Chapter 10: Divya's holes.
The jasmine scent was cloying tonight. Too sweet. Like cheap perfume trying too hard. I stared at the ceiling, the fan blades cutting lazy circles in the dim light. Beside me, Rohan snuffled, already half-asleep after another pathetic, fumbling attempt. His sweaty hand lay limp on my thigh. Again. My skin crawled.
He hadn’t even gotten close. Just clumsy groping, a few damp kisses, then the inevitable softening, the mumbled excuses about being tired, stressed. Followed by instant snoring. Useless. Absolutely fucking useless. The plush comforter felt like a trap. This whole room, this marriage, felt like a beautifully decorated cage.
Quietly, I slid out from under his limp arm. He didn’t stir. Not a twitch. I stood by the bed, looking down at him. The dim light softened his features, made him look almost boyish. Harmless. That was the problem. He was harmless. Impotent in every way that mattered. Anger, cold and sharp, crystallised in my chest. Sauni had been right about him. She’d seen it before I did. The thought of her, riding high on the power we’d taken from Vishal last week, probably feeling like she was calling the shots now… that made the anger burn hotter.
No. Not tonight.
I padded naked to the ensuite bathroom, closing the door softly. The cool tiles under my feet were a relief. I splashed water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were dark, restless. My body felt taut with unused energy, humming with frustration. Rohan couldn’t touch this. Couldn’t handle it. But someone else could. Someone owed me.
My phone was on the counter. No hesitation. I scrolled, found the number marked 'Vishal Sir - Work', and hit call. It rang three times. My breath hitched. Maybe he wouldn’t…
"Divya?" His voice was rough with sleep, laced with instant wariness. Good. He remembered. He remembered the cream sheets, the tears, the things we’d made him do. The things I’d made him finish.
"Sir," I murmured, keeping my voice low, husky. "I need you. Now."
A beat of silence. I could almost hear his mind racing, the fear warring with the ingrained habit of obedience, maybe even the flicker of remembered sensation. "Divya… it's late. And…"
"And what?" I cut him off, letting a sliver of the ice I felt seep into my tone. "You have other plans? Or are you still recovering from Sauni’s… enthusiasm last week?" I let the implication hang. "She told me you were quite… accommodating." Let him sweat over what she might have said.
Another pause, longer this time. Then, a resigned sigh. "Your place?"
"Twenty minutes," I said flatly. "The door’s unlocked. Come straight to the bedroom. And Vishal?" I let the silence stretch until I felt his tension through the line. "Don’t make me wait." I ended the call.
Twenty minutes. I moved silently back into the bedroom. Rohan was dead to the world. I gathered a pillow and the spare blanket from the ottoman at the foot of the bed. With surprising ease, I lifted his shoulders. He groaned, mumbled incoherently. "Couch, Raju," I whispered, not unkindly, just firmly. "You’re snoring." Too groggy to resist, he stumbled, half-asleep, out of the room towards the living room. I shut the bedroom door behind him and turned the key in the lock. Sanctuary reclaimed. For now.
I didn’t turn on more lights. Just the dim bedside lamp. I pulled the rumpled sheets straight, fluffed the pillows. My heart hammered against my ribs, not with nerves, but with fierce anticipation. This was mine. My play. No Sauni. No broken Rohan watching. Just Vishal and me, and the debt he owed.
The soft click of the front door opening sent a jolt through me. Footsteps, hesitant, crossed the living room. Paused outside the bedroom door. Silence. He was listening. Probably terrified of what he’d find. Good. I stood near the bed, back to the door, bathed in the soft glow. I heard the faint scrape of the key turning. The door opened slowly.
I didn’t turn around. I let him see me. The curve of my back, the line of my hip, the swell of my ass barely visible in the dim light. The faint scent of jasmine warred with the lingering smell of Rohan’s sweat and the charged anticipation in the air.
"Divya?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Close the door, Sir," I said, still not facing him. "Lock it."
I heard the soft snick of the lock. His footsteps approached, stopping a few feet behind me. I could feel his gaze, heavy on my skin. I finally turned.
He looked wrecked. More than last week. Shadows under his eyes, hair slightly dishevelled, still in his rumpled work shirt and trousers, like he’d thrown them on hastily. Fear radiated from him, but underneath it… something else. A wary, humiliated hunger. His eyes darted past me towards the empty side of the bed where Rohan should have been. Confusion flickered.
"Don't worry about him," I said smoothly, taking a step towards him. I reached out, my fingers brushing the stiff cotton of his shirt front. "He's… indisposed. It's just us." I let my hand slide up to his collar, popping the first button. "You look tense, Sir. Long week?"
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Divya… what… what do you want?" He knew. He absolutely knew. But he needed to hear it.
"What I deserve," I murmured, popping another button. I could see the pulse hammering in his throat. "What we agreed you owed me." My fingers moved lower, undoing the rest of the buttons, revealing a plain white undershirt. "Take this off."
His hands trembled slightly as he shrugged out of the shirt. He looked thinner without it, vulnerable. The undershirt came next, tossed aside. His chest was pale, hairless. He stood there, exposed from the waist up, breathing shallowly, unable to meet my eyes directly, his gaze fixed somewhere near my shoulder.
I stepped closer, invading his space. My hands lifted, hovering near the swell of my breasts. I saw his eyes snap down, widen fractionally before flicking away, then back. Drawn. Despite the fear, the humiliation, the memory of Sauni… he was drawn. Men always were. It was my oldest, most reliable weapon.
"Look at them, Sir," I commanded softly, my voice dropping to a low purr. My thumbs hooked into the thin straps of my nightdress. Slowly, deliberately, I slid them down my shoulders. The silky fabric whispered over my skin, catching for a moment on the peaks of my nipples before pooling at my waist. I let it hang there, baring myself to him.
His breath hitched audibly. His gaze locked onto my breasts, full and high, the nipples already tight peaks in the cool air. Hunger warred violently with terror in his eyes. He looked trapped. Exactly where I wanted him.
"See what Rohan can't be bothered with?" I whispered, taking his limp hand. He flinched but didn't pull away. I placed his palm flat against my breast. His skin was cold, clammy. "Feel it, Vishal." His fingers twitched. Barely. "He's useless. Weak." I pressed his hand harder against me, feeling the soft give of my flesh under his trembling fingers. "But you're not useless, are you? You know how to appreciate a woman. How to… serve." I leaned closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Like you served Sauni. Like you served me last week." I felt him shudder.
He was still frozen, paralyzed by conflicting impulses. I needed him moving. Needing.
"Kiss them," I breathed, the command a hot whisper against his skin. "Show me you remember how."
A low groan escaped him, part protest, part surrender. Slowly, hesitantly, his head lowered. His lips brushed the upper curve of my breast, feather-light. A tremor ran through him. Then again, firmer this time, his mouth moving lower, finding the hardened peak. His tongue flicked out, tentative at first, then, as the first taste registered, with more insistence. A shudder ran through me this time – not pleasure, exactly, but the fierce satisfaction of control. He was obeying. His hands came up, cupping my breasts, his thumbs rubbing circles as his mouth worked, growing bolder, hungrier, sucking, nipping lightly. His fear was still there, buzzing beneath the surface, but it was being overridden by instinct, by the raw physicality of the act, by the ingrained habit of giving me what I demanded. His breath was hot and ragged against my skin.
I let him worship for a moment, my fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, just holding. Anchoring him. Reminding him who owned this moment. His arousal was obvious now, pressing against the fabric of his trousers. Good.
"Lower," I murmured, my voice thick.
His head lifted, his eyes glazed, lips wet. Confusion flickered again. I didn't explain. My hands moved. One remained in his hair. The other slipped down, over the silky fabric still bunched at my waist. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties – a flimsy match for the nightdress – and pushed them down, stepping out of them. I kicked them aside.
I saw the moment understanding dawned. His gaze dropped, travelling down my bare stomach, over the dark triangle of curls, settling between my legs. His breath stopped. The fear surged back, stark in his eyes. This wasn't the detached service of last week, witnessed by others. This was intimate. Demanding. Just him and me and the ghost of his broken pride.
"On your knees, Vishal," I said, the command brooking no argument.
He sank down slowly, awkwardly, like his joints were rusty. He knelt before me, eyes level with my stomach. He looked utterly broken, yet his erection strained painfully against his trousers. The contrast was obscenely perfect.
"Look," I commanded. He did. His gaze fixed on the centre of me, wide, horrified, fascinated. "Touch."
His hand shook violently as he reached out. One fingertip brushed my outer lips. I was already wet. Not from him. From the power, the anticipation, the sheer audacity of this. He gasped softly at the slickness.
"Taste," I whispered, leaning back slightly against the edge of the bed, bracing myself.
He closed his eyes for a second, a muscle jumping in his jaw. When he opened them, there was a terrifying emptiness warring with the fear. Defeat. He leaned forward. His tongue touched me, a tentative, flat stroke. He flinched, as if burned. Then another. Longer. His eyes squeezed shut again, not in pleasure, but in a desperate attempt to dissociate. He lapped at me, clumsy at first, then with a growing, mechanical rhythm. It felt detached, dutiful. A transaction. Exactly what it was. His hands gripped my hips, not for passion, but for purchase, for stability as he performed. His breath puffed hot against my skin. It wasn't skilled. It wasn't loving. But it was submission. Raw and absolute.
I watched the top of his head, the way his shoulders tensed with the effort. The silent tears I knew were probably tracking down his cheeks hidden in the dim light. This was better than pleasure. This was ownership.
I let it go on, drawing it out, savouring his humiliation. Feeling the tremors run through his frame. Seeing the damp patch growing on the expensive wool of his trousers where he strained against them. He was close. To breaking? To finishing? Didn't matter.
Suddenly, I pushed his head away, not roughly, but firmly. He gasped, looking up at me, startled, his lips glistening, eyes red-rimmed. Relief warred with confusion.
"Stand up," I ordered.
He scrambled to his feet, unsteady. He wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Your turn," I said, my voice cool. My hands went to his belt buckle. The leather slid free with a soft rasp. The button popped. The zip hissed down. He didn't move, didn't help, didn't resist. Just stood there, breathing raggedly, staring at a point past my shoulder. I pushed his trousers and underwear down over his hips. They pooled around his ankles. He stepped out obediently when I nudged his foot.
He was fully erect. Rigid, almost painfully so. The fear hadn't killed it. If anything, the degradation seemed to fuel it. A dark, twisted validation. I wrapped my hand around him. He gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. I squeezed lightly, feeling the hard heat, the throb of his pulse against my palm.
"Lie down," I said, nodding towards the bed. "On your back."
He moved like an automaton, lying down stiffly on the side of the bed Rohan had vacated. The cream comforter felt strange under his bare skin. He stared at the ceiling, avoiding looking at me, at himself, at the room that screamed marriage while he lay naked in another man's place.
I climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips. I didn't lower myself onto him. Not yet. I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his chest. I saw his eyes flicker down to my breasts, hanging so close to his face, then squeeze shut again. Torture.
"You want to come, Sir?" I whispered, my breath warm on his ear.
A choked sound. Maybe a 'yes'. Maybe a sob.
"Then watch," I commanded.
I slid backwards, down his body. His eyes flew open, wide with dawning horror as he realised my intent. I positioned myself between his legs, my knees on the soft comforter. My hands gripped his hips, holding him steady. I saw the panic in his eyes, the desperate urge to pull away warring with the terrifying compulsion to obey.
I didn't hesitate. I lowered my head and took him into my mouth.
He cried out. A raw, broken sound. His whole body arched off the bed, muscles straining. His hands flew down, fingers tangling convulsively in my hair, not pushing me away, but gripping, pulling desperately. "Divya! God! Please! Stop... don't... ahhh!"
I didn't stop. I intensified. I used everything I knew. The flat of my tongue. The gentle scrape of teeth. Deep suction. Fast, rhythmic bobbing. He was slick with pre-come, salty and bitter. His hips bucked erratically, trying to thrust deeper, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation. His pleas dissolved into incoherent gasps and moans. Tears streamed freely down his temples now, soaking into the pillow. He was losing himself, drowning in the shame and the brutal, undeniable pleasure tearing through him. His fingers tightened painfully in my hair. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Divya! I'm... I'm..."
I felt it building, the tell-tale tightening, the frantic pulse against my tongue. I pulled back abruptly, releasing him with a soft pop. He gasped, his eyes flying open, wild with disbelief and agonising need. "No! Please! I need... I need to..."
"Shhh, Sir," I murmured, climbing swiftly back up his body. I positioned myself over him, my knees on either side of his hips. My wetness slid against his shaft. He groaned, deep and guttural. His hands clutched at my waist. I didn't sit down. Not quite. I leaned forward again, my breasts swaying inches above his face. He stared up at them, mesmerised, panting, on the razor's edge.
"Not inside," I whispered, my voice thick with dark promise. "Here."
I lowered myself just slightly, guiding him with my hand. Not into me. Against me. The swollen head of his cock slid through the slick valley between my breasts. He cried out again, a sound of pure,
The swollen head of his cock slid through the slick valley between my breasts. He cried out again, a sound of pure, ragged need ripped from somewhere deep. His hips jerked upwards instinctively, seeking more friction, more contact, grinding against the soft, yielding flesh. "Yes! Like that! Fuck!" His hands scrabbled at my waist, then flew up to cup my breasts, squeezing them tightly together around his shaft, forcing himself deeper into that hot, wet channel. His eyes were wide, frantic, fixed on where his cock disappeared and reappeared, glistening with my wetness and his own pre-come. "Divya... god... don't stop...please!" The desperation in his voice was thick, almost painful. He was trembling violently beneath me, every muscle coiled tight, sweat beading on his forehead and chest. His breath came in harsh, uneven gasps, punctuated by low groans that vibrated through my own body. The rhythmic slide became faster, messier, driven by his frantic upward thrusts and my own downward pressure. The slick sounds filled the quiet room, mingling with his choked pleas and the frantic rustle of the comforter. His grip on my breasts was almost painful now, fingers digging in, his knuckles white. "I'm... I'm gonna...!" The warning was a strangled gasp, his whole body arching off the bed, rigid as a board. His release hit him like a seizure, thick spurts painting hot stripes across my collarbone, neck, and chin. He cried out, a wordless, guttural sound of release mixed with profound relief and lingering shame. His body collapsed back onto the mattress, utterly spent, trembling uncontrollably, his chest heaving. He lay there, eyes closed, tears still leaking from the corners, looking utterly broken. "Fuck," he breathed, the word barely audible, ragged. "Fuck."
I stayed straddling him for a moment longer, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat against my inner thigh, watching the rise and fall of his chest slow. The scent of sex and sweat and expensive jasmine hung heavy in the air. Carefully, I slid off him, my own skin slick. Grabbing a discarded corner of the comforter, I wiped the sticky mess from my neck and chest with brisk, impersonal strokes. He flinched slightly at the movement but didn't open his eyes. Exhaustion radiated from him, a palpable weight. I tossed the soiled fabric aside and lay down beside him on the cool expanse of sheet, leaving space between us. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines etched by stress and recent humiliation. His breathing gradually deepened, evening out into the shallow rhythm of sleep. Or unconsciousness. It didn't matter. The room settled into a thick, uneasy silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the dresser and Vishal's soft, ragged snores. The tension of the encounter seeped away, replaced by a strange, hollow quiet. My own body felt keyed up, unsatisfied, the frustration Rohan had left now mingled with the adrenaline of dominating Vishal. I stared at the ceiling fan’s lazy circles, the events replaying in my mind – his fear, his obedience, the raw power I’d wielded. Yet, the core ache remained, a deep, physical emptiness untouched by his frantic climax on my skin. Sleep felt impossible, a distant shore. Minutes bled into what felt like an hour. Beside me, Vishal stirred. A low groan escaped him as he shifted, rolling slightly onto his side facing me. His eyes blinked open, bleary and unfocused at first, then sharpening as awareness returned. He saw me watching him. A flicker of that familiar fear crossed his face, quickly masked by a weary resignation. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, wincing slightly. His gaze travelled down my body, lingering on my breasts, then lower, settling between my legs with a new, unsettling intensity. The exhaustion seemed to slough off him, replaced by a slow-building, predatory focus. The broken man was gone; the manager accustomed to taking what he wanted was resurfacing. "Still awake?" His voice was rough, deeper than before, devoid of the earlier tremor. He didn't wait for an answer. His hand, surprisingly steady now, reached out and traced a slow line down my stomach, over my hip, fingers brushing the curls below. "You didn't finish," he stated, not a question. His touch wasn't tentative or fearful anymore; it was possessive, probing. His fingers parted me, exploring with a deliberate, clinical curiosity. Then he paused. His brow furrowed. He pushed deeper, his touch becoming more insistent, searching. Confusion replaced the predatory look, then dawning, incredulous surprise. He withdrew his hand slowly, staring at his fingers, then back at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You're...?" He couldn't seem to say the word. "A virgin?" The question hung in the air, sharp and disbelieving. "After... after everything? With Sauni? Last week?" He gestured vaguely towards the living room. "With him?"
A hot flush of shame, unexpected and fierce, washed over me. I tried to pull away, curling in on myself. "It doesn't matter," I muttered, turning my face towards the pillow. "Just leave it."
But he didn't. His hand clamped down on my hip, surprisingly strong, preventing my retreat. "Leave it?" His voice hardened, that old arrogance resurfacing fully now, fueled by this bizarre discovery. "Like hell." A strange light entered his eyes – part disbelief, part calculation, part a dark, burgeoning excitement. "All that talk... all that control... and you're untouched?" He laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Rohan really is useless." He leaned closer, his breath hot on my ear. "You planned this, didn't you? Called me here for this?" His other hand slid down, fingers tracing my inner thigh, pushing upwards with deliberate pressure. "You wanted me to be the first." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, a claim. Panic flared, cold and sharp. "No! Stop!" I pushed against his chest, trying to twist away. "Vishal, don't!" My resistance seemed only to excite him further. He easily pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, his body shifting to cover mine, his weight pressing me down into the mattress. His erection, already stiffening again against my thigh, was impossible to ignore. "Shh," he murmured, but it wasn't gentle. It was commanding. "It's too late for that now." His free hand slid between my legs again, fingers probing, finding the tight, unyielding entrance. "Relax," he ordered, his voice low and thick. "It'll hurt less." I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself, my body rigid with fear and unwanted anticipation. "Please..." The plea was weak, swallowed by the pounding of my own heart. I felt the blunt, insistent pressure, a burning stretch unlike anything I'd imagined. A sharp cry tore from my throat. "Ah! Stop! It hurts!" Tears sprang to my eyes. He paused, but didn't withdraw. His grip on my wrists tightened. "I know," he breathed, his own voice strained. "Breathe, Divya. Just breathe." He pushed forward again, agonizingly slow, a fraction of an inch. Stopped. The burning intensity was blinding. I whimpered, trying to arch away, but his weight held me fast. "Easy... easy..." He murmured the words against my neck, his breath hot and uneven. Another infinitesimal slide. Stopped. The stretching sensation was excruciating, a tearing fullness. "God..." I gasped, tears spilling over. He stayed still, buried deep in that impossible tightness, letting the awful pressure build and subside slightly. His thumb brushed away a tear track on my cheek, a gesture that felt grotesque. "Adjusting," he whispered, his own body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Just let it...settle." The pain was a raw, throbbing ache, centered deep inside. He waited, his forehead pressed against mine, sweat mingling. The initial sharp agony dulled slightly, replaced by a deep, persistent soreness and the overwhelming sense of invasion. He shifted his hips minutely. "Okay?" His voice was a rasp. I couldn't speak, just nodded jerkily against the pillow, my eyes still screwed shut. He withdrew slowly, almost completely, then pushed back in with the same deliberate, grinding slowness. Less sharp this time, but still a deep, bruising ache. "Ahh..." The sound escaped me, part pain, part something else – shock at the sensation. He repeated the motion, withdrawing, filling me again, each stroke slightly deeper, slightly less agonizing than the last. A rhythm began, slow and deep, focused solely on penetration. The burning stretch lessened incrementally, replaced by a strange, full pressure and an unwelcome, creeping warmth spreading from my core. His breathing grew heavier, more rhythmic, matching the thrust of his hips. He released my wrists, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, angling me slightly to take him deeper. "Better?" he grunted, his pace increasing fractionally. I nodded again, unable to deny the shift. The pain was still there, a dull background throb, but it was being overlaid by other sensations – the friction, the heat, the sheer physicality of being filled. His thrusts grew more confident, less tentative, finding a steady, deep rhythm. He lowered his head, his mouth finding my breast, sucking hard, teeth grazing the nipple. A jolt of unexpected sensation shot through me, mingling with the ache. "Oh..." My hands, freed, fluttered uncertainly before settling on his shoulders, not pushing away, but gripping the hard muscle as he moved. He rode me steadily, his hips driving forward with increasing force, the bedframe creaking softly in protest. The sounds filled the room – his ragged breaths, the wet slap of skin on skin, my own shallow gasps. The initial shock and pain receded further, replaced by a building, unfamiliar tension low in my belly, coiling tighter with each deep stroke. It was confusing, overwhelming. He lifted his head, his eyes dark and intent on my face. "Ride me," he commanded, his voice thick. "Get on top."
The sudden shift startled me. "What? No..." Shyness flooded back, hot and immediate. The vulnerability of being beneath him was one thing; being exposed on top felt terrifying.
"Now," he insisted, his hands tightening on my hips, lifting me slightly. He rolled onto his back, pulling me with him, positioning me astride his hips. His cock, slick and hard, pressed insistently against my entrance. "Do it." Panic fluttered. I hesitated, frozen by the intimacy of the position, the directness of his gaze. "I... I don't know how..." The admission felt weak.
"You know," he said, his hands guiding my hips down. "Just move." His thumbs rubbed circles on my hip bones, a strangely calming gesture amidst the command. Tentatively, bracing my hands on his chest, I lifted myself slightly, feeling him slide almost out, then lowered myself back down, taking him in slowly. The angle was different, deeper somehow. A soft gasp escaped me. "Like that," he encouraged, his voice rough but encouraging. "Again." I lifted, lowered. Again. Finding a tentative rhythm. The control was terrifying, exhilarating. His hands moved to my breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing my nipples, sending fresh sparks through me. The soreness was still present, but the friction, the fullness, the sight of him beneath me, watching me... it began to feel less alien. Less frightening. More... potent. My movements grew less hesitant, more fluid. Up, down. Riding him. His hands kneaded my breasts, his eyes locked on mine, filled with a fierce, possessive hunger. "Faster," he growled. I obeyed, my hips moving with more confidence now, finding a pace that built the tension inside me again, that strange coil tightening, tightening. The pain was a distant memory, drowned out by the slick friction, the slap of skin, the heat pooling low in my belly. His grip on my breasts tightened, pulling me forward slightly as he thrust upwards to meet my downward stroke. "Yes... just like that..." His voice was strained, his own climax building. The sensations crashed over me – the fullness, the friction, the pressure of his hands, the intense focus in his eyes. That coil inside me snapped. A cry tore from my throat, sharp and surprised, as pleasure, pure and shocking, ripped through me, wave after wave, leaving me trembling, gasping, collapsing forward onto his chest. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his hips bucking wildly upwards beneath me. His hands clamped down hard on my breasts, fingers digging in as his own release hit, pulsing deep inside me. He held me pinned against him, shuddering, his breath hot against my ear. We stayed locked together like that, breathing raggedly, the only sound our harsh gasps and the frantic ticking of the clock. Slowly, the tremors subsided. His grip on my breasts loosened, becoming almost an absent-minded caress. He lay still beneath me, utterly spent once more. I lifted my head slightly, looking down at him. His eyes were closed, his face slack with exhaustion and a strange, sated peace. My own body felt heavy, boneless, humming with the aftershocks of sensation and the profound, unsettling shift that had just occurred. The cream-colored comforter was rumpled beneath us, the scent of sex overpowering the jasmine. Outside the locked door, the apartment was silent. Rohan slept on. The raise felt like a distant, unimportant abstraction. Something fundamental had changed. I rested my head back on his damp chest, listening to the slowing thud of his heart, and closed my eyes. The clock kept ticking.