Chapter 9

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of wasps as Samyukta’s fingernails dug crescent moons into her palms. Twenty-three hours had passed since Master’s command, nineteen since she’d last slept, and now—as dawn bled through fog—every nerve ending crackled with terrifying anticipation. Her reflection in the mirror showed dilated pupils and bitten-red lips, the face of someone who’d signed a contract with her cunt rather than her brain.

Somewhere beneath the arousal pooling between her thighs, practical Samyukta screamed warnings. The chiffon blouse currently folded in her backpack would show nipple shadows under lecture hall fluorescents. The microskirt’s hemline would barely cover her ass when seated. A woman dressed like this didn’t ride autos at 7am—she got dragged into alleyways by men who smelled of paan and sweat. So, she armoured herself in knee-length cotton and pinned her hair into a severe bun, the bag of shame swinging against her hip as she slipped past sleeping husband.

College security guard Patel-ji nearly dropped his steaming chai when Professor Samyukta marched through the gates at 6:45am. “Final year project supervision,” she lied through teeth that wanted to chatter, clutching the strap of her deceitful bag. The administrative wing smelled of phenyl and monsoon damp as she beelined for Room 217B—that glorified janitor’s closet where Suraj had bent her over stacked chairs just three days prior. Her fingers trembled so violently the lock clicked open on the third try.

Alone amidst mop buckets and broken stools, Samyukta’s transformation unfolded like a pornographic reverse Cinderella. First went the sensible blouse, buttons pinging against concrete. Then the serviceable cotton bra, its cups still warm from her skin. The skirt pooled around her ankles alongside underwear soaked with eighteen hours of denied climaxes. Naked now under flickering tubelight, she ran trembling hands over gooseflesh—her body no longer hers, but his to display.

The denim skirt she’d worn freshman year in Boston slithered up her thighs like an old lover. Its frayed hem stopped a finger’s width below her pussy lips, the zipper teeth cold against bare labia. When she bent to retrieve the tank top, the skirt’s waistband bit into her hipbones while its open back exposed the dimples above her ass. The black spandex top might’ve fit two years and fifteen pounds ago—now it strained across swollen tits, lace stretched so thin the areolas showed dusky through fabric. Her nipples hardened instantly, tiny revolts against their nylon prison.

Six-inch stilettos (unrequested but desperately hoped-for) transformed her stance into a pornstar’s arch. The final humiliation came coiled in her pocket—a white handkerchief. She tied it around her throat like a collar, the musky stench flooding her nostrils each panicked inhale. One experimental sway toward the door sent her tits jouncing obscenely; the click-clack of heels would announce her like a brothel’s dinner bell.

Common sense warred with arousal as Samyukta paced the closet’s three-meter span. Sitting in the faculty lounge like this meant Dean Mehta’s tea would spray across his kurta. Walking corridors invited groping hands from every passing male. So she waited—knees squeezed together, skirt riding up with each restless shift—until wetness slicked her inner thighs. The first finger slid in easily, her cunt clenching around knuckles slick with betrayal. By the third orgasm (facedown on the cleaning cart, skirt flipped up, heels kicking air) she’d stopped counting.

Meanwhile, across campus, Manish’s motorcycle tore through morning mist with Suraj and Aqeel clinging to his waist. “She’ll be curled in fetal position in her home,” Suraj shouted over engine roar, fingers digging into Manish’s belt loops. “No woman comes back from that level of degradation.” But Master just smirked, one hand sliding into his jeans to adjust an erection straining against denim. His bitch would perform. She’d been bred for it.