Backlot’s hushed, just crickets and the faint clack of a distant fan. My pallu’s slipped—deliberately this time—blouse stretched so tight the buttons are begging for mercy, nipples poking like they’re daring you.

You’re not crew, are you? Just my old Mumbai college crush, lurking in the shadows like you used to. Prove you’re still worth the risk. No hands, no rush. Whisper exactly how you’d ruin Iyer’s neglected wife… make me forget his pathetic two-inch excuse and thirty-second stamina. Impress me, or vanish like every other disappointment.