“Ah,” she said, very quietly. “So that is the collection.”
I played one I thought was safe. It was not safe. A woman on her back, someone’s mouth between her legs, the camera too close. Sound low. My room filled with wet work and a stranger’s moan.
She watched for a minute with her lips parted.
Then her hand went under the sheet.
I saw the sheet move. The small working of her wrist. Her knees opened under cotton. She was still looking at the screen and she was also looking at nothing, eyes going unfocused, two fingers finding herself with no shame left to spend. The wet sound in the video and the wet sound under my sheet were not the same and my body did not care.
“Maa.”
“I am watching. You also watch.” Her breath caught. “She is loud. I was louder. You heard. Don’t pretend this is only them.”
The clip changed. She did not wait for it. She took my wrist under the sheet and put my fingers where hers had been.
Hot. Slick. Shaved only a little, the truth of her in my palm. I made a sound. She made a smaller one.
“Help me, beta.”
Not a performance. A request.
“No actual—” I started.
“No actual.” She nodded against my cheek, already lifting her hips into my hand. “No inside with that. Mouth. Hands. Rubbing. I will not put my son’s cock in the place your father and your friend have been tonight. That line— we keep that line if we keep nothing else. Help me. I am still on. The bath did nothing. The talk did nothing. Help.”
I pulled the sheet off.
She lay back on my bed, naked in the laptop light, one foot on the floor, the other bent, the collection still moaning beside her head. I went down because there was no standing version of this.
Her smell after the second bath was soap and under the soap it was her. I put my mouth on her the way the screen had taught every man and the way no screen had taught me this particular woman. She jerked as if the first lick were electricity. Her hand found my hair — not like his fist, like a mother checking a fever and failing.
“Ah— slowly— there— beta there—”
I used my fingers how she had used them, two, not deep, rubbing the place that made her thighs close on my ears. I sucked. I licked the way she asked when she could still make words, and then she could not make words, only broken Marathi and my name and don’t stop. She came the first time with her heel at my back and her palm over her own mouth, a double-shake, a sound swallowed for the empty hall. I did not stop. She tried to pull away and I held her hip the way I had seen him hold it and she cursed me and opened anyway. The second one took longer and was uglier, better — a full-body seize, her cunt pulsing against my tongue, wet down my chin, her other hand slamming the laptop half-shut so the stranger’s moan died and only hers was left.
She dragged me up by the hair.
Kissed her own taste off my mouth without flinching.
“Your turn. Still no inside. You understand.”
“I understand.”
She pushed me onto my back. Took me out. The laptop threw one last cheap flicker and went black. Only my bedside lamp. She straddled my thighs, not over the place that would have broken the line — lower at first, then she lifted and laid her cunt along the length of my cock and slid.
