They say ghosts don't fuck.
But Rekha now knew better.
Because her body didn't lie.
It remembered.It ached.It soaked itself at 3:00 a.m. every night since the visitation.
She tried everything.
Blindfolds.Rituals.Making Seema tie her down and call her "Ammayi" while fucking her with soaked fingers.
But it wasn't enough.
Seema's tongue was loyal.Her moans were music.
But her touch was known.
Familiar.
It didn't make Rekha's body panic with pleasure.
It didn't make her feel like her cunt was being read like a sacred text in a foreign language.
So she waited.
Night after night.
Naked. Oiled. Alone.
And the invisible lover didn't return.
No notes.
No whispers.
Only her own reflection in the mirror, whispering:
"You're nothing without their tongue, Rekha Devi."
By the fourth night, her cravings had become rituals.
She wouldn't eat.Wouldn't bathe.
She sat in front of the mirror cross-legged, hair wild, nipples pierced with sindoor dots, chanting her own name like a spell:
"Rekha... Rekha... Rekha..."
Then she'd slide her fingers down.Rub until her moans turned to sobs.
And still, it wasn't enough.
302A had become haunted.Not with ghosts.
But with her own madness.
The Sabha had paused.The door stayed shut.
Seema tried to bring her food.
Rekha slapped it away.
"I'm fasting until they come back."
Seema knelt.
"Let me touch you. Please. I can make you forget."
Rekha shook her head.
"You're too real. I want the impossible."
And then... someone knocked.
But not the way others did.
Not shy.
Not soft.
Three knocks. Then silence.
She opened the door.
No one.
Just a white cloth bag.Inside: a small bottle of rose oil.A thick leather collar.And a note:
"Tonight, let the Sabha open. I want to see who dares to kneel beside my place at your feet."
Her body went cold.
Then hot.
Her nipples stiffened like accusations.
She held the collar to her neck.
It smelled like leather and mystery.
That night, Rekha opened 302A.
The Sabha was quiet at first.
Only seven women.
No moans.No kisses.Just eyes — watching her.
Seema whispered, "Should we begin?"
Rekha nodded.But said nothing.
Instead, she walked to the center.
Naked, except for the collar.
And lay down.
Legs wide.Breasts high.Eyes closed.
Then she spoke, voice like smoke.
"Who will come fuck me tonight?But know this — the one who makes me scream will become my next Devi."
Silence.
Then... movement.
A new girl. Young. Slim. Nervous.
She crawled forward.
Shaking.
Kissed Rekha's knee.
Whispered, "May I?"
Rekha nodded.
The girl opened her legs wider.
Slid her tongue inside.
Soft.
Careful.
Searching.
But Rekha didn't moan.
Didn't sigh.
Didn't tremble.
She stroked the girl's head like a mother.
But her body remained cold.
Another came.
A widow, hips wide, mouth hungrier.
She used her tongue like a whip — fast, forceful, violent.
Rekha moaned.
Once.
But no climax.
No scream.
Then a third.
Seema, of course.
She always knew how to make Rekha melt.
But even Seema's tongue, curled against her clit in precise little circles, couldn't summon the madness.
Rekha's body tensed.
She rubbed her own breasts.
Felt the hunger rising.
But no explosion.
No surrender.
She stood.
Pushed them all away.
Eyes wild.
Voice sharp:
"None of you are them."
The Sabha fell silent.
One girl began crying softly.
Rekha walked to the corner.
Kneeling by her bag.
Pulled out the leather collar.
And the note.
She read it aloud.
Slowly.
Word by word.
"I want to see who dares to kneel beside my place at your feet."
Then she looked up.
And asked:
"Is the one who wrecked me here? Or are you all just echoes?"
Silence.
Then — something no one expected.
A man stepped inside.
He was tall.Lean.Face half-covered in a scarf.Dark eyes.Long fingers.
He said nothing.
Only walked forward.Removed his shoes.
And knelt.
Beside Rekha.
Gasps filled the room.
Seema stood. "No men allowed in the Sabha—!"
Rekha held up her hand.
"Quiet."
The man didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just stared at her.
Then... reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a card.
On it: one word.
"Beloved."
Rekha's lips parted.
Her knees trembled.
Her cunt throbbed — instantly.
She walked to him.Stood over him.And said:
"Was it you?"
He didn't reply.
Just placed his hand over his own mouth.
Then pointed at her.
At her cunt.
Then made a gesture — as if writing poetry in the air.
Rekha collapsed to her knees.
Tears. Moans. Heat.
She grabbed his scarf — pulled it halfway down.
Not his whole face.
Just enough to see the lips.
Those lips.
She touched them.
And whispered:
"Don't speak. Just do it again. Make me scream without touching me."
He leaned in.
Stopped just an inch from her clit.
His breath — warm, focused, rhythmically pulsing like a heartbeat.
He exhaled in patterns.
Then let his tongue flick the air.Never touching her.
Just... tempting the ghost back into her.
Her legs gave out.
She dropped back.
One hand on her breast.The other gripping his scarf.
Her body convulsed.
She screamed.
Not from orgasm.
But from being broken open.
Everyone in the room fell silent.
Then — moans.
Two women started touching each other.
Seema fell to her knees and began rubbing herself, watching Rekha dissolve.
The man stood.
Left silently.
Rekha, still on the floor, whispered:
"That… that was the second time…And still, I don't even know your fucking name."
Later that night, she wrote her own note.
Not to him.
But to herself.
"If this is what being fucked by the unseen feels like…then I was never loyal to the visible world anyway."