Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 20:

The bike carved through the choked streets, vibrating beneath them. Nazrin felt Praveen’s hesitant grip tighten on her hips as they swerved around a slow-moving vegetable cart. The silk of her kurta slid against Muthu’s cotton shirt, cool friction. She pressed closer, her breasts flattening against his back. “Faster,” she murmured against his shoulder blade. Muthu obeyed, twisting the throttle hard. Wind ripped at her pinned hair, tugged at her plunging neckline. She felt exposed, exhilarated. Praveen’s knuckles brushed the bare skin where her kurta gaped low. She didn’t flinch. Below, the engine’s heat seeped through the thin silk salwar onto her thighs. Her mind raced ahead: Srinivasan’s office, the plunge of her neckline, the lie about leave. The ₹25 lakhs looming like a guillotine. Kannan Anna at two. Praveen’s shaky promise. The bike hit a pothole. Praveen’s hands clamped hard, fingers digging into her waist. Nazrin gasped, a sharp intake lost in the engine’s snarl.

 
They skidded to a halt inside the college gates, tires crunching gravel near the Engineering block. The sudden silence felt jarring after the engine’s roar. Nazrin swung her leg off the bike, silk whispering loudly in the quiet. Her sandals hit the dusty ground. She smoothed her kurta automatically, the deep plum fabric clinging damply where sweat and Muthu’s back had pressed. Her eyes scanned the familiar courtyard – students milling, the distant clang from the labs, the watchman’s bored gaze. She turned to the boys, still straddling the bike. Muthu wiped grease from his brow. Praveen looked pale, fingers tapping nervously on the fuel tank. Nazrin leaned in, her voice low, crisp, cutting through the campus hum. **"Guys, meet me in an hour here."** She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. Her gaze flicked towards the Administrative wing. "Don’t be late. And Praveen?" He stiffened. "Make that call." She turned sharply, the sheer dupatta fluttering behind her like a ghost as she strode towards Srinivasan’s office, her hips swaying deliberately beneath the silk.
 
The corridor outside Srinivasan’s office smelled faintly of stale coffee and printer toner. Nazrin paused, composing her face into a mask of weary professionalism. She knocked twice, sharply. Srinivasan’s muffled "Enter" came instantly. Inside, the air conditioning was a welcome shock after the sticky heat. Srinivasan sat behind his cluttered desk, peering over half-moon glasses at a stack of student records. He looked up, his usual genial smile faltering for a split second as his gaze snagged on the deep plunge of her neckline. "Ah, Nazrin!" he boomed, recovering quickly, gesturing to the worn leather chair opposite him. "What brings you? Troubles with the semester submissions?" He leaned back, fingers steepled, his eyes drifting downwards again, lingering on the exposed curve of her breastbone before snapping back to her face. Nazrin settled gracefully into the chair, crossing her legs. The silk slid higher on her thigh. "No trouble with submissions, Professor," she began smoothly, her tone light but laced with practiced fatigue. "Just… unfortunate personal matters." She sighed, letting her shoulders slump slightly, drawing his gaze inevitably down again. "It’s Muthu and Praveen. Their parents sent a letter." She pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse – blank, but the gesture was convincing. "Tragic news. Both their grandparents passed away suddenly. Different sides of the family, but… devastating." She shook her head slowly, letting genuine sorrow touch her eyes, knowing it contrasted sharply with the deliberate display beneath her chin. **"They’ve applied for one week’s compassionate leave."**
 
Srinivasan’s brow furrowed with concern, but his eyes remained anchored low, tracing the sheer chiffon dbangd over her shoulders barely concealing the plum silk beneath. "Oh, dear," he murmured, his voice thick. "Terrible news. Terrible. Of course, they must take the time." He cleared his throat, finally dragging his gaze upwards, meeting hers with an effort. "And you, Nazrin? You look… strained." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk, his attention flickering between her eyes and her cleavage. "Is there something…?" Nazrin met his gaze directly, allowing a flicker of vulnerability to surface. "Yes," she admitted softly, her fingers twisting the dupatta edge nervously. The movement drew his eyes like magnets. **"Professor, I… I also need leave. Two weeks."** She let the request hang, heavy and intimate in the cool air. "Personal reasons," she added, her voice dropping to a near whisper, laden with unspoken burdens. "Family obligations… complicated." She held his gaze, letting him see the plea beneath the professional veneer, knowing the view below was sealing the deal faster than any elaborate lie.
 
Srinivasan’s fingers hovered over the leave forms stacked beside his blotter. He pulled two out, scribbling quick approvals for Muthu and Praveen without looking up. "Compassionate leave, yes," he muttered, sliding them aside. Then he picked up a third form, his pen poised. He looked up, his expression softening into something dangerously paternal. **"Nazrin,"** he began, his voice low, intimate, ignoring the open door. **"Personal reasons, you say? Elaborate."** His gaze wasn’t probing; it was lingering, tracing the deep V of her kurta. Nazrin froze internally. *Fahim’s arrest? Ragavan’s knife? Kannan Anna?* Each truth was a grenade. Her mind raced through plausible lies – a sick aunt? Property disputes? – but Srinivasan’s knowing look pinned her. She thought of the motorbike ride, the flash of red lace in the rain, his fingers brushing her thigh. The memory sent a flush creeping up her neck, visible above the silk. He saw it. A slow, understanding smile touched his lips.


 
He leaned forward, elbows sinking into papers. **"You know,"** he said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur, thick with false warmth, **"I have a daughter your age. Studying medicine in Delhi."** His eyes held hers, a practiced blend of concern and calculation. **"You can tell me anything, Nazrin. Anything at all."** The unspoken hung between them: *I know secrets. Give me yours.* Nazrin’s pulse hammered against her ribs. The ₹25 lakh deadline screamed in her head. *Ragavan’s threat. Kannan Anna at two.* She needed this leave. Desperately. His gaze dipped again, a slow, deliberate slide down her neckline, lingering on the sheer chiffon barely veiling her cleavage. The air conditioning felt suddenly frigid against her exposed skin. Inspiration struck – not elegant, not subtle, but weaponizing the very vulnerability he pretended to soothe. She let her shoulders slump further, a picture of weary, hopeful femininity. **"Professor,"** she breathed, letting her voice tremble slightly, **"it’s… delicate."** She paused, drawing his rapt attention. **"Me and my husband… Fahim…"** She lowered her eyes, feigning shyness. **"We’re trying to have a baby."** She let the words hang, intimate and saccharine. **"It’s… stressful. Doctor’s orders. Rest. Less pressure."** She lifted her gaze, meeting his with feigned earnestness. **"So, it would be good if I have some rest at home while we… try."**
 
Srinivasan’s reaction was instantaneous, visceral. His eyes widened, then narrowed with a flicker of something unpleasant – disgust? Disappointment? His lips pressed into a thin line. **"A baby,"** he echoed, the word tasting flat and alien in the sterile office air. He leaned back sharply, distancing himself from the domestic fantasy she’d conjured. **"Goo,"** he added, almost under his breath, a dismissive grunt. His gaze swept over her plunging neckline again, the contradiction glaring – the seductive silk clashing violently with the image of maternal aspiration. He cleared his throat, the paternal facade slipping entirely, replaced by brisk pragmatism tinged with annoyance. **"So,"** he stated, his tone clipped, **"it means you will be at home right?"** He didn’t wait for confirmation, already scribbling *Personal Leave - Medical/Family* on her form with aggressive strokes. **"Fine. Approved."** He shoved the signed form across the desk, avoiding her eyes. Then, almost as an afterthought, driven by some residual possessiveness or perhaps the lingering image of the silk-clad woman before him, he added, **"I have a request."** His eyes finally met hers, devoid of warmth now. **"Can you accompany me anytime? Go for shopping?"** A pause. **"For my daughter’s dress."**
 
Nazrin stared at him, the sheer absurdity of the request hitting her like a physical blow. *Shopping? Now?* Ragavan’s deadline screamed in her skull, Praveen’s trembling voice promising Kannan Anna, Muthu’s grim determination. Yet, Srinivasan’s expression wasn’t hopeful; it was a demand disguised as a favor. His gaze rested on her cleavage again, a silent reminder of the motorbike ride, the red lace, the unspoken debt. She saw the trap instantly: refusal would be suspicious, a rejection of his ‘kindness’. Acceptance was a leash, a distraction she couldn’t afford. Her mind raced. *Use it.* She forced a small, tight smile onto her lips, brittle as cracked porcelain. **"Of course, Professor,"** she murmured, her voice carefully neutral. **"It would be… helpful."** She paused, letting the word hang ambiguously. **"Perhaps… after things settle?"** She gestured vaguely towards the leave form, implying her ‘family obligations’.
 
Srinivasan leaned back, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. **"Good,"** he declared, his tone regaining its false paternal warmth. **"I’ll arrange it. Soon."** He tapped his pen rhythmically on the desk blotter, his eyes drifting downwards once more, lingering on the silk stretched taut over her thigh. **"She’s about your size,"** he added casually, his gaze lifting slowly to meet hers. The implication hung thick in the air-conditioned chill: *You’ll model it.* Nazrin felt a surge of revulsion mixed with cold calculation. Another performance. Another layer to the lie. She dipped her head slightly, feigning shy acceptance. **"I’m honored,"** she lied smoothly. **"I’ll await your call."** She stood abruptly, the silk whispering defiance. The interview was over. He’d gotten his concession; she’d bought her freedom. For now.
 
The corridor outside felt suffocatingly warm after the office chill. Nazrin strode quickly, her sandals clicking sharply on the worn tiles, the sheer dupatta fluttering behind her. The deep plum silk seemed to draw glances – a student’s startled stare, a cleaner’s lingering look. She ignored them all, her mind already snapping forward. *Two weeks.* Two weeks away from watchful eyes, from Srinivasan’s demands. Two weeks to raise ₹50 lakhs. *Kannan Anna.* Praveen’s trembling promise echoed. *Two o'clock.* She glanced at her watch. Barely an hour remained. Her pace quickened towards the courtyard where Muthu and Praveen should be waiting. The silk clung damply to her skin, a reminder of the bike ride, the heat, the urgency thrumming beneath her ribs.
 
Pushing through the heavy college gates into the dusty courtyard, the Chennai sun hit her like a physical blow. Traffic fumes and the distant clang of metalwork filled the air. And there they were: Muthu and Praveen, leaning against the sun-baked brick wall near the cycle stand. Not idle. Each had a heavy-looking canvas bag slung over a shoulder, straining the fabric. Muthu’s jaw was set, eyes scanning the courtyard with unnerving intensity. Praveen shifted his weight nervously, fingers drumming on his thigh. Nazrin walked directly towards them, the gravel crunching under her sandals. Her gaze locked onto Praveen. **"Praveen,"** she demanded, her voice cutting through the campus hum, crisp and devoid of preamble. **"Did you connect with Kannan Anna?"**
 
Praveen straightened instantly, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes darted to Muthu, then back to Nazrin’s unwavering stare. **"Yes,"** he breathed, the word tight. **"I called him. Asked to buy cocaine."** He swallowed hard, glancing around before continuing, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. **"He told us to come in one hour. We’ll take you there."** A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. He shifted the heavy bag higher on his shoulder. **"But… I didn’t tell him we wanted to do business with him."** He looked down at the dusty ground, scuffing his worn sneaker. **"Just… just a buy."**
 
Nazrin’s gaze sharpened, slicing through the humid air. She understood instantly. Praveen hadn’t revealed their desperate need to *sell* Kannan Anna’s surplus; he’d framed it as a simple purchase. A test run. A thin shield against suspicion. Her mind raced. *Ragavan’s knife. The ₹50 lakhs.* Time was bleeding away. She nodded curtly, her silk dupatta catching a stray breeze. **"That will be fine,"** she declared, her voice crisp, cutting off any protest. Her eyes swept over their tense faces, lingering on the bulging canvas bags. **"I will talk to him."** She gestured sharply towards Fahim’s motorbike parked nearby. **"We go to my house now. Keep the bags there."** Her fingers brushed the damp silk clinging to her thigh. **"I will change."** She paused, letting the implication hang – out of the provocative plum silk, into something less conspicuous for the back alleys. **"Then we go to meet Kannan Anna."**
 
The brass Honda emblem cool against her palm. Praveen scrambled to secure the canvas bags behind him as Nazrin swung onto the pillion seat. Her silk salwar tightened across her thighs, the deep plum fabric gleaming under the harsh sun. Praveen squeezed in behind her, his knees pressing into her hips, hands gripping the seat rail. Muthu kicked the starter. The engine roared to life, a jarring counterpoint to the campus chatter. Nazrin didn’t glance back. Her fingers dug briefly into Muthu’s waistband. **"Straight home. No stops."** The bike surged forward, weaving into the relentless Chennai traffic. Nazrin leaned into the turns, the wind tearing at her pinned hair and threatening the low neckline. Praveen’s knuckles brushed her exposed lower back where the silk rode up. She didn’t flinch. Her focus was absolute: the house, the change, Kannan Anna.
 
The apartment door clicked open. Fahim’s frantic scrubbing ceased instantly. He knelt beside a bucket of grey water, a stained rag clutched in his hand, eyes wide with a mix of fear and desperate hope. Muthu and Praveen brushed past him, ignoring his flinch as they dropped the heavy canvas bags onto the cleaned section of the living room floor. They sank onto the faded floral couch, the springs groaning. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light slicing through the blinds. Nazrin strode past Fahim without acknowledgment. Her silk dupatta snagged briefly on the doorframe as she entered the bedroom, the sharp *rip* echoing in the sudden silence. She slammed the door shut.
 
Inside the bedroom, the air hung thick with the scent of sex and disinfectant. Nazrin tore off the plum salwar kameez, the delicate silk crumpling on the floor like a discarded skin. She pulled on worn, dark denim jeans that hugged her hips and thighs with deliberate familiarity. Over her bare skin, she tugged a faded black cotton t-shirt—thin, soft from countless washes. It clung tightly across her breasts, the deep V-neckline revealing a crescent of cleavage and the faint edge of a red lace bra strap. Practical. Unremarkable. Yet unmistakably provocative. She caught her reflection in the wardrobe mirror: the jeans riding low, the shirt revealing just enough. *Not silk, but a different kind of weapon.* She ran fingers through her tangled hair, pulling it into a messy knot.
 
She flung open the bedroom door. Fahim was still on his knees beside the bucket, frozen mid-scrub. His eyes darted from Nazrin’s changed clothes to the canvas bags slumped near Muthu and Praveen. Nazrin walked past him without breaking stride, her sandals slapping the damp floor. She stopped before the couch where the students sat, their faces taut with anticipation. "Fahim," she commanded, her voice flat, authoritative. She nudged one canvas bag with her foot. "There are clothes of Muthu and Praveen in these bags. Keep them in the cupboard." She paused, letting the order sink in. His gaze flickered between her and the bags, confusion warring with humiliation. "And," she added, turning towards the kitchenette, "make some dinner for us." She didn’t wait for a response. "Muthu. Praveen. We’re leaving." She snatched Fahim’s bike keys from the hook by the door.


 
Fahim scrambled to his feet, water sloshing from the bucket. "Nazrin, please—" he choked out, his voice cracking. "The money… Kannan Anna… let me—" Nazrin cut him off with a sharp glance over her shoulder, her eyes cold as flint. "You cook," she stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. She gestured sharply towards the kitchen. "Dinner. Nothing else." Muthu and Praveen stood quickly, avoiding Fahim’s pleading stare. They followed Nazrin out the door, Praveen grabbing his canvas bag containing the cash meant for Kannan Anna. The apartment door clicked shut behind them, leaving Fahim alone with the dirty rags and the echoing silence.
 
The Honda thrummed beneath them as Muthu navigated narrow gullies choked with evening traffic. Nazrin sat sandwiched between the students, her fitted black t-shirt dampening against Praveen’s chest. She leaned forward, her lips brushing Muthu’s ear above the engine’s growl. **"Where?"** she demanded, her breath hot against his skin. Praveen answered instead, shouting over the wind tearing at their clothes. **"Royapuram! Near the harbour!"** Muthu nodded curtly, wrenching the handlebars sharply onto a potholed lane reeking of fish guts and diesel. Nazrin’s fingers tightened on Muthu’s waistband. The harbour meant decay, shadows, men who asked no questions. Perfect.
 
Muthu braked hard beside a grimy tea stall wedged between crumbling warehouses. Two old men hunched on plastic stools sipping milky chai, their rheumy eyes following Nazrin’s dismount. Behind the dented aluminium counter stood the tea-w,.'—lean, mid-forties, sleeves rolled high over sinewy forearms. His knuckles bore faded prison tattoos. Praveen nodded sharply at him, a flicker of recognition passing between them. **"Kannan Anna,"** Praveen murmured to Nazrin, his voice taut. The tea-w,.'’s gaze slid past Praveen, locking onto Nazrin. His eyes didn’t linger on her curves; they assessed, cold and reptilian. He wiped his hands slowly on a filthy rag. **"Buying?"** he asked, his voice a low rasp like rusted metal scbanging stone. Not a question. An invitation.
 
Muthu stepped forward, shoulders squared. **"Score,"** he clipped out, the word sharp and final. Kannan Anna’s lips twitched—not a smile, but a muscle spasm. He jerked his chin towards a derelict blue hut across the lane, its corrugated tin roof sagging like rotten fruit. **"Go in there. Wait,"** he ordered, his eyes never leaving Nazrin’s face. **"I come."** He turned back to his boiling kettle, dismissing them. The old men slurped their tea louder. Praveen swallowed hard, hoisting his canvas bag higher. Nazrin didn’t hesitate. She strode towards the hut, the students flanking her like uneasy shadows.
 
The hut stank of mildew and stale urine. Sunlight stabbed through rust holes in the roof, illuminating drifting dust and a single plastic chair crusted with grime. Nazrin kicked aside a crumpled oil-stained rag. Muthu slammed the flimsy door shut, plunging them into gloom pierced only by those jagged beams. Praveen leaned against the peeling wall, his breathing shallow. Nazrin stood rigid in the center, the black cotton shirt clinging to her damp skin. Outside, the tea stall’s chatter faded. Only the distant groan of a ship’s horn and the frantic buzz of flies filled the silence. Minutes stretched. Praveen wiped sweat from his upper lip. **"What if—"** he began. Nazrin silenced him with a raised hand. Her eyes stayed fixed on the door’s thin crack.
 
Suddenly, heavy boots thumped overhead on the tin roof. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* Slow, deliberate steps pacing above them. Muffled voices drifted down—rough, guttural Tamil exchanged too low to decipher. Another set of boots joined the first. The pacing stopped directly over Nazrin. Silence. Then, a low, grating chuckle vibrated through the tin. Praveen flinched, pressing harder against the wall. Muthu’s fists clenched at his sides, knuckles pale. Nazrin didn’t move, but a bead of sweat traced a path down her temple, disappearing into the neckline of her shirt. The oppressive heat intensified, thick with menace and anticipation. The unseen men above shifted; metal scbangd harshly against metal.
 
The flimsy door groaned inward, flooding the gloom with harsh afternoon light. Kannan Anna filled the frame, silhouetted against the dusty harbour lane. He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, plunging them back into near-darkness. His eyes, flat and assessing, swept over Muthu’s tension, Praveen’s tremor, and finally settled on Nazrin. He didn’t acknowledge the footsteps above. A faint tang of fish and engine oil clung to him. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket, tapped one out slowly, and lit it. The match flared, illuminating the harsh lines of his face for an instant. He exhaled smoke directly towards Nazrin. **"How many grams you want?"** His voice was gravelly, devoid of inflection.
 
Nazrin didn’t flinch from the smoke. She met his gaze squarely, her own voice low and steady, cutting through the stifling air. **"We are not here to buy."** She paused, letting the words hang. Kannan Anna’s cigarette paused halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed fractionally. Nazrin gestured subtly towards Praveen. **"The boys told me."** She leaned forward slightly, the faint outline of the red lace bra visible beneath the thin black cotton. **"That some of your stock is stuck somewhere. You need to sell it."** She held his stare. **"We are here to do business."**
 
Silence thickened, broken only by the creak of shifting tin above and Praveen’s shallow breathing. Kannan Anna took a slow drag, the ember flaring in the gloom. He exhaled a plume towards the rusted roof, his gaze flicking to Muthu’s rigid stance, then back to Nazrin. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face, revealing stained teeth. **"Business,"** he rasped, the word thick with amusement. **"You want to sell *my* surplus?"** He chuckled, a dry, grating sound. **"You know what happens to little birds who poke nests?"** His free hand drifted towards the bulge beneath his vest.
 
Nazrin stepped forward, her worn sneakers crunching grit on the floor. She didn’t blink. **"We know the risks,"** she stated, her voice clear and sharp as broken glass. **"We are here to make money. We know how to sell the product."** She gestured dismissively, encompassing the squalid hut. **"See? It’s simple. Your product sits here rotting while you figure out buyers. But with me?"** Her chin lifted slightly, meeting his stare head-on. **"I move it fast. You get your money."** She held out her hand, palm up. **"Give us the stock. We handle the rest."**
 
Kannan Anna snorted, grinding his cigarette butt under his heel. **"Look,"** he growled, folding thick arms across his chest. **"We cannot trust an unknown woman with lakhs worth of product."** He jabbed a calloused thumb towards the ceiling, where footsteps still paced. **"I will have to ask my boss about it."** His eyes flicked to Praveen’s trembling hands clutching the canvas bag. **"And he will want product money upfront."** He leaned in, the sour tang of tobacco and sweat enveloping Nazrin. **"No credit. Cash. Now."**
 
Nazrin’s jaw tightened. Praveen hadn’t mentioned upfront payment. Ragavan’s knife flashed in her mind. **"Talk to your boss,"** she commanded, her voice slicing through the stifling air. **"I will talk to him myself."** Kannan Anna studied her for a heartbeat, then jerked his chin towards a rickety wooden ladder nailed to the back wall. **"Come with me,"** he ordered, turning abruptly. Nazrin didn’t hesitate, climbing the creaking rungs after him, Muthu and Praveen scrambling close behind.
 
The tin roof groaned underfoot as they emerged onto the sun-baked terrace. The stench hit Nazrin first—sweat, stale coconut oil, and something sour. Two men occupied the space: one a hulking, shirtless bodybuilder slick with oil, flexing near a rusted water tank; the other an immensely fat old man seated on a plastic stool, wearing only faded V-shaped underwear. He scooped water from a bucket beside him, dousing his sagging chest and belly. Nearby, two wiry boys—barely teenagers—scbangd rust off a metal drum with chisels, their knuckles raw. The old man paused his bathing, water sluicing down his folds as his small, shrewd eyes fixed on Nazrin.
 
Kannan Anna gestured dismissively at the bodybuilder. **"That one? Muscle."** He pointed a thick finger at the sweating old man. **"This? Boss."** The boss chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound. He reached for a grimy towel dbangd over the stool, patting his dripping face and neck without hurry. His gaze lingered on Nazrin’s thin black shirt, the outline of her red bra stark against the fabric. **"Business?"** he rasped, his voice surprisingly deep and clear despite his bulk. **"Kannan says you want my surplus."** He dropped the towel, letting it pool on the hot tin. **"Why should I trust a women?"**
 
Nazrin stepped forward, ignoring the oiled muscleman’s flexing shadow. Her voice cut through the harbour stink and the rhythmic scbang of chisels. **"Because we move the product fast,"** she stated, crisp and unwavering. She gestured towards Praveen clutching the canvas bag. **"Try us. But we don’t have any money to give you upfront."** She locked eyes with the boss, ignoring Kannan Anna’s scoff. **"We can sell it fast. Within days. Then you get paid—cash."** Her chin lifted. **"You know the colleges? The clubs? We have access."**
 
The boss chuckled again, the sound wet and thick. He scooped another handful of water from the bucket, letting it trickle down his chest into the folds of his underwear. His small, shrewd eyes roamed Nazrin’s body—the tight black shirt, the low jeans riding her hips—with undisguised hunger. **"You are correct,"** he conceded slowly, dragging the grimy towel across his damp belly. **"We can try you."** He leaned forward slightly, the plastic stool groaning under his bulk. **"But,"** he rasped, his gaze sharpening, **"how come we confirm that you are not with security officer?"**
 
Nazrin didn’t hesitate. She strode to the bucket beside his stool, her worn sneakers crunching grit on the sun-baked tin. Without breaking eye contact, she bent down, plunging her hands into the murky water. It was lukewarm, gritty with silt. She scooped a full palmful, the liquid dripping through her fingers. Then, with deliberate slowness, she poured it over the boss’s shoulder, the water running in rivulets down his oiled skin. **"What should I do to prove I’m not with security officer?"** she demanded, her voice low and steady, echoing the scbang of chisels against metal. **"Say it. And I will do it."**


 
The boss grinned, a flash of yellowed teeth against dark gums. He gestured lazily with a thick finger. **"Come stand in front of me,"** he commanded, his voice thick with amusement. **"I will Have to check where you are wearing a mic."** Nazrin obeyed instantly, stepping close enough to smell the sour sweat mingling with coconut oil on his skin. He snapped his fingers sharply. The two wiry boys scbanging rust froze, their chisels clattering against the drum. **"You,"** he rasped, nodding at them. **"Check her."**
 
The boys scrambled forward, their movements jerky with nervous energy. One, with grease-stained fingers, hesitated before reaching out tentatively. He brushed the thin black cotton covering her stomach, then slid trembling hands upwards, pressing clumsily against her ribs, his touch lingering near the swell of her breasts beneath the fabric. The other boy, bolder, circled behind her. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the denim, then slid down roughly over the curve of her ass, squeezing hard. He pressed his body against her back, his breath hot and rapid on her neck. His hands wandered lower, sliding around her hips to grope clumsily at the front, fingers probing the seam of her jeans over her mound. The first boy, emboldened, cupped her breast fully through the shirt and bra, his thumb rubbing roughly over her nipple.
 
A low, involuntary hum vibrated in Nazrin's throat. The crude invasion, the public degradation, sent a sharp jolt of heat straight to her core. Her breath hitched as the boy behind her ground his erection against her ass while his fingers pressed harder against her clit through the denim. The boy in front squeezed her breast harder, pinching the nipple now, his eyes wide and fixed on her face. The mix of fear, defiance, and the sheer taboo of it – teenagers pawing her under the boss’s amused stare – coiled deep inside her, a familiar, dangerous spark igniting. She arched her back slightly into the boy behind her, pressing herself harder against his searching fingers, a flush spreading across her chest.
 
The boss chuckled, a wet, approving sound. **"Enough,"** he rasped, waving a dismissive hand. The boys instantly froze, stepping back, their hands dropping awkwardly. Nazrin stayed rooted, her chest heaving slightly beneath the damp black shirt, the ghostly pressure of their hands still burning on her skin. The boss leaned forward, his shrewd eyes gleaming. **"Okay. You not security officer."** He gestured towards Kannan Anna. **"Give her the stock."** He paused, his gaze lingering on Nazrin’s flushed face. **"But remember: One week. Cash. Or..."** He glanced meaningfully at the oiled muscleman flexing nearby. **"...we take payment another way."**
 
Kannan Anna grunted, motioning Nazrin and the students back towards the ladder. Downstairs, he unlocked a heavy padlock on a metal trunk shoved against the hut’s far wall. Inside lay dozens of tightly wrapped, grease-stained packets. **"Twenty-five kilos,"** Kannan Anna stated flatly, hefting one packet into Praveen’s trembling arms. **"Pure. Top shelf. Market price... you know?"** Nazrin nodded curtly, her mind already calculating colleges, clubs, desperate rich kids. Muthu grabbed another packet, his jaw clenched tight. The canvas bag Praveen carried felt suddenly insignificant against the sheer bulk of the drugs.
 
As Nazrin turned towards the door, Kannan Anna’s rasp cut through the dusty air. **"Wait."** He pointed a thick finger at a stained mattress pushed against the peeling wall. **"Just sit down on the bed."** Nazrin froze, the packet’s weight suddenly leaden in her hands. She exchanged a fleeting glance with Muthu—his eyes wide, panicked—before slowly lowering herself onto the grimy mattress. Kannan Anna jerked his chin sharply at Muthu and Praveen. **"Turn around. Face the wall."** The students obeyed instantly, shoulders rigid, pressing their foreheads against the damp concrete. Kannan Anna stepped closer to Nazrin, his shadow swallowing her.




 
He lifted the hem of his faded lungi just high enough to expose thick, hairy thighs. Nazrin couldn’t see his hand beneath the cloth, but the rhythmic bulge near his groin left no doubt. His knuckles strained against the fabric, stroking faster. His eyes—flat, reptilian—locked onto her cleavage where the damp black shirt clung. **"Show me a little more,"** he demanded, voice thick. Nazrin’s jaw tightened. She thought of Ragavan’s knife, the boys’ trembling backs, the packets stacked like bricks. Slowly, deliberately, she hooked a finger under the neckline of her shirt and tugged it down an inch. The red lace bra’s edge peeked out, framing the swell of her breasts.


 
Kannan Anna grunted low in his throat, his hand moving faster beneath the lungi. Sweat beaded on his forehead. **"Good,"** he rasped. **"Keep looking at me."** Nazrin held his gaze, her expression blank. The air reeked of fish oil and his sour exertion. Outside, a ship’s horn groaned—a sound like rusted metal tearing. She heard Muthu shift against the wall, his breathing shallow. Kannan’s movements grew frantic now, jerky. His eyes flickered shut for a second, lips parting. Then a shudder ran through him. He slumped slightly, pulling his lungi down. A wet stain darkened the fabric near his thigh.
 
He wiped his hand on his vest, eyes flat again. **"Go,"** he ordered, jerking his chin towards the door. Nazrin stood smoothly, her shirt still tugged low. She didn’t adjust it. Muthu and Praveen turned slowly, Praveen clutching his packet tighter. Kannan Anna stared at Nazrin’s exposed lace. **"One week,"** he reminded her, voice thick. **"Cash. Or we find you."** Nazrin nodded once, coolly. She walked past him without a word, pushing the flimsy door open. Blinding harbour light hit her face. The two old men at the tea stall stared openly.
 
Muthu shoved the bike into gear, the engine roaring to life. Nazrin climbed on behind Praveen, wedged between the cocaine packets. She finally pulled her shirt collar up. The harbour breeze cut through the stench clinging to them. Praveen twisted around, face pale. **"Madam, that—"** Nazrin cut him off sharply. **"Silence."** Her knuckles were white on Praveen’s shoulder. **"Drive fast."** They sped away, leaving the blue hut shrinking behind them. The packets felt hot against Nazrin’s thighs, heavier than lead.
 
**"Where?"** Muthu yelled over the wind. Nazrin leaned forward, her voice slicing through the engine’s growl. **"Home. Now."** Her mind raced faster than the bike—Ragavan’s deadline, Kannan Anna’s wet stain on the lungi, the teenagers’ groping hands. She needed privacy. Needed control. Needed to wash this filth off her skin. Fahim would be there. Cooking dinner. The thought curdled her stomach. She pressed closer to Praveen’s back, the cocaine packets shifting. **"Faster,"** she hissed.
 
The bike skidded to a stop outside their apartment. Nazrin shoved past Muthu, keys jangling as she unlocked the door. The smell of burnt rice hit her—thick, acrid. Fahim stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, a charred pot in his hands. His eyes widened at Nazrin’s damp shirt, the students hauling heavy bundles. **"Nazrin, what—"** **"Shut up,"** she snapped, storming past him. **"Store these. Now."** She flung her bedroom door open, already unbuttoning her jeans. Muthu and Praveen stumbled inside, dumping the packets onto the bed. Fahim hovered, pale. **"But dinner—"**
 
**"Out!"** Nazrin’s voice cracked like a whip. She pointed at the door. **"All of you. Lock it."** Muthu and Praveen scrambled out. Fahim hesitated, his mouth opening. Nazrin ripped her black t-shirt over her head, the red bra stark under the ceiling light. **"Out!"** she screamed. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
 
She kicked off her sneakers, peeled away her jeans, then the damp socks. Finally, the red lace bra and panties joined the pile on the floor. Naked, she sank onto the edge of the bed, the coarse cotton sheet scratching her thighs. The harbour stench—fish oil, sour sweat, Kannan Anna’s release—still clung to her skin. She closed her eyes. Srinivasan’s hungry gaze in the staff room, his insistence on the dress shop later… the wiry boys’ trembling fingers squeezing her breast, groping her ass, grinding against her… Kannan Anna’s rhythmic bulge beneath his lungi, his flat command: *"Show me a little more."* Each humiliation flashed behind her eyelids, sharp and visceral. A tremor ran through her—not disgust, but a raw, electric pulse radiating from her core. Her breath caught. Normally, she’d weep. Now? Her hand drifted down her stomach, fingertips brushing the damp curls below. She was achingly, dangerously wet.
 
The locked door muffled Fahim’s hesitant knock. "Nazrin? Dinner… it’s burnt. I can make—" His voice faded as she ignored him, focusing on the heat pooling low in her belly. She pictured Srinivasan’s flushed face tomorrow when she’d model that dress, his eyes tracing her curves. She recalled the boss’s wet chuckle as the boys pawed her, their adolescent hunger palpable. Her fingers dipped lower, circling her clit with slow, deliberate pressure. A soft gasp escaped her lips. The cocaine packets lay stacked beside her pillow like bricks—twenty-five kilos of pure risk. Ragavan’s knife flashed in her mind. Kannan Anna’s threat: *"Cash. Or we find you."* The danger coiled tight inside her, merging with the throbbing need between her legs. Her hips arched off the bed, seeking her own touch.
 
But she stopped. Abruptly, she withdrew her hand. The raw ache remained, a persistent thrum beneath her skin. She pushed herself off the rumpled sheets, ignoring the dampness glistening on her inner thighs. Crossing to the wardrobe, she bypassed the lingerie, the silks. Instead, her fingers closed on plain cotton: a simple white t-shirt, thin and tight. She pulled it over her head, the fabric rasping against her bare skin. Without a bra, her nipples hardened instantly, pressing sharp peaks against the soft cotton. Below, she chose shorts—faded denim cut-offs, frayed at the hem. They barely covered her ass, riding high on her hips. The cool air kissed her exposed thighs.
 
She unlocked the bedroom door and walked into the living room. Fahim stood frozen near the kitchen doorway, clutching the charred pot like a shield. His gaze swept over her—the sheer white shirt revealing every contour, the minuscule shorts showcasing the long lines of her legs—and his jaw slackened. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the lingering smell of burnt rice. He looked utterly stunned, a trapped animal scenting danger it couldn't comprehend. Nazrin met his gaze, her own expression flat, detached. **"Fahim,"** she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. **"There is a small poly bag in the kitchen. Take it. Bring it along with the weight machine."**


 
Fahim blinked, his knuckles whitening on the pot handle. **"The... the weight machine? From the storeroom?"** he stammered, confusion warring with the shock etched on his face. The poly bag was insignificant—likely containing groceries he'd forgotten—but the heavy, rusted weight machine was bulky, awkward. Nazrin didn'tt nod or elaborate. She simply stared at him, the silence stretching taut between them, punctuated only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Her stillness was a command sharper than any shout. He flinched, setting the pot down clumsily on the counter with a clatter, and shuffled towards the kitchen alcove.
 
Muthu and Praveen moved like automatons, clearing the low coffee table near the worn couch with frantic efficiency. They shoved aside Fahim’s scattered newspapers, an empty teacup, and a half-eaten packet of biscuits onto the floor. The cheap laminate surface gleamed dully under the overhead bulb, suddenly stark and bare. Praveen wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, his eyes darting nervously towards Nazrin’s bare legs as she stood motionless in the center of the room. The cocaine packets lay piled haphazardly on the bed, visible through the open bedroom door—a silent, terrifying presence.
 
Fahim emerged from the kitchen alcove, staggering slightly under the bulk of the rusted weight machine. Its metal plates clanked together as he dragged it across the cracked tiles, his thin arms straining. Clutched in his other hand was a flimsy white poly bag, the kind used for vegetables, dangling limply. He set the machine down near the cleared table with a heavy thud that vibrated through the floor, then held out the bag like an offering. His gaze flickered from Nazrin’s sheer shirt to the cocaine mountain on her bed, his face pale and slick with sweat. He didn’t speak.
 
Nazrin snatched the poly bag from Fahim’s trembling hand. It felt flimsy, inadequate against the task ahead. She tossed it onto the cleared laminate surface with a dismissive flick. **"We have to put one hundred grams of cocaine in each poly bag,"** she stated, her voice flat and authoritative, slicing through the thick air. She gestured sharply towards the bedroom. **"We have twenty-five kilos. That’s two hundred and fifty packets."** Her eyes, hard and calculating, locked onto Muthu and Praveen. **"We need to sell at least ten kilos today. Five hundred thousand rupees. Minimum."** The numbers hung in the silence, stark and terrifying. Praveen swallowed audibly.
 
Muthu moved first, grabbing a packet from the bed. The grease-stained paper crackled as he tore it open, revealing the fine, off-white powder inside. The sharp, chemical scent cut through the lingering burnt rice—a smell like bitter almonds and gasoline. Nazrin ripped open the small poly bag Fahim had brought, holding it wide. **"Use the scale,"** she ordered Fahim, nodding at the weight machine. **"Measure exactly one hundred grams. No more, no less."** Fahim fumbled with the rusty dials, his fingers slipping on the cold metal. He scooped a mound of powder with a trembling hand, spilling some onto the table’s surface. Nazrin’s jaw tightened. **"Careful, idiot! That’s money on the floor!"**
 
Praveen snatched the scoop from Fahim, his movements suddenly precise. He leveled the powder perfectly, poured it into the poly bag Nazrin held, and sealed it with a sharp twist. The first packet sat there—small, innocuous, deadly. **"Faster,"** Nazrin hissed, grabbing another grease-stained brick from the bed. They fell into a grim rhythm: Muthu ripping packets open, Praveen measuring, Nazrin filling and sealing. Fahim watched, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes darting between the growing pile of small bags and Nazrin’s sheer shirt where her nipples pressed against the thin cotton. The silence was broken only by the rustle of paper and the clink of the scale.
 
Muthu paused, wiping powder from his cheek. **"Whom aand where to sell it?"** he blurted, his voice tight with panic. **"This much... fast?"** Nazrin didn’t look up, sealing another bag. **"In which clubs do all the IIT students and rich guys go?"** she asked coolly, her fingers already tearing open the next kilo brick. Praveen’s head snapped up. **"Velvet Riot,"** he answered instantly. **"Near Adyar. Tech bros, trust fund kids... they pay triple for pure stuff on weekends."** Nazrin finally met his gaze, a sharp smile touching her lips. **"Perfect. Us three will go."** She tossed the sealed bag onto the pile. **"Fahim stays. Cleans this mess."**
 
The last packet sealed just past 8 PM. Nazrin stretched, the thin cotton shirt riding up to expose the sharp curve of her hip. **"We get ready now,"** she announced, kicking aside an empty grease-stained wrapper. **"Muthu, Praveen—wear something nice. I’ll see if I have a party dress."** She strode towards the bedroom, ignoring Fahim’s silent stare. Muthu stepped forward, blocking her path slightly. **"Madam, Velvet Riot has pat-downs at the door,"** he warned, his voice low. **"Metal detectors, bouncers checking waistbands. We can’t just walk in with  packets stuffed in our pockets."** Praveen nodded frantically, tapping his own slim-fit jeans. **"Where to hide it? They’ll find it."**
 
Nazrin paused, her gaze sweeping over the pile of sealed poly bags. Her eyes narrowed, then flickered down to her own body. **"I will hide some in my bra and panties,"** she stated flatly, tapping her sheer shirt where nipples beneath showed through. **"You guys hide some in your underwear and shirt sleeves."** She gestured sharply at Praveen’s loose, short-sleeved button-down. **"Roll the sleeves up. Tuck packets flat against your inner arms. They won’t pat there."** Turning to Muthu, she pointed at his waist. **"Inside your boxers, against the hip. One each side. Walk slow."** Muthu’s eyes widened, but he nodded, already unbuttoning his shirt. Praveen swallowed hard, fingers trembling as he reached for a bag.