The heavy, black-silk wagon swayed with the rhythm of the Royal Salt & Spice Caravan, the thick timber groaning under the weight of the Sardar’s massive frame. Outside, the midday sun hammered the white sands of the Burning Corridor, and the steady thump-thump of the drums blended with the boisterous laughter of the merchant women. They spoke in thick dialects, mocking the sheer volume of the screams drifting from the black wagon, unaware of the raw power and tradition unfolding behind the curtains. Inside, the air was a pressurized soup of heat and musk, the scent of the man hanging heavy like a physical shroud.

Priya (23years old 38DD-28-42 5ft7) moved with a predatory grace, her eyes fixed on the Shehzadi (Heer 19years old 36c-26-40 5ft7) with a hunger that only her current condition could command. She knew the depth of the Sardar’s heat better than anyone. Her body had long since been mastered by his strength, seasoned until she accepted his presence with the hunger of an open furnace. She knelt between Heer’s legs, spreading them wide until the fine silk of the girl’s trousers hissed and split. As Priya began to lap at the overflowing moisture of the younger woman, the Sardar loomed over them, his thick neck corded with strength.

He did not hesitate with Priya. Because she was his most seasoned partner, he drove into her in a single, breath-stealing surge. The impact sent a shockwave through Priya’s frame, pinning her firmly against Heer. He held her there, his full weight crushing the two women into the rugs, letting his internal heat sink into Priya to stabilize the life growing within her. His massive chest pressed against her back, a wall of muscle that offered no escape.