Chapter 7: thirsts on!
Outside the stall, the fluorescent light buzzed, a monotonous drone in the sterile, ruined space. His whisper – sabse achha – hung in the wet air, a blasphemy that changed everything. My ribs ached where he’d kicked me. My scalp throbbed where he’d pulled my hair. My cunt felt raw, well-used, gloriously throbbing. But the emptiness, that old familiar ghost, coiled tighter. He had taken care of me. Now, I would return the favor. My two bottom holes were his. I had offered both. Only one had been claimed.
I moved first, my body protesting as I peeled myself off his chest. The water was lukewarm now, a pathetic drizzle. I reached above his head, my fingers numb, and worked at the knot in the soaked lace. It gave way. His hands, bloodless and marked, fell slack to the wet tiles. He didn’t move them. Just stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a tired rhythm.
“Utho,” I said, my voice used up. Get up. I stood, my legs shaky, and stepped out of the stall. The bathroom air was cold, raising gooseflesh on my wet skin. I didn’t dry myself. I left slick footprints on the mat. I walked to the stiff armchair by the window, the same one. The moonlight had shifted, slicing a colder, thinner blade across the carpet.
I heard the shower tap squeak off. The sudden silence was immense. Then, the wet sound of him standing. The slow shuffle of his feet. He appeared in the bathroom doorway, a silhouette etched in fatigue and residual rage. Water dripped from his chin, from his fingers, from his soft cock. He looked at the wrecked bed, then at me, naked and waiting in the chair.
“Aao na,” I whispered, patting my lap. Come here.
He was a man walking to the gallows. Each step seemed heavy, final. He stood before me, his body a landscape of scratches and damp shadows. I took his hand, guiding him down. He sat, the chair groaning, his back straight, his eyes avoiding mine. I didn’t give him time to think. To regret.
I climbed onto him, my knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his hips. I was above him again, but this posture was different. Softer. A slow, sensuous reclaiming. I reached between us, finding him soft and spent. My fingers were gentle this time, coaxing, circling the base. I leaned forward, my small, pesky breasts brushing his chest, and captured his mouth with mine. It was a closed-mouth kiss, lingering, tasting of shower water and shame.
“Mera hai,” I murmured against his lips. He is mine. My hand worked him patiently, feeling the first reluctant stir. “Dheere dheere.” Slowly.
He began to harden under my touch, a slow, thick filling of my palm. His breath hitched, a soft intake of air that wasn’t a protest. I positioned him, the blunt head nudging against my tailbone, not my tender cunt. I looked into his eyes, seeing the conflict, the disgust, and beneath it, a dark, willing hunger I had cultivated.
“Bol,” I whispered, sinking down an inch, a slow, burning invasion that made us both gasp. Speak. “College mein… konsi ladki pehle dikhayi di?” In college… which girl did you see first?
He blinked, his hands coming to rest on my waist, then sliding up to my breasts, my maame. His thumbs rubbed my nipples, almost absently. “Library,” he grunted, as I took another inch of his lovely lund in my gaand, stretching my hole beautifully, painfully. “Woh… Bengali ladki. Deepa. Upstairs stacks.”
“Kya dekha?” What did you see? I sank lower, sheathing him deeper in my tight heat. His full lund was in my gaand. oh it was paining like hell. My full weight forcing me down on his lund.
“Skirt utha ke baithi thi,” he said, his voice gaining a rough edge. She had pulled her skirt up to sit. “Petticoat… safed. Katori jaise.” White. Like a bowl. His fingers pinched my nipple, harder. “Teri gaand… usse gehri hai.” Your ass… is deeper than hers.". I brought up his hands to my chttad. He almost absently pinched them, then rubbed them.
I moaned, taking him fully now, seated, impaled. The fullness was exquisite, a rich, aching possession. I began to move, a slow, rocking ascent and fall, guiding his cock with my internal muscles. “Aur? Kaun thi?” And? Who else?
“Hostel balcony,” he said, his hips beginning to meet my lazy rhythm. “Dusre room ki Pooja. Haath se hilati thi… raat ko.” Pooja from the other room. She’d masturbate with her hand… at night. “Pura dekh sakta tha. Uski chut… moti thi.” I could see everything. Her cunt… was fat.
“Meri phuddi moti nahi hai,” I breathed, rising up slowly, then sinking back down, drawing a groan from him. My cunt isn’t fat. “Chhoti hai. Tight. Jaise teri biwi ki thi?” It’s small. Tight. Like your wife’s was?
His hands tightened on my breasts, kneading them roughly. “Swati ki chut… suhagraat pe… itni tight thi ki rona aaya.” Swati’s cunt… on our wedding night… was so tight it made me want to cry. He thrust up, burying himself deeper. “Lund ghusa nahi pa raha tha.” Couldn’t get my cock in. “Uska khoon… jyada tha.” Her blood… there was so much. "Wo bhi kya maal thee. Ekdam virgin and untouched. Mera lund ko kya maje diye usne."
“Mera khoon bhi aaya tha,” I whispered, riding him with deliberate, sensual slowness, savoring the burn. My blood came too. “Rohit ke liye. But usne mujhe choda nahi… bas roya.” For Rohit. But he didn’t fuck me… he just cried.
“Behenchod,” he spat, his voice thick. Motherfucker. “Teri phuddi ki virginity… usne barbaad ki.” He wasted your cunt’s virginity. “Maine Swati ki li… dheere se… pyar se.” I took Swati’s… slowly… with love. He slammed up, a sharp, brutal punctuations to my slow rhythm. “Teri gaand ki virginity… main lunga… zor se.” Your ass’s virginity… I will take it… with force.
“Haan,” I cried out, the pain a bright flare of pleasure. Yes. “Aur comparison kar. Un dono ko.” And compare. Both of them.
“Swati ka chutad… bada hai,” he grunted, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, pulling my cheeks apart as I moved. Swati’s ass… is big. “Flat hai. Tera… chota hai… par gol hai. Uthaa ke pakadne layak.” It’s flat. Yours… is small… but round. Worth lifting and grabbing.
“Jab tune pehli baar Swati ko choda… kya socha?” When you fucked Swati the first time… what did you think? I was breathless, my movements becoming more urgent, the pleasure coiling deep.
“Socha… yeh meri biwi hai,” he said, his eyes glazed, lost in the memory and the feel of my ass gripping him. I thought… this is my wife. “Ab soch raha hoon… yeh meri raand hai.” Now I think… this is my whore.
The word sent a jolt through me. I ground down onto him, taking him impossibly deep. “Teri saheli bhi hoon,” I gasped. I am also your friend.
“Saheli nahi,” he corrected, his voice a feral growl. Not a friend. He bucked up hard. “Tu woh hai jo Isha ke skirt ke neeche dekhna chahta tha. Tu woh hai jo Pooja ke haath ke substitutes ke saath soya.” You are what I wanted to see under Deepa’s petticoat. You are what I slept beside, imagining Pooja’s hand.
“Swati ke saath… kya socha karta tha?” What did you used to think with Swati?
“Sochta tha… kash thoda jor se chod sakta,” he admitted, a dark confession ripped out by the rhythm of our bodies. I thought… I wish I could fuck a little harder. “Kash cheekh leti.” I wish she’d scream.
“Main cheekhti hoon?” Do I scream?
“Haah, saali,” he groaned. “Aur gaali bhi deti hai. Swati… bas moan karti hai.” And you also swear. Swati… just moans.
“Uska moan… ya mera cheekhna?” Her moan… or my scream?
“Teri cheekh,” he said without hesitation, his fingers digging into the flesh of my ass, surely leaving bruises. Your scream. “Jab main tujhe pel raha hoon… tab teri aawaz… meri hai.” When I’m pounding you… then your voice… is mine.
I was close. The crude, comparative dirtiness of his words, the physical claiming, it was building a pressure nothing with Rohit had ever touched. “Suhagraat pe… Swati ko kitni baar choda?” On your wedding night… how many times did you fuck Swati?
“Do baar,” he panted. “Dusri baar… khoon nahi aaya.” Twice. The second time… no blood came. “Tujhe… aaj kitni baar?” You… today how many times?
“Gaand mein… yeh pehla baar hai,” I cried, my rhythm breaking into frantic bounces. In my ass… this is the first time. “Phuddi… do baar. Panch minute mein… teesra baar.” My cunt… twice. In five minutes… a third time.
He roared then, a pure, animal sound of conquest. He stood up, lifting me with him, my legs wrapping around his waist, his cock still buried deep in my ass. He carried me the few steps to the wall by the window and slammed me against it. The impact stole my breath. He fucked me then, hard and fast and deep, my back scraping against the wallpaper, my breasts crushed against his chest.
“Yeh suhagraat nahi hai!” he snarled into my ear. This is not a wedding night! “Yeh… yeh hai tera… aur mera… ganda sach!” This… this is our… dirty truth!
He came with a final, shuddering drive, pouring himself into my depths, his shout muffled against my shoulder. I came a second later, clenching around him in dry, brutal waves that felt like my soul was being torn from a rusted mooring.
Outside the stall, the fluorescent light buzzed, a monotonous drone in the sterile, ruined space.
The water turned lukewarm, then cold, its needles pulling us back into our separate skins. He shuddered beneath me, a full-body flinch that had nothing to do with temperature. The animal fury had drained, leaving a hollowed-out vessel. I felt him soften inside me, a slow, shameful retreat. He wouldn’t look at me. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the plastic shower curtain, on the fogged mirror hiding our reflection.
I knew I had to cool him off slowly. The violence of his release was a minefield. One wrong move and the guilt would detonate, shoving me out forever. My lips found the shell of his ear, my voice a raw, intimate scrape against the water’s patter.
“Meri gaand itni tight kyun hai, samjhe?” I whispered. My ass is so tight, you know why? “Kyuki Rohit ka useless lund kabhi andar tak nahi pahucha.” Because Rohit’s useless cock never reached deep enough.
His breath hitched. A small, involuntary twitch.
“Swati ki gaand,” I continued, my tongue tracing the rim of his ear, “woh tumhare liye khol gayi hai na roz?” Swati’s ass, it’s opened up for you daily, right? “Meri toh abhi bhi nayi si hai.” Mine is still like new.
I felt a tremor run through him. Not arousal. Something darker.
“Usne apna virginity diya tha kisi college ke ladke ko, na?” She gave her virginity to some college boy, right? My hand slid down his damp chest, fingertips grazing a nipple. “Mera suhagraat… aadha lund bhi andar nahi gaya.” My wedding night… half a cock couldn’t even get in. “Rohit rone laga.” Rohit started crying.
A low groan escaped him. He turned his face away.
“Swati ke mamme… motey honge.” Swati’s breasts… they must be big. My own small, pesky breasts pressed against his side. “Mere chhote hain… lekin tere haathon mein aise phool jaate hain jaise bas tere liye bane hain.” Mine are small… but they bloom in your hands like they were made just for you.
I shifted slightly, feeling him slip completely from inside me, a cool, empty feeling. I straddled his hips, looking down at his softening cock, resting against his thigh like a condemned thing. I touched it, not to stimulate, but to claim. A feather-light stroke.
“Yeh lund,” I breathed, wrapping my fingers loosely around it. This cock. “Yeh wonderful lund.” This wonderful cock. “Isne mere andar woh jagah touch kiya jahan se aag nikalti hai.” It touched that place inside me where fire comes from. “Rohit kabhi pata bhi nahi laga us jagah ka.” Rohit never even found that place.
He was utterly still. Listening. Drowning in it.
“Jab tum gussa karte ho… tab aur bhi badi ho jati hai.” When you get angry… it gets even bigger. My thumb swept over the head, collecting a bead of mingled fluids. “Swati ko kabhi pata chalega ki uska pati dusri aurat ke andar itna bada ho sakta hai?” Will Swati ever know her husband can get this big inside another woman?
“Bas,” he whispered, a broken sound. Stop.
I didn’t. The words were a balm and a poison, necessary and vile. “Tum mujhse cheat karoge.” You will cheat on me. “Roz nahi… hafte mein ek baar.” Not daily… once a week. “Office ke baad. Kisi safe hotel mein.” After office. In some safe hotel. “Tum mujhpar chadhoge, Swati ka naam lete hue.” You will mount me, saying Swati’s name.
His eyes snapped to mine, wide with a horrified kind of understanding.
“Meri teeno chhed,” I said, holding his gaze. My three holes. “Tum khali kar doge.” You will empty them. “Pehle muh se. Phir phuddi se. Phir gaand se.” First with your mouth. Then my cunt. Then my ass. “Aur tum ghar jaake use chupke se dhogey, uske saath so jaoge.” And you will go home and wash it secretly, and sleep beside her.
I leaned down, my lips brushing his. “Aur tumhare sapnon mein main aaungi.” And I will come in your dreams. “Teri behen jaise.” Like your sister. “Teri raand jaise.” Like your whore.
A tear escaped the corner of his eye, lost instantly in the spray. He didn’t speak. His hand, finally free from the loosened lace, came up. Not to push me away. His fingers touched my cheek, a clumsy, bewildered gesture. They traced the line of my jaw, then drifted down to my throat, settling there. Not squeezing. Just resting. A collar of flesh and bone.
“Anu,” he said. Just my name. A world of ruin in it.
His other hand moved between us, his fingers finding my cunt, swollen and tender. He touched me with a shocking, unfamiliar gentleness. Probing the sore, stretched flesh his brutality had just ravaged. I flinched. He stilled.
“Yeh mere liye hai?” he asked, his voice shredded. Is this for me?
“Hamesha,” I breathed. Forever.
His touch changed. Not to stir desire, but to acknowledge wreckage. His fingers slid through the mess of spend and blood and me, a slow, grim inventory. He brought them to his own lips, tasting. His eyes closed. When they opened, they held a terrifying emptiness.
He pushed me off him, not roughly, but with a finality that chilled my bones more than the water. He stood on unsteady legs, untangling the ruined black lace from the shower fixture. He looked at it, a sodden, meaningless scrap, then let it fall. He stepped out of the stall, leaving me kneeling on the cold tiles.
He grabbed a towel, rubbing his body with a harsh, abrasive violence, as if trying to scour away not just water, but memory. He did not look back. He walked into the bedroom, a silhouette against the harsh light, and began to dress in silence. The rasp of his zipper was the loudest sound in the world.
I stayed under the cold water until my teeth chattered. The buzz of the fluorescent light was the only answer to the chaos in my head. I had him. I had lost him. I had won. I had destroyed everything. When I finally emerged, skin puckered and numb, he was gone.
The room held his absence like a new scent. On the nightstand, beside the smashed lamp from hours before, lay a folded stack of rupees. A grotesque parody. Payment. I walked to it on stiff legs. Under the money was a hotel notepad. A single sentence, scrawled in a handwriting I knew from a thousand school notes passed in class.
Kal shaam. 5 baje. Isi jagah. Tomorrow evening. 5 o’clock. Same place.
I touched the paper. The pen had dug deep, nearly tearing through. I picked up the money. I counted it. It was exact. For the room. For the damage. A transaction neatly concluded.
I let the notes fall from my fingers, fluttering to the stained carpet like dead leaves. I looked at the mirror. A woman with captivating eyes, shivering, marked, and utterly empty stared back. The echo of his fingers around my throat felt like the only real thing.
Outside, the city began to wake. The fluorescent light buzzed on.