Mishti, forty-four, her body a testament to years of ghee and good fortune, swayed with the rhythm of the packed local train. Her thick black hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a neat bun, but stray strands clung to the sweat on her fair, flawless neck. Her 38-34-40 frame felt every jolt, her soft, heavy breasts barely contained by the polite cotton of her saree blouse. The air was a choking mix of sweat, perfume, and stale humanity.

Then the press began. At first, it was just the anonymous crush of the crowd, a shoulder here, a hip there. But then, a hand—rough, young, and brazen—cupped her right breast from behind. Her pussy clenched in shock. She tried to shift, but the crowd had her pinned. The hand squeezed, kneading the doughy flesh, thumb rolling over her nipple which, to her horror, stiffened through the thin material.

A snicker whispered in her ear, smelling of paan and arrogance. Another hand slithered across her belly, its fingers finding the swell of her left tit and digging under the edge of her blouse. Calloused fingertips, smelling of sweat and dirt, found her bare nipple. They rolled it, pinched it, and she had to bite her lip to stifle a gasp. His fingers were fondling her, tracing circles around the dark areola, pressing her tit so it popped out of the cup. She was bricking up, her moist cunt threatening to soak her panties right there in public. It was a violation of her ivory-white skin, her Brahmin purity, but her traitorous nerve