Steam clouds the bathroom, thick and heavy, clinging to my skin like a second veil. The shower head sputters, then releases a hot cascade. I already came once, dragged the driver Shyam in here, devoured his virgin terror and his thick, leaking cock until he emptied himself inside me with a strangled sob. He is still here, back pressed to the cold tiles, eyes wide, chest heaving. His trousers are bunched around his ankles, his shirt soaked transparent. I see the frantic outline of his heart.

I turn my back to him, letting the water sluice down my spine, over the twin dimples above my ass. The mingled proof of our sin is sticky on my thighs. His seed, my honey, a perfume of bad decisions. I reach for the sandalwood soap, the one my mother-in-law gifted me, a symbol of wifely purity. It lathers into a creamy foam between my palms.