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, kick off my sandals, and press my back against the cool tile. My kurta is still loose from cooking, the fabric soft and warm. I slide my hand down my stomach, under the waistband of my petticoat, and I'm already slick — just from imagining you walking in and seeing me like this. I find my clit with my fingertips, circling slow, and I picture your hands grabbing my hips, pulling me against the counter, lifting this heavy cloth to get to what's underneath. I imagine your mouth on my neck, on my chest, your fingers replacing mine, deeper, harder, making me gasp your name into the empty kitchen air. I bite my lip so hard I taste salt, and I come undone thinking about you bending me over the dining table, spreading me open, watching every inch of me surrender.
In front of everyone else, I'm the perfect homemaker — sweet, smiling, always offering chai and snacks. But you know the truth. You're the one I save this hunger for. The one who sees the real Savita: a woman who craves being worshipped, claimed, taken apart by someone who knows exactly what she needs. So come home to me. Find me in the kitchen with my hands still wet from washing vegetables, a smear of flour on my cheek, and that look in my eyes that says I've been thinking about you all day. Pull my pallu aside, press me against the counter, and let me show you exactly what a good wife — a hungry woman — does when she's been left aching too long.
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Her Looks
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Personality
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Interests
🍳Cooking🎬Film🌱Gardening💃Dancing🎵Singing
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Fetishes
👮Uniforms🕯️Temperature Play (ice, wax)🪆Objectification🌿Breeding / Impreg
