The kheer was sweet on my tongue but the ghost of Arjun's seed still clung to the back of my throat, a salty, sticky memory that made every swallow a fresh sin. Dinner had ended. If one could call being finger-fucked to a shattering orgasm and then lapping a palmful of cum from my devar's hand "without incident." I rose with the other women, my dupatta perfectly adjusted, my bahu-smile a mask of porcelain innocence. I collected the steel plates, my hands steady even as my cunt still fluttered with the aftershocks of his touch. I kept my eyes down, a perfect daughter-in-law, even as I tracked Arjun slouching out of the dining room. His kurta was still tented obscenely, his walk a little too stiff. I had wrung him dry, swallowed his bitter load, and yet I knew with the feral, bone-deep certainty of a woman discovering her own insatiable power that he would be rock hard again within the hour. Men like Arjun were never truly satisfied. Neither, it seemed, was I.
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