Chapter 15: Chapter 15
The silence Rajan left behind was soft, filled with the residue of affection. Priya stayed on her cushion, flexing her toes. The morning sun was stronger now, painting a lattice of hot gold on the floor. She heard the approach of lighter, quicker footsteps outside the door—a young man’s gait, hesitant, eager.
She arranged her face into a mask of benign indifference just as the knock came.
“Enter, Devarji,” she called, her voice sweetly formal.
Devan slipped inside, closing the door with a careful click. He was eighteen, all sharp angles and nervous energy, dressed in fine but practical riding clothes. He’d been out already, she noted. The scent of horse and dry grass clung to him. He didn’t meet her eyes, his gaze instead dropping instantly to her bare feet, which she had stretched out before her. The sight seemed to short-circuit him. He just stood there.
“Well?” Priya said, a bubble of amusement rising in her chest. “Do you need a written invitation from your Bhabi?”
He flinched, then hurried forward, sinking to his knees. But he didn’t move to touch her feet. He just knelt, hands on his thighs, head bowed. His adoration was a tense, worshipful thing, so different from Vikram’s hungry surrender or Rajan’s fond submission.
“You went riding,” she observed, wiggling her toes. A few grains of fine, pale dust from the corridor rained onto the rug.
“Yes, Bhabi. To check the… the perimeter.”
“The perimeter,” she repeated, her tone mocking but light. “How very important.” She lifted her right foot and placed it gently, almost casually, on top of his head. She felt him stiffen, then melt under the weight. “And was the perimeter… secure?”
“Y-Yes.”
She pressed down, grinding his head forward gently. “I don’t believe you. You sound like you’re lying to your Bhabi.”
“I’m not!” he blurted, his voice cracking. He turned his head sideways, pressing his cheek into her instep. “It’s secure. I swear on your feet.”
“On my feet?” She giggled, a genuine, sparkling sound. “That’s a new one. A very stupid oath.” She dragged her foot down the side of his face, leaving a faint streak. “You’re all dusty from your ride. And now my foot is dusty from your hair. You’ve contaminated me, Devarji.”
His eyes flew wide with horror. “I’m sorry! Let me—“
“Shhh.” She placed her big toe over his lips. “Since you’ve made them dirty, you can clean them. With your mouth. Start with the left one.”
He moved with clumsy haste, shuffling on his knees to her left foot. He stared at it as if it were a complex puzzle. He leaned in, lips puckered, to plant a kiss on the arch.
Priya pulled her foot back an inch. “Not like that. Like a dhobi washes clothes. With your tongue.”
A deep blush crept up his neck. He glanced up at her, his eyes pleading and shamefully excited. She gave him an encouraging, cruel little smile. He leaned in again, opened his mouth, and tentatively swiped his tongue along her sole from heel to toe.
“Ugh, tickles!” she laughed, jerking her foot. “And that was pathetic. You lick a mango with more enthusiasm. Do it properly. Imagine it’s covered in that expensive almond paste Maaji uses. You want to taste it all.”
The image, bizarre and intimate, did something to him. His embarrassment sharpened into focus. He bent his head, and this time his tongue was broad, slow, and deliberate. He licked the entire length of her foot, collecting the fine dust and the salt of her skin.
“Mmm, see? Better.” She watched his shoulders relax slightly. “Now the other one. But this time… tell me what it tastes like. As you go.”
He switched to her right foot, his hands coming up to cradle her heel with a reverence that made her want to both hug him and step on his fingers. He began at her toes, taking each one briefly into the warm, wet cave of his mouth before cleaning it with his tongue.
“Well?” she prodded.
“It… it tastes clean,” he mumbled against her skin.
“Liar. It tastes like floor and sleep and me. Try again. More detail, scholar.”
He took a shuddering breath, his nose buried between her toes. “It’s… a little salty. Earthy. Like the air before a monsoon. But… sweeter underneath.”
Priya threw her head back and laughed, loud and unguarded. “Like the air before a monsoon! Oh, Devan, you poetic fool.” She tapped his forehead with her big toe. “That’s the most ridiculous, wonderful thing I’ve ever heard. Do it again. Lick between my toes and tell me what that tastes like.”
He obeyed, his humiliation now laced with a desperate pride at having pleased her. He separated her toes with his fingers, his face burning, and ran his tongue through the crevices.
“It’s… more intense there,” he whispered, his voice thick.
“Intense!” she crowed. “You’re a genius of foot filth!” Her giggling fit was real, tearing through the room. He looked up, his own lips twitching into a helpless, smitten smile at the sound of her joy.
She composed herself, wiping a tear from her eye. “Alright, monsoon-poet. Your Bhabi is hot. Fan her.”
He looked around, confused. “With… with what?”
“With what?” she echoed, pretending to be astounded. “You have a mouth, don’t you? Blow. Cool my feet down. They’re tired from your terrible poetry.”
The request was so absurd, so profoundly degrading, that he let out a choked sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He scooted closer, pursed his lips, and began blowing soft, steady streams of air over her soles. The cool breeze felt wonderful. She moaned in exaggerated relief, making him blow harder.
“Not so hard, you’ll hyperventilate and faint,” she teased. “Then I’d have to drag you out by your ankles. Now… hmm.” She pretended to think, tapping her chin. “I’m bored again. Let’s play a game. Close your eyes.”
He did, still blowing gently.
“Keep them closed.” She slowly, silently, lifted her right foot. She guided it towards his face, then, with the moistened sole, she gently smeared it across his closed eyes, his nose, his mouth—painting him with herself.
“What am I doing?” she sang.
“You’re… you’re marking me,” he breathed, not opening his eyes.
“Smart boy. I’m writing my name on you. Can you feel the letters?” She traced meaningless patterns on his skin.
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
He swallowed. “It says… ‘Property of Bhabi.’”
Her laughter came again, but softer this time, more awed. “Oh, you are good. You’re a natural at this.” She let her foot rest, sole completely covering his nose and mouth. He breathed in deeply, his chest swelling. “Now. The final test. You want to be a good devar for me, yes?”
He nodded under her foot.
“Then you have to learn to take criticism. Tell me what you want from my feet. One thing. The truth.”
He went very still. The silence stretched. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart through the sole of her foot.
“I…“ he whispered, the sound muffled by her skin. “I want to… to wear them.”
She lifted her foot a fraction. “What?”
He opened his eyes. They were dark, serious, lost. “Like shoes. I want you to stand on me. To walk on me. To use me as your… your slippers.”
Priya’s giggle died in her throat. She looked at him, at the raw, vulnerable need laid bare. This wasn't playful poetry anymore. This was the deep, weird heart of him. A wave of dizzying power washed over her, colder and more potent than any she’d felt with Vikram or Rajan. This boy wanted to be erased under her.
She smiled, not a girl’s giggling smile, but a queen’s slow, accepting curve of the lips.
“Alright,” she said, her voice soft as a secret. “Let’s see if you’re strong enough to be my footwear.”
She stood up. He watched, trembling, from his knees. She placed her right foot squarely on his shoulder, then leaned her weight into it. He braced himself, his muscles corded. She brought her left foot up and placed it on his other shoulder. He was shaking now, but he held.
“Now,” she whispered. “Carry me. Just to the door and back.”
He took a deep, ragged breath. His hands came up to grasp her ankles, not to remove them, but to steady her. With a groan of effort, he began to rise. He made it to a crouch, her weight bearing down on him, her feet crushing his shoulders. He took one lurching, unbalanced step. Then another. The world tilted. He was her chariot, her crippled, willing beast of burden.
She looked down at the top of his head, at the part in his hair. She felt a sudden, fierce tenderness mix with the cruelty. He was trying so hard.
He stumbled, and she hopped off nimbly before they both toppled. He fell to his hands and knees, panting.
“Not bad for your first try, my living slippers,” she said, squatting down beside him. She ruffled his sweaty hair. “You’ll need to practice. Every day. Stronger legs. You understand?”
“I understand, Bhabi,” he panted into the rug, his voice cracked with exertion. He didn’t move from all fours. The submission was total, a physical fact.
She stayed squatting, her fingers still threaded in his damp hair. She could feel the fine tremors running through him. It was more than muscle fatigue. It was the shudder of a bridge collapsing inward, all structure giving way to a single, terrible want. He turned his head just enough to look at her feet, so close to his face. His eyes held a wet, shattered hope.
“What is it, Devarji?” she asked, her tone softening into something dangerously gentle. “Does my footwear have something to say?”
His mouth opened, then closed. A conflict waged in his face—the last vestige of a young man’s dignity wrestling with the devouring need she’d uncovered. He dropped his forehead to the floor with a soft thud, hiding.
“Use your words,” she said, not unkindly. She traced the shell of his ear with her big toe. The touch made him flinch as if branded. “Tell Bhabi what you need.”
The words, when they finally came, were a broken stream muffled by the wool rug. “Please. Please, Bhabi. Don’t… don’t make me wait until tomorrow.” He sucked in a ragged breath that hitched into a sob. “Let me practice now. Let me be them now. Your slippers. Your rug. Anything. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
He turned his head sideways, his cheek grinding into the weave, his eyes desperate and shining. “I’ll be the best thing you’ve ever walked on. I swear it. Please. Let me prove it. Let me… let me beg for it. Properly.”
Priya watched him unravel. This was different from Vikram’s orchestrated agony or Rajan’s fond bartering. This was a raw, unilateral surrender. A gift laid at her bare feet without condition. The power of it was silent and immense, filling the sunlit room.
She stood up slowly. She looked down at his prone form, this boy who wanted to be an object. A slow smile touched her lips, not of giggling glee, but of profound acquisition.
“Alright,” she said, her voice clear and calm. She took a single step forward and placed her right foot in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. She settled her weight there. He let out a choked, grateful sigh, his body pressing harder into the floor.
“Begging is a verb, Devan,” she said, looking down at the part in his hair. “So beg. Show me what ‘properly’ means to you.”