The evening sun bled into the horizon like a wound, thick orange and molten gold oozing across the sky and through the tall arched windows of the palace. In her private quarters, Ananya lay tangled in a sheet, her skin flushed a deep feverish pink. The triple dose of Shatavari, Gokshura, and Safed Musli Lord Vikram had given her that morning still churned in her bloodstream like liquid fire. Every heartbeat sent another pulse of heat straight between her legs.

Her breasts, already enormous, had swollen even further under the herbs’ relentless command. They hung heavy and aching on her chest, the dark areolae puffed and crinkled tight, nipples jutting out thick and rubbery. A steady, warm trickle of milk seeped from both tips, so abundant that the silk sheet beneath her was drenched through, clinging to her belly and thighs in sticky, translucent patches. The sweet, faintly nutty scent of her breast milk filled the air around her, mixing with the muskier perfume of her arousal.