Fucking her

The client site was two hours outside the city, a half-finished hotel on the edge of an industrial belt where the roads turned empty after dark. I told Samyukta she was needed for the walkthrough. She did not ask why the meeting had to happen at night. By then she had stopped asking certain questions.

She sat in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap. The pale blue shirt was the same one she had worn on her first day. I had told her not to change. Every few minutes her phone lit up. Her brother. She silenced it without looking. I felt the small spike of guilt each time and left it where it was.

“You’re quiet,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” I rested my hand on her thigh, high enough that the hem of her skirt shifted. Her skin was warm. She did not move my hand. “The client will want to see the revised layouts. You’ll explain them. Then we’ll be done.”

She nodded. The car ate the dark road. When we reached the site the security guard waved us through without checking names. The building was skeletal—open floors, plastic sheeting, the smell of concrete and rain. I led her to a finished suite on the third level where the lights still worked. The door locked from the inside.

She set her bag down and opened the laptop. I stood behind her while she pulled up the files. My hand settled at the back of her neck, thumb stroking the place I had touched before. She shivered.

“Rajesh—”

“Keep going.”

She kept going. Her voice stayed steady while I unbuttoned the top of her shirt. One button. Then another. The fabric parted. I slid my hand inside and cupped her breast through the thin cotton of her bra. She stopped speaking. The cursor blinked on the screen.

“Continue,” I said.

She tried. The words came out thinner. I pinched her nipple, light at first, then harder. A small sound left her throat. Her phone rang again. Brother. I reached over, declined the call, and set the phone face-down.

“He can wait.”

I turned her chair. She looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth parted. Fear sat bright behind the dependence. I liked both. I opened my phone, angled it, and started recording. The red light glowed. She saw it.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Look at the camera.”

She did. I pushed the shirt off her shoulders. The bra followed. Her breasts were small, nipples already tight from the cold air and my fingers. I filmed the way her chest rose and fell. Then I set the phone on the table, still recording, and knelt between her knees.

“Open.”

She hesitated. I pressed two fingers under her chin and lifted. Her mouth opened. I undid my belt. When I guided myself between her lips she made a startled sound. She had never done this. I felt the truth of it in the clumsy way her tongue moved, the way her teeth grazed once before she corrected herself. I held her hair and moved her head. Slow. Then deeper. Saliva ran down her chin. The phone caught all of it.

Her phone rang again. I ignored it. She tried to pull back. I kept her there until her eyes watered. When I finally let her breathe she gasped, strings of spit connecting her mouth to me.

“Good,” I said. “On the bed.”

The bed was still wrapped in plastic. I pulled it off. She lay back when I told her to. I pushed her skirt up and her underwear down. She was wet. Fear and something else. I filmed that too—close, the way her thighs trembled when I spread them. Then I set the phone aside again, still running, and settled between her legs.

“This will hurt,” I told her.

“I know.”

I pushed in. She was tight. Virgin. The resistance gave, then broke. She cried out, high and sharp. Blood slicked the way. I did not stop. I held her hips and drove deeper while she clutched the sheets and tried not to make more noise. Tears ran into her hair. I licked one from her cheek. Salt. Warm.

Her phone rang a third time. I reached for it without pulling out, answered, and put it on speaker.

“Where is she?” Her brother’s voice cracked. “Put her on. Please. Just let me talk to her.”

Samyukta turned her face away. I kept moving, slow and deep, so the wet sound carried.

“She’s busy,” I said.

“Please. I’m begging you. Don’t—just let me speak to her. Samyukta, if you can hear me—”

“Fuck off,” I said, and ended the call.

She was crying properly now. I turned her over. Doggy. The plastic crinkled under her knees. I pushed back in. The angle was deeper. She sobbed into the mattress. I gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and fucked her through the pain. Every thrust dragged a broken sound out of her. The phone on the table kept recording—the slap of skin, her crying, the low things I said against her ear.

“You’re doing well. Stay like that. Don’t fight it.”

She didn’t. Or she couldn’t. When I came I stayed buried, filming the way my release leaked out around me mixed with blood. She stayed on her hands and knees, shaking, until I told her she could lie down. The recording was still going. I let it run a little longer, capturing the way she curled on her side, one hand between her legs, trying to stop the ache.

Her phone lit up again. Brother. I declined it without looking. Outside, the unfinished building was silent. Inside, the only sounds were her uneven breathing and the soft click of the phone when I finally stopped the video.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair until the shaking eased. She did not speak. She did not need to. The dependence was already there, under the fear and the pain. I had taken what I wanted. The recording would keep it. And her brother, wherever he was, was still begging into a phone that would not answer.