Chapter 4: Towel Trick
The house after the temple trip was a tomb of heated silence. Josh stood under the shower’s weak, lukewarm spray, listening to the distant, fading honk of auto-rickshaws from the street. His skin still felt taut with the memory of sun and chlorine, but beneath that was a sharper, more urgent hunger. The image of Preethi walking away, a towel wrapped like armor around her, had chewed at him all night. He’d heard the family car leave an hour ago. The silence since had been absolute, and deafening.
He left the bathroom door unlocked. A crack. An invitation.
He let the water run over his face for a long time, his heart hammering against his ribs. Then he raised his voice, aiming for casual, letting it bounce off the ceramic tiles. “Hello? Is anyone there? I forgot a towel.”
Nothing. Only the drip of the tap.
Then, a floorboard creaked in the hallway. He held his breath. A shadow blocked the thin line of light under the door.
“Josh?” Her voice was low, cautious. “The family is not here.”
“I know. Just… pass me a towel, will you? They’re on the shelf.”
A beat of hesitation. The door opened just enough for her to slide in, her eyes fixed on the floor, one hand extending a faded blue towel. The steam curled around her. He moved fast. His wet hand shot out, fingers closing around her wrist, and he yanked her fully into the small, hot room, kicking the door shut behind her.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, a real fear in her eyes now. Her dupatta slipped from her shoulders, landing in a damp heap on the floor. The spray from the shower began to darken the thin cotton of her pale blue salwar kameez, sticking it to her skin.
He didn’t answer with words. He backed her against the door, the old wood rattling in its frame, and crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a kiss of affection; it was a reclaiming. His tongue pushed past her lips, demanding entry, tasting the morning’s chai and a deeper, familiar warmth. She struggled for a second, her hands pushing against his chest, but then a shudder went through her and she opened for him, her tongue meeting his with a desperate, matching heat.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “You walked away.”
“I had to,” she whispered, but her eyes were on his mouth.
His hands went to the buttons of her kameez. His fingers, clumsy with need, fumbled. He tore at them. A button popped, skittering across the tile. He didn’t care. He peeled the soaked fabric from her shoulders, down her arms, until it pooled at her waist. Her breasts were bare, the nipples tight and dark. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth, sucking hard, biting the tender peak. She cried out, her head thudding back against the door.
“Josh… the house…”
“Is empty.” He shoved the kameez and salwar down her legs in one rough motion. She stepped out of them, naked now except for the water cascading over them both. She was shivering, but not from cold. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, her nipples hard points. He dropped to his knees on the hard floor.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his hands spreading her thighs. The neat triangle of dark hair was plastered wet. He could smell her, a musky, intimate scent cutting through the soap and steam. He didn’t tease. He buried his face in her cunt, his tongue finding her clit and licking it in a flat, firm stroke.
She gasped, her fingers scrambling in his wet hair, gripping hard. “Oh god.”
He ate her like a starving man. His tongue fucked into her, then circled her clit, sucking the hard little nub between his lips. He used his thumbs to spread her wider, tasting every drop of her gathering wetness. She ground her hips against his face, losing all pretense of restraint, a low, continuous moan humming in her throat. “Yes, like that… don’t stop… fuck, your mouth…”
He felt her thighs begin to tremble. Her moans pitched higher. He redoubled his efforts, sucking ruthlessly, driving her toward the edge with a single-minded focus. She came with a choked, broken cry, her body convulsing against his mouth, her juices spilling over his tongue. He lapped at her, gentler now, until her grip on his hair softened from a pull to a caress.
He stood up, his own need a painful throb. His cock jutted out, thick and flushed. Without a word, he turned her around, her palms slapping against the damp, floral wallpaper. He bent her over the edge of the old, claw-foot bathtub. The shower spray hit her back, streaming down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her ass.
He ran a hand over one pale cheek, then brought it down in a sharp, stinging slap. The sound was loud, percussive. A red handprint bloomed on her skin. She jerked, but pushed her ass back toward him, a wordless invitation.
He guided his cock to her entrance, still slick from his mouth and her orgasm. He pushed the head in, stretching her, then sank the entire length in one deep, relentless thrust. She was so tight, so hot, her inner muscles clenching around him in aftershocks.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the marks he’d just made.
He started to move. Hard, deep strokes that pushed her forward against the tub with each plunge. There was no gentleness, no careful rhythm. This was pure, driving need. The slap of his wet skin against hers, the choked sounds she made with each thrust, the steam filling the room—it was overwhelming.
“Is this what you want?” he grunted, pounding into her. “Even after you walk away?”
“Yes!” she cried out, her voice muffled against her arm. “God, yes! Don’t stop! It’s all I fucking think about!”
He fucked her like he was trying to exorcise something, or implant it. His balls tightened, slapping against her. He could feel another climax coiling in his gut, inevitable. She was tightening around him again, her moans becoming short, sharp screams.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Now.”
As if his words triggered it, her body seized. She clenched around him so tightly he saw stars, her back arching, a raw, unfiltered scream tearing from her throat. The violent pulse of her orgasm triggered his own. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came, a hot, scalding rush flooding into her. He held there, throbbing, emptying himself, his forehead resting on her wet shoulder blade.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the shower and their ragged breaths. He softened, slipped out. He turned off the water. The sudden quiet was profound.
He handed her the blue towel. She took it, not meeting his eyes, and began to dry herself with mechanical efficiency. She found her soaked clothes, began to put them on. The room felt small, cheap in the aftermath. The peeling wallpaper, the rust stain in the sink—it all seemed to mock the intensity of what had just happened.
“Preethi,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Don’t.” She fastened her salwar, her fingers trembling. The torn kameez hung open, revealing the swell of a breast. She clutched it closed.
“Look at me.”
She finally did. Her eyes were not soft. They were full of a furious, wounded pride. “What is this, Josh? What are we doing? You call, I come. You pull me into water, into bathrooms. I walk away because I have to, and you… you just take again.” She shook her head. “I am not a towel you forgot. I am not a thing in your empty house.”
The words landed like blows. He opened his mouth, but no defense came. She saw it—the dawning, ugly comprehension on his face.
“You feel stuck between worlds,” she said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You come here and you see me, and you think I’m some piece of ‘real India’ you can fuck to feel connected. But I am not a symbol. I am a person. And you are just another man in a big house, taking what is within reach because he can.”
She finished tying her dupatta, the fabric covering the tear. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror, wiped a smudge of moisture from her cheek. It wasn’t from the shower.
Without another word, she left. The door clicked shut softly behind her.
Josh stood alone in the dripping room, the scent of her still on his skin, her words carving a hollow space inside his chest. The silence of the house returned, but now it felt accusing. He had mistaken hunger for connection, intensity for understanding. He had, in his desperate loneliness, become exactly what she accused him of. The truth of it was a cold weight in his gut, colder than the tile beneath his feet.