<![CDATA[Xossipy - English Sex Stories]]>

<![CDATA[Xossipy - English Sex Stories]]> https://xossipy.com/ Sat, 07 Nov 2026 01:04:38 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Bewafa GF]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75778.html Fri, 06 Nov 2026 13:34:21 +0300 rekhaaji]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75778.html <![CDATA[My wife through the lens of CCTV - Continued]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75770.html Fri, 06 Nov 2026 07:27:58 +0300 shivanikaur2]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75770.html This will be a continuation for My wife through the lens of CCTV after taking permission from the original author]]> This will be a continuation for My wife through the lens of CCTV after taking permission from the original author]]> <![CDATA[♋❤️⭐❤️⭐ Happy 8th Anniversary (04th Nov) Xossipy ❤️⭐❤️⭐☯]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75574.html Wed, 04 Nov 2026 00:14:12 +0300 sarit11]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75574.html Happy 8th Anniversary, Xossipy (04th Nov)

Today marks 8 wonderful years since our Forum launched. We are incredibly grateful to every visitor, member, and supporter who has made Xossipy what it is today. Wishing everyone a very happy occasion on this milestone day. Here’s to many more years of growing together!

]]> Happy 8th Anniversary, Xossipy (04th Nov)

]]> <![CDATA[The Handyman: New Original Story]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75733.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 22:15:15 +0300 S Darko]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75733.html
Simi

The Handyman

Sourav

My name is Sourav Ganguly. No, not the famous one, it is, after all, a common Bengali name. Just call me Sourav, or even better, Pintu. That’s what we Bengalis call a daak naam. This is the story of how my life went from a single man to married and then single again. At least I think so. The simplest thing to say is that it’s complicated.
I guess that’s an intriguing statement, but there’s really no other way to say it. Best to tell the story as it happened.

Chapter 1

Neha and I met in college. We were both in computer engineering, and had a lot of classes together but I only found this out later. I actually met her in the college canteen where she was sitting with a bunch of friends, and I happened to get there with a friend, and there were two chairs left at her table and, well, that was that.

My eyes were immediately drawn to her and I found it hard to look away, although she later told me she hadn’t even noticed me. She was spectacular, fair and well built, beautiful. When she smiled, dimples formed in her cheeks on both sides. Her eyes were dark pools…well, you get the picture.

I was a nerdy Bengali guy—you know the kind, skinny, bespectacled, and intellectual. I never, even in my wildest dreams thought I could get her to be my girlfriend. We hung out together a lot after that day, usually in groups of three or more, and I guess an easy familiarity developed between us. She began by tolerating me, nodding at me, and occasionally say hello, but nothing substantial.

One day in the canteen, it was just the two of us, and she had to go somewhere. I forget where exactly, so I offered to walk her to the bus stop. We ended up talking and walking all the way to her destination instead of taking the bus, a distance of four kilometers.

She needed to get something from a shop, and then we walked back. What did we talk about? I don’t exactly remember, but what I do recall is that she was easy to talk to. Almost like I might with another guy.

After that, we developed a bond. We would hang out together, avoid others if it was possible, and so on, but we called ourselves friends. No benefits, not at that time. We would text each other all the time. The occasional risqué joke would get forwarded. Conversations with double entendre were the norm.

The different men I saw Neha with around the campus would sometimes bother me, but I had no status at the time to ask her about it, and had to be satisfied with whatever crumbs she threw my way. I would stalk her sometimes, to see if she had a boyfriend among the many guys she hung out with, but I could never be sure. She was happy and smiley and vivacious with everyone.

She would go out with me solo sometimes, on my motorcycle, and we would go out to nearby attractions, usually nature walks and short treks, a lake or a mountain. Sometimes we would go to the movies, and I kept my hands off because I was slowly coming to the idea that she had friend-zoned me.

Things continued in this fashion for a couple of years until the spring festival threw us together and we had to travel as part of our youth group to a nearby city.

That was the first time we were intimate, and the details aren’t very important other than to say my room-mate (we were in a low grade hostel/guest house) had gone off to visit relatives and I was alone in my room.

She knocked on the door after dinner, and when I opened it, there she was in a shawl, covering a nightie. She grinned impishly at me and produced a bottle of old Monk from under the shawl.

We spent the next few hours killing the bottle and listening to music on my phone that was plugged into the wall. Despite the relatively sordid surroundings, the tinny music, and the low grade booze, I still think it was one of the best times we had.

At one point, as I lay back on the bed, trying to work out a kink in my back and she said, “I think you have a problem somewhere else.”

I looked at what she was pointing at, and it was my cock that had somehow escaped the fly of my boxers and was semi-hard. Uh oh!

Before I could do or say anything, she had grabbed the elastic waistband and pulled the boxers down and was inspecting my cock like it was some kind of specimen. The sensations were great—until then the only fingers that had touched my cock had been mine—and I groaned and lay back, my cock rapidly stiffening and getting to it’s maximum size.

Neha grabbed it by the base and descended on it with her mouth. It felt heavenly, the warm, wet mouth and the suction, and the always present danger of her teeth, and in three minutes I groaned and said, “I’m going to…I can’t hold it anymore!”

She said nothing, just a small grunt and when I came, she swallowed it all.

When she came up for air, she smiled that dazzling smile again and said, “First time, eh?”

I laughed, trying to be suave and all, but then I nodded. “Yeah, first time.”

I was overwhelmed by the fact that she’d swallowed all my cum, my love for her knew no bounds. I mean, who does that?

It was after that trip that I saw her naked for the first time. She wasn’t especially shy, and stood in front of me, allowing me to feast my eyes. She was, as I said, spectacular, especially unclothed.

Her tits were her best feature, large with minimal droop, and topped by large dark pink nipples that looked puffy and swollen. Well, I won’t say her tits were her only best feature ( I know what the word ‘best’ means), but it’s like a candy shop where you just can’t decide which sweet is the best.

So it was with Neha—her legs were long and well muscled but also soft and yielding, her ass a work of art, her hips wide and flaring out from a tiny waist, and her pubic area was well trimmed with just a triangle of hair pointing straight at her clit.

She was the total package, and I felt very lucky to be in the position I was.

We started having sex after that regularly, and it was great.

I told her she wasn’t my first, that the previous two encounters were furtive, high college type things, not very satisfying for either me of the girl, but that was a lie I told her so as not to appear like a total loser.

Once, early on when we were having sex and changed positions, she held me to guide me in, she said, “So hard and so big!”

I swear I swelled even more, both in my big head and my little head.

A little later, she said, “Harder, fuck me harder!”

I obliged, thinking how lucky I was to have someone who was not just sexy but also very kinky. Neha loved to talk dirty during sex, and also before, so that became more of a bonus.

I had so many questions for her.

I knew she wasn’t a virgin when we met, and that she’d had a few previous sexual encounters, but I never asked her for details such as body count (it was a term that came along much later).

It is in the nature of men to fall in love with a girl that puts out freely and easily. I never thought it was all from personal experience and assumed perhaps a lot of her expertise had come from internet porn. I knew she watched because she’d told me.

Eventually, I confessed to her I was in love with her, and what did she think?

She said she loved me too, and by the time we graduated, we were an item, and our families had gotten together, and before we knew it, we were circling the sacred fire in a simple wedding.

One small detail I learned was that she was , with the last name Thomas, even though she said she was a lapsed and her family didn’t practice much religion.

She didn’t go to prayer, and neither did her father, but her mother occasionally did. Her family didn’t mind a wedding as long as they got to do a prayer thing, more for the sake of keeping up appearances than anything, and so we ended up getting married twice, once in Kanpur, and once in Calangut.

And one more tiny detail as well, now that I’m laying bare my soul, or at least my story.

There was a guy called Sodhi in our group, I forget his first name. He was a cut Surd, a mona , and he smoked.

I suspected he cut his hair so he could smoke without judgment or censure, but that’s just my opinion.

He was handsome and muscular, his back broad and sleeves bulging.

He was in Neha’s group even before I met her, and I always thought him a minor character in the drama of my life.

At one point during my courtship of Neha, or at least what I thought of as courtship, Sodhi and I were standing outside the canteen, drinking tea. He was smoking. Neha was walking toward us, maybe about forty, fifty meters away.

He gestured with his head at her as he expelled a cloud of smoke and said, “Nice figure…I know you’re going out with her. You’re not serious about her, are you?”

I stiffened with the mention of Neha’s figure, but he wasn’t profane or anything. She did have a great figure.

I mean he could have whistled and said, “Great tits,” or 'what an ass,” but he didn’t. Still, I sensed some kind of subtext, some deeper meaning, and immediately became wary.

“Why do you ask?”

He turned to me and gave me a hooded look, like I was dense or something.

My face must have given something away because he said, “You’re not marrying her, are you dude?” His tone carried surprise, disbelief, and I sensed he was questioning not just my decision, but also my sanity.

I said nothing, and by then Neha was within earshot.

She waved at him, chatted for a bit, and that was that.

I had occasion to revisit that conversation, brief as it was, years later. ]]>
Simi

The Handyman

Sourav

My name is Sourav Ganguly. No, not the famous one, it is, after all, a common Bengali name. Just call me Sourav, or even better, Pintu. That’s what we Bengalis call a daak naam. This is the story of how my life went from a single man to married and then single again. At least I think so. The simplest thing to say is that it’s complicated.
I guess that’s an intriguing statement, but there’s really no other way to say it. Best to tell the story as it happened.

Chapter 1

Neha and I met in college. We were both in computer engineering, and had a lot of classes together but I only found this out later. I actually met her in the college canteen where she was sitting with a bunch of friends, and I happened to get there with a friend, and there were two chairs left at her table and, well, that was that.

My eyes were immediately drawn to her and I found it hard to look away, although she later told me she hadn’t even noticed me. She was spectacular, fair and well built, beautiful. When she smiled, dimples formed in her cheeks on both sides. Her eyes were dark pools…well, you get the picture.

I was a nerdy Bengali guy—you know the kind, skinny, bespectacled, and intellectual. I never, even in my wildest dreams thought I could get her to be my girlfriend. We hung out together a lot after that day, usually in groups of three or more, and I guess an easy familiarity developed between us. She began by tolerating me, nodding at me, and occasionally say hello, but nothing substantial.

One day in the canteen, it was just the two of us, and she had to go somewhere. I forget where exactly, so I offered to walk her to the bus stop. We ended up talking and walking all the way to her destination instead of taking the bus, a distance of four kilometers.

She needed to get something from a shop, and then we walked back. What did we talk about? I don’t exactly remember, but what I do recall is that she was easy to talk to. Almost like I might with another guy.

After that, we developed a bond. We would hang out together, avoid others if it was possible, and so on, but we called ourselves friends. No benefits, not at that time. We would text each other all the time. The occasional risqué joke would get forwarded. Conversations with double entendre were the norm.

The different men I saw Neha with around the campus would sometimes bother me, but I had no status at the time to ask her about it, and had to be satisfied with whatever crumbs she threw my way. I would stalk her sometimes, to see if she had a boyfriend among the many guys she hung out with, but I could never be sure. She was happy and smiley and vivacious with everyone.

She would go out with me solo sometimes, on my motorcycle, and we would go out to nearby attractions, usually nature walks and short treks, a lake or a mountain. Sometimes we would go to the movies, and I kept my hands off because I was slowly coming to the idea that she had friend-zoned me.

Things continued in this fashion for a couple of years until the spring festival threw us together and we had to travel as part of our youth group to a nearby city.

That was the first time we were intimate, and the details aren’t very important other than to say my room-mate (we were in a low grade hostel/guest house) had gone off to visit relatives and I was alone in my room.

She knocked on the door after dinner, and when I opened it, there she was in a shawl, covering a nightie. She grinned impishly at me and produced a bottle of old Monk from under the shawl.

We spent the next few hours killing the bottle and listening to music on my phone that was plugged into the wall. Despite the relatively sordid surroundings, the tinny music, and the low grade booze, I still think it was one of the best times we had.

At one point, as I lay back on the bed, trying to work out a kink in my back and she said, “I think you have a problem somewhere else.”

I looked at what she was pointing at, and it was my cock that had somehow escaped the fly of my boxers and was semi-hard. Uh oh!

Before I could do or say anything, she had grabbed the elastic waistband and pulled the boxers down and was inspecting my cock like it was some kind of specimen. The sensations were great—until then the only fingers that had touched my cock had been mine—and I groaned and lay back, my cock rapidly stiffening and getting to it’s maximum size.

Neha grabbed it by the base and descended on it with her mouth. It felt heavenly, the warm, wet mouth and the suction, and the always present danger of her teeth, and in three minutes I groaned and said, “I’m going to…I can’t hold it anymore!”

She said nothing, just a small grunt and when I came, she swallowed it all.

When she came up for air, she smiled that dazzling smile again and said, “First time, eh?”

I laughed, trying to be suave and all, but then I nodded. “Yeah, first time.”

I was overwhelmed by the fact that she’d swallowed all my cum, my love for her knew no bounds. I mean, who does that?

It was after that trip that I saw her naked for the first time. She wasn’t especially shy, and stood in front of me, allowing me to feast my eyes. She was, as I said, spectacular, especially unclothed.

Her tits were her best feature, large with minimal droop, and topped by large dark pink nipples that looked puffy and swollen. Well, I won’t say her tits were her only best feature ( I know what the word ‘best’ means), but it’s like a candy shop where you just can’t decide which sweet is the best.

So it was with Neha—her legs were long and well muscled but also soft and yielding, her ass a work of art, her hips wide and flaring out from a tiny waist, and her pubic area was well trimmed with just a triangle of hair pointing straight at her clit.

She was the total package, and I felt very lucky to be in the position I was.

We started having sex after that regularly, and it was great.

I told her she wasn’t my first, that the previous two encounters were furtive, high college type things, not very satisfying for either me of the girl, but that was a lie I told her so as not to appear like a total loser.

Once, early on when we were having sex and changed positions, she held me to guide me in, she said, “So hard and so big!”

I swear I swelled even more, both in my big head and my little head.

A little later, she said, “Harder, fuck me harder!”

I obliged, thinking how lucky I was to have someone who was not just sexy but also very kinky. Neha loved to talk dirty during sex, and also before, so that became more of a bonus.

I had so many questions for her.

I knew she wasn’t a virgin when we met, and that she’d had a few previous sexual encounters, but I never asked her for details such as body count (it was a term that came along much later).

It is in the nature of men to fall in love with a girl that puts out freely and easily. I never thought it was all from personal experience and assumed perhaps a lot of her expertise had come from internet porn. I knew she watched because she’d told me.

Eventually, I confessed to her I was in love with her, and what did she think?

She said she loved me too, and by the time we graduated, we were an item, and our families had gotten together, and before we knew it, we were circling the sacred fire in a simple wedding.

One small detail I learned was that she was , with the last name Thomas, even though she said she was a lapsed and her family didn’t practice much religion.

She didn’t go to prayer, and neither did her father, but her mother occasionally did. Her family didn’t mind a wedding as long as they got to do a prayer thing, more for the sake of keeping up appearances than anything, and so we ended up getting married twice, once in Kanpur, and once in Calangut.

And one more tiny detail as well, now that I’m laying bare my soul, or at least my story.

There was a guy called Sodhi in our group, I forget his first name. He was a cut Surd, a mona , and he smoked.

I suspected he cut his hair so he could smoke without judgment or censure, but that’s just my opinion.

He was handsome and muscular, his back broad and sleeves bulging.

He was in Neha’s group even before I met her, and I always thought him a minor character in the drama of my life.

At one point during my courtship of Neha, or at least what I thought of as courtship, Sodhi and I were standing outside the canteen, drinking tea. He was smoking. Neha was walking toward us, maybe about forty, fifty meters away.

He gestured with his head at her as he expelled a cloud of smoke and said, “Nice figure…I know you’re going out with her. You’re not serious about her, are you?”

I stiffened with the mention of Neha’s figure, but he wasn’t profane or anything. She did have a great figure.

I mean he could have whistled and said, “Great tits,” or 'what an ass,” but he didn’t. Still, I sensed some kind of subtext, some deeper meaning, and immediately became wary.

“Why do you ask?”

He turned to me and gave me a hooded look, like I was dense or something.

My face must have given something away because he said, “You’re not marrying her, are you dude?” His tone carried surprise, disbelief, and I sensed he was questioning not just my decision, but also my sanity.

I said nothing, and by then Neha was within earshot.

She waved at him, chatted for a bit, and that was that.

I had occasion to revisit that conversation, brief as it was, years later. ]]> <![CDATA[Meena's Forbidden Awakening]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75727.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 14:16:55 +0300 UnSpokenPages19]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75727.html
Yet, somewhere along the way, she had forgotten what it meant to live for herself.

Her days followed a predictable pattern. college runs, household chores, cooking, family obligations and the occasional moments of marital intimacy that had become more of a routine than a pleasure. Nobody noticed her loneliness, and she had gradually stopped expecting anyone to.

But sometimes, the smallest incidents can disturb even the most carefully constructed routines.

A patch of vacant land near her children's college was being transformed into a construction site. The arrival of a group of workmen brought unfamiliar voices, laughter, whistles and occasional remarks to an otherwise quiet neighbourhood.

Initially, Meena dismissed them as just another nuisance.

But something about the attention, the unfamiliar surroundings and the strange curiosity growing inside her made her question the life she had accepted without complaint.

One Friday morning, an unexpected exchange of words would take her across the construction site's muddy entrance and into a world she had never imagined herself entering.

What began as a moment of curiosity would gradually challenge everything she believed about herself, her marriage and her carefully maintained image of respectability.

And as the days passed, Meena would discover that the most significant changes in her life were still waiting to happen.

This was no longer just a story about a lonely housewife.

It was the beginning of Meena's secret life.]]>
Yet, somewhere along the way, she had forgotten what it meant to live for herself.

Her days followed a predictable pattern. college runs, household chores, cooking, family obligations and the occasional moments of marital intimacy that had become more of a routine than a pleasure. Nobody noticed her loneliness, and she had gradually stopped expecting anyone to.

But sometimes, the smallest incidents can disturb even the most carefully constructed routines.

A patch of vacant land near her children's college was being transformed into a construction site. The arrival of a group of workmen brought unfamiliar voices, laughter, whistles and occasional remarks to an otherwise quiet neighbourhood.

Initially, Meena dismissed them as just another nuisance.

But something about the attention, the unfamiliar surroundings and the strange curiosity growing inside her made her question the life she had accepted without complaint.

One Friday morning, an unexpected exchange of words would take her across the construction site's muddy entrance and into a world she had never imagined herself entering.

What began as a moment of curiosity would gradually challenge everything she believed about herself, her marriage and her carefully maintained image of respectability.

And as the days passed, Meena would discover that the most significant changes in her life were still waiting to happen.

This was no longer just a story about a lonely housewife.

It was the beginning of Meena's secret life.]]> <![CDATA[Tales of horny girls]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75725.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 13:18:36 +0300 Novanova]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75725.html Hi guys this is my first story and in this multiple girls story gonna be added I want to try something new.

Chapter-1 Sandhya horny holidays

Sandhya is a college student and age is 21 present single but in past she use to have an ex she lost her virgin but after the break up the urges of sex and horny increased more in her body. Sandhya lost her parents in tragic accident and she visits her grandparents village during holidays..

Sandhya started to go to the village by bus. Then she reached her grandparents home which is surrounded by many field of farming. Their grandparents works in fields so most of the day time they won't be in the home.
Grandma:- Sandhya how are you.
Sandhya- I am fine Grandma how is ur health and everything
Grandma- I am fine but sorry I need to go to the field your grandpa is waiting so fresh up now and take care of the home.
Then a beggar started to shout infront of their home
Beggar:- ammaaa can you give me some food.....
Then Sandhya and her grandma came outside and given the food and some money.
Then he left. After his leaving her grandma said to Sandhya about him
Grandma- see Sandhya dear be careful with him
Sandhya- why grandma what's wrong with him
Grandma- he use to be a servant to our Village head in his house. But then he was having affair with our Village head daughter. And then the village head banished him from the village and no one gives him job and he lives outside of the village far and he comes here only for begging food and money
Sandhya- why the village head daughter accepted that guy
Grandma- I heard that he made her addicted to the sex. He cummed and fucked her slot even she got pregnant
After listening all these suddenly Sandhya started to feel burn and sweaty ? like the lust inside if her body wants to test that guy power.
Then she stayed calm and normal

Next day as usual her grandparents left early in morning to fields
Sandhya is laying in the bed and watching the movie in tv she sees a intimate scene which made her horny slowly her hands goes around her pussy she slowly lower her pant and about to start th3 fingering herself suddenly she heard the beggar sounds coming outside. Immediately her mood spoiled but then again the kinky feelings aroused her again maybe today she wants to test his power of lust.
Sandhya came outside and said
Beggar:-madamm please give me some food..
Sandhya- wait let me give you. And then she given food and. She said I heard about you from my grandma like you had sex with the village head daughter right
Beggar- aah madam it was past I couldn't able to control myself she was damn sexy one fine day I had sex with her at first she resisted but then she got addirand couldn't able to forget about my dick and I use to fill her holes alot ahhhhh uff it was damn good days but then we got caught and now my situation is like this
Then the beggar started to scan Sandhya body he was seeing her boobs big alot to be chewed and to eat those lustly tasty melons
Sandhya can feel his gaze and this made her up moree horny she go and she got an idea
Sandhya - ann can you come at that side of my house no one can nsee I will give you money so come at that side
The beggar followed what she said
She came out of from home and have some bunch of cash in her hands
First she given the first note in his hand and then infront of him she hide other notes in her pant inside and in bra inside by seeing this the beggar got shocked.
So by the way what's ur name. He said my name is Suresh madam.
Sandhya- ok Suresh you can take the notes from my body parts which their were hide.
Slowly Suresh got excited and first he slides his hand in the panty looking for note he got it and he can feel it. Become wet then slowly he started to finger her pussy Sandhya was giving some sounds
Sandhya - aahhhh ummmmmmm ummmmm...... Did you ahhh did you get the notes
Suresh- no madam still searching. And then he fast his fingering her pussy which she hold the beggar as support and giving sounds ahhhhh ummmmm aaahhhhhh
Suresh- ufff madam I got the note damn it got wet madam by the lovely juices
The pant of Sandhya is now fallen and he can see her sexy pussy and big asss his dick got much bigger and his lungi fallen. Sandhya is shock to see his massive 8inch cock
That's why the village head daughter got addicted to him..
Slowly he started to massage and mauling her boobs and come near to lick her neck while mauling the juicy melon
Sandhya was moaning aahhh umfffff ummmffffff ufffffff ....... And he taken others notes and kept in his bag. Aahh madam you are damn sexy than that girl
Sandhya - am I so hot than your past girl
Beggar suresh- yeshh mam you are damn hot I want to fuck you mam see my dick is twitching by seeing ur damn sexy body. Madam I will kiss you and want to feel your ass while can you do handjob to me. Then Sandhya followed
He started to kiss her and both are in lust fire kissing and drooling and splitting each other saliva and laughing and Suresh can feel and pressing harder on her white smokey sexy ass and while Sandhya hands are busy to give handjob to the dick her hand is covered by precumm.she is thinking I think this beggar don't want to miss the chance and even willing to fuck outside in this place while the heat is going more suddenly Sandhya heard someone came to home. By seeing both are almost nudes she got worried and then she see the outside bathroom and told
Sandhya - aahhh damnnnnn fucckkkk some one is coming maybe my grandparents if they see us like this I will be dead hurry take all your items and come inside with me in bathroom and locked itt from inside
And then her grandma came near to bathroom.
Grandma- Sandhya dear is that you inside the bathroom.
Sandhya- ahhh yeshhh grandma it's me trying to take a bath noww
Grandma- ohh ok dear don't let someone come inside ok I will go within few minutes I forgot to take a item with me .
Sandhya- aahh ok grandma. Sandhya was bent somewhat to see from bathroom peep hole whether her grandma is still their or not....
The beggar suresh sees her ass and pussy and slowly started to come near bent down and split saliva on her pussy quite few times and cleaning it so next he want to fuck her.
Sandhya - whaht aah what are you doing
Suresh - unmm I want to fuck your holee noww watch don't distract or else your grandma will find us out
Sandhya half worried and half excited to feel the cock inside her pussy.
Finally he held her hips and started to fuck her in standing doggy style
Sandhya - aahhhhhhh uffff ummmmmm ahhhh soooo aam uchhh gooood
Suresh - uff ufuu uffff damnn your pussy is made to be fucked by a dick like minee ahhhh take itt uuu sluuttttty whoreee you are mineeee nowwww ufff
Sandhya - aahh yeshhh yeshhh....... Yeshhh. Aahhhhn ummmmm harderee aahhhh
Sandhya distracted and feeling the dick pleasure which is giving to her she didn't even mind whether she is fucked with or without condom....
Aahhhh ummmmmm ahhhhhhh both were moaning and Sandhya was shacking and the sounds of his testicles hitting her ass tupp tupp tupp sounds
While fucking he leaned over her back and pressing her boobs and saying .uff damn your pussy is mine now from now on you are fuck buddy ok.
Sandhya which is in pleasure aahhhh uuffff yesshh I am aiammmm yourrr fuck buddy. Then pinned her to wall her boobs were crushed by bathroom walls and he said
This is my fav dominating position for a slutty girl like you and then fucking her pussy again again and again Sandhya was shoving the dick inside that she don't want to loose this dick and want it inside forever and ever she can feel the dick hitting her womb inside deepp and deep and then he was growling like animal and saidd ahahh take it you slutty mine aahh I am gonna cummm inside accept it as our first meeting and first breeding aahhhh before he cum Sandhya got her organsm alot
Sandhya - aasshhh yeshhhh yeshhhhh cumm inside breed mees dear ahhhhhxbreed this fucking pussy aahhh
And then he cummmed her pussy and filling her vaginaa even his dick inside the cum is started to dripping out from pussy a very big huge load was giving to her. Sandhya was giving a very satisfied lewd expression and turned toward him and kissing
Sandhya said- aahhh dear from now on give me lots of love and pleasure
Suresh - oh  dear I will at last you are the person who is going to ask to fill your holes
Before leaving the bathroom Sandhya pulled Suresh towards him and started to kiss vulgar and going to have an another session this time a huge load is going to be filled inside

Sorry guys no pics later on I will add picss hope you like it]]> Hi guys this is my first story and in this multiple girls story gonna be added I want to try something new.

Chapter-1 Sandhya horny holidays

Sandhya is a college student and age is 21 present single but in past she use to have an ex she lost her virgin but after the break up the urges of sex and horny increased more in her body. Sandhya lost her parents in tragic accident and she visits her grandparents village during holidays..

Sandhya started to go to the village by bus. Then she reached her grandparents home which is surrounded by many field of farming. Their grandparents works in fields so most of the day time they won't be in the home.
Grandma:- Sandhya how are you.
Sandhya- I am fine Grandma how is ur health and everything
Grandma- I am fine but sorry I need to go to the field your grandpa is waiting so fresh up now and take care of the home.
Then a beggar started to shout infront of their home
Beggar:- ammaaa can you give me some food.....
Then Sandhya and her grandma came outside and given the food and some money.
Then he left. After his leaving her grandma said to Sandhya about him
Grandma- see Sandhya dear be careful with him
Sandhya- why grandma what's wrong with him
Grandma- he use to be a servant to our Village head in his house. But then he was having affair with our Village head daughter. And then the village head banished him from the village and no one gives him job and he lives outside of the village far and he comes here only for begging food and money
Sandhya- why the village head daughter accepted that guy
Grandma- I heard that he made her addicted to the sex. He cummed and fucked her slot even she got pregnant
After listening all these suddenly Sandhya started to feel burn and sweaty ? like the lust inside if her body wants to test that guy power.
Then she stayed calm and normal

Next day as usual her grandparents left early in morning to fields
Sandhya is laying in the bed and watching the movie in tv she sees a intimate scene which made her horny slowly her hands goes around her pussy she slowly lower her pant and about to start th3 fingering herself suddenly she heard the beggar sounds coming outside. Immediately her mood spoiled but then again the kinky feelings aroused her again maybe today she wants to test his power of lust.
Sandhya came outside and said
Beggar:-madamm please give me some food..
Sandhya- wait let me give you. And then she given food and. She said I heard about you from my grandma like you had sex with the village head daughter right
Beggar- aah madam it was past I couldn't able to control myself she was damn sexy one fine day I had sex with her at first she resisted but then she got addirand couldn't able to forget about my dick and I use to fill her holes alot ahhhhh uff it was damn good days but then we got caught and now my situation is like this
Then the beggar started to scan Sandhya body he was seeing her boobs big alot to be chewed and to eat those lustly tasty melons
Sandhya can feel his gaze and this made her up moree horny she go and she got an idea
Sandhya - ann can you come at that side of my house no one can nsee I will give you money so come at that side
The beggar followed what she said
She came out of from home and have some bunch of cash in her hands
First she given the first note in his hand and then infront of him she hide other notes in her pant inside and in bra inside by seeing this the beggar got shocked.
So by the way what's ur name. He said my name is Suresh madam.
Sandhya- ok Suresh you can take the notes from my body parts which their were hide.
Slowly Suresh got excited and first he slides his hand in the panty looking for note he got it and he can feel it. Become wet then slowly he started to finger her pussy Sandhya was giving some sounds
Sandhya - aahhhh ummmmmmm ummmmm...... Did you ahhh did you get the notes
Suresh- no madam still searching. And then he fast his fingering her pussy which she hold the beggar as support and giving sounds ahhhhh ummmmm aaahhhhhh
Suresh- ufff madam I got the note damn it got wet madam by the lovely juices
The pant of Sandhya is now fallen and he can see her sexy pussy and big asss his dick got much bigger and his lungi fallen. Sandhya is shock to see his massive 8inch cock
That's why the village head daughter got addicted to him..
Slowly he started to massage and mauling her boobs and come near to lick her neck while mauling the juicy melon
Sandhya was moaning aahhh umfffff ummmffffff ufffffff ....... And he taken others notes and kept in his bag. Aahh madam you are damn sexy than that girl
Sandhya - am I so hot than your past girl
Beggar suresh- yeshh mam you are damn hot I want to fuck you mam see my dick is twitching by seeing ur damn sexy body. Madam I will kiss you and want to feel your ass while can you do handjob to me. Then Sandhya followed
He started to kiss her and both are in lust fire kissing and drooling and splitting each other saliva and laughing and Suresh can feel and pressing harder on her white smokey sexy ass and while Sandhya hands are busy to give handjob to the dick her hand is covered by precumm.she is thinking I think this beggar don't want to miss the chance and even willing to fuck outside in this place while the heat is going more suddenly Sandhya heard someone came to home. By seeing both are almost nudes she got worried and then she see the outside bathroom and told
Sandhya - aahhh damnnnnn fucckkkk some one is coming maybe my grandparents if they see us like this I will be dead hurry take all your items and come inside with me in bathroom and locked itt from inside
And then her grandma came near to bathroom.
Grandma- Sandhya dear is that you inside the bathroom.
Sandhya- ahhh yeshhh grandma it's me trying to take a bath noww
Grandma- ohh ok dear don't let someone come inside ok I will go within few minutes I forgot to take a item with me .
Sandhya- aahh ok grandma. Sandhya was bent somewhat to see from bathroom peep hole whether her grandma is still their or not....
The beggar suresh sees her ass and pussy and slowly started to come near bent down and split saliva on her pussy quite few times and cleaning it so next he want to fuck her.
Sandhya - whaht aah what are you doing
Suresh - unmm I want to fuck your holee noww watch don't distract or else your grandma will find us out
Sandhya half worried and half excited to feel the cock inside her pussy.
Finally he held her hips and started to fuck her in standing doggy style
Sandhya - aahhhhhhh uffff ummmmmm ahhhh soooo aam uchhh gooood
Suresh - uff ufuu uffff damnn your pussy is made to be fucked by a dick like minee ahhhh take itt uuu sluuttttty whoreee you are mineeee nowwww ufff
Sandhya - aahh yeshhh yeshhh....... Yeshhh. Aahhhhn ummmmm harderee aahhhh
Sandhya distracted and feeling the dick pleasure which is giving to her she didn't even mind whether she is fucked with or without condom....
Aahhhh ummmmmm ahhhhhhh both were moaning and Sandhya was shacking and the sounds of his testicles hitting her ass tupp tupp tupp sounds
While fucking he leaned over her back and pressing her boobs and saying .uff damn your pussy is mine now from now on you are fuck buddy ok.
Sandhya which is in pleasure aahhhh uuffff yesshh I am aiammmm yourrr fuck buddy. Then pinned her to wall her boobs were crushed by bathroom walls and he said
This is my fav dominating position for a slutty girl like you and then fucking her pussy again again and again Sandhya was shoving the dick inside that she don't want to loose this dick and want it inside forever and ever she can feel the dick hitting her womb inside deepp and deep and then he was growling like animal and saidd ahahh take it you slutty mine aahh I am gonna cummm inside accept it as our first meeting and first breeding aahhhh before he cum Sandhya got her organsm alot
Sandhya - aasshhh yeshhhh yeshhhhh cumm inside breed mees dear ahhhhhxbreed this fucking pussy aahhh
And then he cummmed her pussy and filling her vaginaa even his dick inside the cum is started to dripping out from pussy a very big huge load was giving to her. Sandhya was giving a very satisfied lewd expression and turned toward him and kissing
Sandhya said- aahhh dear from now on give me lots of love and pleasure
Suresh - oh  dear I will at last you are the person who is going to ask to fill your holes
Before leaving the bathroom Sandhya pulled Suresh towards him and started to kiss vulgar and going to have an another session this time a huge load is going to be filled inside

Sorry guys no pics later on I will add picss hope you like it]]> <![CDATA[The Wind (COMPLETED)- By Novelist Casanova]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75724.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 13:08:51 +0300 novelistcasanova]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75724.html [Image: The-Wind-A-Whispered-Embrace.png]

The Wind

By Novelist Casanova

I am Sudha. Thirty-six years old. Mother of three sons. Wife of my husband Rajesh.
I stand five feet five inches tall with measurements of 36-26-38. My breasts are heavy and full in a 36C Layered Coverage bra, my waist is narrow, and my hips are wide and round. My face is soft yet sharp at the cheekbones, with large dark eyes, full lips, and a small beauty mark near the corner of my mouth. My hair is long, thick, and wavy, usually tied in a loose bun when I work in the kitchen. When I walk the pallu of my saree shifts across my breasts and the low-below-navel petticoat pulls tight over my hips and the curve of my buttocks.
I always wear a saree with a fitted blouse, a low-below-navel petticoat underneath, the Layered Coverage bra, and Hipster Panties. At night I change into a loose nighty with only the Hipster Panties beneath it so the shape of my breasts and the line of my hips show when I move under the fan.
My husband owns a soap company in Bangalore. The company had been doing well for years. The orders came regularly, the packing machine ran without trouble, and the two men he hired handled most of the day-to-day work. Money was never tight. He left the house early and came back late, but when he returned his shirt still smelled of soap and his hands were clean. I stayed at home with the boys. Manish was twelve. Rakesh was nine. Rahul was still in lower kindergarten. We lived in a rented two-bedroom flat on the second floor of a building in Jayanagar. The walls were thin. When the boys fought I could hear every word. When my husband came home he would sit close to me on the sofa, sometimes sliding his palm under my saree while the boys were still awake in the next room, his fingers moving slowly over the soft inside of my thigh until I had to push his hand away and whisper that the children were listening.
For nearly eight years we managed like that. The company kept growing. My husband never spoke much about money. He simply brought home whatever was needed and left the rest with me. I used to count the cash at night after the boys slept, separating the notes into envelopes. He never interfered. He trusted me with the household the same way he trusted himself with the factory.
Then one evening he came home earlier than usual. His shirt was still fresh but his eyes were already on the way my blouse pulled across my breasts. He sat beside me on the sofa while I folded the boys’ uniforms and rested his hand high on my thigh under the pallu, thumb brushing the edge of my low-below-navel petticoat.
“I saw a house today,” he said, fingers pressing lightly against the soft flesh of my inner thigh. “Independent house. Ground floor only. Three bedrooms. A small open space at the back where the boys can play cricket. The owner is shifting to Coimbatore. The broker says if we decide this week he will reduce the price.”
I stopped folding. “How much?” I asked.
He told me the figure. It was well within what the company earned in a few months. I looked at the pile of college uniforms on my lap. The sleeves were already short on Manish’s arms.
“Will the boys have their own rooms?” I asked.
“They will share,” he said, sliding his hand higher until his fingertips touched the side of my panties through the petticoat. “Manish, Rakesh and Rahul can stay together in one room. The big bedroom will be only for us. No children. Just you and me. Whenever we want. I want to see you without the saree every night, just the nighty and panties, the way you sleep now.”
His thumb moved once against the soft inside of my thigh. I felt the familiar heat gather low in my belly. Outside, the building’s water pump started with its usual loud rattle. Through the window I could see the neighbour’s drying clothes. I thought of the flat’s narrow balcony where I stood every evening waiting for his bike. I thought of the three boys sleeping in one room, their legs tangled because the mattresses were pushed together, and of the second room that was never fully ours.
“If the bedroom is only for us,” I said, my voice lower, “then we should see the house.”
My husband smiled the way he did when he wanted something and knew he would get it. He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear, breath warm against the side of my neck.
“I already paid the token,” he said. “Tomorrow the broker will come with the papers. I wanted to tell you first. Tonight, after the boys sleep, I want you without the saree. Just the nighty lifted and the panties pulled aside so I can touch you properly.”
That night after the boys slept I lay awake listening to the ceiling fan. My husband’s breathing was steady beside me, one arm already across my waist under the sheet, his palm resting on the heavy weight of my breast through the nighty. I kept thinking of the new house—the three bedrooms, the open space at the back, the bigger kitchen, and the one room that would belong only to us. I imagined Manish, Rakesh and Rahul running without hitting the walls. I imagined the door of our bedroom closing and staying closed, my saree, blouse, and low-below-navel petticoat removed, only the nighty and panties left. Somewhere between those thoughts I also felt a small tightness in my chest, the kind that comes when something you have wanted for a long time is suddenly close enough to touch. I turned on my side and placed my hand on my husband’s chest. He did not wake, but his fingers tightened once on the soft curve of my hip the way they always did when he was half asleep and still wanting the body he already knew so well.
The next morning the broker came. He was a thin man with a gold chain and a file full of photocopies. He sat on our sofa, drank the coffee I gave him, and explained the documents one by one. My husband signed where he was told. I stood near the kitchen doorway with my pallu pulled tight across my shoulder, the blouse stretched over my breasts, the low-below-navel petticoat sitting low on my hips, and watched. When the broker left, my husband looked at me and smiled the same smile from the night before.
“By next month,” he said, “we will be in our own house. And the bedroom will lock from inside. I want you there every night the way you are now—nighty and panties only, so I can lift the nighty and pull the panties aside whenever I want.”
I nodded. The boys were already arguing in the bedroom about who would get the bigger bed when they shared the room. I went inside to settle them, my bare feet quiet on the cool floor of the flat we would soon leave, already thinking of the door that would close only for us and of the nighty and panties that would be all that remained between my husband’s hands and my body.
The move happened at the end of the month. Two men from the company and a small tempo brought our things. My husband stayed at the factory that morning and arrived only after the beds and the almirah were already inside. I had changed into a fitted T-shirt and denim pants so I could move easily. The T-shirt stretched across my heavy breasts and the denim pants sat low on my hips, tight over my thighs and buttocks. I stood in the empty hall directing the men while they carried the boxes and the mattresses. Both of them kept looking at me. One of them paused while lifting the almirah and let his eyes move from my breasts down to the way the denim pulled across my hips. The other one kept glancing at my thighs whenever I bent to shift a carton. I pulled the T-shirt down once and kept my face calm, but I felt their eyes on me the whole time.
The three boys ran from one room to the other. They claimed the larger bedroom at the back and pushed their mattresses together, arguing about who would sleep near the window. Our bedroom was at the front, with a solid door that locked from inside and a window that looked onto the narrow lane. By evening the men had finished and left. The house smelled of soap from the new packing boxes and the fresh paint on the walls.
After the boys ate I sent them to their room. I went into our bedroom, closed the door, and removed the T-shirt, the denim pants, my bra, and my panties. I stepped into the bathroom and took a shower, letting the water run over my breasts, my waist, and my hips until the day’s dust was gone. When I came out I dried myself, put on a fresh pair of panties, and pulled a loose nighty over my head. The nighty fell softly over my breasts and hips. I tied my hair and stepped back into the hall. The boys fell asleep quickly. My husband locked our bedroom door from inside and turned off the light. He looked at me standing near the bed in the nighty.
“This room is only for us,” he said. “No one else. Whenever we want.”
I nodded. The new mattress was firm under my hand when I touched it. Outside the window the lane was quiet. For the first time in years I felt the house belonged to us completely. The boys were asleep. The door was locked. I thought everything would stay like this.

My husband locked the door and pulled me onto the new bed. He caught the hem of the nighty with both hands and lifted the nighty slowly, dragging the cloth up over my stomach, then over my breasts, until the nighty was bunched above my breasts and my breasts were fully bare. He looked at my breasts for a moment, then hooked his fingers into my panties and pulled the panties down my thighs, past my knees, and off my feet. I opened my legs. He positioned himself between my legs and pushed his cock into my pussy in one slow, deep stroke. While his cock stayed buried inside my pussy I started speaking.
“The two men from the company kept looking at me today,” I said. “While they were carrying the boxes and arranging the furniture.”
He stayed still, his cock thick and unmoving inside my pussy. His breathing changed.
“Tell me exactly what they saw,” he said. “Start from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”
The question sent heat straight through my belly. I wrapped my legs around his waist. “I was in a fitted T-shirt and denim pants. The T-shirt was tight across my breasts. Every time I reached up to point where a box should go, the cloth pulled and they could see the full shape of my breasts. One of the men stopped halfway with the almirah. He just stood there and stared at my breasts for a long time.”
My husband drew his cock back and thrust his cock into my pussy harder. His chest pressed against my bare breasts. “How long did he stare?” he asked. “Did he look at anything else?”
My voice came out thinner. I lifted my hips to meet the next stroke of his cock. “Long enough that I noticed. He looked at my breasts first, then down at my waist, then at my hips. The other man was worse. Every time I bent to shift a carton the denim pants pulled tight between my thighs and over my buttocks. He kept glancing. He didn’t even try to hide it.”
Each answer made him grab my hips tighter. His cock drove deeper into my pussy with every word. I felt my pussy getting wetter around his cock. He asked again, voice lower and rougher. “Did either of them say anything to you? Or to each other?”
“They didn’t speak to me,” I said, my thighs trembling now. “But I heard one of them mutter something when I turned around. I couldn’t catch the words. The one who licked his lip did it when I bent fully. He was looking straight at the way the denim stretched between my legs.”
My husband groaned. He fucked my pussy harder, short heavy strokes that kept his cock buried deep inside my pussy. “Tell me again,” he said. “About the denim. About how it looked when you bent. Did they see the shape of everything?”
“Yes,” I answered, voice shaking. “When I bent the pants pulled so tight you could see the full curve of my hips and the line between my thighs. Both of them watched. The whole afternoon. One of them kept adjusting himself when he thought I wasn’t looking.”
The more I answered the thicker his cock felt inside my pussy. My own excitement rose with every question until I was meeting every thrust of his cock. He grabbed my legs and kept my legs open, staying deep, moving in steady, grinding strokes while he kept asking. “What else? Did they look at your face? Or only at your body?”
“Mostly at my body,” I said. “At my breasts under the T-shirt and at my hips and thighs in the denim. They barely looked at my face.”
He thrust his cock once more, hard, and his body tightened. His cock pulsed inside my pussy. He came inside my pussy in long, heavy spurts, still asking in a rough voice against my neck what else they had seen. I kept answering until the last pulse of his cock finished. He remained buried afterward, breathing hard, one hand on my breast, the nighty still bunched above my breasts, his cock slowly softening inside my pussy.
“This room is only for us,” he said. “But I liked hearing every detail.”
I nodded, my legs still open around him. The new mattress was firm under my back. Outside the window the lane was quiet. For that night everything felt exactly as we had wanted.

Only the first day and night felt right. After that the house changed.
For the next week everything went wrong and I could not understand why. My husband left for the factory each morning looking normal and returned each evening with his face tight. Orders kept getting cancelled. Buyers who had dealt with the company for years suddenly said the packing was wrong or the soap smelled different. He checked the batches himself and found nothing. At night he sat in the hall with the lights off, staring at the floor. When he came to bed he no longer reached for me the way he had on the first night.
The boys stopped sleeping properly. They woke two or three times every night, crying or calling out. Sometimes the youngest walked into our room and stood beside the bed without speaking until I led him back. I started keeping a small lamp burning in the corridor because the dark between the rooms felt heavier than it should. Doors closed by themselves. The ceiling fan in the hall turned slowly even when the switch was off. I felt uneasy the moment I stepped inside after going out, a cold weight across my shoulders and under my breasts that did not lift until morning.
One night near the end of the week my husband lifted the nighty above my breasts and pulled my panties down. He pushed his cock into my pussy, but his strokes stayed short and restless. His eyes kept moving toward the ceiling. After a few minutes he stopped, his cock still inside my pussy.
“Another three orders cancelled today,” he said. “Same reason. I don’t know what is happening.”
I lay under him with my legs open. “Rajesh,” I said, “something feels wrong in this house. The boys are not sleeping. I feel cold even when the fan is off. People in the lane are saying things about the family who lived here before.”
He pulled his cock out without finishing. “It is only business trouble,” he said. “Competitors. Do not listen to lane gossip. There is nothing wrong with the house.”
He turned onto his side. I pulled my panties back up and the nighty down over my breasts. I stayed awake listening to the boys shift and murmur in their room, trying to understand why the happiness of the first night had disappeared so completely.

My husband had always wanted the boys to become basketball players. He bought them proper shoes and a ring for the open space at the back of the house. Every evening after he returned from the factory he made them practice. The three of them ran and shot until the light faded. Within a few weeks they were selected for the inter-district competitions. The finals were in Mysore.
On the morning of the trip my husband loaded the bags into the car. The boys climbed in with their kits. He looked at me standing in the doorway in my saree.
“We will be back tomorrow night,” he said. “Lock the doors. Do not open for anyone.”
I nodded. The car left. The house became quiet.
I finished the morning work and sat in the hall. Around ten o’clock I felt something behind me. Arms came around my waist and pulled me back against a chest that was not there. The hold was firm, like hugging. A mouth pressed against the side of my neck and kissed slowly, then moved to the place just below my ear. I stood still. Heat gathered low in my belly and between my thighs. My breasts felt heavier inside the blouse. The kissing continued, soft and steady, while the invisible arms stayed around my waist.
I tried to step away. The hold loosened but the warmth remained on my neck and across my breasts. By noon I was fully wet. My panties clung between my thighs. Every time I moved I felt the same mouth return, kissing the curve of my shoulder, the top of my breasts above the blouse, and my waist just above the low-below-navel petticoat. No one was in the house. The doors were locked. Yet the hugging and the kissing did not stop.
I sat on the sofa with my legs pressed together, breathing through my mouth. My nipples were hard against the bra. My pussy throbbed. The feeling stayed with me through the afternoon, rising and falling but never leaving. I kept looking at the empty hall and at the locked bedroom door, and I could not make the heat go away.

The feeling grew stronger after noon. Invisible hands settled on my waist and began to guide me. I walked without deciding to walk. My feet carried me from the hall into the bedroom. The door closed behind me. I stood beside the bed, breathing slowly, the heat between my thighs steady and deep.
My hands moved on their own. I unpinned the saree. The silk slipped from my shoulder and fell to the floor. I unhooked the blouse and let it drop. The low-below-navel petticoat loosened at my hips and slid down my thighs. I reached behind and opened the bra. My breasts came free, heavy and bare, nipples already hard. Last I pushed the panties down my legs and stepped out of them. I was naked. The air touched my breasts, my waist, my hips, my thighs, and my pussy.
Arms came around me from behind and pulled me fully against a body that had no weight yet felt complete. The embrace closed over my breasts and my waist. A mouth returned to my neck, then to the top of my breasts, kissing slowly. I leaned back into the hold. My eyes half-closed. Everything felt distant and close at the same time. The hugging tightened until my bare back and my buttocks were pressed fully into the invisible chest and hips. Hands moved over my breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing my hard nipples. Another hand slid down my stomach and rested between my thighs, cupping my pussy without entering.
I did not resist. Warmth spread through my belly and up into my breasts. My legs softened. I let the embrace hold all of me, naked, while the kissing continued along my neck and the curve of my shoulder. Time moved like water. I stayed inside the hug, breathing through my mouth, my pussy wet and open against the hand that rested there, enjoying the weightless pressure of being completely held.

The invisible arms guided me onto the bed. I lay on my back, naked, legs already parting. Weight settled over me, full and warm, pressing my breasts flat and pinning my hips to the mattress. A cock pushed against my pussy, thick and hard, and slid inside in one long stroke. I gasped. My pussy stretched around it and clenched at once.
The cock began to move, slow at first, then deeper, filling me completely with every thrust. My hands rose and gripped the shoulders that were not there. My legs wrapped around the hips above me. Each stroke dragged against the wet walls of my pussy and pressed hard against the deepest part of me. My breasts bounced under the weight. My nipples stayed hard. Heat flooded my belly and spread up my chest until I could not think of anything except the cock moving inside my pussy.
I moaned without trying to stop the sound. My hips lifted to meet every thrust. The fucking grew harder. The cock drove into me again and again, wet and relentless, while invisible hands grabbed my thighs and kept them spread wide. I was completely horny, completely open, unable to resist or even want to resist. My pussy tightened and fluttered around the cock. Pleasure built fast and sharp. I came with a broken cry, my whole body shaking, my pussy pulsing hard while the cock stayed buried deep.
The thrusts did not stop. They grew heavier. The cock swelled inside me. I felt it pulse, then flood. Thick spurts of cum poured into my pussy, filling me, leaking around the cock as it kept moving through the mess. I held on, legs locked, breasts crushed against the invisible chest, taking every drop while my own orgasm still trembled through me. The weight stayed on top of me long after the cock softened, keeping me pinned and full, my pussy still twitching around the spent cock inside it.

I woke in the evening with a sharp breath. The room was dim. My nighty was still bunched above my breasts. My panties were on the floor. Both of my hands were between my thighs, fingers resting on my pussy. The pussy was wet and open, and a slow leak of cum slid onto the sheet beneath me. For a moment I lay still, heart beating hard, trying to understand what had happened. It had felt completely real. The weight on my breasts, the cock moving inside my pussy, the cum filling me—all of it stayed in my body even after my eyes opened.
Outside I heard the car stop. Doors opened. The boys’ voices carried up the lane. I sat up quickly, pulled the nighty down over my breasts, and stepped into my panties. The panties clung at once against my still-wet pussy. I tied my hair with shaking hands and walked to the front door.
My husband stood there with the boys behind him, all of them smiling, kits in their hands.
“We won,” he said. “Finals. They played well.”
I smiled and stepped aside. “Come in. You must be hungry.”
The boys rushed past me toward their room, talking over each other. My husband looked at me once, at the nighty and at my face, then carried the bags inside. I closed the door. My pussy still throbbed under the panties. Cum continued to leak slowly. I followed them into the hall and began asking about the match, about the journey, about what they wanted to eat. My voice stayed steady.
I did not tell my husband anything. Not about the morning, not about the hands that had undressed me, not about the cock that had fucked my pussy and come inside me. I always told him everything. That night I kept my mouth closed and simply welcomed them home.

The next morning I woke to a mouth on my lips. The kiss was deep and slow, pressing hard, tongue moving against mine. I kissed back without opening my eyes. Heat rushed straight to my pussy. My panties grew wet at once, then soaked, clinging between my thighs while the kissing continued. Invisible arms stayed around my waist under the sheet. I moaned into the mouth and lifted my hips once, already horny, already open. When the kiss finally eased I opened my eyes. No one was there. The feeling of being followed remained, close behind my shoulders and along my back.
I got out of bed with my panties wet and my nipples hard under the nighty. In the bathroom I brushed my teeth, then sat to pee. The same presence stayed near me. When I stood I removed the nighty and let it fall. I pushed the soaked panties down my thighs and stepped out of them. My pussy was swollen and wet. I turned on the shower and stepped under the water, naked.
Arms came around me from the front the moment the water hit my breasts. The hug was full, pulling my naked breasts and my stomach against a naked chest and hips that had no weight yet felt complete. A hard cock pressed against my lower belly. A mouth returned to my lips and kissed while hands cupped my breasts and rolled my hard nipples. One hand slid down and rested over my pussy, fingers spreading the wetness without entering. I leaned into the embrace, water running over my breasts and between my thighs, too horny to step away. My legs softened. I stood under the spray with my eyes closed, letting the naked invisible body hold me completely from the front while my pussy throbbed against the hand that stayed there.

After the shower I dried myself and put on fresh panties and a clean nighty. The panties settled against my still-sensitive pussy. The nighty fell over my breasts and hips. Even with the clothes on I felt eyes on me. The watching stayed close, moving when I moved, resting on my breasts, my waist, and the place between my thighs. It made me horny again. My nipples hardened under the nighty. A slow wetness returned inside the fresh panties.
I walked to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for my husband and the boys. The moment I reached the counter, arms came around my waist from behind. The hug pulled me back against a naked body. A hard cock pressed firmly against my buttocks through the nighty and panties. The cock stayed there, thick and warm, while the arms held me. I continued reaching for the vessels and the milk, but my hands trembled. Every small step I took, the body followed, the cock rubbing against me, the hug never loosening. Heat gathered quickly between my thighs. My pussy grew wet against the fresh panties while I stood at the stove, trying to keep my breathing quiet so no one in the house would hear.

We sat at the dining table for breakfast. My husband and the boys talked about the match and the next practice. I kept my face calm and served the food. Under the table my left hand moved without my control. It slid beneath my nighty, hooked into my panties, and pulled them down my thighs. My panties dropped to my ankles. I stepped out of them quietly. My pussy was already wet and naked under my nighty.
The very next moment something entered underneath my nighty. A mouth pressed against my feet, then kissed up my knees, then along my thighs. The kisses moved to my inner thighs, slow and wet, spreading them wider under the table. Then the mouth reached my pussy and began to eat. The tongue licked through my wetness, circled my clit, and pushed inside. I gripped the edge of the table with my right hand. My nipples hardened hard against my nighty. Heat flooded my belly. My hips shifted once, small and helpless, as the tongue worked deeper.
I struggled to keep my breathing even. My husband asked about the milk. The boys argued over the last piece of bread. None of them looked at me. My pussy clenched and fluttered around the tongue. Pleasure built fast between my thighs. I bit the inside of my cheek and came quietly, thighs trembling under my nighty, pussy pulsing while the mouth stayed on me and licked through the orgasm. Cum leaked onto the chair. I kept my eyes on my plate and answered when spoken to, voice steady, body still shaking, until my husband and the boys finished and stood to leave.

Meanwhile my husband’s work was not going smoothly. More orders were cancelled without clear reason. Buyers who had stayed with the company for years stopped calling. He returned later each evening, quieter, sitting with papers he did not open. At night he no longer reached for me under my nighty.
The boys could not concentrate on their studies. This was unusual. All three of them had always been smart. They finished homework quickly and scored well without struggle. Now they sat with open books and stared at the same page. They forgot simple sums. They woke tired and argued over small things. My husband had always been sharp with the business. The sudden losses and the boys’ sudden inability to focus did not match anything we had known before. I watched both and could not understand what had changed inside the house.

As far as I was concerned, something kept me extremely horny the whole day. From the moment I opened my eyes, a deep aching heat lived low in my belly and throbbed between my thighs. My pussy stayed wet and swollen, pulsing with every step. Something made me stop wearing my panties at home. I left my panties untouched in the drawer. Under my nighty my pussy remained naked and open, my nighty dragging across my clit and making me gasp whenever I moved.
In the afternoons, after my husband and the boys left, something took my hands. I lifted my nighty slowly over my head, my nighty sliding across my hard nipples, and let my nighty fall. I stood naked in the bedroom, my breasts heavy, my pussy already dripping. Then I was on the bed. Warm weight covered me completely. A thick cock pushed into my pussy in one passionate stroke and began to fuck me with long, hungry thrusts that reached the deepest part of me. I opened my legs wide and wrapped them tight, pulling the cock deeper. My breasts pressed and bounced against the invisible chest. My nipples stayed painfully hard. I moaned without shame, voice breaking, hips rising desperately to meet every stroke. The cock drove into me again and again, relentless and loving at once. I came hard, crying out, my pussy clenching and fluttering wildly around the cock as pleasure tore through my whole body. The cock swelled inside me and flooded my pussy with thick cum, pulse after pulse, while I held on and took every drop, still trembling, still wanting. I stayed pinned beneath the weight, legs locked, my pussy full and leaking, until the presence slowly eased.
I woke in the evening as if from a dream, naked on the bed, my pussy still dripping and sensitive, just as the car stopped outside and my husband and the boys returned from business and college. I pulled my nighty back on with shaking hands, wiped the wetness from between my thighs, and went to the door with a calm face.

In the evenings, between 5 PM and 10 PM, that thing did not come. I was normal. I wore my nighty and my panties. I cooked, served food, and sat with my husband and the boys. After dinner I switched on the television. I watched the mega serials on Sun TV, the long episodes with the loud background music and the women in heavy sarees arguing in drawing rooms. I followed every scene and noticed the sarees the actresses wore—the border work, the way the pallu was pinned, the matching blouses, the jewellery that caught the light when they turned. Sometimes I studied how the petticoat sat at the waist or how the saree pleats fell when they walked. Between serials I checked the boys’ college bags, folded the washed clothes, wiped the dining table, and spoke to my husband about the next day’s meals and the electricity bill. My body stayed quiet. My pussy did not throb. No invisible hands touched my breasts or my waist. No cock pressed against me. I moved through those hours the way I always had.
Later I went to the boys’ room. I made them change, wiped their faces and feet, straightened their mattresses, and pulled the sheets smooth. I sat with them until their eyes closed and their breathing evened. Then I turned off their light and walked back to our bedroom. My husband was already on the bed. I lay beside him and we talked for a while—about the factory, about the boys’ practice, about nothing important. His answers grew shorter. Soon his eyes closed. I stayed awake a little longer, listening to him breathe, feeling ordinary again, wondering why the hours after sunset belonged only to us while the rest of the day did not.
They were not happy. My husband had stared at the table even while the serial played. The boys had looked tired and argued over nothing. Their books had stayed closed. The unhappiness in the house did not lift.

After my husband fell asleep around 10 PM I closed my eyes and began to drift. Almost at once I felt a quiet insistence at my hips. My hands moved without my knowledge. They slid under my nighty, hooked into my panties, and drew them down my thighs and off my feet. My panties dropped beside the bed. My pussy was naked beneath my nighty.
Weight settled over me. A naked body covered mine. A mouth found my lips and kissed me slowly, then moved to my neck and the tops of my breasts. Hands cupped my breasts through my nighty and rolled my nipples until they hardened. The kissing and touching grew warmer. Heat spread through my belly. My legs parted on their own. A cock pressed against my pussy and pushed inside in one smooth stroke. I moaned softly so I would not wake my husband. The cock began to move, long and deep, fucking me with steady passion. I wrapped my legs around the hips above me and lifted to meet every thrust. My pussy grew wetter. Pleasure built quickly. I came with a quiet gasp, my pussy clenching hard around the cock while it continued to drive into me. The cock swelled and released, filling my pussy with cum in thick pulses. I took all of it, still trembling, still open.
When the weight eased I remained on my back, my nighty bunched above my breasts, my pussy full and leaking, completely satisfied. I fell asleep at once, like a happily fucked woman.

I woke to kisses on my lips. The mouth pressed and moved slowly, waking me fully. I kissed back for a moment, already feeling heat return between my thighs. My nighty was still bunched above my breasts. My panties lay on the floor where I had dropped them. Cum had dried on my inner thighs and around my pussy.
I sat up, reached for my panties, and pulled them on. They settled against my sensitive pussy. I smoothed my nighty down over my breasts and stood. I walked to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, then sat on the toilet and did my business. Today I did not feel his hands inside the bathroom. When I finished I cleaned myself and turned on the shower. I removed my nighty and my panties and stepped under the water, naked. I washed quickly, still feeling the leftover heat between my thighs, then stepped out.
I dried myself, put on fresh panties, and pulled a clean nighty over my head. My nipples were already hard under my nighty. I felt watched and wanted even after I left the bathroom.

After I came out of the bathroom I wrapped a thin cotton towel around my wet hair the way we do at home, twisting it at the back so the water would not drip onto my nighty. I went to the portico and sat down to draw the kolam (rangoli). The morning was quiet. I worked slowly with the rice flour, my nighty spread around my folded legs, my panties sitting normally underneath.
A man knocked on the gate. I wiped a strand of hair aside with the back of my hand and looked up. He opened the gate himself and walked in. He stopped about fifteen feet from me, inside the compound, near where I was sitting.
“I am the new milk delivery,” he said. “If it is okay I can leave one litre packet at the gate every morning from tomorrow.”
I stood up to answer. As I rose, my panties had wedged between my ass crack from sitting. I reached under my nighty with one hand and pulled them back into place while I adjusted the hem with the other. Before I could speak, arms came around my waist from behind in a firm hug. At the same moment a sudden strong wind rushed across the portico. It caught the front hem of my nighty and flung my nighty upward in one hard gust. My nighty ballooned and stayed lifted high above my waist, held there by the continuous wind so that my pink panties, my thighs, and the lower curve of my hips were completely exposed in a clear panty peek. The milk man stared openly. His eyes travelled slowly from my knees up my thighs and locked on the pink panties stretched over my pussy. I grabbed at my lifted nighty with both hands and pulled downward with all my strength, but the wind pushed back harder, keeping my nighty raised and fluttering. My arms strained. My nighty would not come down.
While I fought the wind the invisible hand slid inside my pink panties. Fingers spread and grabbed my pussy firmly, squeezing and teasing the wetness, then slowly took the hand out. My panties stayed on. The wind finally dropped and my nighty fell back into place. For those long seconds the milk man had seen everything the lifted nighty showed. His trousers tightened visibly at the front. He did not look away. His mouth was slightly open.
“Deliver one litre from tomorrow,” I said, voice shaking. “Now leave.”
I turned to go inside. As I walked away another gust of wind caught my nighty from behind and lifted it high, revealing my ass fully in the pink panties. The milk man stared at the round shape of my ass and the way the panties sat between my ass crack. He could not believe his luck. I pulled my nighty down and hurried through the door, leaving the kolam (rangoli) unfinished.

I ran inside and closed the door. My heart was still beating fast. I went straight to the kitchen, washed my hands, and began preparing breakfast. I heated the milk, made dosas, and set the chutney on the table. My nighty clung a little from the morning air, and my pink panties were back in place under it. I kept my face calm.
My husband and the boys came to the dining table. I served them and sat with them. We ate together. They talked about college and the factory. I answered when they asked me something. No one noticed anything different. After they finished, my husband left for the factory and the boys left for college. I cleared the plates, wiped the table, and stood alone in the quiet house again.

After my husband and the boys left I began the daily chores. I swept the hall, wiped the kitchen counter, and sorted the washed clothes. The house was quiet. My pink panties sat under my nighty, and at first everything felt ordinary. Then the heat returned between my thighs without warning. My pussy grew wet. I did not know why. In all these years of marriage and housework this had never happened to me during ordinary chores.
The memory of the milk man kept returning. I saw the wind lifting my nighty again in my mind, the pink panties fully exposed, his eyes travelling up my thighs and locking on the place over my pussy. The thought made me feel naughty. My body wanted to show him more. Something inside me pushed the idea further. I imagined turning back instead of running, letting the wind hold my nighty high longer, letting him see the full shape of my ass in the pink panties. The wanting grew sharper. I pictured his face close to mine, the ugly milk man leaning in, and something made me want to kiss him. The thought should have disgusted me. Instead my pussy clenched and more wetness soaked through my pink panties until they clung completely between my thighs and along my ass crack.
I kept sweeping. Each step rubbed the wet panties against my pussy. The heat stayed. I could not understand what was happening to me.

I went to the bathroom and took a shower. Water ran over my breasts and between my thighs. The leftover wetness from my pink panties washed away, but the heat in my pussy did not leave. After I dried myself I put on fresh Dark Blue Panties. My Dark Blue Panties sat low on my hips and covered my pussy. I fastened my white bra over my breasts. My white bra cups held my breasts fully. Then I tied my white petticoat low below my navel the way I always did.
Something guided my hands when I took my white chiffon saree. Flowers were printed all over my white chiffon saree. The border and the matching blouse were purple. I dbangd my white chiffon saree slowly. I pinned the pallu lower than usual so more of my purple blouse and the upper curve of my breasts showed. I tucked the pleats tighter at the waist so my white chiffon saree pulled across my hips and the round of my ass. I knew the way I wore my white chiffon saree would draw men’s eyes. I was fully aware. Yet I did not stop. My hands kept adjusting until my white chiffon saree sat sexily on my body.
I stood in front of the mirror. My white chiffon saree clung lightly over my breasts and hips. The purple border framed the shape of my waist. I adjusted the pallu of my white chiffon saree again and smoothed my purple blouse over my breasts. My Dark Blue Panties and my white bra stayed hidden underneath my white petticoat and my white chiffon saree, but I could feel my Dark Blue Panties against my pussy and my white bra against my breasts. Looking at myself made the heat return stronger. My pussy grew wet again inside my Dark Blue Panties. I was already extremely horny. A deep ache settled between my thighs. I wanted a man to fuck me so badly that my legs felt weak. The face that came to me was the ugly milk man’s. I imagined his cock pushing into my pussy while I still wore my white chiffon saree and purple blouse. The thought made my Dark Blue Panties soak through before I even left the room.
I picked up my handbag and checked what I was carrying. Inside were my house keys, my car keys, a small purse with cash and coins, my mobile phone, a folded handkerchief, a comb, a tiny mirror, a packet of bindis, two safety pins, and a spare hair clip. I also took the kattapai, the sturdy cloth shopping bag we use for groceries, and hooked the handles over my wrist along with my handbag.
While I locked the front door and walked toward my car, shame rose in me. I was loyal to my husband. I had never looked at another man this way in all our years together. The thoughts about the ugly milk man, about wanting his cock inside my pussy, made my face burn. I gripped my car keys tighter and tried to push the images away, but the wetness in my Dark Blue Panties remained as I reached the car.

To Be Continued..!]]> [Image: The-Wind-A-Whispered-Embrace.png]

The Wind

By Novelist Casanova

Saving our Son from the Rowdy

By Novelist Casanova

I am Rajesh. I work as a central government employee in Bangalore. I am tall myself — six-foot-two — and the height in my sons comes from my father’s side. Manish, Rakesh and Rahul are all taller than me. Manish is six-foot-five, Rakesh six-foot-seven, and Rahul six-foot-six. They have broad shoulders and long limbs. We live in a quiet middle-class area, in a modest two-bedroom house with a small front yard and a narrow balcony. The house is simple — cream-coloured walls, tiled floors that need polishing every few months, a steel almirah in the bedroom, and a dining table that has seen all three of my sons grow up. They are in college now. The house feels quieter than it used to.
My wife Sudha is thirty-eight. She still looks younger. She has a soft, oval face with high cheekbones, large dark eyes that turn slightly upward at the corners, a straight nose, and full lips that always look a little moist even without lipstick. Her skin is fair with a warm undertone, smooth across her face and neck, slightly softer and fuller on her arms and thighs. Her hair is long, thick, and black, usually tied in a loose bun or left open down her back when she is at home. She has a full figure. Her breasts are heavy and round, still firm enough that they fill a blouse completely and spill a little at the sides when she bends. Her waist is not as narrow as it once was, but it still curves in before flaring into wide, soft hips and a full backside. Her thighs are thick and smooth, and when she walks in a saree the movement of her hips is slow and natural.
She always wears a saree at home during the day — cotton or chiffon, usually with a simple blouse. At night she changes into a loose nighty that ends above her knees and plain cotton panties underneath. Nothing else. I used to notice the way the nighty clung to her breasts and hips when she moved around the bedroom before sleeping.
When we were younger, before the boys, I used to enjoy her body a lot. In the early years of our marriage we had sex often. I liked the way her breasts felt in my hands, heavy and warm, the way her nipples hardened quickly when I sucked them. I liked pushing into her and feeling how wet she became, the soft sounds she made when I moved deeper. She would hold my shoulders or my back, sometimes dig her nails in when it felt good. Her body would tighten around me near the end. Afterwards she would rest her head on my chest, breathing slowly, one leg still over mine. Those nights felt easy. We both wanted it. I would call her Sudha in bed, close to her ear, and she would answer softly.
After Manish was born things slowed down. After Rakesh it slowed more. By the time Rahul came, sex had become rare. My wife was tired most nights. The boys needed attention. Work kept me late. Even when we did it, it felt different. Her body was softer, fuller. Her breasts were heavier, her hips wider. I still found her beautiful when I looked at her, but the strong urge I used to feel had faded. I would lie beside her and feel nothing strong enough to act on. Sometimes weeks would pass. Then a month. She never complained. She would turn on her side in her nighty, pull the sheet up, and sleep. I told myself it was normal after three children. The heat had simply gone.
We settled into a quiet routine. My wife managed the house, cooked, looked after the boys’ studies when they were younger. I went to office, came back, ate, watched television, and slept. The house stayed clean. The boys grew tall and strong. Life was peaceful. I rarely thought about the nights we used to have. When I did, it felt like something that belonged to another time.

Even after the heat between us faded, I still hated the way other men looked at my wife.
In our area everyone knew her. She went to the market twice a week, to the vegetable shop, the small grocery, the temple on Fridays. She always wore a saree — usually a simple cotton one with a matching blouse — pallu pinned or dbangd over her shoulder. The men noticed anyway. The vegetable seller would keep talking longer than necessary, eyes dropping to the curve of her breasts when she bent to pick tomatoes. The auto drivers near the main road would slow down and stare when she walked past with a bag. Even the young men who sat outside the tea stall in the evenings would turn their heads when she came back from the temple, saree pallu fluttering a little in the breeze.
I saw it more than once. From the balcony I watched her cross the street. A man on a bike would turn his head fully, eyes fixed on the way her hips moved under the saree. Another time, at the grocery, the shopkeeper leaned too far over the counter while handing her change, gaze openly on the neckline of her blouse. She never seemed to notice, or she pretended not to. She would adjust her pallu, say thank you, and walk home. I would stand at the window and feel a tight, ugly heat in my chest. Not desire. Anger. She was my wife. They had no right.
Inside the house it was the same. When the plumber came to fix the kitchen tap, his eyes kept sliding to her as she stood nearby in her saree, one hand on her hip. When the boys’ friends visited, some of them glanced at her longer than they should when she brought water or tea. I would clear my throat or call her name sharply from the other room. She would come, and the looks would stop. Later she would ask me quietly if something was wrong. I would say no.
At night she changed into her nighty and panties and moved around the bedroom without thinking. The nighty was loose, but it still showed the weight of her breasts and the shape of her hips when she bent to fold clothes or switched off the light. I lay on the bed and watched her sometimes, the old irritation rising again. Other men looked at her like that every day. They saw the same body I had stopped reaching for. The thought made me angry, yet I still did not pull her close. I would turn to the wall, listen to her settle under the sheet, and stay silent.
The boys never said anything. They were tall and strong by then, and people in the area already treated them with a certain caution. Still, I noticed the looks. Every time my wife stepped out in a saree, some man’s eyes followed her. I hated it. I hated that I no longer wanted her the way I once had, and I hated even more that others clearly did.

My sons were all tall and well-built, and a large part of that came from regular training.
We had turned the small room on the terrace into a home gym. It had a basic setup — a barbell with plates, a pair of dumbbells, a pull-up bar fixed to the wall, a flat bench, and a couple of resistance bands. Nothing fancy, but enough. Manish, Rakesh and Rahul used it almost every morning before college. I joined them three or four times a week. I am six-foot-two myself, and working out with them kept me from going soft. We would take turns on the bench, do squats, pull-ups, and shoulder presses while the early morning air was still cool on the terrace. Sweat would darken their T-shirts. Their shoulders and arms had thickened over the years. Rahul especially had filled out; at six-foot-six he looked solid when he locked out a set of presses.
In the evenings they had basketball practice at college. Manish and Rakesh were in the college team. Rahul played regularly too, though he was more aggressive under the basket. After practice they would come home tired, drink water, eat, and sleep early most nights. On weekends they sometimes went to the local ground near our area for pickup games. I had watched them a few times. They moved well for their size, and other players gave them space.
My wife would have breakfast ready by the time we finished the morning workout and came down. She stayed in her saree, moving between the kitchen and the hall, calling us to eat before the boys left for college. Those mornings felt ordinary and steady.
Life felt settled. The boys were strong and focused. They were all in law college, and I was simply waiting for them to finish. Once they completed their degrees I planned to get them married one by one, find good girls from decent families, and see them settled. After that, once I retired, my wife and I would travel. We had already talked about it a few times — going to different places in India, maybe abroad if the savings allowed. Nothing grand, just the two of us moving around without the old worries. The house was quiet, the routine was fixed, and everything ahead looked peaceful. I was content.

In our area everyone knew Dharma’s name, even if most people never said it out loud.
He was not from our street. He stayed two lanes away, in a larger house with a high compound wall and a black Scorpio always parked outside. People said he had started as a local strongman years ago, collecting money from shops and settling fights for a cut. Over time he grew. Now he controlled parts of the area — who could open a new shop, who paid protection, who stayed quiet when something happened. His men moved in small groups, three or four at a time, on bikes or in the Scorpio. They did not need to raise their voices. Shopkeepers lowered their eyes when the vehicle slowed near their counters. Auto drivers changed routes if they saw his men standing at a corner.
Dharma himself was in his early forties and heavily built — thick neck, broad shoulders, heavy arms and a solid chest that stretched his plain shirts. His skin was dark, almost black in the shade, with a rough, uneven texture. His face was ugly. A long, pale scar ran from the corner of his left eye down across his cheek and ended near his jaw. His nose was broad and slightly flattened. His mouth was the worst part — thick lips that never fully closed, always a little wet, with uneven, yellowish teeth that showed even when he was not speaking. When he did speak his voice stayed low and calm, but the sight of that mouth made people look away quickly. He wore a gold chain that sat against his dark skin at the open collar. The calm way he carried himself, combined with that face, made everyone more careful around him.
Stories moved quietly. A man who refused to pay had his shop shut for a week. Another who argued too much was found with broken fingers. More recently, our neighbour Santosh, his wife Lydia, his father Chellappan and his mother Kasiamma had died in what the security officer called an accident. Their car had gone off the road at night. No one in the area believed it was an accident. Santosh had owed money and had started talking to the wrong people. After that, even the men who used to sit outside the tea stall became quieter when Dharma’s Scorpio passed.
He had a younger brother named Chakravarthy. Chakravarthy was louder, younger, in his late twenties, and liked to move with two or three of Dharma’s men. He drank in the evenings, picked small fights, and expected people to step aside. Most did. He was not as controlled as his brother, but everyone understood that touching him meant dealing with Dharma. The two of them were close. Dharma looked after him, gave him money, and let him use the men when he wanted. In return Chakravarthy stayed mostly inside the area Dharma already controlled.
I had never spoken to either of them. I kept my head down, paid my bills, and stayed inside after dark. My sons knew the name too. They had grown up hearing the same low talk in college and on the street. None of us had any reason to cross them. Or so I thought. Life still felt steady. The morning workouts continued, the boys went for their evening basketball practice, and my wife moved through the house in her saree as usual. I was still waiting for them to finish law college, get married one by one, and for the quiet years after retirement to begin.

A few weeks ago I took my wife to a movie after a long time. Just the two of us. The theatre was half empty. During a song sequence there were long, close lip-lock scenes — slow kisses, hands moving over bodies, the actors pressed together. I felt a slow heat start low in my stomach, something I had not felt in months. When I glanced at her she was watching the screen without blinking, lips slightly parted.
In the dark I leaned closer. She turned her face toward me. I kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. I tasted the light sweetness of the soft drink she had earlier, mixed with the natural taste of her mouth. She kissed me back slowly, her tongue touching mine for a few seconds before we pulled apart. Neither of us spoke. On the way home the silence stayed.
That night, after the boys had gone to their rooms, she changed into her nighty as usual. I stopped her before she could switch off the light.
“Sudha,” I said.
She turned. I stepped closer and pulled the nighty up and off her. She stood in her bra and panties, looking at me with a small, surprised smile. I unhooked the bra and let it fall. Her breasts were heavy and full, nipples already tightening in the air. I pushed her panties down her thighs and she stepped out of them. For the first time in years I looked at her completely naked.
Her body was still soft and full. The weight of her breasts, the curve of her waist into wide hips, the thickness of her thighs. Between her legs her pussy was neat, the outer lips full and smooth, a little darker than the rest of her skin, already glistening. Lower, her asshole was small and tight, a neat darker ring between the soft cheeks of her ass. I had forgotten how she looked like this. The sight made my cock hard immediately.
I made her lie back on the bed. I spread her thighs and ran my fingers over her pussy, feeling how wet she had become. She exhaled softly. I pushed two fingers inside her pussy. She was tight — tighter than I expected after three children — warm, and the inner walls of her pussy gripped my fingers. I stroked in and out slowly while my thumb moved over her clit. Her hips lifted a little. Her breasts shifted with each breath, nipples stiff.
When I pushed my cock into her pussy she gasped. I went in deep in one steady push. The tight walls of her pussy clenched around my cock, hot and snug, pulling my cock deeper. I stayed still for a moment, feeling how completely her pussy wrapped my cock. Then I started to fuck her. Long, deep strokes. Each time I pulled my cock back, the tight walls of her pussy dragged along the length of my cock; each time I pushed my cock in, she took my cock fully, her ass lifting slightly off the bed. The wet sound was clear. Her heavy breasts bounced with the rhythm. I reached under her and gripped her ass, fingers pressing into the soft flesh near her tight asshole, and pulled her harder onto my cock.
She moaned, low and open. Her hands held my arms. Her pussy kept squeezing my cock, the inner walls fluttering tighter every time my cock bottomed out inside her. I fucked her steadily, watching her face, the way her mouth stayed open, the way her eyes half-closed. She was enjoying it. I could feel it in the way she met my thrusts, in the way her pussy stayed open and wet around my cock. Near the end the walls of her pussy tightened hard around my cock and she came with a shaky breath, her thighs trembling against my hips. I kept moving my cock through it, then pushed my cock deep and finished inside her pussy, grinding against her while she held me.
Afterwards we lay still. She was breathing hard, skin warm and damp. She turned her head and looked at me.
“That was good,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” I answered.
She smiled, small and tired, and rested her hand on my chest. For the first time in a long while the old distance felt thinner. I stayed with my cock inside her pussy a little longer, feeling the walls of her pussy still pulsing softly around my cock, and did not pull out.

The night after the movie did not change much.
Over the next six months I fucked my wife only once or twice. Work kept me busy — files, meetings, targets that never really ended. In the mornings I still joined the boys on the terrace for the workout when I could. In the evenings I drove them to college for basketball practice or picked them up after. Law college exams were coming closer. I spent time checking their notes, talking to their professors when needed, making sure nothing slipped. By the time I reached home most nights I was tired. The urge that had come back for one evening stayed weak.
My wife understood. She never asked why the gap had returned. She continued the same routine — saree during the day, nighty and panties at night — and managed the house without complaint. When I did reach for her those one or two times, she responded the same way she always had: quietly, without pressure. Afterwards she would rest her hand on my arm for a minute, then turn and sleep. She never pushed.
She had always been loyal. In all the years of our marriage I never saw her look at another man the way some women did. She kept her sarees modest — pallu properly placed, blouses that covered fully, nothing that drew extra eyes when she went to the market or the temple. Even at home, when relatives visited or the boys’ friends came, she stayed covered and spoke little. I knew she did it partly for me. She had seen how the looks from other men irritated me, and she adjusted without me having to say much.
Life stayed steady on the surface. The boys trained hard. Their height and build made them stand out on the basketball court. I focused on their studies and their game. My wife kept the house running. The quiet distance between us in bed remained, but it no longer felt sharp. I told myself this was normal. Once the boys finished law college and settled, things would ease. Until then, work and their future came first.

I knew all three of my sons had girlfriends. My wife and I had already decided we would get them married one by one after they finished law college. Until then we stayed quiet about it and let them focus on studies and basketball.
One afternoon my wife and I were at home when our neighbour knocked hard on the door. He was out of breath.
“Rahul is fighting Dharma’s brother Chakravarthy in the market,” he said. “Chakravarthy has ten men with him.”
The moment Manish and Rakesh heard, they grabbed their bike keys and left. My wife and I took the car and drove fast toward the market. By the time we reached, the fight was already over. Chakravarthy and his ten men were on the ground. Blood ran from Chakravarthy’s nose and mouth. Two of his men held their ribs. Another had a swollen eye. My three sons stood over them, breathing hard, shirts torn at the sleeves. People from the shops and the tea stall had gathered. Some of them were laughing openly at Chakravarthy and his men. No one stepped forward to help them.
I felt cold fear spread through my chest. This was exactly what I had not wanted. I got out of the car and shouted at my sons.
“Enough! Get on your bikes and go home now!”
They looked at me, then at the men on the ground, and left without arguing. My wife and I drove back in silence.
At home I closed the door and turned on Rahul.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I said. “Do you know whose brother that is?”
Rahul wiped blood from his knuckle and answered.
“At the market Chakravarthy started harassing my girlfriend. He grabbed her hand and spoke dirty. I told him to stop. He swung at me. I hit him back. Then his men came at me. Manish and Rakesh reached and we finished it.”
My wife stood beside me, face tight. She looked at Rahul, then at Manish and Rakesh who had just walked in. None of the boys spoke after that. I stood there with my hands on my hips, heart still beating fast, already thinking about what Dharma would do once he heard.

I knew how powerful Dharma was. He was not just a local rowdy. He had political reach. Ministers took his calls. security officer officers in the area looked the other way when his name came up. Cases against his men disappeared. People who crossed him either paid heavily or vanished. I had stayed clear of all that for years. Now my sons had put us directly in his path.
While I was still standing in the hall, our neighbour walked in without knocking. His face was tight, eyes wide with worry.
“Dharma has gone to the hospital to see Chakravarthy,” he said, voice low and hurried. “He will come here any time. You should leave or do something.”
Manish stepped forward, shoulders squared, jaw set hard.
“Let him come. We will beat the shit out of him too.”
I turned on him sharply, heat rising in my chest, one hand already half-raised.
“Shut up!” I shouted, voice cracking with fear more than anger. “You don’t know what you are saying.”
Rakesh stood a step behind, fists loose at his sides, breathing steady but eyes fixed on me.
“Dad, we can handle his entire gang. You saw what happened in the market.”
I looked at all three of them. My chest felt heavy, throat tight. I forced my voice lower.
“I did not raise rowdies,” I said, each word slow. “I am raising future advocates and judges. Not boys who fight in the street like this. This ends now.”
I stood quiet for a moment, thinking, fingers pressing into my palms. Then I decided.
“All three of you will go to your grandmother’s house in Vellore tonight. Stay there until I call. No arguments.”
My wife understood at once. Her face had gone pale, but she moved quickly, no questions, and went inside to pack their bags. The boys looked at each other, then at the floor, and did not fight me. Within twenty minutes we were in the car. We dropped them at the bus stop. The Vellore bus was already there. I watched them board with their bags. Rahul turned once, eyes meeting mine for a second, then looked away. The bus moved.
On the way back home my wife sat silent, hands clasped tight in her lap, shoulders stiff. After a while she turned her head slightly toward me, voice low.
“What will we do now?”
I kept my eyes on the road, knuckles pale on the steering wheel, the fear still sitting heavy under my ribs.
“We will go home, get ready, and go to Dharma’s house,” I said. “We will apologise. We will ask him to spare the boys. We have no other choice.”
She nodded slowly, lips pressed together, one hand rising to touch the edge of her saree pallu.
“If he asks for money, we will arrange it. But we have to go and speak to him.”
“Yes,” I answered, throat dry. “As soon as we reach home we will change and leave.”
We reached home as the street lights came on. The house felt empty. I locked the door, the click loud in the quiet, and my wife and I went inside to get ready, both of us moving without speaking, the weight of what waited ahead sitting between us.

As soon as we stepped inside and locked the door, my wife turned to me, one hand already on the bedroom doorframe, her voice quick but steady.
“Just give me five minutes, Rajesh. I will get ready.”
My wife went inside without waiting for an answer. I stood in the hall for a second, the quiet of the empty house pressing in, then picked up my phone. My fingers felt stiff as I called Manish. While the line rang I walked toward the bedroom to grab my wallet from the side table.
The bathroom door was closed. On the bed my wife had already laid out the clothes she would wear — maroon panties, a white bra, a white petticoat, the yellow chiffon saree with its thin gold border, and the matching yellow blouse. I looked at the yellow chiffon saree and the yellow blouse for a moment, then stepped back out as Manish answered.
“Dad?” His voice came clear, the low hum of the bus engine behind him.
I moved into the living room, phone to my ear, shoulders still tight.
“Are you all on the bus? Everything okay?”
“Yes. We got seats together. Rahul is quiet. We will reach by morning.”
I let out a slow breath, one hand resting on the back of the sofa.
“Good. Stay at your grandmother’s house. Do not come back until your mother and I call. No arguments, no messages to anyone here. Just stay there.”
“We understand,” he said. There was a short pause. “You and Mom be careful.”
“We will. Call me once you reach.”
I stayed on the line a little longer, listening to the bus sounds, making sure nothing had gone wrong, then ended the call. The phone felt warm in my palm. I turned toward the bedroom just as my wife stepped out.
My wife had changed into the yellow chiffon saree and the matching yellow blouse. The yellow chiffon saree sat neatly at her waist, the thin gold border running along the edge of the pallu she had dbangd over her left shoulder. The yellow blouse fit close across her chest. Her hair was still slightly damp at the ends from washing her face. My wife looked beautiful. The yellow chiffon saree and yellow blouse made her skin look warmer, and the way the saree moved when she walked showed the full shape of her hips and the curve of her breasts beneath the yellow blouse. For a second I just stood there, phone still in my hand, watching my wife.

The car keys were already in my hand. My wife stood half a step from the door in the yellow chiffon saree and matching yellow blouse, the thin gold border of the pallu resting along her left shoulder, fingers lightly pinching the edge so it would not slip. The hall was quiet. I reached for the latch.
The door swung inward before my fingers touched it.
Dharma filled the frame. Four of his men stayed pressed just behind him, their bodies cutting off the street light. His face was dark and still, the long pale scar dragging the skin beneath his left eye. His thick lips hung slightly open, wet at the corners. He looked straight at me, broad chest and heavy shoulders blocking the doorway, the gold chain at his collar catching a dull gleam.
“Where is your son?”
The words came low, almost gentle. My mouth went dry. The keys bit into my palm as my fist closed. Beside me, my wife’s fingers loosened on the pallu. The yellow chiffon saree shifted, the edge sliding a fraction lower on her arm.
“He is not here,” I said. The sound of my own voice felt thin in the sudden quiet. “He left. He will not come back.”
Dharma’s eyes moved past me with slow weight and settled on my wife. They travelled over the yellow blouse, over the soft swell beneath the chiffon, then rose to her face. One of the men behind him shifted his stance. The air in the hall tightened.
“I asked for the boy.” Dharma’s scar did not move when he spoke. His wet lips shaped the words carefully. “Not stories.”
My wife took one small step forward. Her breath had shortened; I could see the quick rise of her chest under the yellow blouse. The pallu slipped farther, catching at the crook of her elbow and baring more of the blouse and the upper curve of her breasts.
“Please.” Her voice stayed low, but it did not shake. “He made a mistake. We will do whatever you want. Just leave him.”
Dharma did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on her, on the fallen pallu, on the yellow chiffon saree pulled slightly off her shoulder, on the way the blouse held the weight of her breasts. I stood motionless, heart hammering hard enough that I felt it in my throat, the cold keys digging deeper into my palm, unable to look away from his eyes or from the slow slide of the saree against my wife’s skin.

Dharma’s phone rang. The sharp tone cut through the tight silence of the hall. He pulled it from his pocket without taking his eyes off my wife, answered, and listened. His thick lips stayed parted. The scar on his cheek did not shift. After a few seconds he spoke, voice still low.
“Vellore. Grandmother’s house. They are on the bus.”
He ended the call and slipped the phone away. His gaze returned to my wife, then moved to me. The men behind him stayed still.
Cold fear slammed through my chest. My fingers crushed the car keys harder. My wife’s face drained of colour. The yellow chiffon saree had already slipped lower on her shoulder; now her hand rose halfway, then stopped, as if she had forgotten what she meant to do.
“Please,” I said. My voice came out rough. “They are only boys. They made a mistake. Don’t go after them. We will do anything you ask. Just spare them.”
My wife stepped closer to him, the pallu hanging loose at her elbow, the yellow blouse fully visible across her chest. Her eyes were wet, but she kept them on his face.
“They are our sons,” she said, words quick and thin. “Rahul started it because of a girl. The others only came to help him. Please. Leave them. Punish us instead. We are here.”
Dharma looked at her for a long moment. His dark eyes moved over the fallen yellow chiffon saree, the curve of her breasts under the yellow blouse, then back to her mouth. He did not smile. His wet lips remained slightly open.
“You are asking me to forget what they did to my brother.”
My wife’s hands had begun to tremble. She pressed them together in front of her waist, the gold border of the saree brushing her wrists.
“We are begging you,” she said. “They will never come near him again. We will make sure. Please. Don’t touch them.”
I stood beside her, throat locked, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth. The keys had gone warm and slick in my fist. Dharma’s men watched from the doorway. No one moved. The only sound was my wife’s unsteady breathing and the faint rustle of the yellow chiffon saree as her shoulders rose and fell.

Dharma moved in close enough that the heavy smell of his sweat and cheap cologne settled over us. His eyes stayed on the yellow blouse, on the full weight of my wife’s breasts where the yellow chiffon saree had already slipped down to her elbow. She drew her shoulders in, breath turning shallow, the pulse visible at the base of her throat.
Something strange moved through me as I watched him look at her. A low, unwanted heat gathered in my stomach and slid lower. My cock stirred against my trousers even while fear still locked my chest. I hated the feeling. I could not push it down.
“You keep saying you will do anything,” he said, voice low and unhurried, wet lips barely parting. “I want to hear exactly what that means.”
My wife’s fingers tightened on the edge of the fallen pallu. She looked at me for a second, eyes wide and bright with fear, then turned back to him. Her voice came out careful.
“We can pay you. However much you want. We will arrange it tonight if that is what it takes. Just leave our sons alone.”
He reached out and hooked one thick finger under the pallu, drawing it the rest of the way off her shoulder so the yellow chiffon saree slid down her arm and caught at her wrist. The yellow blouse was left completely bare, stretched across her chest. Her nipples had stiffened beneath the cloth. A slow flush rose from her neck and spread across the upper curves of her breasts. The sight of her standing like that in front of him made my cock thicken further, shame burning under my skin while the hardness only grew.
“I am not interested in your money.”
Her hands lifted halfway as if to cover herself, then fell. She shook her head, lips pressing together, shoulders tense.
“No. Not that. Please. There has to be something else.”
Dharma leaned in a fraction more. His gaze moved openly over the yellow blouse, over the quick rise and fall of her breasts, then returned to her face. His tone stayed soft, which made the words heavier.
“Your boys put my brother in the hospital. Either you let me fuck you tonight in your own bed, and you cooperate fully—move the way I want, make the sounds I want, give me real pleasure instead of just lying there—or I send my men to Vellore before morning. If you hold back, if you make this difficult, the deal is off. That is the only choice.”
My wife’s face lost its colour. She looked at me, eyes wet and searching, mouth parted as if waiting for me to speak. When I stayed silent her shoulders sagged. A shaky breath left her. My own breathing had turned uneven. The ache in my cock felt obscene against the fear still sitting in my chest, yet I could not look away from the way her body had reacted under his eyes.
“If I agree… and if I do everything you say… you will not touch them? None of them?”
“Not if you give me what I want. All of it.”
She closed her eyes. One tear slipped free and traced down her cheek. When she opened them again her voice was low and unsteady, but clear.
“All right. But not here. We will go to the bedroom. I will… cooperate.”
Dharma’s wet lips curved. He turned toward the door.
“All of you wait outside.”
His men left. The door shut. He looked at me next, then glanced once at the obvious hardness straining against my trousers.
“You as well. Leave.”
I started to move. My wife’s hand caught my wrist at once, cold and tight, nails pressing in. She faced Dharma, the yellow chiffon saree still hanging from her arm, the yellow blouse bare across her chest.
“Let him stay with me,” she said, voice quiet but firm despite the tremor in it. “Please. I don’t want to be alone with you in there.”
Dharma studied her for a long moment—the tremble running through her body, the exposed yellow blouse, the way she held onto me—then gave a short shrug.
“He can watch. But you remember what I said. Full cooperation. No holding back.”
He turned and walked toward the bedroom. My wife followed, fingers still locked around my wrist, free hand clutching the edge of the yellow blouse as if she might still cover herself. I went with them, cock throbbing shamelessly with every step, heart pounding hard, the fear and the heat tangled so tightly I could no longer separate them.

Dharma pushed the bedroom door open and stepped inside. The light was low. He turned and waited near the bed, arms folded, watching us with his wet lips slightly parted.
My wife stopped just inside the room. For a second she stood with her back to me, the yellow chiffon saree still hanging from her arm, the yellow blouse bare across her shoulders. Then she turned. Her eyes were already wet, tears gathering and spilling. She stepped into me and wrapped both arms around my waist, hugging me tightly, pressing her face hard against my chest as a sob broke out of her. The yellow blouse flattened against me. I felt the quick, uneven beat of her heart and the soft weight of her breasts shaking with every breath.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, voice muffled and breaking, shoulders heaving as she kept hugging me. “I’m so sorry, Rajesh. I don’t want this. I’m only doing it for our sons. If there was any other way I would never let him touch me.”
Her fingers clutched the back of my shirt. I hugged her back, one palm moving slowly between her shoulder blades, the other at the back of her head. My cock was hard against her stomach. She must have felt it. Outwardly I kept my face soft and my voice gentle.
“I know,” I said quietly against her hair. “I know why you’re doing it. I’m here.”
She hugged me a moment longer, then loosened her arms and lifted her face. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her eyes searched mine, lips trembling. She glanced once toward Dharma waiting by the bed, then back at me, voice dropping lower.
“Wait here,” she said, almost pleading. “Don’t come inside. It will only make you uncomfortable. He told me I have to cooperate with him fully… move the way he wants, give him pleasure. I don’t want you to see all of that. Please. Just stay out here.”
My chest tightened, but the heat in my cock only grew sharper at her words. I nodded, keeping my expression concerned and emotional, one hand still resting on her arm.
“All right,” I said softly. “I’ll wait. If you need me, just call.”
She gave a small, shaky nod, wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, and turned away. She walked into the bedroom, yellow chiffon saree trailing from her arm, yellow blouse bare, and pulled the door until it was almost closed, leaving only a narrow gap.
I stood in the hall for a few seconds, heart pounding, then moved quietly to the side window that looked into the bedroom. The curtain was half drawn. I positioned myself just beside the frame where I could see through the gap without being easily noticed, cock still hard and throbbing, shame and excitement twisting together as I watched my wife step toward the bed where Dharma waited.

My wife pushed the bedroom door shut from inside. The latch clicked softly. Through the narrow gap in the curtain I watched her turn, shoulders drawn tight, the yellow chiffon saree still hanging from her arm and the yellow blouse bare across her chest. Her hands trembled at her sides.
Dharma stood up from the edge of the bed. He walked toward her without hurry, heavy steps quiet on the floor, and stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. The scar on his cheek pulled as he looked down at her. His wet lips stayed slightly parted. She took a small step back until her shoulders touched the closed door, breath quickening, the yellow blouse rising and falling fast.
“I’m doing this only for my sons,” she said, voice low and unsteady, eyes wet but fixed on his face. Her fingers curled into the yellow chiffon saree at her side. “Not because I want you. Not for any pleasure. Just so you leave them alone. That’s the only reason.”
Dharma’s thick hand lifted and rested on the door beside her head, caging her in without quite touching her yet. His gaze moved over the yellow blouse, over the stiff peaks of her nipples pressing against the cloth, then returned to her mouth. He gave a slow nod, the movement almost gentle.
“I heard you,” he said, voice still soft. “It doesn’t matter why. Just cooperate fully. Move when I tell you. Make the sounds I want. Give me everything. Do that and your sons stay safe. Hold anything back and the deal changes.”
My wife’s throat worked. A fresh tear slipped down her cheek. She pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking once, then gave a small, tight nod. Her free hand rose halfway as if to cover the yellow blouse, then dropped again. She stayed against the door, chest heaving, waiting.
From the window I watched, cock hard and aching inside my trousers, the shame sharp and useless. I had always hated other men looking at her. Now I stood hidden, breath shallow, unable to look away as Dharma leaned in closer and my wife remained still, ready to do exactly what he had ordered.

Dharma’s hand stayed braced on the door beside my wife’s head. He leaned in slowly, the heavy scent of his sweat and cologne closing around her. She pressed back against the wood, shoulders tight, the yellow blouse pulling across her breasts with every quick breath. Her eyes stayed open, wet and fixed on his face.
When his mouth came close she turned her head sharply to the side, lips pressing together.
“Your mouth… it’s filthy,” she said, voice low and strained, breath hitching. “Don’t. Please.”
Dharma did not stop. His thick wet lips found the corner of her mouth anyway, then slid fully over her lips. She made a small sound of protest in her throat and tried to keep her mouth closed. He kept kissing her, slow and insistent, tongue pushing at the seam of her lips. After a few seconds her resistance softened. Her lips parted. She let his tongue into her mouth, a light tremor running through her shoulders as she began to kiss him back, hesitant at first, then deeper, eyes squeezing shut while fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.
From the window I watched her mouth open under his, the yellow chiffon saree still hanging loose from her arm, the yellow blouse bare and stretched tight over her breasts. My cock throbbed hard against my zipper. The old possessive anger tried to rise, but the heat in my groin drowned it. I stood perfectly still, breath shallow, staring at the way her lips yielded to his, at the slow wet movement of their mouths, shame burning while my cock ached with nothing but excitement.
Dharma’s free hand rose and cupped the side of her neck, thumb stroking just under her jaw as he kept kissing her. She made another small, muffled sound against his mouth, shoulders shaking once, but she did not pull her lips away. Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers curled tight into the yellow chiffon saree, cooperating while tears continued to track down her cheeks and his tongue moved inside her mouth.

To Be Continued..!]]> [Image: Saving-Our-Son-from-the-Rowdy.png]

Saving our Son from the Rowdy

By Novelist Casanova

[Image: Moonlit-Alleyway-A-Cinematic-Encounter.png]

The Street Photographer and

My wife

By Novelist Casanova

I am Rajesh. Most people still call me Rajesh anna or Rajesh sir. I run two small manufacturing units on the outskirts of Bangalore—one for packaging components, another supplying specialised fittings. The work is steady enough that money is no longer something we discuss every day. We live in a three-storey independent house in Koramangala, the kind with a small front garden, a covered car porch, and a terrace that still catches decent evening light. I bought it eight years ago. My wife chose the paint and the curtains. I only insisted on solid locks and a quiet street.
My wife Sudha and I have been married sixteen years. She stands five feet eight, with measurements that have stayed full even after three children—thirty-six inches at the bust, twenty-six at the waist, thirty-eight at the hips. She wears a 36D bra most days and medium hipster panties that sit low on those wide hips. She was twenty-two when we married; I was twenty-six. Her people are from outside Madurai, mine from near Salem. We met through a relative. The families got along. She still calls her mother every morning while cutting vegetables. She wears a saree at home every day—soft cotton or light chiffon, blouse properly stitched, petticoat tied low the way her mother taught her. Only at night does she change into a nighty. Under it she usually keeps a bra and panties. Some nights just the panties. A few nights nothing at all. When she has to step out to the nearby shop after the boys are back, she wears the bra, panties and petticoat under the nighty, then pulls a shawl tight across her chest before she leaves the gate.
Her face is the kind that stops people. Sharp, clear features, large dark eyes that look straight at you even when she is speaking softly, full lips that stay slightly parted when she is listening. Long black hair, usually in a thick braid or a loose bun when she cooks. Her body is heavy in the places three children have made heavier—full, high breasts that strain the blouse even when the pallu is drawn properly across them, a narrow waist that flares into wide, heavy hips and a soft, rounded stomach. When she walks through the house the saree moves with her, the fabric pulling across the lower curve of her breasts and the full swell of her hips. She does not try to hide any of it.
We have three sons. The eldest is fifteen, in tenth, quiet, already taller than her, serious about marks. The middle one is twelve, always hungry, always leaving his bag in the hall. The youngest is nine, still small enough to climb into her lap in the evening. All three go to the same college. Mornings are full of zipped bags, closed tiffin boxes, and her voice calling out about water bottles. By eight-fifteen they are gone. The driver handles the drop and pickup. After that the house goes quiet.
She never wanted a maid or a servant. Not even a watchman. She said the house was hers to look after and she would not have strangers moving through it. So she does everything herself. She cooks all three meals, washes the clothes, sweeps and mops the floors, waters the plants in the front garden and on the terrace, keeps the bathrooms clean, irons the boys’ uniforms, and still finds time to sit with the youngest in the evening. The only help she accepts is the driver for college. Everything else she handles alone, moving through the rooms in her saree, sleeves pushed up, pallu tucked at her waist while she works.
I leave early and return between six and seven. We eat together. She serves. The boys talk or argue. After dinner the older two go upstairs. The youngest stays a little longer. Then it is just the two of us in the living room or on the terrace. She asks if I ate lunch. I ask how her day went. Some nights she leans against me, the weight of her braid on my arm, the warmth of her body through the saree. Her hand rests on my thigh, ordinary. Sex happens late, after the boys sleep, usually in the dark, without much talking. It is not that we have stopped wanting each other. The days are simply full.
The house is large enough that each boy has his own room on the first floor. Our bedroom is at the end of the same corridor, attached bathroom, small balcony facing the back. Downstairs is the living room, dining, kitchen, and a spare room for relatives. Walls are soft cream. Sofas are deep. Evenings smell of the jasmine she keeps near the window and whatever she cooked. From outside it looks like any other Koramangala house—compound wall, metal gate, cars under the porch, plants she waters herself every morning. Inside it feels settled. Ordinary.

It was a Saturday. The boys had finished their tuition early and were already home, arguing over the television. I told my wife we should go out. Jailer 2 had released that week and the evening show still had seats. She changed into a yellow chiffon saree with a matching yellow blouse, the kind of soft fabric that catches light and moves when she walks. The pallu sat across her chest the way she always wears it, but the chiffon was thin enough that the shape of her body stayed clear underneath. She tied the petticoat low, the way she prefers, and came downstairs ready.
We reached the multiplex just after six. The lobby was crowded. As soon as we stepped inside I saw the way men turned. Not all at once, and not openly. A man near the ticket counter looked, then looked away, then looked again when he thought we had passed. Another standing by the snack counter let his eyes travel from her face down the length of the yellow saree and back up. They pretended they were checking the show timings or the menu boards. I kept my hand at the small of her back and walked her toward the escalator.
On the escalator the men behind us had a clear view. The chiffon pulled tight across her hips as she stood on the step above them. From that angle the full curve of her ass was visible under the saree, the fabric outlining the heavy shape and the way it moved when she shifted her weight. I heard one of them breathe out. Another said something low that I did not catch. My wife kept facing forward, one hand on the rail. I stared straight ahead and said nothing. Starting something in a multiplex full of people would only make it worse. We reached the top and I guided her left toward Screen 3.
Inside the theatre the lights were already dim. Our seats were in the middle of a row. We had to walk past people who were already sitting. As she moved sideways in front of them the yellow saree shifted and the men in the seats got a close, full view of her ass, the chiffon stretched across it, the heavy lower curve only a short distance from their faces. One man leaned back slightly. Another’s eyes stayed on her the whole way past. She kept her pallu in place with one hand and did not look down. I followed behind her, jaw tight, and we sat.
The movie ran. She watched it properly, laughing in the places everyone laughed, leaning a little toward me during the louder scenes. I watched the screen and also watched the men in the rows ahead and to the side. A few of them kept turning their heads. Not constantly. Just enough.
When the credits started we stayed in our seats until most people had left. Outside the multiplex the air was cooler. Instead of calling the driver straight away I said we could walk a little and pick up biryani for the boys. She agreed. We left the mall and turned toward the main road, the yellow chiffon still moving against her body under the streetlights, the evening crowd around us. The takeaway place was ten minutes on foot. We walked slowly.

The takeaway place was a small hotel on the main road, the kind with bright tube lights and a glass counter at the front. We stepped inside and the smell of biryani was strong. Two men were already waiting near the counter. Both of them looked up when my wife walked in. Their eyes stayed on her longer than they needed to. One of them let his gaze drop to the way the yellow chiffon pulled across her hips and the full curve of her ass as she stood beside me. The other kept glancing at the low neckline of the matching blouse where the pallu had slipped a little from the walk. They turned back to the counter when I looked at them, but not before I saw it.
I ignored it. Starting anything here would only delay us and the boys were waiting. I gave the order—three chicken biryanis, one mutton, extra raita—and paid. While the parcels were being packed my wife stood close to my side, one hand holding the edge of her pallu. The men kept finding reasons to look in our direction. I kept my eyes on the counter.
When the bags were ready I took them. We stepped back out onto the pavement. The street was busier now, people moving in both directions, bikes and cars passing. We had walked only a short distance when a young man crossed toward us. He looked to be in his late twenties, clean white shirt, camera bag slung across his body. He stopped a few feet in front of my wife and smiled.
“Sorry to stop you, madam,” he said. His voice was easy. “I’m Arjun. I do street photography. I only approach women whose faces already look like they belong in a frame.” He glanced at me once, polite. “Sir, would it be all right if I took a few pictures of madam? Just here, on the street. Nothing complicated.”
My wife looked at him, then at me. The yellow saree moved slightly in the evening breeze. She did not answer straight away. Arjun waited, still smiling, one hand resting on the strap of his camera.

My wife gave a small, polite smile and shook her head.
“No, thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft. “We are just going home. The children are waiting.”
She shifted the pallu a little higher across her chest and took half a step toward me, ready to walk. I moved with her. Arjun did not step aside. He stayed where he was, still smiling, both hands now resting lightly on the camera strap.
“I understand, madam,” he said. “But faces like yours are rare on this street. Most people walk past and never notice. I notice. The way the light is falling on you right now… it would be a waste not to take even two pictures.”
My wife glanced at me. Her eyes stayed on my face for a second longer than usual. The yellow chiffon moved against her arm in the breeze. I could see she wanted me to end it.
Arjun looked at me as well.
“Sir, I am not asking for anything long. Just a few frames here, under the streetlight. Madam will not even have to pose much. I will make sure everything stays respectful. You can stand right beside her the whole time.”
He took one small step closer, not blocking us, but close enough that we had to stop again. His eyes moved over my wife’s face, then down the length of the yellow saree and back up, slow and open.
“Madam has the kind of beauty that looks even better when it is kept simple,” he said. “No heavy makeup, no studio lights. Just this. People will remember a photograph like that.”
My wife’s fingers tightened on the edge of her pallu. She looked at me again, waiting. I stayed quiet. The biryani bags were warm against my leg. Arjun waited too, still smiling, still not moving out of the way.

We stood there on the pavement, the three of us. My wife’s hand was still on the edge of her pallu. Mine was on the handles of the biryani bags. Neither of us spoke.
I could feel her waiting for me to say no. At the same time I could feel something else in the way she kept looking at me—half expecting me to decide, half unsure herself. The yellow chiffon was clinging a little from the walk. Under the streetlight the shape of her body was clear: the full weight of her breasts under the matching blouse, the way the saree sat low on her hips, the heavy curve of her ass when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Arjun was watching all of it without hiding it.
“Madam,” he said again, softer this time. “I can see you are thinking. That is all right. Most women say no at first. Then they see the pictures and they understand.” He looked at me. “Sir, you can check my phone if you want. I will show you the kind of photographs I take. Nothing cheap. Only what is already beautiful.”
My wife’s eyes stayed on my face. I could see she was of two minds. Part of her wanted to walk away. Part of her was listening to the way he spoke, the way he kept calling her beautiful without raising his voice. I was of two minds as well. I wanted to tell him to leave. At the same time I was standing there watching another man look at my wife the way he was looking at her, and I had not yet told him to stop.
Arjun waited. He did not step closer. He only kept his eyes on her face, then let them drop once more to the place where the yellow blouse met the saree at her waist.
“Just two pictures, madam,” he said. “Right here. Then you can go home to your children.”
My wife looked at me again. Her lips were slightly parted. She did not say yes. She did not say no. The evening traffic moved past us. None of us moved.

Arjun took his phone out slowly, the way someone does when they do not want to startle. He unlocked it and turned the screen toward me first.
“Sir, you can see,” he said. “These are the women I have photographed on the street. All of them said no at first. All of them are still on my page because the pictures stayed clean.”
I looked. The photos were of women in sarees, some laughing, some looking away, light falling on their faces and on the dbang of fabric across their bodies. Nothing explicit. Just the same kind of attention he was giving my wife now. My wife leaned a little closer to see as well. Her shoulder touched my arm. I could smell the faint jasmine from her hair.
“Madam,” Arjun said, looking at her again, “I will not ask you to do anything you are not comfortable with. You can keep the pallu exactly where it is. Sir can stand right next to you. Two frames. That is all.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were still unsure, but they were no longer only asking me to say no. I felt the weight of the biryani bags in my hand and the warmth of her body beside me. The men at the hotel had looked at her. The men in the theatre had looked at her. This one was asking, and he was asking politely, and he was still standing there waiting for an answer.
I heard myself speak.
“Two pictures,” I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. “Here only. Then we go.”
My wife’s fingers loosened slightly on the pallu. She did not smile, but she did not step away either. Arjun’s smile widened just a little. He glanced once at the people still moving along the pavement, then back at us. It was just past seven. The streetlights were fully on. Shops were still open, but the crowd had thinned.
“Sir, madam,” he said, lowering his voice, “there are still people here. They will keep looking. There is a corner just behind that compound wall—no one uses it at this time. It will be empty. Better light, no one walking past. Two pictures only. Then you can take the food home.”
He pointed with his chin toward a narrow gap between two buildings, mostly in shadow. My wife looked at me again. I nodded once. Arjun stepped aside and waited for us to move first.

Arjun led us into the narrow cut between the buildings. The corner sat half in shadow, lit only by the spill of one streetlight. It was a little after seven. The main road noise dropped away behind the compound wall. No one else was there.
He stopped and turned to my wife.
“Madam, stand just here,” he said, voice low and even. “Face me. Sir can stay wherever he is comfortable.”
I remained a step behind him, the biryani bags warm against my leg. That was when I saw where his eyes went. As she turned, the yellow chiffon shifted and settled. His gaze dropped and stayed on the full, heavy curve of her ass. The thin fabric had pulled tight from the walk; under the streetlight it outlined every contour, the way the weight of her hips filled the saree. He did not look away quickly. Only after a moment did he lift the camera.
“A little to your left, madam. Weight on one hip. Yes… exactly like that.”
She shifted. The chiffon tightened further across her hips and ass, the dbang pulling into a clean line over the heavy lower curve. Arjun raised the camera and began shooting from the front. I stood directly behind him and watched the screen on the back of the body. He zoomed in slowly until her face filled the frame—the sharp cheekbones, the large dark eyes, the full lips slightly parted. Then he eased the zoom out again, catching the yellow blouse, the soft weight of her breasts under the pallu, the narrow waist, the flare of her hips beneath the chiffon. He zoomed in once more, tighter, on the place where the matching blouse met the saree at her chest. The fabric was thin. The shape underneath was unmistakable.
He kept working the lens—slow zoom in, hold, slow zoom out, small adjustment. Each time the frame travelled over her body I felt it low in my stomach. My wife stood still, following only the small instructions he gave, the yellow saree moving only when he asked her to turn a fraction.
After a few frames he lowered the camera slightly and turned his head toward me, close enough that his voice would not carry.
“Sir,” he said quietly, almost respectful, “your wife is genuinely beautiful. And… she is very hot as well. The kind of beauty that does not need anything added. It is already there.”
He said it without a smile, without leaning in further, as if he were simply stating something obvious. Then he turned back to the camera and raised it again. I stayed where I was. The words sat in my chest. My cock hardened fully inside my trousers, a thick, steady pressure I could no longer ignore. I did not move. I only watched him continue to photograph her under the single streetlight, the corner still empty around us.

Arjun raised the camera again and kept the frame tight on her face.
“Madam, look just past my shoulder,” he said. “Yes. Hold that. Your eyes are doing everything.”
He took three frames in silence. Then he lowered the camera an inch.
“The light likes your face, madam. It sits properly on you. Most people have to work for this. You do not.”
My wife’s mouth curved, small and involuntary. Colour rose under her cheeks. She dropped her gaze for a second, then lifted it again when he asked, the shyness clear in the way her lashes moved. The yellow pallu stayed where it was across her chest. She looked pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
He shot again, slower now, only her face. Between frames he turned his head slightly toward me, voice kept low enough that it stayed between us.
“Sir… the way her lips stay parted like that. Even when she is not speaking. It is difficult to look only at the eyes.”
He said it evenly, almost thoughtfully, then turned back to her.
“Chin a little higher, madam. Perfect.”
Another soft click. He glanced at me once more while the camera was still at his eye.
“There is something in her face that keeps pulling the frame lower, sir. Even when I am only shooting here. It is… insistent.”
My wife heard only the compliments. She blushed deeper, a faint smile staying at the corner of her mouth, shoulders relaxing under the chiffon. I stood behind him with the bags in my hand and felt my cock thicken again, heavy and unmistakable against my thigh. He kept the lens on her face, taking picture after picture, while the things he whispered sat between us in the quiet corner.

Arjun lowered the camera a fraction and let the frame open. His shoulders stayed loose, the camera steady in both hands.
“Madam, stay exactly as you are. I am only coming a little lower.”
My wife’s breath caught, just once. She held still, chin lifted the way he had asked earlier, the yellow pallu resting across her chest. The lens moved from her face to the line of her throat, then to the place where the yellow pallu crossed the matching yellow blouse. He took two frames. Under the streetlight the full, high shape beneath the yellow blouse was clear.
He lowered the camera an inch. His eyes stayed on her.
“Madam,” he said, voice gentle, “the way the yellow blouse sits on you… it is difficult to look away. You carry it so well.”
Colour rose fast under her cheeks. She looked down, lashes lowering, one hand rising to touch the edge of the pallu as if she needed something to hold. A small, shy smile pulled at her mouth before she could stop it.
“It is just an ordinary blouse,” she said softly, the words almost lost.
Arjun’s head tilted, only slightly. He did not smile.
“Not on you, madam,” he answered. “Ordinary does not look like this.”
Her fingers tightened on the pallu, then released. She let it fall back into place, shoulders softening, the blush still high and warm across her face. She kept her eyes lowered a moment longer than necessary.
He raised the camera again and shot, slower this time. Between frames he turned his head toward me. His voice stayed low, meant only for the space between us.
“Sir… even with the pallu where it is, the shape underneath the yellow blouse is very clear. It keeps pulling the eye.”
I felt the words land low in my stomach. My cock thickened fully against my thigh, heavy and sudden. I did not shift my weight. I only watched the screen on the back of his camera.
He turned back to her, calm.
“A little closer to the light, madam. Yes. Just like that.”
My wife took a small step. The yellow chiffon saree moved with her. She glanced at him, uncertain, then at the ground.
“Is this all right?” she asked, voice small.
“Perfect, madam.”
He pressed the shutter. While the lens was still on her he glanced at me again, the corner of his mouth unchanged.
“There is a heaviness there, sir, where the yellow blouse holds. Once the frame goes to that place, it does not want to leave.”
Heat moved through me. My pulse was loud in my ears. My wife heard only the praise. She blushed deeper, eyes staying down, one hand resting lightly against her own waist as if to steady herself. The yellow chiffon saree shifted with her breathing. I stood behind him with the bags forgotten in my hand, cock hard and aching, while he continued to photograph her under the single streetlight.

Arjun lowered the camera until the frame sat at her waist.
“Madam, turn a little to the side for me. Slowly.”
My wife hesitated. Her fingers tightened once on the edge of the yellow pallu, then she turned, the movement careful. The yellow chiffon saree pulled across her hips as she moved, the dbang tightening over the full, heavy curve of her ass. Under the streetlight the shape was clear, the saree outlining the weight and the way it settled when she stopped.
He watched the line of her body for a moment before he raised the camera again.
“Yes. Hold there. The way the yellow chiffon saree sits on your hips… it follows you properly.”
Colour climbed her neck. She kept her eyes on the compound wall, shoulders drawn in, one hand still holding the pallu against her chest as if she needed the anchor.
“Is the pallu all right like this?” she asked, voice low.
“It is perfect, madam. Do not change anything.”
He took two frames from the side, then one from a three-quarter angle. Between shots he turned his head toward me, voice kept quiet.
“Sir… the weight at her hips. Even through the yellow chiffon saree you can see how it moves when she shifts. It is difficult to keep the frame only on the waist.”
Heat settled low in my stomach. My cock, already hard, throbbed once against my thigh. I stayed still behind him and watched the screen.
Arjun faced her again.
“A small step forward, madam. Weight on your back foot.”
She stepped. The yellow chiffon saree tightened further across her ass, the heavy curve rounding clearly under the dbang. She glanced at him, shy, then looked down.
“Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He pressed the shutter. While the camera was still at his eye he spoke to me again, almost under his breath.
“There is a fullness there, sir, where the yellow chiffon saree pulls across her. Once you notice it, the rest of the frame becomes secondary.”
My wife heard none of it. She stood with her eyes lowered, blush deep across her cheeks, the yellow pallu clutched lightly in one hand, body held in the pose he had asked for. I felt the ache in my cock grow sharper, pulse loud, while he continued to photograph the lower half of her under the single streetlight.

Arjun lowered the camera and stepped closer.
“Madam, the pallu has slipped a little at the waist. May I?”
My wife’s hand moved at once to the yellow chiffon saree, fingers catching the edge.
“I can do it,” she said quickly, voice small. Colour was already high on her cheeks.
He stopped, hands open, not touching her yet.
“Of course, madam. Only if you are comfortable.”
She tried to tug the pallu lower, but the knot at her waist had loosened during the turns. When she pulled, the yellow chiffon saree shifted instead of covering, and the soft dip of her navel came into view above the petticoat. She froze. Her other hand rose fast to cover it, palm flat against her stomach, eyes dropping.
“It is fine,” she murmured. “I will fix it.”
Arjun stayed where he was, camera lowered. He looked at me once, brief, then back at her.
I felt the sudden tightness low in my body. My cock, still hard from the earlier frames, pulsed hard against my thigh. The sight of her navel, the way she tried to hide it, the shy hunch of her shoulders under the yellow blouse—all of it landed at once. I heard myself speak before I had decided to.
“Leave it,” I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. “It is all right. Let him see.”
My wife’s eyes lifted to mine, startled. Her hand stayed over her navel, fingers pressed tight. The blush had spread down her neck. She did not move the hand away. Arjun waited, silent, the streetlight catching the small exposed curve of her stomach between her palm and the yellow chiffon saree. I stood behind him with my pulse loud in my ears, cock aching, and did not take the words back.

Arjun took one careful step closer. His voice stayed low.
“Madam, the knot has come loose. If I only straighten the yellow chiffon saree at the waist, the pallu will sit properly again.”
My wife’s hand was still pressed over her navel. She shook her head, small and quick.
“No. I can manage.”
Her shoulders had drawn in. The blush on her cheeks had not faded. She kept her eyes on the ground between them.
Arjun looked at me. He did not reach for her yet.
I felt the heat low in my stomach sharpen. My cock throbbed once, heavy against my thigh. The sight of her standing there, palm covering the exposed navel, yellow blouse rising and falling with her breath, made the words come easily.
“Let him,” I said. “It will only take a second. Then we can finish.”
My wife’s eyes lifted to mine. There was surprise in them, and something uncertain. Her fingers tightened against her stomach.
“Rajesh…” she said, barely above a whisper.
“It is fine,” I told her. My voice was steady. “He is only adjusting the saree.”
She held my gaze a moment longer, then looked down again. Her hand stayed where it was, but she did not step back. Arjun waited one more second. When neither of us stopped him, he reached out. His fingers found the loosened knot at her waist, just above the petticoat. He worked slowly, straightening the yellow chiffon saree, his knuckles brushing the soft curve of her waist as he reset the dbang. My wife’s breath caught. She kept her palm over her navel, body held very still, while his hands moved against her. I stood behind him and watched, cock hard and aching, pulse loud in my ears.

Arjun finished resetting the knot and stepped back. His eyes travelled down the length of the yellow chiffon saree and stopped at her feet.
“Madam, the light is catching the ground well. May I take two frames from lower? Only your feet and the hem.”
My wife shifted her weight. The yellow chiffon saree brushed her ankles. She was wearing simple flat sandals; her toes were visible, neatly shaped, the skin smooth from the evening air.
“My feet?” she asked, uncertain. Colour was still high on her cheeks from earlier. “They are not… anything special.”
“They are part of the picture, madam,” Arjun said. “The way you stand. It completes the frame.”
He looked at me. I felt a different heat move through me, lower and sharper. My cock, already hard, pulsed as I watched her feet shift again on the concrete, the small movement of her toes inside the sandals, the delicate arch visible when she lifted one heel slightly.
“Show him,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I meant. “Just stand as you are.”
My wife glanced at me, then down at her own feet. She did not argue. She only straightened a little, the yellow chiffon saree falling clean to her ankles.
Arjun crouched slowly, camera raised. From that angle the frame caught the hem of the yellow chiffon saree, the line of her ankles, the shape of her feet in the sandals. He took one shot. Then another. While he adjusted the lens he spoke without looking up.
“Sir… the way her toes press when she balances. Even in ordinary sandals. It is… precise.”
He said it low, almost to himself. My wife heard only the shutter. She kept her eyes lowered, one hand still resting near her waist where he had touched her, blush deep. I stood above them both and watched her feet in the frame, the small tension in her arches, the soft press of each toe, and felt my cock throb hard against my thigh, thick and insistent, while the streetlight held the three of us in the empty corner.

Arjun rose from his crouch and glanced at the low compound wall beside them.
“Madam, if you sit here for a moment, the angle will be cleaner. Only for the feet.”
My wife looked at the wall, then at me. Her hand was still near her waist. The blush had not left her cheeks.
“Sit?” she asked, uncertain.
“It will only take a minute, madam.”
Heat sat low in my stomach. My cock throbbed once, heavy and thick against my thigh. I wanted to see it.
“Sit,” I said. “It is fine.”
She held my eyes a second longer, then moved to the wall and lowered herself onto it. The yellow chiffon saree pooled around her legs. Arjun knelt in front of her.
“May I, madam?” he asked, fingers already near the strap of one sandal.
She nodded, small. He slipped the first sandal off, then the second, and set them aside. Her bare feet rested on the concrete, toes slightly curled. He set the camera down and took her right foot in both hands, one palm under the arch, the other covering the top.
His thumb moved slowly along the underside of her toes, then pressed into the soft ball of her foot. My wife jerked.
“It tickles,” she said, breath catching. She tried to pull back, but his hold stayed gentle and firm. A surprised laugh escaped her, high and embarrassed. Her shoulders shook. “Please—don’t.”
“Only a moment, madam,” Arjun said. His fingers traced the length of her sole, slow, feeling the arch, the sensitive centre. She twisted on the wall, yellow chiffon saree shifting, one hand bracing behind her. Another helpless laugh broke from her as his thumb stroked the inner arch.
“Sir,” he said quietly, still looking at her foot, “she is very sensitive here. The way her toes curl when I touch the centre…”
I watched his hands move over her bare foot, the way her toes flexed and pointed, the soft give of her sole under his fingers. My cock ached hard, pulsing with every small sound she made. I did not tell him to stop.
“Continue,” I said. My voice was low. “She will manage.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wide, cheeks burning, still laughing breathlessly as his fingers kept moving over her foot. She did not pull away again. I stood there, hard and throbbing, fully on his side, while he held her foot and felt every ticklish inch of it under the streetlight.

Arjun’s thumb pressed deeper into the centre of her sole. My wife’s foot jerked hard in his hands.
“Ah—stop, it tickles too much,” she gasped, laughing and trying to twist away at the same time. Her toes curled tight, then spread again when he stroked the sensitive arch in a slow circle. The yellow chiffon saree had ridden up her calves. Both her hands were braced on the compound wall now, shoulders shaking with the helpless sounds she made.
He did not let go. His other hand came up and held her ankle, steadying her, while his fingers kept moving—tracing each toe, pressing the ball of her foot, sliding along the soft underside. I watched the way her foot flexed and pointed in his grip, the small tremors running through her leg. My cock throbbed hard, thick and aching, trapped against my thigh. Every breathless laugh from her went straight to it.
Arjun’s breathing had changed. He was still kneeling, but his shoulders were tighter. When he shifted to reach her other foot I saw the clear ridge of his cock pressed against the front of his trousers. He lifted her left foot, brought it closer, and ran his thumb firmly up the sole.
“Madam… your feet are very soft,” he said, voice lower than before. “And very sensitive.”
She made a small, broken sound and tried to pull back again. He held her ankle and kept stroking, slower now, feeling the whole length of her sole, the spaces between her toes. His eyes stayed on her foot. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable.
“Sir,” he said without looking up, almost rough, “the way she reacts… it is difficult to stop.”
Heat flooded me. I was fully hard, cock pulsing with every movement of his hands on her. I wanted him to keep going.
“Don’t stop,” I said. My voice came out thick. “Take the pictures. Feel them properly.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wet from laughing, cheeks deep red, chest rising fast under the yellow blouse. She did not speak. Arjun’s fingers tightened on her foot, stroking harder along the arch, and I stood there watching both of us get harder while he held her bare feet in his hands under the streetlight.

Arjun lifted my wife’s right foot higher, both hands under her sole. My wife yelped and laughed hard, squirming on the compound wall, too busy fighting the tickle to notice anything else. Her toes curled tight against his palms.
“Don’t— it tickles, please— stop—”
He laughed, low and cheeky, thumbs stroking firmly up the centre of her sole. While she twisted and laughed with her eyes half-closed, he reached over with his free hand, switched the camera flash on, and angled the camera down. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat had ridden up her thighs. Her white panties were fully visible between her thighs, stretched over her pussy. The flash fired once. She was still laughing and trying to yank her foot back; she never saw where the camera was pointed.
“Arjun— ah— it tickles too much—”
“Almost done, madam,” he said, grinning, and took a second shot. Only after the second flash did she shove the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat down over her lap with both hands. By then the pictures were already taken. She had been too lost in the tickling to realise what he had photographed.
His boner pressed thick and obvious against his trousers. My own boner throbbed hard at the clear sight of her white panties and at the knowledge that she had no idea. He lowered her foot only a little, still holding it, and went back to stroking her sole so she stayed distracted and laughing.
“Sorry, madam,” he said lightly. “Your feet are very ticklish.”
“Sir,” he added, glancing at me, voice low, “those two came out clear. She did not see.”
My wife sat there blushing to her neck, breathless from laughing, both hands clutching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat tight over her lap. She thought he had only been photographing her feet. I stood with my boner aching, fully hard, watching him hold her bare foot, knowing the pictures of her white panties were already in his camera and that she would never know.

Arjun grew bolder, but he did it carefully. He gathered both of my wife’s bare feet in his hands and lifted them together, thumbs already pressing into the soft centres of her soles. My wife’s laughter broke out sharp and helpless. Her body twisted on the compound wall, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut against the tickling. She had no attention left for anything else.
“Arjun— both— please, it tickles too much—” she gasped, voice cracking into another laugh. Her toes curled hard, then flexed open again under his thumbs.
“Only a few more, madam. Keep them still if you can.”
While she laughed with her eyes closed, he kept one hand working steadily over both her soles and let the other hand drift. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat had ridden up her thighs from all her squirming. Her white panties lay fully exposed between her thighs, stretched smooth over her pussy. He switched the flash on without a word and angled the camera down. Three bright bursts lit her white panties in quick succession. She never opened her eyes. Every flash, to her, was still only for her feet.
He glanced at me once, fast and measuring. I kept my face empty, eyes on her feet as if that were all I saw. Something in his expression settled. A small, cunning smile touched the corner of his mouth. He believed I had noticed nothing. He took one last frame of her white panties, then immediately returned both hands to her soles, stroking harder so her laughter covered everything.
His boner strained thick and obvious against his trousers. Mine throbbed in answer, heavy and aching, but I did not shift my stance or let my breathing change. I gave him no sign.
“Sorry, madam,” he said, light and cheeky, still smiling. “Your feet refuse to stay quiet.”
He looked at me with an easy, harmless face.
“Sir, the foot pictures are done. She laughed the whole time, but I managed to get them.”
My wife sat flushed to her neck, breathless, both hands clutching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat tight over her lap. She thought he had only photographed her feet. Arjun watched me for any crack in the innocence I was showing him. I gave him none. I stood there fully hard, letting him believe he had taken those pictures of her white panties without anyone knowing, while the truth sat hot and secret between my legs and his camera.

To Be Continued...!]]> [Image: Moonlit-Alleyway-A-Cinematic-Encounter.png]

The Street Photographer and

My wife

By Novelist Casanova

I am Rajesh. Most people still call me Rajesh anna or Rajesh sir. I run two small manufacturing units on the outskirts of Bangalore—one for packaging components, another supplying specialised fittings. The work is steady enough that money is no longer something we discuss every day. We live in a three-storey independent house in Koramangala, the kind with a small front garden, a covered car porch, and a terrace that still catches decent evening light. I bought it eight years ago. My wife chose the paint and the curtains. I only insisted on solid locks and a quiet street.
My wife Sudha and I have been married sixteen years. She stands five feet eight, with measurements that have stayed full even after three children—thirty-six inches at the bust, twenty-six at the waist, thirty-eight at the hips. She wears a 36D bra most days and medium hipster panties that sit low on those wide hips. She was twenty-two when we married; I was twenty-six. Her people are from outside Madurai, mine from near Salem. We met through a relative. The families got along. She still calls her mother every morning while cutting vegetables. She wears a saree at home every day—soft cotton or light chiffon, blouse properly stitched, petticoat tied low the way her mother taught her. Only at night does she change into a nighty. Under it she usually keeps a bra and panties. Some nights just the panties. A few nights nothing at all. When she has to step out to the nearby shop after the boys are back, she wears the bra, panties and petticoat under the nighty, then pulls a shawl tight across her chest before she leaves the gate.
Her face is the kind that stops people. Sharp, clear features, large dark eyes that look straight at you even when she is speaking softly, full lips that stay slightly parted when she is listening. Long black hair, usually in a thick braid or a loose bun when she cooks. Her body is heavy in the places three children have made heavier—full, high breasts that strain the blouse even when the pallu is drawn properly across them, a narrow waist that flares into wide, heavy hips and a soft, rounded stomach. When she walks through the house the saree moves with her, the fabric pulling across the lower curve of her breasts and the full swell of her hips. She does not try to hide any of it.
We have three sons. The eldest is fifteen, in tenth, quiet, already taller than her, serious about marks. The middle one is twelve, always hungry, always leaving his bag in the hall. The youngest is nine, still small enough to climb into her lap in the evening. All three go to the same college. Mornings are full of zipped bags, closed tiffin boxes, and her voice calling out about water bottles. By eight-fifteen they are gone. The driver handles the drop and pickup. After that the house goes quiet.
She never wanted a maid or a servant. Not even a watchman. She said the house was hers to look after and she would not have strangers moving through it. So she does everything herself. She cooks all three meals, washes the clothes, sweeps and mops the floors, waters the plants in the front garden and on the terrace, keeps the bathrooms clean, irons the boys’ uniforms, and still finds time to sit with the youngest in the evening. The only help she accepts is the driver for college. Everything else she handles alone, moving through the rooms in her saree, sleeves pushed up, pallu tucked at her waist while she works.
I leave early and return between six and seven. We eat together. She serves. The boys talk or argue. After dinner the older two go upstairs. The youngest stays a little longer. Then it is just the two of us in the living room or on the terrace. She asks if I ate lunch. I ask how her day went. Some nights she leans against me, the weight of her braid on my arm, the warmth of her body through the saree. Her hand rests on my thigh, ordinary. Sex happens late, after the boys sleep, usually in the dark, without much talking. It is not that we have stopped wanting each other. The days are simply full.
The house is large enough that each boy has his own room on the first floor. Our bedroom is at the end of the same corridor, attached bathroom, small balcony facing the back. Downstairs is the living room, dining, kitchen, and a spare room for relatives. Walls are soft cream. Sofas are deep. Evenings smell of the jasmine she keeps near the window and whatever she cooked. From outside it looks like any other Koramangala house—compound wall, metal gate, cars under the porch, plants she waters herself every morning. Inside it feels settled. Ordinary.

It was a Saturday. The boys had finished their tuition early and were already home, arguing over the television. I told my wife we should go out. Jailer 2 had released that week and the evening show still had seats. She changed into a yellow chiffon saree with a matching yellow blouse, the kind of soft fabric that catches light and moves when she walks. The pallu sat across her chest the way she always wears it, but the chiffon was thin enough that the shape of her body stayed clear underneath. She tied the petticoat low, the way she prefers, and came downstairs ready.
We reached the multiplex just after six. The lobby was crowded. As soon as we stepped inside I saw the way men turned. Not all at once, and not openly. A man near the ticket counter looked, then looked away, then looked again when he thought we had passed. Another standing by the snack counter let his eyes travel from her face down the length of the yellow saree and back up. They pretended they were checking the show timings or the menu boards. I kept my hand at the small of her back and walked her toward the escalator.
On the escalator the men behind us had a clear view. The chiffon pulled tight across her hips as she stood on the step above them. From that angle the full curve of her ass was visible under the saree, the fabric outlining the heavy shape and the way it moved when she shifted her weight. I heard one of them breathe out. Another said something low that I did not catch. My wife kept facing forward, one hand on the rail. I stared straight ahead and said nothing. Starting something in a multiplex full of people would only make it worse. We reached the top and I guided her left toward Screen 3.
Inside the theatre the lights were already dim. Our seats were in the middle of a row. We had to walk past people who were already sitting. As she moved sideways in front of them the yellow saree shifted and the men in the seats got a close, full view of her ass, the chiffon stretched across it, the heavy lower curve only a short distance from their faces. One man leaned back slightly. Another’s eyes stayed on her the whole way past. She kept her pallu in place with one hand and did not look down. I followed behind her, jaw tight, and we sat.
The movie ran. She watched it properly, laughing in the places everyone laughed, leaning a little toward me during the louder scenes. I watched the screen and also watched the men in the rows ahead and to the side. A few of them kept turning their heads. Not constantly. Just enough.
When the credits started we stayed in our seats until most people had left. Outside the multiplex the air was cooler. Instead of calling the driver straight away I said we could walk a little and pick up biryani for the boys. She agreed. We left the mall and turned toward the main road, the yellow chiffon still moving against her body under the streetlights, the evening crowd around us. The takeaway place was ten minutes on foot. We walked slowly.

The takeaway place was a small hotel on the main road, the kind with bright tube lights and a glass counter at the front. We stepped inside and the smell of biryani was strong. Two men were already waiting near the counter. Both of them looked up when my wife walked in. Their eyes stayed on her longer than they needed to. One of them let his gaze drop to the way the yellow chiffon pulled across her hips and the full curve of her ass as she stood beside me. The other kept glancing at the low neckline of the matching blouse where the pallu had slipped a little from the walk. They turned back to the counter when I looked at them, but not before I saw it.
I ignored it. Starting anything here would only delay us and the boys were waiting. I gave the order—three chicken biryanis, one mutton, extra raita—and paid. While the parcels were being packed my wife stood close to my side, one hand holding the edge of her pallu. The men kept finding reasons to look in our direction. I kept my eyes on the counter.
When the bags were ready I took them. We stepped back out onto the pavement. The street was busier now, people moving in both directions, bikes and cars passing. We had walked only a short distance when a young man crossed toward us. He looked to be in his late twenties, clean white shirt, camera bag slung across his body. He stopped a few feet in front of my wife and smiled.
“Sorry to stop you, madam,” he said. His voice was easy. “I’m Arjun. I do street photography. I only approach women whose faces already look like they belong in a frame.” He glanced at me once, polite. “Sir, would it be all right if I took a few pictures of madam? Just here, on the street. Nothing complicated.”
My wife looked at him, then at me. The yellow saree moved slightly in the evening breeze. She did not answer straight away. Arjun waited, still smiling, one hand resting on the strap of his camera.

My wife gave a small, polite smile and shook her head.
“No, thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft. “We are just going home. The children are waiting.”
She shifted the pallu a little higher across her chest and took half a step toward me, ready to walk. I moved with her. Arjun did not step aside. He stayed where he was, still smiling, both hands now resting lightly on the camera strap.
“I understand, madam,” he said. “But faces like yours are rare on this street. Most people walk past and never notice. I notice. The way the light is falling on you right now… it would be a waste not to take even two pictures.”
My wife glanced at me. Her eyes stayed on my face for a second longer than usual. The yellow chiffon moved against her arm in the breeze. I could see she wanted me to end it.
Arjun looked at me as well.
“Sir, I am not asking for anything long. Just a few frames here, under the streetlight. Madam will not even have to pose much. I will make sure everything stays respectful. You can stand right beside her the whole time.”
He took one small step closer, not blocking us, but close enough that we had to stop again. His eyes moved over my wife’s face, then down the length of the yellow saree and back up, slow and open.
“Madam has the kind of beauty that looks even better when it is kept simple,” he said. “No heavy makeup, no studio lights. Just this. People will remember a photograph like that.”
My wife’s fingers tightened on the edge of her pallu. She looked at me again, waiting. I stayed quiet. The biryani bags were warm against my leg. Arjun waited too, still smiling, still not moving out of the way.

We stood there on the pavement, the three of us. My wife’s hand was still on the edge of her pallu. Mine was on the handles of the biryani bags. Neither of us spoke.
I could feel her waiting for me to say no. At the same time I could feel something else in the way she kept looking at me—half expecting me to decide, half unsure herself. The yellow chiffon was clinging a little from the walk. Under the streetlight the shape of her body was clear: the full weight of her breasts under the matching blouse, the way the saree sat low on her hips, the heavy curve of her ass when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Arjun was watching all of it without hiding it.
“Madam,” he said again, softer this time. “I can see you are thinking. That is all right. Most women say no at first. Then they see the pictures and they understand.” He looked at me. “Sir, you can check my phone if you want. I will show you the kind of photographs I take. Nothing cheap. Only what is already beautiful.”
My wife’s eyes stayed on my face. I could see she was of two minds. Part of her wanted to walk away. Part of her was listening to the way he spoke, the way he kept calling her beautiful without raising his voice. I was of two minds as well. I wanted to tell him to leave. At the same time I was standing there watching another man look at my wife the way he was looking at her, and I had not yet told him to stop.
Arjun waited. He did not step closer. He only kept his eyes on her face, then let them drop once more to the place where the yellow blouse met the saree at her waist.
“Just two pictures, madam,” he said. “Right here. Then you can go home to your children.”
My wife looked at me again. Her lips were slightly parted. She did not say yes. She did not say no. The evening traffic moved past us. None of us moved.

Arjun took his phone out slowly, the way someone does when they do not want to startle. He unlocked it and turned the screen toward me first.
“Sir, you can see,” he said. “These are the women I have photographed on the street. All of them said no at first. All of them are still on my page because the pictures stayed clean.”
I looked. The photos were of women in sarees, some laughing, some looking away, light falling on their faces and on the dbang of fabric across their bodies. Nothing explicit. Just the same kind of attention he was giving my wife now. My wife leaned a little closer to see as well. Her shoulder touched my arm. I could smell the faint jasmine from her hair.
“Madam,” Arjun said, looking at her again, “I will not ask you to do anything you are not comfortable with. You can keep the pallu exactly where it is. Sir can stand right next to you. Two frames. That is all.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were still unsure, but they were no longer only asking me to say no. I felt the weight of the biryani bags in my hand and the warmth of her body beside me. The men at the hotel had looked at her. The men in the theatre had looked at her. This one was asking, and he was asking politely, and he was still standing there waiting for an answer.
I heard myself speak.
“Two pictures,” I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. “Here only. Then we go.”
My wife’s fingers loosened slightly on the pallu. She did not smile, but she did not step away either. Arjun’s smile widened just a little. He glanced once at the people still moving along the pavement, then back at us. It was just past seven. The streetlights were fully on. Shops were still open, but the crowd had thinned.
“Sir, madam,” he said, lowering his voice, “there are still people here. They will keep looking. There is a corner just behind that compound wall—no one uses it at this time. It will be empty. Better light, no one walking past. Two pictures only. Then you can take the food home.”
He pointed with his chin toward a narrow gap between two buildings, mostly in shadow. My wife looked at me again. I nodded once. Arjun stepped aside and waited for us to move first.

Arjun led us into the narrow cut between the buildings. The corner sat half in shadow, lit only by the spill of one streetlight. It was a little after seven. The main road noise dropped away behind the compound wall. No one else was there.
He stopped and turned to my wife.
“Madam, stand just here,” he said, voice low and even. “Face me. Sir can stay wherever he is comfortable.”
I remained a step behind him, the biryani bags warm against my leg. That was when I saw where his eyes went. As she turned, the yellow chiffon shifted and settled. His gaze dropped and stayed on the full, heavy curve of her ass. The thin fabric had pulled tight from the walk; under the streetlight it outlined every contour, the way the weight of her hips filled the saree. He did not look away quickly. Only after a moment did he lift the camera.
“A little to your left, madam. Weight on one hip. Yes… exactly like that.”
She shifted. The chiffon tightened further across her hips and ass, the dbang pulling into a clean line over the heavy lower curve. Arjun raised the camera and began shooting from the front. I stood directly behind him and watched the screen on the back of the body. He zoomed in slowly until her face filled the frame—the sharp cheekbones, the large dark eyes, the full lips slightly parted. Then he eased the zoom out again, catching the yellow blouse, the soft weight of her breasts under the pallu, the narrow waist, the flare of her hips beneath the chiffon. He zoomed in once more, tighter, on the place where the matching blouse met the saree at her chest. The fabric was thin. The shape underneath was unmistakable.
He kept working the lens—slow zoom in, hold, slow zoom out, small adjustment. Each time the frame travelled over her body I felt it low in my stomach. My wife stood still, following only the small instructions he gave, the yellow saree moving only when he asked her to turn a fraction.
After a few frames he lowered the camera slightly and turned his head toward me, close enough that his voice would not carry.
“Sir,” he said quietly, almost respectful, “your wife is genuinely beautiful. And… she is very hot as well. The kind of beauty that does not need anything added. It is already there.”
He said it without a smile, without leaning in further, as if he were simply stating something obvious. Then he turned back to the camera and raised it again. I stayed where I was. The words sat in my chest. My cock hardened fully inside my trousers, a thick, steady pressure I could no longer ignore. I did not move. I only watched him continue to photograph her under the single streetlight, the corner still empty around us.

Arjun raised the camera again and kept the frame tight on her face.
“Madam, look just past my shoulder,” he said. “Yes. Hold that. Your eyes are doing everything.”
He took three frames in silence. Then he lowered the camera an inch.
“The light likes your face, madam. It sits properly on you. Most people have to work for this. You do not.”
My wife’s mouth curved, small and involuntary. Colour rose under her cheeks. She dropped her gaze for a second, then lifted it again when he asked, the shyness clear in the way her lashes moved. The yellow pallu stayed where it was across her chest. She looked pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
He shot again, slower now, only her face. Between frames he turned his head slightly toward me, voice kept low enough that it stayed between us.
“Sir… the way her lips stay parted like that. Even when she is not speaking. It is difficult to look only at the eyes.”
He said it evenly, almost thoughtfully, then turned back to her.
“Chin a little higher, madam. Perfect.”
Another soft click. He glanced at me once more while the camera was still at his eye.
“There is something in her face that keeps pulling the frame lower, sir. Even when I am only shooting here. It is… insistent.”
My wife heard only the compliments. She blushed deeper, a faint smile staying at the corner of her mouth, shoulders relaxing under the chiffon. I stood behind him with the bags in my hand and felt my cock thicken again, heavy and unmistakable against my thigh. He kept the lens on her face, taking picture after picture, while the things he whispered sat between us in the quiet corner.

Arjun lowered the camera a fraction and let the frame open. His shoulders stayed loose, the camera steady in both hands.
“Madam, stay exactly as you are. I am only coming a little lower.”
My wife’s breath caught, just once. She held still, chin lifted the way he had asked earlier, the yellow pallu resting across her chest. The lens moved from her face to the line of her throat, then to the place where the yellow pallu crossed the matching yellow blouse. He took two frames. Under the streetlight the full, high shape beneath the yellow blouse was clear.
He lowered the camera an inch. His eyes stayed on her.
“Madam,” he said, voice gentle, “the way the yellow blouse sits on you… it is difficult to look away. You carry it so well.”
Colour rose fast under her cheeks. She looked down, lashes lowering, one hand rising to touch the edge of the pallu as if she needed something to hold. A small, shy smile pulled at her mouth before she could stop it.
“It is just an ordinary blouse,” she said softly, the words almost lost.
Arjun’s head tilted, only slightly. He did not smile.
“Not on you, madam,” he answered. “Ordinary does not look like this.”
Her fingers tightened on the pallu, then released. She let it fall back into place, shoulders softening, the blush still high and warm across her face. She kept her eyes lowered a moment longer than necessary.
He raised the camera again and shot, slower this time. Between frames he turned his head toward me. His voice stayed low, meant only for the space between us.
“Sir… even with the pallu where it is, the shape underneath the yellow blouse is very clear. It keeps pulling the eye.”
I felt the words land low in my stomach. My cock thickened fully against my thigh, heavy and sudden. I did not shift my weight. I only watched the screen on the back of his camera.
He turned back to her, calm.
“A little closer to the light, madam. Yes. Just like that.”
My wife took a small step. The yellow chiffon saree moved with her. She glanced at him, uncertain, then at the ground.
“Is this all right?” she asked, voice small.
“Perfect, madam.”
He pressed the shutter. While the lens was still on her he glanced at me again, the corner of his mouth unchanged.
“There is a heaviness there, sir, where the yellow blouse holds. Once the frame goes to that place, it does not want to leave.”
Heat moved through me. My pulse was loud in my ears. My wife heard only the praise. She blushed deeper, eyes staying down, one hand resting lightly against her own waist as if to steady herself. The yellow chiffon saree shifted with her breathing. I stood behind him with the bags forgotten in my hand, cock hard and aching, while he continued to photograph her under the single streetlight.

Arjun lowered the camera until the frame sat at her waist.
“Madam, turn a little to the side for me. Slowly.”
My wife hesitated. Her fingers tightened once on the edge of the yellow pallu, then she turned, the movement careful. The yellow chiffon saree pulled across her hips as she moved, the dbang tightening over the full, heavy curve of her ass. Under the streetlight the shape was clear, the saree outlining the weight and the way it settled when she stopped.
He watched the line of her body for a moment before he raised the camera again.
“Yes. Hold there. The way the yellow chiffon saree sits on your hips… it follows you properly.”
Colour climbed her neck. She kept her eyes on the compound wall, shoulders drawn in, one hand still holding the pallu against her chest as if she needed the anchor.
“Is the pallu all right like this?” she asked, voice low.
“It is perfect, madam. Do not change anything.”
He took two frames from the side, then one from a three-quarter angle. Between shots he turned his head toward me, voice kept quiet.
“Sir… the weight at her hips. Even through the yellow chiffon saree you can see how it moves when she shifts. It is difficult to keep the frame only on the waist.”
Heat settled low in my stomach. My cock, already hard, throbbed once against my thigh. I stayed still behind him and watched the screen.
Arjun faced her again.
“A small step forward, madam. Weight on your back foot.”
She stepped. The yellow chiffon saree tightened further across her ass, the heavy curve rounding clearly under the dbang. She glanced at him, shy, then looked down.
“Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He pressed the shutter. While the camera was still at his eye he spoke to me again, almost under his breath.
“There is a fullness there, sir, where the yellow chiffon saree pulls across her. Once you notice it, the rest of the frame becomes secondary.”
My wife heard none of it. She stood with her eyes lowered, blush deep across her cheeks, the yellow pallu clutched lightly in one hand, body held in the pose he had asked for. I felt the ache in my cock grow sharper, pulse loud, while he continued to photograph the lower half of her under the single streetlight.

Arjun lowered the camera and stepped closer.
“Madam, the pallu has slipped a little at the waist. May I?”
My wife’s hand moved at once to the yellow chiffon saree, fingers catching the edge.
“I can do it,” she said quickly, voice small. Colour was already high on her cheeks.
He stopped, hands open, not touching her yet.
“Of course, madam. Only if you are comfortable.”
She tried to tug the pallu lower, but the knot at her waist had loosened during the turns. When she pulled, the yellow chiffon saree shifted instead of covering, and the soft dip of her navel came into view above the petticoat. She froze. Her other hand rose fast to cover it, palm flat against her stomach, eyes dropping.
“It is fine,” she murmured. “I will fix it.”
Arjun stayed where he was, camera lowered. He looked at me once, brief, then back at her.
I felt the sudden tightness low in my body. My cock, still hard from the earlier frames, pulsed hard against my thigh. The sight of her navel, the way she tried to hide it, the shy hunch of her shoulders under the yellow blouse—all of it landed at once. I heard myself speak before I had decided to.
“Leave it,” I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. “It is all right. Let him see.”
My wife’s eyes lifted to mine, startled. Her hand stayed over her navel, fingers pressed tight. The blush had spread down her neck. She did not move the hand away. Arjun waited, silent, the streetlight catching the small exposed curve of her stomach between her palm and the yellow chiffon saree. I stood behind him with my pulse loud in my ears, cock aching, and did not take the words back.

Arjun took one careful step closer. His voice stayed low.
“Madam, the knot has come loose. If I only straighten the yellow chiffon saree at the waist, the pallu will sit properly again.”
My wife’s hand was still pressed over her navel. She shook her head, small and quick.
“No. I can manage.”
Her shoulders had drawn in. The blush on her cheeks had not faded. She kept her eyes on the ground between them.
Arjun looked at me. He did not reach for her yet.
I felt the heat low in my stomach sharpen. My cock throbbed once, heavy against my thigh. The sight of her standing there, palm covering the exposed navel, yellow blouse rising and falling with her breath, made the words come easily.
“Let him,” I said. “It will only take a second. Then we can finish.”
My wife’s eyes lifted to mine. There was surprise in them, and something uncertain. Her fingers tightened against her stomach.
“Rajesh…” she said, barely above a whisper.
“It is fine,” I told her. My voice was steady. “He is only adjusting the saree.”
She held my gaze a moment longer, then looked down again. Her hand stayed where it was, but she did not step back. Arjun waited one more second. When neither of us stopped him, he reached out. His fingers found the loosened knot at her waist, just above the petticoat. He worked slowly, straightening the yellow chiffon saree, his knuckles brushing the soft curve of her waist as he reset the dbang. My wife’s breath caught. She kept her palm over her navel, body held very still, while his hands moved against her. I stood behind him and watched, cock hard and aching, pulse loud in my ears.

Arjun finished resetting the knot and stepped back. His eyes travelled down the length of the yellow chiffon saree and stopped at her feet.
“Madam, the light is catching the ground well. May I take two frames from lower? Only your feet and the hem.”
My wife shifted her weight. The yellow chiffon saree brushed her ankles. She was wearing simple flat sandals; her toes were visible, neatly shaped, the skin smooth from the evening air.
“My feet?” she asked, uncertain. Colour was still high on her cheeks from earlier. “They are not… anything special.”
“They are part of the picture, madam,” Arjun said. “The way you stand. It completes the frame.”
He looked at me. I felt a different heat move through me, lower and sharper. My cock, already hard, pulsed as I watched her feet shift again on the concrete, the small movement of her toes inside the sandals, the delicate arch visible when she lifted one heel slightly.
“Show him,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I meant. “Just stand as you are.”
My wife glanced at me, then down at her own feet. She did not argue. She only straightened a little, the yellow chiffon saree falling clean to her ankles.
Arjun crouched slowly, camera raised. From that angle the frame caught the hem of the yellow chiffon saree, the line of her ankles, the shape of her feet in the sandals. He took one shot. Then another. While he adjusted the lens he spoke without looking up.
“Sir… the way her toes press when she balances. Even in ordinary sandals. It is… precise.”
He said it low, almost to himself. My wife heard only the shutter. She kept her eyes lowered, one hand still resting near her waist where he had touched her, blush deep. I stood above them both and watched her feet in the frame, the small tension in her arches, the soft press of each toe, and felt my cock throb hard against my thigh, thick and insistent, while the streetlight held the three of us in the empty corner.

Arjun rose from his crouch and glanced at the low compound wall beside them.
“Madam, if you sit here for a moment, the angle will be cleaner. Only for the feet.”
My wife looked at the wall, then at me. Her hand was still near her waist. The blush had not left her cheeks.
“Sit?” she asked, uncertain.
“It will only take a minute, madam.”
Heat sat low in my stomach. My cock throbbed once, heavy and thick against my thigh. I wanted to see it.
“Sit,” I said. “It is fine.”
She held my eyes a second longer, then moved to the wall and lowered herself onto it. The yellow chiffon saree pooled around her legs. Arjun knelt in front of her.
“May I, madam?” he asked, fingers already near the strap of one sandal.
She nodded, small. He slipped the first sandal off, then the second, and set them aside. Her bare feet rested on the concrete, toes slightly curled. He set the camera down and took her right foot in both hands, one palm under the arch, the other covering the top.
His thumb moved slowly along the underside of her toes, then pressed into the soft ball of her foot. My wife jerked.
“It tickles,” she said, breath catching. She tried to pull back, but his hold stayed gentle and firm. A surprised laugh escaped her, high and embarrassed. Her shoulders shook. “Please—don’t.”
“Only a moment, madam,” Arjun said. His fingers traced the length of her sole, slow, feeling the arch, the sensitive centre. She twisted on the wall, yellow chiffon saree shifting, one hand bracing behind her. Another helpless laugh broke from her as his thumb stroked the inner arch.
“Sir,” he said quietly, still looking at her foot, “she is very sensitive here. The way her toes curl when I touch the centre…”
I watched his hands move over her bare foot, the way her toes flexed and pointed, the soft give of her sole under his fingers. My cock ached hard, pulsing with every small sound she made. I did not tell him to stop.
“Continue,” I said. My voice was low. “She will manage.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wide, cheeks burning, still laughing breathlessly as his fingers kept moving over her foot. She did not pull away again. I stood there, hard and throbbing, fully on his side, while he held her foot and felt every ticklish inch of it under the streetlight.

Arjun’s thumb pressed deeper into the centre of her sole. My wife’s foot jerked hard in his hands.
“Ah—stop, it tickles too much,” she gasped, laughing and trying to twist away at the same time. Her toes curled tight, then spread again when he stroked the sensitive arch in a slow circle. The yellow chiffon saree had ridden up her calves. Both her hands were braced on the compound wall now, shoulders shaking with the helpless sounds she made.
He did not let go. His other hand came up and held her ankle, steadying her, while his fingers kept moving—tracing each toe, pressing the ball of her foot, sliding along the soft underside. I watched the way her foot flexed and pointed in his grip, the small tremors running through her leg. My cock throbbed hard, thick and aching, trapped against my thigh. Every breathless laugh from her went straight to it.
Arjun’s breathing had changed. He was still kneeling, but his shoulders were tighter. When he shifted to reach her other foot I saw the clear ridge of his cock pressed against the front of his trousers. He lifted her left foot, brought it closer, and ran his thumb firmly up the sole.
“Madam… your feet are very soft,” he said, voice lower than before. “And very sensitive.”
She made a small, broken sound and tried to pull back again. He held her ankle and kept stroking, slower now, feeling the whole length of her sole, the spaces between her toes. His eyes stayed on her foot. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable.
“Sir,” he said without looking up, almost rough, “the way she reacts… it is difficult to stop.”
Heat flooded me. I was fully hard, cock pulsing with every movement of his hands on her. I wanted him to keep going.
“Don’t stop,” I said. My voice came out thick. “Take the pictures. Feel them properly.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wet from laughing, cheeks deep red, chest rising fast under the yellow blouse. She did not speak. Arjun’s fingers tightened on her foot, stroking harder along the arch, and I stood there watching both of us get harder while he held her bare feet in his hands under the streetlight.

Arjun lifted my wife’s right foot higher, both hands under her sole. My wife yelped and laughed hard, squirming on the compound wall, too busy fighting the tickle to notice anything else. Her toes curled tight against his palms.
“Don’t— it tickles, please— stop—”
He laughed, low and cheeky, thumbs stroking firmly up the centre of her sole. While she twisted and laughed with her eyes half-closed, he reached over with his free hand, switched the camera flash on, and angled the camera down. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat had ridden up her thighs. Her white panties were fully visible between her thighs, stretched over her pussy. The flash fired once. She was still laughing and trying to yank her foot back; she never saw where the camera was pointed.
“Arjun— ah— it tickles too much—”
“Almost done, madam,” he said, grinning, and took a second shot. Only after the second flash did she shove the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat down over her lap with both hands. By then the pictures were already taken. She had been too lost in the tickling to realise what he had photographed.
His boner pressed thick and obvious against his trousers. My own boner throbbed hard at the clear sight of her white panties and at the knowledge that she had no idea. He lowered her foot only a little, still holding it, and went back to stroking her sole so she stayed distracted and laughing.
“Sorry, madam,” he said lightly. “Your feet are very ticklish.”
“Sir,” he added, glancing at me, voice low, “those two came out clear. She did not see.”
My wife sat there blushing to her neck, breathless from laughing, both hands clutching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat tight over her lap. She thought he had only been photographing her feet. I stood with my boner aching, fully hard, watching him hold her bare foot, knowing the pictures of her white panties were already in his camera and that she would never know.

Arjun grew bolder, but he did it carefully. He gathered both of my wife’s bare feet in his hands and lifted them together, thumbs already pressing into the soft centres of her soles. My wife’s laughter broke out sharp and helpless. Her body twisted on the compound wall, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut against the tickling. She had no attention left for anything else.
“Arjun— both— please, it tickles too much—” she gasped, voice cracking into another laugh. Her toes curled hard, then flexed open again under his thumbs.
“Only a few more, madam. Keep them still if you can.”
While she laughed with her eyes closed, he kept one hand working steadily over both her soles and let the other hand drift. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat had ridden up her thighs from all her squirming. Her white panties lay fully exposed between her thighs, stretched smooth over her pussy. He switched the flash on without a word and angled the camera down. Three bright bursts lit her white panties in quick succession. She never opened her eyes. Every flash, to her, was still only for her feet.
He glanced at me once, fast and measuring. I kept my face empty, eyes on her feet as if that were all I saw. Something in his expression settled. A small, cunning smile touched the corner of his mouth. He believed I had noticed nothing. He took one last frame of her white panties, then immediately returned both hands to her soles, stroking harder so her laughter covered everything.
His boner strained thick and obvious against his trousers. Mine throbbed in answer, heavy and aching, but I did not shift my stance or let my breathing change. I gave him no sign.
“Sorry, madam,” he said, light and cheeky, still smiling. “Your feet refuse to stay quiet.”
He looked at me with an easy, harmless face.
“Sir, the foot pictures are done. She laughed the whole time, but I managed to get them.”
My wife sat flushed to her neck, breathless, both hands clutching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat tight over her lap. She thought he had only photographed her feet. Arjun watched me for any crack in the innocence I was showing him. I gave him none. I stood there fully hard, letting him believe he had taken those pictures of her white panties without anyone knowing, while the truth sat hot and secret between my legs and his camera.

To Be Continued...!]]> <![CDATA[First Night at the Pub (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75721.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 12:56:19 +0300 novelistcasanova]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75721.html [Image: First-Night-at-the-Pub.png]

First Night at the Pub

By Novelist Casanova

My name is Rajesh. I am an oil merchant in Bangalore. The shop sits on a busy road near the wholesale market, the smell of groundnut and coconut oil thick in the air from morning till the shutters come down. I started with one small press my father left me and slowly added three more, then the packing unit at the back. Trucks come at night, unload the seeds, leave with tins stacked to the roof. The money comes steady if you watch the rates and do not trust anyone fully.
For years the money went into one thing only. A piece of land I bought outside the city, empty then, with thorn bushes and a half-broken compound wall. I wanted an apartment building of my own. Not a big one, just three floors, six flats, something I could point to and say this is mine. The papers took two years. The approvals took another. Every office had someone who wanted a share. One week the file moved, the next week it disappeared. I sat outside those rooms with the same plastic folder, the same smile, the same envelope ready under the papers.
Santosh and Lydia made it worse. Santosh is my cousin from my mother’s side. He came to Bangalore after his own business failed in the village. I gave him work at the oil shop, a room in the old house, and later a small advance when he said he wanted to start something. Lydia sat in that room and counted every rupee that left my hand. When the apartment work began she started talking. She told relatives I was spending money that should have stayed in the family. She told the neighbours the building would never finish because I had taken loans I could not pay. Santosh would come to the site, stand with his hands on his hips, and point at the pillars.
“This cement is weak,” he would say, loud enough for the workers to hear. “You are wasting everything.”
I cursed them one evening after they left the site. The sky was dark, the workers had gone, and the half-built walls stood around me. I stood alone on the first-floor slab, the dust still on my clothes, and spoke their names. I said the money they took would never stay with them. I said the road they drove on would not keep them. I said it quietly, then louder, until my throat hurt. After that I stopped answering their calls.
They had planned a trip to Vellankanni. Lydia wanted to go for the church festival. Santosh told everyone at the shop he was taking her, that they would stay two nights and return. I did not go. I stayed at the site. Three days later the call came from a security officer station on the highway. They were returning from Vellankanni when a lorry hit their car. Santosh and Lydia both died before the ambulance reached. The relatives who had listened to Lydia’s words now came to the shop and spoke softly. I paid for the last rites from a distance. I did not go.

The construction moved faster after that. I hired a new contractor who did not know Santosh’s name. The pillars went up straight. The slabs were poured on time. I stood on the top floor the day the last roof was finished, the city spread out below, the wind strong enough to move my shirt. The workers asked for a small celebration. I bought chicken and rice and a crate of beer. We ate on the unfinished terrace, legs hanging over the edge. One of the masons said,
“Saar, this building will stand.”
I nodded. My hands were rough from checking the mix myself. My back ached. I was proud.
The flats were ready by the end of the next month. White walls, tiled floors, balconies with simple railings. I kept one flat for myself. The others I locked and waited. On the day I got the occupancy certificate I walked through every room alone, touching the switches, opening the windows, listening to the quiet. Outside, the compound wall was painted, the gate fixed, the name board ready but not yet hung. I stood in the empty hall of my own flat and felt the years of waiting settle. The hurdles were finished. The building was mine.

That night, after the workers left and the building was locked, I sat on the same terrace where we had eaten the chicken. The city noise came up in pieces. I thought of the empty flats, the money still to come, and the clear space left after Santosh and Lydia died. The pride stayed in my chest, solid, like the pillars under my feet.

We stayed in our house across the road while the apartment was still being built. The house was large, two floors with a wide veranda and a separate room for the oil accounts, the same place we had lived since we married. I am an oil merchant. The business has grown. From the upper veranda I could see the construction site every morning. My wife Sudha would come with me most days. She comes from a small village near Madurai. She has lived there all her life until she married me. She is the mother of my three sons. The boys stay with her mother for now. She said she wanted to watch the building rise so she would know every wall before we shifted.
My wife wears a saree every day. Cotton at home, a better silk one when she crosses the road to the site. The petticoat sits low, well below her navel, the way she has always tied it. The pallu stays across her chest or over one shoulder. She does not wear modern clothes. Even in Bangalore she keeps the same style. The gold chain at her neck is thick. The mangalsutra rests between her breasts. Anklets sound on the tiles when she walks through the house and on the concrete when she moves around the pillars.
Her body is full and heavy in the places a man notices. Her breasts are large and soft, the weight of them clear under the blouse even when she stands straight. The blouse is always modest, sleeves to the elbow, but the fabric stretches tight across the upper curve. Her waist is solid, the kind that comes from carrying children and working in a village kitchen. Below that her hips are wide and round. When she turns on the unfinished slab the saree cloth pulls across the full shape of her backside. Her thighs are thick. When she climbs the temporary steps the saree rides a little and the skin above the knee shows, smooth and a little darker than her face. Her hair is long and black, usually tied in a single braid that falls down her back.
She is innocent and naive. She does not understand the way men look. The construction workers would stop their work when she walked past. Their eyes would follow the sway of her hips under the saree, the heavy movement of her breasts when she bent to check a wall, the open line of skin above the low petticoat. They would stare at the place where the blouse pressed tight and at the thick shape of her thighs when the cloth shifted. She never suspected them. She thought they were only watching the work. She would smile a little if one of them nodded, then turn back to the plaster or the pillar lines, her face calm, her eyes clear. She kept her pallu in place the way her mother had taught her and believed that was enough.
She is conservative. She does not speak much to the workers. She keeps her eyes down when strangers look, not because she knows why they look, but because that is how she was raised. In the village she never went to any place after dark except the temple. Bangalore is different for her. She watches the women who pass the site in fitted clothes. She sees the lights of the finished buildings farther down the road. She has an image in her mind of Bangalore high-fi life, the kind she has only seen in film songs. She thinks those places have soft music and people who drink and dance without shame. She has never entered one. She only looks, curious and unaware.
Every morning she would cross the road with me. She would stand near the pillars and check the lines with her eyes while the workers paused behind her. One day she touched a fresh wall and said,
“Rajesh, the plaster is not even here.”
The contractor looked at her, then at me. I told him to redo it. She walked the length of the first floor, the saree clinging to the wide line of her hips, the anklets quiet on the dust. The men watched the full movement of her backside and the way the blouse strained when she raised her arm. She did not notice. She stopped at the open edge where the balcony would come and looked across at our house.
“From here I can see our veranda,” she said.
“Soon we will see it from the other side,” I answered.
She nodded. Her fingers touched the edge of the blouse where it pressed against her breast. She stayed until the workers stopped for tea, still not seeing how their eyes stayed on her. Then she walked back across the road, the pallu held tight, the full shape of her body moving under the silk. She came every day like that until the last slab was poured.

After the main slabs were done I told the contractor to build one more small room on the terrace. It was not in the original plan. The room was simple, four walls, one door, a small window facing away from the road, and a thick mattress on the floor. I said it was for storage. The workers finished it in four days. From the outside it looked like nothing. Inside it was only for us.
My wife was good in bed. Even after three sons her body answered quickly. At night in the old house she would lie on her back, the cotton saree loosened at the waist, the petticoat string already open. Her breasts would spill to the sides, heavy and soft, the nipples dark and tight when I touched them. Her hips would rise on their own once I was inside her. She made small sounds, almost shy, but her thighs would open wide and stay open. She never asked for anything. She only held my shoulders and let me move. After, she would pull the pallu of the saree over her chest again and sleep with her face turned to the wall, breathing slow. I wanted a place where we did not have to be quiet because of the children or the neighbours. The terrace room was for that.
One evening, after the workers left, I took her up. The sun was going down. She walked ahead of me on the unfinished terrace, the dark blue silk saree moving with her wide hips, the anklets soft on the concrete. She stopped at the new door and looked at me.
“What is this room for?” she asked.
“For us,” I said. “Come inside.”
She stepped in. The mattress was already there. She stood in the middle, hands holding the edge of her pallu, looking at the bare walls. Her blouse was tight across her breasts. The low petticoat showed the soft line of her stomach above the waist string. She turned once, the full shape of her backside clear under the silk saree, then looked at me again.
“Here?” she said. Her voice was small. “Someone can see from the other buildings.”
“The window faces the other way,” I answered. “No one will come up.”
She nodded, still holding the pallu. I closed the door. The light from the window fell across her face and the upper curve of her breasts. She did not move until I reached for the pin of her saree. Her fingers loosened on the pallu. She let me unwrap the dark blue silk saree. The saree fell to the floor. Underneath she wore only the blouse and the low petticoat. Her skin was warm. When I opened the blouse hooks her breasts came free, heavy in my hands, the weight of them familiar. She made the same small sound she always made. Her eyes stayed on my face, innocent, waiting. I pushed the petticoat down past her hips. She stepped out of the petticoat and stood naked except for the mangalsutra and the anklets. Her hips were wide. The hair between her thighs was thick and dark. She looked at the mattress, then at me.
“Lie down,” I said.
She lay on her back the way she always did. Her breasts settled to the sides. Her thighs opened without being asked. I knelt between them. She watched me, breathing a little faster, one hand resting on her own stomach. When I entered her she closed her eyes. Her hips rose once, slow, the way they always did. The room was quiet except for the sound of our bodies and the faint noise of the city below. She held my arms and let me move. After, she pulled the fallen dark blue silk saree over herself and lay still, the mangalsutra crooked on her chest, her face calm again. She did not speak. She only looked at the bare ceiling as if she was still learning the room.

The apartment was finished. The last coat of paint dried, the railings were fixed, the name board went up on the gate. I called the priest for the housewarming. We fixed the date for a Sunday. My wife helped with the arrangements from the old house across the road. She folded banana leaves, counted the coconuts, and checked the sweets the cook had made. She wore a deep red silk saree that day, the pallu pinned neatly over her left shoulder, the blouse fitting close across her heavy breasts, the petticoat tied low so the soft line of her stomach showed when she bent. The mangalsutra rested between her breasts. Her anklets sounded on the tiles every time she walked from the kitchen to the veranda.
Guests started arriving by ten. Relatives from my side, a few oil-market people, the contractor and two of his men, neighbours from both sides of the road. The women sat in the hall of the new flat on the plastic chairs we had rented. The men stood on the balcony and near the gate. My wife moved among them with a steel tray, offering turmeric and kumkum, then later the payasam in small steel tumblers. She kept her eyes mostly down. When someone spoke to her she answered softly and moved on. The workers who had built the place looked at her when she passed. Their eyes stayed on the way the red silk saree pulled across her wide hips and on the tight stretch of the blouse. She did not notice. She thought they were only looking at the new walls.
The priest finished the pooja by noon. We broke the coconut at the entrance. Everyone clapped. I stood beside my wife at the door while people came one by one to bless us. She held the edge of her pallu with both hands. Her face was calm. When the last guest left she turned to me on the empty terrace.
“It is really ours now,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered.
She looked at the finished floors, the painted railings, the open sky above the small room we had built. A small smile came on her face. She touched the mangalsutra once, then let her hand fall. The red silk saree moved with her when she walked back inside. The anklets were quiet. We were happy. The hurdles were over. The building stood complete, and she was beside me in it.

We started renting the flats the week after the housewarming. The first tenant was a software couple. They paid three months in advance. The second flat went to a doctor and his family. By the end of the month four flats were occupied. The money came into the account on the fifth of every month, steady. I told my wife the figures one evening. She listened, hands on her lap.
“It is good,” she said. “The building is giving back.”
We were happy. At night the new flat was quiet.
One night she changed into a loose white cotton nighty before bed. The nighty had short sleeves and fell to her knees. She lay down next to me on her side, facing the wall at first, then turned toward me. The light was off. The fan turned slowly. I was already feeling naughty. My hand moved under the nighty and rested on her bare thigh.
“Rajesh,” she said softly, “what are you doing?”
“Just touching,” I answered.
I lifted the white cotton nighty higher, past her hips. She was not wearing anything underneath. Her skin was warm. I slid my fingers along her inner thigh, slow, feeling the soft flesh there. She stayed still. Her breathing changed a little.
“Your inner thigh is soft,” I said. “Warm.”
My fingers moved higher. I touched the outer lips of her pussy, then parted them gently. She was a little wet already. I ran one finger along the slit, then pressed lightly at the entrance.
“Here,” I said. “Your pussy is open a little. Soft inside.”
She made a small sound. Her hand came to my wrist but did not push me away.
“Rajesh… someone will hear,” she whispered.
“No one is here,” I said.
I moved my finger lower, past her pussy, and touched the tight ring of her asshole. She tensed. I circled it slowly with the tip of my finger, not pushing in, just feeling the heat and the small wrinkles of skin.
“And here,” I said. “Your asshole. Tight. You never let me touch it before.”
“It feels strange,” she said. Her voice was shy. “Don’t put inside.”
“I am only touching,” I answered. “Tell me how it feels.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her thighs had opened a little more without her noticing.
“It feels… hot,” she said. “And wrong. But I am not stopping you.”
I kept my finger there, circling, while my other hand stayed on her inner thigh. The white cotton nighty was bunched at her waist. She lay next to me, breathing faster, innocent face turned toward the dark, letting me explore. Outside the window the road was quiet. She did not pull the nighty down.

She turned toward me in the dark. Her hand came up and began brushing my hair, slow strokes from the forehead back. The cotton nighty had stayed bunched at her waist from earlier. Her bare thigh still rested against mine.
“Rajesh,” she said, “I keep thinking about those pubs. I have only seen them in movies. How do they really work? What happens inside?”
“People come in the evening,” I answered. “There is a bar. They order drinks. Music plays loud. Some sit at tables. Some stand. There is a small floor where people dance if they want. The lights stay low so faces are not clear.”
Her fingers kept moving in my hair. She was quiet for a moment, then asked again.
“Do women also go inside?” she said. “What do they do there? I have only seen the songs in movies. Is it the same?”
“Women go,” I said. “They sit with whoever they came with. They drink if they like. They can dance on that floor. No one forces them. They just watch and decide.”
She wanted to know more. Her voice stayed soft but the questions kept coming.
“Is the music very fast? Do people stand very close when they dance? In the movies it looks different. I want to understand how it really is.”
I reached for the hem of the cotton nighty and pulled it upward. She lifted her arms without speaking. I took the nighty off completely and dropped it beside the bed. She was naked now. The mangalsutra lay between her heavy breasts. Her skin was warm. Her wide hips and thick thighs were bare. The hair between her legs was dark.
“You removed it,” she said.
“I want to see you,” I answered.
I lowered my head to her chest. I took one breast in my hand, feeling the full weight, and closed my mouth over the nipple. It was already tight. I sucked slowly, then licked around the dark circle. She made a small sound. Her hand stayed in my hair, still brushing, but slower now.
“Your breasts are heavy,” I said against her skin. “Soft.”
I moved to the other breast and tasted it the same way. She looked down at me, eyes wide.
“It feels good,” she whispered. Then she asked again, still curious. “When people dance, do they hold each other? I have only seen that in movies. Tell me more. I want to know how everything works there.”
She lay naked beside me, breasts wet from my mouth, still asking small questions about the lights and the floor and the way people moved, wanting to understand the place she had only watched in songs. The cotton nighty stayed on the floor. She did not reach for it.
She lay naked beside me, my mouth still on her breast. Her hand had stopped brushing my hair. She was quiet for a moment, then asked again.
“Rajesh,” she said, “how are the women there? What do they look like? Do they sit separate or with men?”
I lifted my head. Her nipple was wet. I kept one hand on the heavy weight of her breast.
“They look like any women,” I answered. “Some wear sarees. Some wear other dresses. There is freedom there. No one tells them where to sit. The mood is romantic. Couples love to hang out. They sit close, talk, hold hands under the table. Lovers go there to romance. They dance slow, bodies touching.”
She listened, eyes on my face. Her thighs were still a little open from earlier.
“Only couples?” she asked. “Only husband and wife?”
“Not only,” I said. “Even just friends. A man and a woman who are not married can hang out there. They talk. They dance. Sometimes they romance also. It happens.”
Her body went still. She pulled the sheet a little higher over her naked hips, though her breasts stayed bare.
“That is wrong,” she said. Her voice was firm. “Friends should not romance. A woman should not let another man touch her like that. It is not correct.”
I moved my hand down her stomach, slow, feeling the soft skin above her navel.
“It is not wrong there,” I said. “In that place the rules are different. People go to feel free. If two friends want to dance close or kiss, no one stops them. The woman decides. If she likes the feeling she stays. If she does not she walks away. No one forces. That is how it works.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her innocent face was serious now.
“But if she is married?” she asked. “Still?”
“Still,” I answered. “Some married women go with friends. Some go with their husbands and still dance with others. The place allows it. The mood is like that. Romantic. Free.”
She was silent. Her fingers touched the mangalsutra on her chest. She did not agree, but she did not argue again. She only lay there, naked, thinking about the women who sat in those low lights and let men who were not their husbands stand close to them. Her curiosity had not gone. It had only become quieter.
I kept my hand on her stomach. She was still naked under the sheet. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with her breathing. She had not covered them again.
“Some women go there because they like the thrill,” I said. “The feeling of another man looking at them. Standing close. Touching their waist while dancing. They enjoy that it is not their husband. The excitement is different.”
Her eyes stayed on me. She was curious. Her fingers moved on the mangalsutra.
“They like it?” she asked. “With other men? Even if they are married?”
“Yes,” I answered. “They say the heart beats faster. The body feels more alive. A stranger’s hand on the hip or the back feels new. They do not have to do more if they do not want. Just the thrill of being wanted by someone else.”
She shook her head slowly.
“That is bad,” she said. “A married woman should not feel thrill from other men. It is wrong. Her body is only for her husband.”
I slid my hand lower, over the soft hair between her thighs, not entering, only resting there.
“It is not bad in that place,” I said. “The women who go know what they are doing. They choose it. Some only dance and come home. Some let the man touch more. They still love their husbands. The thrill is only for those hours. After that they return to normal life. No one calls it bad inside the pub. It is allowed.”
She looked down at my hand on her. Her thighs had not closed.
“But how can they not feel shame?” she asked. “I would feel shame. Even thinking about another man looking at me like that feels wrong.”
“You have only seen it in movies,” I said. “When you are inside you will understand. The lights, the music, the way people move. The shame becomes smaller. The curiosity becomes bigger. Many women feel the same way you feel now before they go. After one visit they want to know more.”
She was quiet. Her innocent face showed she still thought it was bad, but the questions had not stopped. She wanted to hear more about those women and the thrill they felt when a man who was not their husband put his hand on them in the low light. She lay naked beside me, listening, her body warm under my palm.

I moved my hand between her thighs again, feeling the warmth there. She was still naked. The sheet had slipped lower.
“Some women drink a little,” I said. “The alcohol makes the body loose. But even without drinking, the pub itself does it. The low lights. The loud music that vibrates in the chest. Men standing close, eyes on the body. The air is thick with perfume and sweat. All of that makes women horny. Their skin becomes sensitive. They start wanting to be touched.”
Her breathing changed. She looked at me, eyes wider. The innocent curiosity was still there, but under it something else had started. Her nipples were tight again. She did not cover her heavy breasts.
“They become horny just from being there?” she asked. Her voice was softer.
“Yes,” I answered. “The setup does it. Even a woman who came only to see will feel heat between her legs after some time. The body reacts before the mind decides.”
She was quiet. Her thighs opened a little more under my hand. I could feel she was wet now. The talk had excited her.
I sat up and removed my own clothes. I pulled off the vest I had been wearing and dropped it on the floor. Then I pushed down the lungi and stepped out of it. I was naked. My cock was already hard from watching her and from the words we had spoken. I knelt on the bed between her open legs. She looked at my body, then at my face.
“You are ready,” she said.
“I want to fuck you now,” I answered. “While you are thinking about those women.”
She nodded once. Her hands came to my arms. She lay back, naked, heavy breasts spread to the sides, wide hips open for me. The excitement from the pub talk was still on her face. She waited, breathing faster, as I moved closer to enter her.

I pushed into her slowly. She was wet from the talk. Her pussy opened around me, warm and gripping. A soft moan left her mouth the moment I was fully inside.
“Ahhh… Rajesh…”
Her eyes half-closed. Her lips parted. She hugged my arms tighter, fingers pressing into the muscle. Her heavy breasts rose and shifted with the first thrusts. I fucked her steady, watching her face. The innocent look was still there, but her cheeks had flushed. Each time I pushed deep she made a small broken sound.
“Mmmhh… it feels… full…”
Her wide hips began to rise on their own, meeting me. Her thighs trembled and stayed open. The wet sound of our bodies grew louder. I lowered my head and sucked one nipple hard. She gasped, back arching, one hand flying to the back of my head.
“Ahh— yes… there…”
Her voice was shaky. Emotion showed on her face—surprise mixed with the heat the pub talk had started. Sweat formed on her neck. The mangalsutra stuck to the skin between her breasts. I fucked her harder. Her breasts bounced. She moaned openly now, no longer trying to stay quiet.
“Ahhh… ahhh… Rajesh… I can feel you… so deep…”
Her pussy clenched around me in quick pulses. Her whole body reacted—stomach tightening, toes curling, nails dragging down my back. She was close. Her expression turned helpless, mouth open, eyes wet at the corners.
“I am going to cum inside you,” I said against her ear.
“Do it… ahhh… cum inside me… please…”
Her voice cracked. She hugged me closer with her arms and pulled me deeper with her legs. I thrust hard and stayed buried. My cock pulsed. I came inside her, thick and hot. She cried out, body shaking under me, pussy squeezing and milking every spurt.
“Ahhh— I feel it… so warm… inside…”
She hugged me tight, trembling, face pressed to my neck, breathing in short gasps. Emotion and pleasure mixed on her face. My cum leaked out around my cock onto the sheet. She did not let go. She only hugged me closer, naked, still moaning softly, body open and spent, the excitement from everything we had spoken still moving through her.
We stayed joined, neither of us moving. I softened slowly inside her. She hugged me with both arms, drawing me closer until her cheek rested fully against my neck. Her breathing grew longer, softer. The sweat between us cooled. My cum continued to slip from her in a warm trickle onto the sheet, yet she did not shift away. Her heavy breasts pressed full and quiet against my chest. The mangalsutra lay warm where our skin met.
After a while I lifted my head. She looked up at me, eyes gentle, the flush still soft on her cheeks. The innocent expression had returned, now mixed with something tender and open.
“Tomorrow night,” I said quietly, “I am taking you to the pub.”
She was silent. Her fingers traced a slow, careful line down my back. She hugged me tighter for a moment, as if holding the feeling between us, then spoke, her voice small and shy.
“I feel shy,” she said. “I have never gone to a place like that. I have only seen it in movies. What if people look at me? What if I do not know how to be there?”
“They may look,” I answered, brushing her hair back from her face. “But you will be with me. We will sit together. If your heart feels uneasy, we will leave at once. I want to take you tomorrow. I want you to see it with me.”
She turned her face into my neck. I felt the warmth of her breath and the slight tremble in her arms as she hugged me. Then she nodded against my skin, still holding me close.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow. But stay near me. Do not leave my side.”
“I will not leave you.”
She hugged me again, longer this time, her body softening fully against mine. The shyness remained, yet beneath it there was a quiet trust. Outside the window the road stayed still. She lay naked beneath me, my cum warm inside her, her heart already moving carefully toward the place she had only watched in songs. The excitement was new and delicate, but she had said yes, and she held me as if the promise itself was something precious.

The next day was Saturday. In the afternoon my mother came as she always did. She loved the boys and took them to her house for the weekend. The house grew quiet once they left. It was only me and my wife.
She moved through the rooms with a restless energy I had not seen before. The cotton saree she wore at home was neatly pinned, the pallu resting over her shoulder, the blouse modest, the petticoat tied low in her usual way. Yet her eyes kept returning to me. When I sat on the sofa she came and stood in front of me, fingers lightly holding the edge of her pallu.
“Rajesh,” she said, “for the pub tonight… can I wear a saree? I have never seen the girls in the movies wear saree there. They wear other clothes. Will it look wrong if I go in saree?”
I looked at her. The excitement was clear on her face, mixed with the old shyness.
“We can go shopping now,” I said. “Buy a modern dress if you want. Something you saw in the movies.”
She shook her head at once. Her hand tightened on the pallu.
“No,” she said. “I would feel uncomfortable. I have never worn those clothes. My body will not know how to sit in them. People will look more.”
I reached for her hand and drew her closer. She let me. I spoke gently.
“Then wear the saree of your choice. Any one you like. You will still look like yourself. No one will stop you. I will be beside you the whole time.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then a small smile came to her face. She nodded, the shyness softening.
“Okay,” she said. “I will choose one. You will stay near me.”
“I will.”
She hugged me briefly, arms light around my shoulders, then stepped back. The smile remained. Already her mind had turned to the sarees folded in the almirah, choosing which one she would wear for the first time she stepped into a place she had only seen in songs. The afternoon light fell across the low line of her petticoat and the quiet curve of her smile.

It was already six in the evening. I had showered earlier. Now I stood in front of the mirror and buttoned my white shirt, then pulled on the black pants and fixed the belt. The house was quiet. From the bedroom I could hear movement.
My wife had opened the almirah. She took out the clothes one by one and laid them carefully on the bed: a yellow chiffon saree, light and soft, a matching yellow blouse with modest sleeves, a plain white petticoat, a white bra, and maroon panties. My wife smoothed the chiffon with her palm, then picked up a towel from the rack. She looked at me once, a small nervous smile on her face, and went into the bathroom. The door closed. Water began to run.
I sat on the edge of the bed beside the clothes she had chosen. The yellow chiffon caught the light. I took my phone and called the pub. The man who answered knew my voice. I told him we would arrive around eight, asked for a corner table away from the speakers, and confirmed they would keep it. He said the music would start by then and the place would not be too crowded yet. I thanked him and ended the call.
Inside the bathroom the water continued. I looked at the maroon panties and the white bra lying on the yellow chiffon. My wife had never worn these things outside the house for a place like this. She was showering now, preparing herself for the first time she would step into a pub, still choosing the saree she trusted, still shy, yet already moving toward the evening we had spoken about in the dark. I waited, the white shirt cool against my skin, listening to the water and thinking of the low lights that would soon fall on her.

I went down to the living room and waited. The big television was on. I put a video on YouTube, something light, the sound low, and sat on the sofa. The house stayed quiet except for the faint noise from the screen. Upstairs the bathroom door had opened and closed. I could hear my wife moving in the bedroom, the soft sounds of the yellow chiffon saree and the small click of her bangles.
After a while she came down the stairs. My wife wore the yellow chiffon saree. The matching yellow blouse fit close across her heavy breasts, sleeves modest. The white petticoat sat low beneath the yellow chiffon saree, the usual line of her stomach just visible when she stepped. The pallu rested over her left shoulder. She had left her hair loose, dark and long over one side. The maroon panties and white bra were hidden underneath. She looked stunning. The yellow chiffon saree caught the light as she walked. Her wide hips shifted under the saree. The anklets sounded softly on the steps.
She stopped at the bottom and looked at me. A shy smile touched her face. Her hands held the edge of the pallu.
“Is this okay?” she asked. “For the pub?”
“You look beautiful,” I said. “Perfect.”
She nodded, the smile growing a little. She came closer and stood in front of me. I stood up. For a moment we only looked at each other. Then she hugged me lightly, arms around my waist, cheek against my white shirt.
“I feel nervous,” she said.
“I am with you,” I answered.
She stepped back, still smiling, and picked up her small handbag from the side table. We were ready. The yellow chiffon saree moved as she turned toward the door. Outside the evening had grown darker. We walked out together, her first time stepping toward a place she had only seen in movies, the yellow chiffon saree soft against her body, the excitement and the shyness both clear on her face.

We reached the pub just after eight. The building was on a side road off Brigade Road. I parked the car and we walked up the stairs together. My wife held the edge of her pallu with one hand. The yellow chiffon saree moved lightly around her legs. The white petticoat showed a little at the ankle when she climbed. Her anklets made a small sound on each step. She stayed close to my side.
Inside, the lights were low and red. Music played, not too loud yet. A few people sat at tables. Some stood near the small dance floor. The air smelled of perfume and alcohol. My wife looked around once, eyes wide, then lowered them. She had never been inside a place like this. Everything she knew came from movies.
A waiter showed us to the corner table I had asked for. We sat. I ordered a drink for myself and a soft drink for her. She kept the pallu across her chest. The yellow blouse was modest, yet the weight of her heavy breasts was clear beneath it. Her wide hips filled the chair. She looked beautiful and out of place at the same time.
A man walked over from the bar. He was in his thirties, shirt open at the collar, a glass in his hand. He stopped at our table and smiled at my wife.
“Hello,” he said. “You are new here.” His eyes moved over the yellow chiffon saree, then to her face. “Is she with you, or is she single?”
My wife’s cheeks darkened. She looked at me, then at him. Her fingers tightened on the pallu.
“I am married,” she said softly. “This is my husband.”
The man did not look embarrassed. He smiled wider.
“I thought she was single. The way she is sitting. Married women do not usually come to places like this.” He turned to me. “May I ask her for one dance? Just one song.”
I felt heat start low in my stomach. The way he looked at the curve of her waist under the yellow chiffon saree, at the place where the blouse pressed against her breasts, made my mouth dry. My wife’s hand found my arm under the table. I could feel her pulse.
“Go,” I said. “One dance.”
She hesitated. Her eyes searched mine. When she saw I was not angry, she stood. The yellow chiffon saree shifted around her wide hips. She let the pallu slip a little and stepped onto the small floor with him. The music changed. He placed one hand on her waist. She glanced back at me once, shy and uncertain, as the song began.

To Be Continued..! ]]> [Image: First-Night-at-the-Pub.png]

First Night at the Pub

By Novelist Casanova

[Image: Ayudha-Pooja-A-Festive-Garage-Romance.png]

On the Day of Ayudha Pooja

By Novelist Casanova

The house in Koramangala sat on a wide corner plot, three floors of white walls and tall windows, with a long driveway that curved past the garden before it dropped into the basement ramp. From the upper balcony I could see the tops of the trees along the main road. My husband had bought the place after the big political case closed. The boys still called the top floor theirs. My room faced the garden. The basement was the only place big enough for all the vehicles at once.
We had come down to wash the vehicles. The servants had already laid out the buckets, the sponges and the long green hose. Three cars waited under the high concrete ceiling—the black SUV, the white sedan, and the older silver one—plus the two bikes and my white Activa near the ramp. Water already trickled toward the drain. My husband and the boys had changed into shorts and old T-shirts. I had stayed in my white cotton nighty. My white bra sat under it, cups snug over my heavy breasts. My pink panties rested low under my wide hips against my pussy.
I was still bent over the front tyre of the black SUV with the sponge when the first cold spray hit my back. I straightened, pushing my long wet hair off my face, large eyes blinking against the water. My husband stood ten feet away holding the green hose nozzle in both hands, already smiling. The boys were laughing before the water even reached me.
“Appa, again,” the youngest said.
“Rajesh,” I said. “The cars first.”

He squeezed the trigger. Water slammed across my full breasts and soft stomach. My white cotton nighty soaked through at once and clung tight. Underneath, my white bra showed clear through my wet nighty, cups stretched over my heavy breasts, the deep cleavage visible where the fabric had gone thin. Lower, my pink panties went translucent the moment the water reached them. The hem of my nighty lifted with the force and stuck wet to my thick thighs.
My husband walked closer. He aimed the nozzle lower and held it. The next burst went straight under my nighty. Cold water rushed up between my thick thighs and drove hard against my pink panties, soaking the cotton right over my pussy. I gasped, my full lips parting. I stepped back. My panties plastered tight against my pussy lips and the soft crease where my thighs met. I could feel every seam and the way the thin cotton had gone see-through over the shape of my pussy and the curve of my wide hips. The boys howled. The middle one nearly dropped his bucket.

I turned toward the workbench for a dry cloth, my heavy breasts shifting inside my white bra, and saw the driver. He had moved behind the big concrete pillar near the tool rack. Only his shoulder and one arm showed at first. Then he shifted, getting bolder. His white uniform pants were already tight around a thick boner. He glanced once toward my husband and the boys, then slowly pulled his cock out through the open fly. His cock stood hard and thick in his fist. He began masturbating, slow strokes at first, eyes fixed on me through the gap beside the pillar—on my beautiful face with the water running down my cheeks and full lips, on my heavy breasts outlined under the wet nighty, on my wide hips and the pink panties plastered over my pussy, on my thick thighs. He kept his hand moving on his cock.
I looked back at my husband and the boys. They had not seen him. My husband lifted the nozzle again.
“One more,” he said. “Then we do the Activa.”
He sprayed full force across my soft stomach and then lower, lifting my nighty and driving the water straight against my pink panties. The cotton clung so tight the shape of my pussy showed through, my wide hips and thick thighs glistening. My nipples had stiffened inside my white bra, hard points poking against the cups over my heavy breasts. The youngest was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. My husband kept the spray moving, slow, watching my face while the water ran under the hem and down my thick thighs.

Behind the pillar the driver grew bolder. He pulled his cock fully out and stroked faster, fist tight around the thick shaft, eyes locked on my heavy breasts under the wet nighty, on the deep cleavage, on my pussy under the soaked pink panties, and on the way my thick thighs pressed together. His cock stayed thick and rigid in his hand. He did not look away from my body or my face.
I stayed where I was. I laughed when the youngest pointed at how my nighty stuck to me, my full lips curving. I let my husband pull me closer by the wrist so he could rinse the sponge water off my arms. I did not turn toward the pillar again. The basement echoed with their voices and the slap of water on concrete. I kept my eyes on my husband and the boys and let the rest of it stay behind the concrete where it could not touch the morning.

My husband dropped the hose and stepped in close. His arms came around my waist from the front, pulling me against him. Water dripped from both of us onto the concrete. He leaned in, mouth aiming for mine.
“The boys are right here,” I said, turning my face. My full lips brushed his cheek instead. “Stop. They’re watching.”
He only laughed, low in his chest. His hands slid lower, gripping under my wide hips, and he lifted me clean off the floor. My thick thighs locked around his waist for a second before he turned and set me down on the soapy stretch of concrete near the SUV. The foam was cold against my back through my white nighty.
“Rajesh—”
He caught both my ankles in his hands and started walking backward, dragging me across the wet floor. My white nighty rode up at once. The hem climbed past my knees, then past my thick thighs, until it bunched above my waist. My pink panties showed fully—plastered tight over my pussy, the elastic sitting low on my wide hips. The boys burst out laughing. The youngest clapped his hands.
I tried to push my white nighty down with one hand. My husband kept pulling. Another drag and my white nighty climbed higher still, sliding up over my soft stomach until the lower edge of my white bra came into view. The cups strained over my heavy breasts. My large eyes went wide. Heat rushed into my face.
“Enough,” I said, voice tight. “The boys—”
He only grinned wider and gave one more slow pull. My white nighty bunched under my arms. My white bra and my pink panties were both out in the open now, soap suds streaking across my thick thighs and the curve of my wide hips. The boys were laughing so hard the middle one had to lean on the car door. I covered my face with one forearm, embarrassed, my full lips pressed together, while my other hand tried and failed to tug my white nighty back down.
Behind the big pillar the driver’s hand had gone still for a second. Then it moved faster. His cock jerked in his fist. Thick white cum shot out in heavy spurts, striping the concrete at his feet and coating his fingers. His eyes stayed locked on my white bra stretched over my heavy breasts and my pink panties soaked over my pussy the whole time. When the last pulse left him he tucked his cock away, wiped his hand once on his pants, and stepped quietly out from behind the pillar. He walked toward the ramp without looking back, shoes leaving wet prints, and disappeared up the slope while the boys were still laughing and my husband still held my ankles.
I stayed on the soapy floor a moment longer, my white nighty bunched high, face hot, listening to the sound of his footsteps fade.

I pushed myself up off the soapy concrete, my white nighty still clinging wet to my heavy breasts and wide hips, the hem stuck to my thick thighs. My full lips curved even while heat stayed in my face. I grabbed the long broom stick leaning against the workbench and turned toward them.
“Oh, so this is how it is now? All of you ganging up and laughing at me?” I said, voice light but warm. “Come here then. Let’s see who is laughing after this.”
My husband was already backing away, still grinning, water dripping from his T-shirt.
“Sudha, put that down… we were only playing,” he said, hands half-raised, laughing. “The boys started it.”
“The boys started it?” I said, stepping after him and tapping the broom lightly across his upper back. “And you held the hose like you had no part in it? Stand still, Rajesh. At least take it properly.”
He ducked and spun, still smiling.
“I am taking it, I am taking it… slowly, slowly…”
The boys shouted and ran to his side, feet slipping in the suds.
“Appa, we are with you! Don’t worry!” the middle one called, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Amma can’t catch all of us!”
“Oh, she can’t?” I said, turning the broom toward them, my large eyes bright. “Then all of you. Come. Since you are all on his side today, you can all take a little of this too.”
They scattered across the wet floor, laughing so hard they could barely run straight. I chased the youngest first.
“Amma, no, no, I didn’t do anything!” he shrieked, dodging behind the white sedan. “It was Anna!”
“It was both of you,” I said, tapping the broom gently against his back while he yelped and laughed. “And you were clapping the loudest. Come here.”
Then the middle one, then my husband again when he tried to pull one of them clear. Every time the broom landed they yelled and laughed louder, voices bouncing off the concrete. My heavy breasts shifted inside my white bra with each quick step. Soap streaked my thick thighs. For a few minutes the basement was only noise and movement and the three of them trying not to get caught, all of them happy, all of them loud.
When they were breathless and still grinning I lowered the broom, chest rising.
“All right… enough now,” I said, softer. “Look at all of you. Soaked, laughing like children. Go up. Take your baths properly. Change into the new clothes. Be ready when we start the pooja. Go on.”
My husband ruffled the youngest one’s wet hair, still smiling.
“You heard Amma,” he said. “Upstairs. All of you. Before she picks that broom up again.”
The boys were still laughing as they headed for the ramp, wet shorts slapping against their legs.
“Amma, you also come fast,” the youngest called back.
“I will,” I said. “After I finish here. Go.”
My husband looked back once, the smile still on his face, and followed them. Their voices faded up the slope and into the house.
I stayed. I swept the soapy water toward the drain with long strokes of the broom, pushing the foam and the dirt into the channel. Then I took the hose and rinsed the open stretch of concrete until the suds cleared and the floor shone wet under the basement lights. When the last of the water ran away I set the broom in the corner against the pillar, bristles down. My white nighty was heavy with water. My pink panties still clung between my thick thighs. I wiped my hands once on the nighty, turned, and walked up the ramp into the house.

I left my slippers at the bottom of the stairs and went up barefoot, the wet hem of my white nighty brushing my thick thighs with every step. The marble was cool under my feet. The staircase itself was wide, polished stone with a dark wood handrail that my husband had chosen because it looked solid, expensive. Framed photographs lined the wall—wedding pictures, the boys as babies, one of my husband in his black advocate’s coat outside the court. Higher up, the landing opened into a long corridor with tall windows that let in the late morning light. Everything smelled faintly of the fresh flowers the maids had already placed for the pooja.
This house had come after the big cases. My husband was an advocate. He did not take ordinary matters. He stood in court for the men who could not afford to lose—politicians, the ones with money that never quite showed on paper. He knew how to move it, how to keep it quiet, how to make a crore look like a gift or a settlement or something that never needed explaining. The cars downstairs, the diamond he had fastened around my neck only yesterday, the way the boys never asked where things came from—he handled all of it so cleanly that even I sometimes forgot to wonder. People in the city knew his name. security officer officers stood when the advocate entered a station. Judges listened longer when he spoke. Inside these walls we simply lived with what that power bought.
I reached our bedroom at the end of the corridor. The door was open. My husband stood near the wardrobe in his white shirt and white dhoti, the cloth still half-wrapped, one end in his hand while he looked for the pin. His hair was damp from the bath. He glanced up when he heard me, and his eyes stayed on me longer than usual.
“You’re still in that nighty,” he said, voice lower. “It is stuck to you everywhere. I can see your white bra… and those pink panties. You look too sexy like this. I almost don’t want you to change.”
I stayed in the doorway, my white nighty heavy and cold against my heavy breasts and wide hips, my pink panties still damp between my thick thighs. His gaze dragged slowly over the shape of my white bra and the way my pink panties clung, and I saw the temptation move across his face.
“I will change,” I said. “But first go to the boys. The youngest still doesn’t know how to tie his dhoti properly. He was struggling with it last year and he’ll do the same today. Help them. Make sure they look right before everyone comes.”
He nodded, but his eyes did not leave my body at once. He folded the end of his own dhoti once more, still looking.
“All right. I’ll see to them,” he said. “But you standing there like this… it is difficult to walk away.”
“And tell them not to run down before we call,” I added. “I don’t want them dirty again.”
“I will,” he said. He picked up the small gold pin from the table, fixed his dhoti, and walked past me toward the boys’ rooms. His hand brushed my arm, then lingered a second at my waist, fingers pressing lightly over the wet nighty above my wide hips. “You also get ready. Don’t take long… or I might come back before you finish.”
I watched him go down the corridor, white shirt bright against the walls, then stepped fully into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

I closed the bedroom door and crossed to the tall cupboard. The room was quiet, the late morning light falling across the wide bed and the polished floor. I opened the cupboard doors. Rows of folded clothes sat in neat stacks. I reached for the panty pack first and slid out a pair of maroon panties, plain cut, the colour deep against my fingers. Next I took a white bra from the shelf, then a white petticoat, a yellow blouse, and the yellow chiffon saree that had been kept aside for today. I carried them to the bed and laid them out in a line—maroon panties, white bra, white petticoat, yellow blouse, yellow chiffon saree—smoothing each one once so nothing would crease.
I picked up a fresh towel from the rack, my white nighty still heavy and cold against my heavy breasts and wide hips, my pink panties damp between my thick thighs. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The tiles were warm under my feet. I turned the shower on and waited until the water ran hot, steam already rising and clouding the mirror. Then I pulled my white nighty up over my head and let it drop. My white bra came next. I reached behind, unhooked it, and shrugged it off. My heavy breasts fell free, full and soft, nipples already tight from the cooler air. I hooked my thumbs into my pink panties and pushed them down my thick thighs, stepping out of them. For a moment I stood naked, wide hips and soft stomach and the dark triangle of hair above my pussy visible in the steam.
I stepped under the spray. Hot water struck my shoulders first, then ran in heavy streams over my heavy breasts, tracing the deep cleavage and spilling from the undersides. I tipped my head back. Water poured over my face, into my large eyes, over my full lips. I reached for the soap and worked it between my palms until it foamed. My hands moved slowly over my neck, then down to my heavy breasts. I cupped them, lifting the weight, thumbs circling my nipples until they stiffened harder under the slick soap. The water beat against my chest. Soap slid between my breasts and down my soft stomach.
I soaped lower, over the curve of my wide hips, then between my thick thighs. My fingers parted my pussy lips gently, washing carefully, the hot water rushing over the sensitive skin and making me draw a slow breath. I stayed there a moment, one hand braced on the wall, the other moving in small circles, feeling the heat and the slip of soap and the way my body answered even this. Water streamed down my thick thighs and pooled at my feet. Steam filled the small room. My full lips stayed parted. My large eyes stayed half-closed under the spray.
I rinsed slowly, turning so the water could clear every part of me—my heavy breasts, the dip of my waist, the full round of my wide hips, the length of my thick thighs. When the soap was gone I stood under the hot stream a little longer, letting it pound against my shoulders and run in continuous lines over my body, the sound of the water loud in the quiet bathroom. Only when my skin had flushed warm all over did I reach for the tap and turn it off.

I stepped out of the bathroom, towel loose around my heavy breasts and wide hips, steam still rising from my thick thighs. The bedroom was bright. My full lips curved. It was Ayudha Pooja morning and the happiness sat easy in my chest. I could already hear the boys moving somewhere down the corridor, their voices light.
I let the towel fall. I stood beside the bed, water still sliding from the undersides of my heavy breasts down my soft stomach, gathering at the top of my thick thighs. My large eyes moved over the clothes I had laid out. I reached for my maroon panties first. I lifted one foot, then the other, and drew them slowly up my thick thighs. The elastic settled low beneath my wide hips. I pulled them snug so the front rested close over my pussy, then smoothed both sides with my palms, feeling the fit against me.
I took my white bra next. I slid my arms through the bra straps and brought the bra cups up beneath my heavy breasts, lifting their full weight. The bra cups closed over the deep cleavage. I reached behind my back, fastened the hooks, and adjusted each bra strap until my breasts sat high and rounded inside my white bra. My nipples, still tight from the shower, pressed lightly against the inside of the bra cups. I ran my fingers once along the top edge of the bra cups, settling everything.
My white petticoat waited. I stepped into it and drew it up over my maroon panties and wide hips. I tied the string low, below my navel, the way my mother had shown me years ago, so it sat smooth. It brushed over my thick thighs as I let it fall. I turned once, watching how it moved with me.
I picked up my yellow blouse and slipped it on over my white bra. The sleeves fitted close. I buttoned the front slowly, one by one, my yellow blouse closing neatly over my heavy breasts. When the last button was done I smoothed my yellow blouse down at my waist, feeling my white bra and the full shape of my breasts held in place beneath the bra cups.
Last was my yellow chiffon saree. I shook it out so the length floated, then began making the pleats with careful fingers. Each fold dropped straight. I tucked the pleats into my white petticoat at the waist. I wrapped the rest of my yellow chiffon saree around my wide hips, drawing it close, then brought the pallu over my left shoulder so it dbangd softly across my heavy breasts and my yellow blouse. I pinned it in place. My yellow chiffon saree looked bright and festive against me.
I turned fully toward the mirror. My large eyes were clear. My full lips smiled. My yellow chiffon saree shifted over my thick thighs and wide hips when I moved, the pallu resting lightly over my yellow blouse and my white bra beneath, the bra straps just visible at my shoulders. I touched the edge of the pallu once, then reached for my bangles. The happiness stayed. Everything felt right for the day. I was ready.

I was still standing in front of the mirror, fingers resting on the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, when the bedroom door opened. My husband stepped inside and closed it behind him. In his hand he carried a long flat box. He did not speak at once. He only looked at me—my yellow chiffon saree dbangd over my wide hips and thick thighs, my yellow blouse fitted over my white bra, the bra straps just visible at my shoulders, my heavy breasts rising softly beneath the pallu.
“Turn around,” he said, voice quiet. “I have something for you.”
I turned. He opened the box. The diamond necklace lay against dark velvet, stones catching the light in a clean bright line. My large eyes widened. My full lips parted.
“Rajesh…”
He lifted it out and stepped behind me, both of us facing the mirror. His hands came around my neck. I watched in the glass as he settled the diamonds against my skin, just above the neckline of my yellow blouse, the weight of them resting where my heavy breasts began. He fastened the clasp. The stones sat cool and perfect. I could see them shine against the yellow of my chiffon saree, see how they drew the eye straight to the curve of my breasts and the line of my throat.
“Look,” he said, his mouth near my ear. “See how it sits on you. It was made for this. You look so beautiful. More than beautiful. I paid crores for it—real money, the kind that does not show on any paper—and still it looks richer because it is on you.”
My chest rose. Pride and happiness moved together under my yellow blouse. I touched the diamonds once with my fingertips, watching them flash in the mirror above my white bra and the full shape of my heavy breasts.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “It is too much. But thank you.”
His hands stayed on my shoulders. In the mirror his eyes met mine.
“Thank me properly,” he said. “Not with words. With your mouth.”
I turned in his arms. My yellow chiffon saree shifted over my wide hips and thick thighs. I rose onto my toes, my full lips finding his. The kiss was slow at first, then deeper. I opened for him, tasting him, my tongue moving against his while my heavy breasts pressed to his white shirt and the diamonds rested cool between us. His hands slid down to my waist, holding me close. I kissed him harder, happier, the festive morning and the weight of the necklace and the feel of his mouth all mixing until I forgot, for a moment, to breathe. When I finally drew back my large eyes were bright and my full lips were wet.
“Like that?” I asked.
He smiled, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
“Like that.”

My husband kept his hands at my waist, thumbs resting just above the tied edge of my white petticoat beneath my yellow chiffon saree. The diamonds sat cool against my throat. In the mirror I could still see how they shone above the neckline of my yellow blouse, how they drew the eye to the full rise of my heavy breasts.
“Do you know how lucky I am?” he said, voice low, mouth close to my ear. “To have married a wife this beautiful… this hot. Standing here in your yellow chiffon saree, that necklace on you, your heavy breasts filling your yellow blouse the way they do… I have been hard since I walked in. I want you right now. Right here, before we go down.”
His hips pressed lightly against my wide hips. I felt the heat of him through the layers. My full lips parted. I was about to turn and kiss him again when voices rose in the corridor—loud, happy, the youngest calling my name and the middle one answering. Footsteps came fast toward our door.
We stepped apart at the same moment. My husband smoothed his white shirt. I touched the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, settling it over my white bra. The door opened and the boys spilled in, already dressed in their new shirts and dhotis, faces bright.
“Amma, are you ready? Appa, everyone is waiting downstairs,” the eldest said, grinning.
“We are coming,” I answered, smiling. My large eyes met my husband’s for a second. He smiled back, small and private. “Go. We will follow.”
We went down together. In the basement the vehicles stood clean and waiting. I took the small plate of white naamam paste and red kumkumam and moved from one to the next—the black SUV, the white sedan, the silver car, the two bikes, my white Activa. I marked each bonnet and handlebar with the naamam, then the bright kumkumam dots on top, the way we always did. My husband lit the lamp. We offered the flowers, broke the coconut, placed the lemons under the wheels. The boys stood close, watching, quiet for once. The diamond necklace shifted against my yellow blouse every time I bent.
When the pooja was finished our four servants stood in a line near the ramp—two women and two men, all in their work clothes. My husband nodded to me. I handed each of them a new set of clothes wrapped in paper, then a steel plate heaped with sweets, and finally a small envelope of money. Their faces changed at once. They smiled, thanked us, pressed their palms together.
“Happy Ayudha Pooja,” I said. “Wear the new clothes. Share the sweets at home.”
They bowed and stepped back, happy. Yet even while they smiled, the two male servants kept their eyes on me. I felt it—the way their gazes moved over my yellow chiffon saree where it clung to my wide hips and thick thighs, over the diamonds resting above my heavy breasts, over the shape of my yellow blouse. They had looked at me like that for years, wanting, waiting for some chance that never came. My husband never noticed. He was already speaking to the boys about the cars.
I kept my face calm and festive. I knew what those looks meant. I also knew that if I ever spoke of it, my husband would ruin them without hesitation. The only reason I stayed silent was that they came from poor houses and had wives and children waiting for the money and the sweets I had just placed in their hands. Otherwise I would have ended them long ago. I turned back to my husband and the boys, the diamonds bright at my throat, and let the morning continue.

After the servants left with their new clothes and plates of sweets, the basement grew quiet again. My eyes went straight to the new white Honda Activa parked near the ramp. My father had bought it only weeks ago, on my birthday, and it still looked untouched. No matter how many expensive cars stood beside it, the Activa was mine.
My husband noticed where I was looking. He came closer, the teasing smile already on his face.
“Look at you,” he said, voice warm. “Three cars right here and your whole face changes the second you see that Activa. Every time. Your father really does know you better than anyone.”
I touched the handlebar, the diamonds shifting softly against my yellow blouse. My full lips curved.
“It is special to me,” I said. “He gave it on my birthday and I still haven’t taken it out properly. Today feels right. I want to ride it to the temple, do a proper pooja for it, and bring it back blessed before I start using it.”
He studied me for a moment, then his smile turned slower, the playfulness slipping into something lower.
“Before you go anywhere,” he said, stepping in, “tell me one thing. What colour bra are you wearing under that yellow blouse? I can see the bra straps, but I want to hear you say it.”
Heat moved into my cheeks. I laughed, small and surprised.
“White,” I said. “My white bra.”
His eyes dropped, following the line of my yellow chiffon saree over my wide hips.
“And the panties?” he asked, quieter now. “What colour are they? Don’t make me guess. Tell me.”
“Maroon,” I answered, still smiling, my large eyes on his. “My maroon panties.”
He let out a slow breath. His hand settled on my waist, thumb pressing just above where my white petticoat was tied.
“White bra, maroon panties, this saree sitting on you like that… your heavy breasts, your wide hips… and you are about to ride off to the temple looking like this. I am already hard just standing here. Come here.”
He pulled me in. The kiss was deep from the first second, his mouth open against mine, hungry. I kissed him back, my full lips parting, my heavy breasts pressed to his chest, the diamonds cool between us. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against mine and his voice had gone rough and soft at the same time.
“I love you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? More than all of this. More than anything I have ever won in court. I love you.”
My large eyes stayed on his. My full lips were still wet from the kiss.
“I love you too,” I said. “Always. You know I do.”
He kissed me again, shorter this time, then spoke against my mouth.
“Tonight, when everyone is gone and the house is quiet, I am going to fuck your brains out. I am going to keep you in that white bra and those maroon panties and I am not going to stop until you can’t even say my name properly. Remember that while you are riding.”
I laughed, breathless, my hands still on his shirt.
“Rajesh…”
He stepped back just enough to look at me, the smile turning a little tighter, a little jealous.
“Go,” he said. “Take your Activa. Do your pooja. Just… don’t let that priest bastard hug you too much, all right? I have seen the way he looks at you. The way he finds reasons to come close. Don’t give him anything. Come straight back to me.”
“I won’t,” I said, smiling, touching his face once. “Only the pooja. Then I come home to you.”
I untied the ribbon, swung my leg over the seat, my yellow chiffon saree shifting over my thick thighs as I settled. The engine started clean. I looked at him once more, still feeling the kiss and the weight of what he had said, and rode up the ramp into the daylight.

To Be Continued ..! ]]> [Image: Ayudha-Pooja-A-Festive-Garage-Romance.png]

On the Day of Ayudha Pooja

By Novelist Casanova

[Image: 719659560_porn-porn-gifs-asian-japanese-2106379.gif]

[Image: thrust-deep-betwene-my-thighs-scaled.webp]

[Image: 32cd652c9cb4c560ed30636f624a8698.gif]

[Image: wild-sexy-couple-bed-kisses-14baf75ie57zqnz0.gif]

[Image: adriana-chechik-fucked-hard-from-behind_...c6d8d5.gif]

]]> Hii everyone,

I would like to share collection of gifs which can easily copy pasted into your stories.

How to use them? - simply copy them and paste it, how ever necessary in your story in between paragrahs or so on.

These Gifs are approved and easily available online.

If any one want to add some more of gifs please share them here

please update your very owned thread

[Image: 719659560_porn-porn-gifs-asian-japanese-2106379.gif]

]]> <![CDATA[Oops I Swear ... I never planned on this!!]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75711.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 08:17:16 +0300 bonggirl1989]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75711.html Let's rewind the clock back to 2020 during Covid Lockdowns.

My husband was in US (2019-24), I was living alone in Bangalore that time. With lockdowns in effect, sex wasn't available. I didn't know many folks in the society.
A 22 year old neighbour, living with his parents, helped me out during lockdowns in getting goods, groceries and stuffs. We came close.
Once the alcohol shops opened, I asked him if he can bring me some since the queue was huge. He said he will, only if I drink with him. I said Ok.
Well things happened and we started fucking.
It went on for 3 months.

His parents had to go to hometown for a week, he was supposed to stay alone in his place. He said he always wanted to fuck me in his home. So once his were away, I was living with him for 2 days (his flat was 2 floors above).
But 2 days later, his parents suddenly had to return back.

We didn't know that!

It was morning, we were fucking on the living room couch when his parents opened the door with their keys and walked in !!
The Father started beating the guy and aunty started shouting on me. Hearing the noise others gathered.
I was naked, it was around 20-22 folks. My dress was inside the bedroom where guy was getting beaten.
There was a lot of comments, remarks, arguments , pushing, shoving, aunty trying to beat me and others grabbing me and saving me from her. Then she wanted to call Cops.
Somehow folks managed to calm her down. It was good 30-40 mins of pure chaos before i got my dress back and I finally managed to get back to my flat !]]> Let's rewind the clock back to 2020 during Covid Lockdowns.

My husband was in US (2019-24), I was living alone in Bangalore that time. With lockdowns in effect, sex wasn't available. I didn't know many folks in the society.
A 22 year old neighbour, living with his parents, helped me out during lockdowns in getting goods, groceries and stuffs. We came close.
Once the alcohol shops opened, I asked him if he can bring me some since the queue was huge. He said he will, only if I drink with him. I said Ok.
Well things happened and we started fucking.
It went on for 3 months.

His parents had to go to hometown for a week, he was supposed to stay alone in his place. He said he always wanted to fuck me in his home. So once his were away, I was living with him for 2 days (his flat was 2 floors above).
But 2 days later, his parents suddenly had to return back.

We didn't know that!

It was morning, we were fucking on the living room couch when his parents opened the door with their keys and walked in !!
The Father started beating the guy and aunty started shouting on me. Hearing the noise others gathered.
I was naked, it was around 20-22 folks. My dress was inside the bedroom where guy was getting beaten.
There was a lot of comments, remarks, arguments , pushing, shoving, aunty trying to beat me and others grabbing me and saving me from her. Then she wanted to call Cops.
Somehow folks managed to calm her down. It was good 30-40 mins of pure chaos before i got my dress back and I finally managed to get back to my flat !]]> <![CDATA[Husband's Unfortunate Bet with an Alpha (Mask of Desire)]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75548.html Mon, 02 Nov 2026 16:31:02 +0300 Steel]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75548.html Husband's Unfortunate Bet with an Alpha

Hi guys,

I am back with the second story of "Mask of Desire" series. Thanks for your appreciation on the first one.

First story - https://xossipy.com/thread-70447.html

You don't have to read the first story to understand this one. This is a completely new story which is inspired by multiple erotica I previously read online. This is going to be a dark erotic fantasy about how an ugly, but dominant man breaks a proud wife into submission using psychological seduction while cuckolding the husband.

This story has a similar tone of the first one. You can expect a wild ride packed with manipulation/mind games, cheating, degradation, coercion, cuckolding, voyeurism, exhibitionism, slut-shaming, humiliation, CNC elements, ownership and delicious power exchange.

All the characters in this story are over 18 years of age. Leave a comment if you like what you're reading.

Lets dive in!]]> Husband's Unfortunate Bet with an Alpha

Hi guys,

I am back with the second story of "Mask of Desire" series. Thanks for your appreciation on the first one.

First story - https://xossipy.com/thread-70447.html

You don't have to read the first story to understand this one. This is a completely new story which is inspired by multiple erotica I previously read online. This is going to be a dark erotic fantasy about how an ugly, but dominant man breaks a proud wife into submission using psychological seduction while cuckolding the husband.

This story has a similar tone of the first one. You can expect a wild ride packed with manipulation/mind games, cheating, degradation, coercion, cuckolding, voyeurism, exhibitionism, slut-shaming, humiliation, CNC elements, ownership and delicious power exchange.

All the characters in this story are over 18 years of age. Leave a comment if you like what you're reading.

Lets dive in!]]> <![CDATA[My Life]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75351.html Sun, 01 Nov 2026 05:32:58 +0300 சிவா முருகன்]]> https://xossipy.com/thread-75351.html

Hello, friends!

I'm back again with another love story.

**Rahul:** Hey, Sudha! I don't want to get married right now. You are the only one who can talk to my family and stop this.

**Sudha:** Hey, are you joking? My mother will kill me if I say that! We've been friends since childhood. A true friend is someone who always wants the best for her friend. If you get married now, I'll be the happiest person, more than anyone else.

**Rahul:** Listen, I don't want to get married right now. Only if you talk to them will they listen.

**Sudha:** No way! That's impossible. What's wrong with getting married?

**Rahul:** Don't you know why I don't want to get married now? I still can't forget my past love.

**Sudha:** Hey, fool! Are you still thinking about that Tharani? She only cared about money. She left you for money. Forget her and think about your life.

**Rahul:** I can't forget her, Sudha. Maybe she never truly loved me, but I loved her with all my heart. How could she leave me just because of money?

**Sudha:** Stop talking like a fool. Don't ruin your life thinking about her. Get ready for marriage soon. Do you know how many times your mother has called me and complained?

**Rahul:** My heart isn't ready. That's all I have to say.

Saying this, he took his bike and left for home.

**Vaidehi:** Hey, Sudha! Why don't you tell him about your love?

**Sudha:** He's someone who gives so much importance to friendship. How can I suddenly tell him that I love him? What will he think of me?

**Vaidehi:** You silly girl! You've been hiding your love for him all these years. That's why Tharani came into his life and cheated him by pretending to love him. If you had confessed your love earlier, he would definitely have accepted you.

**Sudha:** I have love in my heart, but how do I know whether he has the same feelings? I don't want to spoil our friendship. Wherever he is, I just want him to be happy.

**Vaidehi:** Stop acting like some great sacrifice queen! Both families love you two so much. You've grown up together, and your families are very close. This is the perfect opportunity. Confess your love soon and make him forget that cheating Tharani.

**Sudha:** I can't do that. I can't betray a friendship. I've loved Rahul for a long time, but even now, he sees me only as his friend. If I tell him that I don't see him as a friend but as my lover, he might start hating me.

**Vaidehi:** You foolish girl! If you don't tell him, I'll go and tell him myself.

**Sudha:** Please don't do anything like that. If Rahul has the same love for me that I have for him, I'll definitely marry him.

### At Rahul's House

**Kavitha:** Son, if you don't agree to this marriage, I'll drink poison and die!

**Rahul:** Mom! (He shouted.) Please don't say things like that. Who do I have apart from you?

**Kavitha:** Then agree to get married.

**Rahul:** Fine. As you wish.

**Kavitha:** My dear son!

She immediately called Sudha.

**Kavitha:** Sudha, I spoke to him just as you suggested. He has agreed to the marriage. Now you must stand by us and help arrange everything.

**Sudha:** (Crying silently inside) Definitely, Mom. Don't worry. I'll personally take responsibility and make sure this marriage happens.

She disconnected the call.

**Vaidehi:** What kind of person are you? You yourself suggested that Rahul's mother should emotionally pressure him into agreeing. Why did you do that?

**Sudha:** His mother called me and shared her worries. What could I do? I suggested that she speak to him like that. I knew he would agree. And now he's agreed to the marriage.

**Vaidehi:** What are you going to do now?

**Sudha:** I'll stand at the forefront and arrange Rahul's wedding.

**Vaidehi:** Listen to me carefully. Your love for Rahul is true. That very love will bring you both together. I'm sure of it. Just wait and watch!

**Sudha:** Oh, shut up!

### Rahul and Sudha Go to See a Bride

After Kavitha informed the family that Rahul had agreed, they contacted a marriage broker and went to see a girl.

**Rahul:** Hey, Sudha! I agreed only because you told me to. On top of that, Mom threatened to kill herself. I wasn't willing at all, but I agreed for her sake and because of you. Even now, my entire heart is filled with thoughts of Tharani. This marriage is happening for the sake of society, not because I want it.

**Sudha:** (After hearing that Tharani was still in his heart, she felt a little hurt. Thousands of questions ran through her mind. When will I ever find a place in your heart, Rahul?)

**Rahul:** Hey! What's wrong with you? I'm talking to you. Why are you standing like a statue?

**Sudha:** (Coming back to her senses) Huh? What did you say?

**Rahul:** That's it! Are you even here with me, or have you gone to another world?

**Sudha:** Hey, it's nothing. Leave it. Is this the bride's house?

**Rahul:** Is that what's important now? I really don't want this marriage. Just think about that poor girl. How can I live happily with someone when my heart isn't willing? Nothing has gone wrong yet. Please talk to Mom and somehow stop this marriage.

**Sudha:** How can I do that? Do you think it's so easy? We've come all this way, and now you're saying this. What can I do? Sorry, Rahul. Try to live happily with that girl.

**Rahul:** You're crazy! Why did I even tell you all this? Let's see what fate has written for me.

They entered the house and sat down on the mat.

**Kavitha:** This is my son. This girl is his friend. They've been together since childhood. They live in the neighbouring houses, and now they even work in the same office.

**Bride's Mother:** That's very nice. I am someone who speaks openly. Please don't misunderstand me. You've come here to see a bride for your son, but why have you brought this girl along? Doesn't that seem inappropriate? Will she continue to stay with your son even after marriage? I'm not saying anything wrong. I just said what came to my mind.

**Rahul:** (He got angry and was about to stand up.)

**Kavitha:** Stop right there! Don't think you can say whatever you want just because we're sitting in your house. If you speak badly about them, you'll regret it. I know exactly how these two behave. I've watched them since childhood. Their friendship is something special. You're already speaking like this before marriage. What will happen after marriage? Will you keep suspecting my son all the time? We made a mistake coming here. Come on, son. Let's leave.

**Rahul:** (He happily got up.)

Just then, the bride came there.

**Kanaga:** Oh, please sit down! My mother spoke without understanding the situation. I apologise on her behalf. Mom, can't you just keep quiet? If you reject every marriage proposal like this, when will my younger sister ever get married? Please keep your mouth shut!

**Kavitha:** Who are you, dear?

**Kanaga:** I'm the elder sister of the girl you've come to see. My name is Kanaga, and my younger sister's name is Divya. Please wait. I'll call her.

**Divya:** (She brought coffee and served everyone. Then she sat beside Kanaga.)

**Kavitha:** Dear, what's your name?

**Vaidehi:** Hey, what's this? Didn't her sister already tell us her name is Divya? Is she checking whether the girl can hear properly?

**Kavitha:** Hey, Vaidehi! Can't you keep quiet?

**Vaidehi:** What, Mom? You're still following old-fashioned traditions!

**Vaidehi:** Divya, do you like Rahul?

**Divya:** Yes, I like him. What about him?

**Rahul:** First, let me tell you everything clearly. This girl here, Sudha, is my best friend. If anything happens that hurts her, this marriage will not take place. Even after marriage, if anyone humiliates her or treats her badly, I won't hesitate to seek a divorce.

Because she comes first in my life. If she's one of my eyes, you will be the other. You alone will have the place of my wife, and Sudha will always have the place of my best friend. Now tell me your decision.

**Divya:** First of all, I'm proud to see your friendship. More than that, I appreciate your honesty. You've come here to see a bride, yet you're openly telling the girl everything about your friendship. Any woman would appreciate such honesty. Let me tell you now, and I'll say it again whenever necessary: I will never misunderstand your friendship.

I respect your friendship and bow my head to it.

**Rahul:** Thank you for understanding me and my friendship. All right, let's discuss the other matters.

**Sudha:** Listen, Divya. Rahul is a very good person. He's spoken proudly about me to you. I don't know whether I truly deserve all that praise. But Rahul and I have been friends since childhood. I promise I'll never come between you both or disturb your married life. All I want is for you to take good care of him.

(She said those words while silently crying inside.)

The families discussed the matter and fixed the engagement.

### The Next Day at the Office

**Vijay:** Hey, has the bride-seeing ceremony been completed? Do you like the girl?

**Rahul:** No matter what, I still can't forget my past love. I've agreed only because Divya respects my friendship with Sudha.

**Vijay:** Everyone in this town knows about your friendship. Who would ever speak badly about it?

Just then, Vaidehi arrived.

**Rahul:** Hey, your girl has come. You talk to her.

**Vaidehi:** What did your friend say?

**Vijay:** We were talking about his engagement. He really likes the girl and is very happy.

**Vaidehi:** This is exactly how men's psychology works! You never understand what's going on inside a woman's heart. You understood that I love you and accepted my love. But do you know that Sudha is also in love with someone?

**Vijay:** What? Sudha loves someone? Who is it?

**Vaidehi:** It's none other than Rahul! She loves him. Do you know how much she suffers every day by hiding her love inside? And now Rahul's family is arranging another marriage. The biggest reason behind this situation is Sudha herself!

**Vijay:** What are you saying? Aren't they just friends?

**Vaidehi:** Somehow, we must bring those two together. Give me an idea. What can we do?

**Sudha:** (She came towards them.) I knew it! I knew you would talk about this when you got some time alone. Vijay, please don't tell Rahul anything. Even now, he sees me only as his friend. I don't want to destroy that trust. I don't want him to feel that I've betrayed our friendship.

**Vijay:** Stop talking like a fool! Why are you thinking like this? Why can't a friendship turn into love and eventually marriage? There's nothing wrong with that. Haven't you watched the movie *Piriyadha Varam Vendum*? Prashanth and Shalini have been friends since childhood, and eventually their friendship turns into love.

**Sudha:** Hey, idiot! That's just a movie. This is real life. What works in a movie may not work in reality. When I was about to confess my love, Tharani confessed hers first. I thought at least he would be honest, but she...

**Vijay:** When I talk about you, that...

(He was about to use a bad word.)

**Sudha:** Hey! I'll break your mouth if you speak like that. How dare you talk about her that way? A woman shouldn't be spoken about like that. Let my love remain within me. All I want is for Rahul to marry Divya and live happily.

### At Kanaga's House

**Bride's Mother:** Why did you agree when that boy spoke like that? What do you think you're doing?

**Divya:** Everything happens for a reason. I genuinely respect their friendship. But that doesn't mean it's right for him to say that both women are like his two eyes. Let the marriage happen first. I'll slowly bring him closer to me. Then I'll separate Sudha from Rahul.

**Kanaga:** Don't you think that's wrong? Breaking a friendship is a terrible thing.

**Divya:** I'm not going to break any friendship. I respect friendship. But is it wrong for me to feel that my husband should belong only to me? I don't think so. I'm going to speak to Sudha. I'll talk to her and settle this matter today.

Saying this, she immediately called Sudha.

### Divya Calls Sudha

**Sudha:** Hello! Who's speaking?

**Divya:** I'm Divya. The girl whose family came to see Rahul today.

**Sudha:** Oh, yes! Okay. How did you get my number?

**Divya:** When I spoke to Rahul privately, I took his mobile and saved both his number and yours. That's how I got your number. I wanted to speak to you.

**Sudha:** Tell me, Divya. What is the matter?

**Divya:** I'll speak openly. Please don't feel bad. I don't want you to come between the two of us. I want you to slowly distance yourself from him. That's better for everyone.

I will always respect your friendship. But after marriage, I want to have the position of his wife. Yet he says that you're one eye and I'm the other. Tell me, which wife would accept that?

A woman naturally wants her husband to give her the most important place in his heart and life. I feel the same way. Is there anything wrong with that, Sudha?

**Sudha:** (She became extremely upset and started crying. After wiping her tears, she replied.)

All right. Please don't worry. I'll slowly distance myself from Rahul. I'm sorry if I've behaved in a way that has hurt you. I promise I won't affect your peace of mind. I'm sorry.

She disconnected the call.

### Sudha and Vaidehi

**Vaidehi:** Sudha! I saw you crying. What's wrong? I heard your entire conversation. What did she say? Did she tell you not to speak to Rahul anymore?

**Sudha:** Listen, don't tell Rahul anything. Otherwise, he'll stop this marriage.

**Vaidehi:** Why shouldn't I tell him? Why should I keep quiet? If she's threatening you even before marriage, how will she live happily with Rahul after marriage? This isn't going to work. Let Rahul come. I'll make you confess your love, and bringing you both together is my responsibility.

**Sudha:** What are you saying? I'm telling you again. I believe that turning a friendship into love without the other person's feelings being clear is wrong. Please don't tell him about my love and make him hate me.

**Vaidehi:** Listen carefully. If your love is truly genuine, even God will bring the two of you together. Just wait and see whether it happens!

**Sudha:** If God brings us together, let it happen. But no human being should interfere and force us together. Do you understand? I'm talking about you and Vijay.

**Vaidehi:** I promise you, this will happen. I'm absolutely sure. God will definitely bring you both together. Remember my words!

Saying this, Vaidehi walked out.

**Sudha:** (Thinking to herself) If something like that really happens, I'll be the happiest woman in the world. I'll keep Rahul close to my heart and take care of him with all my love.

She smiled to herself, secretly cherishing that beautiful hope.

---

Thank you to all the kind-hearted readers who shared their valuable comments and support.

**My Telegram ID:** Msivamuruganm

**My Google Chat ID:** sivamuruganm321985]]>

Hello, friends!

I'm back again with another love story.

**Rahul:** Hey, Sudha! I don't want to get married right now. You are the only one who can talk to my family and stop this.

**Sudha:** Hey, are you joking? My mother will kill me if I say that! We've been friends since childhood. A true friend is someone who always wants the best for her friend. If you get married now, I'll be the happiest person, more than anyone else.

**Rahul:** Listen, I don't want to get married right now. Only if you talk to them will they listen.

**Sudha:** No way! That's impossible. What's wrong with getting married?

**Rahul:** Don't you know why I don't want to get married now? I still can't forget my past love.

**Sudha:** Hey, fool! Are you still thinking about that Tharani? She only cared about money. She left you for money. Forget her and think about your life.

**Rahul:** I can't forget her, Sudha. Maybe she never truly loved me, but I loved her with all my heart. How could she leave me just because of money?

**Sudha:** Stop talking like a fool. Don't ruin your life thinking about her. Get ready for marriage soon. Do you know how many times your mother has called me and complained?

**Rahul:** My heart isn't ready. That's all I have to say.

Saying this, he took his bike and left for home.

**Vaidehi:** Hey, Sudha! Why don't you tell him about your love?

**Sudha:** He's someone who gives so much importance to friendship. How can I suddenly tell him that I love him? What will he think of me?

**Vaidehi:** You silly girl! You've been hiding your love for him all these years. That's why Tharani came into his life and cheated him by pretending to love him. If you had confessed your love earlier, he would definitely have accepted you.

**Sudha:** I have love in my heart, but how do I know whether he has the same feelings? I don't want to spoil our friendship. Wherever he is, I just want him to be happy.

**Vaidehi:** Stop acting like some great sacrifice queen! Both families love you two so much. You've grown up together, and your families are very close. This is the perfect opportunity. Confess your love soon and make him forget that cheating Tharani.

**Sudha:** I can't do that. I can't betray a friendship. I've loved Rahul for a long time, but even now, he sees me only as his friend. If I tell him that I don't see him as a friend but as my lover, he might start hating me.

**Vaidehi:** You foolish girl! If you don't tell him, I'll go and tell him myself.

**Sudha:** Please don't do anything like that. If Rahul has the same love for me that I have for him, I'll definitely marry him.

### At Rahul's House

**Kavitha:** Son, if you don't agree to this marriage, I'll drink poison and die!

**Rahul:** Mom! (He shouted.) Please don't say things like that. Who do I have apart from you?

**Kavitha:** Then agree to get married.

**Rahul:** Fine. As you wish.

**Kavitha:** My dear son!

She immediately called Sudha.

**Kavitha:** Sudha, I spoke to him just as you suggested. He has agreed to the marriage. Now you must stand by us and help arrange everything.

**Sudha:** (Crying silently inside) Definitely, Mom. Don't worry. I'll personally take responsibility and make sure this marriage happens.

She disconnected the call.

**Vaidehi:** What kind of person are you? You yourself suggested that Rahul's mother should emotionally pressure him into agreeing. Why did you do that?

**Sudha:** His mother called me and shared her worries. What could I do? I suggested that she speak to him like that. I knew he would agree. And now he's agreed to the marriage.

**Vaidehi:** What are you going to do now?

**Sudha:** I'll stand at the forefront and arrange Rahul's wedding.

**Vaidehi:** Listen to me carefully. Your love for Rahul is true. That very love will bring you both together. I'm sure of it. Just wait and watch!

**Sudha:** Oh, shut up!

### Rahul and Sudha Go to See a Bride

After Kavitha informed the family that Rahul had agreed, they contacted a marriage broker and went to see a girl.

**Rahul:** Hey, Sudha! I agreed only because you told me to. On top of that, Mom threatened to kill herself. I wasn't willing at all, but I agreed for her sake and because of you. Even now, my entire heart is filled with thoughts of Tharani. This marriage is happening for the sake of society, not because I want it.

**Sudha:** (After hearing that Tharani was still in his heart, she felt a little hurt. Thousands of questions ran through her mind. When will I ever find a place in your heart, Rahul?)

**Rahul:** Hey! What's wrong with you? I'm talking to you. Why are you standing like a statue?

**Sudha:** (Coming back to her senses) Huh? What did you say?

**Rahul:** That's it! Are you even here with me, or have you gone to another world?

**Sudha:** Hey, it's nothing. Leave it. Is this the bride's house?

**Rahul:** Is that what's important now? I really don't want this marriage. Just think about that poor girl. How can I live happily with someone when my heart isn't willing? Nothing has gone wrong yet. Please talk to Mom and somehow stop this marriage.

**Sudha:** How can I do that? Do you think it's so easy? We've come all this way, and now you're saying this. What can I do? Sorry, Rahul. Try to live happily with that girl.

**Rahul:** You're crazy! Why did I even tell you all this? Let's see what fate has written for me.

They entered the house and sat down on the mat.

**Kavitha:** This is my son. This girl is his friend. They've been together since childhood. They live in the neighbouring houses, and now they even work in the same office.

**Bride's Mother:** That's very nice. I am someone who speaks openly. Please don't misunderstand me. You've come here to see a bride for your son, but why have you brought this girl along? Doesn't that seem inappropriate? Will she continue to stay with your son even after marriage? I'm not saying anything wrong. I just said what came to my mind.

**Rahul:** (He got angry and was about to stand up.)

**Kavitha:** Stop right there! Don't think you can say whatever you want just because we're sitting in your house. If you speak badly about them, you'll regret it. I know exactly how these two behave. I've watched them since childhood. Their friendship is something special. You're already speaking like this before marriage. What will happen after marriage? Will you keep suspecting my son all the time? We made a mistake coming here. Come on, son. Let's leave.

**Rahul:** (He happily got up.)

Just then, the bride came there.

**Kanaga:** Oh, please sit down! My mother spoke without understanding the situation. I apologise on her behalf. Mom, can't you just keep quiet? If you reject every marriage proposal like this, when will my younger sister ever get married? Please keep your mouth shut!

**Kavitha:** Who are you, dear?

**Kanaga:** I'm the elder sister of the girl you've come to see. My name is Kanaga, and my younger sister's name is Divya. Please wait. I'll call her.

**Divya:** (She brought coffee and served everyone. Then she sat beside Kanaga.)

**Kavitha:** Dear, what's your name?

**Vaidehi:** Hey, what's this? Didn't her sister already tell us her name is Divya? Is she checking whether the girl can hear properly?

**Kavitha:** Hey, Vaidehi! Can't you keep quiet?

**Vaidehi:** What, Mom? You're still following old-fashioned traditions!

**Vaidehi:** Divya, do you like Rahul?

**Divya:** Yes, I like him. What about him?

**Rahul:** First, let me tell you everything clearly. This girl here, Sudha, is my best friend. If anything happens that hurts her, this marriage will not take place. Even after marriage, if anyone humiliates her or treats her badly, I won't hesitate to seek a divorce.

Because she comes first in my life. If she's one of my eyes, you will be the other. You alone will have the place of my wife, and Sudha will always have the place of my best friend. Now tell me your decision.

**Divya:** First of all, I'm proud to see your friendship. More than that, I appreciate your honesty. You've come here to see a bride, yet you're openly telling the girl everything about your friendship. Any woman would appreciate such honesty. Let me tell you now, and I'll say it again whenever necessary: I will never misunderstand your friendship.

I respect your friendship and bow my head to it.

**Rahul:** Thank you for understanding me and my friendship. All right, let's discuss the other matters.

**Sudha:** Listen, Divya. Rahul is a very good person. He's spoken proudly about me to you. I don't know whether I truly deserve all that praise. But Rahul and I have been friends since childhood. I promise I'll never come between you both or disturb your married life. All I want is for you to take good care of him.

(She said those words while silently crying inside.)

The families discussed the matter and fixed the engagement.

### The Next Day at the Office

**Vijay:** Hey, has the bride-seeing ceremony been completed? Do you like the girl?

**Rahul:** No matter what, I still can't forget my past love. I've agreed only because Divya respects my friendship with Sudha.

**Vijay:** Everyone in this town knows about your friendship. Who would ever speak badly about it?

Just then, Vaidehi arrived.

**Rahul:** Hey, your girl has come. You talk to her.

**Vaidehi:** What did your friend say?

**Vijay:** We were talking about his engagement. He really likes the girl and is very happy.

**Vaidehi:** This is exactly how men's psychology works! You never understand what's going on inside a woman's heart. You understood that I love you and accepted my love. But do you know that Sudha is also in love with someone?

**Vijay:** What? Sudha loves someone? Who is it?

**Vaidehi:** It's none other than Rahul! She loves him. Do you know how much she suffers every day by hiding her love inside? And now Rahul's family is arranging another marriage. The biggest reason behind this situation is Sudha herself!

**Vijay:** What are you saying? Aren't they just friends?

**Vaidehi:** Somehow, we must bring those two together. Give me an idea. What can we do?

**Sudha:** (She came towards them.) I knew it! I knew you would talk about this when you got some time alone. Vijay, please don't tell Rahul anything. Even now, he sees me only as his friend. I don't want to destroy that trust. I don't want him to feel that I've betrayed our friendship.

**Vijay:** Stop talking like a fool! Why are you thinking like this? Why can't a friendship turn into love and eventually marriage? There's nothing wrong with that. Haven't you watched the movie *Piriyadha Varam Vendum*? Prashanth and Shalini have been friends since childhood, and eventually their friendship turns into love.

**Sudha:** Hey, idiot! That's just a movie. This is real life. What works in a movie may not work in reality. When I was about to confess my love, Tharani confessed hers first. I thought at least he would be honest, but she...

**Vijay:** When I talk about you, that...

(He was about to use a bad word.)

**Sudha:** Hey! I'll break your mouth if you speak like that. How dare you talk about her that way? A woman shouldn't be spoken about like that. Let my love remain within me. All I want is for Rahul to marry Divya and live happily.

### At Kanaga's House

**Bride's Mother:** Why did you agree when that boy spoke like that? What do you think you're doing?

**Divya:** Everything happens for a reason. I genuinely respect their friendship. But that doesn't mean it's right for him to say that both women are like his two eyes. Let the marriage happen first. I'll slowly bring him closer to me. Then I'll separate Sudha from Rahul.

**Kanaga:** Don't you think that's wrong? Breaking a friendship is a terrible thing.

**Divya:** I'm not going to break any friendship. I respect friendship. But is it wrong for me to feel that my husband should belong only to me? I don't think so. I'm going to speak to Sudha. I'll talk to her and settle this matter today.

Saying this, she immediately called Sudha.

### Divya Calls Sudha

**Sudha:** Hello! Who's speaking?

**Divya:** I'm Divya. The girl whose family came to see Rahul today.

**Sudha:** Oh, yes! Okay. How did you get my number?

**Divya:** When I spoke to Rahul privately, I took his mobile and saved both his number and yours. That's how I got your number. I wanted to speak to you.

**Sudha:** Tell me, Divya. What is the matter?

**Divya:** I'll speak openly. Please don't feel bad. I don't want you to come between the two of us. I want you to slowly distance yourself from him. That's better for everyone.

I will always respect your friendship. But after marriage, I want to have the position of his wife. Yet he says that you're one eye and I'm the other. Tell me, which wife would accept that?

A woman naturally wants her husband to give her the most important place in his heart and life. I feel the same way. Is there anything wrong with that, Sudha?

**Sudha:** (She became extremely upset and started crying. After wiping her tears, she replied.)

All right. Please don't worry. I'll slowly distance myself from Rahul. I'm sorry if I've behaved in a way that has hurt you. I promise I won't affect your peace of mind. I'm sorry.

She disconnected the call.

### Sudha and Vaidehi

**Vaidehi:** Sudha! I saw you crying. What's wrong? I heard your entire conversation. What did she say? Did she tell you not to speak to Rahul anymore?

**Sudha:** Listen, don't tell Rahul anything. Otherwise, he'll stop this marriage.

**Vaidehi:** Why shouldn't I tell him? Why should I keep quiet? If she's threatening you even before marriage, how will she live happily with Rahul after marriage? This isn't going to work. Let Rahul come. I'll make you confess your love, and bringing you both together is my responsibility.

**Sudha:** What are you saying? I'm telling you again. I believe that turning a friendship into love without the other person's feelings being clear is wrong. Please don't tell him about my love and make him hate me.

**Vaidehi:** Listen carefully. If your love is truly genuine, even God will bring the two of you together. Just wait and see whether it happens!

**Sudha:** If God brings us together, let it happen. But no human being should interfere and force us together. Do you understand? I'm talking about you and Vijay.

**Vaidehi:** I promise you, this will happen. I'm absolutely sure. God will definitely bring you both together. Remember my words!

Saying this, Vaidehi walked out.

**Sudha:** (Thinking to herself) If something like that really happens, I'll be the happiest woman in the world. I'll keep Rahul close to my heart and take care of him with all my love.

She smiled to herself, secretly cherishing that beautiful hope.

---

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