The weekend passed in a blur of restless anticipation and sleepless nights. Natasha lay awake in her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, her body a live wire of unspent desire. The memory of Friday evening played on an endless loop in her mind: the white saree, the tit fucking, the taste of his seed on her tongue, the orgasm she had been permitted without asking. She replayed every moment, every sensation, every word he had spoken, and she felt her body respond as if he were there with her, his hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts, his voice in her ear.

She did not touch herself. She had learned that lesson well. Her body belonged to him, and she would not presume to use it without his permission. The silver lock pendant rested against her sternum, a constant reminder of her submission, its cool weight a benediction and a brand. She touched it often, pressing her fingers against the tiny lock, feeling the metal warm against her skin, and she thought of him, of his hands, of his eyes, of the promise he had made. Soon, very soon, I will take your virginity.