The Junior Wife's Entrance & Petty Revenge
Click-clack, chham-chham. Click-clack, chham-chham.
The rapid, mincing rhythm of needle-thin stilettos striking the rooftop stairs—accompanied by the loud, musical jingle of heavy silver payal and clattering glass bangles—pulled me out of my thoughts. A moment later, the frosted glass door of my office swung open, and Vikram stepped inside.
Even though I was the one who had dressed her that morning, the sight of my junior sister-wife standing in the doorway knocked the wind right out of my lungs.
Under Rule 3, since it was my turn to choose her wardrobe for the day, I had dug into the very back of our closet to punish her for adding the floor-scrubbing penalty to the wheel. I had draped her tall, voluptuous frame in the cheapest, brightest neon-pink synthetic saree we owned—a fabric so sheer and gossamer-thin that it hid virtually nothing, pleated and pinned absurdly low on her wide hips to expose the entire expanse of her toned, kamarbandh-wrapped midriff. Worse still, I had hooked her into an undersized, ultra-low-cut backless neon-pink choli. Her heavy, cosmetically enhanced breasts swelled so dramatically above the tiny neckline that they looked ready to spill free with every breath she took.
To satisfy Mistress’s strict total-color-coordination mandate, I had matched every single accessory to that blinding neon-pink fabric: two large neon-pink-stoned nose studs flanking a pink-stoned septum ring, massive pink chandelier jhumkas that brushed her collarbones, a bright pink bindi below the thick streak of red sindoor in the center parting of her tight ponytail, thick stacks of neon-pink glass and gold bangles, shimmering pink eyeshadow with sharp winged kajal, and a thick coat of glossy hot-pink lipstick. Finally, instead of standard five-inch heels, I had locked her ankles into towering 7.5-inch needle-thin stilettos using tiny brass padlocks whose keys remained on Mistress’s keyring.
Vikram leaned one hand against the doorframe to catch her breath from the three-flight climb. Her heavy chest rose and fell rapidly against the straining pink blouse, the long gold chain of her mangalsutra rising and dipping within the deep cleft of her cleavage. Beneath the sheer neon-pink pleats of her saree, the outline of her hot-pink lacy silk briefs—and the completely flat, seamless contour of her titanium shield clasp—was clearly visible in the afternoon light.
"You really thought you were clever this morning, didn't you, Didi?" Vikram panted, her voice a rich, melodic purr laced with that playfully bossy, teasing edge she always used when Mistress wasn't around.
I couldn't even form a reply. Just looking at her glistening hot-pink lips and the way her heavy bustline heaved against that tiny blouse sent a violent flush of heat racing down my spine. Beneath my royal-blue briefs, my body reacted instantly—straining hard against the unyielding tip of my 1.5-inch titanium cylinder as the ergonomic base ring pulled snug against my pelvic arch. I gripped the edge of my desk, my knees weakening in my 5.5-inch heels.
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