25-12-2025, 01:18 PM
The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, a blade of white light that cut across Sumu’s face, pulling him from the depths of a heavy, sated sleep. He groaned, shielding his eyes with a forearm, his internal clock telling him immediately that he had overslept. The house was already alive with the distant, muffled sounds of the day—the clanking of pots, the hum of the water pump.
He rolled over, his hand instinctively reaching out to the other side of the mattress, seeking the warmth that had anchored him through the night.
His palm met only cool, empty cotton.
Sumu blinked open his eyes, staring at the indentation on the grey pillow beside him. She was gone. But the ghost of her remained.
The air in the room, still crisp from the air conditioner, was heavy with a scent that made his head swim—a thick, heady cocktail of expensive room freshener, the lingering sweetness of jasmine, and the raw, earthy musk of sex. It was the smell of Shweta.
He shifted, the sheet rustling over his legs, and felt an immediate, sharp tug of arousal. His manhood was already hard, twitching against his thigh as the memories of the previous night flooded his brain, not as a hazy dream, but with the high-definition clarity of a film reel.
He looked down at the bedsheet. It was a battlefield of their passion. The grey fabric was rumpled and twisted, and near the center, a dark, stiff patch of dried fluids mapped out exactly where he had claimed her.
Sumu ran a hand over his face, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had done it. He had actually done it.
For weeks, it had been a torture of his own making. He had watched her transform in his mind from Ani's wife—a fixture of the household, a sisterly figure—into a woman of devastating allure. He remembered the first time he saw her sleeping in this very bed, her saree in disarray, her large bosoms spilling from the top of her blouse, rising and falling with a rhythm that had hypnotized him. That image had been the spark.
Then came the game. The cat and mouse chase across the architecture of the old house. The hide and seek of their gazes, the stolen glances across the dinner table, the intentional, lingering brushes of fingers during the tea exchange. It had been a dangerous dance, chipping away at his conservation, eroding the walls of his morality brick by brick.
But last night... last night the dam had broken.
He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in the hallway. He could still see her standing by the water filter, the bottle tilted too high. He could see the water cascading down her chin, trailing over her lips, her neck, making her chest glisten in the faint, amber light. That sight had shattered whatever resolve he had left. He had seen the panic in her eyes, yes, but beneath it, he had seen the hunger. The same dark, gnawing hunger that had been eating him alive.
She had invited him. She had dared him.
He pushed the sheet aside, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He felt no guilt. Surprisingly, the crushing weight of betrayal he expected to feel toward Ani was absent. Instead, a possessive, primal justification took root. Ani wasn't here. He was miles away, leaving a woman like Shweta alone in this heat, week after week. She was vibrant, alive, and she needed a man’s touch. Why should she wither in loneliness?
He stood up, stretching his arms, his muscles stiff but humming with energy. He remembered the way she had moved with him, the way she had wrapped her legs around his waist, her *sankha pola* clinking a frantic rhythm as she clawed at his back. She hadn't complained. She hadn't pulled away. She had danced with him, matching his thrusts, her body opening to him as if it had been waiting for him all along.
He had explored every nook and corner of her that night. He had tasted skin that was supposed to be sacred, claimed curves that were meant for Ani’s eyes only. The thought sent a fresh wave of blood to his groin.
He couldn't stay in here all day, breathing in the scent of their transgression. He needed to face the house.
He showered quickly, scrubbing the physical evidence from his skin but unable to wash away the sensory memory of her touch. When he finally descended the stairs, the sun was high, baking the courtyard.
He walked toward the kitchen, the heart of the home. The aroma of frying spices hung in the air.
Shweta was there.
She was squatting on the floor near the vegetable basket, peeling potatoes, while Ani’s mother sat on a low stool nearby, sorting rice.
Sumu paused in the doorway, his heart giving a heavy thud. Shweta didn't look up. Her head was bent low, her focus on the potato in her hand so intense, so absolute, that it was immediately unbelievable. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders drawn in tight as if she were trying to make herself smaller, to disappear into the floor tiles.
"You're up late, Sumu," his aunt—Ani’s mother—said, looking up with a gentle smile. "Must be the work pressure."
"Yes, Jethima," Sumu lied smoothly, his eyes never leaving Shweta’s bent back. "Late night calls."
Shweta’s hand slipped. The peeler nicked her thumb. She flinched, sticking the digit into her mouth, but she still refused to turn around. She refused to acknowledge his presence.
Sumu watched her for a moment longer—the curve of her spine, the way her saree dbangd over the hips he had gripped so firmly just hours ago. He wanted to walk over, to touch her shoulder, to make her look at him and acknowledge what they had shared. But the presence of his aunt was a wall of iron between them.
He turned and walked to the dining room, a frustration simmering in his gut.
The pattern continued for the next couple of days. The house, usually small and intimate, suddenly felt vast, filled with corners and shadows where Shweta could hide.
She was avoiding him. It wasn't subtle; it was a desperate, calculated evasion.
The evening ritual, the one he had come to crave, was the first casualty. That evening, as he sat in his office waiting for the soft knock and the scent of jasmine, the door opened to reveal his own mother.
"Here's your tea, babu," she said, placing the cup on his desk. "Shweta is busy with the puja preparations."
Sumu stared at the cup, the disappointment tasting bitter in his mouth.
The mornings were no different. He would go out to the terrace, shirtless, gripping the weights, his eyes automatically drifting upward to the third-floor roof. He waited for the flash of color, the silhouette of her leaning over the pabangt. But the clotheslines were already full. She had begun hanging the laundry at dawn, long before he woke up, ensuring their eyes would never meet across the vertical distance.
She had vanished from the dining table, too. When he came down for lunch, his mother would tell him Shweta had already eaten, or that she wasn't hungry. At dinner, she would retreat to her room the moment the men sat down, claiming a headache or fatigue.
It was maddening.
Sumu sat in his office chair on the third day, staring blankly at his monitor. He spun a pen between his fingers, his jaw tight.
She was trying to erase it. She was trying to pretend that the night of the storm, the night they had torn each other’s clothes off and merged in the blue dark of his room, had never happened. She wanted to bury it under domestic duties and silence.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't scrub the sensation of her silken depth from his mind. He couldn't forget the weight of her heavy, soft breasts in his hands, or the way she had whimpered his name when he spilled himself inside her. It wasn't a memory he could just file away. It was a hunger that had been awakened, and a single meal hadn't satisfied it—it had only shown him what he was starving for.
He clenched his fist, the plastic of the pen creaking under the pressure.
*No,* he thought, a dark resolve hardening in his chest. *It cannot be a one-time deal.* She couldn't let him taste paradise and then slam the gates shut. She belonged to him now, in a way Ani would never understand. And he wasn't going to let her hide forever.
He rolled over, his hand instinctively reaching out to the other side of the mattress, seeking the warmth that had anchored him through the night.
His palm met only cool, empty cotton.
Sumu blinked open his eyes, staring at the indentation on the grey pillow beside him. She was gone. But the ghost of her remained.
The air in the room, still crisp from the air conditioner, was heavy with a scent that made his head swim—a thick, heady cocktail of expensive room freshener, the lingering sweetness of jasmine, and the raw, earthy musk of sex. It was the smell of Shweta.
He shifted, the sheet rustling over his legs, and felt an immediate, sharp tug of arousal. His manhood was already hard, twitching against his thigh as the memories of the previous night flooded his brain, not as a hazy dream, but with the high-definition clarity of a film reel.
He looked down at the bedsheet. It was a battlefield of their passion. The grey fabric was rumpled and twisted, and near the center, a dark, stiff patch of dried fluids mapped out exactly where he had claimed her.
Sumu ran a hand over his face, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had done it. He had actually done it.
For weeks, it had been a torture of his own making. He had watched her transform in his mind from Ani's wife—a fixture of the household, a sisterly figure—into a woman of devastating allure. He remembered the first time he saw her sleeping in this very bed, her saree in disarray, her large bosoms spilling from the top of her blouse, rising and falling with a rhythm that had hypnotized him. That image had been the spark.
Then came the game. The cat and mouse chase across the architecture of the old house. The hide and seek of their gazes, the stolen glances across the dinner table, the intentional, lingering brushes of fingers during the tea exchange. It had been a dangerous dance, chipping away at his conservation, eroding the walls of his morality brick by brick.
But last night... last night the dam had broken.
He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in the hallway. He could still see her standing by the water filter, the bottle tilted too high. He could see the water cascading down her chin, trailing over her lips, her neck, making her chest glisten in the faint, amber light. That sight had shattered whatever resolve he had left. He had seen the panic in her eyes, yes, but beneath it, he had seen the hunger. The same dark, gnawing hunger that had been eating him alive.
She had invited him. She had dared him.
He pushed the sheet aside, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He felt no guilt. Surprisingly, the crushing weight of betrayal he expected to feel toward Ani was absent. Instead, a possessive, primal justification took root. Ani wasn't here. He was miles away, leaving a woman like Shweta alone in this heat, week after week. She was vibrant, alive, and she needed a man’s touch. Why should she wither in loneliness?
He stood up, stretching his arms, his muscles stiff but humming with energy. He remembered the way she had moved with him, the way she had wrapped her legs around his waist, her *sankha pola* clinking a frantic rhythm as she clawed at his back. She hadn't complained. She hadn't pulled away. She had danced with him, matching his thrusts, her body opening to him as if it had been waiting for him all along.
He had explored every nook and corner of her that night. He had tasted skin that was supposed to be sacred, claimed curves that were meant for Ani’s eyes only. The thought sent a fresh wave of blood to his groin.
He couldn't stay in here all day, breathing in the scent of their transgression. He needed to face the house.
He showered quickly, scrubbing the physical evidence from his skin but unable to wash away the sensory memory of her touch. When he finally descended the stairs, the sun was high, baking the courtyard.
He walked toward the kitchen, the heart of the home. The aroma of frying spices hung in the air.
Shweta was there.
She was squatting on the floor near the vegetable basket, peeling potatoes, while Ani’s mother sat on a low stool nearby, sorting rice.
Sumu paused in the doorway, his heart giving a heavy thud. Shweta didn't look up. Her head was bent low, her focus on the potato in her hand so intense, so absolute, that it was immediately unbelievable. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders drawn in tight as if she were trying to make herself smaller, to disappear into the floor tiles.
"You're up late, Sumu," his aunt—Ani’s mother—said, looking up with a gentle smile. "Must be the work pressure."
"Yes, Jethima," Sumu lied smoothly, his eyes never leaving Shweta’s bent back. "Late night calls."
Shweta’s hand slipped. The peeler nicked her thumb. She flinched, sticking the digit into her mouth, but she still refused to turn around. She refused to acknowledge his presence.
Sumu watched her for a moment longer—the curve of her spine, the way her saree dbangd over the hips he had gripped so firmly just hours ago. He wanted to walk over, to touch her shoulder, to make her look at him and acknowledge what they had shared. But the presence of his aunt was a wall of iron between them.
He turned and walked to the dining room, a frustration simmering in his gut.
The pattern continued for the next couple of days. The house, usually small and intimate, suddenly felt vast, filled with corners and shadows where Shweta could hide.
She was avoiding him. It wasn't subtle; it was a desperate, calculated evasion.
The evening ritual, the one he had come to crave, was the first casualty. That evening, as he sat in his office waiting for the soft knock and the scent of jasmine, the door opened to reveal his own mother.
"Here's your tea, babu," she said, placing the cup on his desk. "Shweta is busy with the puja preparations."
Sumu stared at the cup, the disappointment tasting bitter in his mouth.
The mornings were no different. He would go out to the terrace, shirtless, gripping the weights, his eyes automatically drifting upward to the third-floor roof. He waited for the flash of color, the silhouette of her leaning over the pabangt. But the clotheslines were already full. She had begun hanging the laundry at dawn, long before he woke up, ensuring their eyes would never meet across the vertical distance.
She had vanished from the dining table, too. When he came down for lunch, his mother would tell him Shweta had already eaten, or that she wasn't hungry. At dinner, she would retreat to her room the moment the men sat down, claiming a headache or fatigue.
It was maddening.
Sumu sat in his office chair on the third day, staring blankly at his monitor. He spun a pen between his fingers, his jaw tight.
She was trying to erase it. She was trying to pretend that the night of the storm, the night they had torn each other’s clothes off and merged in the blue dark of his room, had never happened. She wanted to bury it under domestic duties and silence.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't scrub the sensation of her silken depth from his mind. He couldn't forget the weight of her heavy, soft breasts in his hands, or the way she had whimpered his name when he spilled himself inside her. It wasn't a memory he could just file away. It was a hunger that had been awakened, and a single meal hadn't satisfied it—it had only shown him what he was starving for.
He clenched his fist, the plastic of the pen creaking under the pressure.
*No,* he thought, a dark resolve hardening in his chest. *It cannot be a one-time deal.* She couldn't let him taste paradise and then slam the gates shut. She belonged to him now, in a way Ani would never understand. And he wasn't going to let her hide forever.
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