The wind screamed across the endless dunes like a dying animal. Three kilometers west of the haveli, the old outpost was little more than a crumbling stone shell half-buried in sand—once a British-era watchtower, now a forgotten skeleton used by smugglers to store weapons, opium, and bodies. Moonlight turned the sand silver; the air smelled of dust, diesel, and old blood.

Riya arrived barefoot, wrapped only in a thin red dupatta that did nothing to hide her. The sheer fabric clung to her sweat-damp skin, outlining every curve: heavy 38DD breasts swaying freely, dark nipples stabbing through the cloth like accusations, wide hips rolling with each terrified step, thick thighs already slick from the walk and the shameful anticipation pooling between them.