Chapter 6

The weeks blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and unspoken tension. Jiten, ever the dedicated professional, buried himself deeper into his work—meetings bleeding into late nights, emails devouring weekends. Samyukta watched the distance between them grow with each passing day, her throat tightening around words she couldn’t force out. How do you tell the man you love that you’ve become someone else’s plaything? That your body no longer belongs to you? The shame curled like smoke in her lungs, suffocating.

On the twelfth day—or was it the thirteenth? —she sat cross-legged on her bed; textbooks fanned around her like a barricade. The afternoon light slanted through the curtains, painting her research notes in gold. Then, the buzz. A familiar chime that sent ice down her spine. Manish’s name flashed on the screen, followed by a demand that made her fingers stiffen: Missing you a lot. Send a couple of nude pics.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, tossing the phone onto the mattress as if it had burned her. Five minutes. That’s all it took for the next vibration to rattle her resolve. Hello?

Samyukta clenched her jaw. She knew this game. Knew he’d needle and prod until she cracked. Defiance flared—brief, brittle—as she typed back, Not now please. You’ll be back in 2 days anyway.

Silence. She counted the seconds, her stomach knotting. Part of her braced for the explosion—the torrent of curses, the threats. But the phone stayed dark. A flicker of hope: maybe he’d gotten distracted. Maybe some other girl had caught his attention. The relief was short-lived.

Thirty minutes later, her inbox chimed.

The subject line hit like a cattle prod: SLUTTY U.P. MILF HAS FUCK. Her breath stuttered. MILF? Ridiculous. She wasn’t a mother. But the pedantic correction dissolved as she clicked the link, her hands trembling so violently the screen blurred.

The images loaded in slow, searing flashes.

Herself. Naked. Spread.

A dozen photos, each more degrading than the last. Her body contorted in positions she barely remembered—Aqeel’s thick cock buried halfway inside her, her own fingers splayed over her ass to help him slide deeper. The relief came in a dizzying wave: her face was blurred. No names. No locations. Just her body—her cunt, her tits, her ass—displayed like a menu for hungry strangers.

Scrolling down, the comments burned her retinas: Fuck, look at those hips. Perfect for gripping. Bet she screams like a whore when you pound that tight pussy.

Heat pooled between her legs. The shame of it—getting wet from their words—made her want to vomit.

Then, the buzz.

Next time, no blurring. Final warning. Complete obedience.

Her chest heaved. The door. She needed to lock the door.

Bolting it, she stood there for a moment, her forehead pressed to the wood. Then, mechanically, she reached for the hem of her pallu, the silk sliding away like a surrender. Her blouse buttons popped open one by one. The bra followed, straps slipping down her shoulders. The phone camera stared back, unblinking, as she captured her bare breasts—nipples pebbled from the chill (or was it anticipation?).

Manish’s response was instant: With your face. And take the blouse and bra off.

She obeyed.

What followed was a slow unraveling.

Each command stripped her further: Stand in front of the mirror. Petticoat only. Squeeze your tit like you’re begging for it. The fabric clung to her waist as she arched, her reflection a stranger—mouth parted, fingers digging into her own flesh.

Panties down. Hand inside. Lick your lip like you’re tasting him. She whimpered, the cotton dragging over her thighs as she obeyed, her tongue darting out to wet her upper lip. The scent of her arousal thickened the air.

Ass out. Show me that hole. Bending, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband, shimmying the panties down until her cheeks split open. The cool air kissed her exposed flesh.

Write on yourself. The marker dragged across her skin, the letters stark and claiming: PROPERTY OF MANISH SINGH. She photographed it—her own ass branded, her face flushed with humiliation.

By the time he demanded the video, she was dripping.

The bed creaked as she sprawled across it, thighs splayed, phone in one hand. The other trailed down her stomach, fingers sliding through slick folds. The camera captured it all—her face contorted in pleasure, her pussy glistening, her thumb circling her clit with practiced precision. She came violently, back bowing, a choked cry escaping her lips.

Watching the playback was its own degradation.

The woman on screen was animalistic—a far cry from the poised academic the world saw. Her orgasm-face was filthy, mouth slack, eyes rolling back. She sent it.

Manish’s reply was a single, ecstatic scream: FUCK!!! That was awesome!

Then, silence.

The moment she heard the familiar jingle of keys at the front door, Samyukta’s pulse spiked into a frenzied rhythm. Her fingers—already pruned from frantic scrubbing—paused mid-motion against the tender skin of her inner thigh. The remnants of cheap market ink clung stubbornly to her flesh, resisting the soapy assault despite her reddened knuckles and the bathroom mirror fogged with steam. Between her legs, the vulgar phrase Manish made her scrawl in bold black letters during their last “session” had faded to a ghostly gray, but the shame remained fresh as a slap.