The whiskey burned like liquid sin in my veins. Papa had kept my glass full all evening, tipping the bottle again and again until my head swam and my limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. I was sprawled on the sofa, my torn blouse hanging open, my breasts spilling out, my skirt bunched around my waist. My panties were already soaked through, a sticky mess of my own runaway arousal and the drinks that had sloshed over me. I could barely lift my head. The room spun in slow, drunken circles, and through the haze I saw Papa and his two friends, Ramesh uncle and Mohan uncle, staring at me with eyes that glittered like hungry wolves.

Papa had invited them. He had planned this. I was the evening's main course.