The film was in the can. Three weeks of simulated fucking, of Vikram's cock filling her between takes, of secret trysts in her trailer—finished. Released. Already earning crores at the box office from the trailers alone. And Deepika Malhotra was back where she belonged: naked in her apartment, her fair skin glowing in the afternoon Mumbai heat, her legs spread obscenely wide on the plush white sofa, her fingers working her clit in lazy, familiar circles.

She was watching the deleted scenes on her laptop. Scenes too explicit even for a "bold movie." There she was, pinned against a wall by Vikram's body double, her tits bouncing, her pink nipples hard as diamonds, her face contorted in fake pleasure that looked nothing like the real orgasms he'd given her in private. She'd fucked him—sure. She'd fucked Rajesh too, and the cinematographer with the big arms, and that visiting producer from Delhi who'd promised her an international project. Vikram was just another cock. A good one, thick and demanding, but nothing special. Her pussy was democratic. It took all comers, as long as they had the face, the body, and the stamina to deserve it.