The kitchen was immaculate, exactly as Anaya had left it. The single cup of tea she had prepared for him still sat on the counter, covered with the small saucer. It had long since gone cold, but Vikram did not seem to mind. He lifted the saucer and inhaled the scent of the now-lukewarm Darjeeling, his eyes closing for a brief moment. Anaya knelt on the cold tile floor at his feet, her shift still damp with the evidence of her hours of waiting. She watched him, her breath shallow, her cunt a slick, grasping fist of need. A helpless little randi, wet and wanting.

"You prepared this perfectly," he said, his voice a low rumble of approval. "Even the temperature was right when you left it. The leaves have not over-steeped. You are learning, my little bitch."