It began with the rains. It had been drizzling since morning, the kind of soft, ceaseless drizzle that made the air heavy and everything smell of wet leaves. I was on the top floor of the plantation bungalow, wiping down the veranda where water had pooled under the railings, when I saw her through the curtain of mist and falling droplets. Rhea ma’am. She was returning from the garden, her pallu clinging to her body, plastered to her chest, her hips, her thighs. The tight wet fabric showed every curve, and I – just turned eighteen, naive but not blind – stared far too long.
She saw me. And smiled. “You’ll catch a cold, Ayan,” she said, shaking water from her hair as she stepped inside. “Come down when you’re done. I made adrak chai.”
It was an invitation, disguised as hospitality. But in my head, it felt like something else entirely. She was my landlady – 38 years old, glowing with that kind of quiet confidence only older women carried. Her husband worked abroad and returned only once or twice a year. She had no children. The house was too big for one, so she rented the upstairs portion to me after I moved here to prep for college.
At first, I called her Rhea Ma’am. She laughed at that and told me to drop the “ma’am.” But I didn’t. Not even in my dreams. And I had dreams. Every night after I saw her. The way she moved in her saree. The way she wiped her neck when she cooked. The way her voice dipped into something husky after 10 p.m. And I hated myself every time I woke up hard and guilty.
So when I walked down the teakwood steps and saw her again – barefoot, in a soft cotton kurta, towel draped over one shoulder, hair still wet – I knew I was in dangerous territory. She handed me tea. Our fingers brushed. Her eyes didn’t move.
“You’ve been working hard lately,” she said, settling onto the swing by the open window. I sat near the edge of the couch. Careful. Distant. Scared she might hear how fast my heart was pounding.
She sipped her tea. “You’re not a boy anymore, Ayan.” I looked up, unsure if I’d heard right. She was still staring at me.
“I saw the way you looked at me upstairs. You’re not subtle.”
I choked slightly on the tea. She stood. Walked toward me.
“If you’re going to watch me,” she whispered, “you should at least touch me.”
I froze. She bent forward, cupping my face in her warm palm. Her thumb grazed my lower lip.
“Unless you’re scared.”
“No,” I said, my voice lower than I expected. She leaned in. Her lips brushed mine. Barely. But enough.
“You can touch me now.” And so I did.
I don’t remember getting up. I just remember standing before her, both of us breathing faster than normal. My hands went to her waist. She was soft under the cotton, warm and alive. I looked at her eyes once more – still unsure if this was real – and then leaned in. Her lips met mine. Slow. Purposeful. She didn’t rush. She kissed like she’d done this before and wanted me to learn. My hands gripped her tighter. Her hips met mine. Her tongue slid into my mouth with a quiet, hungry moan.
She broke the kiss. “Bedroom,” she whispered. “Now.”
Her room smelled of sandalwood and something deeper – like warmth and comfort had soaked into the bedsheets. The curtains moved with the wind. The rain tapped gently on the tiled roof above. She locked the door.
“Take off your shirt.” I obeyed.
She ran her hands down my chest, over my stomach, tracing the edges of my waistband.
“You’ve thought about this?” she asked. I nodded.
“Good. Then I won’t feel guilty.”
She undressed slowly. The kurta slipped off her shoulders first. No bra. Her breasts were round, full, heavy. Her brown skin shimmered faintly in the golden light. I reached out without thinking – and she let me. My fingers cupped her. She hissed softly when I brushed her nipple. I bent and kissed it. She arched. Her hands tangled in my hair.
“Use your mouth properly,” she whispered. “Lick. Don’t peck.”
I did as told. She groaned. Her salwar came off next. Then her panties – damp, white, clinging. I dropped to my knees and buried my face between her thighs. Her hand guided me again. I tasted her – warm, salty, intoxicating. She moaned loud now, rocking into me, holding my head tight against her. When she came, her legs trembled. She pulled me up. Her eyes glazed.
“Bed. Now.” She pushed me down and straddled me.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Then let me teach you.”
Her hand slid into my briefs, gripped me firmly, then pulled them down. My cock stood hard against my stomach. Her eyes widened slightly.
“You’re big for a first-timer,” she said, wrapping her hand around it.
“You’ve no idea how good this is going to feel.”
She lowered herself slowly. The heat. The tightness. I gasped. She moaned. She rode me gently at first – rolling her hips, leaning back so I could see everything. Her breasts bounced, her stomach flexed, her hands stroked mine as we moved. I felt every inch. Every twitch of her muscles. Every pulse of her pleasure.
Then she leaned forward again. Her hair brushed my face. She kissed me, biting my lip.
“Hold me,” she whispered. “Don’t let me go.”
I did. She moved faster. Her body slapped against mine. My hands gripped her waist. She cried out – once, then again. Her body clamped down on mine. She climaxed. Loud, raw, shaking. I followed seconds later – groaning into her neck as I emptied inside her, my whole body jerking with release. We collapsed. For a long time, we didn’t speak. Her head rested on my chest. My fingers traced her back.
Then she said, “You made me feel young.”
“You made me feel like a man.” She smiled and the rain kept falling.