25-11-2025, 03:49 PM
Scene 15
The Old Man actor was gone, helped out by the sound guy. Mrs. Kohli tossed a cheap, thin cotton sari at Amara. “Hurry up. Put this on. No blouse, remember? Wrap it tight around your middle. We need to see your thin waist and the way your breasts hang.”
Amara, silent and empty, obeyed. She wrapped the sari, tucking it in tight at her slim waist. The fabric was thin and rough. With no blouse, her large, heavy breasts were completely exposed beneath the single layer of thin cotton. The sari was dbangd low, and the fabric pulled tight across her chest, stretching to cover the fullness, but clinging to the sensitive, still-leaking nipples.
Mrs. Kohli handed Amara a small, hand-held mirror. “Clean your face. Wipe the last of the tears. We need the beautiful maid, not the crying victim.”
Amara looked into the mirror. Her eyes were red, but her face was calm now, hard and empty. She wiped the last traces of sorrow away, accepting the mask.
In the living room, the cameraman, Sonu, was moving the camera back. “Wide shot, Madam. We need the full length of the bed and the floor for this.”
“Perfect!” Mrs. Kohli called. “The rich man is here.”
The door opened, and a new male actor walked in. He was young, much taller than the Old Man, with dark, slicked-back hair. He wore expensive, dark pants, and his boots were polished so brightly that they shone under the hot studio lights. He did not look at Amara’s face, only glanced at her body with a bored, arrogant look.
He walked straight to the single bed and, without looking at the crew, jumped onto it. The bed bounced with his weight. He sat back against the pillows, acting like a king.
“Ready, Mr. Kapoor,” Mrs. Kohli said, eager and respectful. “Amara, finish getting ready.”
The rich man actor, Mr. Kapoor, suddenly pulled his shirt off. He tossed it onto the floor, right where Amara would clean. Underneath, he wore a simple white vest, but his arms and chest were strong and muscled. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on Amara, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face.
Mrs. Kohli gave Amara a wet cloth and a small bucket of water. “Amara, go to your mark. Get down on the floor and start cleaning near his feet. Remember your skirt must be pulled up slightly for this scene.”
Amara, now completely numb, walked to the spot. She dropped down onto her knees, pulling the skirt of her sari up just enough to show the smooth skin of her thighs. She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and bent forward low, starting to wipe the floor right next to the rich man's shiny boots.
As she bent, the loose, thin fabric of the sari fell away from her chest. Her large, heavy breasts swung down freely, their weight pulling the thin fabric away from her body. The rich man actor’s eyes tracked the movement, the smile on his face growing wider and more excited.
Amara wiped the floor once, practicing the movement. Mrs. Kohli watched every detail.
“Amara, be ready,” Mrs. Kohli said, her voice shaking with excitement. She looked from the bent, exposed figure of Amara to the eager, rich man on the bed. “The camera is rolling, Sonu! Remember the final shot is the bonus!”
Mrs. Kohli took a deep breath. She clapped her hands together one last time.
“And ACTION!”
Scene 16
“And ACTION!” Mrs. Kohli’s command was the last sound Amara truly heard.
Amara was on her knees, the damp cloth wiping the floor, the thin sari revealing her full, heavy breasts with every forward bend. She looked up at the rich man, Mr. Kapoor, who was sitting on the bed. His cruel, power-hungry eyes were fixed only on her exposed body.
Amara tried to look like the humble maid, but the heat of shame and the memory of the ten lakh made her movements stiff.
The rich man actor didn’t wait long. His hand reached into the front of his expensive pants. He was looking at Amara, and his smile was a mean, hard line.
“You wipe the floor too well, maid,” the rich man said, his voice cold and commanding. “I don't want your hands on the floor. I want them on me.”
Amara was supposed to follow the script and refuse a few times, playing the shy maid. She forced the words out. “Sir, I must clean. This is my work.”
“Work?” the rich man scoffed, his eyes flashing with cruel intelligence. “You intentionally forget the blouse when you came in. You wear that thin cloth so your special gift is shown. You came here for only one thing, little maid. Don’t lie.”
He jumped off the bed, his shiny boots thudding softly on the floor. He rushed toward Amara, who was still kneeling, and pulled her roughly up by the shoulders. He didn’t use his hands for the camera; he used them for himself.
Ignoring the script completely, he pressed his mouth down onto Amara's. His kiss was hard, rough, and demanding. Amara felt the sudden shock of his tongue forcing its way in. His hands, without waiting for any further acting, moved down inside the thin cloth of her sari.
He pushed his fingers deep inside the wet place between her thighs, checking her fiercely. Amara felt the shocking, painful pressure of his hard fingers. He was checking her, testing her, not acting.
Amara closed her eyes tight. The total loss of control, the furious, rough kiss, and the deep, sudden invasion of his fingers made her mind snap. The shame was gone, replaced by the only thing left: instinct. She gave up on the script.
Amara pulled away from his kiss, lowering her body quickly. She dropped back to her knees, but this time, it was not for cleaning. She reached for the front of his pants, her hands shaking, and pulled the zipper down with a harsh, tearing sound.
The rich man gasped, his eyes widening in shock and furious excitement. He had not planned this action.
Amara took the enormous, hard part of him into her mouth, pulling with a desperate, hungry strength. She was giving in to the shame, turning the degradation into the fastest way to the end. It was not in the script. It was not on the bed. It was raw, furious improvisation on the cold floor.
The cameraman, Sonu, seeing the shocking, unscripted action, shouted a quick warning to the sound guy. He adjusted the camera fiercely, zooming in close, filming the two figures on the floor: the rich man's frantic face and Amara's head moving with terrible, desperate speed.
The rich man recovered quickly. He reached down, grabbing Amara’s hair with both hands, using her head as a tool, moving it front and back, faster and faster.
“Oh, Madam, the bonus is ours! The ultimate shot!” the rich man roared, ignoring the script entirely.
He pulled Amara up from the floor, lifting her slim, waist-high into his arms. He slammed her back against the pillows on the bed, spreading her legs wide with his knee. He pushed himself down hard, plunging into her body with a single, massive, painful push.
“USE THE BED! WE HAVE THE BED FOR THESE THINGS! DO IT!” Mrs. Kohli shrieked, running forward, trying to get them back into the proper shot, but nobody listened.
The rich man plunged and pushed with furious, fast strokes, his eyes locked on the camera, his movements completely his own. He ignored Mrs. Kohli’s commands, claiming his final payment with violent, unscripted fury.
He finished with a final, hard spasm, his body collapsing onto Amara’s chest. The terrible, demanding release was complete.
Mrs. Kohli stared at the scene, her face white with rage, but her eyes burning with the realization of the massive profit.
“CUT! CUT! Lock it, Sonu! Lock the camera!” Mrs. Kohli screamed. She ripped the thin sari from Amara’s body, who lay still and broken on the bed. Mrs. Kohli turned her rage onto the rich man.
“You! Mr. Kapoor! You will not do a single scene with us anymore! You broke the set! You broke the script! GET OUT!” Mrs. Kohli screamed, pointing a shaking finger at the door. The rich man simply laughed, satisfied, and walked out, his money earned and his desire fulfilled.
Scene 17
The rich man actor, Mr. Kapoor, had laughed and gone, leaving Amara broken and spent on the bed, her body sticky with sweat and the proof of his violent rush.
Mrs. Kohli stared at Amara for a long time, her anger at the actor forgotten. She only saw the money. She clapped her hands, a sharp, final sound.
“You did well, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, her voice now calm and satisfied. “All three scenes are top-of-the-line work. You are a treasure. But,” she continued, wagging a finger, “I want you to get ready for more scenes. We have time. But first, take a break. Catch your breath, drink water. I will clean you properly. Get inside the bathroom now.”
Amara, too exhausted to argue or even feel shame, walked back to the small bathroom. She stood under the bright light, her body shaking.
Mrs. Kohli followed, carrying a clean, fresh towel, a package of baby wipes, and a bottle of mouthwash. She closed the door firmly.
“We must be clean,” Mrs. Kohli murmured, speaking only to Amara. “This is the secret to our work: clean body, empty mind. Now, hold onto the sink.”
Amara leaned against the cool porcelain sink. Mrs. Kohli knelt down behind her. Amara felt the cold, wet touch of the wipes as Mrs. Kohli began to clean her body again, carefully and deeply. The touch was impersonal, clinical, but thorough. Mrs. Kohli used the hand shower to properly clean Amara's private parts, rinsing away the last traces of the rich man’s act.
“Now, turn around,” Mrs. Kohli ordered. She took the bar of soap and rubbed it over Amara’s lips and tongue, giving her a small bottle of mouthwash to rinse out her mouth. “We must erase all the memory,” Mrs. Kohli said, her face blank.
Finally, she cleaned Amara’s breasts, using a soft, clean cloth. Amara’s breasts were still full, swollen, and leaking slightly from the repeated friction.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Kohli said, satisfied. She dried Amara with the fresh towel. “I am going out now. We will meet in exactly thirty minutes. Be ready, Amara. Do not think. Just be ready.”
Mrs. Kohli left the bathroom. Amara, alone and cleaned, drank glass after glass of water. She felt hollowed out, empty of shame, fear, and even hope. There was only the strange, cold knowledge that she had done everything, and it wasn't enough.
Thirty minutes later, Amara was dressed in a simple, fresh nightgown provided by Mrs. Kohli. She came out of the bathroom. The living room set was changed again. The bed was still there, but the harsh lights were dimmed, and the camera was set up for a softer, more intimate shot.
Mrs. Kohli was sitting at a small table, applying heavy, dark red lipstick in a hand mirror. She did not look at Amara’s body.
“Amara, come sit down,” Mrs. Kohli said, pointing to a stool. “The next film is going to be the biggest hit. It is very popular in the West. It’s called ‘The Doctor’s Checkup.’”
Amara sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Mrs. Kohli started to explain the script, her voice excited. “You have come to the doctor for a breast exam. You are worried because your breasts are too heavy, too full, and leaking. The lady doctor will check you.”
“Upon seeing the milk, the doctor will become fascinated. She will ask you to lay down on the bed. She will start talking to you softly, asking you to forget your clothes. She will then begin to massage your breasts, playing with the milk, and exploring your whole body on the bed.”
Mrs. Kohli finished applying her lipstick, her lips shining bright red. She looked up at Amara, and Amara saw the intense, excited look in Mrs. Kohli’s eyes.
Amara looked from Mrs. Kohli’s face, now covered in heavy makeup, to the bed, and then to the tight, fitted white lab coat hanging on the door.
A cold certainty rushed through Amara’s empty body. She finally understood.
“Mrs. Kohli,” Amara asked, her voice barely a whisper, thick with shock and a new, terrible realization. “I am playing the doctor. Right? This is a scene between you and me. I am the one wearing the coat.”
Mrs. Kohli smiled, a slow, wicked, red-lipsticked smile. She stood up and walked to the lab coat.
“No, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, picking up the white coat and holding it out. “You are the patient. The one being checked. I am the doctor.”
Scene 18
The lights in the living room were soft and dim. Mrs. Kohli, looking sharp and powerful in the white lab coat, sat on a chair, pretending to write on a clipboard. Amara, wearing the thin nightgown, sat across from her on another chair, looking small and fragile. The cameraman, Sonu, kept the camera focused on the two women.
Mrs. Kohli gave a gentle nod, signaling the start of the scene.
“Action!”
Mrs. Kohli, playing the Doctor, spoke kindly. “Tell me, my dear. What is the issue? Why are you here to see me today, the lady doctor?”
Amara, playing the Patient, forced herself to speak the truth of her situation. “Doctor, I am worried. My breasts are too heavy, too full. They are leaking all the time, even though I have no child. It is causing me pain and much shame.”
The Doctor leaned forward, her red lips forming a concerned shape. “Hmm. I see. I must examine them, of course. Please, remove your gown so I can check their health.”
Amara, now completely numb to the act, lifted the thin nightgown over her head. Her full, heavy breasts were instantly bare and hanging loose, still glistening slightly with moisture from the cleaning. The camera zoomed in close.
The moment the milk was exposed, Mrs. Kohli’s kind doctor mask broke. The professional act was over. Her eyes, filled with a raw, intense excitement, fixed on the swell of Amara’s chest.
“Forget the examination!” Mrs. Kohli suddenly hissed, throwing the clipboard onto the table. She grabbed Amara’s arms and pulled her violently, but quickly, from her chair and onto the bed beside her.
“I was waiting since yesterday to taste them!” Mrs. Kohli cried out, her voice rough with pure desire. She was acting for the camera, but the hunger was real.
Mrs. Kohli pulled Amara’s chest closer to her face. She closed her mouth over Amara’s left breast, sucking hard and deep, just like Didi had done, but with a new, furious energy. The camera was still rolling, capturing the intense, messy action.
The fierce pull made Amara gasp. She felt the heavy relief, the sudden emptiness, as the milk flowed into Mrs. Kohli’s greedy mouth. Mrs. Kohli pulled Amara closer, holding her tightly with one hand, drinking until the flow slowed down and the breast felt soft and light.
Amara was shaking from the unexpected intimacy and the strange, deep pleasure of having her fullness finally drained. She had been used all day, but her own body had not been satisfied. She was filled with a deep, aching arousal that the men had ignored, only caring about their own release.
Amara looked down at the top of Mrs. Kohli’s head. She was no longer the frightened patient; she was a woman desperate for her own release.
“Doctor, you need to help me!” Amara cried out, her voice loud, raw, and completely unscripted. The words were a real plea. “I have never had so much in a single day! I need your tongue right here! Come! Please!”
Mrs. Kohli stopped drinking, her mouth wet with the milky moisture. She looked up at Amara, her eyes shocked but instantly recognizing the desperate command in the patient’s voice. The camera was still running, and the Doctor knew the scene demanded she answer the patient’s final, essential need.
Helpless to the perfect chaos of the moment, Mrs. Kohli dropped off the bed and knelt on the floor between Amara’s thighs. She reached up, pulling Amara’s legs wide. She pushed her face down, using her tongue and fingers to finally bring Amara to the release she had been denied all day.
Amara screamed, a long, high, raw sound that was not shame or pain, but pure, complete physical release. Her body arched high off the bed, shaking uncontrollably, and then she collapsed back onto the sheets, spent and finally empty.
Mrs. Kohli stood up, her red lipstick smeared, her lab coat hanging crooked. She stepped quickly out of the camera’s view.
“CUT! CUT! Lock it, Sonu! That is the final masterpiece!” Mrs. Kohli shouted, her voice shaking with triumph.
Amara lay still on the bed, her body spent, her consciousness consumed by the cold, heavy knowledge that the terrible, long day was finally over, and the payment, the promise of more than ten lakh, was sealed.
Scene 19
Amara lay still on the bed, her body exhausted, her mind finally empty. The silence in the room was heavy after Mrs. Kohli’s final, shouting command.
Mrs. Kohli, looking triumphant and messy in her crooked white lab coat, stepped back into the frame. She leaned over Amara, her face close.
“This is all the time we have, Amara. Great job,” Mrs. Kohli said, her voice full of satisfaction. “All three scenes—the Didi, the Old Man, and our little Doctor scene—are top-of-the-line work. You are gold, my dear.”
Mrs. Kohli straightened her coat. “Let’s pack up. I will meet you when the entire crew is gone. We have private business to finish.”
Forty long minutes later, the cameraman and the sound guy had packed all the equipment and left the flat. The door clicked shut, leaving only the sound of the air conditioning and the two women.
Mrs. Kohli pulled a small, expensive-looking leather bag from a cupboard. She sat down at the table and began to count out thick bundles of cash.
“Amara, come here. Sit. I want to know, truly, will you be doing more work with me? I can make you rich, famous in our small world. You have a special gift.”
Amara, now dressed back in her simple, clean cotton suit, felt a deep, cold fear. She sensed the trap immediately. She had to stay valuable, stay good, to get the money she was owed.
“Yes, yes,” Amara said immediately, nodding quickly. “I will do more work, Mrs. Kohli. Anything you need.”
Mrs. Kohli smiled, pleased. She finished counting the cash. She pulled five thick bundles out and pushed them across the table toward Amara.
“Here you go, child. Five lakh rupees.”
Amara stared at the cash. Five lakh. She had been promised ten lakh—at least—for the three unscripted, violent acts. She looked from the big pile of money to Mrs. Kohli’s face, the huge gap in the payment slamming into her tired mind.
“Mrs. Kohli,” Amara whispered, her voice tight with panic. “The full shot… the violence… you said ten lakh minimum. And you said I would get the entire amount at the end of the shoot. This is not fair!”
Mrs. Kohli sighed, looking bored. She put the rest of the cash into her own bag and zipped it up. “Listen, Amara. I came prepared for the initial five lakh, but the bonus cash—the extra that your unscripted scenes earned—is too much for me to carry alone. One of the crew members didn't bring the amount I asked him to bring. This happens sometimes in our fast business.”
“But don’t worry. Once I receive the payment for these scenes from the buyers—and believe me, those last two films will sell for a massive amount—I will pay the remaining amount to you.”
Amara, her hands gripping the five lakh tightly, felt sick. “How much will the remaining amount be? Tell me exactly.”
“That depends on how much I get these scenes sold for, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, her eyes glittering with greed. “But I can roughly say about ten more lakh you can expect. Maybe fifteen. I will send it to you next week.”
Ten more lakh. Amara knew this was too much money to walk away from, too much to leave up to chance. She was trapped by the promise of wealth she desperately needed.
Amara looked around the room, her eyes falling on a set of keys lying next to a small lamp. They were a cheap set of apartment keys, but on the main ring was a small, plastic tag with the name 'K. Kohli' written on it in permanent marker.
In a sudden, desperate movement, Amara snatched the keys from the table and pulled them into her lap, adding them to the weight of the five lakh cash.
“This stays with me,” Amara said, her voice shaking but firm. “I saw your name written on the keys. I will keep these until you send me the rest of the money.”
Mrs. Kohli stared at the space where the keys had been, then looked back at Amara. A slow, chilling smile returned to her face.
“You can keep the keys, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, completely calm. “I have another one at home. But remember this: I do not cheat people. You will get your due for sure, my golden girl. You will be very, very rich. Now, go home and wait for my call.”
The Old Man actor was gone, helped out by the sound guy. Mrs. Kohli tossed a cheap, thin cotton sari at Amara. “Hurry up. Put this on. No blouse, remember? Wrap it tight around your middle. We need to see your thin waist and the way your breasts hang.”
Amara, silent and empty, obeyed. She wrapped the sari, tucking it in tight at her slim waist. The fabric was thin and rough. With no blouse, her large, heavy breasts were completely exposed beneath the single layer of thin cotton. The sari was dbangd low, and the fabric pulled tight across her chest, stretching to cover the fullness, but clinging to the sensitive, still-leaking nipples.
Mrs. Kohli handed Amara a small, hand-held mirror. “Clean your face. Wipe the last of the tears. We need the beautiful maid, not the crying victim.”
Amara looked into the mirror. Her eyes were red, but her face was calm now, hard and empty. She wiped the last traces of sorrow away, accepting the mask.
In the living room, the cameraman, Sonu, was moving the camera back. “Wide shot, Madam. We need the full length of the bed and the floor for this.”
“Perfect!” Mrs. Kohli called. “The rich man is here.”
The door opened, and a new male actor walked in. He was young, much taller than the Old Man, with dark, slicked-back hair. He wore expensive, dark pants, and his boots were polished so brightly that they shone under the hot studio lights. He did not look at Amara’s face, only glanced at her body with a bored, arrogant look.
He walked straight to the single bed and, without looking at the crew, jumped onto it. The bed bounced with his weight. He sat back against the pillows, acting like a king.
“Ready, Mr. Kapoor,” Mrs. Kohli said, eager and respectful. “Amara, finish getting ready.”
The rich man actor, Mr. Kapoor, suddenly pulled his shirt off. He tossed it onto the floor, right where Amara would clean. Underneath, he wore a simple white vest, but his arms and chest were strong and muscled. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on Amara, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face.
Mrs. Kohli gave Amara a wet cloth and a small bucket of water. “Amara, go to your mark. Get down on the floor and start cleaning near his feet. Remember your skirt must be pulled up slightly for this scene.”
Amara, now completely numb, walked to the spot. She dropped down onto her knees, pulling the skirt of her sari up just enough to show the smooth skin of her thighs. She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and bent forward low, starting to wipe the floor right next to the rich man's shiny boots.
As she bent, the loose, thin fabric of the sari fell away from her chest. Her large, heavy breasts swung down freely, their weight pulling the thin fabric away from her body. The rich man actor’s eyes tracked the movement, the smile on his face growing wider and more excited.
Amara wiped the floor once, practicing the movement. Mrs. Kohli watched every detail.
“Amara, be ready,” Mrs. Kohli said, her voice shaking with excitement. She looked from the bent, exposed figure of Amara to the eager, rich man on the bed. “The camera is rolling, Sonu! Remember the final shot is the bonus!”
Mrs. Kohli took a deep breath. She clapped her hands together one last time.
“And ACTION!”
Scene 16
“And ACTION!” Mrs. Kohli’s command was the last sound Amara truly heard.
Amara was on her knees, the damp cloth wiping the floor, the thin sari revealing her full, heavy breasts with every forward bend. She looked up at the rich man, Mr. Kapoor, who was sitting on the bed. His cruel, power-hungry eyes were fixed only on her exposed body.
Amara tried to look like the humble maid, but the heat of shame and the memory of the ten lakh made her movements stiff.
The rich man actor didn’t wait long. His hand reached into the front of his expensive pants. He was looking at Amara, and his smile was a mean, hard line.
“You wipe the floor too well, maid,” the rich man said, his voice cold and commanding. “I don't want your hands on the floor. I want them on me.”
Amara was supposed to follow the script and refuse a few times, playing the shy maid. She forced the words out. “Sir, I must clean. This is my work.”
“Work?” the rich man scoffed, his eyes flashing with cruel intelligence. “You intentionally forget the blouse when you came in. You wear that thin cloth so your special gift is shown. You came here for only one thing, little maid. Don’t lie.”
He jumped off the bed, his shiny boots thudding softly on the floor. He rushed toward Amara, who was still kneeling, and pulled her roughly up by the shoulders. He didn’t use his hands for the camera; he used them for himself.
Ignoring the script completely, he pressed his mouth down onto Amara's. His kiss was hard, rough, and demanding. Amara felt the sudden shock of his tongue forcing its way in. His hands, without waiting for any further acting, moved down inside the thin cloth of her sari.
He pushed his fingers deep inside the wet place between her thighs, checking her fiercely. Amara felt the shocking, painful pressure of his hard fingers. He was checking her, testing her, not acting.
Amara closed her eyes tight. The total loss of control, the furious, rough kiss, and the deep, sudden invasion of his fingers made her mind snap. The shame was gone, replaced by the only thing left: instinct. She gave up on the script.
Amara pulled away from his kiss, lowering her body quickly. She dropped back to her knees, but this time, it was not for cleaning. She reached for the front of his pants, her hands shaking, and pulled the zipper down with a harsh, tearing sound.
The rich man gasped, his eyes widening in shock and furious excitement. He had not planned this action.
Amara took the enormous, hard part of him into her mouth, pulling with a desperate, hungry strength. She was giving in to the shame, turning the degradation into the fastest way to the end. It was not in the script. It was not on the bed. It was raw, furious improvisation on the cold floor.
The cameraman, Sonu, seeing the shocking, unscripted action, shouted a quick warning to the sound guy. He adjusted the camera fiercely, zooming in close, filming the two figures on the floor: the rich man's frantic face and Amara's head moving with terrible, desperate speed.
The rich man recovered quickly. He reached down, grabbing Amara’s hair with both hands, using her head as a tool, moving it front and back, faster and faster.
“Oh, Madam, the bonus is ours! The ultimate shot!” the rich man roared, ignoring the script entirely.
He pulled Amara up from the floor, lifting her slim, waist-high into his arms. He slammed her back against the pillows on the bed, spreading her legs wide with his knee. He pushed himself down hard, plunging into her body with a single, massive, painful push.
“USE THE BED! WE HAVE THE BED FOR THESE THINGS! DO IT!” Mrs. Kohli shrieked, running forward, trying to get them back into the proper shot, but nobody listened.
The rich man plunged and pushed with furious, fast strokes, his eyes locked on the camera, his movements completely his own. He ignored Mrs. Kohli’s commands, claiming his final payment with violent, unscripted fury.
He finished with a final, hard spasm, his body collapsing onto Amara’s chest. The terrible, demanding release was complete.
Mrs. Kohli stared at the scene, her face white with rage, but her eyes burning with the realization of the massive profit.
“CUT! CUT! Lock it, Sonu! Lock the camera!” Mrs. Kohli screamed. She ripped the thin sari from Amara’s body, who lay still and broken on the bed. Mrs. Kohli turned her rage onto the rich man.
“You! Mr. Kapoor! You will not do a single scene with us anymore! You broke the set! You broke the script! GET OUT!” Mrs. Kohli screamed, pointing a shaking finger at the door. The rich man simply laughed, satisfied, and walked out, his money earned and his desire fulfilled.
Scene 17
The rich man actor, Mr. Kapoor, had laughed and gone, leaving Amara broken and spent on the bed, her body sticky with sweat and the proof of his violent rush.
Mrs. Kohli stared at Amara for a long time, her anger at the actor forgotten. She only saw the money. She clapped her hands, a sharp, final sound.
“You did well, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, her voice now calm and satisfied. “All three scenes are top-of-the-line work. You are a treasure. But,” she continued, wagging a finger, “I want you to get ready for more scenes. We have time. But first, take a break. Catch your breath, drink water. I will clean you properly. Get inside the bathroom now.”
Amara, too exhausted to argue or even feel shame, walked back to the small bathroom. She stood under the bright light, her body shaking.
Mrs. Kohli followed, carrying a clean, fresh towel, a package of baby wipes, and a bottle of mouthwash. She closed the door firmly.
“We must be clean,” Mrs. Kohli murmured, speaking only to Amara. “This is the secret to our work: clean body, empty mind. Now, hold onto the sink.”
Amara leaned against the cool porcelain sink. Mrs. Kohli knelt down behind her. Amara felt the cold, wet touch of the wipes as Mrs. Kohli began to clean her body again, carefully and deeply. The touch was impersonal, clinical, but thorough. Mrs. Kohli used the hand shower to properly clean Amara's private parts, rinsing away the last traces of the rich man’s act.
“Now, turn around,” Mrs. Kohli ordered. She took the bar of soap and rubbed it over Amara’s lips and tongue, giving her a small bottle of mouthwash to rinse out her mouth. “We must erase all the memory,” Mrs. Kohli said, her face blank.
Finally, she cleaned Amara’s breasts, using a soft, clean cloth. Amara’s breasts were still full, swollen, and leaking slightly from the repeated friction.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Kohli said, satisfied. She dried Amara with the fresh towel. “I am going out now. We will meet in exactly thirty minutes. Be ready, Amara. Do not think. Just be ready.”
Mrs. Kohli left the bathroom. Amara, alone and cleaned, drank glass after glass of water. She felt hollowed out, empty of shame, fear, and even hope. There was only the strange, cold knowledge that she had done everything, and it wasn't enough.
Thirty minutes later, Amara was dressed in a simple, fresh nightgown provided by Mrs. Kohli. She came out of the bathroom. The living room set was changed again. The bed was still there, but the harsh lights were dimmed, and the camera was set up for a softer, more intimate shot.
Mrs. Kohli was sitting at a small table, applying heavy, dark red lipstick in a hand mirror. She did not look at Amara’s body.
“Amara, come sit down,” Mrs. Kohli said, pointing to a stool. “The next film is going to be the biggest hit. It is very popular in the West. It’s called ‘The Doctor’s Checkup.’”
Amara sat, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Mrs. Kohli started to explain the script, her voice excited. “You have come to the doctor for a breast exam. You are worried because your breasts are too heavy, too full, and leaking. The lady doctor will check you.”
“Upon seeing the milk, the doctor will become fascinated. She will ask you to lay down on the bed. She will start talking to you softly, asking you to forget your clothes. She will then begin to massage your breasts, playing with the milk, and exploring your whole body on the bed.”
Mrs. Kohli finished applying her lipstick, her lips shining bright red. She looked up at Amara, and Amara saw the intense, excited look in Mrs. Kohli’s eyes.
Amara looked from Mrs. Kohli’s face, now covered in heavy makeup, to the bed, and then to the tight, fitted white lab coat hanging on the door.
A cold certainty rushed through Amara’s empty body. She finally understood.
“Mrs. Kohli,” Amara asked, her voice barely a whisper, thick with shock and a new, terrible realization. “I am playing the doctor. Right? This is a scene between you and me. I am the one wearing the coat.”
Mrs. Kohli smiled, a slow, wicked, red-lipsticked smile. She stood up and walked to the lab coat.
“No, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, picking up the white coat and holding it out. “You are the patient. The one being checked. I am the doctor.”
Scene 18
The lights in the living room were soft and dim. Mrs. Kohli, looking sharp and powerful in the white lab coat, sat on a chair, pretending to write on a clipboard. Amara, wearing the thin nightgown, sat across from her on another chair, looking small and fragile. The cameraman, Sonu, kept the camera focused on the two women.
Mrs. Kohli gave a gentle nod, signaling the start of the scene.
“Action!”
Mrs. Kohli, playing the Doctor, spoke kindly. “Tell me, my dear. What is the issue? Why are you here to see me today, the lady doctor?”
Amara, playing the Patient, forced herself to speak the truth of her situation. “Doctor, I am worried. My breasts are too heavy, too full. They are leaking all the time, even though I have no child. It is causing me pain and much shame.”
The Doctor leaned forward, her red lips forming a concerned shape. “Hmm. I see. I must examine them, of course. Please, remove your gown so I can check their health.”
Amara, now completely numb to the act, lifted the thin nightgown over her head. Her full, heavy breasts were instantly bare and hanging loose, still glistening slightly with moisture from the cleaning. The camera zoomed in close.
The moment the milk was exposed, Mrs. Kohli’s kind doctor mask broke. The professional act was over. Her eyes, filled with a raw, intense excitement, fixed on the swell of Amara’s chest.
“Forget the examination!” Mrs. Kohli suddenly hissed, throwing the clipboard onto the table. She grabbed Amara’s arms and pulled her violently, but quickly, from her chair and onto the bed beside her.
“I was waiting since yesterday to taste them!” Mrs. Kohli cried out, her voice rough with pure desire. She was acting for the camera, but the hunger was real.
Mrs. Kohli pulled Amara’s chest closer to her face. She closed her mouth over Amara’s left breast, sucking hard and deep, just like Didi had done, but with a new, furious energy. The camera was still rolling, capturing the intense, messy action.
The fierce pull made Amara gasp. She felt the heavy relief, the sudden emptiness, as the milk flowed into Mrs. Kohli’s greedy mouth. Mrs. Kohli pulled Amara closer, holding her tightly with one hand, drinking until the flow slowed down and the breast felt soft and light.
Amara was shaking from the unexpected intimacy and the strange, deep pleasure of having her fullness finally drained. She had been used all day, but her own body had not been satisfied. She was filled with a deep, aching arousal that the men had ignored, only caring about their own release.
Amara looked down at the top of Mrs. Kohli’s head. She was no longer the frightened patient; she was a woman desperate for her own release.
“Doctor, you need to help me!” Amara cried out, her voice loud, raw, and completely unscripted. The words were a real plea. “I have never had so much in a single day! I need your tongue right here! Come! Please!”
Mrs. Kohli stopped drinking, her mouth wet with the milky moisture. She looked up at Amara, her eyes shocked but instantly recognizing the desperate command in the patient’s voice. The camera was still running, and the Doctor knew the scene demanded she answer the patient’s final, essential need.
Helpless to the perfect chaos of the moment, Mrs. Kohli dropped off the bed and knelt on the floor between Amara’s thighs. She reached up, pulling Amara’s legs wide. She pushed her face down, using her tongue and fingers to finally bring Amara to the release she had been denied all day.
Amara screamed, a long, high, raw sound that was not shame or pain, but pure, complete physical release. Her body arched high off the bed, shaking uncontrollably, and then she collapsed back onto the sheets, spent and finally empty.
Mrs. Kohli stood up, her red lipstick smeared, her lab coat hanging crooked. She stepped quickly out of the camera’s view.
“CUT! CUT! Lock it, Sonu! That is the final masterpiece!” Mrs. Kohli shouted, her voice shaking with triumph.
Amara lay still on the bed, her body spent, her consciousness consumed by the cold, heavy knowledge that the terrible, long day was finally over, and the payment, the promise of more than ten lakh, was sealed.
Scene 19
Amara lay still on the bed, her body exhausted, her mind finally empty. The silence in the room was heavy after Mrs. Kohli’s final, shouting command.
Mrs. Kohli, looking triumphant and messy in her crooked white lab coat, stepped back into the frame. She leaned over Amara, her face close.
“This is all the time we have, Amara. Great job,” Mrs. Kohli said, her voice full of satisfaction. “All three scenes—the Didi, the Old Man, and our little Doctor scene—are top-of-the-line work. You are gold, my dear.”
Mrs. Kohli straightened her coat. “Let’s pack up. I will meet you when the entire crew is gone. We have private business to finish.”
Forty long minutes later, the cameraman and the sound guy had packed all the equipment and left the flat. The door clicked shut, leaving only the sound of the air conditioning and the two women.
Mrs. Kohli pulled a small, expensive-looking leather bag from a cupboard. She sat down at the table and began to count out thick bundles of cash.
“Amara, come here. Sit. I want to know, truly, will you be doing more work with me? I can make you rich, famous in our small world. You have a special gift.”
Amara, now dressed back in her simple, clean cotton suit, felt a deep, cold fear. She sensed the trap immediately. She had to stay valuable, stay good, to get the money she was owed.
“Yes, yes,” Amara said immediately, nodding quickly. “I will do more work, Mrs. Kohli. Anything you need.”
Mrs. Kohli smiled, pleased. She finished counting the cash. She pulled five thick bundles out and pushed them across the table toward Amara.
“Here you go, child. Five lakh rupees.”
Amara stared at the cash. Five lakh. She had been promised ten lakh—at least—for the three unscripted, violent acts. She looked from the big pile of money to Mrs. Kohli’s face, the huge gap in the payment slamming into her tired mind.
“Mrs. Kohli,” Amara whispered, her voice tight with panic. “The full shot… the violence… you said ten lakh minimum. And you said I would get the entire amount at the end of the shoot. This is not fair!”
Mrs. Kohli sighed, looking bored. She put the rest of the cash into her own bag and zipped it up. “Listen, Amara. I came prepared for the initial five lakh, but the bonus cash—the extra that your unscripted scenes earned—is too much for me to carry alone. One of the crew members didn't bring the amount I asked him to bring. This happens sometimes in our fast business.”
“But don’t worry. Once I receive the payment for these scenes from the buyers—and believe me, those last two films will sell for a massive amount—I will pay the remaining amount to you.”
Amara, her hands gripping the five lakh tightly, felt sick. “How much will the remaining amount be? Tell me exactly.”
“That depends on how much I get these scenes sold for, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, her eyes glittering with greed. “But I can roughly say about ten more lakh you can expect. Maybe fifteen. I will send it to you next week.”
Ten more lakh. Amara knew this was too much money to walk away from, too much to leave up to chance. She was trapped by the promise of wealth she desperately needed.
Amara looked around the room, her eyes falling on a set of keys lying next to a small lamp. They were a cheap set of apartment keys, but on the main ring was a small, plastic tag with the name 'K. Kohli' written on it in permanent marker.
In a sudden, desperate movement, Amara snatched the keys from the table and pulled them into her lap, adding them to the weight of the five lakh cash.
“This stays with me,” Amara said, her voice shaking but firm. “I saw your name written on the keys. I will keep these until you send me the rest of the money.”
Mrs. Kohli stared at the space where the keys had been, then looked back at Amara. A slow, chilling smile returned to her face.
“You can keep the keys, Amara,” Mrs. Kohli said, completely calm. “I have another one at home. But remember this: I do not cheat people. You will get your due for sure, my golden girl. You will be very, very rich. Now, go home and wait for my call.”
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