Chapter 7: The Arrangement

Kunal released his grip on Aloma's hips. Stepped back from the dining table. His breathing had returned to normal already.

"Clean yourself up," he said.

He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. Didn't offer anything specific. Just the general direction where she might find something useful.

Aloma's legs shook when she tried to straighten. The polished wood under her palms was slick with sweat. She pushed herself upright slowly, using the table for support because standing without it seemed impossible right now.

The dress fell back down her thighs. Covered her ass. The fabric stuck to her skin where sweat had soaked through.

Kunal walked away. Pulled his phone from his pocket. Started scrolling through something. Completely casual. Like he hadn't just fucked her on his family's dining table while making her confess exactly what she was.

Aloma moved toward the kitchen. Each step was careful. Her inner thighs were wet. Come leaked out with each movement. Ran down her legs in slow trails that would reach her knees if she didn't clean up soon.

The kitchen towels hung from a rack near the sink. Plain white cotton. Probably expensive. The kind that matched the rest of the penthouse's aesthetic of understated wealth.

She grabbed one. Stood with her back to where Kunal had disappeared into another room. Lifted the dress.

The towel was rough against her sensitive skin. She wiped between her legs first. The fabric came away streaked with white. His come mixed with her arousal. Evidence of what they'd done.

Kunal's voice carried from somewhere down the hallway. He was making a phone call. His tone had shifted to something professional. Businesslike.

Aloma wiped her inner thighs. The towel was already dirty. She folded it to find a clean section. Kept cleaning.

"Yes, I understand," Kunal said. His voice was distant but clear. The penthouse's acoustics were too good. "But the project needs my direct oversight. I can't manage it remotely."

A pause. Someone responding on the other end.

Aloma wiped the last traces of come from her skin. The towel was ruined. She stood there holding it, unsure what to do. Throwing it in the trash seemed wrong. Putting it back on the rack was worse.

"Another week should be sufficient," Kunal continued. "I know we discussed two weeks originally. But the work requires more time than anticipated."

Another pause.

Aloma dropped the towel on the counter. Pulled the dress down. The fabric felt wrong against her bare skin. Too innocent. Too clean for what she actually was.

"Tell them I miss them too," Kunal said. His tone had warmed slightly. "And yes, extend the hotel reservation. Same suite. Put it on the company card."

Aloma moved to the sink. Turned on the water. Let it run cold over her hands.

"The kids are enjoying Disneyland?" Kunal asked. "Good. Let them stay a few extra days. They deserve it after working so hard in school."

The water was freezing. Aloma cupped her hands. Brought it to her face. Let it drip down her neck.

"I'll call tonight before their bedtime," Kunal said. "Mumbai time. Yes, I remember the time difference."

Footsteps approached. Kunal's expensive shoes clicking against marble.

Aloma turned off the water. Grabbed another towel. Dried her hands and face.

Kunal appeared in the kitchen doorway. Still on the phone. He leaned against the counter where he'd bent her over last night while talking to his wife. His expression was neutral. Professional. Nothing like the man who'd just fucked her on the dining table.

"I love you too," Kunal said into the phone. "Tell Anoushka and Arjun their father is thinking about them."

He ended the call. Slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Sit down," he said to Aloma.

She looked at the bar stools. The same ones from breakfast. Her legs still shook.

"We need to discuss something," Kunal added.

Aloma climbed onto the stool. The movement made the dress ride up. She tugged it down. Kunal watched her struggle with the fabric but didn't comment.

He moved to stand across from her. Leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. The posture was casual but his eyes were sharp. Calculating.

"My family's trip has been extended," he said. "Another week. They'll return in eight days instead of tomorrow."

Aloma's hands gripped the edge of the bar stool. The marble was cold under her palms.

"That means seven more nights alone in this penthouse," Kunal continued. "Seven nights where I could use some company."

She understood where this was going. Could see it forming before he even said the words.

"You'll come here every evening," Kunal said. "Eight PM sharp. Not eight-oh-five. Not seven-fifty-five. Exactly eight PM."

"I can't—" Aloma started.

"You can," Kunal interrupted. "You will. Because we both know you want to."

Her mouth opened to argue. No sound came out.

Kunal pushed off the counter. Moved closer to where she sat. "Let me make this easier for you. I'm offering you a promotion. Senior Social Media Manager. Forty percent salary increase. Effective immediately."

The number was staggering. Forty percent would change everything. Her rent. Her student loans. The money she sent home to her parents despite their constant criticism.

"All you have to do is show up here for the next seven nights," Kunal said. "Do what I tell you. Let me use you however I want. Then you go home. Come to work the next day like nothing happened."

Aloma's throat was dry. She swallowed. It didn't help.

"That's not—" she tried again.

"Not what?" Kunal asked. "Not fair? Not appropriate? Not consensual?"

He moved until he was standing directly in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

"Your body already answered every question I have about your consent," he said. "You've come how many times tonight? Five? Six? Lost count around the balcony."

Heat flooded her face. Shame mixed with something else. Something that made her thighs press together under the dress.

"This is just formalizing the arrangement," Kunal continued. "Making it official. You get money and career advancement. I get what I want. Everyone benefits."

"I need to think—" Aloma started.

Kunal pulled out his phone. Unlocked it with his thumb. Started scrolling through something.

"Actually," he said, "I don't think you need to think about anything."

He turned the phone toward her.

The screen showed a photo. Aloma's face clearly visible. Her mouth open. Head thrown back. The dining table beneath her. Kunal's hand gripping her hair.

The angle was perfect. No question about what was happening. No way to claim it was anything other than what it looked like.

"I took several," Kunal said. He swiped to the next image.

This one showed her bent over the kitchen counter. The phone call scene. Her expression was desperate. Degraded. Beautiful in the way broken things sometimes are.

Another swipe.

Aloma on the balcony. Gripping the railing. The housing society visible below. Her face caught in profile. Features twisted in orgasm.

"And a video," Kunal added.

He tapped the screen. Sound filled the kitchen.

Her voice. Moaning. Begging. Saying things she'd never want anyone else to hear.

"Please," the recording played. "Please let me come. I'll do anything. I'm yours. I'm a hypocrite feminist slut who needs your cock."

Kunal stopped the video. The silence after was deafening.

"Your face is visible in all of them," he said. "Very clear. No way to claim it's someone else."

Aloma stared at the phone. At the frozen image of herself mid-degradation. At the proof of everything she'd become tonight.

"So when I say you'll be here at eight PM every night for the next week," Kunal continued, "I'm not really asking. I'm telling you what's going to happen."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket. The images disappeared. But they still existed. Would always exist now.

"Do you understand?" he asked.

Aloma's voice came out as a whisper. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I understand."

Kunal's hand found her chin. Tilted her face up. "Say the terms out loud. I want to hear you agree to them properly."

Her throat worked. Swallowing was difficult. "I'll come here every evening at eight PM for the next seven days."

"And?"

"And I'll do what you tell me."

"Be specific," Kunal said. "What exactly will you do?"

The words stuck. Saying them would make it real. More real than it already was.

"I'll let you use me," Aloma said. Each word was difficult. "However you want."

"In exchange for?"

"Promotion to Senior Social Media Manager. Forty percent salary increase."

Kunal smiled. Not warmly. Just satisfied. Like a business deal had been successfully negotiated.

"Good girl," he said.

He released her chin. Moved back to the counter. Started typing on his phone.

"I'm ordering your Uber," he said. "You should probably leave before the building's residents see you. Some of them know Priya. Might ask questions about why a young woman in Anoushka's dress is leaving my penthouse on a Sunday morning."

The reminder was cruel. The dress. His daughter's dress. Still on Aloma's body. Still smelling faintly of Anoushka's perfume mixed with sex and sweat.

"Car will be here in three minutes," Kunal said. He looked up from his phone. "Stand up."

Aloma slid off the bar stool. Her legs held her weight now. The shaking had stopped.

"Lift the dress," Kunal commanded.

She hesitated. Just for a second.

"Now," he added.

Aloma's hands found the hem. Pulled it up to her waist. Exposed herself completely.

Kunal's eyes traveled over her. Lingered on the space between her thighs. Come had leaked out again while she was sitting. Fresh evidence of what he'd done to her.

"Perfect," he said. "I want you to remember this feeling. Remember what you look like right now. Standing in my kitchen wearing my daughter's dress with my come leaking down your legs."

He moved closer. His hand reached between her thighs. Two fingers pushed inside without warning.

Aloma gasped. Her hands stayed gripping the dress. Holding it up like he'd commanded.

Kunal fingered her slowly. Just a few thrusts. Enough to coat his fingers with the mixture of their arousal.

Then he pulled out. Brought his fingers to her mouth.

"Open," he said.

She opened. Let him push his fingers inside. Tasted herself. Tasted him. The combination was obscene.

"Suck them clean," Kunal said.

Aloma's lips closed around his fingers. Her tongue worked over them. Cleaning away every trace of what they'd done.

When he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers out. Wiped them on her face. Left a streak of moisture across her cheek.

"Your Uber is downstairs," he said. He checked his phone. "Driver's name is Rajesh. White Maruti Swift. License plate MH-02-BX-4729."

Aloma pulled the dress down. The fabric felt even more wrong now. Contaminated beyond redemption.

Kunal walked her to the door. His hand rested on the small of her back. The gesture would look protective from outside. Gentlemanly. Nothing like what it actually was.

They reached the entrance. The same door where guests had left last night. Where Aloma should have left instead of staying.

Kunal opened it. Stepped aside to let her pass.

"You're still not wearing underwear," he said. "Remember that when you're sitting in the Uber. When you're walking from the car to your apartment. When you're in the elevator with your neighbors."

Aloma stepped into the hallway. The marble was cold under her bare feet. She'd forgotten about shoes. About socks. About everything that would make her look normal instead of like someone fleeing a crime scene.

"Eight PM tonight," Kunal reminded her. "Not a minute late."

The door closed behind her.

Aloma stood in the empty hallway. The building was quiet. Sunday morning meant most residents were still sleeping or eating breakfast with their families.

She moved to the elevator. Pressed the button. The doors opened immediately.

Empty. Thank whatever god was listening. Or not listening. She'd stopped praying years ago but the reflex remained.

The elevator descended. Forty floors. Each one felt longer than the last.

Her reflection stared back from the mirrored walls. Anoushka's dress hung on her thin frame. Her hair was a mess despite the shower. Her face looked exactly like what she was.

The streak Kunal had left on her cheek was still visible. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

The elevator reached the ground floor. Doors opened to the lobby.

The security guard looked up from his desk. His eyes traveled over her. The dress. Her bare feet. Her disheveled appearance.

"Ma'am," he said. Respectful. Professional. Nothing in his tone suggested judgment but his eyes told a different story.

"My Uber is outside," Aloma said.

The guard nodded. Didn't ask why she was leaving Kunal sir's penthouse dressed like this. Didn't ask where her shoes were. Didn't ask anything.

The building employed people who understood discretion. Who knew when to look away.

Aloma crossed the lobby. The marble was even colder here. Her feet left faint impressions in the polished surface.

Outside, the morning sun was bright. Mumbai's heat was already building despite the early hour. The contrast from the air-conditioned penthouse was jarring.

A white Maruti Swift idled near the entrance. License plate matched what Kunal had said.

The driver looked at her through the window. His expression was carefully neutral.

Aloma opened the back door. Slid into the seat. The leather was warm from the sun.

"Bandra West?" the driver asked. He was reading the address from his phone.

"Yes," Aloma said.

The car pulled away from the building. The housing society disappeared behind them. Expensive high-rises giving way to slightly less expensive mid-rises. Then to the chaotic sprawl of Mumbai's morning traffic.

Aloma shifted in her seat. The dress rode up her thighs. She tugged it down. The leather was sticky against her bare skin.

Then she realized. Come was still leaking from her. Slowly. Steadily. Soaking into the leather seat beneath her.

The driver's eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. Met hers for just a second. Then looked back at the road.

He could probably smell it. The sex. The sweat. The evidence of what she'd spent the night doing.

Aloma pressed her thighs together. The movement only made more come leak out. She could feel it. Warm and wet. Spreading across the leather.

Traffic crawled. Sunday morning meant fewer cars but Mumbai was never truly empty. Every intersection took minutes to clear.

The driver turned on the radio. Some Bollywood song about love and heartbreak. The lyrics were in Hindi. Aloma understood enough to catch the general meaning.

Her phone buzzed in the small purse she'd somehow managed not to lose. She pulled it out.

A text from Kunal. Sent thirty seconds ago.

"Don't clean the seat. Leave evidence. I want the driver to wonder what kind of woman leaves that behind."

Aloma's fingers tightened on the phone. She should delete the message. Should text back something angry. Should do anything other than what she did.

Which was nothing. Just sat there. Feeling come soak into the leather. Knowing the driver would see it when she got out.

Another text arrived.

"Eight PM. Don't forget."

The car turned onto her street. The building came into view. Seventeen floors of middle-class apartments. Nothing like Kunal's penthouse. Nothing like the world she'd just left.

The driver pulled up to the entrance. Put the car in park.

Aloma reached for the door handle. Paused.

The seat beneath her was wet. Obviously wet. No way to hide it. No way to pretend it was anything other than what it was.

She opened the door. Stepped out. The morning sun hit her immediately. Made her squint.

The driver looked at the backseat. At the wet patch on the leather. His expression didn't change. Professional driver who'd probably seen worse.

But his eyes met hers one more time before she closed the door. And in that brief moment, she saw what he was thinking. What he knew about her.

The car pulled away. Left her standing on the sidewalk in Anoushka's dress. Barefoot. Smelling of sex and shame.

Aloma walked into her building. The lobby was empty. The elevator ride up to her floor felt endless. Each floor dinged past. Each one bringing her closer to her apartment. To the safety of her own space.

Her apartment was on the fourteenth floor. End of the hallway. She fumbled for her keys in her purse. Dropped them once. Picked them up. Hands shaking again.

The door opened. She stepped inside. Closed it behind her.

The silence was overwhelming. Her apartment was small. One bedroom. Tiny kitchen. Bathroom that needed renovation. Everything she could afford on her salary.

On her old salary. Before the forty percent increase Kunal had just offered her.

Aloma moved to the bathroom. Looked at herself in the mirror above the sink.

Anoushka's dress hung on her body. The fabric was wrinkled now. Creased from being pushed up and pulled down. Stained with sweat and other things.

She should take it off. Should throw it away. Should burn it if possible.

Instead she stood there. Looking at her reflection. At what she'd become.

Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Kunal.

This time it was a photo. Aloma on the dining table. Face clearly visible. Expression caught mid-orgasm. The image was high quality. Professional almost. He'd taken time to frame it properly.

The next text arrived immediately after.

"Twelve hours until you're back here. Wear something nice. I'm taking you shopping first."

Aloma sat down on her bathroom floor. Still wearing the dress. Still barefoot. Still smelling of everything she'd done.

The tiles were cold. She leaned back against the wall. Pulled her knees to her chest. The dress rode up but she didn't care anymore. Nobody was watching.

Except Kunal would be. In twelve hours. At exactly eight PM. And every night after that for the next week.

She closed her eyes. Her body was exhausted. Sore. Used in ways that would leave marks for days.

But between her thighs, she was wet again. Already anticipating. Already knowing she'd be there at eight PM. Already knowing she'd do exactly what he wanted.

The realization was worse than anything else. Worse than the photos. Worse than the blackmail. Worse than wearing his daughter's dress.

She wanted it. Wanted to go back. Wanted him to use her again and again until nothing was left but this desperate need to be degraded by someone who saw exactly what she was.

Aloma's phone buzzed one more time. She didn't look at it. Just sat there on her bathroom floor. In Anoushka's dress. With come still leaking onto the tiles beneath her. Already counting down the hours until she'd be back in that penthouse. Back under Kunal's control. Back to being exactly what he'd made her admit she was.