I fuck him

The auto stopped outside the building at eleven-twenty. The street was quieter than the one near our flat. Most of the shops had closed their shutters. A single tube light flickered above the entrance. I paid the driver and stood on the pavement for a moment with my phone in my hand. The location pin was still open. Sixth floor, door on the left. I had not changed out of the clothes I had been wearing at home—an old cotton kurta and leggings, hair tied back the way I wore it when I cooked. I had not put on lipstick. I walked inside.

The lift was slow, exactly as he had said. It smelled of paint and the faint metal of the cables. When the doors opened on the sixth floor the corridor was dim. Only one door had light under it. I knocked once. Footsteps crossed the room. The door opened.

Gangadhar stood there in a white vest and a lungi. A glass of whisky was in his left hand. He looked at me from head to foot without smiling, then stepped aside. I walked in. The flat was one room with a small kitchen attached. The bed was against the far wall, sheets already pulled back. A ceiling fan turned slowly. He closed the door and locked it. The sound of the bolt was loud in the quiet.

“You came,” he said.

“I came.”

He drank from the glass and set it on the small table beside the bed. His eyes stayed on my face. “Your brother still has not called you back.”

“No.”

“Good.” He walked closer until he was an arm’s length away. The whisky smell was stronger now. “So we make the deal properly. I fuck you whenever I want. You come when I tell you. While I fuck you, you tell me what he says about me at home. Every complaint. Every time he sits quiet after office. And on Monday I make his week worse. Not just extra files. I make sure the seniors see it. I make sure he knows someone is watching him and he cannot stop it. You decide how far it goes. If you stop coming, I stop. If you keep coming, it continues. Clear?”

I nodded. My mouth was dry. “Clear.”

“Say it.”

“You fuck me. You bully him. I tell you what he says. He does not know.”

Gangadhar’s mouth moved, almost a smile. “And if he finds out?”

“He won’t. Not from me.”

He reached out and touched the end of my hair where it rested on my shoulder. His fingers were warm. “Take the kurta off.”

I pulled it over my head and dropped it on the chair. The bra underneath was plain. He looked at it, then at my face again. “All of it.”

I unhooked the bra and let it fall. The air from the fan moved across my skin. My nipples tightened. He watched without touching yet. Then he untied the lungi and let it drop. He was already half-hard. Thick, darker at the head. He stroked himself once, slowly, while he looked at me.

“Lie on the bed,” he said. “On your back. Legs open.”

I lay down. The sheet was cool. He knelt between my knees and pulled the leggings and panties down together, dragging them off my feet. He spread my thighs with both hands and looked. I was wet. He noticed; his thumb brushed once across me, light, then pressed. I exhaled.

“Already,” he said. “You were angry when you left the house.”

“Yes.”

He lowered his head and licked me, slow and flat, from the bottom to the top. His moustache scratched the inside of my thigh. He did it again, then pushed his tongue inside, then moved up and sucked my clit. I gripped the sheet. He kept his mouth there until my hips lifted and I came, short and sharp, one hand in his hair. He stayed until the shaking eased, then stood.

He climbed over me. One hand braced beside my head. The other guided his cock. He pushed in steadily, not fast, until he was fully inside. The stretch was thick and immediate. He paused, watching my face, then started to move. Long strokes that rocked the bed against the wall. Every time he bottomed out I felt it low in my stomach. His chain swung and tapped my collarbone. He fucked me without speaking for a while, only the sound of skin and the fan and my breathing.

Then he said, “Tell me what he said last week.”

I told him. Between breaths I told him about the night my brother had come home at nine-fifteen and sat at the table without eating, about the way he had said Gangadhar’s name only once and then changed the subject, about how he had checked his phone three times in ten minutes waiting for a message that did not come. Gangadhar listened. His pace did not change. When I finished he thrust harder, shorter strokes, and I came again with my legs tight around his waist. He pulled out at the last second and finished across my stomach, hot stripes that cooled quickly under the fan.

He stayed above me, breathing hard, watching it. Then he dragged two fingers through the mess and pushed them into my mouth. I sucked them. He did it again until most of it was gone. When he lay beside me the bed dipped. His hand rested on my hip, heavy.

“Again,” he said after a minute. “This time you stay on top. I want to hear more while you ride me.”

I climbed over him. His cock was still wet from me. I stroked it until it thickened, then sank down. The angle was different. I could control the depth. I moved slowly at first, hands on his chest, feeling the hair under my palms. He watched my breasts. Every few strokes he reached up and pinched a nipple, hard enough that I gasped and clenched around him. I told him more—how my brother had laughed that morning when he said I would understand, how he had ironed nothing himself for three days because he knew I would do it. Gangadhar’s hands moved to my hips. He started thrusting up to meet me. The sound filled the small room again.

I came with my head tipped back. He followed a minute later, holding me down so he stayed deep while he pulsed inside me. I felt the heat. When I lifted off, some of it leaked onto his stomach. He pulled me down beside him and kept one arm across my waist.

“Monday,” he said. His voice was low. “I will send him a file at six-forty. I will copy the manager. I will stand behind his chair in the afternoon call and ask him to repeat a sentence he already said. You will text me after he comes home. You will tell me exactly how his face looked. If it is not enough, we do more next time.”

I nodded against his shoulder. The fan turned. Somewhere below, a scooter passed and the sound faded. My phone was still in my bag on the floor. I did not check it. My brother would be home by now, or still out with Sravya. Either way the blue ticks would still be sitting there, unanswered.

Gangadhar’s fingers traced the line of my spine, slow. “You can leave whenever you want,” he said. “Or you can stay until I am hard again. Your choice.”

I stayed. The anger had not left. It had only found a place to sit, between his hand on my hip and the knowledge of what Monday would look like when my brother walked into the office and realised the week had already been decided for him.