The house had three bedrooms. He gave her the smallest, adjacent to the kitchen, with a narrow bed and a cupboard with a mirror. She gasped at the running water, at the fan that spun overhead without being coaxed. She did not notice the way he watched her bend to examine the tap, her sari riding up to reveal the mole on her hip, the curve of her ass straining against the thin fabric.

"Tomorrow you begin," he said, and fled to his room to masturbate.

It became ritual. She would sweep in the mornings, her breasts swinging with each stroke of the broom, the blouse buttons she only had two, threadbare straining to the point of transparency. She would reach high to dust, and the fabric would pull tight across her chest, the shapes of her nipples visible, dark and pressing for release. She would bend to wash the floors, and her ass would present itself like an offering, the sari doing nothing to hide the heavy curve of flesh.

And he would watch. From doorways. From behind the newspaper. From his study where he could see into the kitchen through a crack in the door.

Then he would go to his room, lock the door, and relieve the agony she inspired. He told himself he was treating her as a child he bought her sweets, he spoke gently, he never touched. He was being good. He was being controlled. The fact that he jerked off three times a day thinking about her tits, about that mole, about pressing his face between her thighs until she screamed that was private. That didn't count.

Two months passed. She grew comfortable. She smiled at him. She called him "Saheb" with a trust that made his cock harder and his conscience buried deep ache with something like shame.

After 2.5 months

The kitchen was humid with steam from the dal, the afternoon light cutting through the window in thick golden bars. She stood at the counter, her back to him, rolling dough with rhythmic slaps of palm against wood. The saree she wore was old, cotton faded from washing, and it clung to her in the heat sweat darkening the fabric between her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine visible through the thin material.

He had told himself he would only watch. He had been good for two and a half months, ever since that day in the market when he had "accidentally" brushed against her hip and she had looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes.

But the house was empty. The silence pressed against his eardrums. And she was there, bent slightly at the waist, her ass presented unconsciously as she worked the dough, the saree pulled low on her hips, the petticoat underneath riding up just enough to show the dimpled backs of her knees.

He moved before he could think.

His footsteps were silent on the tile. She didn't hear him until he was behind her, until his shadow fell across her work, until his hands trembling with weeks of denial reached around and closed over her boobs.

She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, her body going rigid. "Saheb..."

But he was already pressing her boobs and cock against her from behind, his hardness insistent against the softness of her ass, his hands kneading the heavy weights of her breasts through the cotton blouse. They were fuller now, he could feel it, spilling out of his grip, and the knowledge that her body was changing, ripening, only drove him to greater madness.

His right hand slid down, over the curve of her waist, possessive and claiming, and then lower, over the mound of her saree-covered pussy, pressing hard against the fabric, feeling the heat of her through the layers.

"Saheb, please..." she whimpered, trying to turn, but he held her pinned against the counter with his body weight, his face buried in the sweat-slicked curve of her neck, inhaling the smell of her cooking oil and jasmine and something uniquely female that made him dizzy.

He spun her around then, roughly, and her eyes were wide with shock and something else fear, yes, but also confusion, a fluttering uncertainty that made her lips part. He saw the mole between her breasts, that dark invitation, and with shaking hands he reached for her saree pallu and pulled.

The fabric unraveled like water, pooling at her feet, leaving her in only the thin blouse and petticoat, her chest heaving, her nipples hard and visible through the damp cotton. He bent his head and pressed his mouth to that mole, that spot he had stared at for months, and kissed it wet, open-mouthed, his tongue tasting salt and skin.

She pushed him.

It wasn't a gentle push. Her palms struck his chest with sudden force, propelled by panic, and he stumbled back, his vision clearing as if from a fever, the blood draining from his face as he saw her expression frightened, confused, betrayed.

She was breathing hard, clutching her fallen saree to her chest, her eyes bright with tears that hadn't yet fallen.

"I... I'm sorry," he stammered, the words clumsy in his mouth. "Devika, I... something happened to me. I remembered the days with my ex-wife suddenly, her memory... it overwhelmed me. I wasn't thinking clearly."

The lie was transparent, ridiculous, but she wanted to believe it. He could see it in the way her shoulders softened, in the way she looked at him not with accusation but with a kind of pity.

"It's... it's okay, Saheb," she whispered, clutching the saree tighter. "I understand."

The guilt was acid in his throat, but he pressed on, reckless and desperate. "Can I... can I press again? Just once more, I need to..."

"No." The word was firm, surprising them both. She shook her head, stepping back, putting the counter between them. "No, Saheb. That... that shouldn't happen again."

He nodded, his hands hanging useless at his sides, still carrying the phantom weight of her breasts, the memory of her heat against his palms. "Of course. Of course, you're right. I apologize. It won't happen again."

And it didn't.