21-04-2026, 03:10 PM
(This post was last modified: 21-04-2026, 03:11 PM by samgreenvalley. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
At 8:30 PM, I bathed and put on a simple cotton saree. Light blue. No jewelry except my wedding mangalsutra. I left my hair open. Dara came home from his shift, looking tired.
“You are going,” he said. It was not a question.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “Be careful. If he tries anything you don’t want…”
“I know. I will scream.”
But we both knew I wouldn’t scream.
The clubhouse was a five-minute walk. The back room was exactly that—a small storage room with a sofa, a table, and stacks of old newspapers. Mr. Sharma was already there, sitting on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of Royal Stag on the table.
“You came,” he said, sounding surprised.
“You asked.”
He patted the seat next to him. I sat. He poured me a drink. I took it but didn’t sip.
“You are nervous,” he said.
“A little.”
“Don’t be.” He put his arm around my shoulder. His hand was clammy. “I am a reasonable man. I don’t ask for much. Just a little… companionship.”
His other hand found my thigh. This time, I let it stay.
“What about your wife?” I asked.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
I thought about you, Prakash. About all the nights you spent with women in Hamburg and Honolulu and Manila. About the hypocrisy of my own jealousy. And then I stopped thinking.
I leaned forward and kissed him.
He tasted of whiskey and tobacco. His mustache scratched my upper lip. He fumbled with the hook of my blouse, his fat fingers clumsy. I helped him. Soon I was topless, my breasts spilling out of the blue cotton. He stared at them like a child seeing a waterfall for the first time.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “You are… incredible.”
He buried his face in my chest, sucking and licking like a starving man. I closed my eyes and let him. His hands roamed my back, my waist, my hips. He pulled at my saree petticoat. I lifted my hips to help him. Soon I was naked from the waist down, lying on the dusty sofa, my legs open.
He got up and fumbled with his belt. His erection was modest—four inches, maybe five—but it was hard. He positioned himself between my legs.
“Wait,” I said.
He froze. “What?”
“Condom.”
“I don’t have…”
“Then use your mouth.”
He looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “As you wish.”
He lowered his head between my legs. His technique was awful—too much tongue, too little rhythm—but I closed my eyes and imagined Dara. Imagined Banke. Imagined Muthu. And soon, I was wet enough.
“Now,” I said.
He entered me. It was unremarkable. He thrust for two minutes, maybe three, grunting like a pig. I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks. Then he shuddered, groaned, and collapsed on top of me.
“That was…” he panted, “…amazing.”
I pushed him off. “The promotion?”
“Yes, yes. First thing tomorrow. Head watchman. I promise.”
I got dressed, wiped myself with a newspaper, and walked out without looking back.
--
When I returned to the quarters, Dara was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Fast. Uninteresting. He has a small dick.”
Dara laughed. “Most men do, compared to me.”
“Cocky.”
“Always.”
We sat in silence for a while.
“You are going,” he said. It was not a question.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “Be careful. If he tries anything you don’t want…”
“I know. I will scream.”
But we both knew I wouldn’t scream.
The clubhouse was a five-minute walk. The back room was exactly that—a small storage room with a sofa, a table, and stacks of old newspapers. Mr. Sharma was already there, sitting on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of Royal Stag on the table.
“You came,” he said, sounding surprised.
“You asked.”
He patted the seat next to him. I sat. He poured me a drink. I took it but didn’t sip.
“You are nervous,” he said.
“A little.”
“Don’t be.” He put his arm around my shoulder. His hand was clammy. “I am a reasonable man. I don’t ask for much. Just a little… companionship.”
His other hand found my thigh. This time, I let it stay.
“What about your wife?” I asked.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
I thought about you, Prakash. About all the nights you spent with women in Hamburg and Honolulu and Manila. About the hypocrisy of my own jealousy. And then I stopped thinking.
I leaned forward and kissed him.
He tasted of whiskey and tobacco. His mustache scratched my upper lip. He fumbled with the hook of my blouse, his fat fingers clumsy. I helped him. Soon I was topless, my breasts spilling out of the blue cotton. He stared at them like a child seeing a waterfall for the first time.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “You are… incredible.”
He buried his face in my chest, sucking and licking like a starving man. I closed my eyes and let him. His hands roamed my back, my waist, my hips. He pulled at my saree petticoat. I lifted my hips to help him. Soon I was naked from the waist down, lying on the dusty sofa, my legs open.
He got up and fumbled with his belt. His erection was modest—four inches, maybe five—but it was hard. He positioned himself between my legs.
“Wait,” I said.
He froze. “What?”
“Condom.”
“I don’t have…”
“Then use your mouth.”
He looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “As you wish.”
He lowered his head between my legs. His technique was awful—too much tongue, too little rhythm—but I closed my eyes and imagined Dara. Imagined Banke. Imagined Muthu. And soon, I was wet enough.
“Now,” I said.
He entered me. It was unremarkable. He thrust for two minutes, maybe three, grunting like a pig. I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks. Then he shuddered, groaned, and collapsed on top of me.
“That was…” he panted, “…amazing.”
I pushed him off. “The promotion?”
“Yes, yes. First thing tomorrow. Head watchman. I promise.”
I got dressed, wiped myself with a newspaper, and walked out without looking back.
--
When I returned to the quarters, Dara was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Fast. Uninteresting. He has a small dick.”
Dara laughed. “Most men do, compared to me.”
“Cocky.”
“Always.”
We sat in silence for a while.
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