She didn't ask for him anymore.
That was the shift.
She wanted, but didn't beg.She ached, but didn't chase.The woman Rekha had been — silent, poised, trained to wait — was now reduced to dust beneath the heels of someone far more dangerous.
She had become the kind of woman who left her blouse unhooked under a saree on purpose — not for attention, but for the thrill of defiance.
The kind who stood close in elevators just to smell someone else's hunger.
The kind who no longer flinched when desire entered a room.
Ishan had been gone nine days.
Still in town. Still sending quiet messages.But they hadn't touched. Hadn't fucked. Hadn't even spoken out loud.
And Rekha, strangely, didn't unravel.
Instead, she grew sharper.
She walked slower.
She wore tighter blouses without dupattas, letting her breasts hold conversations before her lips did.
She stared back at men in traffic. Smiled when she wanted. Turned away when bored.
Her skin pulsed with the memory of being seen.
But now, she wanted more.
She wanted to be noticed.Even if it meant lighting the entire house on fire.
It began with the electrician.
A routine visit.Wiring issue. Flickering switch.
He was young. Early twenties. Dark, lean, nervous.
She opened the door in a loose cotton saree — no blouse, just her arms bare, skin glowing from a midday bath.
He stammered when he greeted her. Didn't meet her eyes.
"Switchboard. Bedroom," she said casually, moving aside.
He followed her in, fumbling with his tools.
She didn't leave the room.
Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed high, letting the saree fall just enough.
He tried not to look. But failed.
She watched his jaw tighten. His hands shake as he adjusted the wires.
And she smiled.
Not out of cruelty.Out of power.
The power of being fully in control — of knowing she could ruin him with one command, one unspoken offer.
She didn't touch him.
But when he turned to ask for the light switch, her voice dropped a note deeper.
"Do you like what you see?"
He went red. Eyes wide. Hands trembling.
"I... I didn't—"
"Good," she said, standing. The saree slid off one shoulder.
"I didn't ask you to."
She turned and left the room.
He fixed the switch in silence and left in a rush — breathless, dizzy, undone.
She locked the door behind him.
And came.Alone.Standing against the wall.Fingers slick, breath short.
No names.No guilt.
Just a woman loving her power.
That night, she didn't sleep.
She lay on the living room floor, naked, back arched, imagining different hands. Different mouths. Different rules.
Ishan was just the beginning.
She wasn't anyone's secret anymore.
She was her own storm.
On the twelfth day, he returned.
Late. 1:30 a.m.
She was already waiting.
This time, not in the bedroom.In the kitchen.
Bent over the counter.Wearing a black mesh slip — completely transparent, nipples hard from the chill.
When he walked in, he froze.
She didn't greet him.
Didn't ask where he'd been.
Just looked over her shoulder and said, "You've missed a lot."
He didn't speak.
He dropped to his knees behind her.
Parted her legs.
And buried his face between her thighs.
He licked like punishment.
Like she owed him days of distance. Nights of silence. Every message she didn't send.
His tongue moved in hard, fast circles.
She gripped the counter and gasped.
"Fuck— slow down—"
"No," he growled. "Not tonight."
His fingers slid inside. Two. Then three.
She moaned loud. Writhing.
"You needed this, didn't you?" he asked, breath hot on her skin. "Needed to be wrecked."
"Yes— God, yes—"
She came, screaming into her arm.
Legs shaking. Toes curling.
But he didn't stop.
He flipped her onto the cold tiles.
Pulled her hips up.Unzipped.Slid inside with a single brutal thrust.
Her back arched. Eyes wide.
He didn't ask if she was ready.
She was beyond ready.
He fucked her like she was his.
Like the world had been quiet too long.
Like every day apart had been edged into this one explosion.
They didn't kiss.
They bit. Scratched. Gripped. Gutted.
He came with a groan so deep it echoed in her chest.
She followed — seconds later — collapsing into the tiles.
They lay tangled, breathless.
No fan. No air.
Just sweat and silence.
"I dreamt of you every night," he said finally.
She didn't reply.
"I was scared."
She turned to him.
"Of what?"
"That you'd forget me."
She laughed softly. Bit his shoulder.
"I forgot myself before you. That won't happen again."
Sunday morning, she walked to the milk vendor in a sheer kurta, bra-less.
The aunty next door stared.
Rekha smiled wide.
That evening, she stood at her window as three men from the building chatted near the gate.
They looked up.She didn't look away.
She met every gaze.And didn't blink.
Ishan started sleeping over.
Not every night. But often.
He left early. Came late.
Sometimes, they didn't even have sex.
They just lay — limbs over limbs — her mouth at his neck, his hands tracing her thighs like scripture.
He confessed things.
That he used to steal books from school libraries.
That he once loved a man, quietly, in college.
That he'd never met anyone who made him feel unsafe — until her.
Rekha kissed his chest and whispered, "I hope I destroy you slowly."
He laughed, breathless. "You already are."
The next shift came on a Tuesday.
A woman from the building — Shweta — asked to borrow turmeric.
She stepped in. Looked around.
Paused too long near the couch.
"Nice... scent," she said vaguely.
Rekha just smiled.
"Freedom smells like sweat," she said.
Shweta flushed. Left quickly.
By evening, the gossip had begun.
Two women in the lift looked her up and down.
One whispered behind her hand.
Rekha didn't care.
She wore it.
That night, she told Ishan: "They're starting to talk."
He leaned in. "Let them scream."
At 3 a.m., she rode him in front of the open balcony door.
Naked. Curtains pulled wide.
She moaned his name with no shame.
If someone saw — they'd see the full truth:
A woman owning her pleasure.A man surrendering to it.
She came gripping his throat.He came gasping her name into her breasts.
Afterwards, she lay on top of him.
"You don't own me," she whispered.
"I know."
"But you'll never forget me."
He nodded, stroking her spine.
"No. You're the sin I'd commit twice."
She didn't flinch anymore.
Not at stares.
Not at questions.
Not at the mirror.
The world could burn.Let it.
Because when fire lives inside you, you stop fearing the smoke.