The fifth night arrived like a storm Priya could feel in her bones. She barely slept. Her ass still burned from the cane’s stripes—red welts had darkened to angry purple, tender every time she sat or walked. The carved “D” above her pussy throbbed faintly, a constant reminder of ownership. Her boobs ached from the pinching and biting; nipples raw, standing hard at the slightest brush of cloth. Between her legs her pussy stayed slick and needy, leaking steadily through the day. She caught herself pressing her thighs together while grinding spices, small moans escaping before she bit her lip.

She obeyed his command. In the afternoon, when her father napped under the neem tree, Priya slipped into the kitchen. Took a small brass pot of mustard oil—the thick, pungent kind used for cooking and massage. Poured some into a tiny clay diya, hid it under her pallu. The oil smelled sharp, promised slickness and burn. Her clit pulsed at the thought of it on her skin, in her holes.