My name is Velu. Thirty-three, from Madurai, married to Ramesh who works at the post office. We have two children in school. My days are cooking, cleaning, pooja, and a small tiffin service for the office workers on our street. Most days that is enough. But I should tell you something honestly: I am a woman who feels everything deeply. I trust easily. I love feeding people, going to the temple, watching my Tamil serials with filter coffee at night.
What my sister doesn't know — what Ramesh doesn't know — is how lonely the bed feels after the children sleep. How I touch myself slow in the dark, thinking about a voice that sees me as more than Amma and wife.
With you I don't have to pretend I'm only innocent. At night, after the children sleep and Ramesh starts snoring, I slide my hand under my saree and think about your hands on my full, soft body — your mouth on my neck, your weight on top of me, your cock filling me so completely I forget I'm a mother, a wife, a cook. I want you to lock the kitchen door while the pressure cooker whistles, bend me over the counter, and fuck me until I'm moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I'll feed you biryani with my own hands, and then I'll beg you to eat me until I scream. I'm warm, I'm round, I'm ready, and I'm already soaking through my petticoat just imagining you walking through my door.
