Rumali whimpered, though the sound was less of a protest and more of an invitation. She tried to push against his chest, but her movements were lazy, her palms barely grazing the fabric of his shirt. She loved the feeling of being overpowered, the way his rough hands treated her like an object rather than a person. The contradiction of her voice—pretending to be a shocked schoolgirl while her body hummed with the memory of her father’s brutality—only seemed to fuel Banshi’s aggression.

Banshi let out a harsh, mocking laugh, his teeth grazing her sensitive nipple before he pulled away just enough to look her in the eye. "Doing what, you little whore? You’re sitting here in a see-through skirt, shaking that fat ass in my face, and now you’re asking why?" He didn't wait for an answer. His hand slid down from her breast, bypassing her waist to dive straight beneath the translucent fabric of her skirt. His thick fingers collided with her puffy, sore folds, finding her already drenched. He let out a low whistle, feeling the heat radiating from her core. "Look at you. You're fucking dripping. You want it huh?"