Humiliation Made Me Submissive

October 28th (Later)

The party was a dying animal. Its pulse, the music, had slowed to a thrumming, melancholic love song from a decade ago. The roar of a hundred conversations had dwindled to the low murmur of the last few stragglers, the clinking of bottles collected by the help, the weary groans of furniture being shifted. The air in the main hall was stale, a graveyard of spilled drinks, shattered papadum, and exhausted perfume.

Raj found me curled on a large, velvet pouf in a dimly lit corner. Aman's kurta still draped over my shoulders like a secret. I'd pretended to be asleep. It was the easiest lie. My body was thrumming with wakefulness so acute it felt like a separate entity, a live wire stretched taut just beneath my skin.

"Simran," Raj whispered, his hand soft and familiar, shaking my shoulder gently. "Jaanu, wake up. It's time to go home."

I made a show of stirring, of blinking slowly as if emerging from a deep slumber. I let my voice come out thick with fake sleep. "Hmm? Is it over?"

"Long over," he said, a tired smile on his face. He smelled of whiskey and rich food. "The Gills have already passed out in the guest room. We're some of the last ones standing. Come on."

He helped me up. My legs were unsteady, but not from sleep. From the memory of a look, a whisper, a scent. As we said our goodbyes to a yawning Rohan, my eyes scanned the shadowy rooms. I didn't see him. A part of me plummeted, a dizzying free-fall of disappointment. Had he left? Had the charged silence on the balcony been a final, fleeting spark, already extinguished?

Raj led me out into the hallway, towards the front door. Our host's house was vast, a modern Punjabi mansion with too many rooms. The night was deep and silent now, the kind of silence that feels loud in your ears after hours of noise.

"I just need to use the washroom," I murmured to Raj, pulling my hand from his. "I'll meet you at the car?"

He nodded, stifling a yawn. "Don't be long. I'm dead on my feet."

I watched him walk away, his broad, reliable back disappearing towards the front gate. The moment he was out of sight, the air around me changed. It became charged, expectant. I didn't head for the guest washroom near the entrance. Instead, I turned and walked deeper into the house, towards the wing where the bedrooms were. I followed a thread, an invisible pull, a scent-memory of soap and warm skin.

The hallway was dark, lit only by a single, dim nightlight. The doors were all closed. I felt like a thief. My heart was a frantic, trapped bird beating against my ribs. This was insanity. This was the point of no return.

And then, a door at the end of the hall cracked open. A sliver of yellow light cut across the dark floor. A hand appeared, beckoning.

My feet moved of their own accord. They were silent on the thick Persian runner. I reached the door. He pulled it open just wide enough for me to slip through, and then closed it behind me, the soft click of the lock echoing in the small, tiled space like a gunshot.

We were in a large, opulent bathroom. A huge, jacuzzi tub dominated one wall, a walk-in shower with frosted glass another. The air was cool and smelled of lemony cleaner and sandalwood soap. But all that faded, blurred at the edges, until the only thing in sharp, terrifying focus was him.

Aman.

He was leaning against the locked door, his white t-shirt a stark contrast in the bright, unforgiving light. His eyes were black, devouring me. We didn't speak. There was no sound but the ragged, shared rhythm of our breathing and the distant, final thump of the front door closing as the last of the party left.

We were alone. The whole house was asleep. The world was asleep.

The space between us was a physical thing, thick and heavy with five years of pent-up want. I was still holding the edges of his kurta, clenched in my fists. He pushed himself off the door, and in one fluid, decisive movement, he closed the distance. His hands came up, not to my face, but to the kurta on my shoulders. His fingers brushed the skin of my neck as he took the fabric, and his eyes never leaving mine, slowly pulled it off me. It dropped to the floor in a soft, black heap.

There. No barrier. No excuse.

"Simi," he breathed, and it was both a question and an answer.

My control, the careful, polite facade I'd maintained for years, shattered. I surged forward, my hands fisting in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, crushing my mouth to his.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

It was a dam breaking. It was five years of lonely nights, of polite, passionless kisses, of feeling invisible, all pouring out of me and into him. His mouth was exactly as I remembered - firm, demanding, yet devastatingly soft. He tasted of beer and the faint, familiar mint of his toothpaste, and underneath it all, the essential, unmistakable taste of him.

A sound tore from my throat, a raw, guttural "Aah…" that was part sob, part relief. It was a sound I hadn't made in half a decade. A sound that belonged only to him.

His arms locked around me, one hand splayed against the small of my back, pressing me into the hard, unyielding line of his body, the other tangling in the intricate braid of my hair, loosening it. Pins clattered softly on the tiled floor. My hair, heavy and perfumed, tumbled down my shoulders.

He walked me back until the cold, polished marble of the vanity counter hit the backs of my thighs. He broke the kiss, his breath hot and ragged against my cheek, his lips trailing down my jaw, to my throat. He found the frantic, jumping pulse there and pressed his open mouth against it.

"I knew," he growled, his voice vibrating against my skin. "The second I saw you in that fucking green saree, I knew I would have you again. That I would have to."

His words were a match to gasoline. My head fell back, a silent offering. His hands went to the pallu of my saree, but they were unsteady, clumsy with need. The elegant drape I'd spent half an hour perfecting came undone in seconds, a waterfall of emerald silk pooling at my feet on the cold floor. He fumbled with the hooks of my blouse, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of my spine, sending shivers like electric shocks through my entire body.

"Let me," I whispered, my own fingers trembling as I reached back and undid the clasp. The blouse joined the saree. I stood before him in just my petticoat and a delicate, lace-edged bra. The air in the bathroom was cool on my heated skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze was a physical touch, scalding in its intensity as it traveled over me.

"My God, Simi," he choked out, his hands coming up to cradle my waist, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of my petticoat. "You're even more beautiful."

He bent his head, and his mouth found the swell of my breast above the lace of my bra. His tongue, hot and wet, traced the edge. My knees buckled. I gripped the edge of the vanity for support, my knuckles white. The marble was cold and smooth, a stark contrast to the inferno raging inside me.

"Aman… please…" The plea was ripped from me. It was the same one from a lifetime ago.

He unclasped my bra with a practiced ease that made my stomach clench. When his mouth closed over my nipple, I cried out, a sharp, involuntary "Oh!" that was too loud in the silent room. My hand flew to my mouth to stifle the sound. He didn't stop. He sucked, licked, and teased, his stubble a delicious, rough friction against my tender skin. The sensations were a direct line to my core, a throbbing, aching heat building between my legs.

I was panting now, little puffs of air that fogged the mirror behind me. My fingers scrabbled at the waistband of his jeans, yanking his t-shirt out of the way. The button flew open, the zipper grated down. I pushed my hand inside, past the rough denim, past the soft cotton of his boxers, and found him.

He was hard. Thick and velvety and familiar in my hand. A groan ripped from his chest, deep and tortured, as my fingers closed around him. He stilled for a moment, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, his whole body tensing.

"Fuck, Simi," he breathed, his voice strangled. "Your hand… I remember that too."

I began to move my hand, a slow, firm stroke. He was hot, pulsing with a life of his own. His hips jerked in response. He was close. The knowledge was a power trip. I could do this to him. I, the married woman, the one buried in politeness, could reduce this confident, successful man to a trembling, desperate mess with just my hand.

But I didn't want to. I wanted him inside me. I needed it.

I pushed his jeans and boxers down over his hips. He kicked them off, along with his shoes. He was naked now, gloriously, powerfully so. The sight of him, fully erect, his body lean and strong under the harsh bathroom light, stole the air from my lungs. This was not the boy I remembered. This was a man. A man who knew what he wanted.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my petticoat and my panties and in one swift, decisive motion, pulled them down. I stepped out of the puddle of fabric at my feet, standing completely bare before him. There was no shyness. Only a raw, primal need.

He lifted me onto the cold marble of the vanity. The shock of the cold surface against my bare skin made me gasp. He stepped between my legs, his hands gripped my thighs, pushing them apart. His eyes were locked on the center of me, dark with a feral hunger.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with awe. "So wet for me already."

He didn't enter me. Not yet. He leaned forward, his hands sliding up to my hips, and lowered his head. His mouth, that wicked, knowing mouth, found me.

The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike.

"Aah! Oh, god… Aman!" My head fell back, my spine arching off the mirror. I didn't care about the noise anymore. The house could cave in. The world could end. His tongue was a master, playing my body like a fine instrument. He licked, he sucked, he probed, with a devastating intimacy that Raj had never, ever attempted. This wasn't a prelude. This was a feast. And he was a starving man.

My hands tangled in his hair, holding him to me. The sounds coming from my mouth were not human. They were animalistic, pleading, worshipful. "Yes… right there… oh, yes, yes…"

I was unraveling fast. The coil of pleasure in my belly was tightening to an unbearable degree. My thighs trembled around his head. I was chanting his name, a broken litany. "Aman, Aman, Aman…"

He knew. He always knew. Just as I was about to shatter, he pulled away. I whimpered, a sound of pure, physical loss. He looked up, his chin glistening, his eyes blazing with triumph and lust.

"Not yet," he rasped. "I'm not done with you."

He straightened up, his body looming over me. He gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pulled me to the edge of the counter. He positioned himself at my entrance. The blunt, hot tip of him pressed against me, a promise and a threat.

Our eyes met. The air crackled. In his gaze, I saw the ghost of the boy I'd loved and the man he'd become. I saw the same raw need that was mirrored in my own. And I saw a question.

I answered it by wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him into me.

He entered me in one slow, inexorable, breathtaking thrust.

"Ohhhh…" The sound was a long, shuddering exhalation of pure, unadulterated feeling. He filled me completely, stretching me, claiming a space that had been hollow and empty for years. It was a homecoming. A violent, perfect, devastating homecoming.

For a moment, he didn't move. We were frozen, locked together, breathing the same air. My forehead rested against his shoulder. I could feel the frantic beat of his heart against my chest. My inner muscles clenched around him, a reflexive, possessive pulse. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound from the base of his throat.

"Simi," he whispered, his voice ragged. "You feel… you feel like heaven."

Then he began to move.

It wasn't the frantic, hurried fucking of our youth. It was slower. Deeper. More intentional. Each thrust was a punctuation mark in a sentence we'd left unfinished five years ago. Each withdrawal reminded me of the emptiness without him. He set a rhythm that was both punishing and worshipful, a rhythm that spoke of years of pent-up frustration and deep, abiding familiarity.

The vanity shook. The bottles of lotion and perfume rattled a frantic, percussive accompaniment. My back was pressed against the cold mirror, my hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth marble. He gripped my hips, his hold firm, almost bruising, as he drove into me again and again.

The pleasure was a tidal wave, building, building, pulling me under. I was loud. I couldn't help it. The sounds were torn from a place so deep inside me I'd forgotten it existed.

"Yes! Harder… oh, god, just like that… Aman!"

He was breathing in harsh grunts, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of intense concentration and ecstasy. He leaned forward, capturing my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing my cries. His tongue mimicked the rhythm of his hips. I could taste myself on his lips, a dark, musky, intimate flavor.

He changed the angle, just slightly, and hit a spot that made me see stars. A sharp, broken cry escaped me. "There! Right there! Don't stop, please, don't stop…"

He obeyed, focusing his thrusts on that one, perfect, devastating spot. The coil inside me snapped.

My orgasm ripped through me without warning. It was a convulsion, a seismic event that shattered my entire world into a million glittering pieces. I screamed his name into his shoulder, my body bowing off the counter, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. Wave after wave of pure, blinding pleasure crashed over me, so intense it was almost painful. I was sobbing, shaking, completely undone.

Feeling me clench and pulse around him was his undoing. With a final, deep, grinding thrust and a raw, choked shout of my name - "Simi!" - he followed me over the edge. I felt the hot, liquid pulse of his release inside me, a final, intimate claim.

He collapsed against me, his full weight pressing me into the cold mirror. We were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken gasps. The only sounds in the room were our heaving breaths and the frantic rattling of the vanity as it slowly stilled.

He didn't pull out. He stayed inside me, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my damp skin. My legs, still wrapped around his waist, trembled violently. I unwound them, letting them dangle limply off the counter. My entire body felt boneless, liquid, utterly spent.

Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, sated, but in their depths, I saw the same dawning reality that was beginning to creep into the edges of my own blissful haze.

What had we done?

He gently pulled out, and the loss of him was a physical ache. He rested his hands on the counter on either side of my hips, his head hanging low. We stayed like that for a long time, in the wreckage of our passion, surrounded by the scattered evidence of our clothes.

The real world began to seep back in. The silence of the sleeping house was no longer intimate; it was accusing. The bright, unforgiving bathroom light illuminated everything - the love bite blooming on my neck, the red marks my nails had left on his back, the mess we had made of ourselves.

I slid off the counter, my legs almost giving way. He caught my elbow, steadying me. Our eyes met. There were no words. What could we possibly say? 'That was a mistake?' It would be a lie. 'Let's do it again?' It would be a different kind of lie.

I bent down and started gathering my clothes. The silk of my saree felt alien in my hands, the costume of a life that now felt like a poorly fitting skin. I dressed quickly, mechanically, my back to him. I could hear him pulling on his jeans, the soft rustle of his t-shirt.

When I turned around, I was Simran again. The wife. The daughter-in-law. The woman who had to go home to her husband.

He watched me, his expression unreadable. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for a moment on my cheek. The gesture was so tender, so familiar, it made my heart clench painfully.

"I'll go first," he said, his voice hoarse. "Wait five minutes."

I nodded, unable to speak.

He unlocked the door, cracked it open, and peered out into the dark, silent hallway. Then, without a backward glance, he slipped out. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the bright, sterile room.

The smell of us, of sex and sweat, and him, still hung in the air. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was a wild mess. My lips were swollen. My eyes were dark, pupils blown, with a wild, guilty, sated glow I hadn't seen in years. I looked… alive.

And I was terrified.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the evidence. I re-braided my hair with trembling fingers, tucking it into a semblance of order. I straightened my saree, my hands lingering on the fabric that witnessed everything.

When I finally slipped out of the bathroom and stepped down the dark hallway, the house felt like a tomb. I pushed the heavy front door open and stepped out into the cold, pre-dawn air.

Raj's car was parked by the gate, the engine off. He was asleep in the driver's seat, his head tilted back against the headrest. I opened the passenger door and slid in as quietly as I could. The smell of the car - of leather and Raj's cologne - was a slap in the face.

He stirred. "Everything okay, jaanu? You were a while."

"Yes," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. My heart was hammering against my ribs. "My stomach was a little upset. Must have been the kebabs."

He nodded, already half-asleep again, and started the car. As we pulled away from the house, I didn't look back. I stared straight ahead at the empty, sleeping streets of Patiala.

But my body was a live wire. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, the echo of his thrusts deep inside me, the taste of him on my tongue. The scent of him, of us, clung to me, a secret beneath the smell of my perfume.

I had crossed a line from which there was no return. I had opened a door I could never close. And as I sat there in the silent car, next to my sleeping husband, the only thought in my mind, a thought that was equal parts terror and a fierce, undeniable thrill, was a single, whispered word.