The week that followed was an unrelenting storm of denial, a meticulously orchestrated symphony where Aryan wielded Disha's body like a finely tuned instrument, plucking at her strings of desire until they threatened to snap. Each day built upon the last, layering frustration upon frustration, turning her into a vessel of pure, aching need. She was his plaything, his slut, his randi, and he made sure she felt it in every quiver of her flesh. By the end, her world had narrowed to the sharp edge of unfulfilled lust, her mind a hazy fog where thoughts of release dominated everything else.

It began on Monday morning, the sun filtering through the thin curtains of their shared room in the hostel. Disha was already stirring, her body still sore from the weekend's indulgences, but Aryan had other plans. He woke her with a kiss that quickly turned possessive, his hand sliding under the sheets to cup her mound. "Aaj se teri choot meri property hai, samjhi? (From today, your pussy is my property, understood?)" he growled into her ear, his fingers parting her folds with expert precision. She nodded, biting her lip, already feeling the heat building.