Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[iCuby]

yodam69420 please check your mail

[yodam69420]

That night, the house was dim. The rain had passed, but left behind a cool dampness in the walls. The windows were shut, but the scent of wet earth still crept in. Outside, puddles shimmered under dim streetlight, and frogs croaked from somewhere in the garden. Sakshi stood in the bathroom, the door latched behind her. In her hand was the pale green panty—the one Ramu had used. It felt heavier than it looked.

She stared at it under the yellow bathroom light. The darkened patch was still visible, faint now, but still there. Her breath hitched as she brought it closer, holding it like something sacred and obscene at once.
He came for me. While thinking about me. With my scent.
She slipped out of her regular panties and stepped into his. The fabric was cold at first, then warm as it clung to her heat. She pulled it up slowly, closing her eyes. His smell hit her like a wave—salt, musk, an echo of lust.
A moan escaped her throat, low and helpless. Her thighs tightened.
She turned off the light and walked to the bedroom, careful not to wake her son, who was curled up near the foot of the bed, one tiny arm flung across his teddy bear. Murugan lay already under the sheet, one arm behind his head, scrolling lazily on his phone with a faint smile on his face.
"You're late today," he said, not looking up.
"Had to wash up," she murmured, crawling in beside him, pulling the sheet over herself. Her body was tense, aware of every inch of skin pressed into the mattress.
He turned his head, giving her that lazy grin he thought was sexy. "You smell different. What soap did you use?"
Sakshi's heart hammered. "Just... sandal soap. New one. The bar Meena gave me."
He reached under the sheet to touch her hip, fingers sliding along her inner thigh.
She stiffened. The feeling of his touch felt foreign tonight. Out of place.
"Tired," she whispered quickly. "The rain... the baby didn’t nap. I’ve been up since 5. My back’s killing me."
"Okay, okay," Murugan chuckled. "Just wanted a kiss. Missed you, that’s all."
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, forcing a smile, then rolled to face away. Her breath came shallow, trapped in her chest.
Murugan turned off the light. The room fell into darkness, save for the soft flicker from outside. One distant rumble of thunder lingered like a warning.
But inside her, the night had just begun.

Her legs rubbed together, feeling the damp warmth of the stolen panties against her pussy. Her hand stayed under the sheet, sliding down slowly until her palm cupped herself. Her clit pulsed beneath the cotton.
Ramu.
In her mind, his sleeping body returned. The exposed cock. The thickness. The faint throb she imagined it made in his hand. She remembered the shape under the lungi. The raw masculinity. The age. The fact that he didn’t need to beg or chase—he just existed, and it ignited her.
She pictured him awake now. Standing behind her. His hand under her nightie. His breath on her neck. Teeth grazing her shoulder. Whispering her name like a prayer and a curse.
Her fingers moved. Small circles. Slow pressure. She bit the edge of the sheet to keep quiet, her thighs squeezing together, trapping her palm between.
Murugan shifted beside her. She froze, breath caught in her throat. The edge of fear twisted deliciously inside her.
He turned. Snored. Slept.
She resumed.
You filthy old man... you used me. Touched my scent. Came for me. Wanted me. You couldn’t help yourself. And I can’t either.
The orgasm built faster than she expected. It rolled up from her thighs, curling into her belly, pulling her deeper. She imagined Ramu watching her from the foot of the bed, stroking himself, his eyes filled with hunger. Or maybe he was touching himself right now, just down the hall, knowing she was doing the same.
She came in silence, mouth open but voiceless, waves crashing through her body like a storm surge. Her thighs trembled. Her toes curled. Her body arched in the dark, and still, her husband slept beside her.
She lay still for minutes after, soaking in the shame, the heat, the thrill. Her fingers wet. Her chest rising and falling fast. Her mind refusing to come back down.
Beside her, her husband snored, oblivious.
But inside her, the fire belonged to someone else now.
And he had never even touched her.
Her hand moved to her belly, then to the waistband of the stolen panties. She pressed the damp cotton against her clit one last time.
Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll leave another pair out. Maybe the red lace one. Let’s see if he likes red.
She closed her eyes.
And in her dreams, it was not Murugan’s arms around her—but Ramu’s.

[yodam69420]

It happened on a breathless afternoon, the kind of day where heat hangs motionless in doorways and even the walls seem to doze. The household had receded into a rare and precious silence. Murugan had left early for a surprise inspection at the port, muttering about delays and container backlogs. Her son had eaten a generous helping of rice and rasam and drifted into a soft, dreamless sleep on the cool tiled floor, his thumb nestled near his cheek. The ceiling fan turned slowly above him, slicing through the warm air like a tired metronome.
Sakshi stood at the kitchen counter, drying a glass with the corner of her saree, her movements languid, unhurried. The afternoon light came in golden streaks through the half-shut windows. A sudden knock broke through the stillness—not urgent, not casual. Just three slow, deliberate taps.
She opened the door to find Ramu standing there.
He looked almost formal—wearing an old checked shirt half-buttoned over a yellowing vest, his hair combed neatly back. In his hand, he held a folded newspaper.
"I thought you might like the crossword," he said. His voice was dry like rustling pages, but steady.
She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Oh. That’s thoughtful of you, uncle. Thank you."
He hesitated, shifting his weight.
"May I come in for a moment? Just to rest these knees of mine. The stairs don’t like me much today."
She hesitated only a moment, then stepped aside. "Of course. Please. Come sit near the window—it gets the best breeze."
He walked slowly, each step measured like a truce between will and pain. He sank into the old cane chair by the window with a low grunt and exhaled deeply. The scent of him filled the room—an old, masculine mix of talcum, sandalwood, and the faintest trace of sweat.
She returned to the counter, setting the glass down.
"Your husband," he said softly, his eyes fixed on the painted-over crack in the far wall, "he went out early."
She nodded. "Yes. Left before seven. Won’t be home until night."
There was a pause. A silence not awkward, but charged, like the space between thunder and rain.
Then, in a voice gentler than she’d ever heard from him, he said, "My wife’s name was Sakshi."
Her hand froze mid-motion. The plate she was drying slipped slightly in her grasp.
She turned to look at him. "Truly?"
He nodded. His smile was soft, almost wistful. "Sakshi. That’s what I called her. Just Sakshi. No one else did."
She stepped closer, curiosity blooming like a slow ache. "She... she passed away?"
His eyes, though old, held a memory that had not dimmed. "Eight years ago. Ovarian cancer. It was slow. And cruel. I held her hand through it. She was always warm. Even at the end."
Sakshi sat down across from him, folding her hands in her lap.
"I’m sorry, uncle."
He waved the words away gently. "You live with someone thirty-nine years, you don’t mourn the ending—you carry it. Like a pocket you never empty."
Another moment passed before he looked up. His eyes met hers fully for the first time. Something deep and unguarded passed between them.
"When I first heard your name... when you moved in... I felt like the house had inhaled after being still for too long. It made my bones ache. I thought maybe it was grief. But then... I started to look. And I couldn’t stop."
Her breath hitched.
He continued, his voice neither ashamed nor proud. Just honest.
"At first, it was simple. You shared her name. And then I saw how you carried yourself. Your saree pleats. The way you held your cup with both hands. How you brushed your hair. It wasn’t her, not exactly. But it echoed. And then it changed."
She swallowed, her voice tentative. "Changed how?"
He leaned forward slightly. Not close. Just enough.
"You move like her, yes. But you have fire in you. Where she glowed, you burn. Where she whispered, you command. And still, you’re called Sakshi. That name now lives in your mouth—and it makes me remember things I thought time had buried."
Sakshi looked down, suddenly unsure of where her hands belonged. "Ramu uncle... I don’t know what to say."
"You don’t have to say anything," he replied. "I know how it sounds. An old man burdening you with a ghost. But I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I see you, and I remember love. But lately... I see you, and I feel something else. Something that keeps me awake."
She stood then, the air around her heavy, tight.
"Would you like tea?" she asked, her voice quiet.
He smiled again. It was the smile of someone remembering something both painful and sweet.
"If you make it. The way Sakshi used to. Strong. Sweet. A little too hot."
She nodded and walked to the kitchen. But her pulse raced beneath her skin, and her name—the name she had carried all her life—now clung to her like a second skin.
It wasn’t just hers anymore.
It had become a tether.
A memory.
A mirror.
A claim.
----------
It had been three days since Ramu’s quiet confession—the day he uttered her name like a prayer lost in time, a name they both carried like an inherited wound. Since then, the house hadn’t changed, but Sakshi had. Something within her had shifted—subtle as breath, but constant.
She moved through her routines with the same deliberate grace: making dosai, folding clothes, answering calls from her sister. But every action seemed to hum with an extra layer. The tap of her bangles against metal, the way her saree brushed against the wall—everything now felt seen, charged, as if the air itself had become aware of her.
And each time she passed Ramu’s door, she could feel it—not sound, not movement, but presence. An invisible pull. His silence became a sound in her bones.
That Thursday, the stillness of the house stretched endlessly. Her son was curled on the mat after lunch, mouth slightly open, his soft snore rising in rhythm with the fan overhead. The television in the neighbor’s flat droned with some dull serial. Murugan, thankfully, was away on an overnight port audit.
She had just stepped out of the bathroom, her hair freshly washed and still damp, bundled in a towel atop her head. She wore a pale pink nightie, one she rarely used outside the bedroom, and moved through the corridor barefoot, lost in the warm lethargy of the afternoon.
That’s when she saw it.
A box.

Small. Black. Square. Resting neatly against the frame of her front door, tied with a loop of golden thread as thin as a whisper.
Her heartbeat caught as she looked down the hallway. No one. The stairwell was empty. The door to Ramu’s room remained shut, as if nothing had stirred.
She picked it up, closed the door behind her, and sat at the kitchen table. The light filtered through the half-curtained window, painting golden lines across the wood. She pulled the thread, lifted the lid.
Inside lay a mangalsutra.
Old. Substantial. Its black beads were strung between worn gold spacers, and the pendant, though dulled with age, still held a quiet dignity. It looked like it had once been worn every day, kissed with time and body heat. Beside it sat a folded slip of paper.
Her eyes scanned the handwriting.
If it means nothing, return it to me. If it means something, wear it. I will wait.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she touched the chain. It was heavier than it looked. Its warmth, or maybe the ghost of its warmth, settled into her palm.
A memory came to her—of her own wedding day, of hands tightening the knot, of beads brushing her collarbone. She had almost forgotten what that weight felt like.
But this was not hers. Not from a husband. This was something else.
By evening, the city had turned amber with dusk. Shadows stretched long and soft across the corridor. Sakshi stepped out of her flat with the box in hand. Her hair was now dry, left open and brushed out, falling past her shoulders like silk. She wore a cream saree with a maroon border, unadorned but intentional, the pleats perfectly set.
She walked to his door and knocked.
No delay this time. Ramu opened the door instantly, as if he’d been standing just behind it, listening for her knuckles.
He looked at her—not startled, not eager. Just steady. Composed.
She stepped into his room without speaking. He closed the door with a click that seemed louder than it was.
He looked at her hands.
"You got it," he said softly.
"Yes."
"And you came."
She opened the box and held it toward him.

"Why did you give me this?" she asked. Her voice didn’t waver, but there was weight behind it.
He took a breath, his eyes lingering on the mangalsutra before returning to her face. "It was hers. My Sakshi’s. She wore it for thirty-nine years. I took it off her neck myself, after they declared her gone. I’ve kept it ever since. In my drawer. I never touched it again."
He paused, then continued.
"But you—you came into this house, and I started hearing her name again. Then I saw you. Your presence. Your movements. Your laugh. And slowly, I wasn’t looking at a stranger anymore. I was feeling the ache of something I thought I’d buried."
She swallowed. "You said it wasn’t just the name."
"It isn’t," he said quickly. "It’s you. Your fire. The way you carry your skin. She glowed. But you burn. You burn through the walls of this house, and I... I don’t want to live in ashes anymore."
She didn’t move. But her eyes softened.
"Do you think this is fair?" she asked. "To ask me to wear another woman’s chain? To hold your memory and your desire in the same breath?"
He looked down for a moment. "No. It’s not fair. But neither is aging alone. Neither is wanting in silence. I’m not asking you for anything but a signal. Wear it if you want to be seen by me the way I see you. Return it if it’s too much. Either way, I’ll still look. I’ll still remember."
She stared at the chain again. Its beads reflected her name in her mind, over and over.
"This feels like more than memory," she whispered.
He nodded. "It is. It’s surrender. Yours, if you choose it. Mine, already given."
She let the box close gently in her hand.
"Not tonight," she said.
He didn’t react. Just nodded with a quiet gravity. "I’ll wait. Even if it’s forever."
She turned and walked out slowly, the box held close to her stomach.
Back in her room, she set it on her dresser and stared at it long after the light had left the window.
The chain no longer belonged to another woman.
It waited for her name to claim it.
-------------------
The call connected after a single ring, the tone still echoing when Meena answered with the urgency of someone mid-bite of gossip.
"Tell me everything," she demanded without preamble. "Your voice note had too much breathing and not nearly enough words. Are you pregnant with scandal or what?"
Sakshi gave a breathy laugh, the sound tight and strange in her throat. She was seated cross-legged on her bed, eyes locked on the black box resting silently on her dresser—its thin gold thread still partly unraveled like a whisper waiting to be said aloud.
"He gave me his wife’s Mangalsutra, Meenu."
A pause.
"Wait—what?" Meena’s voice sharpened, tinged with disbelief. "You mean, the Mangalsutra? The mangalsutra? As in—the literal symbol of marriage?"
"Yes," Sakshi said, her tone steadier than she felt. "In a small box. Left it at my doorstep like a relic. There was a note. Simple. ‘If it means nothing, return it. If it means something... wear it.’"
Meena exhaled so hard Sakshi could hear her breath rattle through the speaker. "That man’s got some balls the size of planets. And a sense of drama that belongs in a Tamil film."
Sakshi gave a humorless smile. "He’s got more than that, Meena. He’s got nerve. And patience. And this strange, suffocating gentleness."
"Oh god," Meena groaned. "Sakshi. You told me this man was your landlord’s widowed father. I didn’t expect him to play ghost-husband reincarnation."
"Neither did I," Sakshi whispered. "It’s not what you think. It didn’t feel sleazy. It didn’t feel like a move. It felt... weighted. Like he was handing me a piece of his past. And maybe... a piece of his future."
"Jesus," Meena muttered. "Okay. So what did you do? Did you fling it back? Did you yell? Did you cry?"
Sakshi leaned her head back against the wall. Her fingertips grazed the edge of her neckline. "I took it to him. Opened the box in front of him. Asked him why."
"And what did he say?" Meena’s voice had softened now, touched with real concern.
"He said it was hers. His Sakshi’s. That she wore it for thirty-nine years, and when she died, he couldn’t throw it away or give it to anyone. He said it stayed in his drawer—dead, waiting—until me."
"Oh my god."
"He said I brought time back to him. That I make him feel presence, not just memory. That I burn, Meena. That I remind him of what it feels like to want, and not just remember."
Meena let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a whistle. "That’s... not a flirt. That’s an invocation. That’s spiritual possession."
"And the worst part? I didn’t feel creeped out. I felt—held."
"You didn’t give it back, did you."
"Not yet."
"So what are you thinking?" Meena asked, quieter now, her voice stripped of sarcasm.
Sakshi stood up and walked slowly to the dresser. Her fingers hovered above the box, not quite touching it. "I don’t know. It’s not about sex anymore. Not attention. There’s something deeper under this thing. Something older. It scares me, Meena."
"Scares you because it’s real?"
"Scares me because it asks for something. It’s not passive. That chain has weight. It wants a yes."
"Then you don’t wear it," Meena said firmly. "Not unless you’re ready to say yes to all of it. To what it would mean to be Sakshi again—not his past, but his present. His claim."
They both went silent.
Then Meena added, voice low and certain, "You always had the fire, Sakshi. Maybe this man’s just the first one mad enough to walk into it and not flinch."
Sakshi smiled, her chest tight. "I’m afraid of how much I want to. I don’t want to disappear into his memory. But I also don’t want to return it."
"Then don’t. Keep it. Let it sit. Let it breathe with you. You don’t owe him an answer. But you do owe yourself the truth."
Sakshi’s eyes stayed on the Mangalsutra.
"It’s already here. That box hasn’t moved. Neither have I."
"Then that’s your answer for now."
They stayed on the line for another minute, neither speaking, just breathing in sync. A shared pause.
And when the call finally ended, Sakshi didn’t feel finished.
She felt suspended. Held between a story long gone and one not yet begun.
And the gold-threaded box waited.
Patient.
Alive.
Listening.

[yodam69420]

The call came just after dusk, the sky outside brushed in strokes of muted coral and fading violet. Ramu had just settled into his favorite creaking cane chair by the open window. A faint breeze carried the smell of burnt jasmine and camphor from the neighbor's evening pooja. His room was still, untouched by conversation or memory, until a knock came at the door.
It was Janani and her husband, Arun—the landlords. Sakshi opened the door, wiping her hands on her saree. Her son peeked out from behind her legs, clutching a small toy car.
Arun gave a warm nod. "Sorry to disturb, Sakshi. Can we come in for a moment?"
Murugan, adjusting his shirt collar, came from the kitchen. "Of course, come in."
They all sat down in the front room, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead.

Janani spoke first. "We just wanted to ask a small favor. We’re going out of town for ten days. My cousin’s wedding in Madurai."
Arun added, "Appa’s not coming with us. The travel is too much for him. We were hoping you could keep an eye on him. Just basic things—meals, making sure he’s taking his medicine, maybe checking in once or twice."
Murugan nodded slowly. "Of course. That’s not a problem."
Sakshi added quickly, "I already see him most days in the corridor. We’ll make sure he’s alright."
Janani gave a grateful smile. "He likes you, akka. Says you remind him of someone. He won’t say who."
Murugan glanced at the clock and stood, picking up his bag. "I need to leave now or I’ll miss the train. You’ll manage fine, right?" he asked Sakshi.
She nodded. "I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry."
Arun and Janani stood as well. "Thank you again. Really. Just call us if anything comes up."
After they left, Murugan kissed his son’s forehead and headed out. Sakshi watched him go from the balcony before retreating inside. The house felt still again.

-----------
Ramu's old Nokia, tucked in his drawer, suddenly rang an hour later. He glanced at the screen and squinted.
“Ismail bhai.”
That name hadn’t flashed on his screen in nearly a decade. Like hearing a voice through fog—half dream, half miracle.
He answered. “Hello?”
“Ramu! You’re still alive? Or did someone finally hang a garland on your photo?”
Ramu laughed, his chest filling with that special kind of warmth that only old friends bring. “Still breathing, brother. Same house. Same fan. Just fewer hairs now.”
“That fan must be worthy of a temple donation by now,” Ismail teased. “Your voice sounds exactly the same. Bet you still use coconut oil and keep that stubborn heart well polished.”
“You sound heavy. And old.”
“Both true. And... I’m getting married.”
Ramu was startled. “Married?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fourth time. The nikah is next month. Date not fixed yet. But you’ll show up before you die, right?”
Ramu sat up straight. “Are you insane? Who is she?”
A pause. Then, softly, Ismail said, “Her name is Noor. She’s twenty-one.”
Ramu coughed. “Twenty-one? She could be your great-granddaughter.”
“I know,” Ismail said, almost laughing. “She used to be my grandson’s girlfriend.”
Ramu nearly dropped the phone. “What?”
“Long story. Bad breakup last year. Everyone thought the boy would leave town like he’d planned. But fate kicked him in the teeth—no visa, no job, no escape. He got stuck here. Had to move into a hostel near college—nowhere else to go. It wasn’t by choice, it was desperation. Poor kid still sees her. Doesn’t say a word, but I know. His face changes when someone says her name. Like his heart skips a beat.”
“They don’t talk anymore. He doesn’t have the courage. But he watches her. Every other week when he comes home, he makes some excuse to visit my shop. Stands far off. Noor works there now—part-time. Handles the register, serves tea. Like the queen of silence. And him? He just stands there in the corner watching her. Doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even glance at him. Like he’s furniture. Like he was never hers at all.”
“But still he comes. Still clings to hope. And burns a little more each time.”
Ramu was stunned. “And now she’s marrying you?”
“She chose it. I offered a proper proposal—no hidden agenda, no romance. Just a dignified relationship. And why not? I may be old, but I’m still the lion of this broken family. If something must be done with respect, I’ll be the one to do it. And she said yes.”
“And your grandson?”
“He still messages her. Voice notes, poems, campus photos. He doesn’t know Noor’s getting married. No one told him. Noor hasn’t replied for months, but he keeps trying—like her silence is just a network issue he’ll fix. He’s still trying to understand why she left. But I think... he never really saw her. Just what he wanted to see.”
Ramu’s voice was quiet. “And she sees you?”
“Yes,” Ismail said. “She doesn’t see me as her future. But she sees me as something real. And for now, that’s enough.”
There was a silence. Then Ramu exhaled deeply. “Strange that you called today. I was thinking about you too.”
“Oh? Missed my awful poetry?”
“No,” Ramu muttered. “Because something strange is happening with me too.”
“Tell me.”
Ramu took a deep breath. His words were heavy, but firm. “A couple moved into the upstairs flat. They have a small child. The wife’s name is Sakshi.”
Ismail fell silent.
“Yeah,” Ramu said. “Sakshi. When I first heard it, it felt like my wife had come back. But when I saw her—she was different. Young. Sharp. Walks like the corridor belongs to her. Her saree catches light the way my Sakshi’s used to. I couldn’t stop watching.”
“Ramu…”
“I’ve started listening for her anklets. I wait for the clink of her bangles. When I know she’ll be outside, I start making tea. And last week… I gave her my Sakshi’s mangalsutra.”

“You did what?”
“In a box. Left it at her door. Wrote a note—if it means nothing, return it. If it does, wear it.”
“And?”
“She came. Holding it. Asked me why. I told her everything. She didn’t wear it. But she didn’t return it either.”
Ismail let out a long breath. “She’s married, Ramu.”
“I know. That’s why I never asked. Just offered. She can leave if she wants. Stay if she wants. But whatever happens, she’s already lived inside me.”
“Crazy old man.”
“Since she came, the house feels alive again. The walls respond to her footsteps. Even the silence bows before her.”
Ismail was quiet for a long time. “You always fell hardest when no one expected you to.”
“She reminds me I’m not incomplete. That I can still be seen.”
“Maybe that’s all any of us want. For someone to really see us... one last time.”
They stayed on the call for nearly an hour. Talking—about age, loneliness, hunger, and second chances. About turmeric pills, funeral news, forgotten relatives, and aching bones.
Even after the call ended, Ramu sat holding the phone. The blinking signal bar on the screen had grown tired.
Outside, the lights in Sakshi’s flat turned off one by one.
Ramu thought of Noor. Of Ismail. Of the kinds of fires that don’t arrive with noise—but only with invitation.
And he wondered if Sakshi would ever open that box again.
And if she would ever wear that past... which now belonged to her.

[yodam69420]

It began subtly, like all dangerous things do. Sakshi never crossed a line—she merely circled it, barefoot and bare-armed, as if waiting for it to cross her. She played with space the way some women play with silk, letting the tension hang like a veil between them, delicate and deliberate.

After the Mangalsutra was delivered—but not returned, and not worn—Ramu said nothing. The black box still sat on Sakshi’s dresser, unopened, untouched, and yet constantly seen. A presence in the room, like a waiting animal, pacing quietly in the shadows. Her not wearing it spoke louder than silence, and her not returning it roared with promise. The ambiguity of her gesture—half-closed, half-open—grew sharper than words. The silence between them no longer resembled absence. It was thick, rippling with something feral. It breathed. It waited.
The day before the family left, Sakshi stood by the front gate with Murugan and their son, talking to their landlord Janani and her husband as they loaded their luggage into a white SUV. The air was heavy with heat, and the luggage’s wheels screeched against the concrete.
"Akka, just check on Appa once a day, okay? Make sure he eats," Janani said, handing over a scribbled list of reminders.
"Of course," Sakshi said, smiling. "We’ll bring him breakfast and dinner. No trouble at all."
"He’s gotten very particular lately," Janani added. "Sometimes refuses food. But he listens to you, I’ve noticed. More than he listens to me."
Murugan nodded lightly. "Don’t worry. Sakshi is good at managing things. I’ll be in Chennai for the training, but she’ll handle it."
Janani leaned in a little, teasingly. "You know, it’s funny. My mother-in-law was also named Sakshi. It used to shake Appa up, hearing her name around the house again. I think the first few days, he actually thought it was her... come back somehow."
Murugan offered a tight smile.
"Honestly, I think he still does. He watches you so intently. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks."
Sakshi gave a nervous laugh. "Akka, you’re making it sound like I’m a ghost."
"Not a ghost. More like a second chance," Janani said, eyes twinkling. "He perks up when you pass. Straightens up when you speak."
Murugan’s mouth remained curved in that same faint smile, but his grip on the strap of his bag tightened just a bit. He looked at Sakshi, then down at their son playing with the toy truck.
“I should go finish packing.”
As he walked back into the house, his thoughts wandered.
They mean well. They’re just teasing. But sometimes I wonder if they see more than they say. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Sakshi’s always been warm with people. Maybe that’s all this is. Still...
He pushed the thought away. There was work ahead. Deadlines. Schedules. And the soft undercurrent of something else—something he wasn’t ready to name.
Their son trailed after him, asking about snacks for the train.
Sakshi stayed with Janani, laughing, deflecting. But inside, her chest buzzed.
Janani wasn’t done.
"So, what will you wear when we’re not around to watch you?" she teased. "Maybe one of those sleeveless cotton sarees? Or that pink one—you know, the one that clings to you in all the wrong ways." She winked. "Appa might actually start skipping his TV serials."
Sakshi laughed, eyes wide. "Akka! You’re too much."

"Just saying! A little color, a little fabric missing here and there—it might add years to his life."
Sakshi grinned but glanced toward the house. Murugan was out of sight, but her chest tightened slightly.
Murugan, inside, stood by the suitcase. His fingers had paused on the zipper.
They’re joking. Harmless jokes. But why does it feel like every word is aimed at a part of me I don’t know how to protect?
He zipped the suitcase and wiped his face.
It’s fine. Let it be fine.
And Ramu, standing quietly nearby, didn’t speak. But his gaze said more than he ever had. There was no amusement in it. Just hunger. Just waiting.


The SUV pulled away, laughter and engine fading. The compound emptied. A quiet fell over the home—not hollow, but poised. Ready.

By the next morning, it began.
She moved through the corridor like she had rehearsed it in a dream. When her son played inside. When the hallway was empty. When she knew the thin curtain behind Ramu’s window would stir.
Her sarees became stories. Dbangs that slipped like sighs. Blouses of lowered backs and rising hemlines. Fabric that obeyed her mood. Each step a performance, each turn a pull of invisible string.
The bangles returned. Their soft chime told time differently now. Her hips had a rhythm. Her footsteps were poetry. Anklets marked the punctuation.
One afternoon, Ramu stood in his doorway, arms behind his back. Waiting.
She came out with a steel bucket of laundry. Her blouse was damp. Her chest rose and fell with the weight of heat and gravity.
“Did you like the tea yesterday?” she asked, clothespins pressed between her fingers.
He didn’t answer immediately. "It was strong."
“You like strong, don’t you?”
He stepped closer to the threshold. "Not everything that looks delicate is weak."
She gave a half-smile. “That’s why I haven’t snapped yet.”
That night, the line held only one thing: a maroon blouse. Sleeveless. Almost translucent. Hung alone like a promise unspoken. The corridor lamp made the fabric glow, flicker.
He didn’t touch it. But it reached him all the same.
The next day, she knocked at his door.
“Do you have sugar?”
He opened the door slowly. Her saree stuck to her body from the heat. Her neck glistened. The smell of soap and cardamom lingered.
He handed her the tin.

“Anything else?”
She took it slowly. Her fingers brushed his.
"Not today."
She turned. One drop of water from her wet hair fell down her spine. He tracked it like a prayer.
That evening, she passed his window with jasmine tucked behind her ear. She stood by the tulsi, pouring water with slow grace. Her saree clung. Her breath moved her blouse.

Once, she dropped her pallu completely while reaching up.
She laughed. “Oh no. So clumsy these days.”
It wasn’t innocence. It was a fuse.
And he was the dry spark.
Behind the curtain, he gripped the sill, his fingers white with restraint.
This was no longer flirtation. It was hunger drawn in lace and glance.
She was the hunter.
And he was already caught.
Every day she gave him just enough light to chase.
And every night, he dreamt of what he would do if she ever stopped running.


The train had long since pulled away.
Murugan’s last wave lingered in Sakshi’s memory, his smile uncertain beneath the station lights. Their son had clutched her sari until the final moment, waving at her with one hand while holding his father’s thumb with the other.
For the first time in years, Sakshi was almost alone in the house.
Almost—because the house still had her. And it still had her son, now curled in the corner room on a thin mat, limbs flung like careless brushstrokes across the sheet. But the quiet was undeniable. No husband’s footsteps. No questions. No presence looming beside her. Just the tick of the wall clock and the slow breath of the ceiling fan slicing through the afternoon heat.
She stood at the threshold of the corridor, one hand against the doorframe, listening.
Nothing. And yet...
She felt him.
Somewhere in the hush of that afternoon, Ramu had noticed. He always did.
That day, she didn’t rush to sweep the corridor. She didn’t wear her usual daily saree. She chose the navy blue chiffon with silver paisley work—a saree too fine for chores, too sheer for denial. Her blouse was soft, sleeveless, tied in the back with strings barely hanging on. She oiled her hair, coiled it up, let it fall again. Combed it out with fingers until it shimmered.
When she stepped into the corridor, she didn’t glance at his window.
She didn’t have to.
The curtain stirred.
Behind it, Ramu sat, breath caught. This was no coincidence. Murugan was gone. Her world had fallen silent. And now she moved like something unbound.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.
Sakshi walked past his door slowly, pleats swaying with each careful step. She bent to pick a flower from the tulsi pot. Her blouse shifted, the slope of her back exposed. She adjusted nothing. Walked back in with the door left open—casually, dangerously.
Minutes passed.
Then a sound.
Knuckles. Just once.
She opened it.
He stood there, leaning slightly on his cane. Shirt misbuttoned. Mouth tight. Eyes very open.
“I... heard something fall,” he said.
She held up the flower.
“Just this.”
His gaze didn’t drop. Neither did hers.
She stepped aside.
“Come in, then.”
He entered slowly, like a man stepping into memory. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
He sat on the cane chair by the window, fingers wrapped white around the wooden arms. She moved without urgency, without hesitation. She brought him water, her hip brushing the table as she leaned forward. He drank in silence.
Then, from the back room: a sound. A whimper. Then a growing cry.
Her son had woken.
Sakshi tilted her head, sighed—not annoyed, but indulgent. "Excuse me," she murmured, already turning, the fabric of her saree sliding gently across the tile.
He watched the sway of her as she left. A shape sculpted from shadow and heat.
When she returned, her son was in her arms, fussy and rubbing his eyes, a tiny fist clenched near her breast.
“Hungry, of course,” she said with a soft smile, then looked directly at Ramu. “Children always know what they want.”
He nodded, voice caught in his throat.
She sat on the divan across from him. Shifted. Pulled her son close.
With practiced ease, she loosened her pallu, but not too far. Her blouse was already low-cut, the back string now undone. She slipped the fabric off her shoulder. Exposed just enough. Cradled him. Let him latch.
The child sighed with satisfaction. So did Ramu—silently.
Her breast, full and firm, rose into view with each pull. A delicate arch framed by the fall of her saree. Her fingers brushed his soft head, smoothing hair with a rhythm older than words.
She didn’t flinch.
“It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she asked. Her eyes didn’t leave Ramu’s. “Feeding. Giving.”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
She smiled. This time it curled, deliberate.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wonder what else this body still remembers how to give.”
His knuckles tightened. The veins on his forearm pulsed visibly.
She shifted her son slightly, exposing more curve, letting the fabric fall naturally lower. She stroked her own skin absently as she readjusted.
“Not everything sacred has to be hidden,” she added, looking down at the boy suckling with sleepy hunger. “Not everything natural is innocent.”
Ramu didn’t speak.
He couldn’t.
She let the moment stretch, unbothered by modesty, by ritual, by consequence. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t an invitation either.
It was a display.
And he watched like a man being punished for sins he had yet to commit.
The child finished and nestled against her. She adjusted the saree—not hurriedly. Tied the blouse back. Covered what needed covering.
But the memory of what had been visible hung thick in the room.
She rocked the boy gently.
Ramu stood, slowly.
“I should go.”

She nodded. “Of course.”
He turned at the door.
She didn’t stop him.
But as it closed behind him, she looked down at her son, kissed his head, and whispered:
“Now he’s seen what he can’t yet touch.”
And the next move... would be hers.

[yodam69420]

Evening settled into the house like a guest overstaying its welcome. The golden glow of sunset had faded, bleeding into deep blue shadows that stretched languidly across the floor and curled into the corners like secrets waiting to be confessed. The air was thick with the scent of coconut chutney, green chillies, and roasted gram—homely, inviting, but under it, something else simmered.
In the kitchen, Sakshi moved with the deliberate grace of a dancer staging her final act. Crisp murukku gleamed golden on a steel plate. Soft white idlis rested under muslin in a bowl that sweated gently. A flask of fresh filter coffee waited beside a pair of tumblers. She wasn’t merely preparing snacks. She was summoning.
He would come. She knew it with the certainty of a woman who had waited too long not to be right.
When the knock finally came, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rushed. It sounded like fingers uncertain if they deserved to touch her door at all.
She opened it to find Ramu beneath the porch light, the cane firm in one hand, his other balled into a fist he didn't quite realize he was clenching. His shirt was tucked in for once. His shoulders stooped not from age but from the weight of the moment. His eyes… they were softer than she’d ever seen them.
"I thought you might need company," he said. Low. Barely above a murmur, like it was meant for no one else to hear.
She tilted her head just slightly, eyes unreadable. "Always. Come in, uncle. Snacks are ready."
He entered slowly, cane tapping a rhythm against the tile, one beat for each memory unspoken between them. He eased into the cane chair with a soft grunt, as if sitting down in her presence took effort he was willing to expend. She set the plate before him, poured coffee into the tumblers. Steam rose between them like breath between two mouths leaning in.
He picked up a murukku, bit into it. His eyes didn’t leave her face. "Delicious."
She smiled faintly, barely there. "It’s been a long time since someone properly praised my cooking. My husband eats in silence. My son throws it."

Ramu chewed slowly. Swallowed. "They don’t understand what it means to be fed by hands like yours."
She arched a brow. Not sarcastic—curious. "And you do?"
"Yes," he said, placing the half-eaten snack back down. His voice carried now—not louder, but clearer. "Because I’ve spent years remembering what it means to crave. To long. For softness. For warmth. You deserve more than a kitchen and a silent table."
She stirred her coffee, slow circles. The spoon clinked gently. "Is that all I deserve to be?"
"No." He leaned forward slightly. "You deserve to be worshipped."
The silence between them shifted. It wasn’t empty. It pulsed.
Her breath caught. She didn’t look away. Her fingers brushed the rim of her tumbler, knuckles white.
"Bold words, uncle," she said finally, voice dipped in something darker than coffee.
"They must be. I’ve no time left for polite ones."
She leaned forward on her elbows, saree falling just enough to hint at her collarbone, at the quiet swell beneath. "And what is it you want from me, really? Don’t sweeten it. Say it."
His cane tapped once on the floor before he set it aside. He looked at her fully now, stripped of whatever hesitation had held him back before. "I want you as my wife. Not a fantasy behind curtains. Not a sigh in my bed at night when no one's there. I want to walk into this house knowing I belong here. Beside you. Inside you. Without apology. Without shame."
Her lips parted slightly. Her pulse thudded in her throat. "Uncle..."
He leaned in more, elbows on his knees, voice rough like stones dragged across tile. "You tempt me without trying. You move and I ache. I don't want to just look anymore. I want to touch. Wake up with your breath warm on my shoulder. Your thigh over my hip. I want you, Sakshi. No more hiding. No more pretending we’re anything less than already claimed by each other."
She leaned back slowly, breath shaky, eyes glued to his. Her voice came soft, deliberate. "And what would that make me? A mistress with a mangalsutra?"
"No." He said it like a vow. "It would make you mine. And I’d be yours. The world can name it how it wants. In here, it would be true."
Her gaze flicked away for half a second—then snapped back. "And Murugan?"
"He left a space. I didn’t steal it. You offered it. Every silence. Every blouse that slipped just a little lower. You let me see you, Sakshi. Now let me have you."
Her fingers trembled on the steel tumbler. "You're not asking for a moment."
"I'm asking for surrender."
She stood. Slowly. Saree rustling like silk secrets. Her back was to him now, voice almost a whisper. "And if I say yes..."
He rose to his feet. Steady. Determined. "Then I will take you in every way a man can take the woman he’s waited his whole damn life to touch."
She turned. Her chest rose and fell, breath ragged. Her eyes glistened—not tears. Hunger. "You think I haven’t imagined it too? Think I haven’t walked these hallways knowing your eyes traced every sway of my hips?"
His fists clenched at his sides.
"Then let’s stop pretending," he growled. "We already belong to each other."
She took a step. Another. Her hand reached—held his.
He moved, slowly, respectfully, guiding her fingers up.
Then bent slightly.
Just as his lips neared the center of her palm, she pulled it back gently.
He froze.
She smiled. Slow. Mysterious. "Not yet."

He nodded, breath caught. "No?"
She tilted her head. "You’ll have to earn it, Ramu. Think of this as your exam."
His breath came deeper now. "Then I will pass."
Just as his breath steadied, she softened. Her voice lowered. "And my son?"
Ramu straightened—not offended, but clear. "He will never be without you. I don’t ask you to lock him out. If this becomes ours, he’s part of it too. I want you both. Not as burden. As blessing."
Sakshi exhaled. Her shoulders sagged, just a little. A shield lowering. "He’s all I’ve done right."
"Then let me be the next thing you don’t have to apologize for."
Outside, the shadows deepened. Inside, something else rose to meet them. Not longing. Not fantasy.
Desire had a name now.
And it answered to hers.

[Pvzro]

Extremely hot and erotic building up story,

Great writing skills dear writer enjoying every bit of it

Would request to continue with the flow with regular and big updates ,keep sakshi innocent not so much open and bold will surely make it more erortc include armpits plot also in that so that it becomes more harder for all the reader

[Gitaranjan]

Nice update

[yodam69420]

The sky outside was a dull, unchanging grey, heavy with heat, but the air inside her home buzzed with something far more electric. The floor was freshly swept, smelling faintly of phenyl and sandal. The curtains were half-drawn, letting slivers of dusty light slant across the tiled floor like fingers of something divine—or obscene.
Sakshi stood near the window, the mangalsutra still in her palm from the conversation the night before. It didn’t feel like jewelry anymore. It felt like a trigger. A test. A dare. Not just gold now, but weight—of possibility, of power.
He had said he would do anything. Anything she asked. Any trial she set.
So she would give him one.
Ramu arrived exactly on time, as she knew he would. There was no knock this time—just the faint clearing of his throat outside the door. She opened it without ceremony. He stepped inside without permission.
His shirt was freshly pressed, collar tight. The top button undone. His eyes didn’t wander. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he walked to where she gestured: the wooden chair at the center of the room, placed beneath the bare lightbulb. A spotlight.
"Sit," she said. No affection in the tone. Pure instruction.
He obeyed without question.

There were no snacks today. No coffee. Just silence and breath. Her breath, slow and controlled. His, shallow and quick.
She walked slowly toward him, her bare feet whispering across the cool tile. The rustle of her saree louder than the ceiling fan overhead. She stopped just close enough for him to feel her warmth. Her scent—jasmine from her hair, musk from between her breasts—wrapped around him like silk.
She held the mangalsutra out. Let it dangle. The beads caught the light like blackened stars.
"You remember your words?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"Anything I ask?"
"Yes."
She walked behind him, her voice low. "Even if it costs you dignity?"
He didn’t blink. "Yes."
She stepped in front of him again. Eyes sharp, playful.
"Then here’s what I want," she said. Her voice dropped further, wrapped in heat. "I want to see what kind of man I'd be binding myself to. How deep his hunger runs. How low he'll kneel."
She took a deep breath and knelt before him—not reverent, but predatory. Her eyes locked onto his. "Give me your hand."
He obeyed, slowly. She took it, held it palm-up, then placed it gently on the warm flesh of her thigh, through her saree. The heat made him tremble.
"Don’t move," she whispered.
Then she stood, guiding his hand toward a brass water jug that had been sitting nearby. "Hold this. Steady."
He gripped the jug. Confused, but unmoving.
She turned away from him slightly, pulling the pallu of her saree over one shoulder but letting the back fall loose. Then, very slowly, she lifted the layers of silk from behind. Just enough to reveal thigh. Then curve. Then more.
She positioned herself over the jug. No warning. No more words.
Then came the sound.
A hiss.
A stream.
Hot piss splashed into the brass.
She pissed hard, full force, her legs bent, her thighs spread open above the wide-mouthed vessel. The thick steady stream steamed as it hit metal. He stared. Not with horror. Not with hesitation. With awe.


His hand didn’t move.
She didn’t hide her face. Didn’t flinch.
She emptied herself into the jug until the last few dribbles hissed out.
Then she stood. Adjusted her saree. Looked at him.
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
She took the jug. Placed it on the floor in front of him.
"Drink."
It wasn’t a request.
He picked it up. No questions.
He brought it to his lips.
And drank. A deep gulp. Then another.

Piss coated his tongue. Hot. Sharp. Hers.
He swallowed it.
Set the jug down.
Licked his lips.
Looked at her.
"What’s next, my wife?"
She stared.
Her cunt clenched. Her thighs dampened. Her heart thundered.
He had fucking done it.
Not blinked. Not hesitated.
He drank her like holy water.
She turned.
Silent.
Swaying.
Wet.
And this? This was just the beginning.

[Deepak Sanjeev]

Mad old bugger

[Vissle]

It's time for Ramu and Sakshi should get marry. Sakshi needs his company. Ramu should also start his family with her.

[yodam69420]

The room still carried the scent of her urine, faint but lingering, soaked into the air like a secret no window could release. . Shoba knew ramu has kind of allergy of buffalo milk , he did not like buffalo doodh, he can drink cows milk but not buffalo.She knew this from janani. Ramu hadn’t moved from the chair. The jug sat at his feet, empty. Sakshi stood near the kitchen shelf, her back to him, hands moving slowly—methodically—as she prepared the next phase of her test
buffalo Doodh. Cold from the fridge.
Bad smelling ghee. Thick and golden.
She poured the buffalo milk into a small steel tumbler, then drizzled in the Bad smelling ghee, watching it swirl like a lazy monsoon eddy. She stirred it slowly, deliberately, and with every circle of the spoon, her pulse quickened.

She knew he hated buffalo milk. She remembered the way his face had twisted the one time she’d seen him sip some with his BP tablets—he’d gagged, lips curling like a child forced to drink kaadha.
he also hated Bad smelling ghee. Bad smelling ghee so thick, it moved like sin.
Together? He would hate it. And that made it perfect.
She turned.
He looked up, still breathing slowly, still not moving.
"Kameez utaro," she said. "Fold it. Keep it aside."

He obeyed.
"Ab ghutno pe aao. Crawl to me."
He hesitated for a beat—then lowered himself. Palms flat, knees to tile, crawling like a man entering a Devi temple on Amavasya night.
Her eyes glittered. "Haan... that’s right. Mere samne rengo. Show me what bhakti looks like."
She stepped back, toward the low divan, and sat. Dbangd her saree up to her knees. Pulled it higher. Then more—until the smooth expanse of her dusky thighs lay exposed.
She dipped her fingers into the tumbler and let the thick, cold liquid fall.
First a trail down one thigh. Then the other.
It was thick. Creamy. Vulgar.
The buffalo milk streaked her brown skin. The Bad smelling ghee followed—slow, viscous, sticky as sin. It slid over her curves, pooled dangerously close to the mouth of her choot.
She gasped at the chill. "Uff, Ramu... look what I’ve done. Gandagi ban gayi hoon. Kya karoge iske saath?"
"Saaf karo," she said, voice dark with command.
He crawled forward. Didn’t ask. Didn’t flinch.
His mouth opened. Tongue extended. And he began.
She saw his face twitch—the buffalo milk curdling his tongue, the Bad smelling ghee cloying. He hated every second.
"Doodh, na? You hate doodh," she murmured, smiling. "But you’ll lick it off my legs without a murmur. Because I said so."
He nodded mid-lick.
She moaned. "Good, Ramu. Lick it up. Har boond. I want to feel your disgust melt into devotion."
His tongue dragged slow, reverent paths from her knee to her inner thigh. Her legs parted further.
Her choot pulsed beneath the heat.
"Jyada paas aa rahe ho," she breathed, eyelids heavy. "Do you know how many men have wanted this view? And you... you fucking namakharam... you earn it through disgust."
He groaned softly. Licked deeper.

She gasped. "Shabash. Bhakt ban gaya hai tu."
The last of the buffalo milk-Bad smelling ghee mess was gone.
She grabbed his hair, tugged his face right to her inner thigh.
"Ek aur chaat. Gehri. From the kneecap to my goddamn temple."
He obeyed.
She arched back, blouse tight across her breasts. "Ramu... haan... fuck."
When he finished, she pushed his forehead back gently.
"Dusra test clear."
He panted, lips shining, eyes wild.
"Am I done, Sakshi?"
She stood, hips swaying like a naachwali. "Abhi nahi. You’re just trained."
She walked toward the bedroom, leaving the scent of her arousal behind.
"Agla part? Final exam. Let’s see if this naukar earns his rani."
The door stayed open.
The air pulsed.
And her choot... soaked like first rain over cracked earth.

[yodam69420]

The room had turned dark, but she hadn’t lit a lamp. Only the faint spill of corridor light painted the walls in slow shadows. It was quiet—no fans, no traffic outside, no baby crying, no water boiling. Just stillness. Heavy, stretched like oil across the tiled floor. Ramu stood at the bedroom threshold, spine straight but barely holding. His knees ached from the stone-cold ground he'd spent the last hour on. His palms were sore. His breath? Unsteady. His lips still tasted faintly of buffalo milk and Bad smelling ghee, a sickly-sweet reminder of his own humiliation. But his cock—his cock was hard, throbbing, twitching. It pressed violently against his dhoti, aching in the thick silence.
Sakshi lay on the bed, back propped against the headboard, her hair wild, her expression unreadable. Her saree lay in folds on the floor like a snake shed of skin. Her blouse unhooked, hanging off one shoulder. Her petticoat twisted around her hips, pulled down far enough to expose both flesh and intent. Her breasts sat bare and defiant, dusky brown nipples darkened with arousal. Her thighs—glistening, open, deliberate—formed a shrine of temptation. Between them, her choot glistened with a slick wetness that pulsed in rhythm with the breath that hissed through her lips.
She saw him staring and smiled. Not with joy. With possession.
"This," she said, her voice thick as ghee, "is your final test, Ramu."
He remained silent. Lips parted, eyes wide. Obedient.
"You’ve crawled for me. You’ve licked filth for me. You’ve drunk what you hate from my thighs. But this—this is harder. This is purer."
She raised her leg slowly, bending the knee, foot flat on the bedspread. Fingers glided along her inner thigh, glistening with sweat.
"Can you be patient, Ramu? Can you sit there like a dog and watch while your goddess finishes herself off—without ever being touched by your tongue or cock?"
His throat bobbed. He nodded. Just once.
She leaned back further. Let her legs fall wider.
Two fingers slid into her mouth. She sucked them slow, wet, moaning like a woman already on the brink. Then those same fingers—shiny with spit—trailed down her torso, over the rise of her mound, between the lips of her cunt.
He let out a strangled sound.
"Shhh," she hissed. "Don’t speak. Don’t move."
Her fingers found her clit and circled. Wet, lewd sounds filled the air, louder than breath, louder than shame.

"You want to taste it, don’t you? You want to crawl to me, stick your tongue out, and clean my juice off this bed. Off my fucking fingers."
He shook, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.
"But you won't," she continued, voice like poison-dipped silk. "Because you can’t. This test isn’t about action. It’s about stillness. It’s about patience."
She moaned, louder now, fingers flicking faster. One hand reached up to her nipple, pinching, twisting.
"Look at how wet you’ve made me. Not even with your tongue. Just with your submission. Your suffering."
Her other hand dipped inside her, two fingers pumping in and out as she spread herself wider for him. She let him see every glint of her slick, every twitch of her cunt around her knuckles.
"You want to lick it off my skin, na? Suck my fingers clean like a loyal fucking servant?"
His eyes begged.
She smiled, cruel. "You don’t get to cum. You don’t even get to breathe unless I say so."
Her thighs began to tremble.
She slapped her cunt, once, twice. The sound rang out like a slap in the face.
"Watch me, Ramu. Watch me fall apart in front of you."
And then, with a strangled gasp—raw, hoarse, primal—she came.
Her whole body bucked. Her chest heaved. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she fucked herself through it. Juice coated her fingers. Her cunt throbbed like a curse.
He watched. Silent. Frozen. Aching.
When it was over, she lay back, one arm across her forehead, one hand still between her legs.
She turned her head. Saw him.
He hadn’t moved an inch.
His eyes shimmered. His cock dripped through the soaked front of his dhoti.
She stared at him.
And whispered: "You passed."
She turned her face to the wall, not speaking again.
Ramu remained kneeling.
Hard.
Denied.
Broken.
But utterly hers.

[Deepak Sanjeev]

Let this old man eat her shit too.

[Givemeextra]

Excellent updates

[Aung218]

Excellent updates D:) great lead mastress creator thanks for reading

[yodam69420]

The next morning didn’t come gently.
The sky was bruised with clouds, low and swollen, like they too held something they couldn’t quite let go. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and something more intimate—the ghost of sex, of need unfulfilled, thick in the sheets Sakshi had refused to change.
Her thighs still bore the faded stickiness of the night before, and her cunt throbbed with the soreness of pleasure denied to another. She’d slept without her saree, dbangd only in a thin cotton towel that had slipped somewhere during the night. Her son still dozed on the other mattress, thumb half in his mouth, blissfully unaware of what power his mother now wielded.
Ramu came just after sunrise.
No invitation. No knock.
He stepped inside quietly, shirt buttoned, eyes lowered like a temple devotee unsure if he was entering a sanctum or a battlefield.
She was already up, sipping tea at the table, dbangd in a soft cotton saree with no blouse beneath, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric, hair wet and slicked back from her bath.
She didn’t look at him when he entered.
"Good morning," he murmured.
"Is it?" she replied, sipping slowly. "Still hard, Ramu? Or just sore?"
He exhaled shakily. "Both."
She finally looked up. "What do you want?"
He swallowed. "You. Again."
"Be more specific."
He hesitated, eyes lowering.
"Your... fluid."
She set her cup down slowly.
"Ah. The bhakt returns for prasad."
He nodded.
She rose from the chair, walking near him—never close enough to touch, but close enough to make him ache. Her feet were bare and silent on the cool floor. She circled him once, then twice, like a lioness scenting her kill.
"You want piss again, or something sweeter this time?"
He looked up, eyes filled with raw hunger. "Anything."
"Anything?" she echoed, voice playful, dangerous.
She tilted her head, not touching, not brushing—just letting her presence skim over his nerves.
"Maybe I’ll spit into your mouth today. Or wring my panties into a cup and watch you drink. Maybe I’ll bleed for you. Would you lick it off the floor?"
He trembled. "Yes."
She laughed, throaty and mean. "Fuck. You are sick, Ramu."
Then, softer: "And you’re mine."
She stepped back, keeping the distance firm. "But you don’t get to ask anymore. You beg. You wait. You earn it. This..."—she lifted her saree slightly, flashing the glistening heat beneath, still not touching him—"is sacred."
His knees buckled. He dropped, forehead pressed to the floor.
"Tell me your rule today," she whispered, standing over him. "Your new ritual."
He kissed the floor. "I suffer for your taste. I starve until you feed me."
She smiled, turned, and walked away.
"Good. Then suffer until I’m ready to drip."
And with that, the day began—not with prayers or pooja, but with silence, wet thighs, and the slow shaping of a ritual no god had ever dared write down.
Later that morning, she took a steel plate in one hand and a breakfast tumbler in the other. She walked to his room, where he sat waiting like a child outside a temple gate.
When she entered, he stood, but she waved him down with a glance.
She placed the food on the small table. As he reached for the tumbler, she raised an eyebrow.
"Wait. I forgot something."
He paused. She turned away, walked toward the corner of his room. His eyes followed her every move.
"Ramu," she said without turning, "your jug. Give it to me."
He obeyed. Handed it over.
She smirked. "You could’ve filled it yourself."
"But you do it better," he whispered.
Her smile curled dark. "And what if I told you to come fill it from the source?"
His throat bobbed.
She turned, hiked her saree, and without another word, he knelt in front of her, carefully placing the jug between her legs.
She didn’t touch him. She didn’t look down. She simply let herself relax.
The hiss began softly.
The stream was warm, steady, splashing into the metal. His hands trembled as he held the jug in place.

He didn’t look away from her cunt, bare now.
"Is that better?" she whispered.
He nodded, reverent.
"Good. Because you’re going to drink every drop."
He nodded again, eyes glassy.
She lowered her saree slowly, deliberately.
"Before that, though," she said, stepping away, "there’s something you asked of me."
He looked up, confused.
"You said you wanted to see me bare down there. No hair. Just skin."
His lips parted.
"I didn’t forget. I never forget what my devotees ask for."
She walked back, hips swaying.
"But you don’t get to see it. Not yet."
She leaned in. "You’ll taste it first. When I say."
Then she turned and left.
Leaving behind the jug, the scent of her stream, and the promise of a bare heaven not yet his to touch.
-------
The weekend had been a slow torment.
Murugan was home for two full days, and Sakshi had barely gotten a moment to herself. The house was never quiet enough, never empty enough. Ramu’s request echoed in her mind like a slow drumbeat: “I want to see your pussy without hair.” She hadn’t answered him then. Just turned and walked away, her heart pounding, her thighs pressed tight.
But she hadn’t forgotten.
By Monday morning, butterflies stirred in her belly. Murugan left for work at his usual time, 8:30 a.m., his lunch packed, shirt tucked, not noticing the heat simmering beneath his wife's skin. Her son, already settled with his toys and morning routine, was no longer a distraction. The air felt different the moment the front door shut. Like the world had shifted just enough to unlock something forbidden.
She waited till she was sure—fully sure—that he was gone.
Then moved.
She took her time in the bathroom, locking the door. The blade felt cool in her hand as she stood before the mirror. Every stroke of the razor was deliberate. Intimate. With each pass, she stripped away something—not just hair, but inhibition. By the end, her skin was soft, flushed, bare. She rinsed slowly, standing under the shower for longer than usual, fingers lingering between her thighs, not for pleasure, but reverence. She was preparing herself.
After the bath, she dried her body with care, every inch of her feeling more exposed, more aware. She oiled her skin with jasmine-scented oil, letting it soak in. Her breasts felt heavier somehow. Her hips swayed on their own. There was a warmth building inside her—steady, humming.
She stood before the mirror once more and stared at her reflection. Her nipples were already taut, her skin still damp. She imagined him seeing her like this.
The mangalsutra Ramu had given her sat in the drawer. She opened it. Looked at it. Touched it.
But did not wear it.
Not yet.
She dressed herself in the blue saree—the one he always stared at. She skipped the blouse, skipped the petticoat. Let the silk cling to her skin like a whisper. She tied it loose enough that every movement promised a glimpse. The end of her pallu slid down her back like a hand.
She checked on her son, settled with toys in the living room, then slipped out. Her feet silent, her pace measured.
She knocked softly on Ramu’s door.
When he opened it, his breath caught. She was a vision: wet hair, glowing skin, the barest tease of cleavage under soft cotton.
She smiled, calm and sure. "Come to my house for breakfast."
He followed her without a word.
She moved through her home like a breeze, setting the plates with practiced grace. The food steamed. The coffee smelled strong. But his eyes were only on her. Her hips. Her back. The curve of her waist. The way the saree dipped just above the swell of her rear.
He stood silently until finally, with a voice raw from restraint, he asked, "Why don’t you wear the mangalsutra I gave you?"
She turned toward him slowly, her eyes playful, dangerous. She stepped closer, each footstep silent, until she was just in front of him.
She rose on her toes and leaned in. Her breath was warm against his ear.
"Because," she whispered, "a mangalsutra must be tied by a man to a woman. Only then does it mean anything. Otherwise, it’s just beads."
Before he could respond, she turned and slipped into the kitchen, her hips swaying with every step.
He stood there stunned, then burst into laughter. A full, joyful sound. "You sexy Sakshi... you want me to tie it? That’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time?"
She didn’t answer.
She simply stirred the sambar, letting the moment linger.
He came to her, slow but certain. Stood behind her, close enough to feel her warmth, but not touching yet.
"Then I’ll do as you wish, my dear," he murmured.
She extended her palm behind her, the chain coiled like gold fire.
He took the mangalsutra.
He stepped in front of her, fingers trembling just slightly.
With reverent hands, he brushed aside her braid, lifting it gently as if lifting a veil. The beads felt cool against her freshly bathed skin. When he looped the thread around her neck, his knuckles brushed her shoulder blades, sending a shiver through her.
He tied the knot.
Once.
Twice.

Pulled it snug. The pendant rested against the top of her chest, just above the fabric line of her saree. It gleamed. It claimed.
She turned to face him, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling with quiet breath.
"So," she said softly, "am I yours now?"
He didn't answer with words. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into him.
He held her tightly, like he’d never let go.
His hands roamed down her back, to the swell of her ass, firm and eager. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her jaw—whispers between each kiss.
"My Sakshi... my wife... my gift from god... I'm the luckiest bastard alive."
She didn’t stop him. She let him claim her with hands, with kisses, with breath.
And when he kissed her mouth, she kissed him back.
Slow.
Hungry.
She whispered, "Now you’ve tied it. Now I’m yours."
He grinned.
And the food sat forgotten.
Because what they’d hungered for had just begun to feed them.
-------------------
The kitchen smelled of roasted ghee, sambar bubbling on the stove, and fresh dosa browning on the tawa—but none of that reached him.
His senses were flooded with her.
The scent of her skin, still damp from the bath. The cling of her blue saree wrapped low around her waist, hips bare beneath the loose dbang. Her breasts unbound beneath the pallu, nipples brushing the cotton with every breath. She sat on the dining table, legs crossed, the metal of her anklets clinking softly, her eyes fixed on Ramu like he was hers to command and consume.
Ramu knelt before her, knees digging into the cold tile. But he didn’t feel pain. Only heat. Only want.
“Eat,” she whispered, sliding the end of her pallu from her shoulder.

She wore nothing underneath.
Her stomach, flat and glowing, curved gently into the smooth skin above her mound. He leaned in, kissing just below her navel, slow, reverent, worshipful.
She sighed. “Lower.”
He obeyed, tongue tracing the space between her navel and the edge of her saree’s tuck. She didn’t stop him. She opened her legs just enough.
He moved down and kissed the crease of her thigh. The scent of her pussy hit him—musky, warm, fresh—and he moaned.
She parted her legs wider. "Open me. Taste me."
He peeled her saree back. Her cunt was bare. Shaved smooth. Gleaming.
"So clean..." he murmured.
She smiled. “For you.”
He buried his face between her legs. Licked her folds slowly, then faster, tongue flicking, stroking, sucking. Her hands found his hair.
“That’s it. Drink me. Suck every drop.”
He groaned. She tasted like jasmine and sin.
She gasped, her hips grinding into his mouth. He feasted on her like a starving man. She moaned, then screamed, thighs trembling, pussy gushing. He drank her down, chin slick.
Panting, she pulled him back, flushed, dazed.
But before he could catch his breath, he whispered, “Can I have some water?”
She smirked. “There’s none in the jug.”
He looked up. “Then maybe... I could drink it directly?”
Her smile curled. “Of course.”
She stood slowly. Walked around to him. Lifted her saree up.
He crawled forward, placed his head under the folds, right between her thighs.
He kissed her bare pussy again, reverently. "This... this should’ve been my breakfast. Why did you hide it so long, Sakshi?"
She laughed, hand stroking his hair. “It’s all yours now. Do as you like.”
She relaxed.
A soft hiss escaped her lips as her piss began to stream.
It hit his tongue hot, salty, direct.
He opened his mouth, drank it down greedily, like a calf drinking from the udder. She held his head, watched his throat work, her stream steady and unashamed.
He didn’t stop until the last drop had dripped into his mouth.
Then he pulled back, face soaked, eyes shining.
He looked up at her.
“Sakshi... when will your pussy eat my cock? It looks so hungry.”
She grinned, cheeks flushed. “I’m ready. Shall we start?”
He stood, took her hand. “Not here. Let’s go to my room.”
Just as she was about to follow, her phone buzzed.
Meena.
She picked it up, voice still heavy with breath. "Tell me, Meenu."
"You sound breathless. Did round two just end or begin?"
Sakshi laughed. "He's passed all three tests, Meena. Piss, food play, and denial. And now... now I’m about to let him fuck me."
"You sound like a woman reborn."
Meena’s voice turned soft with disbelief. "You’ve really taken this into another level, Sakshi. What about... what about Murugan?"
Sakshi stared at the wall, quiet for a moment. "Murugan hasn't touched me like he meant it in years. Not since our son was born. We barely talk anymore unless it's about groceries or fees. He doesn’t look at me, Meena. I became furniture in his life."
"And your son?"
"He’s innocent. He knows only that his Amma loves him. And that won’t change. I’ll protect that part of my life, always. But this... this is for me."
There was a pause.
"You know people would call this cheating."
"Let them," Sakshi said. "I’ve been loyal, quiet, patient for years. But I’m not a ghost. I’m a woman. And for the first time, I’m being seen like one. Desired like one."
Meena sighed. "And the age gap? You don’t care?"
"I care that he worships me. That when I walk into the room, his breath catches. When I sit, he kneels. When I speak, he listens. Age never gave me that. Love did."
"And now?"
"Now I shaved. Wore the blue saree. Let him drink from me again this morning. He begged to fuck. I told him yes."
Meena exhaled like she’d run a race. "This is too much. This is erotic mythology. You’ve made him your bhakt and now he’s earning the right to become your man."
Sakshi looked down at her chest, the mangalsutra glinting faintly against her bare skin. "He already tied the Mangalsutra. He called me his wife. I didn’t stop him."
"You don’t want to."
"I don’t."
There was a long pause.
"Sakshi... are you happy?"
She touched her thigh, the memory of his mouth still warm. "I’m powerful. I’m wanted. And right now, I’m about to be fucked like I’ve waited my whole marriage to be."
"Then go, kanna. Go give your cunt what it craves. Let that old man make you a new woman. And tomorrow morning, I want every detail."
Sakshi smiled.
"Every drop, Meena."
She hung up.
Checked on her son. Made sure he was still asleep.
Then she walked to the mirror. Adjusted her saree, let it dbang low on her hips.
And with her heartbeat thudding between her thighs, she stepped out the door and toward Ramu’s room.
This time, there would be no begging.
Only taking.

[Givemeextra]

The images ae hot apart from story.


clp); clp); clp);

[Aung218]

Nice writting, please continue bro tempo is high.

[Arul Pragasam]

Nice update