Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 22:

A sliver of harsh morning sun found its way through the gap in the cheap curtains, hitting Nazrin squarely in the eyes. It wasn't gentle dawn light; it was an interrogation lamp. She flinched, throwing an arm across her face. Enough. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, the thin mattress groaning. The boys didn't stir. Praveen’s brow furrowed, Muthu sighed heavily. They were sunk deep, useless. Nazrin slid her legs out from under the tangled sheet, her bare feet hitting the cool linoleum floor. She stood, the sequined dress from last night lay crumpled on the floor like a discarded skin. She stepped over it, moving silently towards the bedroom door.

 
The living room air felt thick, stale. Coffee grounds sat crusted in a mug on the counter. Fahim was already there, hunched over the small dining table. He looked up as she entered, his eyes red-rimmed, his face drawn. A bowl of watery dal sat untouched before him. He flinched under her gaze. "I... I made breakfast," he stammered, gesturing weakly towards the dal. "For everyone." His voice was thin, pleading. Nazrin didn't acknowledge the food. Her gaze swept past him, landing on the cheap plastic clock above the sink. Nearly seven. Time was leaking away faster than water through their fingers. Kannan Anna’s boss. Vikram’s order. Ragavan’s threats. The unsold packets. The cash under the bed. It pressed in, a vise tightening. She walked to the window, pulling back the thin curtain to stare out at the wet street. A stray dog nosed at overflowing garbage. Reality, grimy and relentless. "The boys," Fahim ventured hesitantly, "are they...?"
 
Nazrin didn't turn. "Sleeping." Her voice was flat, devoid of inflection. She let the curtain fall back. "Let them. They've earned it." She moved towards the lumpy sofa, sinking onto its worn cushions. The springs groaned. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, the peeling paint, the cheap calendar advertising cooking oil. The night’s exhaustion clung to her bones, but her mind raced – routes, contacts, prices, risks. Fahim watched her, twisting his hands nervously. He pushed his chair back, the scbang loud in the silence. He disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later carrying a steel tumbler of steaming tea. He approached cautiously, like a servant approaching a volatile queen. He set the tumbler down on the low table near her knees. "Nazrin," he began, his voice gaining a shred of false confidence. He straightened slightly. "I... I will resume work from today. At the bank." He cleared his throat. "It’s... it’s been too long. I need to go back."
 
Nazrin’s head snapped around. Her eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian shards, locked onto his. The sudden movement, the sheer intensity of her glare, made him flinch back a step. "Work?" The word dripped contempt. She leaned forward slowly, deliberately, her gaze never leaving his face. "Your bank work?" Her voice was low, dangerous, a blade scbanging stone. "Counting coins? Processing loans?" She gave a short, derisive laugh. "That salary won’t cover Ragavan’s *interest* for a week, let alone two and a half crore." She spat the amount like poison. "While *we*," she gestured sharply towards the bedroom door, "go out and bleed in the gutters for that money..." Her voice rose, cracking with controlled fury. "...I want *you* here. In this house." She jabbed a finger towards the floor. "To maintain it." The command was absolute. "Clean. Cook. Be invisible. That’s your job now."
 
Fahim recoiled as if physically struck, the fragile hope in his eyes shattering. His mouth opened, then closed soundlessly. He stared at the untouched tea, steam curling upwards like a dying ghost. His shoulders slumped, the thin veneer of purpose dissolving into familiar defeat. He didn’t argue. He simply nodded once, a jerky, mechanical movement, before turning and shuffling silently back towards the kitchen, a broken man retreating to his assigned cell. The clatter of a pot hitting the sink echoed faintly, a punctuation mark to his surrender.
 
Nazrin lifted the steel tumbler, the cheap metal warm against her palm. She took a slow sip of the strong, sweet tea, the heat momentarily grounding her frantic thoughts. The bedroom door creaked open. Muthu shuffled out first, squinting against the harsh morning light filtering through the grimy window, followed closely by Praveen. Both wore only their damp, clinging boxers – Muthu’s grey, Praveen’s faded blue – their bodies still flushed with sleep. The thin cotton did little to hide the distinct swell of morning erections pressing against the fabric, a raw, unthinking testament to their youth and the residual charge of the night. Nazrin’s gaze swept over them, lingering for a deliberate moment on the obvious bulges. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. "Nice morning woo ah?" she remarked, her voice husky but clear, the crude slang slicing through the tense air. She gestured lazily towards Fahim’s hunched silhouette visible through the kitchen doorway. "Fahim," she called, her tone sharp, commanding. "Give them tea."
 
Praveen shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of his state. He tried to subtly angle his hips away, but the fabric clung stubbornly. "Madam," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and embarrassment, "normally... it goes down quickly. But today..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the lingering adrenaline, the unsettling cocktail of horror and arousal from Vikram’s penthouse, the sheer proximity to Nazrin herself. Muthu, standing beside him, nodded vigorously, his own tenting equally prominent. "Yes Madam," he added, his voice higher than usual. "Same for me. Very strong." He stared fixedly at the floor tiles near Nazrin’s bare feet, his cheeks burning.
 
Nazrin took another slow sip of tea, her gaze traveling deliberately from Praveen’s straining boxers to Muthu’s. The crude slang hung in the air. "When will your dicks cool down?" she asked flatly, her tone devoid of mockery but utterly clinical. It wasn't a question seeking comfort or solution; it was an assessment, like checking the readiness of tools. She set the tumbler down with a soft clink on the low table. Fahim emerged from the kitchen, clutching two more steel tumblers of tea, his eyes resolutely avoiding the students' midsections. He placed the tea on the table near them and retreated silently back to the kitchen sink, the clatter of dishes loud in the strained quiet.
 
Praveen shifted his weight, the damp fabric clinging tighter. "Ma'am," he mumbled, staring at the floor tiles near Nazrin's bare feet, "normally it goes down quickly. But today..." His voice trailed off, thick with a mixture of embarrassment and residual adrenaline. Muthu nodded beside him, his own erection straining against grey cotton. "Yes Ma'am," he added hastily, cheeks flushed. "Same for me. Very strong." He swallowed hard, unable to articulate the lingering echoes of Vikram's penthouse – the explicit acts, the violence, Nazrin's own charged presence beside them all night. The air felt thick with unsaid horror and a raw, unwanted arousal neither boy could suppress.
 
Nazrin set her tea tumbler down with a soft *clink*. Her gaze swept over them, clinical and assessing. "Ok," she stated flatly, her voice cutting through the tension. "I will take care of it before I go bath." She rose smoothly from the sofa, the cheap cotton nightgown clinging to her hips. "We finished selling yesterday's tasks. We got ₹575,000 now." Her eyes locked onto theirs, sharp and commanding. "Of which half," she emphasized, slicing the air with her hand, "will go to Kannan Anna and his boss." Her gaze hardened. "The remaining will keep for Ragavan." She paused, letting the weight of their debts sink in. "We need to sell more today. Much more." Her tone left no room for argument or distraction.
 
She turned without another word and walked purposefully towards the bedroom door. The worn hinges groaned softly as she pushed it open. "Both of you," she commanded over her shoulder, her voice low and compelling. "Come." Muthu and Praveen exchanged a quick, uneasy glance before trailing after her, their footsteps hesitant on the cool linoleum. Inside the dimly lit room, Nazrin gestured sharply towards the edge of the unmade bed. "Sit," she ordered, pointing to the worn mattress edge where the cheap foam dipped noticeably under pressure. The boys obeyed silently, sinking down side by side onto the creaking bedframe, their damp boxers sticking uncomfortably to their thighs. Nazrin stood before them, her silhouette framed by the weak morning light filtering through the gap in the curtains.
 
Nazrin didn't waste time with words. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency. She reached out, her fingers curling around Praveen first, then Muthu, her touch impersonal and firm. There was no tenderness, no exploration – only the direct, rhythmic friction of her palms against the straining cotton. She worked them simultaneously, her movements brisk and focused. Praveen gasped sharply, his head jerking back, while Muthu clenched his fists on his knees, knuckles whitening. Their ragged breaths filled the small room, mingling with the faint scent of stale incense and sweat. Nazrin’s expression remained detached, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, as if performing a necessary, distasteful chore.


 
Praveen came first, a choked groan escaping him as his body arched involuntarily against her hand. His release soaked through the thin blue fabric, a dark, spreading patch. Seconds later, Muthu followed, shuddering violently, a low whine caught in his throat before he slumped forward, spent. Nazrin released them immediately, stepping back as if distancing herself from the mess. She wiped her palms briskly against the sides of her nightgown. "Clean yourselves," she ordered flatly, nodding towards the small attached bathroom. "Use cold water. Quickly."
 
The bedroom door creaked open. Fahim stood frozen in the doorway, his face a mask of horrified disbelief. His eyes darted from Nazrin’s stained nightgown to the boys’ damp, stained boxers, to their flushed, slack faces. The air crackled with the raw scent of sex and humiliation. Nazrin turned slowly, her gaze meeting his. The sheer revulsion etched into his features was palpable, a silent scream condemning the tableau before him. Her chin lifted fractionally, a defiant line hardening her jaw.
 
"Those two," she hissed, her voice low and venomous, slicing through the thick silence, "are risking everything for me. For *us*. Don't you *dare* judge me." Her words hung like jagged ice. Fahim flinched as if slapped, his eyes dropping to the stained linoleum. Without a sound, he turned and shuffled back towards the kitchen, his shoulders slumped under the unbearable weight of her truth and his own impotence. The soft clatter of a dropped utensil echoed his retreat. Praveen, still trembling slightly, watched Fahim vanish. He saw the flicker of raw anguish in Nazrin’s eyes – a crack in the armor of control, a glimpse of the drowning woman beneath the ice. He moved without hesitation, stepping close. His hand, tentative but firm, closed gently around her wrist, sticky residue forgotten. "Madam," he murmured, his voice unexpectedly soft. "Come." He guided her towards the small bathroom door. Muthu, wiping his face with the back of his hand, followed silently, instinctively understanding the need for sanctuary. Nazrin, her defiance momentarily crumbling into something hollow and weary, allowed Praveen to lead her. They filed into the cramped, tiled space. Muthu reached past them, twisting the flimsy lock. The sharp *click* echoed like a seal against the world outside. The fluorescent bulb flickered to life, casting harsh shadows on Nazrin’s exhausted face reflected in the streaked mirror. Praveen turned on the cold tap, the gushing water a sudden, cleansing roar in the tiny room. He wet a corner of a threadbare towel, his movements careful as he began to wipe the drying mess from Nazrin’s forearm, his touch surprisingly tender against her chilled skin. Muthu leaned against the closed door, watching them, his own guilt momentarily eclipsed by a fierce, protective urge he couldn't name. Nazrin closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool tile wall as Praveen worked, the water’s chill a stark counterpoint to the suffocating heat of the bedroom and the impossible debts waiting beyond the locked door.
 
The roar of the cold water filled the cramped bathroom, a physical barrier against the suffocating silence outside. Muthu watched Praveen gently wipe Nazrin’s arm, the damp towel moving with a hesitant reverence. Nazrin’s shoulders remained tense, her forehead pressed against the cool tile, a tremor running through her. Muthu pushed off the door. "Madam," he said, his voice rough but purposeful, cutting through the water's din. He reached for the hem of her stained nightgown. Nazrin didn't resist, lifting her arms slightly as he pulled the damp, clinging cotton up and over her head. It dropped to the wet floor with a soft, sodden thud. She stood before them now in only her practical white bra and panties, goosebumps erupting instantly on her exposed skin in the chilly air. Praveen tossed the soiled towel aside. Without a word, Muthu nudged Nazrin gently towards the shower spray. The icy water hit her back like needles, making her gasp sharply. Praveen grabbed the cheap bar of soap from its dish, worked it into a meager lather in his palms, and began rubbing it over her shoulders, down her spine. His touch was tentative at first, then firmer, methodical, washing away the physical remnants of the morning's degradation. Muthu knelt, scooping water in his cupped hands to rinse the soap from her legs, his movements efficient, almost impersonal, yet charged with an unspoken solidarity. Nazrin stood rigidly under the spray, eyes squeezed shut, letting the cold water and their hands scour her skin clean. The chill seeped deeper than her skin, a temporary numbness against the gnawing dread.
 
Praveen’s soapy hands slid around her waist, dipping towards the waistband of her plain cotton panties. Nazrin flinched, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips. Praveen paused, his hands hovering. "Madam?" he murmured, questioning. Nazrin remained silent for a heartbeat, her jaw clenched. Then, almost imperceptibly, she shifted her hips forward slightly, pressing back against his tentative touch. A low groan escaped her, muffled by the water's roar. Praveen understood. He hooked his thumbs under the elastic and peeled the soaked underwear down her trembling legs. Muthu, still kneeling, helped guide the garment off her ankles and tossed it aside. Nazrin’s bare skin prickled in the frigid air. Praveen moved behind her again, his soapy hand sliding firmly between her legs from behind. He cupped her mound, his fingers pressing deliberately against her cleft, rubbing the soap slickly over her pubic hair and the folds beneath. Nazrin arched her back slightly, pushing herself harder against his hand, a shudder running through her frame. "Yes," she breathed, the word barely audible over the water. Praveen worked the soap deeper, his fingers tracing the contours with a focused intensity that was cleansing and arousing in equal measure. His other hand braced on her hip, steadying her as her knees trembled.
 
Simultaneously, Muthu stood. He reached around Nazrin’s front, his wet fingers finding the clasp of her utilitarian white bra. With a practiced flick, it released. The straps slid down her arms. Muthu pulled the bra away, revealing her breasts, pale and heavy, nipples puckered tight from the cold spray. He took the soap bar from Praveen’s free hand, lathered his palms, and brought them up to cup her breasts. His touch was firm, encompassing, sliding the slick soap over the soft curves, thumbs circling her stiffening nipples. Nazrin gasped, her head falling back against Praveen’s shoulder as Muthu’s hands moved rhythmically, kneading and washing. Praveen’s fingers continued their thorough work between her legs, probing gently now, spreading her folds under the soapy water, rubbing firmly against her clit. The dual assault – Muthu’s hands massaging her breasts, Praveen’s fingers circling and pressing against her sensitive core – sent jolts of unexpected heat through Nazrin’s chilled body, warring violently with the icy water. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.
 
Praveen’s soapy hand slid lower, tracing down the cleft of her buttocks. Nazrin stiffened instinctively, a tremor running through her. His fingers paused. "Madam?" Praveen murmured again, his voice low against her wet hair. Nazrin clenched her jaw, fighting the instinctive resistance. *Clean*, she thought fiercely. *Get clean*. With a sharp exhale, she pushed her hips back slightly against his hand. Praveen understood. His fingers dipped lower, spreading soap over the tight furl of her anus. The intrusion was clinical, efficient, yet intensely intimate. He rubbed the soap firmly, cleansing thoroughly, his touch impersonal yet unavoidable. Nazrin shuddered, a choked sound escaping her lips, part discomfort, part something darker, deeper. Muthu’s hands continued their steady kneading of her breasts, anchoring her amidst the conflicting sensations.
 
Muthu’s soapy palms slid firmly over her breasts, slicking the curves, circling her stiffened nipples again. Nazrin gasped, arching her back further into Praveen’s solid chest behind her. Praveen’s fingers withdrew from her cleft, only to slide forward again, pressing firmly against her slick folds from behind. He parted her labia with deliberate strokes, rubbing the soap deep into her pubic hair and across her clit with focused pressure. The icy water cascaded down her front, chilling her skin, while Praveen’s fingers worked heat into her core. Nazrin’s breath hitched, caught between the frigid spray and the insistent friction building between her legs. Her hips rocked involuntarily against his hand. "Harder," she rasped, the command barely audible over the water’s roar. Praveen obeyed, increasing the pressure, circling her clit with relentless precision. Muthu pinched her nipples gently, then firmly, adding sharp sparks to the mounting fire.


 
Then both of them stopped. Abruptly. Hands fell away. The sudden cessation was jarring. Nazrin froze, eyes snapping open. The cold water instantly dominated her senses, a brutal shock against her overheated skin. She blinked water from her lashes, staring blankly at the cracked tile wall ahead. *It’s over*, she thought dully, the abrupt halt mirroring the dead end of their debts, the impossibility of escape. The heat vanished, leaving only numbness. Praveen shifted behind her. He didn't retreat. Instead, his hands clamped onto her breasts again, larger and rougher than Muthu’s. He squeezed hard, kneading the flesh brutally, thumbs digging into her nipples with sharp, twisting pressure. Nazrin cried out, a gasp of surprise mixed with sharp pain that instantly bloomed into a deeper ache. Simultaneously, Muthu dropped fluidly to his knees in front of her on the wet floor. He gripped her hips, pulling her forward roughly into the spray, burying his face between her thighs. His tongue, hot and insistent, lashed against her clit, probing, sucking fiercely. The dual assault – Praveen’s punishing grip on her breasts, Muthu’s devouring mouth – ripped through the numbness like lightning.
 
"Ahh yess!" Nazrin shouted, the sound raw and involuntary, echoing sharply off the tiles. Her head slammed back against Praveen’s shoulder, her spine arching violently. "Fuck!" The curse ripped out of her, torn between agony and ecstasy as Praveen twisted her nipples viciously. "It feels good!" she gasped, the words fragmented, breathless. Her hips bucked wildly against Muthu’s face, grinding against his mouth, seeking more pressure, deeper friction. Praveen leaned down, biting her shoulder hard. Nazrin screamed, a sound of pure sensation, pain and pleasure indistinguishable. "Ya ,.'!" The invocation was a desperate plea, torn from her throat as Muthu’s tongue plunged deeper, flicking relentlessly against her swollen core. "Yes harder!" she commanded, her voice ragged, demanding Praveen crush her breasts tighter, Muthu suck harder. Her hands scrabbled behind her, tangling in Praveen’s hair, pulling him closer, forcing his teeth deeper into her shoulder. Her other hand gripped Muthu’s head, pressing him impossibly closer, grinding against his face with frantic urgency. The cold water streamed over her, irrelevant against the furnace consuming her from within.
 
Praveen shifted his bite upwards, his teeth sinking deep into the soft flesh where Nazrin’s neck met her shoulder. It was possessive, brutal, a sharp sting that bloomed into a deep, throbbing ache. Nazrin cried out again, a guttural sound ripped from her throat. "Mark me!" she gasped, her voice thick with need, pushing her neck harder against his mouth. Her fingers tightened convulsively in Muthu’s hair, pulling strands taut as she arched her hips harder against his relentless tongue. "Don't stop!" she moaned, louder now, the sound raw and echoing in the small space. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears mingling with the spray. The pain from Praveen’s bite, the punishing grip on her breasts, the exquisite torture of Muthu’s mouth – it fused into a single, overwhelming wave that threatened to drown her. Her thighs trembled violently around Muthu’s head, her breaths coming in ragged, desperate gasps. "Yes! There! Don't stop!" The command was a plea, a demand, lost in the roar of water and her own escalating cries.


 
The wave crested, shattering her control. Nazrin’s back arched impossibly taut, a silent scream stretching her lips wide before a raw, guttural moan tore free, louder than the shower’s roar. "Ahhhh! Fuck!" Her body convulsed violently against Praveen’s chest, her hips bucking wildly against Muthu’s face as the orgasm ripped through her. Praveen instantly released his bite and the crushing grip on her breasts. Muthu pulled his mouth away sharply. The sudden cessation of sensation left Nazrin shuddering, gasping, her body sagging bonelessly against Praveen, held upright only by his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The cold water slapped her overheated skin, a jarring contrast. For a long moment, the only sounds were her ragged breathing, the rushing water, and the frantic hammering of their own hearts. Praveen’s arms tightened around her trembling frame, pulling her closer. Muthu, still kneeling on the wet tiles, leaned forward, pressing his damp forehead against her thigh. His arms wrapped around her legs, holding on. They clung to her, and she to them, a desperate, silent tangle of limbs under the icy spray – three survivors clinging together in the wreckage.
 
Nazrin buried her face against Praveen’s wet shoulder, her breath warm against his skin. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice thick, muffled. She lifted her head slightly, her eyes finding Muthu’s upturned face, slick with water and traces of her release. "Both of you." A shaky breath escaped her. "I... I really needed that." Her gaze drifted down her own naked body, pressed between them, then back to their faces – Praveen’s earnest concern, Muthu’s fierce protectiveness. A faint, disbelieving ghost of a smile touched her lips. "By the way," she added, her voice gaining a touch of bewildered clarity, "I never imagined... not in a thousand lifetimes... being naked with you two." The sheer absurdity of it, the impossible intimacy forged in desperation, hung in the humid air.


 
Praveen tightened his arms around her waist. "Neither did we, Madam," he whispered hoarsely. Muthu nodded against her thigh, his grip on her legs firm. "But... we're here," he stated simply, the words carrying the weight of their shared ordeal. Nazrin leaned back into Praveen’s solidity, letting the cold water wash over them all. For a suspended moment, the relentless pressure of Kannan Anna’s deadline, Ragavan’s threats, Vikram’s escalating demands, receded. There was only the shared warmth trapped within the icy spray, the ragged symphony of their breathing, and the fragile, improbable sanctuary of their embrace.
 
A sharp, insistent *knock-knock-knock* fractured the fragile peace. It hammered against the thin bathroom door, vibrating through the flimsy wood. They froze, a collective intake of breath silencing the room save for the rushing water. Fahim’s muffled voice, strained and urgent, penetrated the barrier. "Nazrin? Nazrin! Your phone! It’s ringing… ringing loud. Sounds… important." His tone held a brittle edge, layered over with the exhaustion of a man already broken.
 
Nazrin lifted her head from Praveen’s shoulder, water streaming down her face. Her eyes, moments ago softened and grateful, hardened instantly. The sanctuary evaporated. Kannan Anna. Ragavan. Vikram. The debts snapped back into focus, sharp and suffocating. "Okay," she called out, her voice raspy but regaining its steel. "Wait. We will come." The words weren't a plea; they were a command, a declaration that the interlude was over. She pushed herself upright against Praveen’s steadying arms.
 
With deliberate calm, Nazrin reached past Muthu’s kneeling form and twisted the flimsy lock. The *click* sounded unnaturally loud. She pulled the bathroom door open wide, stepping out first onto the damp hallway floor. She didn't flinch, didn't try to cover herself. Water dripped from her hair, her bare skin gleaming under the harsh corridor bulb. Praveen followed immediately, stepping beside her, equally exposed, his jaw set. Muthu rose from his knees, water sluicing off him, and moved to her other side. They stood shoulder to shoulder, three naked figures framed in the bathroom doorway, facing Fahim. The air crackled with vulnerability and defiance.

 

Fahim stood frozen in the narrow hallway, Nazrin’s buzzing phone clutched forgotten in his hand. His gaze swept over them – Nazrin’s damp skin, the fading bite mark darkening on her shoulder, Praveen’s tense posture, Muthu’s unwavering stance. His eyes widened, then dropped to the floor, a choked sound escaping his throat. His face crumpled, the profound sadness etching deeper lines, his shoulders sagging further under the weight of the impossible tableau. He looked utterly defeated, a ghost haunting his own home.
 
Praveen cleared his throat, his voice unnaturally loud in the strained silence. His own lingering arousal was evident, impossible to hide. "Fahim sir," he said, forcing a semblance of formality into his tone, "please get us some towels." Muthu shifted slightly, his own condition equally apparent, adding silent emphasis to the request. Fahim flinched visibly, his gaze flicking downwards for a fraction of a second before snapping away entirely. He nodded mutely, a jerky movement, and turned towards the linen cupboard like a sleepwalker, the phone still buzzing urgently against his palm.
 
Nazrin moved like lightning. She snatched the phone from Fahim’s unresisting grasp, her wet fingers slick on the plastic casing. "Get the towel," she commanded him, her voice sharp and dismissive, already turning her attention to the screen. Her eyes narrowed, reading the caller ID: *Srinivasan Sir*. She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear, her expression shifting instantly into a brittle mask of solicitous warmth. "Sir! Good morning!" Her voice was suddenly bright, unnaturally cheerful.
 
Srinivasan’s smooth, familiar chuckle vibrated down the line. "Nazrin! Always so prompt. Tell me, how goes the... *trying*?" His voice dropped into a conspiratorial, teasing murmur. "Any promising signs? You must be exhausted, putting in so much *effort*." Nazrin forced a light laugh, her knuckles white where she gripped the phone. Before she could formulate a reply, he continued breezily, "Anyway, remember your promise? About helping me shop for my little princess? Well, fortune smiles! I've managed to carve out half a day free today. Perfect timing, no?" Nazrin’s throat tightened. She glanced at the naked, dripping boys flanking her, then at Fahim’s retreating back as he numbly opened the linen cupboard. Refusal was impossible. "Of course, Sir," she managed, her voice straining slightly. "I remember."
 
"Excellent!" Srinivasan sounded genuinely pleased. "Now, listen carefully. I'll be at your house in exactly one hour." Nazrin froze. Her house? *Here?* The air crackled with sudden tension. Praveen and Muthu exchanged panicked glances. "Don't worry," Srinivasan continued smoothly, oblivious to the chaos he'd ignited. "I won't embarrass you by coming inside unannounced. I'll call you from outside when I arrive. Be ready, Nazrin." His tone shifted subtly, becoming softer, laden with unspoken expectation. "And Nazrin..." he paused deliberately, "...wear that beautiful transparent silk saree for me today. The one that flows like water. With the low-cut blouse. Please." The request hung in the humid hallway air, a velvet glove concealing steel. It wasn't a suggestion.
 
Nazrin lowered the phone, the screen going dark. Her brittle smile vanished. She stared blankly at the damp hallway wall, Srinivasan’s words echoing: *one hour*. *Transparent silk. Low-cut blouse.* Her mind raced – the cocaine bricks stacked in the bedroom cupboard, Fahim’s shattered expression, the boys dripping and exposed beside her. "Sir is coming here," she stated flatly, her voice devoid of inflection. Praveen inhaled sharply. Muthu’s fists clenched at his sides. "In one hour. He wants me dressed... specifically." She didn't elaborate on the saree. The implications were stark enough. Fahim reappeared, clutching towels, his eyes darting between them, catching the fresh wave of panic. He silently handed towels to Praveen and Muthu, avoiding Nazrin’s gaze entirely.
 
Nazrin snatched a towel from Fahim’s trembling hands, wrapping it roughly around herself. The wet fabric clung. "Listen carefully," she commanded, her voice regaining its cutting edge. She pointed a dripping finger at Muthu and Praveen. "You two. Pack the cocaine exactly like yesterday. Twenty-five kilos. Precise." Her gaze shifted to Fahim, who flinched. "Fahim. You give them everything they need. Scales. Plastic bags. Tape. Whatever." Her tone brooked no argument. "Tonight," she continued, her eyes hardening, "we hit another club. We sell." She paused, her jaw tightening. "And I..." she spat the words, "...will have to deal with this old brat Srinivasan. Wearing a fucking saree that shows my entire body." The vulgarity was a shield against the humiliation.
 
Praveen stepped forward, towel cinched at his waist, his face pale but resolute. "Madam, the saree... Srinivasan Sir... is it safe?" Muthu moved closer to him, silent solidarity radiating from his tense shoulders. Nazrin barked a harsh laugh. "Safe? Nothing is safe! But he wants a show? Fine." She yanked the towel tighter. "He pays my salary. He approves my leave. He holds power. And right now, we need every fucking rupee." Her eyes flicked towards the bedroom where the cocaine bricks lay hidden. "Focus on packing. Perfectly. No mistakes. Tonight, we make money. Tonight, we survive." She turned abruptly towards the bedroom. "Fahim! Hot water. Now. And iron that cursed silk saree."
 
Fahim shuffled towards the kitchen stove, his movements leaden. Nazrin slammed the bedroom door behind her, shedding the towel. She pulled the transparent silk saree from its depths – a shimmering cascade of pale blue that clung like mist. The matching blouse was scandalously low-cut, barely containing her breasts. Dressing felt like donning armor for a grotesque battle. She secured the pallu loosely over one shoulder, knowing Srinivasan would dislodge it. The fabric whispered treachery against her skin. Outside the door, she heard the boys' urgent whispers and the rustle of plastic bags as they began packing the cocaine bricks with meticulous, fearful speed.
 
Nazrin emerged from the bedroom. The hallway fell silent. Muthu and Praveen froze mid-motion, plastic bags clutched in their hands, scales forgotten on the floor. Their eyes widened, taking in the sheer fabric that revealed the shadow of her nipples, the curve of her hips, the dark triangle beneath the clinging silk. Fahim, returning with towels, stumbled to a halt, his face draining of color. He stared at the floor, unable to bear the sight. Praveen swallowed hard, his throat working. "Madam..." he breathed, his voice thick with something beyond admiration – awe mixed with profound unease. "You are... looking beautiful." The compliment sounded like a lament. Muthu nodded fiercely beside him, his gaze locked on her defiant stance. "Yes, Madam," he echoed, his voice rough. "Very beautiful." Their words hung in the air, a fragile shield against the humiliation Srinivasan intended.


 
Nazrin ignored their stares and the tremor in Fahim’s hands. She strode past them towards the front door, her bare feet silent on the cool tile. The silk whispered against her skin, a constant reminder of the performance demanded. Her phone buzzed violently in her hand. The screen lit up: *Srinivasan Sir*. She took a deep, steadying breath, her spine rigid. The phone vibrated again, insistent. She swiped to answer, pressing it to her ear. "Sir," she greeted, her voice smooth, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "Good morning again."
 
Srinivasan’s voice crackled through, bright and expectant. "Nazrin! Look outside your window. Your chariot awaits!" He chuckled softly. "I'm parked right across the street. A sleek silver beast, impossible to miss. Come quickly now, don't keep me waiting!" The line went dead. Nazrin lowered the phone slowly. Through the dusty pane of the front window, she spotted it: Srinivasan’s imposing silver sedan, gleaming under the harsh morning sun like a predatory insect. He sat behind the wheel, a faint smile visible even from this distance. He lifted a hand in a casual wave, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on her doorway.
 
Nazrin turned away from the window, her silk saree whispering treachery against her skin. "He’s here," she announced flatly. Praveen dropped a plastic bag, scattering cocaine dust onto the hallway floor. Fahim flinched as if struck. "Pack faster," Nazrin hissed, her voice low and urgent. "Get it perfect. Out of sight." She didn’t look at them. She walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the cool tile, pulled it open, and stepped out into the blinding glare. The silk clung transparently, revealing every contour as she descended the cracked concrete steps towards the waiting car.
 
Srinivasan leaned across the passenger seat, pushing the door open from inside. His eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, from her damp hair down the sheer fabric clinging to her hips. "Nazrin," he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. "You remembered the saree. It’s... breathtaking." He gestured towards the seat. "Come. We have much to discuss." Nazrin slid in, the cool leather a shock against her bare midriff where the blouse ended. The scent of expensive cologne and leather filled the car. He didn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, his hand rested casually on her knee, his thumb tracing circles on the thin silk covering her thigh. "Such dedication," he sighed, his gaze lingering on the deep neckline. "Your husband... he appreciates this effort?"
 
He finally pulled away from the curb, the car gliding smoothly into the chaotic morning traffic. "Tell me," Srinivasan continued, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur, "how *is* the trying? Truly? Any... promising signs?" His eyes flicked from the road to her lap, then back up, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You must be exhausted, putting in so much... *vigorous* effort." He chuckled softly. "Fahim seems a weak vessel, frankly. Tell me, Nazrin," his tone turned conspiratorial, "does he even *rise* to the occasion reliably? Or do you have to... coax him?" His hand drifted back to her knee, squeezing gently. "A woman like you deserves passion. Real stamina." The implication hung heavy in the air-conditioned chill.
 
Nazrin stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. The silk felt like a spiderweb trapping her. "It's... progressing, Sir," she managed, forcing neutrality into her voice. "Slowly. Fahim... does his duty." She shifted slightly, trying to dislodge his hand without being obvious. It tightened possessively. "We remain hopeful." The lie tasted like bile. Hope was a luxury buried under bricks of cocaine and Ragavan's threats.
 
Srinivasan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated the leather seat. "Duty?" He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Such a sterile word, Nazrin. Passionless! A man should *burn* for his wife. Like a furnace!" His eyes slid sideways, lingering on the shadowed curve of her breast beneath the sheer fabric. "Tell me honestly," he pressed, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Does he *know* how to please you? Does he understand... anticipation?" His thumb traced a deliberate circle high on her inner thigh. "Does he make you... *want*?"
 
Nazrin kept her gaze fixed on the blur of passing shops, her spine rigid against the seat. "He understands his responsibilities, Sir," she replied flatly, her voice carefully neutral. The silk felt like a second skin, suffocating. "We focus on the goal." She shifted her leg slightly, a futile attempt to dislodge his hand. It clamped down harder, possessive. Srinivasan sighed dramatically. "Responsibilities! Goals! Such a businesslike approach to creation! Where is the *art*, Nazrin? Where is the *fire*?" He gestured expansively with his free hand. "A child conceived in duty is a dull spark. Conceived in ecstasy? That’s a roaring flame!" His eyes gleamed. "Perhaps... perhaps you need reminding of what real passion feels like?"
 
His thumb pressed higher, finding the soft inner skin of her thigh beneath the flimsy silk. Nazrin’s breath caught, a traitorous warmth flickering low in her belly despite her revulsion. His words, crude and manipulative, scbangd against a raw nerve exposed by the morning’s desperate intensity. The memory of Praveen’s biting possessiveness, Muthu’s relentless mouth under the icy spray – sensations so recent they still thrummed beneath her skin – collided violently with Srinivasan’s entitled touch. The friction wasn't just physical; it was a clash of degradation and remembered, brutal release. A flush crept up her neck, invisible beneath the saree but scalding her from within. She clenched her fists in her lap, knuckles pressing hard against the cool leather. "Sir," she managed, her voice tighter now, "please concentrate on the road."
 
Srinivasan chuckled, low and satisfied, mistaking her tension for arousal. His gaze drifted lazily from the chaotic street to her flushed face. Then it stopped, sharpening. His eyes locked onto the side of her neck, just below the curve of her jawline, where the damp tendrils of her hair had fallen away. There, stark against her damp skin, bloomed a darkening bruise – the unmistakable imprint of teeth. Praveen’s bite. Srinivasan’s smooth smile froze, then slowly twisted into something colder, more predatory. His thumb stilled its circling. He leaned fractionally closer, his expensive cologne suddenly cloying. "Nazrin," he murmured, his voice dropping to a silky murmur that slithered over her skin. His index finger extended, hovering just above the mark without touching it. "What’s this?" A pause, heavy with insinuation. "Did… *Fahim* give you this?"
 
Nazrin’s blood turned to icewater. She instinctively tilted her head away, pulling her neck taut against the seat’s headrest, but it only exposed the bruise more clearly. The sheer silk felt like a spotlight. She forced her voice steady, aiming for weary exasperation. "A mosquito bite, Sir. Terrible pests this season. Scratching it made it worse." The lie was flimsy, absurd. Srinivasan’s eyes flickered with disbelief, then hardened into amused contempt. "A mosquito?" He let out a soft, derisive puff of air. "That’s quite the ambitious mosquito. Looks more like… a passionate souvenir." His gaze lingered on the bruise, then slid deliberately down to the deep V of her blouse, his meaning clear. "Fahim doesn’t strike me as the biting kind. Too… subdued." He tapped the bruise lightly with his fingertip. "This speaks of desperation. Possession. Someone marking their territory." His eyes locked back onto hers, probing, demanding explanation.
 
He finally withdrew his hand from her thigh, placing it back on the steering wheel with exaggerated care. The car slowed as they approached a congested market intersection. "Perhaps," Srinivasan mused, his voice silky smooth, "your dedication to conception has taken a… collaborative turn? A little outside assistance to stir the pot?" He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of warmth. "Don’t misunderstand me, Nazrin. I admire initiative. Resourcefulness." He glanced at her again, his expression unreadable. "But remember the rules of the game. Favours granted," he paused meaningfully, "...require favours returned. Promptly." The unspoken threat hung heavy – her leave approval, her salary, her precarious position at the college, all dangled like puppets on his strings. The bite mark wasn’t just proof; it was leverage.
 
The car surged forward again, navigating the choked streets until Srinivasan smoothly pulled into the gleaming multi-level parking garage beneath the colossal 'Metropolis Mall'. He found a spot near the elevator bank with practiced ease. Killing the engine, he turned to Nazrin, his earlier predatory amusement replaced by a veneer of solicitous charm. "Here we are! Retail therapy awaits." He pushed his door open and stepped out, the sharp click of polished leather shoes echoing in the concrete cavern. Nazrin followed, the sheer silk saree whispering treacherously as she slid from the cool leather interior into the stale, oil-scented air of the garage. The sudden shift from the car’s air-conditioned chill to the garage's oppressive humidity made the silk cling even more damply to her skin.
 
Srinivasan circled the car swiftly, closing the distance before Nazrin could take more than a few steps towards the elevator. He moved with surprising speed for his age, his expensive cologne preceding him like a declaration of ownership. He came very near, deliberately invading her personal space. His hand landed possessively on the small of her back, fingers splayed wide against the thin silk, pressing her forward towards the elevator doors. "Stay close, Nazrin," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "Wouldn't want you getting lost in this labyrinth." His thumb rubbed a small circle on her spine through the fabric, a gesture simultaneously intimate and controlling. The proximity was suffocating; she could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint mint on his breath mingling with the cologne. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
 
Inside the mirrored elevator, Srinivasan positioned himself directly beside Nazrin, trapping her against the cool metal wall. He didn't press the button immediately. Instead, his gaze traveled slowly down her reflection, lingering on the sheer fabric clinging to her hips and thighs. "This saree," he mused aloud, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "It truly is... revealing. Perfectly so." He turned his head slightly to look directly at her neck, his eyes narrowing on Praveen's bruise. "That mark," he said, his tone conversational but edged with steel. "It tells a story. One I find... intriguing." He reached up, his fingers hovering near the bruise but not quite touching it. "Whoever left it," he added softly, leaning closer so his lips were almost brushing her ear, "must have been quite... enthusiastic." The elevator hummed, ascending slowly. "Or perhaps," he whispered, "quite desperate?"
 
Nazrin flinched away from his proximity, her shoulder bumping the cold mirror. She lunged forward, jabbing the button for the first floor with a sharp, decisive click. The elevator lurched upward. "Sir," she said, her voice strained but forcefully bright, pivoting sharply. "Your daughter! What kind of dress did you want to buy for her? You mentioned she's my age." She kept her eyes fixed on the ascending floor numbers above the door, ignoring his predatory closeness. "A saree? Something modern? Silk, perhaps?" She gestured vaguely towards her own attire. "This blue silk is... quite popular."
 
Srinivasan chuckled, a low rumble vibrating in the small space. He leaned back slightly, amused by her clumsy deflection. "Modern, Nazrin! Modern!" he emphasized, waving a dismissive hand at her saree. "Sarees are for... tradition. For wives." His eyes gleamed with condescension. "My Priya? She's young, vibrant! She needs sleeveless tops. Short skirts. Things that show life!" He paused, letting the implication hang. "And definitely," he added, his gaze deliberately sweeping her body again, "a bikini. She's going on a trip to Goa with friends next month. Beachwear is essential." He smiled thinly. "You understand, of course. Youth demands freedom."
 
The elevator doors slid open onto the mall's main concourse—a blinding explosion of chrome, glass, and garish neon signs advertising luxury Nazrin couldn't fathom. Srinivasan immediately seized her elbow, steering her firmly towards a gleaming boutique named 'Aura'. His grip was unyielding. "Here," he announced, propelling her through the entrance. The air inside hit her—over-air-conditioned, thick with cloying floral perfume, and vibrating with synth-pop muzak. Racks of impossibly tiny, brightly colored garments assaulted her senses. A bored salesgirl glanced up, her eyes widening slightly at Nazrin's sheer attire before snapping into practiced deference upon seeing Srinivasan. "Sir! Welcome to Aura!"
 
Srinivasan released Nazrin’s elbow only to gesture expansively at the displays. "Modern!" he declared, his voice booming slightly in the hushed store. He snatched a microscopic, sequined crop top off a mannequin and thrust it towards her. "For Priya! Sleeveless! Short!" He grabbed a scrap of denim masquerading as a skirt. "And *this*," he added, his eyes gleaming with a vulgar intensity as he pointed towards a display of shimmering bikinis cut so high they resembled dental floss, "this is Goa! Freedom! Youth!" He turned to Nazrin, his gaze sharp, assessing her reaction. "She must look… tempting. Appealing. You understand? She needs clothes that say 'look at me!'"
 
Nazrin stared at the flimsy garments, the sequins biting into her palm where Srinivasan had pressed the crop top. The sheer absurdity of being paraded here, dbangd in silk meant to inflame *him*, forced to shop for bikinis while twenty-five kilos of cocaine sat in her hallway, choked her. She forced a brittle smile. "Very modern, Sir. Very… bold." Her voice sounded alien. "Perhaps something… slightly more coverage? For sun protection?" She held up the minuscule skirt, her fingers trembling slightly. "This might be… impractical?"
 
Srinivasan snatched the skirt from her hand, his knuckles brushing hers deliberately. "Practicality?" He scoffed, tossing it back onto the rack dismissively. "Priya isn't tending goats, Nazrin! She's attracting attention! Making connections!" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur thick with innuendo. "Sun protection? Where's the *fun* in that? Skin needs to breathe! To be seen!" His eyes flickered meaningfully over her own exposed skin beneath the sheer saree. "You, of all people, should understand the power of… exposure." He gestured impatiently at the bikinis. "Pick one. Something bright. Something that leaves little to the imagination."
 
Nazrin moved mechanically towards the display, the sequins on the crop top digging into her clenched fist. Her gaze skimmed over the flimsy triangles of fabric – neon pink, electric blue, shimmering gold. Each felt like a separate humiliation. She grabbed the nearest one, a violently orange monstrosity with strings thinner than shoelaces. "This," she stated flatly, holding it up like contaminated laundry. The salesgirl blinked, her professional mask slipping for a microsecond. Srinivasan beamed. "Perfect! Bold! Just like Priya!" He snatched it from her, adding it to the growing pile in the salesgirl's arms. "Now," he commanded, turning back to Nazrin, "the sleeveless top. Something… clingy. And the skirt – shorter than that one you discarded."
 
Nazrin’s fingers brushed cheap polyester, selecting a zebra-print halter top and a microscopic denim skirt that looked like a belt. "These," she muttered, her voice tight. The salesgirl scurried forward to take them, her eyes darting nervously between Nazrin's rigid posture and Srinivasan's predatory satisfaction. The pile was complete: the orange bikini, the zebra top, the denim scrap. Srinivasan clapped his hands softly. "Excellent choices, Nazrin! Very… youthful." His smile widened, revealing small, even teeth. He gestured grandly towards the curtained changing rooms at the back of the store. "Now," he announced, his voice dropping to a silky murmur that carried clearly in the perfumed silence, "take them all into the changing room. Wear each one. Model them for me." He paused, letting the command sink in. "I need to ensure," he added, his gaze raking over her saree-clad form, "that they fit Priya’s… proportions correctly."
 
Nazrin froze. The sequins on the crop top she still clutched bit sharply into her palm. The sheer absurdity curdled into cold dread. "Sir," she began, her voice strained thin, "the salesgirl could model—"
 
"Priya is *your* size," Srinivasan interrupted smoothly, his gaze unwavering. He gestured dismissively at the bewildered salesgirl. "And I trust *your* judgment. Now." His tone brooked no argument. The air-conditioned chill seeped through the silk, pricking her skin. She couldn't refuse. Not here. Not with Ragavan's deadline ticking and Srinivasan's patronage vital. Nazrin turned mechanically towards the changing rooms, the flimsy garments hanging limply in her hand.
 
Inside the cramped cubicle, harsh fluorescent light glared off cheap mirrors. Nazrin peeled off the silk saree, feeling exposed despite the locked door. She picked up the tube top first – a synthetic, electric blue band. It fought her breasts, rolling awkwardly before finally stretching into place. The neckline plunged alarmingly, the scratchy fabric clinging like a cheap bandage, ending inches below her breasts and leaving her midriff completely bare. Next, the denim shorts. They scbangd against her hips, resisting her efforts to pull them up over her thighs. They settled high on her waist, impossibly tight, the frayed hem riding so high it exposed the pale lower curve of her buttocks. She stared at her reflection: a grotesque parody of youth – the tube top straining, the shorts digging into her hips, Praveen’s bruise stark on her neck. Vulnerability warred with cold fury.


 
She pushed the curtain aside. The salesgirl gasped softly. Srinivasan stood rooted, his face slackening momentarily before tightening into predatory appreciation. His gaze crawled over her exposed skin – the bruised neck, the bare midriff, the obscenely high shorts. "Ah," he breathed, stepping closer. His fingers brushed the cheap fabric near her hipbone. "Perfect proportions. Priya will adore this." His touch lingered, tracing the waistband. "The shorts... they ride a little high? Perhaps..." His hand drifted lower, fingers grazing the exposed skin just above the denim hem. Nazrin recoiled instinctively, bumping into the mirror.
 
"Shy, ah?" Srinivasan chuckled, low and oily. He withdrew his hand slowly, savoring her discomfort. "Alright. Now, another dress. Wear the shirt and skirt." He gestured impatiently towards the zebra-print halter top and the microscopic denim skirt waiting on the hook. Nazrin retreated behind the curtain, her movements stiff. The zebra top was tighter, the synthetic material straining across her ribs and shoulders, the halter neck digging into her nape. The skirt was a joke – a frayed belt of denim that barely covered her underwear when she tugged it over her hips. She stared at the reflection: a bruised woman squeezed into teenage rebellion. She pushed the curtain aside again.


 
Srinivasan’s gaze was clinical, assessing. He circled her slowly. "Yes," he murmured, stopping directly behind her. His reflection loomed over hers in the harsh light. "The skirt sits... perfectly." His knuckle traced the elastic waistband at the small of her back, dipping slightly beneath the fabric. Nazrin flinched forward, but his other hand shot out, clamping onto her bare shoulder. "Hold still," he commanded softly. "Priya needs... precision." His fingers lingered on the waistband, pressing the cheap denim into her skin. "Does it feel... comfortable? Free?"
 
"Sir," Nazrin choked out, staring straight ahead at her own haunted eyes in the mirror. "It’s... functional."
 
Srinivasan chuckled, his breath warm against her shoulder. "Functional? We aim for *enthralling*, Nazrin." His fingers slid lower, tracing the hemline where the skirt barely met her thigh. "Priya must command attention." He paused, his knuckle pressing deliberately into the bruised flesh of her hipbone where Praveen’s teeth had marked her. "Like this souvenir." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me, was it worth it? The bite? The risk?" His hand tightened on her shoulder. "Or did you just crave the sting?"
 
Nazrin jerked away, the movement tearing his grip loose. She spun to face him, the zebra print straining across her chest. "We should focus on Priya’s clothes, Sir." Her voice was flat, stripped bare. "The bikini remains."
 
Srinivasan’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes hardened like cooling tar. "Indeed." He gestured sharply towards the changing room. "The bikini. Now."
 
Nazrin retreated behind the curtain, the cheap fabric scbanging her skin where the zebra top dug in. She shed the clothes quickly, dropping them onto the pile like discarded skin. The orange bikini lay coiled on the bench—two triangles of flimsy fabric connected by strings thinner than packing twine. She picked it up; the sequins felt brittle and sharp against her palm. *Never worn anything like it*. The sheer absurdity choked her—twenty-five kilos of cocaine waiting at home, Ragavan’s deadline ticking like a bomb, and here she was, wrestling with dental floss meant for a girl she’d never met. She hesitated, fingers trembling on the knot behind her neck. Then she thought of Srinivasan’s hand pressing into Praveen’s bruise, the threat coiled in his words. *Favours returned. Promptly*. She cinched the knot tight. The triangles covered nothing, the strings biting into her hips and thighs. She stared at her reflection—a stranger marked by violence and desperation, squeezed into neon humiliation.


 
She pushed the curtain aside. The salesgirl gasped audibly, hand flying to her mouth. Srinivasan froze mid-step, his eyes widening before narrowing into predatory focus. His gaze crawled over her—the violent orange fabric straining against her breasts, the strings digging into her hips, Praveen’s bruise stark against her collarbone. He stepped closer, circling her slowly like inspecting livestock. "Yes," he murmured, his voice thick. "Priya’s proportions... confirmed." He stopped directly in front of her. His knuckle traced the thin string riding low on her hipbone, pressing deliberately into the bruised flesh. "The fit is... aggressive." His thumb rubbed the sequins above her navel. "Does it feel... empowering? Or merely... exposed?"
 
Nazrin stood rigid, the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects. She stared past Srinivasan’s shoulder at a garish poster of a laughing teenager surfing. "Functional," she repeated, her voice stripped bare. "For Goa."
 
Srinivasan’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes hardened like cooling tar. "Functional?" He chuckled, low and deliberate. His knuckle pressed deeper into Praveen’s bruise on her hipbone, the pressure sharp. "Perhaps." He withdrew his hand abruptly, turning towards the wide-eyed salesgirl. His voice snapped out, crisp and commanding. "Wait like that." He gestured dismissively at Nazrin’s frozen form. Then, pointing at the violently orange bikini straining against her skin, he addressed the girl: "Bring me bikini more smaller than this." He paused, his gaze flicking back to Nazrin’s exposed midriff. "Much smaller. Something... aspirational."
 
Nazrin remained rooted, the thin straps biting into her shoulders and hips as the salesgirl scurried away. Srinivasan didn't move. Instead, he casually pulled his phone from his tailored trousers. The soft *click* of the camera app activating cut through the synth-pop muzak. Before Nazrin could react, the flash flared—once, twice—blindingly bright in the boutique's harsh light. He lowered the phone slightly, examining the screen with a satisfied hum. "Turn," he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth. "To the side. Show Priya how the back sits." He raised the phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen. "Hands on hips. Chin up. Look... optimistic."
 
Nazrin obeyed mechanically, pivoting stiffly. The fluorescent lights glared off her skin, highlighting Praveen’s bruise and the angry red lines where the bikini strings dug in. She placed her hands on her hips, fingers trembling against the cheap sequins. Another flash exploded. "Good," Srinivasan murmured, stepping closer. He angled the phone downwards, capturing the obscene plunge of the bikini bottom. "Now... bend forward slightly. Just to check the... support." His gaze remained fixed on the screen, not her face. "Priya needs functionality, remember?"
 
The salesgirl returned, her face pale. She held out a scrap of white fabric—a micro-bikini so insubstantial it resembled two folded handkerchiefs connected by fraying threads. Nazrin took it numbly, her fingers brushing the flimsy nylon. Back inside the changing cubicle, she dropped the orange atrocity and stared at the white triangles. It felt like holding cobwebs. She fastened it clumsily; the top offered zero coverage, the thin material stretched taut over her nipples, leaving their dark outline and texture starkly visible beneath the sheer nylon. The bottom was a sliver of fabric riding high into her hip creases. She turned to the mirror. Shock jolted through her—a visceral recoil. She looked utterly exposed, her body a brutalized landscape: the bite mark, the pressure marks from the strings, her nipples clearly defined under the transparent white fabric. Vulnerability warred with a suffocating sense of violation.


 
She pushed the curtain aside. The salesgirl gasped sharply, turning her head away. Srinivasan inhaled audibly, his eyes widening before narrowing into laser focus. His gaze crawled over her—lingering on the visible nipples, tracing the bruised hipbone, the obscenely high cut of the bikini bottom. He stepped unnervingly close, the cloying perfume suddenly overwhelming. "Aspirational," he murmured, his voice thick. His knuckle brushed the sheer fabric covering her nipple, the touch deliberate and cold. "Priya will strive for this... silhouette." He raised his phone again. The flash flared—once, twice—capturing her humiliation in brutal pixels. "Turn," he commanded softly. "Hands behind your head. Show Priya the... freedom."
 
Nazrin obeyed mechanically, lifting her arms. The movement pulled the flimsy top impossibly tighter, the sheer nylon stretching translucently thin. Srinivasan circled her slowly, the phone clicking relentlessly—close-ups of the bite mark, the bikini strings digging into her hips, the exposed lines of her body. "Good," he breathed, stopping behind her. His reflection loomed in the mirror beside hers, predatory satisfaction etched onto his face. His knuckle pressed hard into Praveen’s bruise again. "Hold," he whispered, the word hot against her ear. Another flash exploded. "Priya needs to see... commitment."
 
The instant he lowered the phone, Nazrin ducked back into the changing room, tearing at the bikini knots like they were burning her. Her fingers fumbled with the saree's folds, wrapping the familiar silk around her body like armor. She emerged moments later, clutching the pile of cheap garments—the zebra top, the denim scrap, the orange atrocity, the white humiliation—and thrust them at the stunned salesgirl. "Pack them," Nazrin commanded, her voice flat steel. Srinivasan watched, amused, then pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet. He peeled off notes without counting, tossing them onto the counter. "Keep the change," he dismissed the girl, already steering Nazrin towards the exit by her elbow. The boutique's oppressive chill fell away as they stepped into the mall's humid roar.
 
Outside 'Aura', the air-conditioned silence shattered into the mall's cacophony—shrill laughter, pounding music, the clatter of trays. Srinivasan guided her past glittering storefronts, his grip firm on her arm. "Priya will be delighted," he announced, as if discussing groceries. "You performed admirably." His thumb rubbed circles on her silk-covered elbow. "Such... dedication deserves acknowledgment." He steered her towards a garish café, its chrome stools gleaming under neon lights. "Coffee? Or perhaps..." His gaze slid over her saree, "...something stronger?"