The morning sunlight filters through the grimy window of my Mumbai apartment, casting striped shadows across my rumpled bed. I groan and stretch, my naked body arching against the tangled sheets. The clock reads 7:30 AM - late, as usual. Monday looms ahead with its obligations: the assignment deadline I've been avoiding, and the college fest everyone's buzzing about. My cunt is already tingling with anticipation, though not for the fest. There's something about Mondays that makes me feel particularly depraved.

My red saree is draped over the chair, a vibrant slash of color against the faded wallpaper. I chose it deliberately last night, knowing how the silk would cling to my curves, how it would announce my presence before I even spoke. Standing before the mirror, I wrap the six yards around my body, keeping it low on my hips. The pallu drapes over my left shoulder, leaving my midriff exposed - the smooth expanse of my stomach, the delicate dip of my navel. I love this part of myself, the soft swell of my belly that men's eyes seem drawn to, the way my waist curves inward before flaring out to my hips.