Ranjeet gazed down at Priya with a pride so dark it thickened the air. She remained on her knees, a ruined idol in the half light. Her face was a glazed mask of his dried seed, white crust cracking over her cheekbones and the swollen mounds of her heavy breasts. Her lips, bruised and slicked with viscous saliva, trembled open as she breathed. Her eyes were raw, shot through with broken blood vessels from earlier crying, yet they shimmered not with pain but with a debased, feral hunger that made his cock pulse heavily against his thigh.

“Lesson Three, meri bhooki rakhail,” he said, his voice a low, grinding command that vibrated in her chest. “Aaj main tujhe aur gehra todunga. Tera gala ab tak sirf chhota maze le raha tha. Teri throat ko mera pura lund lena padega , ek ek inch, bina roke, jab tak meri jhaant teri naak mein na ghus jaaye. Tu nahi chhodegi. Chahe teri aankhon ke saamne andhera chha jaaye, chahe ulti teri saans roke, tu nahi hategi. Agar tera gala mera lund poori tarah na nigle, toh main teri training yahin khatam kar dunga. Samjhi, chinal?”