She didn't want to be worshipped.
She wanted to be touched like a storm.Held like blasphemy.Moaned into like a death wish.
But that night, when Rekha Devi stepped into the center of the Sabha,she knew what she'd become.
Not a leader.Not a slut.Not a survivor.
She was a ritual.
302A couldn't contain her anymore.
So they rented a room — the top floor of an old lodge near Lakdi-ka-Pul.
Mildewed walls. Faded curtains. Mirrors nailed to concrete.Perfect for a dirty miracle.
They cleared the beds.Spread red bedsheets on the floor like an altar.Lit sixty agarbattis in empty vodka bottles.
The room smelled like sin remembering how to pray.
Women came barefoot.
Some wrapped in sarees like armor.
Some in torn nighties.Some in nothing but sindoor and silk scarves.
One woman brought her wedding chain.Dropped it in Rekha's palm and whispered:
"Use this to tie me down."
And Rekha?
She came dressed in gold chains and nothing else.
One draped across her breasts.One between her thighs.
Her eyes lined in kohl so dark it looked like smoke.
Her body — oiled. Glowing. Bitten from the night before.
She stood in the center, legs wide, hands open.
Not a leader. Not a goddess.A door.
And she was ready to be opened.
Seema knelt first.
Always.
Loyal.
Ferocious.
She crawled to Rekha, dragging her saree behind like a ritual offering.
No words.
Just breath.
She kissed Rekha's ankles. Then her thighs.
Bit gently at the softest part between her legs.
Rekha gasped — and let her body sway into it, into Seema's mouth like it was fate.
Seema buried her face deeper.
Licked her like worship.Like hunger.Like home.
Every woman watched.Their hands wandered beneath sarees.Fingers slipped into silence.
Some moaned.
Some wept.
But no one looked away.
Rekha pulled Seema's face up by the hair.
Her mouth was glistening.
Her eyes glazed.
Rekha kissed her. Deep.Tasted herself on Seema's tongue.
Then she turned to the room and said softly:
"Come. All of you. Touch. Taste. Take."
The room moved like liquid.
Four women crawled to her.
One kissed her breast.Another sucked her toes.A third pulled her nipple between her teeth and whispered:
"I forgot I could want this."
Rekha lay down — the Queen of Wet Mouths and Burnt Shame.
Seema straddled her face.
Rekha's tongue found her clit like it had missed it.
Two fingers slipped in. Slow. Knuckle-deep.
Seema bucked.
Screamed.
Ground her hips harder.
One of the women moaned loudly and whispered in Telugu:
"అమ్మాయిలు ఇలా రేప్ చేస్తే నేను పోలీస్ స్టేషన్కు వెళ్ళను... నేను తిరిగి తిరిగి వస్తాను."(If girls rape like this, I won't go to the police… I'll keep coming back.)
Laughter rippled through the room.
Rekha didn't stop licking.
Didn't pause until Seema came — violently, full-body tremors and a scream so raw the agarbatti smoke trembled.
Then Rekha sat up.
Her face wet.Her lips slick.Her thighs glistening.
She grabbed the girl who had joked.Pulled her onto her lap.
"Your turn," Rekha said.
And slapped her ass hard enough to echo.
The girl moaned.
Rekha bit her collarbone.Sucked her nipple into her mouth and didn't let go.
Two more women joined.
Hands. Mouths. Tongues.
Licking her armpits.Kissing her spine.Rubbing oil between her ass cheeks.
Rekha gasped.
Opened her legs wider.
Then said — loud and clear:
"ఒక్క అమ్మాయి నన్ను మింగితే చాలు. నేను దేవుడి దగ్గరకు పోతా."(Let just one girl devour me. I'll reach God faster than any prayer.)
And someone did.
From behind the curtain, a figure stepped forward.
Covered in a silk shawl.Face hidden.But the lips…
The lips found Rekha's cunt without hesitation.
The tongue was confident.Rough.Cruel.
Like a man.
But the hands were soft.Delicate.
Like a woman.
Rekha gasped.
Moaned loud.
Clawed at the sheets.
"Who… who are you?"
No answer.
Only deeper strokes.
Tongue lashing against her clit.Fingers curling inside her like they were writing scripture.
Rekha's legs shook.Eyes rolled back.
She came hard — screaming "దేవుడా!" (Oh God!)
And collapsed.
When she opened her eyes, the figure was gone.
A single note left behind.Pinned with a lipstick kiss on her belly.
"Next time, I want to fuck you until the Goddess inside you begs me to stop."
No name.
No scent.
Just wet lips and a promise.
The women helped Rekha sit up.
Seema kissed her forehead.
The others kissed her thighs.
One whispered:
"You're not Rekha anymore. You're Devi."
And she believed it.
For the first time, Rekha believed she wasn't wrong.
She wasn't dirty.
She was holy in the filth.
She stood naked before the crowd.
Held her arms wide.
And said:
"Let the men keep their temples.Let the priests keep their bells.Here… in my lap… is the only god worth praying to."
They bowed.
Not to shame.
Not to tradition.
To desire.
To the Unfaithful Hour.