“Haa— wahi— behenchod wahi jagah— meri chut kha ja— Arun ka— his mother— you are fucking his mother—”
“I know whose mother you are.” His breath wrecked. “I have known since the navy tights. Tight madarchod gym clothes and this wet rati under them—”
“Bol. Ganda bol. Mala aikaycha ahe.”
He said worse. She said worse. Behenchod when he hit the spot that folded her elbows. Madarchod when she clenched and tried to run forward and he dragged her back by the waist. Marathi under the Hindi, broken, zada, zada, nako thambus, ghal, ghal aat.
When she came it was violent. She dropped to her forearms, ass still up, shaking, a sound like crying that was not crying. He stayed in her until it passed, kissing the wet line of her spine.
Then she said, into the rug, the thing that made the hour go feral.
“Aata maga. Gandhi. Slow. Pan kar. I have been thinking about it in the staff toilet like a shameless woman.”
He froze only long enough to be a man and not an animal.
“You sure.”
“Mi sure nahi. Mi desperate ahe. Same thing today.”
He took her to the bed for that.
Whisky on his fingers first, then on her, then the slow, careful cruelty of a first time there. She buried her face in his pillow and swore, long, filthy, a string of behenchod and madarchod and halke, halke, saala, nako thamb that turned, inch by inch, into a moan she did not recognise as her own. He held her cheeks open and talked her through it — breathe, push back, that’s it, good, Aparna, look at you — and when he was seated in her ass she reached back and gripped his wrist as if the wrist were the only decent thing left in the room.
“Don’t you dare tell me I am Atya now.”
“You are not Atya.” He started to move, shallow, then deeper as her body learned. “You are the madarchod dream I have been training. You are this gand taking my cock. You are going to go downstairs and sit in your son’s car with my cum in you.”
She came again from that, from the words and the stretch and the finger he put on her clit, a shocked broken ah-ah-ah like the first kiss on the counter, virgin-helpless even while she asked him to ruin her. He followed with a groan, pulled out of her ass at the last second and spent across the small of her back, on the hip that had once hit granite, white on honey skin, a new marking no pallu was designed for.
They lay in the wreck of it. The bottle open. Her laugh came late, hoarse.
“I have to go back to the gym.”
“I know.”
“If I go home like this he will see.”
He meant me. She meant Father. The he in that flat had become a crowded word.
He cleaned her with a towel that would never be only a towel again. Helped her into the kurti. Stood behind her at his cheap mirror and pulled her hair over the darkest bite on her throat. It did not hide enough. A bruise wants air. A bruise wants a son with eyes.
“Jacket up,” he said.
She zipped it to her mouth.
They went back. Separate. She entered Forge through the glass as if she had only gone to the chemist. Sat on a bench. Drank water. Anjali said you went so red, tai, too much cardio? and Aparna laughed the staffroom laugh and said hn, too much.
