She(Avantika) had burned her world to get to him -Romantic- (1 Video) - Scene 4*

[ashuezy2]

Hi, I am Sarika, doing BA Psychology, South Campus at New Delhi.

I live in a Barsati (terrace flat) in Satya Niketan, right opposite the college. My landlord just rented the floor below me to a guy named Girish, a struggling artist, a brooding type.

It was July 24th and that day Delhi drowned. The sky turned black at 4:00 PM, and the clouds burst over the Aravalli Ridge. The traffic on Ring Road was paralyzed.

I was on my balcony, combing my hair, watching the chaos. That’s when I saw the car.
A massive, black SUV with diplomatic plates, it was stuck in the gridlock below, near the foot-over bridge. It hadn't moved for 20 minutes. Suddenly, the back door opened.

A woman stepped out.
This wasn't a college girl like me. This was a woman.
Even from the second floor, the Shape was undeniable. She was the definition of Naturally voluptuous, heavy-set but firm. She was dressed for a formal government function - wearing a heavy, expensive Crimson Red Chiffon Saree.

You know how Delhi humidity is before the rain, It makes everything stick. She stood by the car for a second, arguing with her driver. She pointed toward the narrow lane leading to our building. The driver refused to go in.
She made a choice. She slammed the door shut and started walking. Alone. Into the Satya Niketan lanes.

Then, the heavens opened.
It wasn't a drizzle; it was a violent, vertical sheet of water. I watched her from above. Most women would run for shelter. She didn't. She walked faster, but she didn't hide.

Within ten seconds, that expensive crimson chiffon was destroyed. The saree, which was loose and flowing a moment ago, became a Second Skin. The weight of the water dragged the pallu down. It clung aggressively to her body.

The fabric plastered against her wide, heavy hips, outlining the curve of her waist-chain (kamarbandh) underneath.

The blouse was a deep-cut designer piece, sleeveless. The rain soaked it instantly, turning the fabric translucent. I could see the heavy, rapid rise and fall of her chest as she navigated the puddles.

She wasn't just walking; she was struggling. Her high heels were slipping in the mud. She reached down, unbuckled them, and kicked them off. Now she was barefoot on the Delhi streets. A diplomat's wife, barefoot in the mud, ruining a 50,000 rupee saree... for what? Or for whom?

She had climbed two flights of stairs after walking a kilometre in the rain. She was gasping. Her mouth was slightly open, sucking in air. Her heavy chest was heaving so violently it looked painful.

The humidity and exertion had turned her golden skin a deep, flushed red at the neck and cleavage.

Her hair bun had collapsed. Wet strands were plastered across her face and neck. The pallu had slipped from her shoulder, hanging loosely over her arm, revealing the deep plunge of her neckline and the soft folds of her midriff.

She looked wrecked. She looked desperate. She looked magnificent.

She reached our building gate. She didn't ring the bell. She pushed it open and ran up the stairs.
I leaned over the railing. I had to see. She stopped at the first floor, Girish’s door.
She stood there for exactly five seconds before knocking.




The door opened. Girish stood there.
He was wearing track pants, holding a coffee mug, looking bored. Then he looked down.
He saw the mud on her feet. He saw the diplomatic car abandoned on the main road far away. He saw the sheer, wet crimson fabric clinging to her voluptuous curves, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

He realized what I realized: She had burned her world to get to him.
She didn't say "Hello." She didn't say "I missed you." She leaned against the doorframe, water dripping from her nose, shivering violently, and whispered: "My husband is at the States Lower House. I have one hour."

Girish dropped the mug. It shattered. He didn't care. He grabbed her by the waist—his hands pressing into the wet silk on her hips—and pulled her inside. The force of it almost lifted her off the ground. He slammed the door.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 2

The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the rain, but inside, the silence was even louder.
For ten seconds, nobody moved. Girish was breathing hard, staring at her. Avantika stood with her back against the door, water dripping from her muddy hem onto the floor.

"You’re shaking," Girish said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in days.
"Don't look at me," she snapped, but her voice cracked. She wiped a wet strand of hair from her face. "I look like a mess. I look like a disaster."
Girish took a step closer. "You look..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "It’s been three months, Avi. I thought you forgot about me."

"Forgot?" She laughed, but it sounded like a sob. She pushed herself off the door and shoved him back, her wet hands leaving marks on his chest. "I sit in those boring meetings, surrounded by all those important people, and all I think about is this. This room. The smell of paint and old wood. I’m going crazy, Girish."

He didn't wait anymore. He grabbed her.
His hands went straight for the saree. It was so heavy with water it felt like a heavy blanket. He started peeling it off her shoulder, his fingers fumbling because he was rushing.

"It’s ruined," he whispered, looking at the mud stains.
"Good," she hissed, her voice dropping low and deep. "I hate it. I hate who I have to be when I wear it. Get it off me. Peel it off."
The wet fabric made a heavy thwack sound as it hit the floor. Now she was standing there in just her deep-cut blouse and the petticoat underneath, shivering. The air from the ceiling fan hit her wet skin, making her tremble.

"You're freezing," he said, running his hands down her bare arms.
"I'm burning," she said, grabbing his face with both hands. "Touch me. No, harder. Stop talking and hold me."
He pulled her in, crushing her against him. Their clothes were wet and sticky, but neither of them cared. He kissed her neck, right where her pulse was jumping like crazy. She let out a sharp noise, half-gasp, half-moan, and arched her back, pressing her hips into him.
"Wait," Girish pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark. "Let me look at you."

"We don't have time for looking!" she yelled, panic rising in her voice. "The driver is circling the block. If he calls..."
"Let him call," Girish growled. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up.
She gasped as her feet left the floor. She was heavy, a full, curvy woman, but he lifted her like she weighed nothing. The floorboards creaked under them.
"God, you feel so good," he groaned into her ear. "You feel real. So heavy and real."

"Don't put me down," she ordered, wrapping her legs around him. "Don't you dare put me down."
He carried her to the middle of the room. He didn't make it to the bed. He pressed her against the wall, knocking a painting crooked.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate. It was messy.

"Say it," she whispered into his ear, biting his shoulder. "Say you missed me."
"I was starving for you," he said, his hands moving all over her, frantic. "I was going out of my mind."
They moved to the bed, crashing onto it so hard the wooden frame hit the wall with a loud thud.
"Girish... Girish..." she kept saying his name, over and over, like she needed to make sure he was actually there.
She was loud. She didn't care who heard. She cried out, sharp and high, digging her nails into his back. "Harder," she begged. "Make me feel it. I want to feel everything I missed."

I could hear the wetness, the sounds of skin slapping against skin, intensified by the humidity and the sweat. The atmosphere in that room must have been thick enough to choke on. Pheromones, ozone, and musk.

A lamp on the side table got knocked over and smashed on the floor. Neither of them stopped. They didn't even flinch. The room was getting trashed, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was them.
For the next twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room were the bed banging against the wall and the heavy slapping on the skin, the heavy rain on the tin roof, and their jagged, breathless noises. It was raw and sweaty and frantic.

Then, finally, it stopped.
The silence came back, but this time it felt heavy and satisfied. The room was hot. The air smelled like rain and sweat.
Girish lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Avantika was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in her hands.
It was 58 minutes.

She stood up slowly. Her legs were shaky. She walked to the bathroom, and he heard the tap running. She had to go back to being the Diplomat's wife.
When she came out, she started picking up the wet, muddy red saree from the floor.

"I have to go," she whispered. Her voice sounded broken.
Girish sat up. "Don't. Stay here. Let it all burn down. Just stay."

She looked at him, wrapping the wet silk back around her body. "If I stay," she said quietly, "they will destroy you. I only go back so I can keep you safe."
She walked to the door and opened it. She didn't look back.

She walked out into the rain, back to the black car waiting on the main road. She was wet, her hair was a mess, and her clothes were ruined. But she looked different now. Her eyes were heavy and sleepy. Her lips were swollen. She looked like a woman who had just come back to life.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 3

I waited on my balcony until the black SUV disappeared into the rain. Then I looked down at Girish.
He was still standing in the open doorway, staring at the empty street. He looked like a man who had just walked away from a car crash. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging off one shoulder, and he was completely soaked from holding her wet body. He didn't go back inside to clean up. He just slid down the doorframe until he was sitting on the wet floor, putting his head in his hands.

I knew I shouldn't go down. It was none of my business. But the silence coming from his flat was too heavy. It was the kind of silence that makes you worry.
I grabbed my pack of cigarettes—my usual excuse—and walked down the stairs. My flip-flops slapped loud on the wet concrete. Girish didn't even look up.
"Hey," I said. "My lighter died. You got one?"
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red and wild. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept in a week. He didn't say a word, just reached into his wet pocket, pulled out a lighter, and tossed it to me.

"Can I come in?" I asked, pushing my luck. "It's freezing out here."
He shrugged. He didn't care. He was too drained to care.
I stepped inside, and the smell hit me instantly. It was thick. It smelled like sweat, spilled whiskey, and expensive women’s perfume. It smelled like raw sex.

The room was a war zone. The bed was pushed weirdly against the wall. The sheets were twisted into knots and half on the floor. There was a broken lamp in the corner, glass everywhere. And right in the middle of the floor, there was a wet patch on the rug where she had stood dripping wet.

Girish walked over to the small kitchen to pour a drink. His hands were shaking.
"You heard, didn't you?" he asked, his back to me.
"The walls are thin, Girish," I said, lighting my cigarette. "Hard not to hear when you're breaking furniture."

He turned around, glass in hand. He wasn't embarrassed. He looked proud, in a twisted way. "She’s wild," he murmured, taking a huge gulp of whiskey. "You see her on TV, all proper and stiff. But in here? She’s a total animal."
"She sounded like she was in pain," I said, testing him.

"She likes it rough," Girish said bluntly. He walked over to the bed and kicked the messed-up sheets. "She begged for it, Sarika. She wants to be used. She told me to leave marks so she remembers she’s alive when she goes back to that boring house."
I walked over to the bedside table. Amongst the mess, there was something shiny. It was a broken piece of a glass bangle. Red and gold. It must have snapped when he was pinning her hands down.

"She forgot this," I said.
Girish snatched it out of my hand. "She didn't forget it," he said, staring at the sharp glass. "She leaves things. Last time it was an earring. She wants me to have pieces of her." He squeezed the glass until his knuckles turned white.
I left him there to drink himself into a coma. But I couldn't stay away.


The next morning, the storm was gone. The sun was out, drying up the mud. I went back down at 10 AM with two coffees. Girish’s door was open.

He was sitting in front of his stand, painting. He looked like a zombie.
"Turn on the TV," he said, pointing with his paintbrush.
I turned it on to a news channel. And there she was. Avantika.

She was standing next to an older man in a white kurta—her husband. They were cutting a ribbon at some charity hospital. She looked perfect. Her hair was in a tight bun. She was wearing a cream-colored saree, smiling politely.

"Look at her," Girish whispered, a dark smirk on his face. "Look at that fake smile."
I looked closer at the screen. She looked calm. But then I noticed she was wearing a blouse with long sleeves, even though it was hot.
"Long sleeves," I said. "To hide the bruises on her arms."
"Exactly," Girish said, dipping his brush in red paint. "I bit her there. And on her neck. She has to wear a scarf today."

I looked at his painting. It was violent. It showed a woman with her head thrown back, screaming, covered in red paint that looked like blood or wet silk.
"It looks like you're trying to eat her alive," I said.
"That's what it felt like," he said. "Like we were eating each other. She doesn't come here to make love, Sarika. She comes here to get fucked until she can't think anymore."
"When will she come back?" I asked.

Girish stopped painting. He looked at the empty spot on the rug where she had stood the night before.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe next week. When the pressure gets too much again. I'm just her drug, Sarika. She takes a hit of me, gets messy, and then goes back to being a queen."

He looked back at the TV, where Avantika was shaking hands with a minister.
"Does it bother you?" I asked. "Being the dirty secret?"

Girish laughed, dipping his brush in the red paint again. "No. Because right now, while she's shaking that minister's hand, she's sore from what I did to her. I own the parts of her that her husband never gets to see."

[ashuezy2]

Scene 4

Two weeks went by. The rain stopped completely. Delhi turned into an oven. It was that sticky, suffocating August heat where the air feels heavy in your lungs.
I didn't see the black SUV. I didn't see Avantika on the news.

Girish changed. He stopped painting. He spent his days sitting on the front steps, smoking chain-cigarettes, staring at the main road. He looked like a junkie going through withdrawal. He stopped shaving. The dark circles under his eyes got deeper.

It was a Tuesday night, around 11 PM. I was downstairs giving Girish some leftover curry because I knew he wasn't eating.
His phone rang. It wasn't a normal ringtone; it was a buzzing vibration on the wooden table.

He grabbed it so fast he knocked over a glass of water. He didn't say "Hello." He just listened. His entire body got tight. The exhausted zombie disappeared, and the hungry animal came back.

"Now?" he asked. His voice was rough. "It’s risky, Avi. The elections are next week."
He listened for another second, then a dark smile spread across his face. "Okay. The back gate. Leave the car."
He hung up and looked at me. "She’s coming."
"In this heat?" I asked. "There's no storm to hide her."

"That's why she’s walking," he said, moving fast now. He started kicking dirty clothes under the bed. He sprayed some cheap room freshener to cover the smell of stale smoke. "She’s walking from the park. No car. No driver." He looked at me, his eyes burning. "Get out, Sarika."
I grabbed my plate and ran upstairs to my post on the balcony.

Ten minutes later, I saw a shadow moving near the park wall. She was sneaking. She moved quickly between the shadows of the parked cars. She wasn't wearing a saree this time. She was wearing a simple cotton salwar suit, face covered with a dupatta like a common college girl. She was trying to be invisible. But I knew that walk. The way her heavy hips swayed with every step gave her away instantly.

She slipped through the gate and ran up the stairs. Girish opened the door before she even knocked. He pulled her in, but this time, there was no slamming door. It was quiet. Secretive.
I sat near the vent again. Last time, it was crashing noises. This time, it was whispering.

"You shouldn't be here," Girish whispered.

"I couldn't breathe," Avantika’s voice was shaky. "They are watching me everywhere. I just needed one hour where I don't have to pretend."
"Take it off," Girish said. It wasn't a command, it was a beg. "It’s too hot in here."
I heard the soft rustle of cotton dropping to the floor. It sounded softer than the silk.
"You're soaking wet," Girish groaned.

"It's the humidity," she whispered.
"No, it's not," he said, his voice dropping low and dirty. "It's because you knew you were coming to me. Come here."
The bedsprings creaked, a slow, heavy rhythm.

"You look tired," she said gently. I imagined her hands on his face.
"I'm dying without you," he admitted. "I just sit here and wait. That's my whole life now. Waiting for you to sneak out."
"Don't talk," she whispered. Then her breath hitched. "Girish... wait. Not so fast. It's been too long."

"I don't care," he growled. "Open your legs. I need to be inside you right now."
The sounds changed. It wasn't violent like the storm. It was sticky and slow. The heat made their skin sweat, making everything slick. I could hear the wet, slapping sound of their bodies sliding against each other.

"Yes... just like that," she moaned, her voice throaty and deep. "Deeper. Please, Girish. Make me forget my name."
"Who do you belong to?" he asked, his voice strained.
"You," she whimpered. "Only you. Right now, I'm just yours."
"Say it louder," he demanded. The bed banged against the wall, harder this time.
"Girish... not so loud," she gasped. "The window is open."
"Let them hear," he said. "Let the whole neighborhood hear how wet you are for me. I don't care."

It went on for a long time. The heat made everything intense and drowning. They were moving slow, grinding against each other, trying to make the feeling last.
When it finally stopped, the silence felt heavy.
"I can't keep doing this, Avi," Girish’s voice cut through the quiet. He sounded angry now.
"Don't start," she warned.

"I want you," he said, his voice rising. "Not just for an hour in secret. I want to wake up with you. Leave him."
There was a long silence. Then a cold, cruel laugh from her.
"Leave him?" she said. "And go where? Live here? In this tiny flat? You can barely pay rent, Girish. You want me to give up my life to be a starving artist's muse?"

That was brutal. It was a reality check. I heard footsteps pacing the floor.
"I love you," Girish said, sounding desperate. "Doesn't that matter?"
"Love doesn't pay for security," Avantika said. Her voice was back to being the Diplomat's wife. Cold. Practical. "I love you, Girish. I do. But I love my life too. You are my escape. Don't try to be my reality. You'll ruin it."

I heard the zipper of a bag. She was getting dressed.
"So I'm just a toy," Girish spat.
"You are the only place I can breathe," she said softly. "Isn't that enough?"

The door opened. She walked out, her dupatta wrapped tight around her face again. She didn't look back this time either. She slipped into the shadows and vanished toward the park.
Girish came out onto the landing. He was naked from the waist up, sweating, holding a cigarette. He looked at the empty street. He looked up and saw me on the balcony. He didn't hide his face. He looked furious.

"She's right, you know," I called down softly. "She's never going to leave him."
Girish took a long drag of his cigarette, the embers glowing in the dark.
"I know," he said, his voice hollow. "But she'll be back. She needs the dirt, Sarika. The palace is too clean for her. She needs to get dirty to feel alive."

He flicked the cigarette butt into the dark street and slammed his door shut. The cycle was just going to keep repeating. Until one of them broke.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 5

September arrived, bringing a strange, dry heat. After the "Heatwave" night, Girish didn't go back to moping. He went the other way. He went crazy.

I would hear him at 3:00 AM, moving canvases, mixing paints, scrubbing brushes. The smell of chemicals became so strong it leaked into my flat upstairs. He wasn't waiting by the phone anymore. He was possessed. He shaved. He started wearing clean shirts. He looked sharp, but his eyes were scary. They were focused, like a sniper waiting for a shot.

One evening, I found an envelope slid under my door. An expensive invitation card with gold letters. "HIDDEN STORMS: A Solo Exhibition by Girish Roy." Venue: The Lodhi Art Gallery.

I went downstairs. Girish was smoking, leaning against the railing. "You got a show?" I asked. "At The Lodhi? That’s big time."

He smirked. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a predator's smile. "I needed to get the work out of my head, Sarika. It was rotting in here."

"Is she coming?" I asked.

He flicked ash over the railing. "She’s the Chief Guest."

I wore my best kurta and took a cab to the gallery. The Lodhi is fancy—marble floors, freezing air conditioning, and waiters serving wine in crystal glasses. The crowd was full of rich aunties with pearls and men in expensive suits. And there was Girish. He looked out of place in a suit, but he played the part. He was charming them, but his eyes kept darting to the entrance.

I walked around looking at the paintings. They were all dark and stormy. Then I saw the centerpiece. It was huge. Four feet by six feet. The title card read: "THE ABHISARIKA (Study in Red)."

I stopped breathing. It was the painting from the morning after the storm. The woman in the red saree. She was soaking wet. The fabric was painted so it looked translucent, sticking to her skin. You could clearly see the dark circles of her nipples through the red paint. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in a scream. It wasn't a scream of fear. It was a scream of pure, raw pleasure. The red paint at the bottom looked like it was dripping, wet and messy.

It was a painting of her climax.

Suddenly, the room went quiet. The glass doors opened, and Avantika walked in next to her husband, Mr. Singh.

She looked like a queen. She was wearing a heavy gold and cream saree with a high neck blouse. Not an inch of skin was showing except her face and hands. She was the perfect, polite wife. She was smiling, waving at people. Then her eyes locked onto Girish across the room, and for a second, she looked terrified.

Her husband, Mr. Singh, was a large man with a loud laugh. He shook Girish’s hand violently. "Young man! I’ve heard great things. My wife tells me you are quite the talent."

"She has a good eye," Girish said, his voice smooth. He didn't let go of the husband's hand. He looked right at Avantika, undressing her with his eyes.

"Show us your best piece," Mr. Singh boomed.

"This way, Sir," Girish said, leading them straight to "The Abhisarika."

I watched Avantika’s face. She looked at the canvas and stopped breathing. She saw herself. She saw the wet red saree. She saw the way her back was arched—a position she had been in on a cheap mattress, screaming his name while he wrecked her.

Her face went pale, then instantly flushed deep red.

"Powerful," Mr. Singh said, nodding. "Very... raw. It feels violent."

"It's about hunger, Sir," Girish said, stepping closer to Avantika so he was almost touching her shoulder. "About a woman who is starving. Look at her mouth."

Avantika flinched.

"It’s a bit... vulgar, isn't it?" she managed to say, her voice tight.

"Is it?" Girish asked, tilting his head. "I think it's honest. Look at how the fabric sticks to her thighs. She's soaking wet. She's desperate for it."

Mr. Singh leaned in closer to the painting. "Who is the model?"

Girish looked dead in Avantika's eyes. He dropped his voice so it was low and dirty. "A memory. Someone I used to know during the monsoon. She was wild. She liked to be used."

Avantika gripped her clutch so hard her knuckles turned white. She was trapped. Girish was describing their sex life right in front of her husband.

"Notice the arch of the spine," Girish continued, tracing the air with his finger. "She was begging here. She wanted me to leave marks. She wanted to be ruined."

Mr. Singh clapped Girish on the shoulder, completely clueless. "I like it. It has energy. How much?"

Avantika turned to her husband sharply. "Vikram, no. It’s too dark for the house."

"Nonsense," Mr. Singh laughed. "It will look excellent in the study. I’ll take it."

He bought it. The husband bought the portrait of his wife’s orgasm.

A red sticker went up next to the painting. SOLD.

The party moved on. I saw Girish standing alone in the corner, watching Avantika leaving with her husband. She looked back once. Her eyes weren't cold anymore. They were blazing. She was furious, terrified, and... turned on.

I walked up to Girish. "You're sick," I whispered. "You just sold her naked soul to her husband."

Girish took a sip of champagne, looking calm. "She said I was just an escape," he said softly. "She said I wasn't real. Well, now I'm hanging on her wall. Every time she walks into his study, she's going to remember my hands on her."

He smiled, and it was the coldest thing I'd ever seen. "Now I'm her reality."