There are two kinds of mouths in the world.
The kind that kiss you with rules.And the kind that tear the rules off your skin.
Rekha had long forgotten the first kind.Now, her body only obeyed mouths that didn't lie.
It was a Thursday afternoon.
Hot. Still. Silent.
She had just finished hanging laundry on the terrace when she felt it — a shift in the air. Not wind. Not storm.
Something else.
A gaze.
She turned. Two floors down, leaning against a car, Ishan stood — shirt open, arms crossed, watching her.
Not waving. Not smiling.
Just looking.
Like hunger incarnate.
She didn't wave back.
She slowly untied her saree from the waist.
Let it fall, inch by inch.
Her petticoat clung to her hips, soaked from sweat.
She lifted her blouse. Just a little. Enough to show the under-curve of one breast.
Held his gaze.
Then walked back inside.
An hour later, he was inside her.
Bent over the bathroom sink.
Not a word exchanged.
He'd walked in, closed the door, unzipped, and slammed her against the mirror.
Her panties were soaked — not from foreplay, but from the wait.
He didn't remove them.
He tore them off with one rip. Tossed them aside like a kill.
She gasped.
He grabbed her neck, not choking — just claiming — and whispered, "You keep teasing the lion."
She moaned into the glass, "Then bite."
And he did.
Bit her shoulder as he fucked her.
Long. Slow. Ruthless.
The slap of hips, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, her breath fogging the mirror.
"Say it," he grunted.
"Say you want to be ruined."
She stared at her own reflection — flushed, wild-eyed, mouth open.
"I am ruined," she panted. "And I want more."
After, they lay naked on the floor tiles. Cooling down. Breathing like animals who'd just survived a kill.
He spoke first.
"I saw you. On the terrace."
"I know."
"You wanted me to come up."
"I didn't care if you did or not."
He laughed — low, bitter, turned on.
"You're getting reckless."
She turned her head. "And you're addicted."
That night, they met again.
Not in the flat.
But in the car.
Backseat. Parked under a flyover. Midnight.
She climbed in wearing nothing but a loose kurti and sheer leggings — no bra, no panties.
He slid his fingers between her legs before the door shut.
"You're wet."
"I walked here wet."
He groaned. "You'll kill me."
She pulled his hand higher.
"Then die loud."
They didn't talk for the next 30 minutes.
Just kissed. Bit. Licked.
She straddled him, her knees pressed into the upholstery, breasts spilling out as she bounced on his cock.
Windows fogged. Horn accidentally blared. A biker passed and stared.
She didn't stop.
She moaned his name like a threat.
He came shaking, mouth clamped to her nipple, teeth grazing.
She collapsed on his chest, panting.
"I want to fuck you on a temple step," she whispered.
He laughed. "We'll go to hell together."
The next morning, she had tea with Ashok.
He read the newspaper.
She stared at the rim of his cup.
He asked nothing. Didn't notice the love bite on her collarbone. Didn't ask why her phone kept buzzing.
Later, she messaged Ishan.
Rekha: I kissed your taste off my own mouth before I served him tea.
Sunday was a test.
Family lunch.Ashok's sister. Two kids. Noise.
Rekha wore a pale blue saree. Tight blouse. No bra.
She served biryani. Laughed when expected. Played hostess.
But underneath — wet.
Deliberately.
Because she'd messaged Ishan before they arrived.
Rekha: I'm soaked. Serving rice while dripping for you.
His reply came two minutes later.
Ishan: Video. Now.
She did.
Locked bathroom.Camera angled low.One finger inside.Other hand on her nipple.
No words.
Just her gasps and the sound of juice hitting tile.
Later that night, she told him, "I don't feel guilty anymore."
He kissed her thighs. "Good. You were never built for guilt."
But boldness has a scent.
And people notice.
Especially those who've spent their lives sniffing out silence.
Tuesday morning, Seema showed up.
No smile. No casual talk.
Just walked in. Closed the door.
"You're glowing," she said flatly.
Rekha poured tea. "It's the sunlight."
"It's the sex."
Rekha didn't flinch.
Seema leaned forward.
"Who is he?"
"Who says it's a he?"
Seema blinked. Sat back.
"You're serious?"
Rekha sipped her tea.
"I'm not confirming anything. I'm just not denying myself anymore."
A long pause.
Then Seema whispered, "I envy you."
Rekha looked up. "Don't. It's not easy. It's just real."
They didn't speak for a while.
Then Seema smiled, bitter.
"You're the bravest slut I know."
Rekha smiled wider.
"Thank you."
That night, Rekha met Ishan in a hotel.
Booked under his name.Room 408.No cameras near the door.
He opened it shirtless.
She walked in fully clothed.
Then stripped in silence.
Saree dropped.Blouse unhooked.Panties tossed.
She stood naked in front of him, hands on her hips.
"Tonight, you listen."
He dropped to the bed.
"Command me."
And she did.
Tied his hands with his own belt.
Rode his face until he choked.
Whipped his chest with her saree pallu.
Poured whiskey on his abs and licked it off slow.
"Beg to enter me," she whispered, hovering over his cock.
He did.
She denied him.
Three times.
Then finally slid down — slow — inch by inch, staring into his eyes like a queen mounting her throne.
He came before she even moved.
She didn't stop.
Fucked him limp and hard again.Made him cry out.Made him say her name like prayer.
They fell asleep twisted in each other.
No sheets.
Just skin.
In the morning, they didn't kiss goodbye.
She looked him in the eye and said:
"If anyone ever asks me what pleasure smells like — I'll hand them your shirt."