Chandni was built in excess.

Her body was full where it mattered—wide hips, thick thighs, a heavy chest that made restraint impossible. There was nothing subtle about her curves. They announced themselves the moment she stepped close, pressing into space, into attention. Her waist narrowed only enough to make the contrast cruel.

Fabric didn’t flatter her; it struggled against her. Every movement shifted her weight slowly, deliberately, flesh responding before intention could catch up. She didn’t soften the effect. She leaned into it.

She knew men didn’t come to her for conversation. They came already hungry, already imagining how her body would feel—warm, overwhelming, difficult to control. Chandni let that assumption stand. It worked in her favour . Men didn’t look at her by accident; their bodies reacted before their restraint could catch up. Chandni never rushed to correct them. She let the silence stretch. Let the discomfort grow. Awareness sat in her like a quiet satisfaction.

She leaned forward when she wanted something. Stood closer than necessary. Let her presence press into theirs just enough to make denial difficult. It wasn’t flirtation—it was control. She understood that desire made people careless, and she used that knowledge without guilt.

Her body wasn’t innocent, and she never pretended it was. It was warm, heavy with promise—curves shaped by confidence and the certainty that she would be wanted whether she asked for it or not.

She was not a temptation.

She was a consequence.

She was anything but innocent.