The living room felt like a trap tonight. Door wide open—corridor light pouring in bright and cold. No hiding spot. Anyone passing could stop, stare, even step inside if they wanted. Karan had dragged the coffee table to the center—low, glass top, perfect for reflection. Lights on full—no dimming. Everything sharp, exposed.

Aisha stood in the middle—naked, wrists cuffed high to a hook Karan screwed into the ceiling beam. Arms stretched up, boobs lifted high, bruised purple skin stretched tight. Nipples already swollen—dark and raw. New toy in Karan’s hand: silver nipple clamps with heavy weights attached by short chains. Small bells on the ends—jingled soft every time they moved.