16-11-2025, 11:12 PM
Part 1: The Spark and the Scheme – Igniting the Chase
Back in Chandigarh, I’d dabbled in Khalistan sympathies—whispers in college cafes about Sikh pride, sharing memes on social media that poked at Indian unity, nothing too overt but enough to feel rebellious against my conservative upbringing. Landing in Australia amplified it; surrounded by expat Punjabis in Melbourne’s bustling suburbs, I joined casual rallies, waving flags with the Khalistan emblem under the harsh Aussie sun, my chants blending with the crowd’s fervor. It was empowering, a way to reclaim identity amid the isolation. And the clothing? Oh, it evolved. In India, I’d stuck to modest salwar kameez, but here, freedom beckoned—extra-deep V-neck tops that plunged daringly, framing my 34DDD breasts like treasures on display, the soft, porcelain skin flushing under admiring gazes. Short skirts or tight jeans hugged my thick hips and plump ass, heels clicking assertively on sidewalks. It wasn’t just fashion; it was armor, drawing clients for my secret hustle while flaunting my support—pins with Sikh symbols pinned right above my cleavage, a subtle “fuck you” to anyone who opposed.
One sweltering afternoon at a Khalistan solidarity event in a community park—grassy fields dotted with picnic blankets, the air thick with samosa spices and passionate speeches—I caught his eye. Vijay, a 42-year-old tycoon from Mumbai, now a Sydney-based importer of luxury goods, deeply entrenched in RSS circles. Tall, broad-shouldered with a salt-and-pepper beard framing a stern jaw, he exuded power in his crisp white kurta-pajama, gold watch glinting as he mingled with counter-protesters. RSS? To him, it was patriotism incarnate—organizing ***** unity events, funneling funds to pro-India causes abroad, viewing Khalistan as a terrorist splinter threatening Bharat’s integrity. But that day, his ideological fire met a carnal one. From across the divide, his gaze locked on me mid-chant: “Khalistan Zindabad!” My top, a scarlet halter with a neckline dipping to my navel, strained against my heavy breasts, the jiggle from my animated gestures hypnotic. Sweat beaded down my cleavage, tracing shiny paths that disappeared into the lace bra peeking out. He felt a surge—blood rushing south, his cock twitching in his pants, imagining those massive tits bouncing under him, that defiant mouth moaning his name instead of separatist slogans.
Vijay’s perspective: This wasn’t just lust; it was conquest. He’d bedded plenty—models, secretaries—but a Khalistan-supporting Punjabi bombshell? That was poetic justice, turning an enemy into a submissive devotee. He researched me discreetly post-event, snapping a photo from afar and running it through facial recognition apps tied to his network. Found my hotel job, my online profiles hinting at escort vibes. “Perfect,” he thought, stroking his beard in his opulent office overlooking Sydney Harbor, waves lapping like his plotting mind. Plan Phase 1: Infiltrate. He’d book a long stay at my hotel, posing as a neutral businessman, but weave in subtle pro-India talks. Gifts to soften—jewelry symbolizing unity, dinners laced with ideology. If she resisted, escalate: Leverage his wealth for “accidental” encounters, perhaps hire investigators for dirt, but ultimately, seduce her body to break her spirit. Goal: 15 days to make her chant “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” while cumming on his cock.
My side: I noticed him immediately—those piercing eyes undressing me amid the tension. Acted unaware, tossing my hair and amplifying my sway as I passed, but inside? A thrill. His aura screamed money, the kind that could dwarf my current hauls. And sex? My body betrayed me—nipples peaking under his stare, a dampness between thighs imagining his rough hands on my curves. Khalistan was passion, but survival was key; if he pursued, I’d play coy, letting desire and greed pull me under while feigning innocence.
Day 1-3: The Bait. Vijay checked in, requesting me specifically at the desk. “Miss, your service is impeccable,” he purred, eyes dipping to my cleavage as I leaned forward, breasts nearly spilling. I smiled demurely, “Anything for our guests, sir.” He tipped lavishly—$500 notes slipped with a card: “Join me for tea? Discuss cultural ties.” I declined politely, but kept the cash, wiring half home. His plotting: Evening calls to RSS contacts for background—discovered my forums posts supporting Khalistan. “She’ll break,” he smirked, jerking off that night to her photo, cum splattering as he envisioned her on knees, renouncing her cause.
Day 4-6: Escalation. “Accidental” lobby bumps—him “dropping” files, me bending to help, ass high, skirt riding to flash thong. He’d brush my arm, cologne lingering—sandalwood spice making me flush. Gifts arrived: A saffron scarf (RSS color) with a note, “For unity.” I wore it once, curiously, the fabric soft against my skin. His view: Her acceptance was a crack; he upped ante, inviting her to a “neutral” dinner at a rooftop restaurant, city lights twinkling. I went, acting oblivious, but chose a plunging dress, breasts heaving with each laugh. Over wine—rich, oaky—he wove tales of India’s glory, subtly decrying separatism. I defended lightly, but his hand on my thigh under the table sparked heat; I shifted, pressing closer unconsciously, pussy throbbing. That night, alone, I masturbated furiously—fingers plunging deep, imagining his cock, whispering “No…” but cumming hard.
Day 7-9: The Trap Tightens. Vijay’s plan deepened—hired a PI for her schedule, “bumping” into her at a gym. Me in sports bra, tits bouncing on treadmill; him spotting, hands “steadying” my hips. Sweat-slick skin touched, his bulge pressing briefly. “You’re strong, like India should be—united,” he murmured. I laughed it off, but later, in the shower, soapy hands cupped my breasts, pinching nipples, fantasizing surrender for stacks of cash. His perspective: She was weakening; time for ideology push. Sent articles via anonymous email—exposing Khalistan “myths,” promising “rewards” for open minds. I read them secretly, doubt seeding, but lust growing—his wealth evident in chauffeured cars, whispers of private jets.
Day 10-12: Psychological Warfare. He booked a suite, “inviting” me for room service oversight. Arrived to find champagne, dim lights. “Discuss your views,” he said, but hands roamed—tracing my cleavage as I poured. I pulled away, “I’m not like that,” but stayed, body humming. He shared “stories” of converted separatists, offering $10,000 “for a chat.” Greed bit; I listened, thighs clenching. His inner monologue: “She’s mine soon—break her pride.” That night, he plotted the clincher: A staged “threat”—fake Khalistan backlash emails to scare her, positioning himself as protector.
My internal conflict: I knew his game, the stares, touches—but wanted it. Khalistan felt distant; his money close. Body craved the dominance, the taboo of betraying my cause for pleasure.
![[Image: IMG-0147.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/5WyDg0nH/IMG-0147.jpg)
Back in Chandigarh, I’d dabbled in Khalistan sympathies—whispers in college cafes about Sikh pride, sharing memes on social media that poked at Indian unity, nothing too overt but enough to feel rebellious against my conservative upbringing. Landing in Australia amplified it; surrounded by expat Punjabis in Melbourne’s bustling suburbs, I joined casual rallies, waving flags with the Khalistan emblem under the harsh Aussie sun, my chants blending with the crowd’s fervor. It was empowering, a way to reclaim identity amid the isolation. And the clothing? Oh, it evolved. In India, I’d stuck to modest salwar kameez, but here, freedom beckoned—extra-deep V-neck tops that plunged daringly, framing my 34DDD breasts like treasures on display, the soft, porcelain skin flushing under admiring gazes. Short skirts or tight jeans hugged my thick hips and plump ass, heels clicking assertively on sidewalks. It wasn’t just fashion; it was armor, drawing clients for my secret hustle while flaunting my support—pins with Sikh symbols pinned right above my cleavage, a subtle “fuck you” to anyone who opposed.
One sweltering afternoon at a Khalistan solidarity event in a community park—grassy fields dotted with picnic blankets, the air thick with samosa spices and passionate speeches—I caught his eye. Vijay, a 42-year-old tycoon from Mumbai, now a Sydney-based importer of luxury goods, deeply entrenched in RSS circles. Tall, broad-shouldered with a salt-and-pepper beard framing a stern jaw, he exuded power in his crisp white kurta-pajama, gold watch glinting as he mingled with counter-protesters. RSS? To him, it was patriotism incarnate—organizing ***** unity events, funneling funds to pro-India causes abroad, viewing Khalistan as a terrorist splinter threatening Bharat’s integrity. But that day, his ideological fire met a carnal one. From across the divide, his gaze locked on me mid-chant: “Khalistan Zindabad!” My top, a scarlet halter with a neckline dipping to my navel, strained against my heavy breasts, the jiggle from my animated gestures hypnotic. Sweat beaded down my cleavage, tracing shiny paths that disappeared into the lace bra peeking out. He felt a surge—blood rushing south, his cock twitching in his pants, imagining those massive tits bouncing under him, that defiant mouth moaning his name instead of separatist slogans.
Vijay’s perspective: This wasn’t just lust; it was conquest. He’d bedded plenty—models, secretaries—but a Khalistan-supporting Punjabi bombshell? That was poetic justice, turning an enemy into a submissive devotee. He researched me discreetly post-event, snapping a photo from afar and running it through facial recognition apps tied to his network. Found my hotel job, my online profiles hinting at escort vibes. “Perfect,” he thought, stroking his beard in his opulent office overlooking Sydney Harbor, waves lapping like his plotting mind. Plan Phase 1: Infiltrate. He’d book a long stay at my hotel, posing as a neutral businessman, but weave in subtle pro-India talks. Gifts to soften—jewelry symbolizing unity, dinners laced with ideology. If she resisted, escalate: Leverage his wealth for “accidental” encounters, perhaps hire investigators for dirt, but ultimately, seduce her body to break her spirit. Goal: 15 days to make her chant “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” while cumming on his cock.
My side: I noticed him immediately—those piercing eyes undressing me amid the tension. Acted unaware, tossing my hair and amplifying my sway as I passed, but inside? A thrill. His aura screamed money, the kind that could dwarf my current hauls. And sex? My body betrayed me—nipples peaking under his stare, a dampness between thighs imagining his rough hands on my curves. Khalistan was passion, but survival was key; if he pursued, I’d play coy, letting desire and greed pull me under while feigning innocence.
Day 1-3: The Bait. Vijay checked in, requesting me specifically at the desk. “Miss, your service is impeccable,” he purred, eyes dipping to my cleavage as I leaned forward, breasts nearly spilling. I smiled demurely, “Anything for our guests, sir.” He tipped lavishly—$500 notes slipped with a card: “Join me for tea? Discuss cultural ties.” I declined politely, but kept the cash, wiring half home. His plotting: Evening calls to RSS contacts for background—discovered my forums posts supporting Khalistan. “She’ll break,” he smirked, jerking off that night to her photo, cum splattering as he envisioned her on knees, renouncing her cause.
Day 4-6: Escalation. “Accidental” lobby bumps—him “dropping” files, me bending to help, ass high, skirt riding to flash thong. He’d brush my arm, cologne lingering—sandalwood spice making me flush. Gifts arrived: A saffron scarf (RSS color) with a note, “For unity.” I wore it once, curiously, the fabric soft against my skin. His view: Her acceptance was a crack; he upped ante, inviting her to a “neutral” dinner at a rooftop restaurant, city lights twinkling. I went, acting oblivious, but chose a plunging dress, breasts heaving with each laugh. Over wine—rich, oaky—he wove tales of India’s glory, subtly decrying separatism. I defended lightly, but his hand on my thigh under the table sparked heat; I shifted, pressing closer unconsciously, pussy throbbing. That night, alone, I masturbated furiously—fingers plunging deep, imagining his cock, whispering “No…” but cumming hard.
Day 7-9: The Trap Tightens. Vijay’s plan deepened—hired a PI for her schedule, “bumping” into her at a gym. Me in sports bra, tits bouncing on treadmill; him spotting, hands “steadying” my hips. Sweat-slick skin touched, his bulge pressing briefly. “You’re strong, like India should be—united,” he murmured. I laughed it off, but later, in the shower, soapy hands cupped my breasts, pinching nipples, fantasizing surrender for stacks of cash. His perspective: She was weakening; time for ideology push. Sent articles via anonymous email—exposing Khalistan “myths,” promising “rewards” for open minds. I read them secretly, doubt seeding, but lust growing—his wealth evident in chauffeured cars, whispers of private jets.
Day 10-12: Psychological Warfare. He booked a suite, “inviting” me for room service oversight. Arrived to find champagne, dim lights. “Discuss your views,” he said, but hands roamed—tracing my cleavage as I poured. I pulled away, “I’m not like that,” but stayed, body humming. He shared “stories” of converted separatists, offering $10,000 “for a chat.” Greed bit; I listened, thighs clenching. His inner monologue: “She’s mine soon—break her pride.” That night, he plotted the clincher: A staged “threat”—fake Khalistan backlash emails to scare her, positioning himself as protector.
My internal conflict: I knew his game, the stares, touches—but wanted it. Khalistan felt distant; his money close. Body craved the dominance, the taboo of betraying my cause for pleasure.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)