The eighth night arrived like a blade against Priya’s throat. She no longer slept peacefully. Dreams were filled with chains, blindfolds, the whistle of the cane, the burn of piss on her skin, and now—faces. Villagers staring. Whispering. Judging. The thought should have terrified her into running. Instead it soaked her pussy every time she woke, fingers slipping between her legs to rub frantically until she came shaking, whispering Dev’s name into the dark.

Her body was a canvas of his cruelty now. Iron cuff marks had turned to faint purple bands around wrists and ankles. The carved “D” above her pussy was raised and dark, a permanent brand she touched constantly. Her nipples stayed swollen from clamps, dark and sensitive—brushing against her blouse during the day made her whimper. Her asshole gaped slightly when she walked, a constant reminder of how he stretched and filled it. Cum and piss had become her perfume; she no longer washed between encounters, letting the filth dry on her skin like war paint.