“Grab. These fed you from a bottle after the cut, not from here, don’t get poetic. Pinch.” I pinched. She hissed and lifted into it. “Pull the nipples. Harder. If you are gentle I will think you are still spotting the bar.”
I pulled. The peaks stretched, darkened. She swore and clenched around me and her nails went down my back.
“Spank later. Now fuck. Deeper. The sofa can hear. The tulsi can hear. Papa is in Banaras counting temples and his son is in my chut. Say it.”
“I’m in you.”
“In your mummy. Full sentence.”
I gave her the full sentence against her mouth and she swallowed it and laughed and then the laugh turned into a moan when I changed the angle. Her leg climbed my back. The lamp made a yellow animal of us.
Dirty talk ran out of her in two languages, the kick she had named, feeding itself.
“Chod, beta. Use the hole that did not give birth to you and still raised you. Thick — your eight-month girl was right. Nidhi’s mirror should see this. Your folder should see this. Ah— there— don’t you dare go soft because I said aai.”
I kissed the word off her tongue. I pinched again because she arched when I did. I took a nipple between finger and thumb and rolled it until her eyes wet and she said more, and more was the only syllabus left.
She put her mouth at my ear for the next cruelty.
Not a child. Not a classroom year I will not touch.
“Your sister is a grown woman,” she panted. “Twenty-three. You have looked. I have seen you look. If you need a filthy picture to bury yourself, use that — use her as she is now, not as a story I will not tell. Fuck me and think of the woman in Hyderabad if your cock needs a second face. I am sick for saying it. I am also close. Don’t stop.”
The surprise still hit. Not the sentence I would not let her make. The fact that she would aim my eyes at Sonam at all while I was inside her. My rhythm broke; she locked her heels and dragged it back.
“Focus,” she snapped, and then ruined the classroom word by moaning after it. “Here. Me. This chut. The other picture is only spice. I am the meal. Chod. Kiss. Pinch. Talk.”
So we talked.
I told her she was tight. She told me I was a thief. I told her the sofa was finished as furniture. She told me I had already had ass and mouth and breasts and now I had the last country on the list. I pulled her nipples and she pulled my hair. We kissed with open eyes like a dare. Sweat collected in the scar I had touched. The mute television threw light across her throat.
When I started to pull out — habit, the lecture I had given her about condoms in another life — her legs became a lock and her hands became a command on my ass.
“Inside.”
“Maa—”
“Cum inside me.” No giggle. No café. A woman on the edge of her own hall, shaking. “Dalkar rakh. The place your body was formed. Not the door you came out of — the room you were made in. Fill that. I want it leaking when I stand up to wash a glass. Come. Beta. Now.”
I came like a fall that had been waiting since the wet tile.
Buried. Her name in my teeth. Her nails in my back. The pulse going into the heat that had built me and had just taken me. She held my hips through every jerk so I could not donate it to the cushion, and she came after me, or with me, a clenched broken ah into my neck, milking what I had already given.
