The monsoon had not yet broken, and the air in the haveli lay heavy with the scent of old wood and wilting jasmine. Anaya woke alone, the jade phallus still nestled inside her, a smooth, unyielding presence that had pressed against her inner walls all night. She had not slept deeply. Her dreams had been a feverish parade of images. Vikram's cock. His seed on her tongue. His voice commanding her to wait, wait, wait.

She rose from the bed as the first pale light crept through the jali screens. Her body felt hollowed out and yet full, the ache a constant companion. Five days of this cycle. Five days of emptiness, of watching him stroke himself, of kneeling and confessing and begging for release that never came. Her cunt was perpetually swollen, perpetually wet. Her mouth watered at the slightest thought of his malai. The scent of him, which now clung to every pillow, every piece of her clothing, every breath she took, was enough to make her knees weak.