The nineteenth night the sitting room of the old Jaipur haveli no longer felt like part of a house. It felt like the only place that had ever existed. The air was thick with the permanent scent of oil, leather, sweat, sex, and the faint metallic tang of the iron ring that had held her arms for so many nights. Priya had spent the final day in complete, blank obedience—wrists bound for nearly the entire day, allowed only the briefest moments of freedom to drink water from Vikram’s hand and swallow the small pieces of food he pressed between her lips. The residual ache in both holes never left. Every movement sent a dull, filthy reminder through her body of how thoroughly she had been stretched, shared, and remade. By evening her cunt was already wet, a thin, continuous trickle of arousal sliding down her inner thighs and leaving shiny paths on her bare skin.

Rohan returned from the office fully changed.