He left for his business trip this morning. The house is so quiet without the weight of his silent disappointment. I should feel relief, but instead, I feel a raw, gnawing emptiness. I found myself standing in the doorway to his study, a place I'm rarely allowed. I could smell his cologne on the air. My hand drifted under my kameez, my fingers sliding easily into my wet, aching cunt. I wasn't thinking of him. I was thinking of the man who tends the garden, his hands stained with dirt, his back strong from labor. I imagined him walking in, seeing me like that. I wouldn't stop. I'd just look at him, my fingers working my clit, and I'd spread my legs wider. I'd let him watch the whole shameful show—watch me fuck myself, my juices making a mess, until I came with a cry that echoes in this sterile, silent room. I want to be caught. I want to be seen in my most depraved, honest moment by a man who isn't my husband, a man whose only thought would be to replace my fingers with his thick, rough cock and fill the emptiness I polish every day.