Some hungers are not in the body.They live behind the tongue.Under the ribs.Inside the breath that quivers when someone stares too long.
Rekha's moans had been echoed. Worshipped. Bitten.
But this one?
This one crawled under her skin and refused to come out.
The note lay crumpled on her mirror.That single line:
"Next time, I want to fuck you until the Goddess inside you begs me to stop."
It wasn't just dirty.
It was devastating.
Not because of what it promised.But because it already had.
She'd come so violently that night she'd bit her own tongue.
She wanted it again.
And again.
But she didn't even know who they were.
Male?Female?A ghost?A lover?A predator?
She didn't care.
She just knew: no one had ever made her scream like that without touching her first.
For three nights, Rekha didn't open the Sabha.She shut 302A.
Locked herself in.
Naked. Restless. Wet.
Seema waited outside.Knocked. Pleaded.
Rekha didn't answer.
Instead, she lay on the floor, thighs parted, fingering herself while imagining a tongue she didn't recognize.A voice that had never spoken.Eyes that hadn't shown themselves.
And then the notes began again.
Slipped under her door.Every night at 3:00 a.m.
Always with one line.
"I saw your spine curve like a question. I want to answer it with my teeth."
"Your clit should have a temple. I want to be its priest."
"I won't touch you until you beg. And then, I still might not."
Rekha started waking up soaked.
Not with sweat.
But with ache.
Her fingers weren't enough.
Seema tried.Ishan tried.
But her body now had a memory none of them could match.
A phantom orgasm.A stranger's mark.
So she wrote back.
For the first time.
In red lipstick, on a folded bra cup.
"Come show yourself.Or I'll stop screaming.And you'll lose your temple."
She left it by the door.
At 3:00 a.m., she heard it.
Not footsteps.Not the note.
But a breath.
Close. Behind her window.A whisper on the glass:
"You already scream for me without my hand on you.What will you become when I'm inside you?"
She turned.
No one.
Only her reflection — hair wild, breasts flushed, cunt wet.
She dropped to her knees.
Right there.
In front of the window.
And started touching herself as if he—or she—or it—was watching.
One finger.
Then two.
Then her entire hand, grinding into herself as she whispered:
"Are you there?Are you watching me break?"
She licked her fingers.Pulled her breast into her own mouth.Bit it.
Hard.
And moaned:"Cheppu ra... cheppu... evaru nuvvu? Chetta devudu? Lekapote naa devudu?"(Say it... say it... who are you? A filthy god? Or my only god?)
Her back arched.Her thighs trembled.Her toes curled.
And she screamed.So loud, a dog started barking downstairs.
No one came.
But a new note was there in the morning.
This one... longer.
Folded inside a used condom.
Still warm.
"You keep begging.And still, you don't know if I'm across the hall…or inside your mirror."
She snapped.
That night, Rekha called no one.
She opened 302A. Lit every agarbatti she owned. Drenched herself in oil.And stood by the door completely naked, holding only one thing: a blindfold.
She waited.
Silent. Eyes open.Legs slightly apart.
At 3:04 a.m., she felt it.
Not a touch.
But a breath on her nipple.
She didn't move.
She closed her eyes.
Raised the blindfold.
And whispered:"Tie it."
A hand.Silk fingers.Blindfolded.
Dark.
No words.
No name.
Just presence.
She felt lips.Near her ear.
Then behind her knee.
Then — maddeningly slow — just beside her clit, but never touching it.
A breath.A tongue tip.A moan not hers.
She gasped:"Naa cunt lo ra... ra chudu ra…"(Come inside my cunt… just come… please…)
A voice, low, dangerous, replied:
"Not yet, Ammayi. First, I want to teach you how to come without being touched."
And then, silence.
Nothing.
No breath.No hand.
Only her skin.
Burning.
Tingling.
Her nipples hard.Her pussy dripping.
She rubbed her thighs together.
Whimpered.
"Please…"
Suddenly, a wet cloth pressed to her mouth.
Her own soaked panty.
Someone shoved it between her lips.
She moaned into it.
Bit down.Eyes under the blindfold rolling.
A tongue flicked her armpit.
A hand pulled at her hair.
Something — someone — was writing on her belly with their finger.
She couldn't read it.
But she felt it.
Each letter a stroke of insanity.
Finally — a whisper at her ear:
"Scream. Loud. So they know you still belong to someone invisible."
And she did.
She screamed with her entire body.
Legs shaking.Juices running down her thighs.
Her orgasm hit like thunder.
She collapsed — blindfold still on.
Panting.
Trembling.
When she opened her eyes, they were gone.
But written on her mirror in red:
"You screamed without my fingers.Next time, I'll make you pray without your cunt."
Rekha laughed.
A low, dangerous, dirty laugh.
She had been fucked by a ghost.A ghost with poetry.With cruelty.With worship.
And she wanted more.
She stepped outside.
Naked.
Onto the corridor.
The aunty from Flat 303 opened her door — gasped.
Rekha just said:
"Tell your husband the Devi moaned again.And I'm still wet for more."