Chapter 10

The weekend passed in a blur of normalcy—or at least the illusion of it. Samyukta slipped back into the rhythm of her daily life, trading the humiliating lingerie and collar her Master favored for modest blouses and sensible skirts. But when Monday arrived, she obeyed his unspoken command, draping herself in a silk sari that clung to her curves just enough to make his mark on her visible. The fabric slithered against her thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how exposed she truly was beneath the demure facade. Students shuffled into the lecture hall, their disappointed murmurs a quiet symphony to her ears. She saw their glances—hopeful, then crestfallen—and felt a perverse thrill at denying them the spectacle they craved. The chalk trembled in her fingers as she scrawled equations across the board, her voice steady even as her mind replayed the weekend’s debasements.

Then came the confrontation.

The classroom emptied with the sluggish pace of students reluctant to leave, but Neha lingered like a wasp circling spoiled fruit. Samyukta pretended not to notice until the girl blocked her path, dispensing with formalities. No “ma’am.” Just a razor-edged demand: “I need to talk to you.”

Samyukta’s throat tightened. She’d let Neha watch—no, participate—in her degradation, but this? This was rebellion. “Okay,” she managed, eyes darting to the door as the last student disappeared into the hall. The air between them thickened with the unspoken: the memory of Neha’s fingers digging into her hips while Manish laughed and urged her to “take it like a bitch.”

Alone now, Neha struck. “I am not happy with my grades.”

Samyukta blinked. “What? You’re averaging ninety-three!”

“And I’m working my ass off for that ninety-three,” Neha hissed, stepping closer. The scent of her gum—peppermint and spite—filled Samyukta’s nostrils. “Meanwhile, those three idiots are plowing your ass for perfect scores. Tell me, Professor, how many orgasms is an A+ worth?”

“NEHA!” Samyukta’s voice cracked, her cheeks burning. She clutched the podium like it might anchor her dignity. “You will not speak to me like that.”

But Neha smirked, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. “Or what? You’ll bend over and let me spank you? Please. I’ve seen you beg for worse.” She leaned in, her whisper a venomous caress. “Bump my scores to a hundred. Or tomorrow, dean, every journalist, and Instagram influencer gets a detailed report on your ... extracurriculars.”

Samyukta’s knees threatened to buckle. “You wouldn’t. You’re implicated too.”

“Try me.” Neha’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Harvard doesn’t accept sluts who fuck their professors—but they really don’t accept blackmailers. I’ll take the hit if it buries you.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving Samyukta gasping. She fumbled for her phone, her pulse a frantic drumroll against her ribs.

Manish’s laughter coiled through the receiver, dark and indulgent. “Jealous little brat. She’s pissed I replaced her.” His voice dropped, slow and syrupy with menace. “But don’t worry, my bitch. I’ll remind her where she belongs.”

Samyukta shivered. “Master, she sounded serious—”

“She always sounds serious.” A pause. The wet click of his tongue.

“Mmm. Time for Neha to learn what happens to girls who bite their masters.” His chuckle dripped with promise.

The line went dead. Samyukta’s fingers trembled as she tucked the phone away, her stomach twisting—not with fear, but anticipation.

The phone buzzed against the mahogany desk with a quiet insistence, pulling Samyukta’s attention away from the stack of student papers she’d been grading. The screen lit up with a message that sent an immediate flush of heat through her body, her fingers tightening around the pen as she read:

“I want you in that red skirt—the one that barely covers your ass when you bend over. The black tank top too, the one with the deep neckline that shows off those tits I own. No underwear. And don’t forget your collar.”

Her breath hitched. Even after months of this, his words still coiled low in her belly, tightening like a leash around her throat. She typed her reply swiftly, her fingers trembling slightly—”Yes, Master.”—before locking her phone and tucking it into her blazer pocket.

By 7 PM, she stood at the edge of the main road near her colony, the leather jacket zipped up high to obscure the scandalous outfit beneath. The jacket was as much armor as it was subterfuge—necessary for slipping past her family without raising eyebrows. She’d spun them a lie about attending a colleague’s son’s wedding reception, and when pressed, casually mentioned she might stay over at a female colleague’s place.

“Be good,” her husband, Jiten, had murmured absently, barely glancing up from his laptop.

Good, she thought bitterly, adjusting the collar hidden beneath the jacket’s stiff lapels. If only he knew.

A car slowed beside her—a sleek red sedan she didn’t recognize. For a heart-stopping second, she tensed, wondering if some stranger had mistaken her for prey. But then the window rolled down, and Manish smirked at her from the driver’s seat.

“Different car today?” she asked, sliding in quickly, her thighs sticking to the leather seat in the humid evening air.

“Had to switch it up,” he said, his gaze raking over her as she settled in. “Suraj and Aqeel are already handling Neha. She’ll cooperate.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “I hope so, Master.”

His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Were you obedient?”

Her pulse jumped. Slowly, deliberately, she unzipped the jacket, letting it fall open to reveal the deep plunge of the black tank top, damp with sweat and the scent of her arousal. His nostrils flared.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she hiked up the red skirt just enough to show him the smooth, waxed flesh between her thighs, the neat landing strip glistening under the dim streetlights.

Manish exhaled sharply, his knuckles whitening on the wheel. “Very good, bitch.”

He reached over, flicking open the glove compartment. A leather leash spilled out—thick, supple, with a gleaming metal tag stamped S&M in bold script.

“Upgrade,” he purred, watching as she fastened it around her throat, replacing the old make-shift collar. His fingers tangled in it suddenly, yanking until the leather bit into her skin, stealing her breath.

“Tighter,” he growled, and she whimpered, her cunt clenching around nothing.

Their destination loomed ahead—Neha’s aunt’s house, a stately residence tucked away in a quiet, affluent neighbourhood. The black SUV was already there, empty, engine cooling. Manish parked behind it, then unbuckled his belt with a slow, deliberate smirk.

Samyukta didn’t need instruction.

She checked the street—deserted—then sank down between his legs, her lips parting eagerly as she took him into her mouth. His cock hardened instantly, the taste of salt and musk flooding her senses as she hollowed her cheeks, working him with practiced devotion.

“Fuck,” he groaned, one hand fisting in her hair while the other shoved her jacket off her shoulders. The tank top followed, her tits bouncing free, nipples pebbled tight under his rough palms.

She moaned around him as his fingers found her clit, rubbing tight, punishing circles—just how she liked it. Her hips jerked, her skirt rucked up around her waist as she fucked herself against his hand, shameless, dripping.

The windows fogged.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew how this looked—how anyone passing by would see her: a disheveled woman, tits swaying, pussy bare and glistening, choking on her master’s cock like a bitch in heat.

The thought made her whimper louder.

Manish chuckled darkly, thrusting deeper. “You love this, don’t you?” he rasped, dragging her head down until tears pricked her lashes. “Being my little whore?”

She nodded desperately, her orgasm cresting under his relentless fingers.

Then—”Swallow.”

She obeyed instantly, taking every drop of him, licking her lips when he finally pulled away.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pushing her skirt back down before she could even catch her breath.

Her tank top was lost somewhere beneath the seat—but she didn’t dare complain.

The cold night air prickled against Samyukta’s exposed skin as she knelt obediently beside Manish’s car, her bare thighs pressed against the rough asphalt. A shiver ran through her—not just from the chill, but from the delicious humiliation of being nearly naked in a place where anyone might see her. Her fingers trembled as she tugged the hem of her too-short skirt downward, a futile attempt to cover the smooth curve of her shaved pussy and the plump swell of her ass. The fabric resisted, clinging stubbornly to her hips as if even her clothing conspired to keep her exposed.