The days that followed the Saturday encounter passed in a haze 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 that evening played on an endless loop in her mind: the white kurta, the blindfold, the feather tracing paths of fire across her skin, the clips on her nipples sending jolts of electricity through her body, the way he had devoured her pussy with his mouth, the two orgasms she had been unable to control, the way he had called her a temple virgin and a filthy whore in the same breath. 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 voice in her ear, his tongue between her thighs.