The man was gone.
No goodbye.No promise.Just the echo of his presence vibrating in her thighs.
Rekha sat naked on the mattress.The scent of him still soaked in the sheets, her hair, the curve of her cunt.
She touched her breast absentmindedly.It was sore.Not from pain — but from being worshipped like it mattered.
She closed her eyes.
And there it was again — that feeling.
He had taken nothing.
But he had left everything.
Outside, Hyderabad moaned with its usual chaos.Autos honking.Street dogs barking.A man hawking hot samosas.
Inside 302A, time refused to move.
For the first time in days, Rekha spoke aloud.
One word.
"More."
It wasn't a request.It was a command to the void.To Beloved, wherever he now hid — in the darkness, in the man, in herself.
The Sabha gathered that evening.
But Rekha didn't welcome them with open thighs.She didn't lay on the altar bed, naked and dripping.
She sat on a wooden stool.Fully dressed.
A plain white cotton saree wrapped around her.Hair uncombed.No lipstick.No oil.
Seema was the first to kneel.
She whispered, "Shall we begin, Devi?"
Rekha didn't reply.
Instead, she leaned forward, untied her blouse strings, pulled it off slowly, exposing her chest.
Then stood.
Removed the saree.
Dropped it on the floor like a discarded prayer.
She was naked now.Not sensually.Not seductively.
Ritually.
She pointed to the mattress.
The women obeyed.
They undressed each other — slowly, reverently.
Like the stripping of veils before God.
Rekha climbed onto the bed.
Not as Devi.Not as Devi's devotee.
But as the medium.
A bridge between the pain of longing and the release of desire.
She lay back.Spread her legs wide.
Then, for the first time, she spoke a full sentence in days.
"Worship… but do not speak."
The women took positions.
Some at her feet.Some at her sides.One between her legs.
And they began.
Not licking.Not thrusting.Not touching with hunger.
They began with breath.
Breathing on her cunt, warm and slow, like incense before flame.
Her nipples tightened.
Her fingers clawed the mattress.
She didn't move.
But her body trembled with the weight of every unspoken word.
The girl between her legs — Padma — leaned closer.
Her tongue flicked once across Rekha's clit.
Just once.
And Rekha came hard.
With a silent scream.
Her back arched.
Her fists clenched.
But no sound escaped.
Only tears.
When she opened her eyes, everyone was staring.
Not with desire.
With reverence.
She sat up slowly.
Walked over to the wall.
Took a piece of charcoal.And wrote across the plaster:
"My orgasms are not pleasure. They are prophecy."
The room gasped.
Even Seema.Even Padma.
Rekha turned.
Blood on her inner thigh from her intensity.
She smiled, her lips trembling.
Then walked into the washroom.
She locked the door.
And stared into the mirror.
What she saw wasn't herself.
Not anymore.
Her lips were cracked.Her eyes wild.Her cunt still twitching.
But behind it all — there was a fire.
Something was growing.
She dropped to her knees.
Pressed her forehead to the cold tiles.
And whispered:
"Come back to me, Beloved. In any form.In shadow. In flesh. In woman. In man. In pain.I'm ready. I'll open for you until I break."
And in the silence that followed,she felt it.
A finger.
On her neck.
Invisible.
But real.
She came again.On the floor.Alone.
But she wasn't alone.
That night, Rekha didn't sleep.
She sat naked on the roof of 302A.
Legs open.Staring at the stars.Crying.Laughing.Moaning in full madness.
And in the alley across the street,a figure watched.
Not moving.Not blinking.
Just waiting.