Some doors aren't meant to be opened.But Rekha had stopped knocking a long time ago.
She used to ask permission.
Now she used keys.
The velvet box waited.
She hadn't touched it in two days.
But that night, after Seema had left — cheeks flushed, thighs still glistening — Rekha sat with it in her lap, naked.
The key was heavier than it looked.
Cool metal. Smooth curve. Almost sensual.
She didn't know what it opened.
But she knew what it promised:
No boundaries. No locks. No apologies.
She found the door at noon.
An old flat three streets away.Unused. Faint numberplate. 302A.Paint chipped. Dust settled in the corners.
But when she slid the key in, the lock turned.
Soft.Click.
And the door opened to silence.
Inside: bare floors. One mirror. No furniture.Just light from a cracked window and a scent of history.
It wasn't a home.
It was a stage.
And she was ready to perform.
That evening, Ishan arrived.
Unshaven. Tired. Hungry.
But he looked at her like a starving man.
She said nothing.
Just handed him the key.
He blinked. "What's this?"
"My desire. In physical form."
He turned it in his hand.
"This real?"
"It opens a door. But only if you're willing to leave everything else outside."
He didn't ask where.
He just followed her.
They walked in silence.Three blocks.302A.
The door opened again.
And they stepped into a room that had no memory.
No marriage. No fights. No family. No past.
Just present.
She stripped first.
Deliberate.Unhurried.
Then stood before him, bare.
"Rules?"
She smiled. "There aren't any."
He undressed like a soldier being de-armed.
She pinned him to the wall. Kissed him. Bit him. Dragged her nails down his chest until he hissed.
Then dropped to her knees.
Blew him with no grace, no romance — just raw, wet, gagging hunger.
He groaned. Fisted her hair.
She slapped his thigh. "Don't guide. Just feel."
He let go.
And she swallowed every inch like she was reclaiming something.
Then she stood.
Turned around.Bent over the windowsill.Spread herself wide.
"Take me where anyone could see."
And he did.
Brutal thrust. No words.
Her breasts hit the glass. Her moans echoed off cracked walls.
He grabbed her hips like he'd never touched anything this alive before.
She looked into the street — saw a man walk past.
He paused. Looked up.
She held his gaze as Ishan fucked her from behind.
She smiled.
He froze. Stared.
Then walked on.
Her orgasm came seconds later — loud, messy, glorious.
They didn't leave for hours.
Just kept using each other.
Against the wall. On the floor. Over the sink.
Until both of them collapsed in the sunlight.
Legs tangled. Skin burning.
He kissed her shoulder and whispered, "I'm never going back."
But back was coming for them.
The next day, Seema arrived at the flat.
Uninvited. Unapologetic.
Rekha opened the door naked.
Seema stepped in, stripped silently, and climbed onto the table.
Laid there. Legs spread. Arms open.
"Paint me," she whispered.
"I don't have a brush."
"Then use your tongue."
Rekha did.
Slow strokes.Wide licks.Flicks like fire.
Seema moaned. Shook. Came thrice before she even touched her own chest.
Ishan walked in mid-moan.
He didn't freeze.
He watched.
Then slowly undressed.
Said nothing.
Rekha didn't stop.
She looked up at him — eyes dark, lips wet — and whispered:
"Come. Worship."
They didn't discuss what it meant.
Not that night.
Not the next.
Not even when the three of them woke up together, limbs draped like vines, Seema's fingers on Rekha's stomach and Ishan's face buried between her thighs.
No one spoke of labels.
Only limits.
And how none existed anymore.
The room without locks became their temple.
No phones. No names. No outside noise.
Only need.
Sometimes Rekha was the center — taken by both.
Sometimes Seema climbed on top of Ishan while Rekha sat on his face.
Sometimes all three collapsed in a heap, dizzy, leaking, laughing.
It wasn't love.
It was more honest than that.
But honesty burns.
And someone always smells smoke.
Rekha's mother called.
"People are talking."
"I know."
"About your behavior. Men. Women. That man with the beard."
"So?"
"So are they right?"
Rekha smiled.
"Tell them they haven't seen anything yet."
She hung up.
Then took Ishan and Seema to the roof of 302A.
Midnight.
Stars above. Nothing but sky and breath.
She laid them both down.
Kissed them one after another.
Then rode Ishan while Seema sat behind him, biting his ear, whispering filth.
Rekha came screaming.
Seema followed.
Ishan shook like he was dying.
No one said I love you.
They didn't need to.
Because what they shared wasn't romantic.
It was religion.
And in this new church, Rekha was both priestess and sinner.
And the door?
It stayed unlocked.
For whoever dared to enter.