The old stone house in Jodhpur felt like a tomb that afternoon—thick walls swallowing every sound, the air heavy with dust and unspoken sin. Parents gone for a full week. No eyes. No rules. Just me, Aarav, 22, and my stepsister Aria, 20, trapped together in this shadowed cage.

I found her sprawled on the velvet couch like prey waiting to be claimed. Thin white tank top clung to her sweat-damp skin, the fabric so sheer I could see the dark circles of her areolas pressing through. No bra underneath—her full boobs rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. Tiny shorts rode high, the seam cutting into the soft flesh of her thighs, hinting at the heat between them.