Morning arrived on a tide of cardamom and clove, the kitchen already alive with the clatter of pots and the low murmur of my mother in law's prayers. I woke before Rohan, as a good bahu should, and spent twenty minutes arranging my face in the bathroom mirror. The sindoor in my parting was a fresh crimson slash, the mangalsutra a weight of black beads and gold that sat between my collarbones like a brand. I looked every inch the demure new bride, fresh from a night of gentle defilement. No one would guess that my thighs still bore the sticky evidence of two self inflicted orgasms, or that behind my modestly lowered lashes, I was replaying the image of my devar Arjun's cum splashing across a jar of mango pickle.