eek six escalated my feminization to mirror Rahul's more closely, crossing a terrifying new threshold. I was given 5-inch heels, forcing my calves into a permanent, agonizing flex that sent cramps up my legs by noon. Furthermore, I received a silver septum piercing to match the heavy jewelry adorning Rahul’s face. But the most invasive upgrade was internal.
Mistress Shalini decided my training was progressing well enough to earn a piece of Rahul's specific, humiliating torment. I was ordered to bend over the kitchen island, where she aggressively forced a smaller, yet incredibly heavy, vibrating bejeweled butt plug inside me. Like Rahul's, it was designed with a cruel internal sensor connected to her phone. If I did not adopt a pronounced, swaying feminine walk, the device would deliver sharp, shocking electrical vibrations deep inside me, dropping me to my knees.
Our task for the day was a grueling eight-hour polish of every antique brass lamp and artifact stored in a secluded, dusty room in the rear of the Kothi. Left alone in the dim, atmospheric light, the sexual and sensual tension between us—amplified by the desperate need to constantly sway our hips to avoid the shocks—finally boiled over.
We were kneeling on the floor, our sarees hiked up, the metallic padlocks of our exposed chastity cages resting heavily on the dusty marble through our saree slits. Unable to speak through our tightly buckled gags, we abandoned the brass polishing entirely. I crawled toward Rahul, my short chains clinking loudly against the stone, my hips swaying out of pure instinct to appease the buzzing plug. He met me halfway, his heavily lined eyes dark with a suppressed, agonizing desire.
I reached out, my stacked glass bangles chiming, and gently traced the massive chandelier earrings hanging from his lobes. He groaned deep into his heavy rubber gag. My hands moved down, desperately fondling, squeezing, and kneading his massive, soft breasts through the fabric of his cheap magenta silk saree. We pressed our caged bodies together, the cold metal of our chastity devices grinding uselessly against each other on the outside of our garments. It was an overwhelming sensory overload—the heavy drag makeup, the heavy jewelry I now wore, the scent of sweat, the buzzing of the plugs inside our bodies, and the desperate, muffled sounds of our immense arousal.
We were so lost in our silent, gagged intimacy that we didn't hear Shalini return early from her shopping trip. She stood in the doorway, her designer heels clicking sharply, her eyes narrowed in absolute, terrifying fury.
The punishment was catastrophic. Shalini grabbed us directly by the metal cages protruding from our sarees, dragging us by our genitals down the stairs to the basement. She administered the most brutal caning we had ever received, striking our cages, our bare thighs, and our backs with a bamboo cane until we bled. She struck Rahul thirty times, and he took every blow without fighting back. And as always, when she was done, she strictly ordered Rahul to take the bloody cane and deliver an additional twenty severe strokes to me. He struck me relentlessly, ensuring he reinforced his role as the strict mentor, punishing me even as his own tears ruined his heavy makeup.
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