The late-morning sun glared through the gauze curtains of the upstairs sitting room, turning the dust motes into slow-swirling flecks of gold. Sheela lounged on the overstuffed sofa, one slim leg draped over its arm, the other bent so her thin cotton skirt slipped well past mid-thigh. She had chosen the skirt deliberately—an old thing she had outgrown, the hem frayed, the fabric so worn it clung to the convex swell of her hips and the delta between her legs whenever she moved.

Sheela’s pulse already beat low and insistent in her clit. For hours the slick ache had been gathering, leaking into the gusset of her pale-pink panties while the rest of the household moved obliviously through chores downstairs. Her arousal was a familiar fever, warm and constant, but today it felt sharper, hungrier: she pictured the boys—her cousins—laughing in the courtyard earlier, their voices rough, their shirts plastered to muscled backs by honest sweat. She had bitten her lip so hard she tasted iron, wondering how their calloused hands would feel tugging that same skirt off her hips, how their raw male scents would mingle with the wet musk of her pussy.