In the dry, dusty village outside Jodhpur, where the sun burns everything to bone and the nights stay hot like fever, Priya lived in a small mud house with her old father. She was twenty-six, never married, body full and ready. Her skin was dark golden from working in the fields, her boobs big and heavy, always pushing against the thin cotton blouses she wore. She hated bras—they made her sweat more—so her dark nipples showed clearly through the fabric when she bent to pick vegetables or carry water. Between her legs her pussy stayed wet almost every day, throbbing with need no one satisfied. At night she lay on the charpoy, fingers sliding inside herself, rubbing her clit fast, imagining a man who would not ask, just take.

The men in the village stared at her. They whispered she was a randi waiting to happen. But her father carried a sharp sickle and a bad temper, so no one touched her. Priya suffered alone, her pussy aching, her mind full of dirty thoughts.