4: Beneath the Surface

29 July 2000

The dusk air hung thick with dust and tobacco smoke as Mani slouched against the tea stall’s wooden counter, drunk on cheap hooch and his own importance. Sweat gleamed on his forehead in the yellow light of the bare bulbs strung overhead, his voice carrying over the evening crowd. The heady aroma of cardamom-infused chai masala mixed with the acrid smoke of beedis, creating that unmistakable evening perfume of Calcutta’s streets.

“Arey dekh re bhai! Photo aisa hai ki Calcutta hilega! I will shake Calcutta with this photo!”

He waved a photograph like it was made of gold leaf instead of chemical paper. The glass cups clinked rhythmically against chipped saucers as the chai-wallah hurried between customers.

Across the stall, half-hidden in shadow, Madan adjusted his lens with practiced fingers. From his perch near Mani’s table, strategically placed by Hari kaka, he watched the scene unfold through his viewfinder, internally shaking his head at the spectacle.

Humidity pressed against his skin like a damp cloth, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his back. Look at this fool, he thought. Entire adda staring at him like he’s some circus attraction, and he still thinks he’s Rajinikanth’s brother.

A bitter smile crossed his face as he imagined the Syndicate members’ reaction if they discovered this thug’s performance tonight. The Syndicate didn’t tolerate loose ends, and Mani had become a fraying thread in a very dangerous tapestry. In the distance, auto rickshaws honked impatiently, their sound merging with street vendors’ calls for last customers.

Madan’s camera clicked silently. Once. Twice. But he needed something better – Mani displaying the photograph clearly enough to identify its contents.

Rising from his spot, Madan slung his bag casually over his shoulder and sauntered closer to Mani’s table, facing the entrance, yet still in the shadows. He moved with the unhurried gait of someone with nowhere particular to be, just another face in Calcutta’s endless human tide. He stopped occasionally, framing innocent shots of street life from the stall – a rickshaw puller dozing between fares, stray dogs fighting over scraps, the last vendor packing away his wares.

Nobody paid him any attention in the gathering darkness.

Especially not Mani, whose boasting had grown louder with each glass of liquor. Madan circled closer. Mani held the photograph up again, jabbing his finger at it while his drinking companions leaned in.

Perfect.

The camera captured the moment with perfect clarity. Mission accomplished.

Priya met Madan near a shuttered hardware shop, in a back alley near the stall, his camera bag slung casually across his shoulder.

“Thik achish toh? You alright?” Madan asked, his concern rough but genuine seeing the girl that got away. Priya gave a tired smile. “Bachhe gechi, Madan-da. Thanks to you. I won’t forget this.”

Madan waved it off. “Arre baba, forget ki? I just clicked photos. Kunal told me what you’re trying to do. Big game, big risks. But it matters.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ei Mani toh pura nautanki hoye geche. Full drama king. Sitting there like a local superstar, waving that photo around like he’s Rajnikanth. God help him if the Syndicate gets wind of this stunt. Syndicate ke toh pura headache de debe. If any leak happens, first name they’ll suspect? Mani. Not you. Use that.”

Priya’s eyes lit up, already calculating.

“Smart cover. Makes my job easier. The girls who work inside ... if I feed them info about Mani’s drunken boasting ... any heat stays on him.”

Madan nodded approvingly. “Exactly. Kitchen staff, laundry girls, housemaids ... nobody notices them, but they see everything. And now they’ll have reason to believe Mani talks too much. Easy to pass messages that way.” Priya smiled, feeling her plan tighten. “Cheap saree. Worn slippers. Nose pin. New name. I become invisible.” Madan grinned. “Dangerous when invisible, Priya. Just stay careful. Calcutta’s roads are more slippery than the Syndicate’s lies.” She would build her whisper network. Quiet. Patient. Deadly.

Priya moved through the dimly lit lanes of BD Block, scanning the small stalls and pavement shops. No fancy boutiques. No brands. She needed to disappear in plain sight. The pungent smell of the nearby fish market lingered in the air, mingling oddly with the sweet smoke of incense from a corner shrine. Each breath left a fine coating of dust in her throat, making her crave water. Not just clothes. She needed something more. A way to hide her face without inviting attention. A scarf? Too obvious. Dark sunglasses? Suspicious at night.

Then it hit her. The humble cotton gamchha. Used by hawkers, cleaners, rickshaw pullers. Worn across the face or head in a dozen natural ways.

Simple. Local. Invisible.

She found an old street-side shop that sold them by the dozen. Muted colours. Thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to blur her features. Perfect. She ran her fingers across the rough cotton, testing its texture against her skin. It felt honest, working-class – exactly what she needed.

Next stop: an old roadside saree shop run by a woman with tired eyes and sharper instincts. Around her, the cacophony of haggling voices competed with crackling radio music from half a dozen different stalls, each blaring different songs. “Bhalo quality nai dorkar. I don’t care about the quality. Jemon cheap dekhay, temon bhalo. They just need to be cheap, okay?”

Priya smiled lightly.

The woman chuckled knowingly. “Arey, undercover heroine naki? (Hey, what is this? Trying to be an undercover heroine or what?)” Priya grinned, slipping cash to her. Soon, she had a set of simple, faded cotton sarees, worn slippers, a tiny steel nose-pin, an old canvas bag, and now a couple of plain gamchhas. By the time she left, she looked every bit the lower middle-class working woman who blended into Calcutta’s morning crowd.

But her work was just beginning.

She tested her look in the reflective glass of a shut shop. Head covered loosely. Gamchha draped across her mouth and nose, as if to keep out dust. Nobody would look twice.

Perfect.

She made her way to a run-down chai shop near a Syndicate-run building. Some of the kitchen girls were having their quick break outside.

Priya casually joined them, sipping her tea silently. Listening more than speaking. Learning names. Work timings. Who trusted whom. Who hated Mani’s guts.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, unremarkable.

“Arre ... Mani bhai toh kal pura picture chalu kar diya. Photo wave kore, sob ke bolchhe. Drunk full. (Mani bhai was in full drama mode yesterday. Waving the photo around, telling anyone who would listen. Completely drunk.)”

A few giggled. Others nodded knowingly.

If Syndicate ears picked up that gossip, it would only lead back to Mani.

Her cover was safe. And her network? Slowly forming.

She would move in the shadows.

Not as Priya.

But as nobody at all.

It would take time. But it had begun.

Before returning home, Priya made her way to an old, half-broken godown tucked away near BD Block. It was a known refuge for trafficked girls on the move.

There she spotted her contact — Ruksana, barely 20, sharp-eyed, toughened by pain.

The moment Ruksana saw Priya, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Didi?! Tumi ... tumi bachte perechho? We thought they killed you! Everyone said you were finished!”

Priya hugged her tightly, throat dry. “Still here, Ruksana. But fighting from the shadows now. And I need help. But no names, no locations, and no stories about where I go or who I meet. This is only between us girls. No one else.”

Soon, two more girls arrived — Jhuma and choti Minoo — all part of the same battered world. Tears were wiped fast. Resolve replaced grief.

“We are with you, Didi. You say what to do. We will watch. We will listen. We’ll feed you whatever news we can. Kitchens, servant quarters, washroom gossips — you’ll know everything.

But we can’t meet like this again, not often,” Ruksana added quickly. “Too risky.”

Priya nodded. “I was thinking the same. We’ll use drops. Designated places. One of you can tuck a note in the broken pipe outside the chai stall on the corner. Wrap it in foil or plastic. I’ll check it once a day. If I need to leave you something, I’ll tie it inside a newspaper and leave it behind the temple steps.”

Choti Minoo added, “What if someone’s watching us?”

“Then we wait a day or two and try again. No pressure. No heroics. This isn’t a movie. It’s survival,” Priya replied. One of them quietly slipped a small bundle of coins and crumpled notes into Priya’s hand.

“Amader theke ektu. For you. For the fight. We don’t have much, but it’s yours.”

Priya’s heart clenched. She took it, more out of respect than need. Before leaving, Priya, now fully disguised, made her way to a tiny photo studio tucked into the BD Block market. Worn signboard. Dusty windows. Perfect for a low-profile job. “Brother, I need copies. Multiple prints. No questions asked. I’m paying cash upfront.”

The old man barely looked up from his stool. “Come tomorrow morning. It’ll be ready.”

Mission set. Contacts in place. Trust slowly rebuilt.

Priya slammed the door behind her. Bharath looked up from his magazine, springing to his feet. Relief swept across his face, mixing with the anxious tension he had been hiding since she left. The sudden silence of the apartment was a stark contrast to the constant hum of the city outside – a bubble of quiet broken only by the distant drone of a neighbor’s television playing a Hindi soap opera through the thin walls.

“Made it,” he said, stepping forward.

She nodded, locking the door behind her. “And in one piece, too.”

Bharath looked at her closely, eyes sharp with concern. “Everything okay?”

Priya stretched like a tired cat. “As okay as it can get when you’re dealing with drunk idiots and desperate girls. Mani was in top form. Gave Madan-da a full photo-op. I gave the film for developing. It’ll be ready tomorrow morning. I’ll pick it up early.” He sighed, sitting back down. “First step done then. Somehow.”

Bharath poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap, wincing slightly at the metallic, mineral-tinged taste that was so different from Chennai’s water. The evening light filtered through the thin curtains, painting orange-gold stripes across the worn furniture.

Priya sat beside him, eyeing him sideways. “But what’s this face? You look more nervous now than when I left. Thinking about her again?”

He stiffened slightly.

Priya’s grin widened devilishly. “Ki re, thinking about Anya Das again?” Priya teased, her voice a mix of mockery and mischief. “Don’t even try to deny it. I saw that faraway look. And oh no—wait a second—is that your famous Silver Spoon causing a situation in your shorts already?”” She laughed openly, catching him shifting awkwardly.

“Aiyo Priya! Shut up! It’s not like that!”

“Yes yes, I get it. She’s the dream girl, right? And look at you, full-on lover boy mode. Sitting here, sulking like you’re in some imaginary love story.”

He groaned, hiding his face. But even as Priya rattled on, teasing him about Anya, another thought flickered at the back of his mind. Unforgettable? He didn’t say it aloud, but if Anya’s dreams were anything like his ... she would remember him. Every touch. Every moment from that dream-world still burned like fire in his blood.

However, now he also wondered about the incredible dream in the Yantra from last night with the Earth goddess and the Silver Storm goddess as well. In the dream they all fit together like they’d always belonged — limbs entwined, breath synchronised, hearts pounding in a rhythm older than time itself. It hadn’t been just fantasy. Not entirely. Something about the way their bodies had welcomed his — open, eager, reverent — felt far too intimate, too fated to be just imagination.

He remembered the Earth goddess’s scent, like rain on tilled soil — grounding, fertile, ancient. The way she had kissed his chest, marking him with a reverence that humbled him. And the Silver Storm — wild, fierce, laughing as she rode his rhythm like a tempest. Her hair had crackled with phantom lightning as her lips whispered prayers and profanities in the same breath.

Even now, their voices still echoed in the back of his mind. The way they had touched each other, worshipped him, offered themselves not just in lust but in power. In promise. And when they’d looked at him — those dream-born goddesses with Anya’s eyes and someone else’s fire — they had looked at him not as a boy fumbling toward manhood, but as a chosen one. A lover. A king. He shifted in place, the memory leaving him hard again — not from mere arousal, but from the aching, holy weight of desire that connected to something beyond flesh. His body remembered. His soul remembered.

Did Anya?

His thoughts were interrupted as Priya tossed a cushion at his head. “Aye! Don’t start levitating now. I can see your face turning philosophical. That usually means you’re thinking about thighs, destiny, or both.”

He laughed, caught off guard. “Maybe I was,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Thighs and destiny are a dangerous mix, Bharath Hema,” she smirked. “Be careful which one leads you where. One lands you in bed, the other lands you on a battlefield.”

“Or both,” he murmured under his breath.

Priya caught the flicker in his eyes, narrowing hers suspiciously. “That look just now? What were you thinking?”

Bharath hesitated for a heartbeat. The word ‘unforgettable’ lingered in his head. He thought of the dreams. Of Anya. Of the goddesses. Of how no amount of fame or distance could erase that from his memory if their dreams meant anything.

But he shook it off, giving Priya his usual lopsided grin. “Nothing ... just wondering when you’ll finally take off that undercover maid look. Planning to sleep dressed like someone’s missing domestic help or what?”

Priya burst out laughing, looking down at her cheap saree, gamchha still looped casually around her neck. “Haan re ... Calcutta’s most dangerous undercover agent, in full aunty mode! Dekh na, one day this aunty will save your hero backside too!”

Their laughter echoed softly in the quiet apartment, grounding them both again in the strange, dangerous, absurd life they were now living.

Priya poked his side. “Relax, Silver Spoon. One day, I’ll make sure she notices you. Mera wada hai. But for that...” she paused dramatically, “ ... you’ll have to upgrade a lot more than just your stamina on the football field. She’s rich. She’s beautiful. She’s a successful model. You? You eat omelette-rice daily and wear the same socks for three days.”

He sputtered. “I’m a footballer, not some hero!”

She wagged a finger. “Listen, Bharath. Being good-looking, an athlete, even being successful or rich ... that might impress other girls. But Anya Das? She’s on another level. She’s Calcutta’s princess. Rich, famous, face of every big brand from Mumbai to Delhi. Surrounded by sharks in her world. Every guy within ten kilometres wants her attention. You? Vegetarian footballer who eats egg curry and reads tactical magazines like it’s a love letter. She’s not going to fall for abs alone, you know.”

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do then, become a model myself?”

Priya snorted. “Na re. But you need to become someone unforgettable. Someone real. Someone ... unshakeable. And yeah, maybe work on not going full statue every time her name comes up.”

He shifted again, embarrassed, as Priya teased mercilessly, “Oh ho ... There goes Silver Spoon with another emergency in the shorts. Poor lungi won’t survive the Anya Das hurricane!”

Bharath flung a cushion at her. “Podi!”

She ducked, laughing. “Relax, Romeo. I promised na? I’ll do my part. Someday, Anya will look at you ... and she won’t look away. But till then — improve your game. On and off the field.”

Despite himself, he chuckled, the tension easing. “Seri, seri. Okay. Okay.”

For the first time that night, they both felt a little lighter.

The worst part was over.

Or at least, the first part.

30 July 2000

After warm-ups, Kunal called Bharath aside while the others jogged into their drills.

“You’ve been smart this past week,” Kunal began, giving him an appraising look. “Not trying to be a hero. Playing for the team. Simple. Ugly football. That’s what earns respect here.”

Bharath grinned slightly. “Funny thing, sir. That’s exactly what my sister Devi told me before I left Chennai. She kept saying the same words — play ugly, survive first, show off later.”

Kunal’s brows lifted. “Devi, huh? She sounds like someone who understands real football.”

Bharath chuckled. “Honestly, sir ... she should probably be here instead of me. She doesn’t play, but trust me ... if you sit near her during a match, you’ll learn more in ten minutes than from any coaching manual.”

Kunal laughed genuinely. “She sounds dangerous. Bring her around when she visits. I’d like to meet the brain behind your game.” “That’s a promise, sir. She’s planning to come down to Calcutta soon. I’ll drag her here myself. She’ll probably have a full tactical breakdown for Coach Biswas by the end of the first half.”

Kunal patted his shoulder. “Looking forward to that. But till then ... keep your head down. Keep playing like she’s watching from the stands. Make it impossible for anyone to ignore your work. That’s how real footballers are made.”

Bharath nodded, feeling a deep warmth spread through his chest. He wouldn’t let Devi down. And that night, when he spoke to her, he knew exactly what he would say: You were right, Devi. It worked.

The next morning, true to his word, the old man handed Priya a thick envelope with the developed photos. Back at the apartment, Priya sat cross-legged on the floor, slowly pulling the prints from the envelope one by one. Her sharp eyes scanned each image carefully.

And then she saw it.

Her heart skipped a beat.

A much younger Rekha Das, clad in a scandalously revealing dress, clinging with calculated grace to the arm of a greasy, overweight politician. His face was unmistakable even today. The kind that lived on front pages. But what made Priya sit straighter were the figures in the background.

Arjun. The dreaded Arjun of the Syndicate. Along with a few other senior men, casually drinking and laughing with Rekha like they belonged to the same world.

This was dynamite.

This wasn’t just about blackmail anymore. This was power over Rekha Das. Arjun wouldn’t care about reputation or scandal — but Rekha? A woman whose entire world depended on image, prestige, and her place in elite society? This photo could destroy her standing overnight.

Priya’s mind raced with possibilities. Leak it to the press anonymously. Hint at exposure through hushed threats. Pull strings within Rekha’s social circle. Turn her fear into obedience. Her lips curled into a dangerous little smile. She couldn’t wait for him to return from training. The ideas brewing in her head were many. The opportunities ... delicious. This wasn’t just a victory.

It was leverage.

And in a city like Calcutta, leverage was everything.

“When your enemies run syndicates, you learn to hustle.”

Anya couldn’t focus.

Her instructor’s voice drifted through the yoga hall, soft and even like a lullaby. Balance. Peace. Presence. But Anya’s body had already betrayed her. Her thighs clenched tighter with each breath. Her pulse thudded in her ears like a war drum. The room was cool, but she felt flushed — as if someone had lit a fire low in her belly and fanned it with every breath.

He was back again.

That faceless, gorgeous god from her dreams. That man who never spoke his name, but who touched her like he owned her soul.

She could remember it now — the way his body moved over hers, every thrust deep and deliberate. Impossibly big, but her body opened for him like it had waited her whole life to be stretched and filled. She swore she could still feel the ache between her legs from the last dream. The way he’d held her down, one hand wrapped in her hair, the other gripping her hip like he was branding her.

“You’re mine, Anya. Say it. Let me ruin you.”

A sharp breath escaped her lips. Her mat felt slick under her palms.

She tried to adjust her pose, but all she could feel was the pulse of her wetness. Her nipples strained against the thin cotton of her top. Humiliation crept in — she was surrounded by other women seeking mindfulness and tranquility. Meanwhile, her mind was anything but quiet.

It was filled with the image of him parting her thighs, burying his face in her cunt like he was starving. Growling into her folds. Eating her like he wanted to drown in her scent.

“You taste so fucking sweet. Dripping just for me. Filthy little girl, aren’t you?”

Anya squeezed her eyes shut. Her knees trembled. She couldn’t take it anymore.

She whispered an apology and hurried out of the room. Her bare feet slapped against the tile as she ran to the bathroom. Locked the door. Pressed her back to it, heart racing.

She wasn’t even fully alone with herself before her fingers found the hem of her leggings, dragging them down past her slick thighs. Her hand moved with desperate precision, two fingers instantly finding her clit.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned softly, already panting. “Please ... Bharath...”

The name spilled out like a prayer. She didn’t even know where it had come from — the name he whispered to her in that last dream. Bharath. She mouthed it again, lips parted, eyes glazed.

“Fuck me,” she begged, rocking her hips forward, “Just like in the dream ... use me. Make me your little slut.” Her fingers moved faster now, her breath stuttering as she leaned forward over the sink, her forehead pressing against the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her: eyes blown wide, sweat at her temples, lips swollen with need. Her other hand rose to tug her top down, baring her breasts. She pinched her nipple, moaning louder.

“You like that, baby? You want me to bend you over this sink, don’t you?”

She whimpered aloud. “Yes.”

“Want me to fuck your pretty little cunt until you can’t stand straight?”

Her fingers slipped lower, two thrusting inside her now as she spread her legs wider, fucking herself harder. She imagined his grip on her waist, his cock slamming into her over and over. The way he’d groan her name through gritted teeth. The way he’d hold her open after he came, watching her flutter around his seed.

“Look at you. Dripping down your thighs. You’re made for me. Say it.”

She cried out, shuddering. “I’m yours ... I’m only yours ... fuck—harder, please...”

And then the images spiraled darker. Another woman appeared in her fantasy. Gorgeous. Confident. Smirking as she knelt beside Anya, spreading her folds with two fingers while Bharath watched. Anya’s breath hitched at the thought.

Would he like that? Two women at his feet, pleasing each other for his pleasure?

“Touch her for me, Anya. Let me watch how filthy you really are.”

She gasped, imagining herself on her knees with the girl, licking, moaning, fingers tangled in each other’s hair, while Bharath stroked himself, eyes full of hunger. He’d use her mouth next — shove himself between her lips until her throat ached, whispering all the ways she was meant to be used.

“Good girl. Take it deeper. Look at you choking for me. So obedient.”

Anya bit her knuckle, trying to muffle the sob that ripped through her as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, back against the cool tiles, sweat dripping down her collarbone, her fingers still twitching against her slick folds.

Her whole body trembled. A deep, raw ache lingered in her core.

And still she wasn’t done.

She closed her eyes again, panting.

In her mind’s eye, Bharath loomed over her, dragging her up by the hair, making her lick his seed off his cock and thighs. “We’re not finished. Not until I’ve ruined every inch of you.”

Anya smiled, dazed, wrecked, the scent of her own need thick in the air. Her fingers ghosted over her belly, lower. Anya gasped as her climax tore through her, sudden and overwhelming. Her fingers froze inside her, her spine arched from the floor. Every muscle trembled as the rush hit — fierce, raw, and breathless.

She collapsed back onto the cold tiles, panting, sweat glistening across her chest. Her legs were still spread wide, fingers twitching inside her slick heat. Her free hand lay across her chest, fingertips grazing her pounding heart.

But even as her body throbbed in release, something shifted.

The visuals didn’t fade.

It deepened.

She opened her eyes, dazed.

And they were there.

Two women. Apsaras!

Beautiful. Ethereal. More real than anything she’d ever imagined.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

One was curvy, with thick dark lashes and soft eyes that seemed to drink Anya in. Her body was a sculpted poem — firm thighs, a high waist, and breasts so large and full that Anya’s breath hitched just looking at them. Just looking at them made her mouth water. Her hair tumbled down in waves, and she moved with a serene, unhurried grace.

The other was luminous and sharp — glowing like moonlight. Her eyes were silver-gray and wild. Her lips curled with quiet mischief. Her figure was outrageous: slender waist, wide hips, and an ass so tight and perfect that Anya instinctively squeezed her thighs together. She reminded Anya of someone from her real life - but could not recall her. The woman’s confidence rolled off her in waves, even as her eyes softened when they landed on Anya.

Anya’s lips parted.

She didn’t know who they were. She didn’t know why they were here. But some part of her recognized them. Not by name — but by need.

They stepped forward. And Anya understood. They were here for Bharath.

They were part of him. Somehow. As much as she was.

And she — who had never even kissed a man — now found herself wet again, her fingers drifting down once more, heart pounding with something far more dangerous than lust.

Devotion.

Her voice came out in a whimper. “Bharath ... are you watching?”

She imagined him there — not touching, not moving — just watching. His eyes dark with hunger, cock heavy in his fist, face unreadable except for the burning in his gaze.

She sat up slowly, her breasts still bare, her thighs sticky with her own arousal. The apsara with the silver eyes — knelt behind her. She kissed Anya’s shoulder gently, lips like ice and fire, while her hands slid over Anya’s hips and held her open.

The curvy one came closer and dropped to her knees. Her lips brushed against Anya’s thigh, slow and reverent, as if worshipping at a temple. Then she looked up — eyes glistening with awe — and kissed Anya’s cunt. Soft. Sweet. Unhurried.

“Oh—fuck...” Anya moaned, eyes rolling back.

She imagined Bharath groaning lowly at the sight. How his breath would hitch watching this curvy apsara taste her, watching the apsara press her breasts against Anya’s back, cradling her like a lover.

They weren’t competing.

They were offering.

All of them — to him.

Anya cried out again, her voice hoarse. “Yes, baby. Look at me. I’m yours. I’ll do anything. Anything.”

One apsara’s tongue circled her clit while the other pinched her nipples from behind, licking Anya’s neck.

“You want to see how good I can be?” Anya gasped. “I’ll show you. I’ll let them fuck me with their mouths. I’ll let them make me beg.”

She looked up into nothing — into where she felt Bharath’s presence looming, watching — and moaned louder. “I want you to see how filthy I can be. Just for you. Because I know you love it ... when I spread my legs for them ... when I cry out while they taste me...”

She imagined herself laying flat on the bed next, the curvy apsara’s face buried between her legs while the other straddled her chest, her heavy breasts hanging above her. Anya licked eagerly, fingers buried in the apsara’s pussy, trying to impress Bharath. Because this wasn’t about the girls.

It never was.

It was about serving him.

Showing him that she could worship him by giving herself fully — body, mouth, soul.

“Fuck...” she whispered, fingers moving again. “I’ll let her ride my face while you fuck me. Please. Please just watch. Just tell me I’m good.”

Bharath’s voice echoed in her mind — husky, taunting. “You love being watched, don’t you, Anya?” She did.

She wanted him to see her be devoured, made to beg, taken to pieces — all for his satisfaction.

Her second climax crept up like a storm. She bucked hard, her hand slapping against the tiles, her moans loud and desperate.

“I’m yours, Bharath ... yours ... I want to be used ... please—fuck—I want to serve—serve—”