The penthouse swallowed Ishani whole as she stepped through the door that evening, the flat a void of shadows and silence, Mumbai's neon heartbeat pulsing faintly beyond the glass walls like a distant lover's sigh. At 23, her body still thrummed with the morning's illicit echoes—Virat's palm smacking her soaked pussy, the wet slap igniting orgasms that left her thighs slick and trembling through college lectures, her salwar damp against her folds, nipples chafing the kameez in traitorous peaks. Julia Aunty's week-long leave post-marriage amplified the isolation, the old woman's knowing smiles absent, leaving only the hum of the AC and her own ragged breaths. He's not home, she thought, a pang twisting low in her belly—not fear, but that forbidden ache, craving his massive frame pinning her to the wall, cock grinding her core until she shattered again.