Festival Nights When the Whole Town Was Busy and We Were Not

The drums from the main square were still going when I heard the soft knock.

It was the third night of the festival. My husband had left that morning to help with the rituals in the next village and would not return until the final day. The house felt too large. The air smelled of incense and fried sweets drifting from other courtyards. I had already turned off most of the lights.

I opened the door. Dev stood there in a simple white shirt, the festival mark still faintly visible on his forehead. He lived in the house behind ours. We had spoken only in passing for years—polite nods, the occasional borrowed tool, nothing more. Yet I had felt his eyes on me more than once when he thought I wasn’t looking.

“I saw your lights,” he said quietly. “Thought you might want company.”

I should have thanked him and closed the door. Instead I stepped aside.

He came in. The door shut. For a moment we simply stood in the dim front room, the distant music throbbing like a second heartbeat. Then he reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from my face. His fingers lingered at my cheek.

“Tell me to leave,” he said.

I didn’t.

The first kiss was slow, almost careful, as if he expected me to change my mind. When I opened my mouth under his, the carefulness burned away. His hands settled on my waist and pulled me flush against him. I could feel how hard he already was. The knowledge sent a sharp pulse between my legs.

We didn’t speak. There was nothing left that needed saying.

He walked me backward until my spine met the wall. My blouse came open under his fingers. He pushed the fabric aside and closed his mouth over my breast, sucking hard enough to make me gasp. His other hand slid under my skirt and found me already wet. Two fingers pushed inside me without warning. I bit down on his shoulder to stay quiet.

He worked me open with steady strokes until my knees threatened to give out. When I came the first time he held me up and kept his fingers moving through it, watching my face the entire time.

Only then did he lift me. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me to the bedroom—the same bed I shared with my husband. He laid me down and stripped with efficient movements. When he settled between my thighs I reached down and guided him in.

He pushed inside in one long, unbroken thrust. The stretch forced a broken sound from my throat. He gave me three shallow strokes, then started fucking me in deep, powerful drives that made the old wooden bedframe creak. One hand pinned my wrist above my head. The other gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.

I came again within minutes, clenching around him. He followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt and holding there as he emptied into me with a low groan.

We stayed locked together, breathing hard. Outside, the festival drums continued. Inside, the only sound was our uneven breath.

He pulled out slowly. I felt the warm slide of him leaving me. Before I could move he turned me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and entered me again from behind. This round was harder, less controlled. One hand wrapped in my hair, the other reaching under me to rub tight circles over my clit. I pushed back to meet every thrust. When I came the third time my arms gave out. He held me up and kept going until he finished a second time, grinding deep.

Afterward he collapsed half on top of me. His mouth rested against the back of my neck.

“I’m coming back tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I know.”

He left before midnight. I lay in the dark, body aching in the best way, the scent of him still on my skin, and listened to the distant music until sleep finally took me.

The next night he arrived earlier. We didn’t bother with conversation. He had me against the kitchen counter first—skirt shoved up, underwear pushed aside, one of my legs hooked over his arm while he fucked me standing. Then again on the floor. Then once more in the bed before he finally left.

The third night was slower. We took our time. He learned exactly where to touch me to make my breath stutter. I learned the precise sound he made when he was close. We came together twice before he had to go.

On the final night of the festival my husband returned. The house filled with the usual noise of arrival—bags, stories, the smell of temple sweets. I smiled. I served tea. I listened.

Later, when the house was quiet again, I stood at the back window and looked toward the house behind ours. A single light was still on. I knew he was there. I knew he was waiting to see if the light in my room would go out.

I left it on a little longer than necessary.

Then I turned it off and went to bed beside my husband, body still carrying the memory of the previous three nights, already knowing that the next time the festival drums started, the door would open again.