Chapter 15: The Veranda Call and the Bedroom Sin
The phone buzzed against the wooden table like an angry insect.
Manoj glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened. He looked at Ruby—she was face-down on the sheet again, Purshottam's hands working the muscles of her lower back, Bansal kneeling at her head with his oiled fingers tracing slow circles along her shoulders.
"I have to take this," he said.
Ruby did not open her eyes.
"Go," she murmured. "We'll be fine."
Manoj hesitated. The phone buzzed again, insistent, vibrating against the wood.
"It's the office," he said. "The file I submitted last week. If I don't—"
"Go," Ruby said again. "I'm not going anywhere."
He looked at Purshottam. The old man's eyes met his—steady, unreadable.
Then he looked at Bansal. The shopkeeper's face was flushed, his lips parted, his hands trembling slightly as they rested on Ruby's skin.
Manoj's stomach twisted.
But the phone would not stop buzzing. And the file—the file was important. His job was important. His family depended on it.
He stepped onto the veranda and pulled the door mostly shut behind him.
---
The door clicked. Not quite closed. A gap of three fingers remained, a sliver of darkness that let in the sound of Manoj's voice from outside—muffled, frustrated, arguing about deadlines and signatures and the incompetence of junior clerks.
Ruby counted.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
She turned her head. Bansal was still kneeling at the head of the bed, his hands frozen on her shoulders, his eyes wide and uncertain. Purshottam sat at the foot, his oiled palms resting on her calves, his face a mask of stone.
Ruby looked at Bansal.
"Press harder," she said.
"Madam—"
"Right here." She reached back with her right hand and guided his fingers to the knot below her shoulder blade—the one that had been there for months, the one that no amount of Purshottam's kneading had been able to reach. "Press."
Bansal pressed.
Ruby exhaled—a long, slow breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. The knot yielded slightly under his thumb, a small release of tension that sent a ripple of warmth through her shoulder.
"Harder," she said.
He pressed harder.
And then she caught his fingers.
Bansal froze. His breath stopped. His eyes—dark, startled—locked onto hers.
Ruby brought his hand to her lips.
She took his index finger into her mouth. Slow. Deliberate. Her tongue slid along the length of it, curling around the knuckle, tasting the oil and the salt of her own skin. She sucked gently, then harder, her cheeks hollowing, her lips sealing around him.
Bansal made a sound—something between a gasp and a groan.
She released his finger with a wet pop. Then she took the next one. And the next. One by one, she sucked them clean, her tongue sliding between them, her eyes never leaving his face.
"Madam—" His voice cracked. "Ruby—your husband—"
She released his fingers and reached for his belt.
"Ruby, please—"
She had already unbuckled it. The leather whispered through the loops. The button of his trousers popped open. The zipper came down with a sound like tearing silk.
She pulled him free.
He was hard—rock hard, the kind of hardness that came from hours of watching and wanting and not being allowed to touch. His cock sprang from his trousers, thick and veined, the tip glistening with pre-cum.
Ruby did not hesitate.
She took him into her mouth in one motion—deep, all the way to the back of her throat, her lips stretching around his girth, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft. She heard him gasp. She felt his hands fly to the headboard, gripping the wood so hard his knuckles went white.
She pulled back slowly, her lips dragging along his length, then took him again. Faster this time. Her head bobbed. Her throat worked. The wet sounds filled the room—slurping, sucking, the obscene noise of flesh sliding against flesh.
Behind her, Purshottam had not moved.
He sat frozen on the edge of the bed, his oiled hands still resting on Ruby's thigh, his face a mask of shock and hunger and something that looked almost like grief. He watched her mouth move over Bansal's cock. He watched the way her cheeks hollowed and her eyes closed and her body arched into the rhythm of it.
He had never seen anything like this.
He had never imagined anything like this.
His own body responded—traitorously, shamefully—and he pressed his thighs together to hide it.
Ruby pulled off Bansal just long enough to spit.
A thick string of saliva dripped from her lips onto his shaft. She watched it slide down, glistening, then took him again—faster now, rougher, her hand wrapping around the base of him while her mouth worked the rest.
"Fuck," Bansal whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
His hips bucked. His fingers twisted in the mosquito net above the bed. His breath came in short, desperate gasps that seemed to fill the room and press against the walls.
Ruby took him deeper.
She could taste him now—salt and skin and something darker underneath, something that made her own body clench and ache. She could feel him twitching against her tongue. She could feel the way his balls tightened in her palm.
She wanted this.
She had not known she wanted this until this moment—until his fingers were in her mouth and his taste was on her lips and her husband was arguing about paperwork on the other side of a door that was not quite closed.
"Ruby—" Bansal's voice broke. "I'm going to—"
She did not pull away.
She took him deeper, her throat working, her hand cupping his balls, her tongue pressing against the spot just beneath the head where she knew he would feel it most.
He came.
A hot, thick flood of it—salt and musk and something almost sweet. She swallowed once. Twice. Three times, until there was nothing left, until his body sagged against the headboard and his hands released the mosquito net and his breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps.
She released him slowly, licking him clean, her tongue tracing the length of his softening cock from base to tip. Then she tucked him back into his trousers. Buttoned him up. Zipped him shut. Buckled his belt.
She looked up at him.
His face was wrecked—eyes wide, mouth open, skin flushed. He looked like a man who had just seen God and was not sure if he should pray or run.
Ruby smiled.
"Good," she said. "You can go now."
Bansal did not move.
"I said go."
He stumbled to his feet. Grabbed his bag. Staggered toward the door, his legs unsteady, his hands shaking. He did not look back.
Ruby turned to Purshottam.
The old man sat exactly where he had been sitting—on the edge of the bed, his hands still on her thigh, his eyes fixed on her mouth.
Her lips were swollen. Wet. Shiny with spit and cum.
"Now you," she said.
Purshottam blinked.
"What?"
"Press harder."
His hands trembled as they returned to her body—to the knot below her shoulder blade, the one Bansal had started to work loose. He pressed his thumb into it, felt the tension there, felt the heat of her skin.
His eyes never left her mouth.
"Harder," Ruby whispered.
He pressed harder.
She closed her eyes.
Outside, Manoj's voice rose—something about a missing signature, a delayed inspection, the incompetence of men who did not understand what it meant to have a deadline. His footsteps moved back and forth on the veranda, casting shadows beneath the door.
Inside, Purshottam worked.
His hands moved down her back, pressing into the deep muscles that ran along her spine. He found knots there—angry, twisted things that had been growing for months. He worked them loose with his thumbs, slowly, methodically, his breath coming faster with each pass.
Ruby's body softened under his touch.
She let her mind empty. Let the warmth spread. Let herself feel the pressure of his hands and the memory of Bansal's cock and the knowledge that her husband was just on the other side of the door, arguing about files, unaware of everything.
"More," she whispered.
Purshottam's hands moved lower.
He pressed into her buttocks, kneading the flesh with his palms. He worked the muscles there—tight, tense things that clenched and released under his fingers. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. He could smell the oil and the sweat and something else, something muskier, something that made his head spin.
His own body was on fire.
He had not felt this way in years—decades—not since he was a young man, before the bitterness had set in, before the world had made him small and hard and cruel. He had forgotten what it was like to want. To ache. To feel the blood rushing through his veins like a river in flood.
"Ruby—" His voice cracked.
She turned over.
She lay on her back now, looking up at him. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath. Her nipples were hard. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were dark and depthless and knowing.
"Harder," she said.
He did not know if she meant the massage.
He did not care.
His hands moved to her breasts.
He cupped them—both at once—and lifted them gently, working the muscles beneath with his fingertips. He felt the weight of them. The softness. The warmth. He pressed his thumbs into the undersides, into the place where the tissue was densest, and watched her face as she gasped.
"Harder," she whispered.
He pressed harder.
She arched into his hands.
His own breath came in short, ragged gasps. His heart was pounding. His cock was hard—painfully hard—but he did not touch himself. He did not dare. He kept his hands on her body, on her breasts, on her ribs, on the soft curve of her belly.
"Purshottam."
He looked at her.
She was watching him with those dark, knowing eyes.
"Not bad for a dwarf," she said.
His jaw tightened.
Then something shifted in his face—something that might have been anger, or might have been desire, or might have been a terrible, final surrender to a thing he had spent his whole life fighting.
He leaned down.
His mouth found her nipple.
Ruby gasped.
His tongue worked the hard nub, circling it, sucking it gently. His hand found her other breast, squeezing the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
She arched off the bed.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, don't stop—"
Her hands tangled in his hair. She pulled him closer, pressed his face into her chest, held him there while his mouth worked and his hands moved greedily over her body.
Outside, Manoj's footsteps stopped.
Ruby heard the creak of the door handle.
But she did not stop.
She held Purshottam's head against her breast, her fingers knotted in his thin white hair, and she watched the door open—watched her husband step back into the room, his phone still pressed to his ear, his face still twisted with the frustration of his call.
He froze.
The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
Ruby looked at him—straight into his eyes.
And she smiled.
"Close the door," she said.