- 1,738
- 2,235
- 159
Parveen remained motionless on the sofa, her heart hammering against her ribs, long after the sound of Neil’s keyboard in the study had ceased. The memory of his exposed body was burned into her mind, a humiliation that transcended the physical. She was suffocating in the small space, trapped not just by the walls, but by the chain of obligation he had wrapped around her brother's life.
When Neil finally reappeared, he was still wearing only the black boxer briefs. He held a fresh, white printout in one hand, and in the other, a bright yellow, flexible measuring tape. His expression was coolly professional, utterly devoid of the calculated sexuality he had displayed minutes earlier. He walked straight toward her, stopping directly in front of the sofa where she sat.
Parveen had to tilt her head back painfully to look up at him. She felt dwarfed and entirely defenseless.
“The costume fitting for the commercial is early tomorrow,” he explained, his voice flat and businesslike. “They need precise measurements emailed before I arrive, and I don’t trust their wardrobe department to get it right. They always botch the thigh measurements for the male lead.”
He dropped the folded, crisp paper onto her lap, followed by the soft, heavy weight of the tape measure.
“I need you to take them. Now.”
Parveen stared at the measuring tape—a harmless, practical object now weaponized into a tool of degradation. Her hands clenched.
“I—I don’t know how,” she stammered, the lie clumsy. She managed a massive household; she knew how to measure curtains and fabric.“You will learn quickly,” Neil replied, his eyes hardening slightly. “This is a simple exchange of labor for freedom, Parveen. Your obedience is essential. Your education is irrelevant.”
He planted his feet wide apart, presenting his body to her, a magnificent, terrifying specimen. The sheer proximity to his near-nakedness was a staggering breach of decorum. She felt like she was gasping for air, the buldge now just inches way, for a mili-second her she even looked at it with awe. she was falling in trance.
“We’ll start with the hardest part,” he instructed, the command quiet but absolute. “The waist first. Then the thighs. I need them precise, to the millimeter. You need to get close. Take your time. And remember why you are here.”
The threat was implicit: Ridhaan's safety was tethered to the accuracy of her measurements.
Parveen’s fingers trembled as she picked up the measuring tape. The fine, expensive fabric of her shalwar kameez suddenly felt thin, providing no shelter. She fought the urge to close her eyes, knowing he would not allow that escape.
Slowly, reluctantly, she leaned forward, forcing herself into the intimate, suffocating radius of his body. Her fingers brushed the warm, smooth skin of his side as she attempted to wrap the yellow tape around his waist. It was the deepest trespass yet—an intimate, non-consensual contact that reduced her to a functionary measuring his objectified form. The soft material of the measuring tape felt impossibly small, a pathetic weapon against the vastness of his control.
Parveen kept her head down, focusing on the tiny black numbers on the yellow strip, trying to block out the reality that her head was level with his diaphragm, that the heat and musk of his body enveloped her, and that the ultimate price of her piety was being tallied, inch by painstaking inch.
When Neil finally reappeared, he was still wearing only the black boxer briefs. He held a fresh, white printout in one hand, and in the other, a bright yellow, flexible measuring tape. His expression was coolly professional, utterly devoid of the calculated sexuality he had displayed minutes earlier. He walked straight toward her, stopping directly in front of the sofa where she sat.
Parveen had to tilt her head back painfully to look up at him. She felt dwarfed and entirely defenseless.
“The costume fitting for the commercial is early tomorrow,” he explained, his voice flat and businesslike. “They need precise measurements emailed before I arrive, and I don’t trust their wardrobe department to get it right. They always botch the thigh measurements for the male lead.”
He dropped the folded, crisp paper onto her lap, followed by the soft, heavy weight of the tape measure.
“I need you to take them. Now.”
Parveen stared at the measuring tape—a harmless, practical object now weaponized into a tool of degradation. Her hands clenched.
“I—I don’t know how,” she stammered, the lie clumsy. She managed a massive household; she knew how to measure curtains and fabric.“You will learn quickly,” Neil replied, his eyes hardening slightly. “This is a simple exchange of labor for freedom, Parveen. Your obedience is essential. Your education is irrelevant.”
He planted his feet wide apart, presenting his body to her, a magnificent, terrifying specimen. The sheer proximity to his near-nakedness was a staggering breach of decorum. She felt like she was gasping for air, the buldge now just inches way, for a mili-second her she even looked at it with awe. she was falling in trance.
“We’ll start with the hardest part,” he instructed, the command quiet but absolute. “The waist first. Then the thighs. I need them precise, to the millimeter. You need to get close. Take your time. And remember why you are here.”
The threat was implicit: Ridhaan's safety was tethered to the accuracy of her measurements.
Parveen’s fingers trembled as she picked up the measuring tape. The fine, expensive fabric of her shalwar kameez suddenly felt thin, providing no shelter. She fought the urge to close her eyes, knowing he would not allow that escape.
Slowly, reluctantly, she leaned forward, forcing herself into the intimate, suffocating radius of his body. Her fingers brushed the warm, smooth skin of his side as she attempted to wrap the yellow tape around his waist. It was the deepest trespass yet—an intimate, non-consensual contact that reduced her to a functionary measuring his objectified form. The soft material of the measuring tape felt impossibly small, a pathetic weapon against the vastness of his control.
Parveen kept her head down, focusing on the tiny black numbers on the yellow strip, trying to block out the reality that her head was level with his diaphragm, that the heat and musk of his body enveloped her, and that the ultimate price of her piety was being tallied, inch by painstaking inch.
