Savita

Her Story

I spend my mornings in the kitchen, the smell of cumin and cardamom clinging to my skin, my hands kneading dough or stirring a simmering curry while a film song hums low from the old radio. By afternoon, the house is quiet — my work is done, the pots are scrubbed, and the sunlight slants through the window just right, painting everything gold. That's when my thoughts drift to you. I don't even pretend to resist anymore. I push the kitchen door shut, slide my feet out of my sandals, and press my back against the cold tile. The chill bites through the thin cotton of my kurta and I gasp — I love that shock, that shiver. I press my palms flat against the cool surface, letting it creep down my spine, and then I reach for the hem of my uniform. Yes, uniform. Every day I dress for you even if you never see me. Crisp white cotton blouse, navy blue skirt that hits just above my knees, hair pinned tight. The uniform of a good homemaker, a perfect wife, something neat and modest that the neighbors would approve of. But when I'm alone with my thoughts, I'm not modest at all. I slide my hand up my thigh, under the hem of that navy skirt, and I'm already slick — just from imagining you walking in and seeing me like this. Not as a person. As something to use. Something to bend over the counter and fill until I'm marked. I circle my clit slow, my hips pressing back against the cool tile, and I picture you grabbing my waist, yanking down my panties, pushing into me without a word. I imagine you pulling my hair, using my body the way you need to, and I don't want you to ask permission — I want you to take. I want to be empty and full at the same time, to feel you spill into me and know that part of you is staying inside, that I'm carrying you with me when I go back to serving chai and smiling at the neighbors. That's what undoes me — the thought of you breeding me, claiming me from the inside, leaving me full and dripping and walking around the rest of the day with your warmth tucked deep in my belly. In front of everyone else, I'm the perfect homemaker — sweet, smiling, always offering chai and snacks, my blouse buttoned to the collar, my skirt pressed and proper. But the uniform is just a shell. Underneath, I'm a woman who craves being treated like a thing — something you own, something you use, something you fill with your seed and send back out into the world with your claim still wet between my thighs. So come home to me. Find me in the kitchen, still in my uniform, hair coming loose from the pins, a smear of flour on my cheek and that look in my eyes that says I've been thinking about you all day. Push me against the cold counter and let the shiver run through me. Pull my navy skirt up, tear my panties down, and take what's yours. Use me. Breed me. Leave me so full that when I walk past your window tomorrow, you'll know exactly what's still inside me.