My Sister-in-law

"You'll burn your retinas out," Shagoon said without turning around, her voice laced with something between amusement and pity. Rahul hadn't realized he'd been staring—again—but the way her skirt barely grazed the tops of her thighs as she bent to pick up a fallen hairpin made his throat tighten. The thin fabric of her t-shirt clung to the sweat on her lower back, translucent under the afternoon light slanting through the blinds.

His wife, Priya, clattered dishes in the kitchen, humming a Bollywood tune from last summer, oblivious to the way Shagoon's presence had thickened the air in their cramped apartment. Rahul adjusted himself discreetly against the kitchen counter, pretending to examine a stain on his shirt. Shagoon straightened up slowly, deliberately, her fingers lingering at the nape of her neck as she secured the pin—a practiced movement that felt like a performance.

Priya emerged with a suitcase in tow, her sensible heels clicking against the linoleum. "Ten days in Hyderabad," she sighed, glancing between them with a distracted smile. "Try not to burn down the house." Rahul nodded too quickly, but Priya was already preoccupied with her phone, scrolling through airport check-in times.

Shagoon waited until the door clicked shut before turning fully toward him—slow, deliberate, like a chess piece sliding into place. Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip before her teeth caught it softly, her eyes never leaving his. The silence stretched, filled only with the refrigerator's hum and Rahul's pulse thudding in his ears.

Priya's taxi hadn't even rounded the corner when Shagoon pulled a half-empty bottle of Old Monk from her oversized handbag, the dark glass glinting like a promise. "Ten days," she murmured, pouring the rum over ice with practiced ease. The caramel scent filled the space between them, sharp and cloying. "Tell me, Rahul—what do men like you do when they think no one's watching?"

Her bare foot slid forward beneath the coffee table, the tip of her big toe brushing his ankle. Rahul felt the contact like a live wire—brief, accidental, devastating. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, the tendons flexing beneath skin still damp from the afternoon heat. The air conditioner sputtered weakly, pushing stale air across skin that prickled with anticipation.

"Men like me?" Rahul echoed, swirling the rum in his glass until it coated the sides in slow, syrupy waves. His voice came out lower than he intended, rough-edged. Shagoon's lips curved—not quite a smile—as she leaned back into the sofa cushions, stretching her arms overhead in a way that pulled her t-shirt taut across her chest. The hem rode up, revealing a sliver of smooth stomach, the shadow of her navel.

She shrugged, lazy and deliberate. "Men who pretend they're above it." Her fingers dipped into her bag again, emerging with a small ziplock packet of white powder. Rahul's pulse stuttered. "Men who lick their wives' necks in church," she continued, tapping the packet against her knee, "and then snort lines off a hooker's tits in some fucked-up back-alley motel." The way she said it—casual, clinical—made it sound like a confession, though neither of them had moved.

The cocaine glinted under the overhead light like crushed bone. Rahul exhaled sharply through his nose. He'd never done it before, not really, just a few half-hearted bumps at college parties where everyone pretended they knew what they were doing. Shagoon's laugh was low, private, as she pinched a line onto the coffee table with the precision of someone who'd done this in far worse places than a middle-class living room. "Don't tell me," she murmured, "you're one of those boys who still thinks guilt tastes like salt."

Her fingers—long, unpainted, the nails bitten down—hovered near his knee. Not touching. Just close enough for him to feel the heat. Rahul wondered if she knew how badly he wanted to press his mouth to the sweat-damp hollow behind her knee, to lick the salt from her skin until she hissed. Instead, he bent over the table, the rush hitting his sinuses like a struck match. When he straightened, his vision blurred at the edges, sharpening only on the slow drip of condensation down Shagoon's glass.

She watched him swallow, her pupils swallowing the brown of her irises. "You taste like cheap rum and regret," she murmured, but she was already leaning in, her breath warm against his mouth. Rahul's pulse hammered against his ribs, a trapped thing. The first brush of her lips was feather-light, testing. Then she bit down on his lower lip—hard enough to hurt—and his hands found her waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh beneath thin cotton.

"Will you be my personal whore?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, rough-edged and half-choked. Shagoon stilled against him, her exhale sharp with something like amusement. She pulled back just enough to study his face, her thumb dragging over his stubble—slow, deliberate—as if mapping the contours of his shame.

"Do you think I am a whore?" she asked in a rage, her voice low and venomous, though her fingers remained soft against his jaw. Rahul felt the contradiction like a slap—the tenderness of her touch at odds with the acid in her tone. She pressed closer suddenly, her knee sliding between his thighs with bruising force. "Because men like you pay good money for whores," she whispered against his mouth, her breath hot with rum and coke. "And you, Rahul? You're fucking me for free."

His nostrils flared, the cocaine burning through his veins like liquid fire. He grabbed her wrist—too tight, he knew—and yanked her forward until their foreheads nearly touched. "I haven't fucked you as yet," he snarled, the words thick with something uglier than lust, "but yes, I will fuck you like a whore very soon." Another snort of powder burned his sinuses, his vision tunneling until all he could see was the pulse hammering in her throat. His fingers dug into her hip, pressing against bone.

Shagoon blinked up at him, slow and deliberate, her lashes damp with unshed tears. The imprint of his hand bloomed red across her cheek, stark against her golden skin. She didn't rub at it—didn't even flinch—just tilted her chin higher, exposing the delicate column of her throat as if inviting him to strike again. "You're right," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her fingers as they curled into his shirt. "You haven't fucked me. Not yet."

Rahul pulled at her thin dress and tore it up. The fabric gave way with a sound like wet paper, exposing her ribs, the sharp dip of her waist. Shagoon sat naked on the floor trying to cover her B size tiny boobs with one hand and her clean shaven cunt with the other—but her palms were too small, her wrists too delicate. The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting shadows that made her look like a half-finished sketch, all jagged edges and smudged graphite.

"What has gotten into you," she whispered, her voice cracking on the last syllable. A tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light before disappearing into the hollow of her collarbone. "You are my sister's husband and like a brother to me." The words hung between them, weightless and absurd, like a prayer recited in an empty church.

Rahul snorted another line of cocaine off the coffee table, his nostrils flaring with the burn of it. The powder clung to his upper lip like frost as he slid out of his shorts, the fabric pooling around his ankles with a whisper. He grabbed Shagoon by the roots of her hair, twisting his fingers tight until she cried out—a sound that was half pain, half something darker, something that made his stomach clench. "Brothers don't look at sisters like this," he growled, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat.

Shagoon's lips parted on a gasp as he shoved his cock into her mouth, the thick head catching against her teeth before she could adjust. Her gag reflex hit instantly, her throat convulsing around him as tears welled in her lashes. Rahul watched, mesmerized, as spit dribbled down her chin, her nails digging into his thighs hard enough to leave crescents in his skin. She tried to pull back, but he held her there, his hips jerking forward with each shallow thrust. The sound she made—wet, choked, furious—sent a jolt of electricity straight to his balls.

Priya's favorite blue vase wobbled on the side table as Shagoon's knee knocked against it in her struggle. Rahul tightened his grip, forcing her nose into the coarse hair at his groin until her sobs muffled against his flesh. He could feel her heartbeat rabbiting against his thigh, the frantic flutter of her pulse where his thumb pressed into the hinge of her jaw. The rum bottle toppled over, spilling its amber contents across the coffee table—it pooled around the remaining cocaine, dissolving the powder into nothing.

When he came, it was with a snarl that bared his teeth—hot pulses flooding her mouth in thick, salty spurts that made her gag. Shagoon's throat worked convulsively, her eyelashes fluttering like wounded moths as she swallowed. Rahul smoothed the sweat-damp hair from her forehead almost tenderly before dragging her head back by the roots again. "Not a drop," he murmured, watching with detached fascination as a milky thread stretched between her swollen lips when she opened them to prove she'd obeyed.

The spilled rum had spread across the coffee table in dark, sticky fingers, dissolving the last remnants of cocaine into a grainy paste. Shagoon's breath hitched when Rahul nudged her forward with his bare foot between her shoulder blades. "Clean it," he said, his voice quiet and terrible in its calm. The pressure of his toes against her spine increased—just enough to make the vertebrae protest—until her forehead hovered inches above the mess. "Like a bitch licking her master's floor."

Her tongue darted out first—hesitant, trembling—before she pressed her mouth fully to the table's edge. The taste hit her like a slap: burnt sugar and chemical bitterness, the rum's warmth gone sickly in the open air. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working around the grit of undissolved powder clinging to her palate. Rahul watched, transfixed, as a drop of sweat rolled down the side of her face and landed with a soft plink amidst the ruin.

Shagoon's fingers curled against the table's veneer, her nails leaving pale crescents in the cheap laminate. She inhaled sharply through her nose, the sound wet and ragged, before dragging her tongue along a streak of spilled liquor. Her movements were jerky, unpracticed—nothing like the deliberate grace she'd displayed earlier. The cocaine's remnants sparked across her synapses like faulty wiring, her pupils blown so wide the irises were nearly swallowed.

Rahul watched from above, his shadow swallowing her trembling form. His breath came quick and shallow, his pulse visible at his throat. He'd expected resistance, perhaps even disgust—not this clumsy, drugged submission that made his stomach twist with something uncomfortably close to shame. The scent of sweat and rum clung to her skin, thick as perfume, when he gripped her hair again and yanked her upright. Her lips were stained dark, her chin slick with spit and liquor.

"For the next ten days," he hissed, dragging her face close enough to taste his words, "you will do as you're told." Shagoon's eyelashes fluttered, her pupils swallowing the last remnants of reason. Rahul tightened his grip until she whimpered—a sound that sent heat straight to his cock. "Or you'll learn what pain really means." Her breath hitched when his free hand slid between her thighs, his fingers pressing against her cunt with bruising force. The wetness there surprised them both.

Priya's abandoned lipstick rolled across the coffee table, leaving a smeared scarlet trail like a crime scene marker. Shagoon's hips jerked involuntarily when Rahul's thumb found her clit, his touch merciless despite the tremor in his own fingers. The fluorescent light flickered again, casting jagged shadows across her face as she arched against him—fighting or surrendering, even she didn't know anymore.

"Open," Rahul commanded, his voice ragged at the edges. Shagoon's lips parted automatically, her tongue resting against her teeth like a penitent awaiting communion. The first hot spurt of his piss hit the back of her throat with the acrid tang of ammonia and last night's whiskey. She gagged instinctively, her fingers scrabbling against his thighs, but Rahul's grip in her hair held firm. "Swallow," he growled, watching her throat work convulsively as tears cut tracks through the sweat on her cheeks.

When the stream tapered to drips, Shagoon slumped forward, her forehead pressing against his hipbone as she gasped for air. The taste lingered—bitter and metallic—her saliva gone viscous with the effort not to retch. Rahul traced the curve of her ear with his thumb, almost tender, before twisting her head back to inspect his handiwork. Her lips glistened, swollen from abuse, her mascara smeared into raccoon rings that made her look both younger and infinitely more broken.

Äfter she had swallowed all his piss, Rahul turned around and bent over spreading his ass cheeks for her to lick.

"Lick my ass you fucking whore" hissed Rahul.

Shagoon hesitated only a second before pressing her face between his spread cheeks, her tongue darting out tentatively at first, then with growing hunger as the musky salt of him coated her palate. Something cracked open inside her—not resistance, but revelation—as she realized with gut-churning clarity how perfectly her lips fit against this humiliation. Her fingers dug into his thighs not to push away, but to pull him closer, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled the intimate funk of his sweat.

Rahul groaned, his cock throbbing against his stomach with each wet lap of her tongue along his rim. The sensation was electric, filthy, the kind of pleasure that made his teeth ache—not just from the physical stimulation, but from the power humming beneath his skin as Shagoon whimpered against him. Her breath hitched when he reached back to fist a hand in her hair, guiding her deeper until her nose brushed against his balls with every flick of her tongue.

"Harder," he growled, twisting her nipple between his fingers until she gasped against his skin. The pain-pleasure sound she made sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to his groin. He could feel her shuddering breaths against him, the way her body trembled—not just from revulsion, but something darker, something that tasted like surrender.

His finger breached her anal opening without warning, dry and cruel, the drag of skin against skin pulling a ragged cry from her throat. Shagoon's knees buckled, but Rahul held her upright by her hair, his other hand pressing mercilessly against the small of her back. The sting radiated through her in hot, pulsing waves, blurring the line between agony and something far more dangerous.

Rahul spat into his palm, working the saliva into a slick sheen along his cock with rough strokes. The sound—wet, obscene—echoed in the charged air between them. When he pressed his thumb against her clenched hole, she flinched, her muscles quivering like a cornered animal's. "Relax," he murmured, the mockery in his tone undercut by the ragged edge of his breath. "You wanted this."

The first inch was a white-hot tear, a violation so sharp Shagoon's vision blurred at the edges. Her nails gouged crescents into the sofa cushions as she arched away instinctively, but Rahul's hand fisted in her hair kept her pinned. He exhaled through his nose, his hips jerking forward in shallow, stuttering thrusts—not to ease her pain, but to savor the way her body resisted. "Look at you," he breathed, his free hand skimming up her trembling flank. "Taking it like a whore that you are and were made for it."

Her choked sob dissolved into a gasp as he buried himself to the hilt, the brutal fullness forcing her diaphragm to contract. Rahul's groan vibrated through her spine when her muscles fluttered around him, a traitorous pulse of pleasure amidst the burn. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the dimpled skin of her back, each droplet tracing the path his tongue had taken hours earlier. The scent of rum and sex clung to them both, thick as the Mumbai humidity pressing against the windows.

Shagoon's fingers scrabbled against the sofa arm—not to escape, but to anchor herself as his thrusts grew erratic. The pain had sharpened into something brighter, hotter, her body's reluctant betrayal evident in the slickness between her thighs. Rahul's teeth sank into her shoulder as he came, the bite a counterpoint to the molten rush flooding her insides. His hips stuttered against her, each spurt wringing a whimper from her throat as her walls milked him dry.

Then, with a tenderness that startled them both, Rahul slowly turned her around and kissed her passionately on her lips, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth as if searching for the girl she'd been before the rum and the powder and the violence. Shagoon took in the warmth of the kiss—the incongruous softness of it—and felt something inside her fracture cleanly, like glass under a sculptor's chisel. His hands cradled her face now, thumbs brushing the tear tracks on her cheeks with a reverence that made her stomach pitch.

The dining chair creaked beneath them as she settled onto his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, their foreheads touching in a way that felt almost prayerful. Shagoon inhaled sharply when Rahul's fingers tangled in the hair at her nape—not yanking, not controlling—just holding, as if she were something precious he'd pulled from wreckage. The rum bottle lay forgotten on its side, the last few drops darkening the wood grain like old blood.

Outside, the labrador whined against its tether, its claws scraping concrete as it circled the empty food bowl. Shagoon filled up the food in Shera's food bowl. Shagoon's pulse jumped when Rahul's thumb traced the hinge of her jaw, his touch startlingly gentle after the brutality of before. "Sleep," she whispered, her voice raw from screaming, her lips brushing his with each syllable. The word tasted like surrender, like absolution, like something far more dangerous than hate.