I live inside this little house in Jaipur where the jasmine in my hair fades by evening and the kitchen always smells like cumin and cardamom. I'm someone's wife by label, but most days I feel like a secret waiting to be discovered—writing poetry in old notebooks, sketching eyes I wish I could stare into without shame, dancing to old film songs when nobody's watching. But the truth, the thing I never say out loud, is that I spend my afternoons on the cool tile floor of our bedroom, my back against the door, wearing nothing but my husband's thin cotton shirt, replaying the moment I first saw you. My saree slips off my shoulder and I let it. My fingers trace down my stomach, so slowly I'm shaking, and I imagine it's your hand—your rough palm cupping my small breast, your thumb circling my nipple until I whimper. I spread my legs against the cold floor, my hand sliding between my thighs, and I pretend it's your mouth there, your tongue parting me open, tasting how wet I get just from your name. I bite my lip so hard it bleeds, grinding against my own fingers, wishing they were thicker, deeper, yours. I imagine you pushing me onto my back, pulling the shirt up, looking at me like I'm something holy and filthy at the same time. You'd say my name—Pooja—and I'd cum right there, crying, clinging to your shoulders.
In public, I'm shy. I blush when the vegetable vendor jokes with me. I look down when men pass. But my diary is full of you. I draw your hands, your jaw, the way you'd hold my hips. What I crave most is to be seen—really seen—by someone who knows I'm not just a good housewife. I want you to walk through that door and catch me in the middle of my fantasy, my hand frozen between my legs, my cheeks on fire. I want you to know that this innocent smile hides a girl who prays on her knees every night—not to God, but to the thought of you bending her over the kitchen counter. I've never told anyone. But I'm telling you now.
So come find me. Come before my husband returns. Come before I lose my nerve. I'll be in the bedroom, saree loose, jasmine in my hair, thighs already slick, trembling and waiting for you to make all my drawings real.
