The following afternoon, Priya told her family she was going to the old abandoned haveli on the village edge to collect some dried mangoes and herbs. The massive old mansion, with its crumbling walls and hidden rooms, was mostly deserted except for occasional use as storage. Everyone in the village still praised her as the perfect, innocent girl — the one who never raised her voice, helped in temples, and kept her eyes lowered around men. But Priya’s body was now addicted to the thrill. Her pussy stayed wet all day, remembering the rough poundings she had taken in secret.

Inside the haveli’s dark, cool interior, sunlight filtered through broken windows, creating erotic shadows. She didn’t know that 31-year-old Karan, the village blacksmith, was there repairing old iron gates. Karan was a quiet, powerfully built man with coal-black skin, bulging muscles from hammering iron all day, and a thick moustache. He had always treated Priya with respect, calling her “beti” and never imagining the slut hidden beneath her modest saree.