Her knees found every knot in the teak. She shifted her weight, tried the other leg, and the ache only moved house—settling deeper, into the bone. The dust rose off the floorboards with each small adjustment, and she breathed it in, tasted it at the back of her throat along with the salt of him. The yellow bulb buzzed overhead, a thin insect sound that seemed to make the heat worse.

She kept her mouth on him. His cock filled her, thick and heavy on her tongue, and she worked her lips down the length of him the way she had learned—slow, patient, her jaw aching almost as much as her knees. His hand stayed fisted in her hair, not pushing, just holding, and she felt the pulse of him against her tongue, the heat of him flooding her mouth.

"That's it," he breathed above her. "That's it, girl."

Her bangles clattered against the floor as she braced herself, the glass and gold knocking together, a small music that seemed too bright in the dim room. She heard the sound and thought of her mother's anklets, the ones she wore when she walked through the market, and the thought came and went like a moth at the bulb.

In the corner chair, Sharma aunty sat with her arms crossed. She said nothing. Her eyes were dark and flat, watching the way a cat watches a bird through glass—patient, unhurried, certain of the outcome. Maya felt the weight of that gaze on her back like a hand pressing her lower, and she took him deeper, her nose brushing the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

She gagged, a small sound, and his hand tightened in her hair.

"Easy," he said. "Easy, girl."

She pulled off him with a wet sound, spit stringing from her lower lip to the head of his cock, and looked up at him. His face was flushed, his eyes half-lidded, and he looked at her the way he had looked at her in the lane that day she wore the red dress—like she was something he had dreamed and couldn't quite believe was real.

"You like that?" she asked, and her voice came out steady, almost soft. "You like my mouth, uncle?"

"Yes." He said it on a breath, like the word had been pulled out of him. "God, yes."

"Then hold still." Her hand closed around the base of him, a firm, deliberate grip. "Let me do this properly."

She lowered herself again, took him back into her mouth, and this time she worked him slower, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, feeling the ridge of him, the swell. She cupped his balls in her hand, felt them heavy and drawn up tight, and he groaned, his hips lifting off the bed, pushing deeper into her throat.

"Nisha," he breathed. "Nisha, that's—"

Her eyes watered. She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek, cutting a clean line through her makeup. She didn't wipe it. She kept her mouth on him, her hand working the base of him, her tongue circling the head, and she heard his breath come faster, felt his hand tighten and loosen in her hair with each wave of it.

"Don't stop," he said. "Whatever you do, girl, don't stop."

In the corner, Sharma aunty shifted in her chair. The sound of the wood creaking was loud in the quiet room. Maya glanced at her, saw her arms still crossed, her jaw set, and looked away.

"Is she good?" Sharma aunty's voice cut through the heat, flat and cold. "Is she worth the money I paid?"

Sharma uncle's eyes flicked to his wife, then back to the girl on her knees between his legs. "She's worth every rupee."

"Hmph." The sound was a knife drawn across a whetstone. "We'll see."

"Enough," Sharma uncle said suddenly. His hand fisted in her hair and pulled, and she came off him with a gasp, spit and pre-cum smearing her lips. He looked down at her, his chest heaving, and there was something raw in his face—hunger, and something softer underneath it, something almost tender.

"Come here," he said, and he pulled her up by the hair, not rough, just insistent, and she rose on her aching knees and then onto the bed as he shifted back. He laid her down on the worn cotton sheet, and the dust puffed up around her, and she felt the heat of the room close over her like a hand.

Her yellow crop top had ridden up, and the tight jeans were still on her, and he looked at her—the bare strip of her belly, the heavy swell of her breasts under the thin fabric, the long fall of her hair spread across the pillow—and his breath came harder.

"These," he said, and his fingers found the button of her jeans. "Let me."

She nodded, and he undid the button, pulled the zipper down, and worked the tight denim over her hips. She lifted them to help him, and the jeans came off, and then his hands were on her thighs, pushing them apart, and she felt the cool air on her bare cunt—she had worn no underwear, the way Shilpa had taught her, the way the men liked it.

He looked at her, at the smooth hairless mound of her, the pink flesh already wet, and he made a sound low in his throat.

"You're ready for me," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yes, uncle." She said it soft, her hand reaching down to find him, to guide him. "I'm ready."

"Look at me when I take you," he said. "I want to see your eyes."

She looked up at him, her dark eyes holding his, and he pushed into her in one thick stroke. She cried out—a sharp, bright sound that cut through the buzzing bulb and the dust and the heat. He filled her completely, the stretch of him burning, and she gripped the sheet beneath her, her bangles clattering against the headboard as her hands flew up.

He held still for a moment, buried inside her, and looked down at her face. His thumb found her cheek, traced the tear-track there, and something in his eyes softened.

"So tight," he breathed. "So fucking tight, girl."

"You feel so big," she gasped, her voice breaking. "So deep, uncle—"

"Good." He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and she whimpered at the loss. "I want you to feel every inch of me."

He pushed back in, and she moaned, her hips lifting to meet him, and he began to move—slow at first, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, each one filling her to the hilt. She felt every inch of him, the drag of his cock against her walls, the heat of him flooding her, and she moved with him, her hips finding his rhythm, her hands gripping the sheet.

"That's it," he said, his voice low and rough. "Move with me, girl. Take me."

"I'm taking you," she breathed. "I'm taking all of you."

In the corner, Sharma aunty watched. Her arms were still crossed, but her hands had tightened on her own elbows, the knuckles white. She said nothing. Her eyes moved from his face to Maya's, watching the way he fucked her, the way Maya's body took him, and there was something in her face that Maya couldn't read—jealousy, maybe, or hunger, or both.

"You're quiet, aunty," Maya said, her voice a breathless taunt. "Don't you want to see how your husband fucks?"

Sharma aunty's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth, girl."

"Or what?" Maya's hips rose to meet his next stroke. "You'll make me stop? You'd have to drag him off me first."

Sharma uncle groaned, his thrusts deepening. "Don't argue with her," he said, his voice strained. "Don't argue with my wife while I'm inside you."

He sped up, his thrusts coming harder, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. Maya's breasts bounced under the thin yellow top, and he reached down and pushed the fabric up, baring them, and his hands found them, rough and hot, squeezing, his thumbs working her nipples until they were hard and aching.

"Look at you," he said. "Look at these. Like mangoes, girl. Ripe and heavy."

The words sent a flush through her, shame and heat tangled together, and she moaned, her head thrown back, her hair pooling on the pillow. She had heard the word before, from the boys in the lane, from the men at the blue door house—mangoes, always mangoes—but from his mouth, with his cock inside her, it felt different. It felt like he meant it.

"Do they feel like mangoes, uncle?" she asked, her voice a low purr. "Do you want to bite them?"

"God, yes." He leaned down, his mouth finding her nipple, sucking hard, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. "I want to taste every inch of you."

"Then do it," she breathed. "Taste me."

"Turn over," he said, and he pulled out of her, and she rolled onto her stomach, her face pressed into the dusty pillow. He grabbed her hips and pulled her up onto her knees, and she felt the head of his cock at her entrance again, and then he pushed in, deep, and she cried out into the pillow.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Yes, uncle, yes—"

He fucked her from behind, his weight on her, his chest pressed to her back, his breath hot on her neck. His hands found her hips, gripping hard, pulling her back onto him with each thrust, and she felt him deeper this way, felt the head of his cock hit something inside her that made her see white.

"Fuck me, uncle," she moaned, the words muffled by the pillow. "Please, fuck me."

He growled, a sound that vibrated through his chest into her back, and he drove deeper, harder, his hips slapping against her ass. The sound of it was obscene in the quiet room, wet and loud, and she heard Sharma aunty shift in her chair again, and she didn't care. She didn't care about anything but the thick cock inside her, the stretch of him, the way he filled her completely.

"Is this what you wanted, aunty?" Maya's voice came out broken, breathless, but still sharp. "Is this the show you paid for?"

Sharma aunty's voice was ice. "You think you're special, girl? He'll forget you by morning."

"Will he?" Maya gasped as he drove deeper. "He knows my name. He said it when he came in me."

His hand found her hair again, fisted in it, and he pulled her head back, her spine arching, and he fucked her harder, his mouth at her ear.

"You like that, girl? You like my cock in your tight little cunt?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, uncle, I like it, I love it—"

"Tell me who you belong to," he said, his voice a growl. "Tell me whose cunt this is."

"Yours," she sobbed. "It's yours, uncle, all yours—"

He slapped her ass, a sharp crack that echoed in the room, and she cried out, her cunt clenching around him. He did it again, and again, and each time she clenched, and each time he groaned, his thrusts coming faster, harder, until the bed was knocking against the wall, the sound of it rhythmic, relentless.

"Say it again," he demanded.

"Yours!" she cried. "I'm yours, uncle, I'm your Nisha—"

"My Nisha," he repeated, the words like a vow. "My girl."

Time lost its shape. The yellow bulb buzzed. The dust hung in the air. The heat pressed down on them like a hand, and still he fucked her, and still she took him, her body moving with his, her moans coming in time with his thrusts. She had lost count of how long—an hour, two, more—and her knees ached and her jaw ached and her cunt was raw and stretched, and she wanted more.

"I'm close," he said, his voice strained. "I'm going to come inside you, girl. I'm going to fill you up."

"Yes," she said, and she meant it. "Yes, uncle, come inside me, please—"

"Look at her," Sharma aunty said, her voice suddenly loud, almost vicious. "Look at my husband, a whore in my bed, and he can't even look at me."

Sharma uncle's thrusts stuttered, and he turned his head toward his wife, his face flushed, his eyes wild. "Shut up," he gasped. "Just—shut up."

"Don't tell me to shut up," she snapped. "You think I don't know what you dream about? You think I don't see you watching her from the window?"

"I said shut up!"

He drove into her one final time, deep, and held, and she felt him come—felt the hot rush of his seed flooding her, filling her, and she cried out, her cunt clenching around him, milking him, and he groaned her name—not her name, not Maya, but the name his wife had given her, the name of the girl in the red dress: "Nisha—"

He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock still inside her, softening, his seed leaking out of her around him, warm and wet on her thighs. She lay there, trembling, her face in the pillow, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and she felt his hand find her hair again, stroking it now, gentle.

"Good girl," he whispered. "Such a good girl."

In the corner, Sharma aunty stood up. The chair scraped against the floor, and the sound was loud in the quiet room. Maya turned her head, looked at her through the tangle of her hair, and saw her standing there, arms still crossed, her face unreadable.

"Done?" she asked, and her voice was flat, empty.

Sharma uncle pulled out of Maya with a wet sound, and his seed spilled out of her, pooling on the sheet beneath her. He rolled off, lying on his back beside her, his chest heaving.

"Done," he said.

Sharma aunty looked at Maya—at the mess of her, the makeup still flawless on her face, the tears dried on her cheeks, the seed leaking out of her onto the sheet—and something flickered in her eyes. Then she turned and walked out of the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click, and Maya lay there in the dim yellow light, trembling, the strip of viagra pills on the nightstand catching the thin light, and she wondered what happened now.