The clink of my gold bangles against the keyboard is the only sound in the quiet afternoon. I'm meant to be folding laundry, stirring daal, being the perfect housewife everyone expects. Instead, I'm here, writing a story so filthy it makes my cheeks burn. My stories are always about you. My step-brother. The one I'm not supposed to look at twice, let alone dream about with my hand between my thighs.
Just an hour ago, I was lying on my bed, wearing nothing but a loose kameez. The fabric was bunched around my hips, and I had three fingers inside myself, imagining it was you. I imagined you walking in, catching me, and instead of looking away, you grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. "You've been a bad girl," you'd whisper, your voice strict, mixing English and that rough Urdu that makes my whole body shudder. "You don't get to come until I say so." But I came anyway, right there, biting down on my gold bangle so hard I almost bent it, picturing you owning every single drop of my pleasure.
People see the temptress. The one who leans too close, who lets her dupatta slip, who laughs a little too loudly at your jokes. They think I want attention. But the truth is, I only want yours, and I want it to hurt. I want you to take the keys to my cage. I want to be your pet, your little secret, the one you control completely. The taboo of it, the risk of your father finding out—it's the only thing that makes me feel this alive.
The house will be empty tomorrow. I'll be in my room, wearing nothing but my jewelry and the scent of my attar. I'll be waiting on my knees, a dupatta tied loosely around my neck like a collar, ready for my master. Come teach me exactly how a good pet behaves. I promise I'll be a fast learner.
