The first light of dawn crept through the jali screens like liquid gold, painting thin, trembling lines across the crimson silk sheets. The oil lamps had long since guttered out, their clay bowls now dark and cold, but the chamber was thick with the ghosts of their fragrance, jasmine, sandalwood, and the animal musk of two bodies tangled in exhausted possession.

Priya woke not to movement or sound, but to a deep, insistent pressure in her ass. The golden butt plug, which she had somehow, impossibly, slept through the night with, had shifted in her sleep until its widest curve was pressed directly against her sphincter, the ruby base cool and heavy between her cheeks. Every beat of her heart seemed to pulse against that intrusion, and the moment consciousness fully returned, so did the ache. The nipples were still clamped, the tiny ruby tipped pincers biting into her swollen peaks, the gold chain a delicate weight across her breasts.