Bijayini Dixit pedaled her cycle furiously, her average-height frame leaning forward, legs pumping hard against the rising wind. At 16, she carried the soft, ripe curves of early womanhood—especially her full, heavy D-cup breasts that strained against her simple white V-neck t-shirt and her mature, plump lips that always seemed slightly parted, as if inviting a kiss. She was in 10th standard, exams looming like a dark cloud, and though she hated waking up early on a Sunday morning for tuition, her parents had insisted. Last night’s dream still lingered in her body: a hazy, heated fantasy of strong hands sliding over her skin, lips on her neck, and a thick, insistent pressure between her thighs that had left her waking up damp and aching.