Chapter 6: The Night Visitor
The message glowed on the screen of his cheap local phone, two sentences in the dark. Bring me water. Please. He deleted it immediately after sending, his thumb slick with sweat. The house slept around him, full of distant, unfamiliar night sounds. The wedding was over, the guests gone, leaving behind a cavernous silence and the scent of fading marigolds. His grandfather’s snores rumbled down the hall.
A soft knock, barely there. He opened the door and she slipped inside, a ghost in a simple night-salwar, carrying a brass tumbler. He locked the door behind her. The click was louder than a gunshot in the quiet.
For a moment they just stood there, inches apart in the dim light from the courtyard window. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. The air between them was thick with everything unspoken: the car, his apology, her mouth on him, her bitter words.
He took the tumbler from her hand and set it on the bedside table without drinking. The water shivered, then stilled.
“You cleaned up,” he said, his voice low.
“It is my job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He moved then, closing the distance, his body caging hers against the rough terracotta wall. He didn’t kiss her gently. He crashed his mouth onto hers, a collision of heat and teeth. It was a claim, a punishment, a question. She bit his lip in response, a sharp spike of pain that made him groan into her mouth. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist in the fabric of his t-shirt, holding him there.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. His hands went to the drawstring of her salwar. He yanked it loose. The cotton pooled at her ankles. He pushed the thin kurta up over her hips, then over her head, leaving her naked in the moonlit stripes from the window. She didn’t help or hinder him. She stood like a statue being uncovered, her skin glowing pale, her small breasts tipped with dark, stiff peaks.
“On the bed,” he ordered, his voice ragged.
She turned and walked the few steps to the high, old-fashioned bed, its mosquito net tied back. She climbed onto it, the ancient frame groaning. She lay back, but he shook his head.
“On your back. Legs open. I want to see.”
A flicker of defiance in her eyes, but she obeyed, spreading her legs until she was exposed completely to his gaze. The thatch of dark hair, the glistening folds he’d felt in the dark of the car. He stripped his own clothes off, his cock already achingly hard, jutting out. He knelt on the floor at the edge of the bed, his face level with her cunt.
He didn’t start slow. He dove in, burying his face between her legs. His tongue was a blunt, demanding instrument, licking a wide, wet stripe from her opening to her clit. She jolted, a gasp torn from her. He did it again, and again, coating his face in her taste—musky, salty, profoundly hers. Then he focused on her clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.
“Josh—” His name was a strangled thing.
He pushed two fingers inside her, crooking them upward. She was soaking wet, her inner walls clenching around him instantly. He fucked her with his fingers in a steady, deep rhythm while his mouth worked her clit. He could feel her body tightening, coiling. Her hips began to piston against his face, losing their rigid control. He sucked harder, licked faster, drove his fingers deeper.
She came with a choked cry, her back arching clear off the bed. A flood of wetness spilled over his fingers, soaked his chin. He kept working her through it, gentling his mouth but not stopping, until her shuddering subsided into tremors.
Before she could recover, he moved. He climbed onto the bed, gripped her hips, and flipped her onto her hands and knees. She gasped at the suddenness, but offered no resistance. He knelt behind her, looking at the presented view: the slick, puffy lips of her pussy, the tight, dark pucker of her asshole just above.
He leaned forward and ran his tongue from her clit, back through her soaked slit, all the way to that forbidden little star. She flinched, but then pushed back against his mouth. He did it again, slower, letting his tongue circle her asshole before plunging back into her cunt. He was tasting every part of her, claiming her. He slid a hand around her front, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing rough circles.
With his other hand, he reached for the brass tumbler. He spat a wad of saliva onto his fingers, then pressed his wet thumb against her ass. He pushed, just a little. Her whole body clenched.
“Relax,” he muttered against her skin.
“I can’t,” she breathed, but she was pushing back.
He worked the tip of his thumb inside, feeling the incredible, tight heat. She moaned, a long, low sound of shock and pleasure. He slid it in to the knuckle, then out, then in again, matching the rhythm of his tongue on her cunt and his thumb on her clit. She was a symphony of gasps and shudders.
“More,” she panted, her face buried in the sheets. “Another finger.”
He spat on his fingers again, slicking his index finger alongside his thumb. He pressed both against her ass. It was a tight, burning stretch. He went slowly, watching her knuckles whiten as she gripped the bedsheet. He got them both inside, just past the first knuckle. She was swearing filthily into the cotton, a stream of Bengali and Hindi obscenities that drove him wild.
“You like that?” he grunted, fucking her ass with his two fingers. “You like being stretched open?”
“Yes, you bastard. Fuck, yes.”
He slid his fingers out. He spat into his palm and rubbed the saliva over his cock, which was leaking and throbbing. He positioned the fat, slick head at her entrance. He didn’t ask. He just pushed.
He entered her in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her dripping cunt. She screamed, the sound muffled by the bed. She was so tight, so impossibly hot and wet from her orgasm and his mouth. He stayed there, fully sheathed, his balls tight against her, letting her adjust. Her inner muscles were fluttering wildly around him.
He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in. He set a punishing pace, gripping her hips so hard he knew he’d leave bruises. The bed slammed against the wall with each thrust. Thump. Thump. Thump. He was fucking her with a mindless, desperate hunger, each drive an attempt to obliterate the distance, the class, the shame, the two worlds that separated them.
“Is this real?” he growled, pistoning into her. “Is this trouble, Preethi? Tell me.”
She couldn’t form words. She was meeting him thrust for thrust, her ass in the air, taking everything he gave. He reached around her hip, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing it hard and fast in time with his pounding.
“Come for me,” he demanded. “Come on my cock. Now.”
Her second climax ripped through her, a violent, silent seizure. Her cunt clamped down on him like a vise, milking his dick with rhythmic, intense pulses. It tore his own orgasm from him. With a ragged shout he buried himself as deep as he could go and came, jet after hot jet of cum flooding her, his vision whiting out at the edges.
He collapsed forward over her back, spent, both of them slick with sweat and other fluids. He was still inside her. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent chirp of crickets.
Slowly, he softened and slid out. He rolled onto his back beside her. She lay motionless for a long moment, then slowly lowered herself from her hands and knees, lying on her side facing away from him.
The wet spot between them cooled rapidly. The smell of sex filled the room, undeniable.
After what felt like an age, she spoke, her voice hoarse. “The water you asked for is still there. On the table.”
He didn’t move. “I’m not thirsty for water.”
She sat up, her movements stiff. She found her kurta and salwar on the floor and began to dress in the dark, her back to him. She was just a silhouette again, the maid leaving the young master’s room.
Before she unlocked the door, she paused. “Tomorrow, they are sending me to the market in town. Early. Alone.”
She didn’t wait for a response. The door opened, then clicked shut.
He lay in the dark, the taste of her still on his lips, the ghost of her body imprinted on his skin. The brass tumbler of water, untouched, caught a sliver of moonlight and gleamed like a verdict on the nightstand.