Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon, a 35-year-old Indian housewife, found herself in a predicament she never could have imagined. Naive to the ways of the world, she had been lured into a seedy nightclub by her so-called friends, who promised a night of fun and excitement. Little did she know, they had more sinister plans in mind.

The club was dimly lit, the air thick with the stench of sweat and cheap perfume. Manjula, clad in a traditional sari that she now regretted wearing, felt out of place amidst the scantily clad women and leering men. Her friends had disappeared, leaving her alone and vulnerable.

Suddenly, a group of burly, hairy men surrounded her. Their bellies hung over their belts, and their beards were matted with days-old stubble. The shortest among them, a man with a gut that hung down to his knees, spoke first.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he said, his eyes roaming over Manjula’s body like a predator eyeing its prey. “A little Indian princess, lost in our den of debauchery.”

Manjula trembled, her heart pounding in her chest. “Please, I don’t belong here,” she stammered. “I just want to go home.”

The men laughed, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers down her spine. “Oh, you’re not going anywhere, princess,” the short man said, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. “We’ve got plans for you.”