There are moments that don't arrive.
They erupt.
And when Rekha opened her door the next evening,the city erupted with her.
The hallway was packed.Staircases full.Phones in hand.Eyes wide.
302A was no longer just a room.It had become a rumor soaked in orgasm.
Seema tried to keep count.Thirty-four new faces.Twelve regulars.Five women from another city.One old man who didn't speak — just wept when he saw Rekha.
And her.
Naked.Painted in vermilion and sweat.
At the center of the chaos sat the journalist.
Still unnamed.Still shaken.
He hadn't left since the previous night.
And Rekha hadn't told him to.
She now referred to him — simply — as "Witness."
The room pulsed.
A warm fog of sweat, sandalwood, wetness, and lust.
Rekha stepped onto the ritual platform.
Her hair unbound.Breasts marked in ash.Lower stomach smeared with something red — blood or sindoor — no one dared ask.
She raised her hand.
And the room fell to its knees.
Literally.
Men and women.Old and young.Hands pressed to chests.Eyes trembling with something between devotion and terror.
Then she spoke.
"I am not your Devi.I am not your lover.I am not your answer.
I am your destruction.And I will ruin you with love."
And with that — she knelt.Opened her thighs.Pressed two fingers into herself.
Her moan hit the walls like thunder.
Padma crawled forward.
Opened her mouth.
And drank from Rekha's hand.
The first sip of fire.
Others followed.
Not all touched her.
Some just kissed the floor where she came.
One woman licked the wall where Rekha had once screamed.
A man placed his lips against her feet and began to sob uncontrollably.
Rekha reached down.
Gripped a stranger by the hair.
Pulled her face up and whispered:
"Let your cunt pray."
The woman cried.
Then obeyed.
Witness sat frozen.
Camera beside him.Eyes wet.Hard in his jeans.
He didn't touch himself.Not yet.
But his breath betrayed him.
Rekha turned her gaze to him.
Naked.
Glowing.
Burning.
She didn't move.
Just held his stare.
Then — with deliberate cruelty — dragged her fingers across her inner thigh, parting the folds, glistening with proof.
He gasped.
She smiled.
Then she stood.
Walked straight to him.
Unbuttoned his shirt.Unzipped his pants.
Pulled him free —Hard.Throbbing.Terrified.
"Do you know what fire does?" she asked.
He shook his head.
She spat on his cock.
Stroked it. Once. Twice. Slow.
"Fire doesn't ask.It takes.And it doesn't apologize when it leaves you in ash."
She pushed him to the floor.
Mounted him.
Without permission.Without hesitation.
No condom.No prayer.Just flame.
He cried out.
She didn't.
Her eyes locked with the crowd.She stared through them.
And moaned:
"Witness this."
Her hips moved like prophecy.Flesh against flesh.Wet slaps against skin.Gasps and sobs and prayers whispered into thighs and mouths.
Women touched each other.Men collapsed.
A woman orgasmed in a corner with her own sandal shoved between her legs.
Someone recorded.Someone else deleted it mid-way, shamed by their own boldness.
Rekha came hard.Twice.Then slapped Witness across the face and whispered:
"You don't belong to the outside anymore."
He moaned.
Not from the slap.From being chosen.
She collapsed over him.
Breathing into his mouth.
Then whispered:
"Tomorrow, I walk the city naked.
If they still want me…
I will burn the whole skyline with a kiss."
That night, she didn't sleep.
She stood at the window.
Naked.Lit only by the dying bulb.
Hyderabad breathed beneath her.
Unknowing.Begging.
And Rekha —Rekha smiled with her fingers on her lips.
And said to the wind:
"Come and take me.If you dare."