The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of the old family home in the quiet suburbs of Delhi. The house, usually buzzing with the chatter of family, felt unusually empty. Everyone had left early that morning for a big family function in the neighboring town. At 17, Priya was the youngest in the household, but her innocent, wide-eyed demeanor made her seem much younger, like a child trapped in a teenager's body. She had begged to stay back, claiming a headache, but really, she just wanted to spend time with her beloved Dadaji, the wise old grandfather who always spoiled her with stories and games.

Dadaji, a sturdy man in his late 60s with salt-and-pepper hair and a gentle smile that hid sharper intentions, sat on the worn-out sofa in the living room, flipping through a newspaper. He was glad for the solitude; it gave him opportunities he rarely got. Priya bounced into the room, her school uniform skirt swishing around her knees, her ponytail swinging playfully. She was petite, with soft curves just beginning to bloom—small breasts pressing against her white blouse, and a round ass that jiggled slightly as she moved.