Chapter 10: Color of Love is Red
The cheap floral perfume I’d sprayed earlier to mask the stale hotel smell had cloyed, turning sickly sweet in the still, warm air of my bedroom. Outside, Mumbai’s monsoon drizzle blurred the windowpanes, the grey light making the room feel smaller, messier. My own small flat – a stark contrast to the sterile hotel luxury. Here, the intimacy felt heavier, riskier. And today… today my body was a traitor.
A dull, familiar ache pulsed low in my belly. The metallic tang of blood was a constant, unwelcome reminder beneath the perfume. Day two. Heavy. Messy. Useless. I shifted on the edge of the bed, the worn cotton of my thin salwar kameez sticking slightly. Rohit hadn’t even noticed when he’d left for work. Again.
The sharp buzz of the doorbell cut through the humid silence. My heart jumped, then sank. Vishal. Right on time. Foolish man. Loyal friend. Walking straight into the lioness’s den while she was caged.
I shuffled to the door, the pad between my legs a heavy, damp weight. Opening it, the sight of him almost stole my breath. Damp from the drizzle, hair messy, that familiar, grounding presence. But his eyes… they held a raw, restless energy I knew too well. Hunger. Uncomplicated, male hunger. The kind Rohit seemed to have forgotten existed.
"Anu," he smiled, stepping in, shaking water droplets from his jacket. "Yaar, it's pouring cats and dogs out there." He shrugged off the jacket, hanging it on the rickety stand by the door. His gaze swept the small living room, landing briefly on the rumpled bed visible through the open bedroom door. "Everything okay? You said you weren't feeling well?"
"Just… chhutti wali problem," I mumbled, turning away, heat flooding my cheeks. Period problems. He’d understand. Or pretend to. "Chai banau?" Tea? A desperate stall.
He followed me into the tiny kitchenette. "Sure, chai sounds good." But he leaned against the counter, watching me fill the kettle, his presence huge in the confined space. The air crackled. He wasn’t here for tea. The restless energy radiated off him, a physical thing. He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his damp hair again. "Swati’s out with her sisters. Whole day shopping plan hai." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Kabhi kabhi lagta hai… she forgets I exist unless she needs something shifted."
I kept my back to him, focusing on the teacups. His words were casual, but the bitterness underneath… it mirrored my own emptiness. Swati forgetting? Try living with Rohit’s perpetual absence.
"Must be nice," I said softly, the words tasting like ash. "To be… remembered." I turned, leaning back against the counter opposite him. The dull ache in my belly intensified. "At least she takes care of you, na? When you need it?"
He met my gaze directly, that restless hunger sharpening. "Haan. She… manages." A pause. He looked away, jaw working. "But sometimes… it feels like a chore. For her." He swallowed, his eyes drifting back to mine, darker now. "Not like…" He trailed off, but the unspoken you hung heavy between us. Remembering the hotel. Remembering Neha. Remembering my hands on him, guiding him, controlling his pleasure.
The kettle whistled, shrill and sudden. I jumped, fumbling to turn it off. My hands were trembling slightly. He needs it. The thought was a desperate drumbeat. He came here needing it. And I… I’m broken. Useless.
The chai remained unmade. The silence stretched, thick with unsaid things and Vishal’s palpable, frustrated need. He pushed off the counter, took a step towards me. "Anu…" His voice was rough. "I shouldn't have come. Knowing you're not well…" But he didn't move back. His gaze dropped, lingered for a fraction too long on the curve of my hip beneath the thin fabric. "It's just… pent up, ya know? After… everything."
After I showed you what you could have. After I made you want it. The power surged back, hot and sharp, cutting through my own physical discomfort. He was here. Vulnerable. Needing. And I… I had other assets.
I took a step closer, closing the small distance. Looked up into his conflicted eyes. "Toh?" I whispered, my voice low, holding his gaze. "Swati always takes care? What about me? What about what I can give?" My hand lifted, trembling only slightly now, and rested flat on his chest. I felt the rapid thud of his heart beneath my palm. "Just because one door is closed…" I let my fingertips trail down, over the firm plane of his stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his jeans. "...doesn't mean there aren't others."
His breath hitched. He didn't pull away. His eyes searched mine, warring with loyalty and that overwhelming, desperate need I’d stoked. "Anu… main…" I… He shook his head, a helpless gesture. "It's not right."
"Who said anything about right?" I murmured, stepping even closer, so my body just brushed his. I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the rain and the clean, masculine scent underneath. "You need release. I want to give it. Is that so wrong?" My hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hard ridge straining against his jeans. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "See?" I whispered, a small, triumphant smile touching my lips. "Your body knows what it wants. Forget Swati. Forget right and wrong. Just… feel."
He was lost. I saw the moment the resistance crumbled, replaced by pure, desperate want. A low groan escaped him as my fingers deftly undid his button, then the zip. The heavy weight of him sprung free, thick and hard and ready. His hands found my hips, gripping almost painfully.
"Anu…"
"Shhh," I soothed, sinking slowly to my knees on the cool kitchen floor. The tile was hard beneath my knees, but I barely registered it. My world narrowed to him, to the potent, salty scent of his arousal, to the flushed, velvety heat in my hand. "Dekh," I whispered, looking up at him, making sure he saw the intent in my eyes. "Mere paas sab kuch hai tumhare liye." I have everything for you.
I leaned in, letting my lips brush the throbbing head. He jerked. Then I took him into my mouth, slowly, deliberately, savoring the gasp that tore from him, the way his fingers tightened convulsively in my hair. My tongue swirled, explored, while my hands roamed – one cupping the heavy sac beneath, rolling gently, the other reaching up to unbutton my kameez just enough. I freed my small breasts, pushing the fabric aside. His eyes, glazed with lust, snapped to them.
"Chhote hain," I said softly, a flicker of my own insecurity surfacing, but I pushed it down, arching my back slightly. Small they are. "Lekin tumhara mooh bhi chahiye na?" But your mouth wants them too, no?
He needed no further invitation. With a groan that was almost a sob, he bent, his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. The dual sensation – his cock deep in my mouth, his mouth hot on my breast – sent jolts of lightning through me, momentarily eclipsing my own physical discomfort. I moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, his hips thrusting shallowly.
I worked him expertly, with my mouth, my tongue, the pressure of my hands. Building him slowly, relentlessly. Feeling him swell, throb, the tension coiling tighter and tighter. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers frantic in my hair. "Anu… Anu… I'm gonna…"
I pulled back just as he surged, my lips leaving him wet and glistening. His groan was pure agony. "Nahi," I breathed, looking up, my own breath short. "Abhi nahi." Not yet. Not so soon. I wanted more. Needed more. Needed him utterly spent, utterly mine.
His eyes were wild, confused. "Par…"
I stood up slowly, ignoring the dull throb in my belly. Took his hand. Led him, unresisting, the few steps into the dim bedroom. The rumpled sheets, the scent of my solitude, awaited. I turned to face him, my back to the bed. Reached behind me and pushed my salwar down, just past my hips. The pad was visible, stark white against my skin, a reminder. But I ignored it. I met his gaze, held it. Then, slowly, deliberately, I turned around. Bent forward slightly, resting my hands on the edge of the bed, presenting myself. My small, round ass offered to him. Vulnerable. Available.
"Yeh lo," I whispered, looking back over my shoulder. Take this. "Ab koi bahaana nahi." Now no excuse. "Yeh hole… always open for my Vishal." This hole.
He stared, his chest heaving, his cock jutting rigidly, painfully. The conflict was back – shock, guilt, warring with the overwhelming, primal urge. "Anu… tum… periods pe ho…" You're on your period…
I reached back, fingers splayed on my offered cheek. "Toh? Andar jaa raha hai na? Periods se kya lena dena?" So? Is it going inside? What does it have to do with periods? I squeezed my own flesh. "Safai ka khayal rakhungi main. Bas… pel de mujhe. Jaisa tune Neha ko pelaa tha." I'll keep it clean. Just… pound me. Like you pounded Neha.
The mention of Neha, the memory of that raw, abandoned fucking, was the final push. A guttural sound ripped from his throat. He was on me in an instant, his hands rough on my hips, pulling me back against him. The blunt, slick head pressed against my tight entrance. I braced, took a deep breath.
"Lubricant?" he rasped, a last thread of sense.
My hand darted to the bedside drawer, fumbled inside, found the small bottle. Passed it back. The cold slickness as he prepared himself, prepared me, was a shock. Then the pressure returned, immense, insistent.
"Haan…" I breathed, pushing back against him. "Jor se…" Hard…
He entered me in one slow, brutal thrust. The stretch was intense, burning, utterly different from the wet heat he craved but undeniably deep. I cried out, muffled by the bedsheet, my fingers clawing at the fabric. He paused, buried to the hilt, his body rigid against mine.
"Theek hai na?" he gasped. Okay?
"Haan… haan… chala…" Yes… yes… move…
He began to move. Short, sharp thrusts at first, then deeper, harder, finding a punishing rhythm. The slap of his hips against my flesh echoed in the small room. The pain blurred with a strange, illicit pleasure – the fullness, the sheer wrongness of it, the power of having him here, like this, while I bled. His groans were continuous now, raw and unfiltered, lost to the animal need driving him.
"Kitna tight hai…" he moaned, his hands digging into my hips, pulling me onto him with each thrust. So tight… "Aise hi… Neha ko…" Just like… Neha…
His words, comparing me to her even now, sent a dark thrill through me. Yes. Remember. Remember me controlling that. Remember me giving her to you. Giving you this.
He fucked me with a desperate, focused intensity, his body slamming into mine, the bed creaking in protest. I could feel him trembling, feel the coiled tension ready to snap. I pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, offering myself completely, taking everything he gave. The ache inside me was forgotten, replaced by the powerful, rhythmic invasion, the sound of his pleasure, the knowledge that I was doing this. I was making him lose control.
"Anu…" he choked out, his rhythm faltering. "Nahi ruk paunga…" Can't stop…
"Mat rok!" I gasped. Don't stop! "Andar… jaa… saara…" Inside… go… all…
With a final, shuddering roar, he drove deep and held, pulsing violently inside me. Warmth flooded the tight channel. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing me into the bed, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. I stayed still, feeling the tremors wrack his body, feeling the evidence of his release. Utterly claimed. Utterly used.
He lay there for long moments, boneless, spent. Then, slowly, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was jarring. I stayed bent over the bed, catching my breath, the dull ache in my belly returning with a vengeance, mingling with the new soreness.
Silence. Just the drumming rain outside and our harsh breathing. He straightened up behind me. I heard the rustle of clothes as he covered himself, the soft click of his belt. I didn't turn around. Couldn't.
He touched my shoulder, gently. "Anu…" His voice was hoarse, thick with spent desire and… something else. Guilt? Confusion? "Main…"
I pushed myself up, rearranged my clothes, hiding the pad, hiding the mess. Turned to face him. My legs felt weak. I forced a small, tired smile. "Chal chal," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. Go on. "Swati wait kar rahi hogi." Swati will be waiting. "Tera kaam ho gaya. Mera bhi." Your work is done. Mine too.
He looked at me, really looked at me. His gaze held a dazed sort of satisfaction, yes, but also a bewildered exhaustion, a shadow of the good man wrestling with what he’d just done. "Haan," he murmured, running a hand over his face. "Shukriya, Anu." Thank you.
He moved towards the door, pausing only to grab his damp jacket. He didn't look back as he let himself out. The soft click of the latch echoed in the sudden silence.
I stood alone in the middle of my messy bedroom. The scent of sex and blood hung heavy in the air. Downstairs, the faint sound of Vishal's bike starting, then fading into the rain. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the cheap cotton scratchy against my skin. The hollow victory tasted like ash. I’d satisfied him. Used every part of myself he could still touch. Made him cum. Twice, in spirit if not literally this time. He left pleased, unburdened.
I touched my lower back, where his fingers had dug in. The soreness was already blooming. Outside, the grey Mumbai afternoon pressed against the windows. The only sound was the relentless rain. And the quiet, desperate thudding of my own lonely heart against my ribs. The emptiness yawned wider than ever. Filled only with the fading warmth of his release and the cold certainty of my own bleeding solitude.