There's a room in every woman's soul where shame was once stored like folded linen.Soft. Silent. Hidden.
But Rekha had set fire to hers.And watched it burn.Now, nothing in her touched the word sorry.
Ishan had been gone three days.
And this time, she didn't ache.She didn't wait.She didn't imagine his return like a girl with her knees drawn to her chest.
Instead, she dressed slower. Walked bolder. Made her own coffee and drank it topless at the window.
Freedom wasn't always loud.Sometimes it just meant not answering.
Seema came over again.Hair in a bun. Slippers on. Casual.
"Wine?" Rekha asked.
"I'm driving."
"Then stay."
A pause.
Then Seema stepped out of her sandals.Dropped her bag.Sat on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her.
"Something's changed in you," she said.
Rekha didn't respond.
She uncorked the bottle. Poured two glasses.Sat beside her — knee touching knee.
"I think I like the way you look at me now," Seema whispered.
"How's that?"
"Like you've already seen me naked. And you're deciding whether to do it again."
Rekha took a sip.Put the glass down.Then leaned in.
Their lips met like a fuse finding fire.
Not hesitant. Not confused.
Hungry.
They didn't speak as clothes dropped.
Seema's shirt. Rekha's skirt. Bra straps. Lace panties.
On the floor. No questions. No names.
Just skin on skin and breath in tangles.
Seema's fingers were softer than any man's.
But her mouth — rough, insistent, wet.
She licked circles on Rekha's nipples, bit lightly, traced her fingers down her ribs to her thighs.
Rekha gasped, moaned — louder than with Ishan.
It was different.
Not gentler. Not kinder.
Just… cleaner.
No power play.No choking.No proving.
Just two women devouring each other because they could.
Because they wanted.
Seema slid two fingers inside her.Slow. Then fast.Then curved upward — and Rekha shattered.
Came so hard she grabbed the sheets and cried out her name — not as a lover, but as a command.
After, Seema curled against her.
"Now that," she murmured, "was a fucking homecoming."
Morning.
Rekha didn't rush to hide anything.
She walked naked to the kitchen.
Made tea with nothing on.
Seema watched her from the bed.
"You've erased shame from your vocabulary," she said.
Rekha turned, smiling over her shoulder.
"No. I just found better words."
Ishan called.
Voicemail.
Then a text: I miss you like bruises miss the pain.
She didn't reply.
Not yet.
Instead, she opened the window, let the wind tangle her hair, and touched herself — without permission.
Afternoon brought something strange.
A delivery — no name, just her address.
Inside: a velvet box.
And in it… a key.
No note. No number. No clue.
She stared at it. Touched it.
Felt heat.
The kind you feel before everything changes.
That night, she dreamt of fire.
And woke soaked between the legs.
Alone.
Smiling.
The next evening, she texted Ishan:
Rekha: You ever dream of watching me with someone else?
Ishan: Every night.
Rekha: Good. I want to be watched.
He replied instantly.
Ishan: Are you telling me or testing me?
She sent a photo.
Just her hand between her thighs.
Caption: Your move.
She called Seema again.
This time, no wine.
Just silence.
Just electricity.
Seema arrived wearing nothing but a long white shirt.
They didn't talk.
Rekha pushed her against the wall the moment the door shut.
Unbuttoned her slowly.
Bit her collarbone.
Then whispered: "Someone's watching us."
Seema froze.
"What?"
Rekha pointed to the corner — her phone, camera on.
"Ishan."
A long pause.
Then Seema grinned.
"Let him see what he'll never be."
And dropped to her knees.
They put on a show.
Lips. Tongues. Hands. Toys.
Rekha used Seema's body like it was built for her.
Seema begged with her mouth full.
And Rekha moaned into the lens: "You still think you own me?"
The phone buzzed.
Ishan: You're going to make me fly back naked.
She replied:
Rekha: Don't bother flying. Crawl.
At midnight, she unlocked the velvet box again.
Held the key to her lips.
And smiled.
Because whatever door it opened — she was ready to enter naked, dripping, and unrepentant.