The full report from Detective Vikram Singh arrived exactly on schedule—Monday morning, seven days after Mansi had set him on the trail. The encrypted email landed in her inbox while she was still in bed, recovering from yet another "distraction" session with Ashraful and Pushpa the night before. She opened it on her phone in the bathroom, away from prying eyes, and read it with a cold, unblinking stare.

The dossier was damning: certified copies of FIRs from Saharanpur Police Station, including #456/2024 for murder (a rival gang member stabbed during a botched kidnapping), witness statements linking Ashraful directly to the crime, photos of his family home in Deoband—a sprawling compound guarded by armed men—and bank records showing regular transfers from his brothers' smuggling operations. There were even intercepted call logs where Ashraful discussed "laying low in Mumbai" with his elder brother, Rafiq Khan, a known extortionist with three pending murder cases himself. Arif, as promised, was spotless: orphanage records from Mumbai confirmed his orphan status, no family, no criminal ties—clean as a whistle.

Mansi's hands shook slightly—not with fear, but with rage. How dare this criminal hide in her home, fuck her every day, drink her milk, and play the innocent orphan? And his family—dangerous thugs who could come after her or Pushpa if they learned of her role. No. This ended now, but smartly. She couldn't risk her name surfacing; the Khan family was notorious for revenge killings.

She dialed Vikram immediately, her voice low and steady as she paced the marble bathroom floor, the steam from her morning shower still clouding the mirror.

"Vikram ji, report padh liya. Sab sach hai. Ab usko hatana hai—bilkul discreetly. Mera naam kahin nahi aana chahiye, na Pushpa ka. Uski family dangerous hai—woh humein harm kar sakte hain agar unko shak hua."

Vikram's gravelly voice came through calm and professional. "Samajh gaya, memsaab. Yeh aapki safety ka mamla hai. Main handle karunga. UP police ke high officials se baat karunga—mera dost DCP hai Saharanpur mein. Mumbai police ko bhi loop mein launga; unke paas interstate warrant handle karne ka experience hai. Do teams banaayenge: ek UP se, ek Mumbai se. Aapko bas ek kaam karna hai—Ashraful ko akela bahar bhejna. Market, koi dukan, kuch bhi. Hum usko wahi pakdenge. Aapka naam report mein bhi nahi aayega; bolenge routine tip-off se pakda gaya."

Mansi nodded to herself, mind racing. "Theek hai. Woh din mein bahar nahi jaata—sirf raat mein, woh bhi kabhi-kabhi. Online shopping karta hai sab. Par main manage kar lungi. Kab ready honge aap log?"

"48 hours mein teams position mein hongi. Kal subah call karunga—us din bhejna. Aur memsaab, careful rahiyega. Uske saath akeli mat rehna raat ko."

"Main handle kar lungi, Vikram ji. Bas jaldi karo."

She hung up, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection. The plan was set. Now, one last performance.

### The Day of Action – Wednesday

The next 48 hours passed in a blur of calculated normalcy. Mansi kept Ashraful buried in sex—morning blowjobs, afternoon quickies, evening threesomes with Pushpa—to keep him relaxed and unsuspecting. On Wednesday morning, Vikram called at 8 a.m.: "Aaj din mein bhej do. Teams ready hain—medicine shop ke paas wait kar rahi hain. Uske phone se location track kar rahe hain."

Mansi smiled coldly. "Done."

She walked downstairs naked, her body still marked from the previous night's session, and found Ashraful in the kitchen making tea. Pushpa was in the shower. Perfect.

"Ashraful... aa idhar," she purred, pulling him to the living room sofa. She pushed him down, straddled his lap, and guided his already-hardening cock into her pussy without a word. For the next three hours, she rode him like a woman possessed—slow grinds turning into hard bounces, her tits slapping his face as he sucked them greedily, milk flowing down his chin.

"Choos zor se... mera doodh pi... aaj bahut horny hoon," she moaned, clenching her pussy around him, making him groan. She switched positions relentlessly: reverse-cowgirl so he could slap her ass, doggy on the floor for deep anal pounding ("Phad de meri gaand... poora andar daal!"), then missionary where she kissed him deeply, whispering, "Tu mera best lund hai... cum bhar de mujhe."

He filled her pussy twice, her ass once, and finished in her mouth, her swallowing every drop while looking up at him with fake adoration. "Mmm... tera cum itna tasty... abhi aur chahiye."

Ashraful lay back, spent and grinning. "Memsaab... aaj kya baat hai? Itna zor se chudwaya?"

Mansi cuddled against him, tracing his chest. "Bas yaad aayegi na... kal maine medicine bhool gayi thi laane. Headache ho raha hai. Ja na, le aa market se. Jaldi aa jaaye toh... aaj dopahar mein phir se chodungi tujhe. Aur zyada horny hoon aaj."

Ashraful hesitated, his usual reluctance surfacing. "Memsaab... din mein bahar? Online mangwa lo na. Ya raat ko jaata hoon."

Mansi pouted, grinding her still-leaking pussy against his thigh. "Arre please... jaldi jaa ke aa na. Medicine shop paas hi hai. Aur agar jaldi aaya, toh aaj raat Pushpa ko bhi bula ke teeno milkar karenge. Tera lund meri chut aur gaand mein... aur Pushpa ki muh mein. Soch... kitna mazaa aayega."

Ashraful's eyes glazed with lust. He thought for a moment: Ek saal ho gaya chhupte hue... itni badi city mein kaun pehchaanega? Aur memsaab itni horny hai aaj... do baar aur chodne ka mauka?

"Theek hai, memsaab... jaata hoon. Bas do minute mein wapas."

Mansi pulled him down for one last deep kiss, her tongue dancing with his, then leaned back and offered her breast. "Jaane se pehle... ek baar choos le mera doodh... energy milegi."

He latched on eagerly, sucking hard, milk filling his mouth as she moaned softly. After a minute, she pushed him away gently. "Ab jaa... jaldi aa."

Ashraful dressed quickly, grabbed his wallet, and left, whistling softly, mind full of the promised afternoon threesome.

Mansi watched from the window as he walked down the lane toward the medicine shop.

Her smile faded.

She picked up her phone and texted Vikram: "He's out. Heading to the shop now."

Ten minutes later, as Ashraful exited the pharmacy with the medicine bag, clutching it like a prize, two unmarked vans pulled up suddenly. Before he could react, six plainclothes officers from the joint UP-Mumbai team swarmed him—handcuffs clicked, a hood over his head, bundled into the van in under 20 seconds. No drama, no chase—just efficient, silent apprehension.

Ashraful never saw it coming.

One moment he was dreaming of Mansi's body; the next, he was en route to Saharanpur jail, his family's empire crumbling behind him.

Back at the bungalow, Mansi deleted the text, poured herself a glass of wine, and smiled coldly.

"Game over, Ashraful."

Pushpa walked in, confused. "Didi... Ashraful kahan gaya? Breakfast ready hai."

Mansi hugged her. "Woh... chala gaya. Permanently. Ab naya chapter shuru hoga."

And with that, the mansion was hers again—clean, safe, and ready for the next player: Arif.