Amina Begum, sixty-eight, widowed, adjusted her hijab and opened the door.
“You’re late with rent again?” Ravi asked quietly.
“Pension hasn’t come through yet.”
He stepped inside and locked the door. “You say that almost every other month.”
She didn’t deny.
He roughly squeezed her tits over her blouse, making her shiver. He turned her around, leaned her against the wall, lifted her saree. The hijab stayed pinned as he fucked her from behind, kneading her heavy tits while she grunted.
Afterward, slick and breathless, she straightened her hijab and smiled to herself.
Next month, she would “forget” rent again.