T

The lamp on her dressing table threw a weak gold across the room, catching the edge of Auntie Shobha's phone where it sat propped against her perfume bottle. Neha's stomach turned at the sight of it—that small black rectangle, the old woman's eye, recording everything.

"Show her," Arshad said, his voice low and unhurried. "Show her who you belong to."

Neha's knees pressed into the carpet, the red lace of her bra a thin armor against the night air. She could feel Auntie Shobha's gaze like a splinter—sharp, waiting, hungry for her shame. But Arshad stood above her, blocking the old woman's view, his belt already unbuckled, his dark chest rising and falling with a patience that made her skin prickle.

Her fingers found his waistband. The denim was warm from his body, rough against her knuckles as she worked the button free. She kept her eyes on his face, on the hard line of his jaw, on the way his nostrils flared just slightly when her hand brushed the skin of his stomach.

"Arshad ki randi," she whispered. The words came easier now. They tasted like surrender, like the truth she'd stopped fighting.

Behind her, Auntie Shobha made a small sound—satisfaction, approval, the click of a trap closing. Neha felt it crawl up her spine.

And then Arshad's hand closed around her upper arm, and he pulled her up, off her knees, into the hard wall of his chest. His mouth found hers before she could gasp, rough and claiming, his tongue pushing past her lips as his other hand cupped the back of her head, tilting her into the kiss like she belonged to him.

He turned her, smoothly, deliberately, until her back was to the phone on the dresser. Until the camera saw only his broad shoulders and the fall of her dark hair.

When he broke the kiss, his thumb traced her swollen lower lip. "That's enough," he said—but not to her. To the old woman behind them.

Neha heard the sharp intake of breath. The rustle of Auntie Shobha's worn saree as she shifted in her chair.

"What is this?" The old woman's voice had lost its honey. It cracked at the edges, thin and ugly. "Arshad, what are you doing?"

His hand stayed on Neha's neck, a warm weight that said *mine*. "The show's over, Shobha Devi." His voice was flat, almost bored. "You wanted a video of her. You got one. Hours of it, if you want to count the nights before."

Auntie Shobha rose from the chair, her thin frame trembling. "You dare—"

"I dare." He stepped toward her, and Neha felt the space between them change. He moved like a man who had stopped pretending. "I've got copies of every recording you think you own. The ones from the first night. The ones with your other toy, Shoaib. The ones you've been saving like a miser counts coins."

The old woman's face drained of color. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"You think I didn't know where you hide them?" Arshad's laugh was short, without warmth. "You think I didn't watch you tuck that little memory card into your prayer book, the one you think no one touches because you're so holy?"

Neha's breath caught. She watched Auntie Shobha's hand flutter to her chest, to the fold of her saree where she kept her things—where she kept her secrets.

"You're nothing," Arshad said. "You're an old woman with a grudge and a phone. And I'm done being your dog."

Auntie Shobha's eyes went hard. "You forget yourself, boy. You forget who brought you into this house. Who gave you a place when no one else would—"

"You gave me a job," he cut in. "And I did it. I fucked her. I recorded her. I made her say what you wanted to hear." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something almost gentle. "But she's mine now. And you're going to leave her alone."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Neha stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs, her skin still humming from his kiss, from the words he'd just spoken.

*She's mine now.*

He'd said it before, in the dark, when it was just the two of them and the lie of the old woman's plan. But here, with Auntie Shobha's phone still recording, with the old woman's face twisting between rage and disbelief—it meant something else. It was a line drawn in the dirt.

Auntie Shobha's gaze slid to Neha, and Neha felt the weight of it—the hatred, the calculation, the silent promise that this wasn't over. Then the old woman smiled, thin and cold, and reached for her phone on the dresser.

"Very well," she said, her voice smooth again, the mask sliding back into place. "If that's how you want it." She picked up the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. "But you forget, Arshad. I have the recordings. All of them. And I know exactly what to do with them if you step out of line."

Arshad didn't move. "You think I care about a video of a woman I've already claimed?"

"Her husband will care." Auntie Shobha's smile widened. "Vikram will care very much when he sees his pretty wife on his knees, calling herself a servant's whore."

Neha flinched at the name. Vikram. Her husband. The man whose photograph lay face-down on her nightstand, whose absence had become a kind of freedom she'd stopped examining.

Arshad's hand tightened on her neck, a small squeeze that said *stay with me*. "Vikram's not here," he said. "And when he comes back, he'll find his aunt gone and his wife happy. You think I haven't planned for that?"

Something flickered in Auntie Shobha's eyes. Doubt, maybe. Or fear.

"You're bluffing," she said. And then neha tells arshad aunty wants to record me then let's go for it

"Am I?" Arshad reached into his pocket and pulled out a small memory card, holding it up between two fingers like a prize. "This is the original. The one you think is in your prayer book. I swapped it this afternoon, when you were napping."

Auntie Shobha's face went white.

"You bitch—" she started, her gaze snapping to Neha, as if Neha had somehow orchestrated this. "You've turned him against me. You've—"

"Enough." Arshad's voice cut through her words like a blade. "You're going to go to your room, Shobha Devi. You're going to pack your things. And in the morning, you're going to be gone."

"You can't—"

"I can." He stepped closer, and for the first time, Neha saw Auntie Shobha flinch. "I know what you did to get kicked out of this family fifteen years ago. I know why Vikram's father stopped speaking your name. And I know the people you owe money to in the city, the ones who'd be very interested to hear you're still alive and scheming."

The old woman's mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Go," Arshad said. "Now."

Auntie Shobha looked at him, then at Neha, and Neha saw something break behind those sharp old eyes—not defeat, but a retreat. A regrouping. The promise of another battle, another day.

"This isn't over," the old woman said, her voice barely a whisper.

"It is for tonight." Arshad's hand found the small of Neha's back, guiding her toward the door. "Leave the phone."

Auntie Shobha hesitated, her fingers curling around the device, but Arshad's stare didn't waver. Finally, she set it down on the dresser with a click that sounded like a surrender, and walked out of the room, her saree whispering against the floorboards.

The door closed behind her. The silence rushed back in, loud and sudden.

Neha stood trembling in the middle of the room, her red lace suddenly too thin, too exposed. She heard Auntie Shobha's footsteps retreat down the hall, heard her own door slam with a finality that made her jump.

And then Arshad turned to her, and the hardness in his face softened, just for a moment, just enough for her to see the man beneath the mask.

"You're shaking," he said, his hand coming up to cup her cheek.

"I—" She swallowed, her throat dry. "I didn't know you had—"

"I told you." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I told you I'd handle it."

"She's not going to stop." The words came out small, scared. "She's going to find a way—"

"Let her try." He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her, and Neha pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the smell of him—sweat and soap and something darker, something that had become home. "She's got nothing now. No video, no leverage, no hold on me."

"But the other recordings—"

"I've got them all." His hand moved through her hair, slow and soothing. "Every one. She can't touch you."

Neha closed her eyes, letting herself believe it, just for a moment. Letting herself feel the safety of his arms, the solid weight of his body against hers.

And then she felt him harden against her hip, and the safety shifted into something else. Something hungrier.

"Arshad," she breathed, and she heard the question in her own voice, the need she couldn't hide.

His hand tightened in her hair, tilting her head back. His eyes were dark, predatory, the softness gone. "She's gone," he said. "The house is empty. And I've been watching you kneel in that fucking lace for the last hour, wanting to touch you, wanting to—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Neha's breath came faster. "Then don't wait."

Something flickered in his eyes. A challenge. A promise. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes."

"Say it." His hand moved to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who was in charge. "Say what you want."

Neha's lips parted. The words felt like a confession, like a surrender she'd been making for weeks. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to use me. I want—" She paused, her cheeks flushing. "I want to be your randi. Tonight. All night."

His smile was slow, cruel, beautiful. "Good girl."

And then he was moving, his hands on her body, stripping the red lace from her skin like it was nothing, like it was an obstacle he'd been waiting to remove. Neha gasped as the cool air hit her breasts, as his mouth found her nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak and made her arch into him.

"Arshad—"

"Quiet." His hand came down on her ass, a sharp slap that made her yelp. "You said you want to be my randi. Randis don't talk. They take."

Neha's knees buckled, but he caught her, his arm around her waist, his mouth at her ear. "You're going to do everything I say tonight. Every. Thing. And when I'm done with you, you're going to be so full of my cum you won't be able to walk straight for a week."

The words sent a jolt through her, straight to her core. She was already wet, already aching, her body responding to his dominance like a key in a lock.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, Arshad—"

"Please what?" His hand slid between her thighs, and she gasped as his fingers found her slick folds. "Please this?" He pushed one finger inside her, and she moaned, her head falling back. "Or please more?"

"More," she breathed. "Please, more."

He withdrew his hand, and she whimpered at the loss. But then he was lifting her, carrying her to the bed, throwing her down on the rumpled sheets like she weighed nothing. She bounced, her breasts jiggling, her thighs falling open in an invitation she couldn't control.

He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her. Looking at all of her. His eyes traveled down her body—her flushed breasts, her trembling stomach, the wetness glistening between her thighs—and Neha felt herself grow hotter under his gaze, felt her nipples tighten, felt her hips shift in a silent plea.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he said, and the words were almost reverent, almost tender. "You know that? You know what you do to me?"

He stripped off his shirt, and Neha's mouth went dry at the sight of his chest—the dark skin stretched over hard muscle, the ridges of his abdomen, the thin line of hair that disappeared below his waistband. He unbuckled his belt with slow, deliberate movements, letting it fall to the floor, and then his jeans were gone, and his boxers, and he was standing there, fully naked, his cock hard and thick and already leaking.

Neha's thighs clenched. She wanted him inside her so badly it was almost painful.

"Come here," he said, and it wasn't a request.

She crawled to him on her hands and knees, the sheets rough against her palms, her eyes fixed on his cock. When she reached him, she looked up, waiting for his command.

"Open your mouth," he said.

She obeyed. He guided himself to her lips, and she took him in, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting the salt of his pre-cum. He groaned, his hand fisting in her hair, and then he was pushing deeper, filling her mouth, fucking her throat with a rhythm that made her eyes water.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take all of it."

Neha moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder. She sucked him hard, her cheeks hollowing, her hands gripping his thighs as he fucked her face, harder and faster, until she couldn't breathe, until she was gagging, tears streaming down her cheeks.

And then he pulled out, leaving her gasping, her lips swollen, spit dripping down her chin.

"On your hands and knees," he commanded. "Ass up."

She scrambled to obey, presenting herself to him, her face buried in the pillow, her hips raised in offering. She heard him move behind her, felt his hands on her ass, spreading her cheeks, and then his cock was at her entrance, teasing, just the head, just enough to make her ache.

"Please," she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Please, Arshad, I need—"

"I know what you need." He pushed inside her in one brutal thrust, and Neha screamed, her fingers clawing at the sheets as he filled her, stretched her, claimed her. "You need my cock. You need me to fuck you like the whore you are."

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, yes, yes—"

He set a brutal pace, his hips slapping against her ass, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew she'd have bruises in the morning. She was so full, so stretched, so completely his, and she loved it, loved every second of the pain and the pleasure and the way he used her like she was nothing but a hole for his pleasure.

"You like that?" He slapped her ass, hard, and she cried out. "You like being my little fuck toy?"

"Yes!"

"Louder." Another slap. "I want the whole house to hear you."

"Yes, Arshad, yes, I love it, I love being your—" He thrust deeper, hitting a spot that made her see stars, and she screamed, "Your randi, your whore, I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He fucked her through her climax, her cunt clenching around him, and she felt him slow, felt him pull out, and she whimpered at the loss before he flipped her over, shoving her onto her back, spreading her legs wide.

"I'm not done with you," he said, his voice rough, his chest heaving. "Not even close."

Neha looked up at him, her body trembling, her skin slick with sweat, her hair a tangled mess around her face. "Then don't stop," she whispered. "Fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

His smile was dark, hungry. "That's the plan."

He lifted her legs onto his shoulders, and she felt him at her entrance again, and then he was pushing inside her, deeper than before, and she moaned, her eyes rolling back.

"Look at me," he commanded. "I want you to see who's fucking you."

She forced her eyes open, met his gaze, and saw the beast looking back at her. The man who had taken her from the first night, who had made her his randi, who had turned her life inside out and made her love it.

"You're mine," he said, thrusting deep. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Say my name."

"Arshad."

"Say what you are."

She gasped as he hit that spot again, her nails raking down his back. "I'm your randi. Your whore. Your—" He thrust again, harder, and she screamed, "Your everything."

Something flickered in his eyes at that. Something soft, almost vulnerable, before it was swallowed by the hunger. He leaned down, his mouth finding hers, and he kissed her, deep and claiming, even as he kept fucking her, kept driving her toward another peak.

Neha wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she felt the pressure building again, coiling in her belly like a snake about to strike.

"I'm close," she gasped against his lips. "Arshad, I'm—"

"Not yet." He pulled back, slowing his thrusts, and she whimpered in protest. "Not until I say."

"Please—"

"Beg me."

"Please, Arshad, please let me come, please, I'll do anything—"

"Anything?" His hand found her throat, pressing just enough to make her dizzy. "You'll do anything for me?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Anything. Everything. Just let me—"

His thumb pressed harder against the hollow of her throat, and Neha felt the world narrow to that single point of pressure, to the weight of him above her, to the thick length of him buried inside her, unmoving, waiting. The ceiling fan clicked overhead in its slow rotation, stirring the humid air that clung to her skin, and she could smell herself on him—the musk of her own wanting, the salt of the sweat that had broken across her chest.

"Look at me," he said, and his voice had dropped to something almost soft, the cruelty peeled back to reveal the bone beneath. "When you come, I want you to know exactly who put you here."

She forced her eyes open. His face hovered above hers, dark and gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat, his jaw set, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that made her feel like the only thing in the world that mattered. The lamp on the dressing table threw his shadow across the wall behind him, huge and distorted, a beast made of her own making.

"Arshad," she whispered, and his name came out like a prayer she'd learned by heart.

He began to move again. Slow at first, each thrust a deliberate drag that made her feel every inch of him, the ridge of his cock catching against the sensitive wall inside her until she was gasping, her hips rising to meet him, chasing the friction he was doling out like a miser.

"Not yet," he murmured, pulling back just as she felt the peak approach, leaving her trembling on the edge. "I said I'm not done with you."

He withdrew completely, and she cried out at the emptiness, the sudden cool air against her flooded heat. Before she could protest, he was gripping her hips, flipping her onto her stomach, dragging her up onto her knees until her face was pressed into the pillow and her ass was raised high for him.

She heard him spit, felt the wet warmth of it against her entrance, and then he was pushing inside her again, the new angle making her see white. He filled her deeper this way, his balls slapping against her clit with every thrust, and she buried her face in the cotton and screamed.

"That's it," he growled, his hand coming down on her ass with a crack that echoed in the room. "Let the whole house hear you. Let the empty rooms know who's fucking you."

He spanked her again, and the sting bloomed across her skin, mixing with the pleasure coiling in her belly. She was drooling into the pillow, her fingers clutching the sheets, her body nothing but a vessel for his use. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, arching her spine, and she cried out at the sharp pain that shot through her scalp.

"You're my sex doll tonight," he said, his voice rough against her ear. "My little fuck toy. You don't think. You don't talk. You just take what I give you."

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, Arshad, I'll take it, I'll take anything—"

He thrust harder, faster, the slap of his hips against her ass filling the room with a wet, rhythmic sound that drowned out the ceiling fan's creak. She was so close, the pressure building unbearably, her toes curling against the sheets as she teetered on the edge.

"Please," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please, Arshad, I can't—I need to come—"

"Not yet." He pulled out again, and she sobbed at the loss, collapsing onto the mattress, her body shaking with unspent need. "Turn over."

She rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, her breasts slick with sweat. He knelt between her legs, his cock glistening with her wetness, and she reached for him, desperate to pull him inside her, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head.

"I said you don't talk," he reminded her, his voice soft and cruel. "You don't touch. You just lie there and take it."

He released her wrists and reached for the silk dupatta that lay discarded on the floor—the one he'd used before, the one that still smelled of her. He bound her wrists together, the silk pulling taut, and tied the other end to the headboard, leaving her stretched out beneath him, helpless and open.

"Arshad—" she started, but he silenced her with a look.

"You wanted this," he said, settling between her thighs. "You asked for it. You begged me to use you." He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick folds, and she whimpered, arching her hips to take him. "So lie there and take it like a good little randi."

He thrust inside her in one smooth motion, and she screamed, her bound wrists straining against the silk as he filled her to the hilt. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her up the bed, the headboard knocking against the wall with a rhythm that echoed through the empty house.

"Louder," he commanded, slapping her breast. "I want to hear you."

She moaned, long and loud, her head thrown back, her body arching into his touch. He leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, and she cried out, her hips bucking against his.

"You're so wet," he murmured against her skin. "So fucking wet for me. You love this, don't you? You love being my whore."

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, I love it, I love being yours—"

"Say it again." He thrust deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. "Say what you are."

"I'm your randi," she sobbed. "Arshad ki randi. Your whore. Your fuck toy. I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He kissed her then, hard and claiming, swallowing her cries as he fucked her through her climax. She came with a scream muffled against his mouth, her cunt clenching around him, her body convulsing beneath him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. He didn't stop, didn't slow, fucking her through the aftershocks until she was oversensitive and trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks.

When he finally pulled out, she was limp, boneless, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. He untied her wrists, and she collapsed onto the mattress, her body aching, her skin slick with sweat and his spit and her own release.

She heard him move, felt the bed dip as he shifted, and then his hand was on her thigh, spreading her legs again. She whimpered, but she didn't resist. She couldn't. Her body belonged to him now.

"I'm not done," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "I told you. All night."

He flipped her onto her stomach again, dragged her up onto her knees, and she felt his cock at her entrance once more. This time, when he pushed inside her, he went deeper, and she cried out, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Please," she begged, not knowing what she was begging for—more, less, release, reprieve. "Please, Arshad—"

"Shh." His hand came down on her ass, a sharp slap that made her yelp. "You said you wanted to be my randi. Randis don't beg for mercy."

He fucked her hard and fast, his hips slapping against her bruised skin, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. She was lost in a haze of pleasure and pain, her mind blank, her body nothing but sensation. She was his. Completely, utterly his.

"I'm going to come inside you," he growled, his voice strained. "I'm going to fill you up until you're dripping with me. And then I'm going to start again."

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, fill me, Arshad, I want it, I want all of it—"

He thrust deep and held himself there, his cock pulsing inside her as he came, his hot seed flooding her cunt. She felt it, felt every spurt, and the sensation pushed her over the edge again, her body convulsing around him as she came with a scream that tore her throat raw.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath hot against her neck. She could feel his heart hammering against her back, could feel his cock still twitching inside her, and she closed her eyes, letting herself float in the aftermath.

But she knew it wasn't over. She knew he wasn't done. He'd promised her all night, and Arshad was a man who kept his promises.

She felt him stir inside her, felt him harden again, and a shiver ran through her—not of fear, but of anticipation. She was his. And she would take everything he gave her.

"Roll over," he said, his voice rough. "I want to see your face when I fuck you this time."

She obeyed, rolling onto her back, her body aching and sore but hungry for more. He positioned himself between her legs, and she looked up at him, saw the beast in his eyes, and knew she was exactly where she belonged.

"You're mine," he said, pushing inside her again. "Say it."

"I'm yours," she breathed. "Arshad ki randi. Yours."

He smiled, slow and dark, and began to move. And Neha let herself drown in him, in the pleasure and the pain, in the surrender that had become her freedom. The lamp on the dresser flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls, and the ceiling fan clicked its steady rhythm overhead as he took her again and again, until she lost all sense of time, until the world narrowed to the two of them and the silk binding her wrists and the sound of his name on her lips.