Chapter 8: Sharma Returns for Seconds
The steam was still curling in lazy spirals around her ankles when she heard him stop.
She knew the sound of the stairs—the third step from the bottom had a creak that gave it away. Anubhav had been meaning to fix it for weeks. Mr. Sharma had stepped on it on his way down, and now the creak had stopped mid-squeal, as if he'd frozen there, one foot hovering over the tread.
Ruby smiled.
She was still naked. Still wet. The water from her hair had pooled at the small of her back and was now trickling down the cleft of her ass in a slow, deliberate line. Her thighs were slick. Her lips still tasted like him—salt and skin and something darker underneath.
She walked out onto the landing.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the weak bulb from the bathroom behind her spilling gold across the floorboards. Mr. Sharma stood on the stairs, his body half-turned, his wrench clutched in one hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it. His jeans were still unbuttoned, the zipper half-down. His cock—still thick, still glistening—was visible through the open fly.
He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect.
"Sharma uncle," Ruby said.
Her voice was low. Not loud. Just loud enough.
He didn't move.
"You fucked me better than my husband."
The words hung in the air like smoke. She watched them land—watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grip tightened on the wrench, the way his breath caught in his throat.
For a moment, she thought he would leave. She thought he would turn and walk out the front door and never come back. She thought about the silence that would follow—the empty house, the ticking clock, the weight of what she'd done settling over her like a shroud.
Then he turned around.
Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes found hers in the dim light, and there was something in them she hadn't seen before—something raw, something hungry, something that made her pulse quicken and her thighs clench.
He climbed the stairs.
Ruby didn't wait for him to reach the top. She crossed the landing in three quick strides, grabbed the collar of his grease-stained shirt, and dragged him into the bedroom.
He stumbled. His wrench clattered to the floor. She didn't care. She shoved him backward—hard—and he fell onto the bed with a grunt, his body sprawling across the rumpled sheets.
She climbed on top of him.
The bed creaked under her weight. The sheets smelled like sleep and sweat and the faint, floral ghost of her perfume. She straddled his hips, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him, her hands braced on his chest.
His cock pressed against her inner thigh—hot, hard, still slick from her mouth. She could feel it twitching through the denim. She reached down and pulled his jeans open the rest of the way, freeing him completely.
He groaned. His hands found her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh.
"Ruby—"
"Shut up."
She lifted herself up. Positioned him at her entrance. And then she sank down.
The first inch was tight—so tight she gasped. He was thick, thicker than she remembered, and her body stretched around him like it was learning him all over again. She paused, her breath ragged, her thighs trembling.
Then she pushed down harder.
He filled her completely. The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch, the pressure, the way he hit something deep inside her that made her vision blur. She sat there for a moment, impaled, her hands flat on his chest, her hair dripping onto his face.
"Fuck," she whispered.
And then she started to move.
Slow at first. Deliberate. She rocked her hips forward and back, grinding against him, feeling every inch of him slide in and out of her cunt. The wet sound was obscene—a slick, filthy squelch that filled the room and made her cheeks flush with something between shame and arousal.
She leaned forward, her tits swaying inches from his face. Her nipples were hard, dark, still damp from the shower. She could feel his breath on them, hot and uneven.
"He never does this," she said.
Sharma's eyes flickered up to hers.
"Anubhav. He never does this."
She rolled her hips, taking him deeper. He groaned. His fingers tightened on her hips.
"He never eats me out." She rode him faster now, her words coming in short, breathless bursts. "Never goes down on me. Never even asks if I want it."
Sharma's jaw was clenched. His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light.
"He never spanks me." She laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. "He thinks it's dirty. He thinks I'm too fragile."
She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.
"He never tells me I'm a dirty little whore."
The words hung between them, hot and shameful and true.
Something shifted in Sharma's face. Something broke open. His hands moved from her hips to her waist, and then he was flipping her over—fast, rough, his body covering hers, his cock still buried deep inside her.
She landed on her back with a gasp. The sheets were cold against her skin. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his hips between her thighs.
He pulled out. Almost all the way. Then slammed back in.
Ruby screamed.
He did it again. Harder. The headboard cracked against the wall—a sharp, rhythmic knock that echoed through the room.
"You want to be a dirty little whore?" he growled.
Another thrust. Another crack.
"I'll treat you like one."
He fucked her like he was trying to break her. Each stroke was brutal, punishing, the kind of fucking that left marks. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his grip tight enough to bruise. His other hand gripped her thigh, pushing her legs wider, opening her up until she could feel every inch of him splitting her apart.
The bed slammed against the wall. Again and again and again.
Ruby's moans turned to screams. Her nails dug into his back. Her heels dug into the mattress. She was completely helpless—pinned, filled, used.
She loved every second of it.
"Tell me," she gasped. "Tell me what you're going to do."
Sharma's breath was hot on her neck. His hips never stopped moving.
"I'm going to come back," he growled. "Every week. I'll tell your husband I'm fixing the pipes."
A thrust. Deeper. Harder.
"I'll come back and fill your cunt until you can't walk straight."
Ruby's eyes rolled back. The coil in her belly was tightening, tightening, tightening.
"I'll fuck you so good you forget his name."
She was close. So close. Her whole body was trembling, her thighs shaking, her cunt clenching around him like a fist.
"Come for me," he growled. "Come on my cock like the dirty little whore you are."
She came.
The orgasm ripped through her like lightning—hot, violent, devastating. She screamed his name—"Sharma, Sharma, Sharma"—as her body convulsed beneath him. Her vision went white. Her ears rang. For a moment, she was nothing but sensation—pure, blinding, overwhelming.
He fucked her through it. Kept going until her screams turned to whimpers, until her body went limp beneath him.
Then he pulled out.
She felt him stroking himself—fast, desperate—and then his release on her skin. Hot. Thick. Spilling across her breasts, her nipples, her stomach.
He painted her like a canvas.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The room was quiet except for their breathing—ragged, uneven, slowly returning to normal.
Then Sharma leaned down.
His tongue found her nipple. He licked the cum off her skin—slow, deliberate, his mouth warm and wet. He sucked her nipple between his lips, cleaning it, tasting it, and Ruby giggled.
She couldn't help it. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her—bright, giddy, almost childish.
"You're my favorite plumber," she said.
Sharma looked up at her. His mouth was still on her breast, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might say something—something serious, something that would ruin the moment.
Then he smiled.
"I know," he said.
He climbed off her. He buttoned his jeans. He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head. He didn't look at her as he dressed—just moved through the motions like a man who'd done this before.
At the door, he paused.
"Next Tuesday," he said. "I'll bring the right tools."
Ruby laughed.
"Bring the wrench," she said. "I'll bring the pipes."
He didn't smile. He just nodded—once, sharp—and then he was gone.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. She heard the front door open. Close.
And then the house was quiet.
Ruby lay on the bed for a long time. Her body was sore. Her cunt was still throbbing. She could feel his cum drying on her skin—tight, itchy, like a secret she hadn't decided whether to keep.
She should shower. She should wash him off her. She should go downstairs and make dinner and pretend she was the same woman she'd been this morning.
But she didn't move.
She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the headboard still crooked from where it had slammed the wall.
Downstairs, she heard the front door open again.
"Ruby?"
Mr. Dixit's voice. Low. Careful.
She didn't answer.
She just smiled.
And she waited.