hunter assessing trapped prey.

Her mind raced. Vikram’s mocking praise. Prakash’s groping hands. Khyam’s detached assessment. *Rand*. Whore. Was she anything else? Power wasn’t seized with clean hands. Favors traded – whispered secrets for votes, strategic silences for patronage, *this body* leveraged for alliances. Cash never changed hands; the currency was position, influence, survival. Tonight, under flickering kerosene light smelling faintly of kerosene and desperation, the facade felt shatter-thin.

She moved away from the cot, touching the rough sackcloth partition hiding the neck-height washroom. A tin mug sat beside a cracked bucket. Her fingers trembled. Outside, Javed’s growl was punctuated by the young man’s hesitant murmurs. *“…chodne wale ho?”* The brutal bluntness resonated. She couldn’t hear Javed’s reply. Chandrani glanced back at the cot. Narrow, sturdy, covered with coarse grey wool. A threadbare pillow lay against the wall. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.

A slow, reckless smile curved her lips. He’d bolt that door. He’d face her. And then? That raw hunger radiating off him earlier, hotter than steam… it hadn’t vanished. It lay coiled beneath his icy control. She knew that look. Prakash leered; Khyam assessed. Javed possessed. And possession demanded claiming. Fighting him? Futile. Pointless. The highway confrontation, the storm, the desperate tension—all arrows pointed here. Logic screamed surrender. Why deny the inevitable heat crackling between them? She traced the cold metal frame of the cot. He’d strip the clinging saree away. Push her down onto the scratchy wool. Her skin prickled.

The scbang of the bolt cut through her spiraling thoughts. Javed filled the doorway again, silhouetted against the dim alley light. Rainwater dripped from his shoulders, pooling on the packed earth floor. He held a small, unlabeled glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. His eyes, dark pits in the kerosene gloom, swept over her sodden form. "Paoge?" he asked flatly, his voice rough. Alcohol? Chandrani’s gaze flickered to the bottle. Liquid courage? Liquid submission? She lifted her chin, a brittle defiance sparking. "Tum peete ho toh… theek hai." *If you drink… it’s fine.* A deliberate ambiguity. Acceptance? Permission? Challenge?

Javed grunted, unscrewing the cap. He took a swift, deep swallow, the harsh fumes hitting the air – cheap country liquor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. They flickered pointedly down her body, lingering on the damp patches clinging to her skin beneath the wet silk. "Fresh ho jao," he stated, his tone devoid of inflection, a simple command. *Get freshened up.* He gestured curtly towards the sackcloth partition screening the washroom alcove. "Naha lo." *Bathe.*

Chandrani blinked, momentarily thrown. Freshening up? In *this* cramped, dirt-floored shack? With him standing there, reeking of liquor and possession? Her gaze flicked between the crude partition and his impassive face. Was this a bizarre courtesy? Or a cruel setup? "You mean… *this*?" she asked, gesturing towards the flimsy curtain, her voice tight with disbelief. "That washroom?"

Javed’s stare didn’t waver. He raised the bottle again, took another long, burning sip. "Haan," he rasped, the single syllable dropping like a stone. "Jaldi karo." *Hurry up.*

[kingqueenjoker]

The door scbangd open. A gaunt young man peered out, eyes widening at Javed before flickering nervously over Chandrani’s soaked, clinging finery. Javed barked a few low words in rapid Hindi Chandrani couldn’t catch. The young man nodded vigorously, ducking back inside. Javed gestured curtly with his chin towards the dark doorway. His eyes met Chandrani’s – a silent command, devoid of warmth. Chandrani stepped past him into the cramped gloom. A single kerosene lantern hissed on a rickety wooden table, casting long, dancing shadows. A neatly folded cot hugged one wall; a makeshift partition of stained sackcloth screened a tiny area barely large enough to crouch in – the ‘neck-height washroom’. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, stale tobacco, and something vaguely medicinal.

Chandrani stood rigidly by the cot. Outside, the rain muffled voices but sharpened whispers. She strained to hear. Javed’s low rumble. Then the other man’s voice, hesitant, curious: "*Saab, yeh... rand hai kya? Abhi... chodne wale ho?*" *Sir, is she... a whore? You going to fuck her now?* The words punched Chandrani’s gut. Not shock, but a bizarre, unnerving resonance. *Rand*. Whore. Prakash’s crude dessert plate. Khyam’s calculating gaze. Vikram’s smirk. Her carefully traded intimacies for political leverage. Wasn’t she exactly that? A high-profile courtesan trading flesh for power? Favors instead of cash? Tonight, it felt undeniable.

The door groaned open. Javed loomed in the doorway, rainwater dripping onto the packed-earth floor. He ignored the young man hovering behind him. His eyes, shadowed and intense, scanned Chandrani’s soaked form. She met his gaze squarely, refusing to wipe the rainwater trickling down her neck into her damp blouse. The kerosene light flickered across his scarred jaw, hardening its lines. His silence was heavier than Prakash’s lechery. He stepped inside, shutting the door with a definitive click. The bolt scbangd home. The sound echoed in the cramped space. Alone. The predatory stillness returned. Chandrani felt it coil around her ribs, tightening her breath. She saw the calculation in his eyes – the hunter assessing trapped prey.

Her mind raced. Vikram’s mocking praise. Prakash’s groping hands. Khyam’s detached assessment. *Rand*. Whore. Was she anything else? Power wasn’t seized with clean hands. Favors traded – whispered secrets for votes, strategic silences for patronage, *this body* leveraged for alliances. Cash never changed hands; the currency was position, influence, survival. Tonight, under flickering kerosene light smelling faintly of kerosene and desperation, the facade felt shatter-thin.

She moved away from the cot, touching the rough sackcloth partition hiding the neck-height washroom. A tin mug sat beside a cracked bucket. Her fingers trembled. Outside, Javed’s growl was punctuated by the young man’s hesitant murmurs. *“…chodne wale ho?”* The brutal bluntness resonated. She couldn’t hear Javed’s reply. Chandrani glanced back at the cot. Narrow, sturdy, covered with coarse grey wool. A threadbare pillow lay against the wall. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.

A slow, reckless smile curved her lips. He’d bolt that door. He’d face her. And then? That raw hunger radiating off him earlier, hotter than steam… it hadn’t vanished. It lay coiled beneath his icy control. She knew that look. Prakash leered; Khyam assessed. Javed possessed. And possession demanded claiming. Fighting him? Futile. Pointless. The highway confrontation, the storm, the desperate tension—all arrows pointed here. Logic screamed surrender. Why deny the inevitable heat crackling between them? She traced the cold metal frame of the cot. He’d strip the clinging saree away. Push her down onto the scratchy wool. Her skin prickled.

The scbang of the bolt cut through her spiraling thoughts. Javed filled the doorway again, silhouetted against the dim alley light. Rainwater dripped from his shoulders, pooling on the packed earth floor. He held a small, unlabeled glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. His eyes, dark pits in the kerosene gloom, swept over her sodden form. "Paoge?" he asked flatly, his voice rough. Alcohol? Chandrani’s gaze flickered to the bottle. Liquid courage? Liquid submission? She lifted her chin, a brittle defiance sparking. "Tum peete ho toh… theek hai." *If you drink… it’s fine.* A deliberate ambiguity. Acceptance? Permission? Challenge?

Javed grunted, unscrewing the cap. He took a swift, deep swallow, the harsh fumes hitting the air – cheap country liquor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. They flickered pointedly down her body, lingering on the damp patches clinging to her skin beneath the wet silk. "Fresh ho jao," he stated, his tone devoid of inflection, a simple command. *Get freshened up.* He gestured curtly towards the sackcloth partition screening the washroom alcove. "Naha lo." *Bathe.*

Chandrani blinked, momentarily thrown. Freshening up? In *this* cramped, dirt-floored shack? With him standing there, reeking of liquor and possession? Her gaze flicked between the crude partition and his impassive face. Was this a bizarre courtesy? Or a cruel setup? "You mean… *this*?" she asked, gesturing towards the flimsy curtain, her voice tight with disbelief. "That washroom?"

Javed’s stare didn’t waver. He raised the bottle again, took another long, burning sip. "Haan," he rasped, the single syllable dropping like a stone. "Jaldi karo." *Hurry up.*

Chandrani hesitated, the absurdity of bathing in a shanty’s neck-high stall biting deeper than the rain-chill. His command brooked no argument. That dark, predatory stillness hung between them, thicker than the kerosene fumes. She ducked behind the sackcloth partition, the rough fabric scbanging her cheek. The "washroom" was a nightmare: damp earth underfoot, a dented drum of murky water, a cracked mug, and a sliver of yellow soap smelling faintly of lye.

Outside, Javed’s silhouette loomed against the curtain, unmoving. She could *feel* his gaze, heavy and anticipatory, raking the thin barrier. A spark ignited in her gut—reckless, defiant. *You want a show, chauffeur?* Fine. Let him burn. With deliberate slowness, her fingers trembled not from fear but from perverse exhilaration. She reached behind her back. *Click*. The blouse hook released. Another *click*, and the damp silk of her sari’s inner layer slithered down her hips, pooling around her ankles like a fallen shadow. She stood clad only in skin and the clinging wet petticoat, the partition shielding her from breasts down—but the deep V of her cleavage remained fully visible through the gap above the rough sacking. Steam seemed to rise from her own skin.

She dipped the cracked mug into the murky drum water. "Itni thandak hai, Javed," she murmured, her voice husky, the words dripping false innocence. *So cool.* She poured the water slowly over one collarbone. Rivulets traced the swell of her breasts, vanishing beneath the partition's edge. Her sigh was theatrical, a low hum vibrating in her throat. "Shower lene mein... kitna sukoon milta hai." *Such peace, taking a shower.* She unhooked the petticoat now, the last barrier, letting it crumple at her feet. Her nude back arched slightly against the rough cloth partition. "Par dar lagta hai," she added, lifting her chin towards his shadow. "*Koi andar na aa jaye.*" *I fear... someone might burst in.* The innuendo hung thick—a velvet trap baited with vulnerability.

Behind the thin veil of sackcloth, her silhouette moved with deliberate sensuality. The kerosene light painted her curves—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips—ghostly shapes shifting against the rough fabric. She bent slowly to retrieve the soap, knowing the movement would pivot her exposed cleavage deeper into the gap above the partition. Her breaths came deliberately audible, synchronized with the splash of water. One hand traced a languid path from her throat down, fingers skimming the damp skin her blouse once covered, stopping just above where the partition shielded her. She imagined his gaze—the burn of it—like a touch, but raw, untamed. Let him feast on implication. Let him choke on anticipation.

Suddenly, a dry rustle hissed near her bare ankle. Instinct jerked her eyes down. A sinuous brown length, thick as her wrist, slid silently over the packed earth beside the water drum—a rat snake, scales gleaming dully in the gloom. Chandrani froze mid-pour. Not panic, but primal revulsion twisted her gut. Her scream tore through the shack's stillness—a sharp, visceral sound that shattered the taut silence. "*Saanp!*"

The sackcloth ripped aside instantly. Javed filled the cramped alcove, reeking of cheap liquor and adrenaline. His gaze locked onto the coiling serpent near her naked foot. There was no hesitation. One greased-stained hand shot out, swift and brutal, clamping just behind the snake’s triangular head. The creature thrashed violently, muscular body whipping against Chandrani’s wet calf—cold, smooth, terrifyingly alive. Javed’s grip tightened, knuckles white. His other hand seized the writhing body, pinning it against the damp earth floor with crushing force. Water splashed everywhere.

"Chill," he rasped, his voice clipped. "Non-venomous." His eyes flickered over her nakedness—dismissive, clinical—before locking back onto the snake. He lifted it effortlessly, its scales gleaming wetly in the kerosene light. It hissed, jaws straining futilely against his iron grip. He turned towards a small, grimy window set high in the tin wall. With a grunt of effort, he hurled the snake through the narrow opening into the teeming rain outside. The dull *thump* as it hit mud was swallowed by the storm.

Chandrani sagged against the cold partition wall, trembling uncontrollably. Her lungs burned. The adrenaline crash was violent, leaving her weak-kneed. She hadn't screamed like that since childhood. Javed turned back towards the alcove. She scrambled instinctively for the crumpled towel lying near the drum—coarse, grey, smelling faintly of mildew. She clutched it desperately against her chest and stomach, twisting sideways to shield her bare back from him. The towel’s rough folds bunched awkwardly, offering scant coverage below her hips. Dim orange light filtered through the window, slicing across her bare flank. His gaze traveled deliberately, slowly: the curve of her hip revealed by her twisted stance, the faint shadowed cleft of her buttock, the dark stubble dusting her exposed pubis where the inadequate towel gaped low. He stared for a long, silent moment. The air crackled with the aftermath of fear and lingering intent.

"Enough," Chandrani rasped, her voice still hoarse from the scream. She tightened her grip on the towel, knuckles white. "You've seen... all there is to see." She didn't turn fully, keeping her back partly shielded, her gaze fixed resolutely on the damp earth floor. Her face burned with humiliation and fury. "Go. Now." The command was brittle, lacking its usual steel. She felt horrifyingly exposed, stripped bare not just physically but by the raw vulnerability of her panic. He had seen *everything*: her terror, her nakedness, her instinctive recoil into primal fear. The power balance had irrevocably lurched.

Javed didn’t move immediately. His eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, one last time: the frantic clutch of the towel barely veiling her breasts, the smooth curve of her hip angled away, the dim hurricane lamp outside casting an orange smear across the swell of her buttock where the wet skin glistened like oil. He lingered on the faint, dark stubble above her thighs – a vulnerable intimacy exposed by the towel’s gaping inadequacy. A muscle tightened in his scarred jaw. The scent of cheap liquor clung to him, mingling with the damp earth and residual snake musk.

Then, astonishingly, a slow, sardonic smile touched his lips. It wasn’t warm. It was the predatory curl of a wolf acknowledging cornered prey. "Dekh liya," he rasped, his voice thick with rough amusement. *Seen it.* "Sab kuch." *Everything.* He held her trapped gaze for a suspended heartbeat – the humiliation, the fury, the tremors of adrenaline still vibrating through her nakedness. The smile widened a fraction, chillingly intimate. "Bahut..." he murmured, the single word dropping like a stone. *Much.* He turned on his heel, his boots scbanging the packed earth, and stepped smoothly back behind the sackcloth curtain. The rough fabric fell into place, leaving her trembling behind its flimsy shield.

Chandrani gasped, the sound raw in her throat. *Sab kuch.* The brutal dismissal echoed louder than her scream. Her mind reeled – the snake’s cold touch, the crushing grip on its neck, the sheer indifference in his eyes as they raked her exposed skin. Fury warred with shame, a toxic cocktail burning through her veins. *Enough.* She snatched the coarse towel tighter, its mildew smell cloying. She scrubbed fiercely at her skin, the rough weave scbanging, a futile attempt to erase the feel of the serpent’s scales and Javed’s possessors gaze. She didn't bother with the grimy water drum. Cleanliness was a luxury lost in this grimy theatre of humiliation. With trembling hands, she wrapped the towel clumsily around her torso, securing it tightly under her arms. It barely covered her thighs. One deep, ragged breath. Then another. The predator waited just beyond the thin sackcloth wall. He had seen her break. Now, she’d make him see her reassemble.

She pushed the curtain aside. Javed stood near the rickety table, pouring cheap liquor from the unlabeled bottle into a chipped enamel mug. He didn’t turn immediately, his broad back a solid shadow against the kerosene lamp’s hissing glow. Rain drummed a relentless rhythm on the tin roof. Chandrani walked across the compacted earth floor, the damp chill rising through her bare feet. She moved deliberately, ignoring the tremor in her knees. Without a word, she lowered herself onto the edge of the neatly folded cot, the coarse grey wool scratchy against her towel-clad thigh. She sat ramrod straight, chin lifted, staring fixedly at the opposite wall where shadows writhed like specters. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken currents. Only the rain spoke, a ceaseless whisper.

Javed turned slowly. His gaze swept over her – the towel knotted tightly under her arms, revealing bare shoulders slick with residual moisture, the curve of her collarbone, the tense line of her jaw. His eyes lingered on her exposed legs, the towel ending mid-thigh, leaving her calves and feet bare against the dirty earth. A flicker of surprise – sharp and swift – passed through his dark eyes before vanishing behind a familiar impassive mask. He held out the enamel mug. "Paoge?" The offer was flat, devoid of inflection.

Chandrani remained seated, spine rigid against the rough cot frame. She met his stare squarely. "Nahin." Her refusal was clipped, absolute. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the towel. "Mujhe peene ki man nahin aab..per aap pi sakte ho." *

Javed’s low chuckle rumbled through the cramped shack, harsh against the drumming rain. He raised the chipped mug to his lips, taking a deliberate, burning swallow. His eyes, gleaming darkly in the kerosene light, slid over her towel-clad form – the damp skin of her shoulders, the sharp angle of her collarbone, the defiant tilt of her chin. His gaze paused pointedly on her folded hands clutching the towel’s edge. "Haakim-ul-Bahar," he rasped, his voice thick with contemptuous amusement. *Sir Commander.* The mockery dripped like acid. "Angrezi sharab hi piyegi, na?" *Only drinks foreign liquor, right?* He tilted his head, a predator savoring the kill. "Whisky? Vodka? Champagne?" He took another slow sip, the cheap liquor fumes filling the small space between them. "Yahan ka desi daru… tumhari shaan ke niche hai." *This local brew… beneath your dignity.*

Chandrani felt the coarse wool of the cot prickle her thigh through the thin towel. His disdain scbangd against her frayed nerves – Prakash’s groping hands, Vikram’s smirk, Khyam’s detached appraisal, the slum dweller’s *rand*. Was dignity a luxury she could still afford? The humiliation of the snake coiled fresh in her mind, raw and exposed. Her throat felt parched, scratchy with fear and adrenaline. The sharp tang of cheap liquor teased her senses, a forbidden balm against the shack’s stink of damp earth, kerosene, and desperation. The exhaustion was bone-deep, a lethargy that threatened to unspool her rigid posture. She stared at the mug in his hand, the clear liquid catching the flickering light. *Why not?* The thought slithered in, reckless and dark. To drown the shame, if only for a moment. To reclaim a sliver of control, however illusory. Her fingers loosened their death grip on the towel’s edge.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out. Her hand trembled slightly, betraying the tremor under her forced calm. She took the chipped enamel mug, her fingers brushing briefly against his calloused ones. The metal felt cold, foreign. She raised it to her lips, hesitating only a heartbeat – the cheap fumes stung her nostrils, acrid and harsh. She tipped it back, the liquid fire scorching a path down her throat. It burned fiercely, rough and unrefined, making her cough violently, tears springing to her eyes. She gasped, shuddering, the warmth spreading through her chest like molten lead. It felt alien, vile... yet undeniably potent. She lowered the mug, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the cheap liquor's bitterness clinging to her tongue. "Too... strong," she rasped, voice thick.

A sharp gasp escaped her as she instinctively shifted her legs to brace against the burning sensation. The coarse towel, clumsily secured after the snake ordeal, slipped disastrously. It slid down her torso, catching momentarily on her hips before pooling loosely around her waist. Her bare thighs, the curve of her hips, and the dark shadowed cleft between her legs were suddenly exposed under the flickering kerosene light. Javed’s gaze locked onto the revelation, dark and hungry, tracking the smooth glide of skin where the towel had fallen. His predatory stillness intensified; the air thickened, heavy with the scent of cheap liquor and primal awareness. Chandrani froze, humiliation scorching her cheeks hotter than the liquor. She fumbled frantically to yank the towel upwards, her movements jerky, desperate to cover herself again.

Two sharp, rapid knocks echoed from the low door, fracturing the suffocating tension. Javed’s eyes snapped towards the sound, then flickered back to Chandrani’s frantic struggle with the towel. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Most probably Chottu," he stated flatly, his voice rough. "Come with food." He gestured dismissively towards the door. "Jaake le ao." *Go get it.* His gaze lingered pointedly on her towel-clad form, the implication hanging heavy: *Expose yourself further.*

Chandrani’s breath hitched. Clutching the coarse towel tight against her chest, she gestured sharply downwards towards her legs, her exposed thighs gleaming under the kerosene lamp. "Main toh bas towel mein hoon!" she hissed, her voice laced with outrage and disbelief. *I’m only in a towel!* Going to the door meant revealing herself to whoever stood outside – likely the same young man who had called her a *rand*. Surrender. Vulnerability. Public humiliation redux.

Javed’s low laugh was a harsh bark in the cramped silence, rough amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. He shook his head slowly, deliberately, his scarred face catching the flickering light. "Haan. Tumhari shaan dikhaane ka hi toh mauka hai." *Yes. It’s precisely the chance to display your grandeur.* The mockery was thick, corrosive. Without another word, he turned abruptly, his boots scbanging the packed earth floor. In three swift strides, he reached the low, rusted door, unlatching the heavy bolt with a grating metallic screech. He yanked it open, the sudden rush of damp, sewage-tainted air and drumming rain momentarily filling the hut.

Chandrani clutched the coarse towel tighter under her arms, her knuckles white. Beyond the doorway, illuminated by the kerosene lamp's weak spill, stood the wiry young man she’d heard earlier—Chottu. He held a stained cloth bundle steaming faintly in the rainy gloom. His eyes, wide and curious, darted past Javed’s imposing frame, immediately locking onto Chandrani where she sat rigidly on the cot's edge. His gaze crawled over her bare legs, the towel’s inadequate coverage at her thighs, her bare shoulders slick with damp. Recognition flickered, followed by a smirk that mirrored Vikram Sen’s. He muttered something low and crude to Javed in rapid Hindi—a phrase involving "wet sari" and "whore’s price"—his tone suggestive, insolent.

Javed snatched the bundle without acknowledging the insult, his movements efficient, dismissive. He kicked the low door shut with a metallic clang that echoed through the cramped shack, the bolt scbanging back into place. The silence returned, heavier now, thick with the aroma of spiced lentils and fried bread mingling with kerosene fumes and Chandrani’s lingering humiliation. Javed dumped the bundle onto the rickety table beside the liquor bottle. Unwrapping it carelessly, he revealed two dented steel plates piled with *dal*, *roti*, and a small mound of sliced onions glistening with rainwater. The smell was earthy, pungent, unexpectedly enticing against the shack’s decay. He slid one plate towards Chandrani’s end of the table, the metal scbanging harshly.

Days of political maneuvering and fear had left her hollow. The cheap liquor churned inside her, a dull fire demanding sustenance. The towel felt rough, inadequate, but hunger surged, primal and insistent. *Eat,* logic urged. *Fortify.* With stiff movements, Chandrani pushed herself up from the cot. Bare feet whispered across the cold, packed earth. She approached the table, eyes fixed on the food, avoiding Javed’s watchful stillness. She reached for the plate meant for her, fingers extending towards the warm metal rim.

Javed moved like a cobra striking. His hand, rough and greased-stained, flashed out. Not towards the plate – towards *her*. He seized the top edge of the towel knotted beneath her arms. One brutal, sharp yank ripped the coarse fabric loose. It slithered down her body like a discarded skin, pooling silently around her ankles on the dirty floor. She stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second, utterly nude under the kerosene lamp’s flickering glare. Her skin prickled with sudden exposure. Then, a sharp, involuntary gasp ripped from her throat – not a scream yet, but pure, startled shock. Every inch of her – the curve of her breasts, the dark triangle below her belly, the vulnerable line of her inner thighs – was laid bare. Humiliation, hot and fierce, washed over her, momentarily eclipsing even hunger.

Before she could recoil, his other hand clamped onto her bare waist, fingers digging into her flesh. A startled cry finally escaped – "*Javed!*" – cut off as he whipped her around. He didn't drag her; he *hurled* her backwards towards the narrow cot. She stumbled, legs buckling, her nakedness feeling horribly amplified in the clumsy fall. Her bare hip slammed against the edge of the cot frame, a bruising impact that stole her breath. She landed heavily on her back onto the scratchy grey wool, the coarse weave scbanging her skin. Instinctively, she arched, trying to scramble away, to shield herself. But he was already on her, his weight crashing down, pinning her hips to the cot. His knees forced her thighs apart. He pressed his full body onto her, the damp heat of him, the reek of liquor and sweat enveloping her. His rough cotton shirt scbangd her breasts. One calloused hand pinned her wrists above her head against the scratchy bedding. The other traced a brutal path down her side, over her hip, before gripping her thigh possessively. The kerosene light cast sharp shadows on his scarred face as he leaned down, his dark eyes locked onto hers, filled with predatory hunger. His breath, thick with cheap liquor fumes, washed over her face. His lips parted, descending towards hers.

Chandrani’s breath hitched, trapped beneath him. A spark ignited—not fear, not just humiliation, but a fierce, reckless defiance. This wasn't  leering degradation. This was a predator claiming prey. She met his stare unflinchingly. Instead of struggling futilely against his grip pinning her wrists, her lips twisted into a deliberate, challenging smile. The suddenness of it—the sheer, unexpected audacity beneath his crushing weight—made him pause, confusion flickering briefly behind the hunger. Her gaze slid deliberately from his eyes to the flickering hurricane lamp beside the cot, then back to his face. A faint, amused lift of her eyebrow accompanied a sharp jerk of her chin towards the lamp. *Turn it off.* The unspoken command was clear. Her smile deepened, a silent dare echoing in the cramped space. Why see? Just take. Her acceptance, laced with defiance, was its own provocation.

Outside, pressed flat against the rain-slick tin wall, one eye glued to a jagged puncture in the metal—barely wider than a rupee coin—Chottu stifled a choked giggle. *"Ustad ne badi machhli pakdi hai..."* he breathed, the Hindi words barely audible against the drumming rain. Through the distorted fisheye lens of the peephole, the scene unfolded like a forbidden tableau: the woman stark naked, pinned beneath Javed Bhai like a sacrifice, the kerosene lamp casting long, dancing shadows. Her fleeting smile, aimed directly at the lamp; Javed Bhai's momentary hesitation. Chottu's grin widened, predatory glee twisting his youthful features. He shifted minutely, pressing closer, the cold tin biting his cheek. The thrill wasn't just voyeurism; it was power. Seeing *her*, the fancy memsahib, stripped bare and claimed by his *Ustad*. He traced the ragged edge of the hole with a dirty fingernail, savoring the raw intimacy of the scene – the glow on her sweat-slicked flank, the rough texture of Javed’s shirt against her skin. The sharp scent of kerosene and wet earth mingled with the faint, metallic tang of anticipation bleeding through the hole. *Jaldi kar, Bhai!* he urged silently, squirming with impatient delight.

Inside, Chandrani’s defiant gaze locked onto Javed’s, her lips curled in that unnerving half-smile. Her sharp chin jerked towards the hurricane lamp beside the cot’s bare frame. The silent command hung thick: *Extinguish it.* Why witness the mechanics of conquest? His dark eyes narrowed fractionally, the predatory hunger momentarily clouded by something unexpected—perhaps surprise at her audacious instruction, perhaps a flicker of annoyance at losing visual dominion. Then, with a swift, decisive motion, his arm snaked out from pinning her wrist. His calloused fingers closed roughly around the lamp’s metal base. A harsh, grating scbang echoed as he twisted the burner knob shut. The flame sputtered violently, sucking air, before plunging the cramped shack into near-total, velvety blackness. The sudden absence of light was absolute, profound. Only the relentless drumming rain on the tin roof remained, louder now, a chaotic soundtrack swallowing the room. Chandrani gasped softly—a quick, involuntary intake of breath. The coarse wool scbangd her spine where Javed’s hand still pinned her wrists against the bedding.

Outside, pressed flat against the rain-slick tin wall, Chottu froze. His single eye, glued to the tiny puncture in the metal, strained desperately. Only utter, impenetrable blackness greeted him. *"Arrey!*" he hissed under his breath, frustration sharp in his throat. The thrilling tableau—the naked woman pinned, the predator poised—snuffed out just as Javed Bhai hesitated. Disappointment coiled hot and sour in his gut. He leaned closer, pressing his cheek harder against the cold metal, straining to pierce the dark interior. Nothing. Only the muffled, rhythmic drumming of the monsoon.

Then it came—a distinct sound slicing through the rain’s monotony. A low, rhythmic *creak-creak-creak*. Slow at first, deliberate, like rusty hinges protesting under deliberate strain. Then faster, building urgency: *creak-creak-CREAK-creak*. It pulsed from inside the shack, unmistakable against the tin roof’s watery percussion. The narrow cot’s worn metal frame, protesting under shifting, urgent weight. Chottu’s breath caught. A slow, knowing smile spread across his rain-streaked face, predatory and triumphant. *"Aha,"* he breathed, the Hindi word thick with comprehension. The implication was clear, visceral. The struggle was over; the claiming had begun. *Ustad ne badi machhli pakad li.* He chuckled, a low, raspy sound lost to the storm. His voyeuristic thrill, denied sight, was replaced by the primal certainty of sound. Grinning, he peeled himself from the wet wall, melting back into the muddy alley and the driving rain. His job was done; the *memsahib* was broken in.

[ray.rowdy]

Superb !!! Keep it up.

[kingqueenjoker]

Hours crawled past. Chandrani blinked awake to near-darkness pierced by a single, guttering kerosene flame. Javed sprawled beside her on the narrow cot, his chest rising and falling steadily. The scratchy wool blanket lay tangled around his waist. Outside, the rain still fell, a softer sigh now. Disoriented, she pushed herself upright. Pain lanced through her hips, her inner thighs. She swallowed, the metallic aftertaste of cheap liquor thick on her tongue. Her discarded sari, blouse, and petticoat lay crumpled on the damp earthen floor near the washroom partition. Moving stiffly, she swung her bare legs over the cot’s edge, her feet flinching from the cold dirt floor. With precise, unhurried motions, she gathered her clothes. Her fingers trembled only slightly as she hooked the blouse closed over her breasts, its silk cool against her skin. She wound the damp sari methodically, pulling the *pallu* securely over her shoulder, every movement deliberate, rehearsed. A shield reassembled stitch by stitch.

SUMMARY^1: The cot’s rhythmic creaking signaled the beginning of Chandrani’s claimed fate, audible even through the rain—Chottu smirked in understanding before slipping away. Hours later, Chandrani awoke stiff and sore beside Javed, now asleep. The rain had softened. Moving gingerly, she dressed methodically, reassembling her sari with deliberate precision, each fold restoring her outer armor despite lingering tremors.

Behind her, a low chuckle rumbled from the cot. She glanced over her shoulder. Javed lay watching her, his dark eyes gleaming in the low light, tracing the arch of her spine beneath the newly dbangd silk. His gaze lingered intently where the blouse’s hooks met beneath her *pallu*. A slow smirk spread across his scarred face. She finished pinning the sari’s pleats, smoothed the fabric over her hips, and turned fully to face him. Tilting her chin up, she arched an eyebrow, her own lips curving into a deliberately provocative smile. "Dekh kya rahe ho?" she asked, her voice husky but controlled. *What are you looking at?* Her gesture encompassed her dbangd form. "Tumhare liye toh kuch nahin chhupa hua hai. Sab dekha tumne." *There's nothing hidden for you. You've seen everything.* The words hung heavy, not with shame, but with a weary acknowledgment and a challenge. Was he truly satisfied now?

Before he could answer, three sharp, urgent knocks hammered against the low door – Chottu’s frantic rhythm. Javed’s smirk vanished instantly, replaced by cold alertness. He rolled off the cot with predatory grace, shrugging into his worn vest without breaking stride. The heavy bolt screeched as he flung the door open. Rain-soaked and panting, Chottu stood hunched in the alley’s gloom, eyes wide with panic. "Bhai!" he gasped, voice trembling. "Bahut gadbad hai! ", he gestured him outside.

Chandrani strained to listen through the drumming rain as Javed stepped outside. Chottu’s hissed Hindi pierced the downpour: "...security officer checkpoint...two kilometers...asking questions...white Ambassador..." Javed’s sharp command snapped back: "Gaadi nikalo subah tak!" *Get the car out by dawn!* The door slammed shut again, the bolt crashing home. Javed stalked back inside, water dripping from his hair. His gaze pinned Chandrani where she stood, dbangd but exposed. "Car fixed," he stated flatly, wiping rain from his jaw. "But I have urgent work." He jerked his chin towards the door. "Chottu drives you home. Now."

Before Chandrani could protest the suddenness, Chottu’s grinning face reappeared in the doorway, sodden but triumphant. "Ji, Bhai! Bilkul taiyyar hoon!" he chirped, stepping fully inside. His eyes, sharp and knowing, swept over Chandrani’s meticulously dbangd sari, lingering where the pallu covered her chest. A slow smirk spread across his face, mimicking Vikram’s insolence. "Gaadi mein intezaar karunga, Madam," he announced, the Hindi overly formal. "Thak gayi hogi... *Aaram ki zaroorat hai.*" *Waiting in the car, Madam. You must be tired... need rest.* His emphasis on *aaram* — rest — was thick with insinuation. He gave a mock bow, cheekbones gleaming. "*Poori tarah se.*" *Completely.*

Heat prickled Chandrani’s neck. Confusion warred with mortification. *Did he... hear?* The rhythmic creaking echoed in her memory. Chottu’s smirk confirmed it – he knew *everything*. She turned sharply away, facing the grimy wall. Her fingers flew to the stray hairs escaping her bun, tucking them with trembling precision. The coarse wool blanket smell clung to her skin beneath the silk. She focused fiercely on the wall’s cracks, the peeling paint, anything but their predatory gazes. The pretense was fragile, brittle.

Javed ignored her reaction. Water dripped from his vest onto the packed earth floor. "The mechanic finished," he grated, snatching his grease-stained jacket from a nail near the door. "Roads cleared faster." He shrugged into the jacket, his movements brusque, focused elsewhere. "Something urgent. Can’t waste time." He jerked his thumb towards Chottu, dismissing Chandrani entirely. "He takes you." His tone brooked no argument.

Chandrani forced herself to turn. Chottu’s smirk was predatory, his eyes tracing the curve of her pallu. She drew herself up, spine rigid. "Dhanyavaad, Javed," she murmured, her voice low but clear. *Thank you.* The gratitude felt like swallowing broken glass, but politeness was armor. "For arranging the drop." She held his gaze, her own expression shuttered.

Javed paused while shrugging on his stained leather jacket. His eyes flickered with dark amusement. He took a deliberate step closer, his wet vest clinging to hard muscle. Rainwater dripped from his beard onto the packed earth floor. "Shukriya?" he rasped, his voice rough with boundless contempt. A slow, mocking smile spread like oil across his lips. "Koi shukriya nahin." *No thanks needed.* His gaze slid insolently down her dbangd figure, lingering where her breast swelled beneath the silk. "Mera hi din achha tha." *Just my lucky day.* He paused, letting the rain hammer fill the silence. His smile widened, brutal and explicit.

He leaned in until his liquor-scented breath fogged her face. "Har roz toh Chandrani Rai jaisi high society ki mahila neta..." His voice dropped, gravelly and intimate. "...*neechay* ki seva karne ko nahin milta" *....* The crude Hindi hung in the damp air like a slap. Chandrani didn't flinch. A slow, deliberate smirk touched her own lips – cold, predatory, mirroring his insolence. She held his stare for a heartbeat longer, a silent agreement forged in mutual disgust, then turned on her heel. The damp silk whispered against her bruised thighs as she swept past him without another word, pushing past the sackcloth curtain into the driving rain where Chottu waited, grinning by a dented white Maruti Esteem.

The headlights carved oily paths through the flooded alley. Inside the car, the sour stench of old vinyl, wet leather, and Chottu's cheap tobacco mixed with the clinging kerosene smell beneath Chandrani’s silk. Rain hammered the roof like frantic fingertips. "Badi mushkil se nikali thi Bhai ki gaadi, Madam," Chottu chirped, steering with bony wrists, eyes flicking constantly to the rear-view mirror. "*Aaj toh..."* *Today though...* His unfinished sentence dangled, thick with implication. Chandrani stared straight ahead, her profile a carved mask against the streaked window. She saw only the distorted reflections of neon signs bleeding into puddles. His smirk deepened. "Thak gayi hogi? *Poori tarah se?*" *Tired? Completely?* She remained rigidly silent, her nails digging crescents into the palm concealed beneath her pallu. His knowing chuckle died in the engine’s grumble.

Every jolt over potholes sent fresh aches radiating from her hips, her inner thighs. The phantom scbang of the wool blanket, Javed’s crushing weight, the pungent mix of liquor and sweat – it all flooded back. Not transactional leverage, whispered a treacherous voice inside her. Those times with aging ministers in sterile hotel suites, efficient, calculated, their tremulous hands fumbling at her buttons – cold chess moves towards power. Even those weeknd at jorawar's place...she spent time watching TV, as the tired old big shot slept like pig most of the time near her after little action. Tonight? No negotiation. No calculation. Just raw, bruising hunger answered with something darker: a yielding born of exhaustion and… what? The visceral memory flashed: arching instinctively, her calf hooked over Javed’s corded shoulder, pulling him deeper, grinding against the relentless thrusts, the shocking fullness stretching her to the brink. A brute’s cock, thick and unyielding, filling her completely in a way those polished diplomats never could. Heat bloomed low in her belly at the memory, shame warring with the echo of unexpected pleasure. He lacked finesse, yes – no lingering kisses, no teasing exploration, just direct, driving force. Yet… he’d pinned her wrists, held her gaze in the dark, and ridden her rhythm until her back arched off the scratchy wool, a choked gasp torn from her throat not once, but twice. The sheer, undeniable power of it, forcing release through friction alone. Why cooperate? Lift her leg? Wrap around his waist? Because, the treacherous voice hissed, after years of calculated fucks for favours, that crude, overwhelming *fullness* felt like reclaiming something primal. Something stolen.

Outside the streaked window, the chaotic neon smear of the slum dissolved into wider, rain-slicked avenues. Chandrani kept her gaze fixed forward, her profile rigid against the distorted reflections. Chottu’s knowing smirk burned into her peripheral vision. "Thak gayi hogi?" he repeated, louder, his Hindi insolently casual. "*Poori tarah se?* Ustad ne kiya poori mehnat, toh..." *Tired? Completely? Ustad put in all the effort, so...* He let the vulgar implication hang, chuckling. Chandrani’s nostrils flared. Jarringly, amidst the disgust, another phantom sensation pulsed: the thick, relentless stretch, the rasp of his calloused hands on her hips, the guttural groan vibrating through her chest as she clenched around him. A fresh wave of heat prickled her skin beneath the silk, utterly unwelcome.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head. The streetlights flickered across her face, casting her sharp cheekbones in predatory relief. "Haan," she murmured, voice husky but edged like broken glass. "Mehnat toh achhi thi. Lekin..." *Yes. The effort was good. But...* Her gaze slid pointedly down Chottu’s wiry frame, lingering where his thighs barely filled the driver’s seat. A slow, deliberate smirk curled her lips. "Tumhari *poori* height ka toh Javed ka *ek hissa* bhi nahin." *Your entire height isn’t even one part of Javed.* She arched an eyebrow, letting the crude double meaning settle like dust. "Toh chup chap gaadi chalao." *So drive quietly.* Chottu’s smirk froze. His bony fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. For a breathless moment, the only sound was the rhythmic thump of windshield wipers. Then, with a jerky nod, he faced forward, grip rigid. Chandrani exhaled through her nose, victorious.

The apartment building loomed—stark, modern, a fortress against the monsoon’s chaos. Before the Esteem fully halted, Chandrani shoved the door open, silk whispering against bruised skin. Chottu’s muttered curse—"Bhadwi" *Bitch*—faded beneath the drumming rain. She didn’t glance back. Her bare feet slapped against wet concrete, climbing the steps two at a time, her sari’s pleats clinging to her damp thighs. The lobby’s fluorescent glare burned her eyes. The watchman—paan-stained teeth, rheumy gaze—half-rose from his stool. "Madam, barish mein—" *Madam, in the rain—* She swept past without slowing, her pallu a sodden banner behind her. The elevator’s mirrored walls reflected her wreckage: smudged kajal, hair escaping its bun, the blouse’s top hook undone. She jabbed the button, jaw clenched.

The apartment door swung open before her key touched the lock. Ashok—rumpled cotton kurta, sleep-heavy eyes—blinked at her. "You’re late," he mumbled, rubbing his stubble. "i thought you will stay at—" His gaze flicked over her damp sari, paused at her bare feet. A frown creased his forehead. "Car trouble?" Chandrani brushed past him, her silk whispering against his arm. The scent of kerosene and male sweat clung to her skin. She made for their son’s room, her soles silent on the polished marble. The nightlight’s glow revealed her five years old, limbs splayed like a starfish, one foot dangling off the bed. She adjusted his blanket, inhaled his childish musk—ink, sweat, the faint tang of mango shampoo. Safe. Whole. Unbroken. Her throat tightened.
.

She peeled off her blouse first, hooks catching on the raw skin of her wrists. The sari slithered to the bathroom tiles in a sodden heap. The shower’s scalding jets erased nothing. Javed’s handprint bloomed livid on her left ass—five distinct welts where his calloused fingers had dug in during that brutal doggy-style pounding. She scrubbed until her skin burned. His dried cum clung stubbornly to her pubic hair, flaking under her fingernails. Another stain, another secret. Her breasts ached where his teeth had grazed her nipples, the marks faint but unmistakable. The soap’s floral fragrance turned cloying, nauseating. She gagged once, spat into the drain.

Toweling off, she avoided the mirror. The high-necked cotton nightgown—Ashok’s favorite, dotted with prim yellow daisies—slid over her damp skin like a shroud. The fabric itched. She yanked it down too hard; the hem ripped at the seam. A petty satisfaction curled through her. The bedroom was dark, Ashok’s silhouette already slack under the sheets. His soft snore grated her nerves. She slid in beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. His warmth radiated, oblivious.

Ashok stirred, mumbling into his pillow. "How was the day, baby?" His voice slurred with sleep.

Chandrani stared at the ceiling, fists clenched beneath the daisy-patterned duvet. "Ashok," she said, voice razor-edged, "today your wife was stripped naked by a criminal. He fucked her non stop for hours and made her come twice."

Ashok's snore hitched—a wet, guttural sound. "Mmmnice, darling," he mumbled, tongue thick with sleep. One hand flopped limply onto her thigh, fingers twitching like a dying insect before going still.

Chandrani rolled onto her side, facing the wall. The cotton sheets smelled faintly of detergent and stale sweat. Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, pattering against the window like muffled whispers. She closed her eyes, but the darkness behind her lids was alive with flickers—Javed's shadow looming, the rough press of his lips against her neck, the relentless rhythm of his hips driving into her. She exhaled sharply, kicking the duvet off her legs and dozzed off.