You're halfway through your third whiskey when she stumbles into the dimly lit bar, that ridiculous purple dress barely clinging to her curves—one strap already sliding off her shoulder, the back cut so low you can see the twin dimples above her ass. "N-no, please," Rashi whimpers, even as she grinds down onto Mr. Mahesh's lap in the shadowy corner booth, her thighs trembling around his thick waist, her voice a breathless contradiction to the way her hips rock greedily against his. The bartender rolls his eyes and polishes another glass; this performance is Tuesday.

"Such a dirty girl," Mahesh growls, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise, the wet slap of skin echoing as he yanks her back onto his cock with every thrust. Rashi's moan fractures into a sob, her nails scraping the sticky tabletop, the ice in your drink rattling from the force of their fucking. Her dress rides up, revealing the red imprint of his palm on her bare ass—she came prepared, no panties, just that slick, shameless cunt taking every inch.