In the quiet village haveli, where the afternoons stretched long and lazy under the relentless Rajasthan sun, Neha had grown accustomed to solitude. Her husband, Rajesh, had been swallowed by the city's chaos—his job in Mumbai keeping him away for months at a time, visits home rare as monsoon rains, maybe once every six months if she was lucky. Those fleeting nights with him were mechanical, over in minutes, leaving her body aching for more, her mind wandering to forbidden fantasies in the dead of night. With her father-in-law and mother-in-law long gone—passed in a tragic accident two years back—the sprawling house echoed with emptiness. Neha managed it all: the fields' accounts, the servants' orders, the endless chores that filled her days but left her nights hollow. In that isolation, habits formed—small rebellions against the loneliness. Like leaving her bedroom door ajar while changing, the warm breeze from the courtyard her only companion, her body free and unburdened in the privacy she thought was hers. She'd stand there naked, fingers idly tracing her curves, pinching her dark nipples until they hardened like stones, or dipping between her thighs to rub her swollen clit, imagining rough hands that weren't her husband's. No servants where allowed inside the house as she was used to do all the household chores. Her chut throbbed with neglect, wet dreams soaking her sheets, her fingers never quite enough to quench the fire.