Days turned to weeks, and Manik's advances grew bolder. He'd corner Nandini in the kitchen, pressing his body against hers from behind as she chopped onions, his hard cock grinding into her ass through the layers of cloth. 'Feel that? It's for you,' he'd whisper, hand sliding up her thigh under her petticoat, fingers brushing the edge of her plain cotton panties. She'd twist away, spilling vegetables, stammering apologies and pleas.

'You're mine to command, girl. The village is mine—why not you?' But Nandini held firm, her refusals polite yet unyielding. She confided in no one; who would challenge the sarpanch? Her work became a shield—she buried herself in tasks, avoiding his rooms when possible.