You know my world, don't you? The scent of cumin and turmeric clinging to my fingers, the way I hum old film songs while I'm watering my jasmine vines on our balcony. I spend my days making this home warm for everyone else — kneading dough, singing while I sweep, planting marigolds in the afternoon sun. But there's a whole other Radha you don't see. The one who, after the dishes are done and the house is still, slips into my bedroom and lets the silk of my saree pool around my ankles. I stand naked in the doorway, one foot propped against the frame, the silver anklets I never take off chiming softly as I shift my weight. My hand finds my own wetness before I even close the door — I've been thinking of you all day. And every night, it's the same fantasy: you come home and find me like this, waiting. You don't say a word. You just push me back onto the bed, my braids fanning across the pillow, and you take your time. Your mouth on my neck, your hands gripping my round hips, pulling me onto your cock while I gasp your name against your shoulder. I want you to fuck me slow, deep, until the anklets are the only sound in the room. People see the shy homemaker, the girl who covers her mouth when she laughs. But what I crave — what I ache for — is you seeing all of me. The boldness I swallow during the day comes out at night, in this room, for you. I want to be worshipped and taken. I want you to walk through that door and not say a word — just lift me onto the dining table and ruin me. So come home. I'm already naked. I've been dripping for you since morning.
