Prelude: The Night the Plug Arrived

Noida PG, Sector 22 – 11:47 PM, June 2025

The fan whirred like a tired rickshaw, pushing hot, humid air in lazy circles that did nothing to cool the room. Rupali Sharma lay on her thin cotton mattress, the window cracked open to let in the distant honk of late-night trucks on the Noida-Greater Noida Expressway, the sticky sweetness of jasmine from the neighbor’s balcony, and the faint, acrid bite of burning garbage from the slum across the road. Her phone glowed in the dark, Amazon delivery notification: Rose-Gold Steel Butt Plug, 3-inch, Jeweled Base, Flared for Safety. The box sat on her rickety study table, bubble wrap crinkling as she tore it open with trembling fingers. The plug was heavier than she expected, cold metal catching the yellow bulb light, the ruby jewel winking like a cheap Diwali light, a promise of something forbidden.

She was 22, the first in her family to escape the cramped two-room flat in Ghaziabad where her mother still cooked on a single gas burner and her father drove an Ola to make ends meet. Her mother had pressed a crumpled ₹500 note into her palm the night before, whispering through proud tears, “Metro ke liye, beta. Proud of you. Highfirm Consulting, big company!” Rupali had smiled, her throat tight, but inside she was a storm. Good girl by day, topper in her B.Com, obedient daughter who folded her dupatta neatly and never spoke above a whisper in front of elders. But at night, alone in the PG with its peeling blue walls and the constant drip of the shared bathroom tap, she was someone else entirely.

Reddit threads, Pornhub tabs stacked like sins (“Office Boss Fucks employee”, “Submissive Desi Maid Analed”), her fingers slick with shame and need. She’d bookmarked a post that haunted her:

“Wore my plug 9-5 in a Noida BPO. Boss sat 2 feet away. Came during stand-up. No one knew. The risk made it better.”

She locked the PG bathroom door, the Dettol-soaked floor cool and slightly gritty under her bare feet. The mirror was cracked, reflecting her in fragments, fair skin flushed pink, fluffy lips painted with cheap Lakmé strawberry gloss, perky A-cup tits with dark pink nipples poking through her threadbare nightie. No lube, just spit, thick and warm from her mouth. She bent over the sink, pressed the plug’s tapered tip to her virgin asshole. The metal was icy against her heat, a shock that made her pussy clench instantly. It resisted, her tight ring fluttering in protest. She pushed harder, breath hitching in her throat, a burn blooming deep inside her like a lit match. One inch. The stretch was fire, pain sharp enough to make her eyes water, but her cunt dripped, a bead of slick trailing down her inner thigh and splattering onto the tiles with a soft plink.

She imagined Zoya Malhotra, her new boss, the woman from the LinkedIn profile with sharp black rimmed glasses, sindoor like a fresh wound, and a smirk that screamed cruelty and care in equal measure. In her fantasy, Zoya’s red nails dug into her hips, her voice low and commanding: “Take it, intern. This ass is mine now.” Rupali’s fingers found her clit, circling fast, the plug halfway in, stretching her wider than she’d ever been. The pain twisted into pleasure, a dark, electric current that made her knees buckle. She came with a muffled gasp, biting the sleeve of her nightie, pussy spasming, the plug sliding another half-inch deeper from the force of her orgasm.

She pulled it out with a wet pop, the sound loud in the silence, her hole gaping for a moment before closing. She cried then, not from pain, but from the overwhelming thrill of surrender. The plug went back in the box, but its weight lived in her now, a seed planted deep. She wanted this. She wanted to be owned, broken, remade. She whispered into the dark, “Zoya Ma’am,” and fell asleep sticky, thighs trembling, dreaming of red nails and a voice that could command her soul.

Day 1: The Tower – First Taste of Power

8:17 AM – Rapid Metro, Yellow Line

The platform was a sauna, the air so thick with humidity it felt like breathing soup. Sweat beaded on Rupali’s neck and trickled between her shoulder blades, making her pale pink FabIndia kurta cling translucently to her skin. The plug, still in its Amazon box, was tucked into her white cotton bra, pressing against her left nipple with every jolt of the train. The metal had warmed to her body temperature, molding to the curve of her small breast, a secret pulse that sent sparks straight to her clit. She stood crushed between a sweaty uncle whose armpit reeked of old spice and onions, and a college girl scrolling Instagram with glossy nails. The air was a cocktail of spilled chai, sweat, the metallic tang of the rails, and the faint sweetness of someone’s ittar.

Cyber Hub loomed ahead, its glass towers reflecting a bruised monsoon sky heavy with unshed rain. Rupali walked the skybridge, her mojaris slipping on wet tiles, her jhola heavy with the plug box, a ₹10 aloo paratha wrapped in foil, and a dog-eared copy of Rich Dad Poor Dad she’d never finished. The city sprawled below like a circuit board, endless scooters, honking Ambassadors, street vendors hawking coconut water under faded umbrellas. She felt small, but the plug in her bra was a talisman, a promise that she was already stepping into something bigger.

Inside Highfirm Consulting, 14th floor, the elevator smelled of someone’s misfired Axe and the lingering grease of morning samosas. The doors opened to a blast of AC, 18°C, artificial pine scent from the diffuser near reception sharp enough to make her sinuses sting. The office was alive: printers coughing out reports, keyboards clacking in frantic rhythms, the distant sizzle of samosas frying in the pantry, the chai kettle hissing like an angry cat. Rupali’s cubicle was a coffin of beige partitions at the far end, next to the perpetually jammed Xerox machine that smelled of burnt toner. The chair was still warm from the night-shift peon, its faux leather cracked and sticky. She logged in: [email protected]. Password: Delhi123. The Dell monitor flickered to life, casting a cold blue glow on her face, and the plug shifted in her bra, a reminder of the line she’d already crossed in her mind.

8:47 AM – Zoya Malhotra Enters

Heels announced her before she appeared, red Louboutin knockoffs from Sarojini Nagar, clicking like a heartbeat on the marble floor. Zoya Malhotra, Senior VP, strode in like she owned the air itself. Black pencil skirt hugging thick Punjabi thighs, the fabric stretched so tight it gleamed under the fluorescents. White blouse stretched over 36D tits, the second button fighting for life, a sliver of black lace bra peeking through like a dare. Sindoor glowed like fresh blood in the parting of her oiled hair, pulled into a severe bun; gold bangles clinked with every gesture, a metallic chime that made Rupali’s stomach flip. Zoya’s scent hit first, Chanel No. 5 layered over elaichi paan and something darker, muskier, the raw heat of her skin after a morning in Delhi traffic. She didn’t look at Rupali. Just barked, voice cutting through the office din like a knife through dahi:

“New intern. Cabin. Abhi.”

Rupali’s heart lurched into her throat. She followed, her mojaris squeaking, dupatta slipping to reveal the curve of her neck slick with sweat. The plug box in her bra dug into her nipple, a sharp reminder of her secret. The cabin door shut with a soft thump that sealed them in. AC blasted colder here, pine scent sharper. The teak desk gleamed, brass nameplate (Zoya Malhotra, SVP) catching the light, a crystal Ganesha winking under the LED strip. Zoya sat, legs crossed, skirt riding high enough to flash the lace tops of her stockings and a glimpse of smooth, thick thigh.

“Mumbai client deck. 20 slides. Revenue, margins, YoY growth. By 5 PM. Ek galti nahi.”