Some nights, the body stops asking for permission.
It just moves.It remembers.It demands.
Rekha had reached that point — where her body didn't just want Ishan, it claimed him.Every inch of her skin was now a memory map of him.Her thighs carried his grip. Her breasts remembered the shape of his mouth. Her inner wrists bore faint, unintentional bruises from how tightly he held her when he came.
She didn't hide the marks.She didn't rub them with turmeric or shame.
She wore them.
Like jewelry only she could see.
It started again like this:
Friday. 2:03 a.m.
He let himself in.No text. No knock.Just footsteps.
She was already awake, standing by the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but his old white shirt, unbuttoned, hanging loose off one shoulder.
He said nothing.
Walked straight up to her.Grabbed her hips.Lifted her onto the cold granite.
The shirt opened fully.
She didn't blink.
His tongue traced the curve of her collarbone. Down to her left breast. He sucked hard. No preamble. No tease.
She moaned, throat dry. "Don't be careful."
He wasn't.
He spread her legs.Dropped to his knees.And ate her like a starving man who hadn't tasted her in weeks.
Loud. Messy. Mouth full. Fingers tight in her thighs.
She tilted her head back, gasping, eyes fluttering.
When she came, it was violent — spine arched, hand slamming the cupboard, legs shaking.
He stood. Face glistening.
"I want you raw," he whispered.
"You have me raw," she rasped.
"No, Rekha. I want you without thought. No past. No future. Just now."
She grabbed his cock. "Then shut up and fuck me."
And he did.
Bent over the sink.
Fast. Deep. Brutal.
The slap of bodies echoed through the flat. She didn't care. She wanted the neighbors to hear.
He grunted into her ear. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"Say you're mine."
She turned her head, kissed him mid-thrust.
"I'm not anyone's. But right now... you can borrow me."
He growled — and came like it hurt.
Later, they lay naked on the balcony floor, a single thin bedsheet beneath them, stars blinking above.
"I want to fuck you in every room," he murmured.
"You have," she smirked.
"Not your old rooms. The ones you haven't used yet. The you you're becoming."
She looked at him. "Then be ready. She's not gentle."
The next day, she wore a saree without a blouse.
Just her skin under six yards of deep plum silk.
She didn't leave the house.Didn't need to.
She spent the whole day re-learning her curves, walking past mirrors, taking selfies — not to send, just to keep.
For once, her desire wasn't about the man.
It was about the woman she could finally see.
Seema noticed first.
"You're glowing," she said during a casual drop-in.
Rekha smiled. "I sleep better now."
Seema sniffed. "It's not sleep. It's something... under your skin."
She was right.
And she'd never know.
Ashok was coming back Monday.
That gave them the weekend.
Rekha didn't waste it.
Saturday, she cooked a full meal. Not for Ishan. For herself.
Chicken curry. Jeera rice. Boiled eggs soaked in pepper masala. Two glasses of wine.
She played music. Loud. English songs with lyrics that once embarrassed her.
Now she sang them.
In the shower, naked, drenched, hips swaying.
At 10:00 p.m., she texted him.
Rekha: Door's open. I'm not waiting on the bed. Find me.
He arrived in 6 minutes.
Found her in the bathroom.
Hair wet. One leg propped on the basin. Shaving cream on her thigh.
"You're early," she said, not looking at him.
He knelt. "Let me do it."
She handed him the razor.
And he shaved her.
Slowly. Reverently. Every stroke careful, but not shy.
When he finished, he kissed her inner thigh — softly — and whispered, "You're the most dangerous thing I've ever touched."
Then he stood.Tore his clothes off.Bent her over the sink and slid inside.
She moaned through gritted teeth, "Make it hurt."
He did.
They didn't sleep until 4 a.m.
When they finally collapsed in bed, tangled and exhausted, she looked at him and said:
"If you fall in love with me, I will break you."
He didn't blink. "I've already shattered."
Morning came with soreness.
Between her legs. Behind her knees. In her chest.
She stood under the hot shower, bruises blooming across her hips, nipples still swollen from how long he sucked them.
She traced the marks with pride.
This was her language now.
No flowers. No rings. No poems.
Just flesh, flushed and written on.
Later, while folding laundry, she paused.
Touched a torn seam in her petticoat.Ran her fingers over it.Imagined his hands yanking it apart.
And laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.A full, belly-deep, unapologetic laugh.
But the day ended differently.
A new text.
Ishan: My mother's visiting. Two weeks. I have to... vanish a bit.
Rekha stared at it.
Then typed:
Rekha: Okay.
Ishan: I'll miss you.
Rekha: I won't let you.
She didn't cry.
She wasn't the kind of woman who collapsed over delay.
Instead, she planned her week.
Reorganized the bedroom. Burned old bedsheets. Bought lingerie online — black lace, sheer, expensive.
Not for him.
For her.
To wear under dull clothes while buying milk.
To feel the power of a secret under ordinary skin.
By Wednesday, she masturbated three times.
Once in the morning.Once in the kitchen.Once after talking to her sister about school fees.
Each time, she imagined different things.
His tongue.
Her fingers.
A stranger's mouth she'd never meet.
Her body was no longer his territory.
It was hers.He had just been the trigger.
On Friday, the doorbell rang.
It wasn't him.
It was Vani.
Wearing a leather jacket, sunglasses, and a smirk.
"Road trip," she announced. "Now. Just one night. Let's go."
Rekha blinked. "What?"
"Pack. Something that makes you feel like a woman who can destroy."
She didn't argue.
Just packed.
They drove to a coastal resort.
Drank rum on the beach.
Talked about men and sex and things they hadn't told anyone.
Vani shared stories of orgasms under trees and married men who wept.
Rekha told her about the sink.
They screamed with laughter.
Danced in the surf.Kissed once.Just because they could.
Slept tangled in a bed that smelled like salt and freedom.
Next morning, over chai, Vani said:
"You're not in an affair anymore."
Rekha looked up.
"You're in a revolution."