The latch waited.
A smile arrived on her face that did not belong to coffee or gentlemen.
“Still.”
I said nothing.
She let the latch go. Came back two steps. Turned enough that the lamp took her ass in profile, then full, and she looked over her shoulder like the trial-room curtain had come to my room to finish its work.
“You were watching it walk away.”
“Yes.”
“After the mouth. After the sliding. After I drank you.” She clicked her tongue, fond and filthy. “Greedy madarchod. My son. You want to try something.”
The door was still closed. The house was still empty.
“If you want,” she said, and tapped one cheek with her own palm, a small slap that made the flesh move, “you can have the back.”
The line we had kept — the place Father and Vivek had been — stayed kept. She was offering the other country.
“Teasing,” I said, because if I treated it as a joke I might survive.
“A little.” She came to the bed, put one knee on the mattress, spread herself with two fingers so I had to see the tight dark circle she was naming, still a little used from the plug, still his night, now this offer. “A little not. You cleaned his toy out of me with your ears. You put your mouth on my chut. You want the ass also or you want to be a gentleman until morning. Tell the truth. Your cock already told.”
She teased until the truth was just a sound in my throat.
I took the lubricant from my cupboard — the same bottle, the same crime, moved from their room to mine like a family god. She laughed when she saw it.
“Prepared boy.”
“You put it in my house.”
“Then use it in your house.”
She went down on my bed on her elbows, face toward the pillow I sleep on, ass up, the position of the jali, the position of his round, now mine. I put the gel on my fingers first. On her. She hissed and then pushed back onto the finger like her body had learned a door and wanted it opened again.
“Slow,” she said. “Then brutal. Both. I am not glass. I already proved it to your friend. Now prove you are not only a cleaner and a mouth.”
I pressed in.
The head. The grip. The heat that was narrower than anything the sliding had been. She dropped her forehead to my pillow and swore, long, a string of madarchod and beta and halke that turned into don’t you stop. I went inch by inch until I was seated in my mother’s ass on my own childhood bed and her hand reached back and held my thigh as if I might vanish.
“There,” she whispered. “There you are. My son’s cock in my gand. Say it. Don’t be holy now.”
I could not say it.
She said it for both of us.
“Fuck your mummy’s ass, madarchod. You watched from the terrace like a thief. You signed for the toy. Now earn the watching. Move.”
Slow first. The romantic cruelty. Full, dragging strokes that made her feel every ridge. She moaned into my pillow like the first time on his counter, that virgin-disbelieving sound, and the sound made me want to break the slowness immediately.
Then she asked for the break.
“Aata zada. Brutal. I want to feel you tomorrow in school when I sit on that wooden chair. Use me. I am your friend’s used rani and I am your aai and I am this hole. Behenchod move.”
