"Look at this gaping, hungry mess," Banshi sneered, his eyes dark with a predatory intensity. He tossed the soiled cloth aside and reached for a small, ornate glass vial containing a thick, golden attar. The scent was heavy, musky, and intoxicating, a fragrance designed to drive a woman into a state of primal hunger. He poured a generous amount of the oil onto his palm, the liquid warm and viscous, and then slammed his hand flat against her swollen labia.

He didn't just apply the oil; he massaged it in with a punishing, circular motion, grinding his palm into her clit and spreading the fragrant musk across her inner thighs. The oil acted as a lubricant and a brand, coating her in a scent that signaled her total submission. Every slide of his hand felt like a claim, the friction of his rough palm against her inflamed skin making her hips twitch in a desperate, rhythmic plea for more.