Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[Bigil]

Excellent dude

[Aman34]

Ramu aur shakshi dono ki shadi ho jaye shakshi ramu ki bibi ban kar rahe

[sexycharan]

Good. Bring more humiliation of husband.

[yodam69420]

The light from the western window bathed the living room in a mellow orange, stretching shadows long across the floor. Sakshi sat alone on the sofa, a cup of tea cooling between her hands, her mind far removed from the quiet domestic hum of evening. The sound of a pressure cooker, the soft rattle of her son’s toy from the next room, even the distant chant of a street hawker—all faded into silence beneath the weight of memory.
Her body still remembered.
Every time she crossed her legs, or leaned too far back, the soreness inside reminded her of him. Ramu. That first time had undone something deep in her. A part of her that had been starved, quietly howling behind the veil of routine, had finally been fed.
She closed her eyes.
She could still feel it—his touch, the first brush of his lips on her navel, the way his voice had dropped when he whispered filth into her ear. He hadn’t just claimed her body; he had awakened it. Each thrust had drawn cries from her she never thought herself capable of making. It wasn’t just physical—it was possession. And the worst part? She wanted to be possessed again. Needed it.
Sakshi shifted in her seat, thighs pressing tight. The thought made her wet all over again. The evening’s peace felt fragile, like glass waiting to shatter. Her gaze drifted toward the bedroom door, where her husband lay napping before his night shift. Unaware. Unworthy.
She sipped her tea absently, but her thoughts wandered to what she’d wear tonight. Should she go subtle? A cotton saree, loose blouse, easy hooks? Or something louder—silk that clung, a bra that strained under the weight of what he now worshipped? She smiled to herself. No matter what she chose, he’d strip it away anyway.
The hunger wasn’t just his. It had awakened in her too.
In the kitchen, she lit the stove, more for distraction than cooking. Her hands moved by habit—dal, rice, a side of pickle—but her mind replayed every filthy word, every sloppy kiss, every deep push that had made her bite into her own palm to keep from screaming.
The light dimmed slowly. Her son babbled something from the floor, and she bent to pat his head gently, fingers trailing through his hair. Her face softened. This was her life. And yet… there was another life now. One that started every time she walked through that old wooden door upstairs.
She glanced at the clock. His dinner time was nearing.
Her pulse quickened.
She didn’t know what would happen tonight. But her body already knew what it wanted to happen.
-------
The kitchen was full of cumin and steam, the dal bubbling lazily on the back burner. Sakshi stood barefoot on the cool tile, her blue cotton saree tied low on her hips, blouse clinging from the humidity, a light sheen of sweat across her back. Her hair was loosely pinned, a few wet strands sticking to her neck. She didn’t hear the door open.
But she felt him.
A familiar warmth behind her, the distinct breath, the sudden stillness of air—Ramu had entered without a word, his presence sharp and heavy like storm clouds rolling in. She didn’t turn.
“I heard someone at the door,” she said, already knowing.
“It was me,” came the deep reply. “Tired from today’s work. Thought you might spoil me with some coffee.”
She laughed softly, eyes still on the TV, one arm wrapped loosely around her toddler. “Tired? Just for that?”
He smirked. “Tired, yes. But I didn’t say I wasn’t hard.”
She blinked, caught mid-smile.
He stepped forward, took her hand and guided it to his cock through his lungi. She felt it swell under her palm, growing firm with her touch. Heat surged between her thighs.
“Ramu…” she whispered, voice trembling with mischief.
He followed her into the kitchen. She turned with a teasing glare. “I thought you came to see me because you wanted more.”
“I do,” he said, pressing in close, breath hot at her nape. “More of you. Every evening, every part.”
He tugged at the pallu of her saree, lifting it along with her petticoat. His hand landed with a soft smack on her ass, fingers spreading possessively.
She gasped, biting her lip. “Ramu, we’re in the kitchen…”
“Perfect,” he growled. “I want to taste you where you feed others.”
His fingers trailed down her ass, slid between her thighs and began to rub the lips of her pussy with slow, teasing strokes. Her knees buckled slightly.
“Ramu…” she moaned again, weaker.
He slipped one finger inside her, curling it with precision, feeling her pulse around him. She clutched the counter with both hands, rocking against his touch.
Then he turned her, gently but firmly, until she faced him. He knelt in front of her like a worshipper.
Lifting her left leg over his shoulder, he buried his face between her thighs.
Sakshi let out a whimper, fingers finding his scalp.
He kissed her pussy like it was fruit—soft licks, firm presses, teasing strokes with the tip of his tongue. The suction pulled moans from her lips she didn’t know she could make.
No one had ever done this to her. Not her husband. Not in her wildest dreams.
She leaned forward, panting, and pulled his ear close.
“Let’s move to the bedroom,” she whispered.
He stood, eyes burning with lust, and silently slipped out of the kitchen.
She adjusted her saree, heart thudding, and followed seconds later—wet, throbbing, desperate for more.
------------
I then moved to the hall where my son was playing with his toys and watching cartoons. His giggles echoed in the room like bells—pure, innocent, untouched by the weight of the secrets I now carried. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and the last meal I’d cooked. I crouched beside him for a moment, running my fingers through his hair, watching his chubby hands grasp blocks with fascination. I kissed his forehead, murmuring a soft promise I didn’t intend to break: “Amma will be right back.”
There was no guilt. Only the heady thrill of contrast. One door away, a child’s world. Another door, mine—a woman’s hunger unchecked.
I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind me with exaggerated care. The thud was soft, final.
Ramu was there, already waiting—bare-chested, lounging like a king without his throne, the creases of the bedsheet clinging to his back. His lungi was hitched carelessly, the promise of what lay beneath pressing lightly against the cloth. His eyes gleamed under the ceiling fan's lazy rotation.
"My dear wife," he said, voice thick with mischief as he stretched one arm behind his head. "Don’t make this old man more tired than he already is."
I didn’t answer at once. I let my hips sway as I approached, the rhythmic pull of the saree around my waist tightening with each step. The air around us pulsed with heat. As I reached him, I bent forward slightly, my breasts brushing against his chest. "Old?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "This doesn’t feel old."
With a teasing smile, I slid my hand under the folds of his lungi. His cock was warm, thick, and already beginning to harden. I let my fingers wrap around it, squeezing gently, marveling at how quickly he responded to just my touch. It pulsed in my hand like it remembered me.
"Seems your cock is more energetic than your tongue," I teased, flicking my tongue across his earlobe. "But don’t worry. I’m not going to drain it yet. I want every single drop stored and ready for when I ride you."
He groaned under his breath, his hips lifting involuntarily into my palm. "You’re going to kill me, woman. One day I’ll die with a smile on my lips and your scent in my nose."
I chuckled, deep and slow, my other hand now resting against his firm chest. "Then die well. I want to watch you unravel."
I gave his cock one last slow stroke, squeezing the base before letting go. His shaft twitched in protest. I pulled back, slowly, deliberately, dragging my saree pallu along his thigh. The heat between us was a living thing now, stretching invisible threads of want from one breath to the next.
The look in his eyes was worship and desperation rolled into one. As if he’d waited his whole life to be undone by me again.
And I had every intention to do exactly that—slowly, teasingly, completely.
-------------------
"Now I want the energy of your tongue," I whispered, voice thick with heat. The moment the words left my lips, he obeyed—his tongue darted out, sliding up and down his lips with deliberate slowness, as if teasing me with the promise of what was to come.
I grinned and placed my hand firmly on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed. He fell back with a low chuckle, eyes glued to me with worship and want. As he lay there, I stood before him, unwrapping my saree slowly, layer by layer, letting it slide down my body with sensuous grace. My hips swayed in a rhythm that was less dance, more seduction. The silk whispered against my skin as it pooled around my feet, a puddle of desire.
His breath grew heavier, deeper, and more ragged with each slow, teasing move I made. I held his gaze as I unhooked the blouse slowly, one button at a time, each pop of fabric echoing louder than necessary, punctuating our silence with soft provocations. Then I threw it onto his face with a smirk. He caught it, inhaled it deeply as if it were scented with pure lust itself, eyes burning brighter with hunger. I turned around deliberately, letting my bare back tease him, displaying the curve of my spine, the soft indentations of my waist, then walked to the bed, each step calculated, every motion a silent command.
He reached forward eagerly, fingers fumbling slightly with excitement at the clasp of my bra. He leaned in closer, surprising me as his teeth found the string of my petticoat. With an enticing growl, he pulled at it gently but firmly, the sensation of his teeth grazing my skin sending delightful shivers cascading down my spine. My petticoat fell effortlessly, joining the pile of discarded clothing at our feet. Now standing fully nude, I reveled under his ravenous stare, feeling powerful and worshipped.
“You’re going to kill me like this,” he growled, voice rough and filled with restrained desperation.
I crawled onto the bed slowly, deliberately, like a tigress stalking her prey, eyes locked onto his with predatory intensity. I placed my knees on either side of his torso and leaned down until my lips brushed his ear, whispering softly yet commandingly, “Then die with your face buried in heaven. Lick me.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His head disappeared eagerly between my thighs, and I gasped audibly as his tongue expertly explored my folds, tracing every line from top to tip, savoring every inch of me. His tongue was masterful—soft, teasing strokes that gave way to firm, deep, purposeful swipes. He kissed and bit gently at my sensitive flesh, eliciting a sharp moan as my fingers dived desperately into his hair, guiding and urging him.
“Fuck, Ramu… just like that,” I gasped, grinding my hips shamelessly against his mouth.
I pulled his head tighter to my dripping core, smothering him in the warmth of my arousal. He responded like a man starved, licking me furiously, passionately. I shifted, straddling his chest more completely, allowing his tongue the perfect angle to delve deeper, to explore fully. His eyes became half-lidded, drunk and intoxicated by my taste, his moans vibrating through me, heightening every sensation.
I rolled my hips rhythmically over his mouth, his tongue plunging deep into my wet heat with each sensual movement. He opened his mouth wider, sucking greedily at my lips, tugging me closer possessively with both hands firmly gripping my ass. The heat between us built fast and furious, driving us closer to an explosive release.
He didn’t stop. He devoured me with relentless hunger, passion radiating from every deliberate motion of his tongue.
And I surrendered fully, letting him consume me.
I rode his face, the way he once confessed he dreamt of, moaning loudly, writhing shamelessly, completely undone and overtaken by nothing but the powerful, skilled energy of his tongue. My body shook, pleasure building to the brink, every nerve ignited, every sensation heightened beyond reason.
He was performing wonders upon me, each lick, each kiss sending electric pulses through my veins, pulling me closer and closer to ecstasy.
After a few intense moments, my entire body stiffened, a tremor surged through me, and I felt an overwhelming wave crash over me. I squirted unexpectedly, coating his mouth and chin generously with my release. He didn't flinch or pull back; instead, he groaned deeply, lapping hungrily, savoring every drop as if it were the nectar he'd long been craving.
Panting, I watched him lick his lips, tasting me, his expression one of deep satisfaction and pride. Gently, we both rose from the bed, our bodies tingling from the shared intimacy. He smiled warmly, his eyes gleaming with fulfilled desire, and quietly returned to his room. I gathered my scattered clothing, dressing slowly, my mind replaying every electrifying detail, the echoes of pleasure lingering on my skin.
--------------------------
After I suddenly heard my hubby calling me,
I quickly adjusted my saree, smoothing it down hastily, and hurried toward the hall window. My heart skipped when I saw him waving at me with an unusually cheerful smile from outside. Curious, I opened the window wider, forcing a neutral expression.
"Guess what?" he shouted enthusiastically, his eyes shining like a fool. "They’ve given me permanent night shifts—for the next few weeks!"
I blinked. Permanent? Night shifts? He was grinning like he’d just received a promotion. I frowned.
"Why are you smiling like that? Is working all night and sleeping all day something to celebrate now?" I asked, my voice laced with exaggerated annoyance.
He scratched his head, taken aback. "I thought you’d be happy. You always say I’m in the way during the day."
"So you decided for me, did you? Without even asking what I think? Typical," I muttered, narrowing my eyes.
"It’s good money, Sakshi. Overtime. I thought it was a good thing for us."
"For us? Or for your sleep cycle?" I snapped, slamming the window shut more forcefully than necessary.
Inside, I fumed. Not because of the shift. But because he dared to act like this was some generous act. He always thought he knew what was best. But tonight, I’d decide what I wanted.
Returning to Ramu’s room, my steps slowed, more deliberate. My pulse raced.
He was there, eating dinner, the empty jug in his hand like a signal. He looked up, playful hunger in his eyes. "Care to refill my drink, my dear?"
I sat beside him, brushing my thigh against his. "One good news, one bad. Which first?"
He leaned in. "Bad first."
"Hubby’s not leaving tomorrow morning."
His lips thinned, disappointment flashing.
"Good news?"
I slowly lifted my saree, smirking. Holding the jug beneath my pussy, I released a warm stream into it while his eyes drank in the view. I leaned close to his ear.
"The good news is—night shifts start tomorrow. Our real nights begin."
His grin returned, wolfish.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "you’ll be mine."
"And you’ll be owned," I murmured, handing him the filled jug, brushing his hand with mine.
Back home, I found my husband arranging his clothes for the next day. He looked up, hopeful. "Want to sleep early? We can... you know..."
I crossed my arms. "Oh, now you want attention? After dropping night shift news like it’s a gift?"
He hesitated. "I didn’t mean—"
"Exactly. You didn’t think. So don’t expect cuddles or anything else. I’m not in the mood to be treated like an afterthought."
He sighed, defeated. "You’re always angry lately."
"And you’re always clueless. Good night."
I turned away, slipped into my side of the bed, and let silence wrap the rest of the night in a bitter quiet. My body throbbed—not for him, never for him. But for the one who would have me tomorrow And only him.
------------
Next morning, as usual, I woke up around 6:45. The room was still blanketed in a soft, cool hush, the kind of morning silence that held the echo of dreams. I slid out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb the small form of my son snuggled beside me, and padded to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face, I stared into the mirror a little longer than necessary. My eyes carried a gleam they hadn’t known in years.
Wrapping my saree tight around my waist, I headed to the kitchen. The movements were muscle memory—lighting the stove, boiling milk, scooping out the coffee powder. As I stirred the decoction into the milk, the rich aroma enveloped me like a secret. My lips curled slowly.
I remembered.
Ramu. My second man. My secret indulgence. The one who had torn through the monotony of my life like a monsoon breaking summer heat. My body still pulsed with the memory of his mouth, his grip, the way he looked at me like I was the only truth in a world of lies.
And he hadn’t had his coffee yet.
A strange thrill shot through me as I filled another steel tumbler, this one more carefully, more deliberately than the first. I paused for a moment, the steam rising like whispered temptation against my lips. Without a sound, I slipped out the back door, glancing once over my shoulder to make sure my husband was still snoring away.

Upstairs, the air was still. I tapped lightly on Ramu’s door, nerves buzzing like live wire beneath my skin. Once. Twice.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Hair disheveled, eyes bleary but alert the moment he saw me, lungi hanging loose over one shoulder. The smell of sleep still clung to him, and it stirred something primal in me.
His lips curled into that crooked, devilish grin. “What’s this? Couldn’t wait to fuck me again, is it? Came running like a desperate housewife—with coffee?”
I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks flushed. “Is this how you talk to a woman bringing you hot coffee at dawn? Shameless mongrel.”
I shoved the tumbler into his hand with a huff, spun on my heel and began descending the stairs.
“Arrey, come on now! I was teasing,” he called out, half-laughing, half-apologetic.
Let him stew. He’d learn.

Back in the kitchen, I poured a second coffee, this one for the man who bore my name, if not my passion. I walked into the bedroom, placing the cup beside the bed.
He stirred, yawned, stretched lazily. “You’re up early. Smells like sambhar already.”
“Some of us work before the sun rises,” I said, not unkindly, but with an edge.
He took the coffee and gave me a soft smile. “Thanks, Sakshi.”
As he went to bathe, I turned to my duties. The idli batter was just right. I steamed the idlis and set the table. By the time he returned, fresh and towel-clad, everything was plated and perfect. I handed him his breakfast—extra chutney, extra care.
As he dug in, I felt a mischievous heat bloom inside me.
I returned to the kitchen, took another plate and spooned in idlis and sambhar—this time with more focus, more flourish. Each item was placed precisely. Garnished. Decorated. Then I walked back into the living room.

“Do me a favor. Take this to Ramu. He must be hungry.”
He blinked. “Now? Should I?”
“Why not? You said you wanted to know the tenants better.” I offered the plate with a syrupy smile.
Still unsure, he took it and walked out. I followed to the window, peeking through the curtain. He knocked. A pause. Ramu opened the door.
He didn’t say a word.

Five minutes later, my husband returned, his face tense.
“What happened?” I asked, feigning confusion.
“He didn’t even say thank you,” he muttered. “Just took the plate. Didn’t look at me properly.”
“Welcome to my world,” I replied dryly. “You sulk after one try. Imagine dealing with that all the time.”

He grunted, clearly annoyed, and sat back down with his newspaper.
Then after a pause, still flipping a page distractedly, he said, “He wasn’t like this before.”
I looked up from wiping the kitchen counter. “Who?”
“Ramu. That man upstairs. When he moved in, he used to smile. Asked about our son, helped me with the gas cylinder once. I even remember him laughing when I slipped on the stairs.”
I chuckled faintly. “That does sound like him.”
“But now?” He shook his head. “He’s like a stone. Never smiles. Doesn’t say anything. It’s like he hates the world.”

I poured some more water into the rice cooker and said, without looking up, “Maybe the world gave him nothing to smile about.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
I leaned against the fridge, letting my voice drop just slightly. “He lost his wife. His daughter moved abroad, barely calls. He wakes up to silence and eats alone. That kind of solitude—it stains a man.”

My husband seemed uncomfortable. “Still. He could be civil.”
“Sure,” I said. “But we only see the result. Not the years that made it.”

He went quiet for a while, staring at his coffee again, as if trying to see through it. “You talk like you know him well.”
I looked him straight in the eye, a soft smile playing on my lips. “Maybe I just understand what silence does to people.”

He nodded slowly, uncertainly, and returned to his paper.
I let him stew. My son had begun fussing, so I moved on to feeding him, wiping his face, changing his clothes, humming lullabies I barely paid attention to. My mind was already upstairs.

Afterward, I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, wiped the counter, and loaded the washing machine with the morning’s laundry. The hum of domestic life returned. But under the surface, I simmered.
By 11, I was freshly bathed, wrapped in a bright yellow saree that clung lovingly to my curves. As I stepped out onto the terrace to hang the wet clothes, the sunlight spilled over me like a blessing. My pallu flared in the breeze, my bare waist kissed by warmth.
The world saw a dutiful wife.
But I knew the truth.
This day was only just beginning.
----------------
My husband was snoring lightly in the bedroom, sprawled across the mattress in a pose that screamed ignorance and ease. I stepped out onto the terrace, a basket of wet clothes in hand, the scent of detergent mixing with the late morning breeze. My yellow saree clung tightly to my skin, the pallu teasing at my waist as I clipped each piece to the line.
That’s when I heard the door creak.
Ramu stepped out from his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, lungi carelessly tied, chest bare. He looked at me, hesitated, then slowly approached the railing, keeping his voice low.
"Sakshi…? Listen, about earlier—"
I didn’t turn. Didn’t even glance at him. I simply adjusted my blouse, letting the tight fabric strain ever so slightly over my chest, and leaned forward to pin the final saree on the line. The blouse hugged my breasts, the curve of my hip peeked beneath the pallu, all while my eyes stayed focused on the clothes in front of me.
Ramu shifted uncomfortably. "I didn’t mean to say it like that. I was just joking, yaar. Don’t stay angry. Please."
Still silent. I picked up the empty basket and walked away without acknowledging him, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind me. Not with force—but with intent. Just enough to let him know I wasn’t pleased. But also enough to let him stew in the tease I left behind.
Back inside, the house was warm with the scent of tamarind and coconut oil. I moved into the kitchen, setting the rice on low flame and flipping the dosas with swift efficiency. My husband stirred from the bedroom and wandered into the living room, yawning.
"Lunch ready?" he asked, plopping on the sofa.
"Almost. Why don’t you take some to Ramu’s room today?"
He frowned. "No way. After how he looked at me yesterday? Didn’t even say thank you. I’m not stepping into his room again."
I shrugged. "Fine, I’ll go."
He didn’t argue. I served his plate first, letting the sambar steam rise and fog my glasses. Then I sat with my son, feeding him soft idli pieces dipped in ghee and sugar, wiping his mouth after each messy bite. By 2 PM, both were full and dozing.
I plated a separate meal for Ramu—more sambar, an extra spoon of pickle—and carried it upstairs. I knocked once before opening. He was sitting shirtless, freshly bathed, his hair wet and combed back, like he had been waiting.
I walked in, placed the plate on the table without meeting his eyes, and turned to leave.
He glanced toward the jug. "You didn’t give me any water."
I paused. The jug was full, untouched.
"You didn’t drink it," I said, my tone clipped.
He smiled softly. "My wife didn’t serve it. So how could I drink?"
The nerve.
Without a word, I picked up the empty steel tumbler beside the jug, stood still for a second, then slowly lifted the front of my saree. His eyes widened.
"Sakshi…"
I held his gaze as I peed into the glass, the liquid golden and warm, filling it nearly to the rim. He watched, lips parted, not blinking.
As he reached out to take it, I stepped back, denying him.
"This isn’t for you to take when you want. I came here to give lunch. That’s all. Not for anything else."
He leaned forward, amused. "Then why fill the glass?"
I set it carefully on the table. "Because it’s a wife’s duty to serve her husband. I won’t let him go thirsty."
With that, I turned and left, not waiting for his reply. The door clicked shut behind me.
Back home, I changed the channel to a loud Tamil movie, lay back on the mattress, and let the fan cool my burning skin. The scene played out on the screen, dramatic and overacted—but none of it compared to the drama unfolding in my own body.
---------------
It was around 5 PM. The golden light of early evening filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. My husband had just finished his coffee and was sprawled across the sofa like a lazy lion, the TV remote balanced on his belly as he flipped through channels with the attention span of a child. Our son crawled around the floor, babbling to himself and playing with his scattered plastic toys.
My husband mentioned casually, between yawns, that he’d leave for his night shift by 7 PM. My ears perked, heart quickening slightly. That gave me just enough of a window—time for something I’d been craving since I woke up.
I moved into the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly ground filter coffee filled the air. I carefully filled two steel tumblers with the steaming liquid, letting the fragrance linger in my senses. One for my husband, which I handed him with the usual pleasantries. The other… that one was special. That was for the man whose scent I could still feel on my skin from days ago. The man who wasn’t sleeping in my bed—but had filled my dreams all night.
I handed the tumbler to my husband and casually said, “I’m going up to clean Ramu’s room. Shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes.”
He nodded absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the TV. "Hmm, okay. Just be back soon. He might start crying if I get up."
“Don’t worry,” I replied with a slight smirk, “he’s already half-asleep.”
I went to the bedroom, closed the door, and immediately my routine changed. I tied my hair neatly, splashed cold water on my face to kill the dullness, dabbed a little talcum at my neck and between my breasts. I adjusted my blouse, tugging it gently so it framed my curves just right. My saree pleats were smoothed, pallu adjusted to dbang low across my chest. I gave myself one last glance in the mirror and picked up the second tumbler.
By 5:30, I was standing outside Ramu’s door. My heart thudded as I raised my hand to knock—but the door was already slightly ajar. I pushed it open quietly, careful not to creak the hinges.
He was asleep. Dbangd in his lungi, his toned chest exposed, one leg dangling off the cot. His arm was slung over his face. The sight was enough to make my throat dry.
I stepped inside quietly, the steel tumbler trembling just a bit in my fingers. I set the coffee on the side table and tiptoed to adjust the corner of the mat, eyes on the floor, pretending not to be overwhelmed by his presence.
Suddenly, a strong hand gripped my wrist.
“Caught you,” he whispered huskily, voice thick with sleep and desire. He yanked me toward him, and I gasped in surprise.
“Ramu!” I hissed, feigning protest. But before I could wriggle free, he pulled me down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around me in a warm, possessive hold.
His body radiated heat, the scent of sleep and skin intoxicating.
“You’re angry?” he murmured, his nose brushing my ear, the tip tracing the shell slowly.
I turned my face away, hiding the smile trying to break across my lips. “You think I’d bring coffee to someone I’m not talking to?”
He chuckled, squeezing my waist, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “You ignored me all day. Wouldn’t even glance at me. My heart was breaking, Sakshi. You’re cruel.”
I smacked his chest lightly, lips twitching. “Don’t act innocent. You know what you said this morning. You were the one being a donkey.”
He shifted beneath me, his fingers drifting down my spine, grazing the base of my back. “What did I say?”
I stared at him, brows raised. “You told me I came running to fuck you—with coffee in my hand.”
He laughed, the sound sending vibrations through my chest. “Was I wrong?”
I tried to pout. “You’re incorrigible.”
He gently tugged at the front of my blouse. “No. I’m just desperate. You in this blouse… this saree... Do you know what you do to me?”
I tried to push him, but my hands landed softly on his chest. He caught my wrist, kissed my palm.
“Pervert,” I whispered, cheeks flushed.
His grin widened. He lifted my pallu and let his fingers skim the curve of my waist. “You smell like talcum and heat. Like temptation.”
I sighed, allowing myself to melt into his warmth. “I just came to give you coffee.”
He turned my face to his, holding my jaw with a tenderness that always caught me off guard. “Then why do you look like you want me to sip you instead?”
My throat tightened. My legs felt heavy. I couldn’t speak.
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips over mine—soft, questioning, not yet a kiss. Just enough to pull me closer, to make me ache. My eyes fluttered shut. The coffee sat forgotten, cooling on the side table as the heat between us ignited into a slow burn neither of us wanted to put out.
And in that quiet room, the day began to shift. Not with words or coffee—but with a breath, a graze, a promise unspoken but deeply understood.
------------
I walked up to his chest, the soft swish of my saree brushing his skin as I straddled his torso, hovering just above him. My pallu veiled his face like a sacred curtain, the folds of my saree and petticoat cloaking him in my scent. His shoulders pressed firm between my thighs, the heat from his breath already teasing my lower lips. I smirked and whispered, "What do you see down there, you dirty old man?"
His voice was muffled but clear, thick with hunger. "I see your sweet, juicy pussy... and I want to eat it until you scream."
I bent down, lowering myself slowly, letting my folds brush over his lips. His mouth latched onto me like a beast starved, kissing my pussy with wet, smacking sounds, his tongue teasing out my slickness.
Then I straightened up, lifted my saree and petticoat, revealing everything to his hungry eyes. "Get ready," I warned with a wicked grin. "There’s something more coming."
Without another word, I began to pee.
A warm stream gushed onto his tongue. He opened his mouth wide, drinking it like a calf under a cow, his throat working hard to swallow every drop. The golden liquid spilled down his cheeks, soaking his neck and chest, but he didn’t stop. He gulped and slurped like a man parched in the desert, and even when it overflowed, he kept trying. Only 75% made it into him—the rest trickled down his skin, soaking the cot. When I finally stopped, he leaned forward, licking the last stray drops from my pussy lips.
I slid forward and sat fully on his chest, my wetness dripping onto him. He looked up at me, smeared and shining, and asked, "Are you satisfied, Sakshi?"
I grinned, bent down, and kissed his forehead gently. "Very," I whispered.
His hand caressed my hip. "What about our first night? When is my goddess finally going to ride me properly?"
I arched an eyebrow, rolling my hips slightly against him. "If you’re lazing around like this, how do you expect it to happen?"
"Then tell me what you want," he said, voice breathless.
I slid my hand behind me, groping through the thin lungi until I found his semi-hard cock. I gave it a firm squeeze. "I want this... all of it." Then I pressed two fingers against his lips and whispered, "And I want this one too."
His cock twitched in my palm.
He chuckled. "Anything else, my queen? All the rest—just tell me what to buy."
I paused, fingers still playing with him. "And what do you want, hmm?"
He pulled me into a tight hug, my breasts mashed against his chest. His voice was low, tender. "Just you, my dear wife. Nothing else."
I leaned into his ear, nipped it playfully, and whispered, "Then you better buy condoms."
He blinked, surprised. "Should I, really?"
"Definitely, my dear husband," I teased.
As I got up, I gave his cock a sharp little pinch through the lungi. "This one’s dangerous. Might make a mother out of me in one night. I better be careful."
He burst out laughing, and I bent down, kissing and biting at his now fully hard cock through the cloth, sending him into a groaning frenzy.
Then I adjusted my saree and headed back to my house, my body still tingling, my heart thudding, and the taste of tomorrow burning on my lips.
---------
I heard a knock at the door around 6:30, the kind that’s soft enough to be casual, but deliberate enough to signal mischief. I was in the kitchen, hands dripping from rinsing the coffee pot, towel tucked into the waist of my saree. Wiping quickly, I moved toward the front door, pulse picking up even before I saw who it was.
The fading orange evening light spilled through the hallway, casting long golden lines across the floor. As I cracked the door just slightly open, trying to appear composed, I felt the heat crawl up my neck.
It was Ramu.
He leaned casually against the frame, his posture careless but charged. The lungi around his hips was slung low, clinging lazily to one side. His chest was bare, still glistening from a recent bath, droplets clinging to his collarbone like sinful ornaments. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends, wild and untamed.
"Going out to buy a few things," he said, his voice slow, warm. But his eyes? They were already all over me—tracking the movement of my chest as I breathed, the curve of my waist, the tension in my lips.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything—but before a word could form, his hand darted forward. Quick. Confident. His fingers slid under my pallu, cupped my breast firmly through the blouse, fingers spreading like he was taking ownership.
My breath caught. A gasp half left my lips, stopped only by years of habit and fear. His hand was warm, insistent, his thumb circling over my nipple until it hardened beneath the fabric. My knees threatened to give way under the shock, the heat, the sheer fucking audacity of it.
And then—
"Sakshi, who is it?"
My husband’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
I stiffened. My heart pounded in my chest, throat dry. My mouth parted in panic—but Ramu didn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers only pressed harder, deliberately dragging his thumb once more over my sensitive nipple, making it strain even more against the tight blouse.
"Sakshi...?"
I could hear him getting up. I turned my head toward the inside of the house, shouting back with every ounce of forced calm I could muster, "It’s just Ramu, he’s going to the shop!"
Before I could retreat or pull away, my son’s voice joined in from behind, innocent and loud. "Ammaaa, come here!"
My entire body tensed. I tried to pull back, but Ramu leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he murmured, "Your tits are so fucking soft right now... just like I remembered. I could stay here squeezing them until your husband walks out."
My eyes widened in alarm. The door was barely open—just one more push, one curious step, and everything would be exposed. But my body? My traitorous body throbbed against his touch, skin heating like I’d stepped into flame.
"Let go," I hissed, teeth clenched, face flushed with fear and craving.
He didn’t let go. Not immediately. He gave one last firm squeeze, his palm molding the soft flesh, before finally letting his hand drop with infuriating slowness. "You love the risk, don’t lie," he whispered again, the smirk in his voice undeniable.
I shoved his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. My eyes darted up and down the corridor. "Go. Before someone really sees you, idiot!"
He grinned like the devil. "You’ll think about that touch all night. You’ll squeeze yourself later, pretending it’s my hand."
With that, he turned and sauntered off down the corridor, each step slow and exaggerated, as if daring me to watch.
I closed the door carefully and pressed my back to it, the cold wood grounding my overheated skin. My heart was thudding so loudly I was sure it echoed through the walls. My nipple still throbbed under my blouse, the fabric now slightly damp from sweat and his touch.
From the living room, my husband’s voice came again, casual and distracted. "What did he want?"
I forced a deep breath, adjusted my pallu, and replied, "Just... going out for some groceries."
But even as I walked back into the living room, the feel of Ramu’s fingers burned like a brand over my breast. The whisper still lingered, curling up my spine like smoke I couldn’t shake. And I knew I’d press my own hand to that same spot later, in the quiet of the night, and imagine his voice calling me filthy all over again.
----------------
My hubby was ready to leave by 7 pm. He had his bag slung over one shoulder and was adjusting his belt absentmindedly, muttering about traffic and punch-in time. I handed him his lunch box with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, my heart thudding faster with every tick of the clock. Because tonight wasn’t his night—it was ours.
As he laced up his shoes, I let out a sigh and muttered just loud enough, "You’re leaving again... just when the evening gets peaceful."
He glanced up, amused. "What’s that? Missing me already?"
I shrugged, crossing my arms, pretending to pout. "Of course. Who else will toss the remote around, leave socks everywhere, and demand tea in the middle of my serial?"
He laughed. "Well, I’m sure our moody upstairs tenant can give you company. Ramu won’t let you be lonely."
I raised an eyebrow, hiding my smirk. "That old man? He barely speaks three words a day. More likely he’ll complain about the fan being too loud or my anklet making noise."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Exactly. Harmless. He’s too grumpy to be interested in anything."
"Hmm," I murmured with mock agreement. "You’re right. Too grumpy. And yet... strangely present."
He didn’t catch the twist in my tone. With a final pat on his pocket to check for keys, he leaned forward and gave me a peck on the forehead. "Be good, Sakshi. I’ll call you around 11."
I nodded, watching him step out. As the door shut behind him, I didn’t linger at the threshold. I moved through the house like I was shedding skin, switching off lights, tidying up toys, my mind already upstairs.
Then I began my own ritual.
I locked the bathroom door, stripped slowly. The cold tiles sent a sharp thrill up my legs. I picked up the razor, my movements practiced and precise—underarms first, then legs, then the fine fuzz at my nape. And finally, between my thighs. Smooth. Bare. Ready.
I poured warm water into a copper bowl, mixed in a few drops of jasmine and sandalwood oil. The fragrance lifted around me like a cocoon. I lathered gently, massaging it into my skin, the scent of the oil clinging to every inch. The bath was not just cleansing—it was ceremonial.
Once dried, I rubbed a fine paste of turmeric and milk around my elbows, knees, even behind my ears. Then came the rose water splash, the talcum dusted under my breasts and between my thighs.
I picked out my lingerie with purpose—a soft crimson lace bra that cupped my breasts snugly, pushing them up without effort. The matching panty was thin, silky, and sat low on my hips, exposing the freshly smoothed skin above.
In front of the mirror, I kohl-lined my eyes until they looked deeper, darker. A touch of vermilion on my lips, a dot of sandalwood on my collarbone, and the faintest trace of perfume between my breasts.
By 7:30, I heard Ramu’s familiar footsteps above. Heavy. Sure. Dominant. My ears picked up the slight drag of his slipper as he walked past the window and paused.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to.
From outside, he smirked through the window grill and said in that husky tone that always made my knees weak, "Come to my room, Sakshi. I've been waiting."
Ten minutes later, I climbed the stairs. My pulse was racing, my palms slightly damp. I barely raised my hand to knock when the door opened from within. Ramu stood behind it, shirtless, eyes gleaming. The second I stepped in, he pulled me into his arms from behind, his lips landing on my cheek, then my neck. His stubble scratched me deliciously.
I laughed, wiggling away just enough to look over my shoulder. "How did you know it was me, without even looking?"
He grinned wickedly. "Even the wind wouldn’t dare sound like you. But it was your anklets, darling. I’ve memorized the music of your steps."
The room was faintly fragrant with incense and the ripeness of fresh fruits. Two bags sat on the table—apples, oranges, bananas—and next to them, a heap of jasmine flowers, bundled neatly like temple garlands. My breath caught.
He opened his bureau with flair, like he was revealing treasure, and pulled out a vibrant red chiffon saree. The color burned in the dim light.
"Wear this tonight," he said, eyes roaming over me hungrily. "It will stick to you like my hands."
I bit my lip, took the saree, and nodded. "Give me fifteen minutes."
I slipped back downstairs. The clock neared 9 pm when he came to my house, this time softer, calmer. He sat cross-legged on the floor, playing gently with my son, stacking plastic blocks while the little one giggled. The image should’ve been domestic, but the undercurrent between us turned every glance into foreplay.
Dinner was quiet. Tense with unspoken anticipation. The clink of steel plates, the clatter of serving spoons. I didn’t speak much—neither did he. But our eyes? They had already said everything.
After cleaning up, I went for my bath. The cold water couldn’t kill the heat in my veins. I scrubbed gently, washed away every trace of the day, and emerged into the night.
The red saree waited for me, its folds dbangd across my bed like a lover’s arms. I wore it slow, tying each hook with care. My skin tingled as the fabric slid over it. Then I adorned my hair with the jasmine garland, twisted into a soft braid.
In the kitchen, I warmed milk, added spoon after spoon of sugar—sweetness to balance the fire building in me.
The glass trembled slightly in my hand as I walked upstairs again. The night wasn’t just beginning.
It was about to burn.

[Karmayogee]

Amazing update

[White Walker]

Update please

[AjitKumar]

Awesome update

[yodam69420]

The moment the kitchen was finally quiet and my son dozed off peacefully in the swing after his feed, I tiptoed out into the hallway like a thief in the night. My heart was already racing with anticipation. I tucked the end of my saree firmly into my waist and pulled out my phone, dialing Meena with fingers that trembled—not with fear, but with raw, buzzing excitement. The call barely rang twice before she picked up.
"Tell me you didn’t already do it!" Meena’s voice rang through the receiver, sharp, teasing, dripping with mischief.
"Not yet!" I hissed into the phone, barely able to contain the grin spreading across my face as I paced near the window, watching the stars begin to prick the dusky sky. "But Meena… tonight’s the night. Everything’s lined up perfectly."
"What happened? Didn’t you say your husband was off all week?"
I couldn’t help the smugness in my tone. "That was the plan. But guess what? He got called in today. Night shifts. Starting tonight. He just left!"
"Ayyayo, Sakshi! Don’t tell me the gods are rewarding your horny prayers," Meena laughed, her voice a mix of surprise and delight.
"They are, I swear! And it’s not just luck—this time there won’t be a baby crying at the wrong time, or a husband knocking on the door. Ramu’s ready. I’m ready. And I’ve been preparing for this like it’s my second wedding night."
"Preparing? You mean shaving and lighting candles?"
"More than that," I said with a hushed giggle. "I started right after lunch. First, I gave my son his nap, then locked the bathroom. I shaved everything, Meena—underarms, legs, pussy, even the little hairs near my navel. I didn’t leave a single patch. Smooth like new silk. Then I soaked myself in warm water mixed with jasmine and vetiver oil. My skin smells like sin wrapped in temple offerings."
"Oof! Stop it, I can smell it through the phone," Meena moaned playfully. "What are you wearing, you devil?"
"The red chiffon saree he got me. You remember it, right? The one he gave me secretly in a brown paper bag like a naughty boy gifting lingerie? I’ve paired it with the lacy maroon bra and panty set I bought online. No petticoat, just the saree. Hair braided, and I tied jasmine into it. And a tiny bindi. Not too much makeup—just enough to make my eyes talk."
"You’re absolutely shameless," Meena whispered with admiration. "And I’m jealous. Here I am worried I might be pregnant, and you’re about to go live out a porno."
"Wait—what? You missed a pill?"
"Yeah, I think so. My period’s late. I haven’t tested yet. But if it’s positive, you’ll hear my ghost moaning every time you straddle that man tonight."
I burst out laughing, covering my mouth quickly so as not to wake the baby. "Don’t worry, I’ll light an extra agarbatti for you at the temple. But at least I’m safe. I checked my calendar. I’m not fertile. Even if Ramu loses control, there won’t be any ‘surprises.’"
"So you’re giving him the full buffet then," Meena teased.
"Yes," I said breathlessly. "Tonight, he gets everything. My body, my moans, my scent. I’ll take his hands where he wants them. I’ll let him taste me until I forget my name."
"You waited long enough," Meena said, her voice softening suddenly. "You’ve been walking around with a locked-up body and a starving soul. Let him worship you."
"I will," I whispered, turning my gaze upward, toward the glow of Ramu’s room window. "He wants to make me his wife. And tonight… I’ll let him."
There was a pause. Then Meena sighed, long and dramatic. "Go, my goddess. Ruin him. But call me tomorrow morning. First thing. I want everything."
"Every filthy, juicy detail," I swore, ending the call with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking.
And the night, rich and waiting, pulsed through the walls around me, still holding its breath for what was about to begin.
--------
It was around 10:30 PM. The ceiling fan hummed low, casting gentle shadows that spun across the ceiling like a slow ritual. Outside, the world had sunk into a peaceful stillness, a blanket of silence wrapped over the house like a secret being kept. My son lay curled in the cradle, eyes half-closed, the rhythmic suckle of his thumb slowing as sleep finally took him. I watched the rise and fall of his tiny chest, brushed a curl from his forehead, and pulled a thin cotton sheet over him with careful tenderness. Then I stood up, feeling the weight of what came next settle into my chest.
Ramu was already there, waiting. He stood in the archway of the living room like a dark promise, framed in the soft glow of the hallway bulb. He held a bundle of fresh jasmine, the scent so thick and heady it wrapped around my senses even from several feet away. His face was unreadable—blank to a stranger—but I knew that fire in his eyes. It burned. Quiet, insistent, patient.
He didn’t speak. He simply extended the flowers toward me. My fingers curled around them for a moment, soaking in their softness. Then I whispered, with a flutter of nerves under my voice, "Keep it for now."
He nodded slowly. Then, without a word, his hand slid into mine—strong, rough, familiar. He gave a squeeze, just enough to send a tremor up my wrist. Then he moved, flicking the light switch beside us. One by one, the lights blinked out—hallway, bedroom, kitchen. Our world dimmed, wrapped in a shroud of moonlight and shadows.
My heart pounded like temple drums at dusk.
He led me through the corridor in complete silence, our steps hushed against the tile. My saree rustled softly with every step, my bangles clinking in delicate rhythm. In my hands, I still carried the warm glass of milk. It felt heavier now, like it knew what it represented.
Upstairs, his door stood slightly ajar. A wedge of light spilled out across the floor like a pathway.
When we entered, I gasped softly. The room had transformed. It was no longer just his bedroom. It was a chamber prepared. The air was thick with the scent of incense and sandalwood. A new bedsheet had been laid out—deep maroon cotton with golden thread embroidery. On a steel plate in the corner, he had arranged fruits like offerings. Oranges peeled, pomegranate seeds gleaming in a bowl, small cubes of jaggery placed neatly beside.
He stepped forward, letting go of my hand for the first time. He sat at the edge of the bed, his legs spread slightly, arms resting on his thighs. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
I turned, reached behind, and clicked the latch on the door, sealing us in.
My breath was slower now. Measured. I walked to him, each step deliberate, hips rolling with unspoken confidence. The pleats of my saree whispered along my legs. I stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat of me.
I handed him the glass of milk, then bent down in one fluid motion. My head dipped low, brushing my forehead against the tops of his feet. The scent of his skin mixed with the faint musk of talcum. My breath ghosted over his ankle.
A low groan slipped from his throat.
He grabbed my wrists and pulled me up sharply. "No more of that," he said, his voice rough, husky with restrained hunger. "You’re not my devotee tonight. You’re my woman."
Before I could reply, he dragged me down onto his lap. My thighs straddled his knees, his palms gripped my waist like he was anchoring himself. I could feel the heat of his body burning through his lungi, his hardness swelling thick against my thigh.
His hand found the small of my back, pressing me closer. The other lifted the glass of milk to his lips. He took a long, deliberate sip, his throat working as he swallowed.
Then he offered it to me.
"Your turn," he murmured, his eyes not leaving mine.
I brought the glass to my lips, my fingers brushing his. The milk was warm, sweet, with a trace of cardamom. I drank slowly, watching him through the rim of the glass. He watched my throat move as I swallowed, his gaze hungry.
When I was done, he placed the glass gently on the table beside us, careful not to break the silence between us.
We didn’t speak.
We just looked at each other.
His thumb moved, slowly brushing against the skin just above the curve of my hip. My fingers slid along his shoulder, curling into the muscle. His breath mingled with mine.
Eye to eye.
Breath to breath.
That moment hung like a thread between us, fragile and electric.
And neither of us dared to break it just yet.
------------
He kissed my forehead, lingering with a reverence that made my breath hitch—a kiss that wasn’t just affection, but worship. Then came my eyes, his lips brushing each lid with a softness that sent a flutter straight to my belly, like he was memorizing my gaze one lash at a time. A kiss on the tip of my nose followed, then both cheeks—each one deliberate, weighted, slow. My heart raced with every touch, every pause between kisses like he was stitching a spell with his mouth.
His lips hovered just above mine for a moment, suspended like a secret not yet told. His eyes searched mine, asking a silent question that throbbed louder than words. I closed the distance myself, breathing into the stillness as I kissed him. He responded instantly—his arms wrapped around me like vines in bloom, tightening with a need he had been burying too long.
The kiss deepened fast, unfiltered. Hungry. Wet. Greedy. His lips latched onto mine like he wanted to drink me in, and when his tongue slid in, I met it eagerly, our mouths tangled in a rhythm we didn’t need to think about. We kissed like we had survived a famine, like we were devouring years of silent craving.
His hands didn’t stay idle for a second. They slid under the folds of my saree, palms firm against my ribs, tracing up my sides until they cupped the weight of my breasts through the blouse. He started slow—gentle pressure, careful kneading—before his grip tightened, squeezing like he needed to know the shape of me by feel. A soft whimper escaped my lips when he pinched my nipple through the fabric, a little too sharp. He heard it, paused, and softened his touch, brushing his thumb in slow circles, an apology written in motion.
He stood me up slowly, reverently, like he was unveiling something sacred. With one quick tug, he pulled my pallu down. It slid off my shoulder and down my arms like water, pooling at my feet. He stood still for a beat, his eyes locked on my heaving chest, my blouse stretched tight across my breasts. "You’re more beautiful than I imagined," he whispered, voice husky and broken.
He stepped in, pressing his face between my breasts, inhaling like my scent would anchor him. His arms locked around my waist as he crushed me against him, his mouth moving feverishly over the upper curves of my chest. Kissing. Biting. Breathing me in. The heat from his breath soaked through the cloth, and I could feel his hardness pressing against my hip.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him close as he feasted, but then gently nudged him back. He looked up, eyes wide, panting.
"What?" he asked softly, confused.
I smiled, teasing. "You forgot something."
He cocked his head. "A kiss?"
I nodded and bent forward. Our lips met again, softer now, but no less electric. He fell back onto the bed, pulling me with him, and I landed straddling him. My saree fell open further, baring more skin, and my breasts pressed against his bald head as he slid lower, planting kisses down my collarbone to my midriff.
His tongue circled my navel, slow and deliberate, and I let out a low sigh, my hips tilting toward him involuntarily. He kissed along the edge of my waist, his hands sliding behind to squeeze me closer, like he needed me to fuse into him.
I rolled to his side, biting my lip, the fire between my thighs growing with every brush of his skin against mine. I lifted one finger, curled it playfully.
"Come here," I whispered, my voice a breathy command.
He smiled wide, eyes gleaming with wicked glee. He crawled toward me like a beast on a leash finally let loose, and I opened my arms, ready to let him take everything I’d saved just for him.
------
He pulled the saree from my hips in one fluid, reverent motion, letting it glide from his fingers like sacred silk and tossing it lazily over the corner chair without even looking. It floated through the air before falling in a whisper. The cool breeze from the ceiling fan grazed my exposed skin, dancing along the sensitive trail of my waist, raising goosebumps. He stepped back just a little, enough to take in the sight of me with the kind of hungry silence that said more than words ever could. His eyes swept from my bare midriff up to the heaving swell of my chest, locked in a blouse that strained with every breath. My petticoat clung to my hips, my form full of anticipation, nervous energy pulsing under my skin.
His eyes darkened. The hunger there scorched me.
He moved again—quick, primal. His arms wrapped around me with a possessive strength, pulling me into him until our bodies collided. His lips crushed against mine, devouring. The kiss wasn't soft or sweet—it was raw, hungry, desperate. A storm. His mouth tasted of fire and milk, his breath scorching my lips, his tongue pushing into me like he wanted to own the inside of my mouth. I moaned, the sound muffled between our lips, my body melting as I surrendered to the electricity running wild through me.
My hand slid downward with purpose, slipping beneath the folds of his lungi. The heat I found there made my palm tremble. My fingers wrapped around his semi-hard cock—thick, veined, pulsing. I stroked slowly, deliberately. Each motion made him grunt softly into my mouth, his hips twitching forward. I cupped his balls gently, massaging them with a touch he hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. The way he throbbed in my hand, I knew he wouldn’t last long.
He pulled away from the kiss, panting, a smirk curling his lips. Without a word, he took a step back and dropped his lungi and vest to the floor in a single sweeping motion. He stood completely nude before me, his cock now fully erect, standing proud, the tip already glistening. He stroked it slowly, never breaking eye contact, his knuckles sliding along the thick length with reverence.
I sat on the bed, legs curled beneath me, watching him with a gaze that held both mischief and awe. I bit my lip and chuckled softly at the twitch of his cock. "Looks like someone’s been counting the minutes."
"More than minutes," he growled. "I’ve been hard since you smiled at me in the kitchen."
I stood and approached him with the slow grace of a queen, each step deliberate, hips swaying in invitation. The petticoat rustled like a whisper between my thighs. I pressed my chest against him, the tightness of my blouse brushing the heat of his bare chest. My hands roamed his torso—fingers dragging through the sparse hair on his chest, down to the dip of his waist.
He groaned and crushed me against him again. Skin to skin. Fire to fire. His cock was trapped between us, pulsing and hot, sandwiched against my belly. He kissed me again, rougher now, teeth grazing my lip, his hands roaming, kneading, gripping like he wanted to carve my body into his memory.
I moaned into his mouth as his touch became frenzied. His hands moved over my back, trailing down to my ass, squeezing it, pulling me into him with raw need. He spun us slowly, guiding me back toward the bed. My knees hit the edge as he gently but firmly lowered me onto the mattress.
He leaned over me, kneeling between my thighs, his cock resting heavy against my inner thigh. His hands found the tie of my petticoat and began unfastening it with maddening slowness, eyes locked on mine the entire time.
And as the fabric loosened, slipped down my hips, and fell away, he bent over me, mouth at my ear.
"This night is mine, Sakshi. Every inch of you."
And I whispered back, breathless, trembling, "Then claim me."
And in that moment, with the air thick between us and our bodies aching for release, the night cracked open—wild, unrelenting, eternal.
----
Then I slowly pulled back from his lips, leaving a trail of breathless heat between us, and began a sensual descent, trailing a line of kisses down to his chest. His hairy chest rose and fell beneath me, each breath trembled against my lips like his body was singing to my touch. I took my time, peppering his sternum with kisses, my tongue teasing the coarse curls of his chest hair, savoring the musk that was purely Ramu. His moan rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating through his body and into my mouth, his hand tightening in my hair, encouraging me lower.
My lips wandered further—over the soft swell of his belly, my tongue drawing lazy, wet circles over the sensitive skin, making him gasp. I trailed kisses along his waist, where muscle met softness, where hair thinned into that line that led down, inviting me. My lips kissed and nuzzled the trail, and my breath fanned across the base of his cock. He was already swelling, twitching with anticipation, the sight of me between his legs making his erection rise like it had a mind of its own.
I knelt between his thighs, my saree pooling around me, the cool tiles beneath me only heightened the heat spreading through me. My eyes locked with his, never blinking, as I wrapped my hand around his semi-hard cock. It pulsed in my grasp, thickening with each heartbeat. I tugged the foreskin gently, slowly revealing the swollen, glistening head that peeked out, begging.
I leaned forward and pressed a warm, wet kiss to the tip. He gasped, hips twitching. I licked across the slit, tasting the slight salt of him, then let my lips linger. My free hand cupped his balls, warm and heavy, and I massaged them with a slow, teasing pressure that made him groan and throw his head back.
"Hold this," I murmured, reaching for the glass of warm milk on the table and placing it into his hand, my fingers brushing his. I gave him a sly smile.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t question. I shifted slightly, my mouth hovering just beneath the head of his cock, my breath warm against him.
"Now pour it. Slowly."
He obeyed, tilting the glass.
The milk trickled down, the first drop landing right on the crown of his cock. It slid down the shaft like honey, glistening over his veins. I opened my mouth and caught it, my tongue flicking out to gather the trail as it slid lower. The warmth of the milk combined with the heat of his skin made my mouth water.
I followed the stream with my tongue, lapping it up, dragging my lips along the underside of his cock, tracing every vein, every ridge. He gasped, his hand trembling slightly as he poured more. The milk pooled at the base, dripping over his balls. I licked there too, sucking them gently into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the skin.
He moaned louder, his voice hoarse, fingers gripping the edge of the table. "You’re mad… absolutely fucking deliciously mad."
I giggled against his skin, letting the vibration tease him. I let another drop trail from the glass, this time letting it slide from the tip directly into my waiting mouth. When he paused, I looked up, licking the milk from my lips, and whispered, "Don’t stop now."
He obeyed, pouring another warm ribbon that I chased eagerly. I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock and sucked it in slowly, my tongue swirling as I moaned in pleasure. His cock throbbed, and he let out a choked gasp, dropping the glass with a clink onto the table.
Both his hands tangled in my hair, his grip firm but reverent, guiding me as he began to move his hips. I took him deeper, inch by inch, until he hit the back of my throat. My hands stroked his base, my mouth worked the head, wet and eager. I let saliva drip from my lips to coat him more, sucking him with slow, delicious pressure.
"Fuck... just like that," he growled, his hips rolling, each thrust deep and steady. I welcomed it, letting my throat stretch around him. He began to move faster, his grunts louder, sweat beading on his brow. I moaned with him, the sound vibrating through his shaft, making him curse.
After a few intense minutes, he tugged at my hair gently. I let him slide free from my mouth, his cock throbbing, spit and milk smeared across its length. A thick string of spit connected us, glistening between my lips and his swollen head.
He cupped my cheeks, panting, eyes wild. "I want to make you feel good now. I want to see you fall apart under me."
I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and laughed breathlessly. I rose slowly, teasingly, running my fingers along his shaft one last time, watching him twitch under my touch.
"Then what are you waiting for, Ramu?"
He grinned, something primal gleaming in his eyes, and grabbed me with both hands, pulling me toward the bed, toward the fire we both could no longer contain.
The night was just beginning—and it was ours to devour.
-----
Now he took me to the bed, his grip firm but tender, a silent promise in his eyes as he guided me down onto the soft mattress. He knelt beside me, one hand brushing along my waist, the other moving to the top of my blouse. His fingers trembled slightly—whether from excitement or reverence, I wasn’t sure—as he began to undo the hooks, one by one, revealing more of my bare skin with each soft click.
The blouse loosened and fell open, baring my breasts fully to his gaze. He slid it off my shoulders with a slow, deliberate motion, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony. I could feel the cool air kiss my heated skin, my nipples already hard with anticipation and need. His eyes darkened as he stared at my chest, his breath caught in his throat.
He leaned forward, cupping my right boob in his warm hand, his thumb brushing over my stiff nipple. With the other hand, he brought his mouth to my left boob, sucking gently at first, then deeper, his tongue circling and teasing the sensitive peak. I gasped, arching into him as pleasure sparked through my core.
But then he paused. He lifted his head, milk glistening on his lips, and looked up at me with a new seriousness in his eyes. "Sakshi... this milk, this body, it’s mine now. All of it. I don’t want anyone else to taste this. Not your son, not Murugan. No more pumps, no more feeding. He can have powdered milk, packet milk—whatever—but not this. This is for me."
I froze for a moment. A flicker of hesitation crossed my face, but his hands didn't stop, his fingers still caressing the underside of my breast, his mouth hovering just above the nipple he had just suckled. "You understand?" he asked again, quieter this time, but firm.
My breath was uneven. My mind screamed at the selfishness of it, at the absurdity. But my body... my body was already his. The heat in my belly, the ache in my chest, the wetness between my thighs—they answered for me.
"Okay," I whispered. "Just you."
His eyes flared with dark satisfaction. "Good girl."
He reached for the glass of warm milk on the table beside the bed. With a wicked grin, he tilted it slowly over my breasts. The milk spilled in warm rivulets down the curves of my boobs, dripping over my nipples, cascading down the sides. The sensation was warm, wet, and deliciously sinful.
He bent lower, lapping up the milk with his tongue, dragging it across my skin, licking and sucking greedily. His mouth latched onto my nipple, now slick with milk and need, and he suckled deeply. The moment his lips touched, a small stream of my milk responded, mixing with the remnants of what he had poured.
"God... you’re feeding me from heaven," he whispered between sucks, his voice rough, broken with need.
He switched to the other boob, giving it the same worship. He poured the remaining milk over it, letting it trickle down my chest. He caught every drop with his mouth, licking and drinking it with almost desperate hunger. My body trembled under him, every nerve alight.
I moaned as he sucked, feeling the pull in my breast, the flow of milk releasing with every rhythmic tug of his mouth. My fingers tangled in his hair as he fed from me like a starving man. He suckled both boobs, switching between them, licking, biting gently, teasing my nipples with his tongue as he drank the last of the milk—mine and the glass's.
His hands roamed freely, squeezing and massaging, pressing my boobs together so he could lick across both nipples in long, sweeping laps. I could feel the wetness between my thighs grow, the heat building uncontrollably.
He finally pulled back, his face wet with milk, his lips glossy, and his eyes burning with desire. "You taste like everything I’ve ever needed," he growled.
And I knew—we were just getting started.
--
Now he pulled the knot of my petticoat with a swift, teasing tug. The fabric loosened and slipped from my hips like silk melting off my skin, pooling around my ankles in a soft whisper. His eyes drank in the sight of me, bare and waiting, each curve bathed in dim amber light, before he scooped me up into his arms with a strength that made my breath catch and laid me across the bed with slow, deliberate grace. The mattress shifted beneath our weight, the sheets whispering against our skin, as he crawled above me, the warmth of his body radiating in waves that seeped into mine.
He began at my forehead, planting kisses with the reverence of worship—soft, slow, sinking deeper into my skin with every press. His lips moved down to my cheeks, the corners of my mouth, then hovered teasingly over my lips before dipping to the hollow of my throat. I gasped as he kissed the dip between my collarbones, the sensation tender and electric all at once. His descent continued, more hungry now, over the swell of my chest, down to my heaving breasts where he paused to let his breath fan hot across my nipples, before moving to my stomach. His tongue circled my navel, teasing before dipping in. My back arched, a soft moan slipping from me as his trail of kisses continued—down over my thighs, pausing at my knees where he bit gently, then all the way to my toes.
He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes was wicked and full of heat. "Turn around," he murmured, voice thick with anticipation.
I obeyed without hesitation, heart thundering as I rolled onto my stomach. The bed dipped beside me as he moved closer, fingers brushing my hair away, baring the nape of my neck. He kissed it slowly, wetly, then trailed lower—down the curve of my back, spine to tailbone, each kiss deeper, more possessive. He paused at the small of my back, his palms spreading across my hips, holding me still as his lips traced circles.
Then came the shift—the pause before the storm.
His lips moved lower. He kissed the top curve of my ass with a gentleness that made me shiver, then parted my cheeks with firm hands and buried his face between them. His tongue dragged along the crack with a growl of satisfaction, the vibration of it making me moan. Then something cool, soft, and unexpected brushed my skin.
"Stay still," he commanded, his voice edged with command.
I started to glance back, but his grip on my hips tightened. I could feel him pressing something into the cleft of my ass—segments of fruit, sticky, cold, and fragrant. The scent hit me instantly.
"Oranges?" I whispered.
"Shh," he breathed.
He had peeled and sectioned the fruit, arranging the slices from the top of my ass all the way down to the cusp of my pussy, nestling them into the warm valley of my skin. The citrus tingled wherever it touched, the coolness a stark contrast to my burning heat. Then came the first bite—his teeth sinking into a segment that sat snug against my crack.
Juice burst instantly, trickling in rivulets down my skin. His tongue chased it, licking it clean, savoring fruit and sweat and flesh in long, deliberate strokes. Another bite, another burst, juice sliding lower, slick and warm, until it dripped over the soft folds of my pussy. I gasped, my thighs parting involuntarily as heat bloomed inside me.
He took his time, biting into each segment and licking up every drop that spilled. His tongue didn’t just clean—he worshipped. He followed the juice down, licking the inside of my thighs, the edge of my folds, tasting the sweet citrus mingling with my slick. And when he finally reached the last slice, when his mouth pressed directly against my pussy, he moaned like a man starved.
His tongue dove between my folds, licking from the dripping entrance up to my clit, then back down again, the taste of oranges amplifying everything. He was relentless, switching between licking and sucking, his face buried so deep I could feel every breath. I cried out, hips bucking into his mouth as pleasure rippled through me.
"Fuck," he whispered against me, voice wet and desperate. "Your pussy makes everything taste better."
He licked harder, faster, his tongue lapping every inch of me with urgent, messy devotion. He wasn’t neat—he was ravenous. His mouth created a rhythm, his lips tugging at my clit as his tongue teased my entrance, then switched, drawing out every gasp, every tremble. My thighs quivered, my hands clawing the bedsheet as heat coiled tighter inside me.
The air was thick with the heady mix of citrus, sweat, and lust. The sound of wet kisses, my moans, and the slurp of his mouth against me filled the room, wrapping us in something primal and wild.
And I knew—I would never taste fruit the same way again unless it came dripping from my thighs and off his tongue, feral and hungry like this.
Not ever.
--------
He separated my ass cheeks with a possessive hunger, spreading them wide until I felt the cool air kiss the most intimate part of me. Every breath felt like fire against my skin, and I shivered beneath him. His tongue followed next, slow and teasing, circling around my asshole with a deliberate wickedness that sent a shock through every inch of me. It was a sensation I hadn’t prepared for—sharp, foreign, electrifying—and it jolted through me like lightning striking the base of my spine. When he finally pushed his tongue inside, the wet pressure breaching me with agonizing slowness, I gasped aloud, my entire body bucking against the bed. His grip tightened immediately, one hand pinning my hips down, the other gripping my thigh, commanding me to stay still, to take it.
My hands clawed at the sheets, nails digging into the fabric, as the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue exploring my tight rim made me groan with a mix of shock, shame, and raw, blooming pleasure. I tried to resist it, to breathe evenly, but the sensations built too fast—too intense—my legs trembling as he worked his mouth like a man possessed. I couldn’t hold back. I pulled free with effort, rolling onto my back, panting heavily, chest heaving as I stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath.
He loomed over me, face gleaming, lips wet, eyes burning with unfiltered need. He looked like a man who had just tasted something sacred—and wanted more. He grinned, crooked and dangerous.
"Why are you acting like an animal?" I asked, breathless, voice barely a whisper, my thighs still trembling.
"Because tonight," he growled, crawling up the bed like a predator, hovering over me, "I'm done holding back. The beast is loose. And you're mine to devour."
That fire in his voice made me shudder with anticipation. I couldn’t help the smirk curling my lips, even as my pulse raced. "Then don’t stop. Show me how wild you really are."
He surged forward, capturing my lips in a savage kiss. Our mouths clashed, tongues tangling, teeth grazing as we devoured each other with the ferocity of long-starved lovers. His hands roamed wild—grabbing my thighs, squeezing my waist, claiming every inch of my flesh like territory conquered. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, nails dragging down his back as he consumed me.
As our kiss deepened, he slid one hand between my legs. His fingers parted my folds with practiced ease, rubbing slow, deep circles around my pussy lips. The slick heat of my arousal coated his touch instantly. I moaned into his mouth as he massaged every nerve ending, pushing my body into a fevered haze. His fingers moved with precision, teasing, exploring, dipping inside me only to pull back and draw lazy circles around my clit until I was gasping.
He broke the kiss and shifted, sitting upright with his back against the headboard. He spread his legs slightly and beckoned me forward with two commanding fingers. I obeyed, crawling across the sheets with a feline grace, settling myself between his thighs, straddling his lap, face to face with his hunger.
His arms wrapped around me, strong and grounding, as I settled into his lap. He kissed the side of my neck, his lips dragging across the sensitive skin behind my ear. I shivered, head tilting back to give him more access.
"So soft," he whispered, voice thick with lust. "So fucking sweet. I could taste you for days."
He moved lower—his lips grazing down my back while his left hand reached up to cup my breast, kneading the soft flesh until it spilled over his palm. His fingers rolled and pinched my nipple, tugging gently until I arched against him with a gasp. My hands braced on his chest, my breath short and ragged.
His other hand slid down between my thighs again, slipping between my folds with practiced confidence. Two fingers pressed into my slick heat, curling and stroking, his palm grinding against my clit as I whimpered into his neck. His rhythm was relentless, teasing me to the edge, pulling back just enough to keep me right there—aching, begging.
"You’re so ready for me," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear, his voice both a promise and a threat.
I turned toward him, locking eyes, my chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. "Then what are you waiting for?"
His smile deepened—a dark, feral thing—and he kissed me again, slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize my taste. His hands worked me like an instrument he’d studied for years, drawing out new sounds, new tremors, tuning me with every flick, every squeeze, every whispered groan.
I was already trembling, undone by his touch. He slid his fingers out and brought them to his lips, sucking them clean with a hum of satisfaction. "You taste like fucking paradise," he said, eyes burning into me.
And I knew I was ready—ready to break, to surrender, to be his completely.
And he hadn’t even begun.
------
I could feel his hard cock pressing insistently against the curve of my ass, twitching with raw, urgent need every time he shifted closer. It was like a heated brand teasing my skin, pulsing with the weight of anticipation. His breath was hot and ragged against my ear, warm enough to make my spine tingle. Then, with a slow, sinful grace, his hand slid down between my thighs, parting them wider. His fingers brushed my swollen lips with a feather-light touch, and I gasped, the contact like a spark setting a fuse.
He didn't rush. He spread my pussy lips with deliberate precision, exposing the slick, glistening warmth inside, his fingers reverent and claiming. I felt his first finger glide in—just the tip at first, stretching me open as he slid it deeper, and the tight pressure made me moan aloud. The sound of our breath, heavy and uneven, filled the room.
My hands reached behind me instinctively, grasping at his wrist, guiding him toward that spot—my spot—the one that made my toes curl and breath hitch. He followed, curling his finger expertly, teasing my inner wall with a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure radiating outward. The way he touched me was maddening—slow, insistent, confident. My thighs trembled.
He began sliding his finger in and out, finding a perfect rhythm, each thrust deeper and more deliberate. My juices coated him, sticky and warm. He paused only to pull his finger out entirely and bring it to his lips, eyes never leaving mine. With a low, guttural groan, he sucked every glistening drop from his finger.
"You taste like sin," he growled, licking his lips slowly. "And I'm not done tasting you."
My cheeks burned red, not from shame but from arousal so deep it curled in my belly. My breath quickened. I wanted more. Needed more.
Then he pushed in two fingers at once, stretching me wider, the tightness around them making my body jerk. My gasp echoed in the quiet, and he responded with a low chuckle, clearly savoring how my body surrendered to him.
He twisted his fingers, exploring deeper, pressing at angles that made my hips buck upward uncontrollably. I whimpered, clinging to the sheets as the pressure intensified.
"There?" he asked, a smirk in his voice, fingers now curling at exactly the right spot.
I couldn’t form words—just nodded, breathless, moaning loudly. He grinned and thrust deeper. I felt the slick squelch of my arousal filling the air with filthy sounds. I didn’t care. I was lost to the feeling, consumed by it. I spread my legs wider, offering him everything.
My voice trembled as I gasped into his ear, "Do it a little faster... please."
His laugh was deep, dark, possessive. "Seems like you're really enjoying this, my filthy little goddess."
Then he did as I asked—his fingers began pounding into me, harder, faster, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit in perfect, maddening sync. The noises grew louder, wetter, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. I rocked my hips in time with his thrusts, chasing every jolt of pleasure like a woman possessed.
My inner walls fluttered around him. That pulsing, aching need gathered fast, coiling tighter with every stroke. My moans grew higher, broken, urgent. My nails scbangd at the sheets, legs shaking violently. I was so close—my climax hung at the edge, trembling like a wave.
He didn’t slow. For minutes that felt like eternity, he fucked me with those fingers like they were forged from heat and purpose, dragging me closer and closer to the edge with every precise motion.
I writhed, lost in sensation, gasping his name like a prayer, like a curse.
Finally, my thighs soaked, my whole body trembling from the buildup, I grabbed his wrist with a shaking hand. My voice was hoarse, needy, pleading. "Stop... please... I want your mouth. Lick me. Now."
-----
He made me lie flat on the bed, the coolness of the sheet brushing against my back, sending a shiver up my spine. The overhead fan stirred the air, brushing over my skin with a teasing indifference that only made my body more aware of his presence. His eyes roamed over me hungrily, lips parted, as he knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding along my inner thighs with deliberate slowness, fingertips grazing, teasing, mapping every inch of me like sacred territory.
He gently tapped my hip and whispered, "Lift up for me."
"Why?" I asked, breath catching, suspicion tinged with curiosity in my voice.
"Just do it," he murmured again, more insistent, voice low and unyielding, like a promise threaded with heat.
I hesitated, heart racing, then obeyed. Lifting my hips, I felt his hands slip beneath, guiding a pillow under me. The way he moved was precise, like he’d imagined this moment a thousand times. He propped me up slightly, the angle exposing me completely, opening me like a gift he was unwrapping with his eyes. Then he parted my legs wide, spreading me with reverence and hunger in equal measure.
I could feel the cool air brushing over my slick folds, my hole twitching slightly under the intensity of his stare. The vulnerability made me breathless. He didn’t speak. He just looked—looked like he was seeing something divine. He knelt between my thighs like a worshipper at an altar, his posture reverent, but the hunger in his eyes feral.
He used both hands to spread me open further, fingers pulling me apart gently, exposing every inch of my most intimate skin to him. My pussy pulsed under the attention, already dripping. I could feel my breath quickening, my chest rising and falling as anticipation mounted. I waited, unsure, trembling—until I felt it.
His hot breath against my ass.
Then it began.
Without warning, his tongue slid out and dragged a long, wet path over my asshole. I gasped, my body jerking involuntarily at the sudden, forbidden sensation. My hands flew to the bedsheets, gripping them tightly as I tried to process what was happening. Before I could react, he was pressing in deeper, licking with a need that bordered on worship. His tongue flicked and swirled, exploring me slowly at first, then with more pressure.
Simultaneously, his fingers found my pussy. He parted the lips expertly and slid two fingers inside, slow but certain. The stretch made my back arch and a cry slip from my throat. His hands held my hips down with a grip like iron, anchoring me in place, making escape impossible. Not that I truly wanted to.
He was eating me like a feast, tongue pushing into my ass with deep, wet thrusts, his fingers curling inside my pussy with rhythmic precision. The dual sensation was overwhelming—so wrong, so taboo, and yet impossibly good. Every flick of his tongue sent another wave of heat crashing through me. My moans turned into high-pitched whimpers, thighs trembling with the building intensity.
He paused only briefly, lifting his face just enough for me to see his lips slick with wetness, his beard glistening.
"Even your asshole tastes nice," he said, voice deep, eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Chi! Don’t do such nonsense," I managed, cheeks flushed, breath ragged. I was half-laughing, half-scolding, but I didn’t mean it—not really. My body betrayed me, hips tilting back toward him.
He only grinned, unapologetic, proud. "I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. The moment I saw you bend over that day—I knew. First chance I got, I wasn’t going to waste it."
Before I could reply, he dipped down again and pressed a kiss to my asshole—slow, deliberate, lingering—like he was branding me with his mouth, sealing a promise that this part of me now belonged to him.
I shuddered under the intimacy of it.
And I didn’t stop him this time.
I couldn’t.
And somewhere deep inside, I knew—I didn’t want to.
---------
Now he laid my hips down and started to taste my pussy with a slow, burning hunger. He lowered himself between my legs, his face full of dark craving, his breath already warm against my slick skin. He pressed his lips to my mound with a groan of satisfaction, kissing the tender skin just above my folds, dragging his tongue gently across the soft flesh in slow, teasing strokes. Then came the playful nips, his teeth grazing over my skin until I squirmed beneath him, moaning softly, my hands tangling in the bedsheets.
His lips moved lower, his breath growing heavier, hotter, trailing along my dripping slit. When he finally reached my clit, the tip of his tongue flicked it softly, barely a touch at first. The tease made me whimper. Then he circled it, slowly, drawing lazy, agonizing spirals, each motion sending electric jolts through my core. My thighs trembled, my hips lifted instinctively, but his hands held them open firmly. He was locked in, determined, intent on tasting every drop, every shiver, every moan.
Then he spread my pussy lips with his fingers, pulling them apart carefully to expose the swollen, glistening folds inside. My breath caught as I felt his tongue slide in—long, slow, deliberate strokes that went deep. He tongue-fucked me with a rhythm that was slow at first, but building. He alternated between thrusting deep into my pussy and swirling around the inside, tongue stroking me from the inside out. My moans grew louder, uncontrolled, as he groaned into me, sucking up my juices between every thrust.
His mouth was insatiable. He'd pull back just long enough to flick his tongue over my clit, then plunge back into me with greedy precision, lapping at the slickness he'd just coaxed out. His fingers tightened on my thighs, anchoring me as my body writhed beneath him.
He paused, lifting his head for a moment. His mouth was soaked, chin glistening with my juices, his eyes hooded with lust. Then he gave me a pitiful, exaggerated look and pointed down at his stiff cock, now standing tall, twitching against his belly.
"Why are you making that face?" I asked breathlessly, brushing a strand of hair from my damp forehead.
"Because," he replied with a pout, "your pussy's getting all the love, soaking and sweet, and my poor cock is dry, aching, neglected."
I laughed softly, leaning in to kiss his lips, tasting myself on his tongue. I pushed him back gently onto the bed. "Alright," I whispered into his ear, "your turn now."
I straddled his chest, slowly swinging one leg over him, settling in a reverse position, my ass facing his face, his cock pressing against his belly, thick and throbbing. He groaned as I pressed back, letting the softness of my ass cheeks rest over his lips. He inhaled deeply, then began to kiss, lick, and nuzzle into the curves of my backside.
His tongue was relentless, tracing every curve, savoring every inch. He zeroed in on my tight little hole, licking slowly around the rim, teasing me. Then he pushed his tongue inside, probing eagerly. I moaned aloud, gripping his thighs behind me for balance as he worked.
As his tongue explored, I leaned forward, my eyes locking onto his cock. It stood proud and hard, framed by salt-and-pepper hair that curled like waves. It looked like a dark palm tree, thick and tall, planted in soft white grass.
I kissed the thick black tip, running my tongue along the slit, tasting the first drops of pre-cum. I licked slow circles around the head, savoring the salty-sweet taste, then pulled back his foreskin gently, exposing the sensitive crown. His hips twitched beneath me.
He moaned against my ass, then paused. I smirked and gave my hips a playful shake, smacking my ass lightly against his face.
"You forgot something," I teased.
He chuckled and responded immediately, diving back in with renewed intensity, switching between my pussy and asshole, licking and sucking, driving me wild. His fingers slipped between my cheeks, sliding into my ass with practiced ease, moving in sync with his tongue.
I moaned around his cock, then wrapped my lips around him, taking him deep into my mouth. The thick head slid over my tongue and down toward my throat. I bobbed my head slowly at first, tasting every inch, feeling him harden further. I let my tongue swirl under the shaft as I moved, coating him with saliva.
My hand reached down to cup his balls, rolling them gently, massaging the weight of them in my palm. His hips twitched, and I felt the tension building. I let his cock slip out and kissed along its length, trailing kisses down to his balls, licking and nuzzling them before drawing one into my mouth. He groaned louder, his mouth never stopping its worship of me above.
I returned to his shaft, now slick with spit and pre-cum, and took him even deeper this time, pushing until I felt him at the back of my throat. He bucked, but I held him steady, swallowing him down slowly, knowing exactly what he needed.
I could feel every pulse of his cock, every twitch. I knew he was close. I teased him more, alternating between sucking and stroking, letting him feel every inch of my mouth and tongue. His hands gripped my thighs, his breath ragged against my skin.
He was lost in the rhythm of my mouth. I was lost in the fire of his tongue and fingers, our bodies entangled in perfect, filthy sync.
And the best part—we hadn’t even started the real act yet. Everything so far had been foreplay.
And we both knew what came next would burn us alive.
----
When I took his cock out of my mouth, it was standing tall and firm like a rocket primed for ignition, twitching eagerly with anticipation. I wiped the corners of my lips, laughed softly, and teased him, “Your cock’s standing like a rocket ready for launch.”
He chuckled, eyes gleaming with lust, and replied mischievously, “Then why don’t you use it immediately?”
With a coy smile, I stood up slowly, deliberately swaying my hips, fingers tracing down his chest, feeling every contour of muscle beneath my fingertips. I picked up the condom from the table beside us, rolling it slowly over the thick, pulsating shaft. But he suddenly groaned and looked up at me with pleading eyes. “Please... just for today, let me feel you completely. No condom.”
His tone was vulnerable, filled with an aching desire. I paused momentarily, studying him with narrowed eyes, then smiled softly and said, “Only today.” Leaning down sensuously, I bit the condom’s rim gently and pulled it off his cock with my mouth, tossing it aside carelessly. He grinned widely, pure joy radiating from his flushed face.
I straddled his thighs, feeling his cock press insistently between my slick folds. My hand guided it, sliding it teasingly across my sensitive clit, the heat of our skin colliding deliciously. I moved my hips in little teasing circles, letting my wetness coat the tip thoroughly.
“Stop teasing, Sakshi,” he groaned, voice strained and impatient. “Let me inside.”
I laughed softly, then slowly lowered myself, guiding the engorged head of his cock to my eager entrance. With one long, smooth motion, I sank down onto him. His cock entered me inch by delicious inch, filling me so completely that my breath caught sharply. His eyes widened with awe, his mouth dropping open slightly as sensation overwhelmed us both.
I remained motionless for a moment, allowing my pussy to adjust, savoring every throbbing inch of him deep inside me. Slowly, I began rocking my hips, gently lifting and lowering myself, creating a rhythm that drew groans from him. His hands found my hips, guiding me, matching my movements with controlled strength.
Leaning forward, I captured his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, our tongues tangling passionately. As I bounced gently, he embraced me tightly, pulling me closer, driving upward with steady, powerful thrusts, his hands gripping and kneading my ass.
"Fuck, Sakshi... you're too good," he whispered desperately, his voice thick and rough with desire.
After several intoxicating minutes, I felt my legs begin to tire, my breath shallow and labored.
“I’m tired…” I sighed softly.
He flashed a wicked grin. “Tired already? Let me take over.”
With an effortless roll, he positioned me onto my back. His cock slipped out momentarily, still glistening and fully erect. Without hesitation, he grasped my thighs and drove back into me with a powerful thrust that made me arch sharply beneath him, crying out in sudden, overwhelming pleasure.
“Slower,” I moaned, breathlessly.
He shook his head, his voice deep and primal. “No, Sakshi. You’re gonna love this. Let me show you what your husband never could.”
He gripped my legs firmly, bending them at the knees, and began thrusting into me—not hurried, but deep, forceful strokes. Each powerful thrust touched something deep inside me, making my toes curl, igniting sparks of ecstasy along every nerve. His body weight pinned me deliciously to the bed, his muscular arms controlling my movements entirely.
His rhythm intensified, driving deeper, harder, my pleasure mounting rapidly. My moans became louder, more urgent, filling the room.
“I’m... I’m going to cum,” I gasped between ragged breaths.
He responded by slamming into me relentlessly, faster and harder, his breathing turning ragged and fierce.
“Ramu! Ramu! More, please—don’t stop!”
“Sakshi... Sakshi...” he panted fervently. Then he leaned close, growling fiercely, "Tell me, has that useless husband ever made you scream like this? He couldn’t satisfy you if his life depended on it. All he does is grunt and roll over."
I gasped, trembling beneath him, and breathlessly added, "All he ever does is think about himself. Two strokes and he's done—no passion, no care. But you... you fuck me like you were born to, like I belong to you."
He grinned wickedly, eyes flashing possessively. “Exactly. That fool doesn’t even know what to do with a goddess like you. He doesn't deserve you.”
Then we both exploded together—my entire body shaking violently as his cock pulsed within me, flooding my womb with hot cum. My pussy clenched around him, milking every last drop. He collapsed over me, our sweat-drenched bodies tangled together, his cock still buried deeply, throbbing gently with aftershocks.
We lay together for a blissful moment, panting heavily, completely satiated.
Gradually, his cock softened, and he withdrew gently. I felt his cum trickle warmly from my pussy, sliding downward sensuously.
“I need to wash up,” I murmured, nudging him playfully.
He reluctantly moved aside. With trembling legs, I made my way to the bathroom, cleaning myself and noting the late hour—nearly 1 AM.
“We’ve been at it for nearly two hours,” I whispered, returning to his side.
He chuckled softly, eyes warm and satisfied. “You’re the reason I couldn’t stop.”
We curled up together briefly, tangled in sheets still warm from our passion. Around 2 AM, we indulged in another quick, fiery round—brief, intense, and deeply satisfying. By 2:30, I dressed hastily—leaving most of my clothes in his room, slipping home in only a spare shawl.
He watched me reluctantly, eyes heavy with longing.
“My son's still asleep,” I whispered, kissing his cheek gently. “Thank god he didn't wake.”
I quickly slipped into a nighty, crawling into bed beside my child.
Yet, as I lay awake, body still glowing with pleasure, my mind wandered.
Why isn’t my husband ever like this? With him, intimacy was routine, mechanical, devoid of passion. With Ramu—it was raw, chaotic, intoxicating. Each thrust, each growl awakened emotions my husband never bothered exploring.
Why does Ramu make me feel alive in ways he never could?

[AjitKumar]

Awesome update

The husband told he will call at 11, but he never did or she did not check. Husband works in office on comp, wife work at home on cock.

[LustyLeo]

wawwwwww

[yodam69420]

--Next Day---
The phone buzzed, snapping me out of my dreamy haze. I glanced at the screen, and seeing Meena’s name flashing made my stomach flutter. I picked it up quickly, my fingers trembling slightly with excitement.
“Hello?” I answered, trying to sound calm, but my voice betrayed the lingering thrill in my chest.
“Sakshi! Finally, you picked up!” Meena’s voice exploded from the other end, full of curiosity and anticipation. “I couldn’t sleep all night, da! I’ve been dying to hear what happened. Don’t you dare skip a single detail!”
I chuckled, the warmth flooding my face as I sat back against the headboard, twisting the bedsheet between my fingers. “Oh, Meena… it was more than amazing. It was everything I didn’t know I was missing.”
She gasped, already squealing. “Tell me, tell me right now! What happened? How did it start?”
I lowered my voice, glancing instinctively toward the closed door. “He made me feel wanted, Meena. Not just touched—worshipped. The way he kissed me, the way he held me… I felt like a woman again. Not like a housewife with chores and crying babies.”
“Oh my god, that’s what I wanted to hear!” she giggled. “And did you guys…?”
“Yes,” I whispered, then added with a mischievous grin she could probably hear through the phone, “We didn’t even use protection. Honestly, Meena, I don’t think I’ll ever use one again. It felt too real, too perfect.”
“Sakshi!” she gasped in mock horror. “You’re insane—and in love. I can hear it!”
I laughed. “It’s not just love. It’s like… I was starving and didn’t know it. Ramu fed something in me Murugan never could.”
“And how do you feel about your dear old Murugan now?” she asked teasingly.
I snorted. “Murugan? Please. I can’t even imagine letting him touch me again. It’s like comparing a soggy dosa to a crispy, spicy masala one straight from a tawa. The man’s completely useless in bed, Meena. Always was. I used to make excuses just to avoid him.”
“You terrible woman!” Meena burst out laughing. “But I get it. You’ve been reawakened. There’s no going back now.”
“And that’s not all,” I said, voice dipping lower. “Ramu has this thing… he made a rule. My breast milk is for him. Only him.”
“Wait, what?” Meena asked, stunned.
“Yes! He said he wants to be the only one to drink it. Not even my son. He asked me to stop breastfeeding entirely—said my milk belongs to him now.”
“Sakshi, that’s insane… and kind of hot,” Meena admitted with a laugh. “He’s really claiming every part of you.”
“Exactly,” I said, voice tinged with awe. “And the way he does it… he drinks it like it’s holy, like it’s the only thing he needs to survive. It’s intense. But you know what? I love it. I love giving it to him. I feel desired in ways I never thought possible.”
“Girl, you are living the dream,” Meena said, still reeling. “Just be careful. That kind of passion burns bright—and wild.”
“I know,” I said softly. “But for now, I want to burn. I want to be consumed. I’ve never felt more alive.”
There was a pause, the kind that stretches with understanding.
“Well then,” Meena finally said, a smirk in her voice. “When are you seeing him next?”
I laughed. “Tonight, if I get lucky. He said he wants round two. And honestly? So do I.”
“Keep me updated, okay? And next time—no radio silence for hours!”
“I promise,” I giggled. “You’ll be the first to know.”
As I ended the call, I hugged the phone to my chest for a moment, a stupid grin spreading across my face. My body still hummed with the memory of last night, and my heart raced at the thought of what tonight might bring.
I had stepped into something wild, something dangerous—and I didn’t want to step back.
----Chapter 2 end -- to be continued in Chapter 3---

[LustyLeo]

Super. Let sakshi feed well fucked pussy to her wimp husband when he comes in the morning and make him lick and clean the juices of Ramu. It is the best humiliation Ramu and Sakshi can enjoy.

[Dumeelkumar]

Sexy updates

[yodam69420]

Chapter 3 -- Planning --- Story will be written from third person perspective ----

Ramu sat on his cot, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him, a satisfied smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. His body was sore in the most satisfying ways, his chest still heaving occasionally with quiet chuckles as he remembered the night before. The scent of her still clung to his skin. His phone buzzed beside him, snapping him out of the reverie. He glanced at the screen—Ismail Bhai.
“Assalamu Alaikum, bhai,” Ramu greeted, voice gravelly but content.
“Wa Alaikum Assalam, Ramu!” Ismail’s voice was full of humor. “I thought I’d call to check if you’re still alive—or if that young woman of yours sucked the life right out of you.”
Ramu laughed deeply, the kind of laugh that made his belly move. “Alive? Bhai, I’ve never felt more alive in years. That woman isn’t just young flesh—she’s fire. She’s hunger itself. She’s not just in my bed—she’s under my skin. Sakshi. Even her name makes me ache.”
“Oh ho ho! You’ve fallen hard, old man. Don’t hold back, I want everything. Spill it—every inch,” Ismail teased, the grin audible through the phone.
Ramu leaned back against the wall, his eyes half-lidded with memory. “Last night… was our first. Not clumsy, not rushed. It was primal, yes—but tender too. She took me back to a version of myself I thought was long dead. And bhai, she didn’t just lie there like a girl lost in guilt—she devoured me like she had been starved for years. She wanted every bit of me, and she gave even more.”
Ismail let out a long whistle. “Masha’,.'. That sounds… dangerous. And she’s still married, no?”
Ramu’s tone turned heavier, darker. “Yes. Still chained to a man who doesn’t know her worth. She told me herself—he doesn’t look at her, doesn’t touch her. He walks past her like she’s a ghost. And the poor woman? She’s been drying up from the inside out.”
“So what now? Are you thinking long-term or just enjoying the madness?”
“I’ve already marked her,” Ramu replied, his voice low with conviction. “Body, heart... and bhai, even her milk. I told her—no more sharing. That milk is mine. Not for her son, not from a bottle. From the source, into my mouth. She agreed. Happily. Almost eagerly.”
Ismail burst into shocked laughter. “Subhan,.', you’ve gone full savage in your old age. This is what retirement looks like for you?”
Ramu chuckled. “Retirement? I’m just getting started. For a woman like that, I’d wake up every nerve in my body. I’ve been reborn in her arms.”
Ismail’s voice lowered a little. “Just be cautious, bhai. Her husband… if he senses something, it won’t end well.”
“He’s blind and dull,” Ramu said dismissively. “She won’t even let him touch her anymore. She said he repulses her now. Murugan has been sidelined, benched permanently.”
“Bhai,” Ismail sighed, a note of wistful mischief in his voice. “You’re living the dream I only dared to imagine. My grandson’s girlfriend? Sweet, clever thing. She had more sense than he did—she left him and chose me. Now we’re engaged.”
“Ha! The boy must be heartbroken!” Ramu laughed.
“He hasn’t spoken to me in a week. Found out at the engagement party. The look on his face—pure disbelief. Like the wind was knocked out of him.”
“Because boys don’t know how to hold on to a woman,” Ramu growled. “They think flowers and phone calls are enough. But we—we bring depth. Hunger. Command. And when women taste that, they never go back.”
“You speak like a man possessed,” Ismail said, amused.
“I am,” Ramu said plainly. “Possessed and blessed. Every moan she gave me, every drop of milk, every stare full of need—it’s carved into me now.”
“Then we must celebrate properly,” Ismail said, his tone turning conspiratorial. “I’ll be coming next month—with my bride. Let’s call it a double honeymoon.”
“You bring your young wife, I’ll bring my stolen queen,” Ramu replied, chuckling. “We’ll toast under the stars and compare battle scars.”
“Battle scars and breast milk,” Ismail quipped.
They both laughed, old lungs wheezing under the weight of mischief and desire.
The call ended not with goodbye but with silence—a comfortable, knowing one. Two old lions roaring one last time, still hungry for the hunt, still willing to burn for the taste of forbidden fire.
------------
Ramu leaned against the doorframe of Sakshi's kitchen, watching her rinse out a vessel, the morning sun casting golden glints off the edge of her cheekbone. He cleared his throat, drawing her attention.
She looked up. "What? Why that look on your face?"
He smirked. "I need to ask you something... and I want you to really consider it. Don’t say no immediately."
She turned fully, drying her hands. "What now? Another one of your rules?"
"No, this is... different," he said. "Ismail Bhai. He’s getting married. Again."
She blinked. "Who the hell is Ismail? And how many wives has he had?"
Ramu chuckled. "Old friend. Retired tradesman. Sharp as ever. This’ll be his fourth wife. Young girl too."
"Fourth? What’s he collecting, cricket trophies?" she shot back, incredulous.
"Not trophies," Ramu said with a grin. "But experience. The girl was actually dating his grandson before she chose him instead. Bold girl."
"You're serious?"
"Yes, and he invited me. It’s next month. But he didn’t just ask me to come. He wants to meet you. Properly. Said I should bring you along."
Her eyes widened. "Are you insane? How can I go to someone’s wedding like that? What will I say? What if someone finds out?"
"Sakshi," he said, walking to her, voice softer now. "You don’t understand. He’s not just some friend. He’s... like a mirror. He gets it. He knows what we have. He supports it. You won’t be judged. And it’s just a wedding. No one will ask who you are. You’ll be with me. You’ll be safe."
She crossed her arms. "Still sounds crazy. I’m not going to some wedding like your... what? Secret wife? Mistress?"
He stepped closer, cupping her cheek. "You’re not a mistress. You’re mine. You know that. And I want to show that to someone who understands, someone who has walked this same path. He’s marrying a woman his grandson used to date. Do you see? He knows what it means to be judged and still choose desire."
She narrowed her eyes suddenly. "Wait... how does he know about *us*? You told him?"
Ramu hesitated, then nodded. "He’s not just anyone, Sakshi. I trust him. He’s the only one I can talk to like this. He gets it."
Her mouth tightened. "You told someone about *me*? Our private... this whole thing? Without asking me first?"
"He won’t judge you," Ramu said calmly. "He respects you. He told me I was lucky to have a woman like you. He admires your courage."
Sakshi stared at him, torn between anger and something warmer flickering underneath. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased. "He said that?"
Ramu stepped closer. "He did. And he wants to meet you because he already respects what we have. He called it rare."
She looked down, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "Still... next time, ask."
He raised both hands, mock surrender. "I swear. Cross my heart. Next time, full permission."
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed. He knows what it means to be judged and still choose desire."
Her jaw clenched. "I can't just vanish and go to a wedding. Murugan will never—"
"You’ll find a way," Ramu interrupted, gently. "You always do when you want something bad enough. And I know you want this. Think about it. A few days away. Just us. No hiding. No whispers."
She looked away, biting her lip. Her silence lingered.
"Say yes, Sakshi," he whispered. "Say yes for me."
After a long pause, she exhaled. "Fine. I’ll figure something out. But the lying to Murugan part... that’s on me."
Ramu smiled. "That’s my girl."
She smirked back. "Don’t get ahead of yourself. I haven’t started packing yet."
But deep inside, her heart was already running ahead of her.
-----
The phone rang just as Meena was finishing her tea. She smiled seeing Sakshi’s name and answered quickly.
“Hello, Sakshi! You’re calling early today.”
“Meena… I need your help,” Sakshi’s voice was hushed but urgent.
Meena sat upright. “What happened? You sound weird. Is everything okay?”
“I… I don’t know what to do. Ramu wants me to come with him to a wedding. His friend Ismail is getting married next month and he wants me there.”
“Wait, wait—who is Ismail?” Meena asked, confused. “And why are you even invited?”
“That’s the thing,” Sakshi said. “Ismail Bhai is a very old friend of Ramu. He’s getting married—to a girl who used to date his grandson. Can you believe that?”
“What?!” Meena shouted. “That’s like some scandal from a Tamil serial!”
“I know,” Sakshi sighed. “But that’s not the point. Ramu told him everything about us. About me. About what we’ve done.”
“Wait—what?” Meena’s tone dropped. “He told him? Without asking you?”
“I was furious at first,” Sakshi admitted. “But then… he told me Ismail didn’t judge. He said I must be special. And now… he wants to meet me. He even asked Ramu to bring me to the wedding.”
Meena exhaled sharply. “And you want to go.”
“I do,” Sakshi said. “But I have no idea what to tell Murugan. I can’t just say I’m going to a wedding with another man.”
They were both silent for a long moment.
Meena finally said, “So what do we do?”
“I was hoping you’d help me figure it out,” Sakshi said.
“Okay, okay,” Meena muttered. “Let’s think. We need a reason for you to travel. Somewhere believable. Something your husband won’t question.”
“A wedding?” Sakshi offered tentatively.
“Yes—but not Ismail’s,” Meena said, catching on. “We invent one. What if… what if we say it’s my cousin’s wedding? Somewhere a little far, so you need to stay a few days?”
“That could work,” Sakshi said slowly.
“You’ll say you promised long ago to attend. I’ll say I was planning to go with you, but I can’t anymore—sick, or family emergency. So you go alone, representing my side.”
Sakshi started to smile. “You’ll write up a fake card?”
“Already thinking about the fonts,” Meena said with a grin. “Actually, forget sending it. I’ll come over tomorrow with the card myself. Make it look official. I’ll even bring some sweets. Let Murugan see it’s all real.”
“Thank you,” Sakshi said, her voice soft. “You always save me.”
“You’re doing this for love, Sakshi. Or madness. Maybe both. But you deserve to live it your way.”
They sat in the quiet, letting the plan settle around them.
“I’ll call Murugan tonight,” Sakshi said. “I’ll tell him about your cousin’s wedding.”
“Good. Just don’t over-explain. Keep it simple.”
“I will.”
Meena smiled into the receiver. “Let me know what he says. And send me your saree pics once you pick them.”
Sakshi laughed. “Deal.”
-------
Sakshi stood by the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on the edge of her saree. Murugan was seated on the floor, scrolling his phone after dinner, their son half-asleep in his lap. She took a breath, rehearsed the tone in her head, and stepped forward.
“Murugan,” she began casually, trying not to sound too deliberate.
He looked up with a faint grunt. “Hmm?”
“You remember Mythili? That girl from our college—used to come with her father to temple functions? We both knew her, but I was closer to her,” she said, adjusting her voice to sound like the memory had just resurfaced.
Murugan paused. “Mythili... vaguely. What about her?”
“She’s getting married,” Sakshi said. “In Tirunelveli. I only found out today when Meena forwarded me a message about it.”
Murugan didn’t react much. “Okay?”
“I might have to go. She’s not exactly my best friend or anything, but we were very close during college days. We lost touch after marriage, but Meena’s been in contact more than I was. Apparently Mythili’s family asked about me and said they’d be sending an invite.”
He looked up more directly now. “You’re telling me you want to go to a wedding without an invite yet?”
“I’m not saying I’m going for sure,” Sakshi countered gently. “I just wanted to let you know. If the invite comes, I think I should go. It’ll just be for two days. Probably stay over one night max. It’s nothing big.”
Murugan sighed and adjusted their son, who had slipped further down his lap. “You’re saying all this now... who’s going with you?”
“Meena and I might go together,” she said, keeping her tone casual. “She’s still figuring out her schedule, but if she’s free, we’ll travel together. It’ll be easier that way.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And our son? You expect me to handle work and him?”
“You’re his father,” she replied, then softened her tone. “And you’ve handled him before. I’ll prep everything before I go. I won’t leave you stranded. Just think of it as one weekend.”
He didn’t reply, going back to scrolling.
“Like I said,” she added, backing away, “nothing’s final. I just didn’t want to spring it on you last minute.”
Murugan muttered something she didn’t catch.
She turned back to the sink, keeping her face composed. Her heart, though, was racing. First step: done.
------------
It was just past eleven when Meena arrived, her dupatta swinging over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Sakshi opened the door with a wide grin and hugged her in instantly, holding the embrace for a second longer, the excitement between them unspoken but loud.
“You came before time,” Sakshi whispered with a sly smile. “Good. I needed someone to share this madness with before I lose my nerve.”
“I couldn’t sit still at home,” Meena replied. “The drama we’re about to pull off... I needed to see your face and get every detail straight.”
Sakshi laughed and guided her inside. The aroma of roasted spices and freshly fried snacks lingered through the compact home, mingling with the scent of sandalwood oil from the incense burning in a corner. Plates clinked softly from the kitchen as Sakshi returned to finish arranging snacks, the tension in her shoulders masked by the rhythmic movements of her hands.
“You’re making those ribbon pakoras he likes?” Meena asked, peeking in through the half-drawn curtain that separated the kitchen from the living area.
“Of course,” Sakshi said with a knowing glance. “He can smell it from a mile away. It's bait, basically.”
The door from upstairs creaked loudly. Heavy, deliberate footsteps made their way down the wooden steps. Meena straightened her kurta and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Sakshi turned toward the hallway with an impish grin.
“Ah,” she called with a raised brow. “Ramu anna, come. Come meet the partner-in-crime I keep talking about—the one who taught me all my tricks.”
Ramu appeared at the hallway’s edge, his vest loosely tucked into his lungi, beard freshly trimmed, and his hair combed back with unusual precision. He looked like he had dressed up just enough to appear casual. His eyes flicked between Meena and Sakshi, but lingered on Sakshi just a moment longer than necessary, a silent message in his gaze.
“So this is the troublemaker,” he said, smirking at Meena, but walking straight to Sakshi. Without a pause, he leaned in, placed a slow kiss on her neck, and then followed with a firm smooch on her cheek.
“She talks about you nonstop,” he added, eyes still on her.
Meena raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “And here I thought I’d walked into a kitchen. Clearly it’s a honeymoon suite in disguise.”
Sakshi laughed and nudged Ramu away with a flushed smile. “Behave, you rascal. She’s here to work, not witness a matinee show.”
Ramu raised both hands in mock surrender but stayed close.
“Let’s talk plan,” Sakshi said as she gestured to the tray of pakoras and moved toward the small dining table. The three of them settled in, the air buzzing with the thrill of the lie they were about to bring to life.
Meena opened her bag and pulled out a neat envelope with shimmering gold script. “Mythili—you remember her, right? We all went to college together. She was the quiet one with the strict mother. This makes it believable.”
“Here,” she said, handing the envelope to Sakshi. “Fake invitation, courtesy of my graphic designer cousin. Took a lot of pleading to get him to make it look this legit.”
Sakshi took it, flipping it open. It looked indistinguishable from a real wedding card, complete with embossed names and Tamil scrollwork.
“I’ll come around six-thirty,” Meena continued, tapping her phone for emphasis. “Just before Murugan returns from the office. I’ll wait near the gate. When you hear his key in the door, give me a signal—maybe that old ringtone you never use.”
Sakshi nodded. “He usually takes ten minutes to freshen up. That’s your window. I’ll keep snacks ready so his mood stays neutral.”
“I walk in,” Meena said, dramatizing her words with hand gestures. “Say it’s urgent, invite you to our old college friend Mythili’s wedding, and hand the card. While I’m pretending to explain, I’ll get a fake call from the app. I’ll say my mother-in-law needs me urgently. That way I can’t go, and you offer to attend instead.”
Ramu leaned back, arms folded across his chest, the faint outline of a grin forming beneath his beard. “And my part in this soap opera?”
Sakshi smirked. “You show up just after the fake call. I told you, your nose will bring you here anyway because of the pakoras. You’ve also been invited—but weren’t planning to attend because going alone felt awkward.”
“Then I discover she’s going,” Ramu added, eyes lighting up. “Perfect coincidence. Very filmi.”
“Exactly,” Meena said, nodding. “You say something like, ‘Oh? That’s the same wedding? Small world!’ Now you have a reason to go.”
Ramu nodded thoughtfully. “Simple. Subtle. Solid.”
“You’re the only man who can say that while chewing pakoras like it’s life and death,” Meena teased.
He shrugged. “Multitasking is my real talent.”
They all laughed, the tension softening just a bit. Sakshi leaned her elbow on the table, her voice quieter now.
“I still feel nervous,” she admitted. “The whole thing is a risk.”
“You’ll do fine,” Meena reassured, reaching across to squeeze her hand. “The script is tight. Just breathe, stick to the lines, and act like you’re doing nothing wrong.”
Ramu looked at her with a warmth that bordered on pride. “You’re not alone in this, Sakshi. We’re in it together.”
Sakshi looked between the two people seated across from her—her oldest friend and her newest desire. She nodded, brushing her fingers over the edge of the steel plate absently.
This was reckless. It was thrilling. It was happening. And it felt more real than anything else she’d done in years.
----------------
It was just past eleven when Meena arrived, her dupatta swinging over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Sakshi opened the door with a wide grin and hugged her in instantly, holding the embrace for a second longer, the excitement between them unspoken but loud.
“You came before time,” Sakshi whispered with a sly smile. “Good. I needed someone to share this madness with before I lose my nerve.”
“I couldn’t sit still at home,” Meena replied. “The drama we’re about to pull off... I needed to see your face and get every detail straight.”
Sakshi laughed and guided her inside. The aroma of roasted spices and freshly fried snacks lingered through the compact home, mingling with the scent of sandalwood oil from the incense burning in a corner. Plates clinked softly from the kitchen as Sakshi returned to finish arranging snacks, the tension in her shoulders masked by the rhythmic movements of her hands.
“You’re making those ribbon pakoras he likes?” Meena asked, peeking in through the half-drawn curtain that separated the kitchen from the living area.
“Of course,” Sakshi said with a knowing glance. “He can smell it from a mile away. It's bait, basically.”
The door from upstairs creaked loudly. Heavy, deliberate footsteps made their way down the wooden steps. Meena straightened her kurta and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Sakshi turned toward the hallway with an impish grin.
“Ah,” she called with a raised brow. “Ramu anna, come. Come meet the partner-in-crime I keep talking about—the one who taught me all my tricks.”
Ramu appeared at the hallway’s edge, his vest loosely tucked into his lungi, beard freshly trimmed, and his hair combed back with unusual precision. He looked like he had dressed up just enough to appear casual. His eyes flicked between Meena and Sakshi, but lingered on Sakshi just a moment longer than necessary, a silent message in his gaze.
“So this is the troublemaker,” he said, smirking at Meena, but walking straight to Sakshi. Without a pause, he leaned in, placed a slow kiss on her neck, and then followed with a firm smooch on her cheek.
“She talks about you nonstop,” he added, eyes still on her.
Meena raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “And here I thought I’d walked into a kitchen. Clearly it’s a honeymoon suite in disguise.”
Sakshi laughed and nudged Ramu away with a flushed smile. “Behave, you rascal. She’s here to work, not witness a matinee show.”
Ramu raised both hands in mock surrender but stayed close.
“Let’s talk plan,” Sakshi said as she gestured to the tray of pakoras and moved toward the small dining table. The three of them settled in, the air buzzing with the thrill of the lie they were about to bring to life.
Meena opened her bag and pulled out a neat envelope with shimmering gold script. “Mythili—you remember her, right? We all went to college together. She was the quiet one with the strict mother. This makes it believable.”
“Here,” she said, handing the envelope to Sakshi. “Fake invitation, courtesy of my graphic designer cousin. Took a lot of pleading to get him to make it look this legit.”
Sakshi took it, flipping it open. It looked indistinguishable from a real wedding card, complete with embossed names and Tamil scrollwork.
“I’ll come around six-thirty,” Meena continued, tapping her phone for emphasis. “Just before Murugan returns from the office. I’ll wait near the gate. When you hear his key in the door, give me a signal—maybe that old ringtone you never use.”
Sakshi nodded. “He usually takes ten minutes to freshen up. That’s your window. I’ll keep snacks ready so his mood stays neutral.”
“I walk in,” Meena said, dramatizing her words with hand gestures. “Say it’s urgent, invite you to our old college friend Mythili’s wedding, and hand the card. While I’m pretending to explain, I’ll get a fake call from the app. I’ll say my mother-in-law needs me urgently. That way I can’t go, and you offer to attend instead.”
Ramu leaned back, arms folded across his chest, the faint outline of a grin forming beneath his beard. “And my part in this soap opera?”
Sakshi smirked. “You show up just after the fake call. I told you, your nose will bring you here anyway because of the pakoras. You’ve also been invited—but weren’t planning to attend because going alone felt awkward.”
“Then I discover she’s going,” Ramu added, eyes lighting up. “Perfect coincidence. Very filmi.”
“Exactly,” Meena said, nodding. “You say something like, ‘Oh? That’s the same wedding? Small world!’ Now you have a reason to go.”
Ramu nodded thoughtfully. “Simple. Subtle. Solid.”
“You’re the only man who can say that while chewing pakoras like it’s life and death,” Meena teased.
He shrugged. “Multitasking is my real talent.”
They all laughed, the tension softening just a bit. Sakshi leaned her elbow on the table, her voice quieter now.
“I still feel nervous,” she admitted. “The whole thing is a risk.”
“You’ll do fine,” Meena reassured, reaching across to squeeze her hand. “The script is tight. Just breathe, stick to the lines, and act like you’re doing nothing wrong.”
Ramu looked at her with a warmth that bordered on pride. “You’re not alone in this, Sakshi. We’re in it together.”
Sakshi looked between the two people seated across from her—her oldest friend and her newest desire. She nodded, brushing her fingers over the edge of the steel plate absently.
This was reckless. It was thrilling. It was happening. And it felt more real than anything else she’d done in years.
Murugan pushed the front gate open, his steps heavy with the fatigue of the day. He dragged his feet slightly, shoulders slumped, office bag hanging loose on one side and his helmet still dangling from the crook of his elbow. The sun was beginning to dip low, casting golden streaks through the grille of the compound gate. As he approached the front door, the familiar and comforting scent of fried pakoras hit his nose, causing his brows to lift slightly in surprise.
Inside, Sakshi stood by the window with Meena, peeking discreetly between the curtain folds. As soon as she spotted Murugan’s dusty shoes outside, she gave Meena a quick but confident nod.
“That’s him,” she murmured. “He’ll go straight to freshen up. Give it a minute, then you come in.”
Meena nodded, her heart pounding a bit faster than usual. The weight of their plan settled around her like a shawl, light yet ever-present.
The sound of keys jingling reached the door. The lock clicked, and Murugan stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room like he always did—looking first for the child, then the fan, then finally for Sakshi.
“Back, Sakshi,” he called out, loosening the strap of his bag as he kicked off his shoes and lined them up on the mat.
“Hmm, I’m here,” she called from the kitchen, her voice perfectly neutral. “Go freshen up. I’ve kept your clothes on the bed.”
He gave a tired grunt, barely nodding, and moved toward the bedroom, already pulling off his belt with one hand.
Meena straightened her dupatta and crept toward the door. She opened it quietly, slipped in with practiced ease, and gently shut it behind her. The light knock had been symbolic—it was already unlocked.
Inside, she stood in the hallway, eyes scanning the room with casual interest. A few moments later, Murugan stepped back out, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from a quick splash of water.
His eyes caught Meena’s figure almost instantly. He blinked, half-surprised, half-curious.
“Oh! Meena,” he said, adjusting the towel on his neck. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”
Meena offered a cheerful smile and brought her palms together briefly. “Surprise visit! I was nearby running a few errands. It’s been so long since I saw both of you together, I thought—why not drop in?”
Murugan gave a small chuckle, his shoulders relaxing a little. “It really has been a while. Still working those wild shifts of yours?”
Meena rolled her eyes dramatically. “Worse than ever. I barely get time to breathe. Between calls, home, and the occasional guilt trip from my in-laws, this little stopover feels like a vacation.”
He laughed again, this time more naturally. “That bad, huh?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to switch places with me,” she said with a wink.
At that moment, Sakshi emerged from the kitchen, balancing three steel tumblers of coffee on a tray, along with a small bowl of hot pakoras. The smell was now rich and pervasive, the kind that made mouths water before the plate hit the table.
“There’s no escape from her chatter,” Sakshi said playfully, handing Meena a tumbler first, then Murugan. “You just walked in and she’s already recapping her entire month.”
“All part of the plan,” Meena quipped, settling into the corner of the sofa. “Besides, I need something hot and fried to go with all the nonsense I bring with me.”
Murugan accepted the coffee and took a cautious sip. “Perfect temperature. And the pakoras—smelled them from the gate.”
“Then my timing was divine,” Meena replied. “You bring the tired face, I bring the gossip. Sakshi brings the snacks. Balance is restored.”
Murugan leaned back against the wall, visibly more at ease. His tie was still tucked into his pocket, and his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar. The tension in the room was almost completely disguised beneath this casual banter, every moment practiced, but not stiff.
Sakshi perched on the edge of the chair, her smile patient, as if waiting for the curtain to rise.
The performance would begin shortly.
Just as Meena settled back into the sofa with her tumbler of coffee and Sakshi handed Murugan a refill of pakoras, there came a knock—slow and unmistakable. Not too urgent, not too casual. It landed like a signal, just as they'd all anticipated. Sakshi and Meena exchanged a brief glance, Meena hiding her slight nervous smile behind her tumbler.
“That’ll be Ramu anna,” Sakshi said, her tone light and even as she wiped her hands on her saree pallu and stood up with casual grace.
Before she could take two steps toward the door, Murugan was already moving. “I’ll get it,” he offered, still chewing on a pakora as he wiped his fingers on a nearby towel.
He swung the door open, revealing Ramu in his usual comfortable attire—vest tucked into a loose lungi, hands casually behind his back. The man stood as if summoned by scent alone, which, in truth, he had been.
“Ah, Ramu anna!” Murugan greeted, breaking into a genuine smile. “Your timing, as always, is surgical. Come, come in.”
Ramu gave a humble nod, his eyes already scanning the air like a hunter locking onto his prize. “Smelled that magic from upstairs. The scent was too strong to ignore. Figured something sinful was happening in this kitchen.”
Murugan chuckled and stepped aside, gesturing inside with a wave of his hand. “You know how she gets when the oil’s hot. She made enough to feed a festival.”
As Ramu stepped in, wiping his forehead with a folded handkerchief, his eyes landed on Meena. She was halfway into a sip of coffee and paused with a polite smile, adjusting her dupatta slightly.
“Oh, we have company today?” Ramu asked, his tone friendly but measured, the way elders often spoke when walking into a room that was a little warmer than expected.
“Yes,” Murugan said as he closed the door. “Ramu anna, this is Meena—Sakshi’s childhood friend. You may have heard her name now and then. Meena, this is Ramu—our upstairs neighbor.”
Meena rose partway, giving a quick, respectful nod and smile. “Nice to finally meet you, Ramu anna. I’ve heard you have a sixth sense for pakoras.”
Ramu let out a hearty laugh, the kind that came from deep in the belly. “Not gossip, I’m afraid. It’s been medically proven. If there’s something crispy on the stove, I appear. Like magic.”
“Then it’s a good thing we didn’t burn them,” Sakshi said, appearing again with another steel tumbler of coffee and a fresh plate of pakoras stacked in golden spirals. She placed them gently on the table beside Ramu’s seat.
“Perfect timing, always,” she said with a wink. “You show up just when the second batch finishes.”
“Good things come to those who wait upstairs,” he quipped, lowering himself slowly into the cushioned corner of the sofa with a contented sigh.
Murugan pulled up a plastic chair and leaned back, still sipping his coffee. “This is exactly what I needed after a day like this. Pakoras, hot coffee, and surprise guests.”
“You look like the day chewed you up,” Ramu said to him, eyeing his disheveled shirt and damp forehead.
“Work’s been brutal,” Murugan admitted. “Clients think everything can be done in a minute. They should try actually doing the job once in their life.”
Meena laughed. “They probably wouldn’t last an hour.”
Ramu nodded at her. “So what do you do, Meena?”
“I work with a telecom company. Support side. My job is to listen to frustrated people scream into phones,” she said, sipping again.
“Ah,” Ramu said. “So you’re like a therapist with a mute button.”
“Exactly,” Meena replied with a grin.
Sakshi busied herself clearing empty plates and wiping the side table, her ears tuned to every word as she kept an eye on the time.
The conversation continued with the ease of new acquaintances, the setting sun casting soft shadows across the living room tiles. Murugan leaned into the backrest, letting his shoulders sink. Meena laughed more freely now, and Ramu settled in like he belonged to the rhythm of the room.
The stage was now full. Every actor in place. The curtain hadn’t risen yet, but the first breath of the script was hanging in the air.
The invitation was coming—it just hadn’t been spoken aloud. Not yet.
After a few more shared laughs and another round of hot coffee, Meena leaned forward, setting her now-empty tumbler down gently on the table. Her eyes flicked toward Sakshi—just enough for a silent nod between conspirators.
Murugan, stretching his arms behind his head, looked over with mild suspicion. “What now? That look between you two never ends in peace.”
Meena grinned. “Well, I didn’t just come to eat your pakoras and gossip about office politics.”
Murugan chuckled. “I knew it. There’s always an agenda.”
Sakshi smirked and shook her head. “You sound like some overworked minister. Calm down.”
Meena reached into her sling bag and pulled out a neatly folded envelope. “This is actually for you, Sakshi. Someone asked me to pass it along.”
Sakshi took it with a puzzled look, unfolding the card slowly, as if only now discovering its contents. “Oh wow... it’s Mythili’s wedding.”
Murugan blinked. “Who’s Mythili?”
Sakshi answered before Meena could. “She was a close college friend of mine. We lost touch after I got married and moved. She apparently got back in touch with Meena recently and asked her to hand this to me. She doesn’t have my number or address anymore, so Meena became the messenger.”
Meena nodded. “Yeah, she bumped into my cousin at a temple event and asked about Sakshi. When she heard we still talk, she insisted I deliver the invite personally. She's getting married next month in Tirunelveli. Very small wedding—mostly family.”
Murugan looked between them. “So you’re going?”
Sakshi glanced at the invite, then back at him. “If you’re okay with it. Meena might not be able to go due to her schedule, and since Mythili personally sent this... I feel like I should go.”
Murugan groaned playfully. “So now I’m going to be left here with our little monkey, huh?”
“You’ve handled worse,” Sakshi teased. “I’ll do all the prep. You’ll just have to follow the list.”
He shook his head. “It’s not just about food or clothes. He’s two, Sakshi. I can’t leave him home alone while I’m at work.”
“I’ve thought of that,” she said quickly. “Meena has a contact who does part-time childcare. A neighbor’s daughter. She’s good with toddlers, comes highly recommended. She’ll come over during work hours, just for two days. You’ll be here in the evenings. It’s just to cover those working hours.”
Murugan raised an eyebrow. “And you trust this girl?”
Meena jumped in. “She helped out at my cousin’s house for a whole month during a wedding. Very decent girl. I wouldn’t suggest anyone shady, da.”
Sakshi added, “I’ll meet her myself before finalizing. You’ll be home for breakfast and dinner. She’ll only handle a few hours midday. I’ll leave everything organized—meals prepped, clothes sorted, even notes on nap times.”
Murugan rubbed his chin. “This is starting to sound like a military operation.”
“Because it is,” Sakshi said with a smile. “You’ll only miss me emotionally.”
Murugan exhaled with a smirk. “You act like that’s not a big deal. I can’t sleep if your side of the bed is cold.”
“I’ll call every night,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And when I come back, I’ll spoil both of you.”
He grumbled, but the fight was leaving him. “Alright, alright. But if I end up feeding him biscuits and curd rice all weekend, don’t complain.”
Meena laughed. “He’ll love the freedom.”
Murugan gave her a playful glare. “You’re not helping.”
Ramu, who had been quietly munching on pakoras and sipping his coffee with a knowing smile, finally chimed in, wiping his fingers on the edge of his lungi.
"Aiyo, Murugan," he said, voice slow and deliberate, "let the ladies go have some fun, no? You’ll survive one weekend without your queen hovering over your every move."
Murugan chuckled, shaking his head. "Easy for you to say, you don’t have a two-year-old running around demanding dinosaur cartoons at 6 AM."
Ramu grinned. "True. But you’ll manage. You’re a man, aren’t you? We built houses, roads, kingdoms—and now you’re afraid of one toddler and a feeding schedule?"
Meena burst out laughing. "He has a point."
Sakshi raised an eyebrow with mock sternness. "Are you helping me or roasting my husband?"
Ramu leaned back and folded his arms. "Both. He needs it. Let the ladies breathe. This is 2025, not 1950."
Murugan smirked and threw up his hands. "Fine, fine. One toddler. One curd rice weekend. I’ll take the hit for Team Husband."
The invitation had been delivered—convincingly, naturally. And though the truth behind it was something else entirely, the play continued to unfold, one careful line at a time.
Just as the air felt ready to shift into the next beat of their meticulously rehearsed plan, something small—but crucial—went awry.
Meena, seated cross-legged beside Sakshi on the living room rug, carefully tilted her phone screen toward her. Her thumb tapped the fake call app once, then again, more firmly. Still nothing. The screen froze mid-load, unresponsive to every tap. No ringtone. No buzzing vibration. No simulated caller ID. It was as if the app had betrayed them in their moment of need.
A bead of sweat formed at her temple despite the fan humming above. Panic whispered up her spine.
Without turning her head, she subtly leaned the screen toward Sakshi and quickly typed a message into the notepad app, barely blinking as she hit 'Save.'
**"App not working. No call. Abort for now. Pretend everything is normal. I’ll come again tomorrow. We’ll fix this."**
Sakshi read the text from the corner of her eye. Her pulse quickened. She tightened her grip on the tumbler in her lap, knuckles whitening around the stainless steel. But somehow, she forced a smile onto her lips just as Murugan turned to her and began talking about how their toddler had insisted on taking a spoon to bed last night.
Sakshi nodded along, barely hearing him.
Meena, slipping her phone into her bag, cleared her throat and spoke into the quiet lull.
“You know,” she began, her voice animated but relaxed, “I was thinking of going to the bazaar tomorrow. I need to pick up something decent for Mythili’s wedding. I swear, if I go alone, I’ll end up buying another salwar that looks like every other one I own.”
Murugan looked up, mid-sip. “You and your shopping plans,” he muttered with a smirk. “Why tomorrow?”
“Weekend crowd’s better than weekday rush. Less pushing, more options,” Meena replied instantly, her performance fluid.
Sakshi picked up the cue without missing a beat. “Actually, yeah... sounds like a good idea. I haven’t shopped properly in ages. I could use something fresh for the wedding too.”
Murugan raised an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Well, I’m not coming with you. Just imagining standing outside that saree shop again gives me a headache.”
“Don’t worry,” Meena said, giving a bright laugh. “We weren’t going to ask you to suffer through that again.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Go, go. Take your time. Just don’t drag the boy along. He’ll make it worse.”
“I’ll leave him with you,” Sakshi said, feigning innocence.
Murugan looked at her. “I knew that was coming.”
The shift had worked. Their failed move had turned seamlessly into a new setup. The plan was still alive—just postponed until tomorrow.

[Dumeelkumar]

Super update. Now this old bastard is going to share her for threesome with ismail.

[NityaSakti]

She is liking when Ramu is humiliating her husband. She has removed the mangalsutra and she is not wife of her husband. she is wife of Ramu. She should divorce her husband and officially become wife of Ramu. Nice one

[Deepak Sanjeev]

Good update

[Rangabaashyam]

Let sakshi become pregnant with bastard child and fool her husband that it is god given child without any physical with him. that wimpy fool will believe and say, god has saved my time and energy. ha ha ha

[Yesudoss]

Awesomeee

[yodam69420]

The morning sun bathed the kitchen in a soft, golden hue, its warmth glinting off the steel vessels stacked neatly on the shelf. The rich aroma of dosa and sambar filled the air, wafting through the home like a comforting embrace. Sakshi moved between the stove and the dining table with practiced ease, flipping dosas on the tawa and plating them while keeping a watchful eye on the bubbling sambar. Her saree was pinned just right, hair loosely braided, her movements steady despite the growing current of anticipation that buzzed beneath the surface.
Meena leaned against the granite counter, one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a tall steel tumbler of filter coffee. A playful grin tugged at her lips, though her eyes remained sharp, flicking occasionally toward Sakshi in shared understanding.
Murugan sat at the table, scooping small pieces of dosa into their toddler’s mouth while making train noises with exaggerated gusto. “Chuk-chuk-chuk... here comes the dosa express!” The boy giggled, banging the table with sticky hands.
Ramu had arrived just moments earlier, bathed, his white vest freshly pressed, lungi folded neatly above his knees. His hair was slicked back and his demeanor unusually alert for a man who normally grunted through mornings. He greeted Murugan with a brief smile and a nod and quietly took his seat at the far end of the table. Meena had discreetly passed him a folded wedding invitation card from the groom’s side just before stepping into the house—an essential prop for what was to come. Ramu had accepted it without a word, slipping it neatly into his shirt pocket.
The mood in the house was deceptively casual. Laughter floated easily through the air, the clink of tumblers and sizzle of oil punctuating the soft hum of the ceiling fan. But beneath it all, tension stirred quietly, waiting for the cue.
“I still think that new shop in the bazaar has the better blouse pieces,” Meena said, tearing into her dosa. “Bright colors, good fabric, and not too overpriced. We’ll check it out after breakfast, right?”
Sakshi nodded, ladling more batter onto the tawa. “Yes. The earlier we leave, the better. The sun is already rising fast.”
Murugan snorted without looking up. “I told you already—I’m not stepping into that circus again. Too many women and too many choices. Makes my head spin.”
“No one asked you to come, Murugan,” Meena said sweetly, tossing him a look. “We’re well-trained to do the hunting alone.”
Just then, Meena’s phone, placed on silent, buzzed with an incoming call. It vibrated across the countertop slightly before she reached out and picked it up. She glanced at the screen, frowned, and quickly accepted the call.
“Hello?” she said, her voice rising a pitch. “Now? What happened?”
She turned away from the dining table, stepping slightly into the hallway, one hand resting on her hip, eyes narrowing in concentration.
“What? Now? Are you serious?” A pause. “She was hospitalized? What happened?” Another pause. “Okay, okay. I’ll come. I’ll book my tickets today. I’ll call you back.”
With a sigh, Meena ended the call and turned to face the room again. Her expression had shifted—tight-lipped, annoyed, and ever-so-slightly dramatic.
Sakshi arched a brow. “Is something wrong?”
Meena let out a long breath. “That was my chitti’s daughter. She’s suddenly been hospitalized in Hyderabad and my mom wants me to go check on her and help out there. It’s nothing life-threatening, but there’s no one else available right now. I’ll have to leave by tonight and might be gone most of the coming week.”
Sakshi’s shoulders dropped. Her smile faded. She turned back to the stove, flipping the dosa automatically. “So it’s over then? I can’t go either. You know I can’t travel alone, not with Murugan at work and the baby at home.”
Murugan, overhearing, lifted his head with a slight grin of relief. “Well, these things happen. Last-minute changes. Best to just stay put.”
Before the disappointment could settle too deep, Ramu, who had been finishing the last bite of his dosa in thoughtful silence, cleared his throat and dabbed his mouth with a towel.
“Actually,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “I think I might have received a wedding invitation too. My friend’s grandson gave it to me last week when he came by. I didn’t really look at it. Could be the same week.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“I didn’t check the date or where exactly. It’s still in my room,” he added, patting the front of his vest. “Let me go bring it. I’ll see if it lines up.”
He stood up, adjusting his lungi slightly and brushing dosa crumbs off his thighs. The room went quiet again, each of them processing the sudden shift, the new ripple in their carefully staged waters.
Meena and Sakshi exchanged a silent glance, the tension in the air returning like a slow, steady tide.
Ramu walked out of the kitchen toward the stairs with the calm of a man retrieving fate from a drawer.
The scene was resetting itself. And everyone at the table knew: the next act was about to begin.
Ramu returned a few minutes later, holding a slightly crumpled cream-colored envelope in his hand. The edges were worn soft, the corners slightly bent, a clear sign that the card had been handled carelessly and then forgotten—until now. The gold-embossed script shimmered faintly under the kitchen’s flickering fluorescent light, giving the invitation an air of ceremonial weight. He walked in with his signature leisurely pace, one hand behind his back and the envelope held delicately in the other, like he was presenting a relic instead of just paper.
He handed it to Meena with the air of a man delivering final proof. She accepted it with both hands and carefully unfolded it, smoothing the creases like a seasoned reader of secrets.
Sakshi stood only a few feet away, drying a plate with a towel. She paused, eyes shifting toward the card with practiced indifference. Murugan sat frozen at the table, eyes fixed on his now-cold coffee as if it could shield him from what was coming.
Meena read the card and her eyebrows lifted. "Wait a second... this is Mythili’s wedding too," she said slowly, glancing up at Ramu. "Same date, same hall, same groom. This one’s just from the groom’s side."
She passed the card to Sakshi, who took it slowly. Her eyes darted over the gold script, confirming every detail line by line. Venue, time, names—it was all identical. Her fingers tightened on the card just slightly before she handed it back to Ramu.
“So we were all talking about the same wedding this whole time,” she said with a dry chuckle, meeting Meena’s eyes.
“Exactly,” Meena replied. “You got the bride’s side. Ramu got the groom’s. Tamil weddings always come with double paperwork.”
Murugan finally looked up. “So you’re both going to the same wedding and didn’t even know it?”
Ramu gave a casual shrug. “Didn’t bother checking mine. I wasn’t planning to go. Traveling alone at this age? No fun. My boys are busy, and I don’t enjoy dragging myself through long bus rides just to stand in line for coffee at someone else’s celebration.”
He paused, then added with a slight smirk, “But now that I have potential company, maybe it’s worth reconsidering.”
Meena’s eyes lit up. “Perfect! Since I can’t go anymore and Sakshi had everything packed already, it only makes sense. You both were invited to the same wedding. Go together!”
A heavy pause filled the room like thick steam.
Ramu turned to Sakshi with a grin that hovered between polite and knowing. “I wouldn’t mind. Would be nice to travel with someone who doesn’t need constant bathroom breaks and knows how to enjoy silence.”
Sakshi didn’t respond. Her gaze drifted toward Murugan, who had grown visibly stiff. His lips were a tight line, hands resting on the table like he wasn’t sure whether to clench them or not.
Meena chimed in. “You already said you can’t take leave, Murugan. This is just a wedding—not a pilgrimage. And you know how excited Sakshi was.”
Ramu leaned on the back of the chair with one arm. “Besides, I’m probably the safest option around here. No offense, Murugan, but even the street dogs trust me with their pups.”
Murugan scoffed, “That’s because they know you won’t run after anyone.”
Ramu grinned. “Maybe not run, but I can walk slowly and charm them along the way.”
Meena laughed loudly. “See? That’s what Sakshi needs on this trip. Charm, not chaperones.”
Murugan's eyes flicked to his wife, who still said nothing. She was calm, unreadable—but waiting.
“It’s not like they’re strangers,” Meena added more gently. “Same wedding, same destination. You want her to stay behind just because plans shifted a little?”
Ramu said, “Look, I won’t even touch her suitcase if that helps your blood pressure.”
Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “Unless she asks nicely.”
Murugan narrowed his eyes. “You’ve always had too much tongue for an old man.”
Ramu chuckled, unfazed. “And still your wife doesn’t seem to mind. Must be the stories I tell.”
Sakshi’s lips twitched into a smile despite herself.
Murugan finally sighed, a long, theatrical exhale that filled the room.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let her go. But if you two come back with coordinated outfits or some secret handshake, I swear—”
“I’ll teach it to you too,” Ramu interrupted with a wink.
“Deal,” Meena said before anyone could argue.
Sakshi gave Murugan one final look. Not triumphant. Not guilty. Just grateful.
Ramu clapped his hands together. “Then we’ll pack light and bring back only memories—and maybe some sweets, if you behave.”
Murugan gave one final grunt. “Just behave, both of you.”
Ramu winked. “Always, Murugan. Especially when I’m not.”
And with that, the matter was settled.
The following morning, the mood in the house had settled into a strange blend of relief and anticipation. The breakfast table was quieter than usual, but not in an uncomfortable way—more like a calm before the next flurry of activity. Sakshi poured coffee into the tumblers while Meena munched on a piece of toast, scrolling on her phone.
“Any updates?” Sakshi asked, sliding her tumbler toward Meena.
“Yeah,” Meena said, looking up with a sigh. “I checked the flights again. Nothing available tonight. The earliest I can go is tomorrow morning. So I’ve still got one day here.”
“That’s something, at least,” Sakshi said, managing a smile. “One last outing before you vanish into wedding chaos.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Meena grinned and stretched. “So, madam, shall we go shopping today anyway? Even if I can’t attend the wedding, you still need to find something to stun the groom’s side.”
Sakshi chuckled. “I won’t even know half the people there.”
“Even better,” Meena said with mock drama. “New people, new saree. Let’s go find something with just enough backless drama.”
Murugan, passing by with his towel slung over one shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “As long as it still has a back.”
Meena rolled her eyes. “You sound like her father-in-law.”
He smirked. “Well, someone has to.”
Sakshi shook her head. “I’m wearing whatever I want. No lectures.”
As the three laughed, Ramu stepped into the hall, scratching his head and yawning.
“Shopping?” he asked groggily.
“Yes,” Sakshi said, “we’re heading to the bazaar. Need to buy a saree, blouse material, and matching accessories. It’s going to be a full-day thing.”
“Want to come?” Meena asked, eyes twinkling. “We know you haven’t bought clothes in what—ten years?”
Ramu snorted. “Closer to fifteen. I think my last new shirt was from my son’s engagement.”
Sakshi tilted her head and gave him a look that danced just on the edge of teasing. "Aiyyo, Ramu anna, I can't let you come beside me at the wedding looking like a retired postman. People will think I'm escorting my uncle."
She winked deliberately, her voice honey-sweet. "Wouldn't you rather show up like a proper 'match' for me? Shirt pressed, a little cologne—who knows, I might even walk in with you on my arm."
Murugan, mid-sip of his coffee, choked slightly. "Sakshi... what nonsense."
"It’s not nonsense, Murugan," she said brightly. "We need to look presentable. Imagine the gossip if Ramu anna and I walk in—me glowing in silk, him glowing in sweat."
Ramu laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Now I have no choice, huh? She's threatening my image."
"Not threatening, just polishing," Sakshi replied, her tone dipped in mischief. "And besides..."—she leaned closer—"if you're well-dressed, I might even let you match my blouse color. Only if you behave."
Murugan stared into his coffee with a sour smile. "This house is becoming a drama stage."
Sakshi crossed her arms. “Then it’s settled. You’re coming. You can’t go to a wedding in that faded vest and lungi. We’ll help you pick something decent.”
Ramu grumbled playfully. “As long as you don’t put me in one of those shiny sequined shirts.”
“No promises,” Meena said. “You’ll look like a silver fox.”
Murugan emerged from the bedroom, buttoning up his shirt and glancing toward the lively chatter echoing through the hall. He lingered near the doorway for a moment, listening to the ripple of laughter that followed one of Sakshi’s quips. Ramu’s chuckle joined it, deep and amused, and Meena’s teasing reply overlapped with the clink of bangles as she readjusted her duppatta. He moved toward them slowly, brushing a crease from his shirtfront and raising an eyebrow as he stepped closer, observing the trio’s animated preparations. His gaze shifted from the handbags waiting by the door to Sakshi’s gleaming eyes, filled with playful fire. There was a strange flicker in his chest—faint and buried—but it lingered as he asked, with mock seriousness but a glint of hesitation, “So all set for your grand adventure to the bazaar, huh?” in the hall. He raised an eyebrow as he stepped closer. “So all set for your grand adventure to the bazaar, huh?”
“Of course,” Sakshi said, brushing a few strands of hair from her forehead. “We’ve recruited Meena for backup and dragged Ramu into this makeover mission. Can’t let him show up looking like the ghost of weddings past.”
Murugan laughed. “Good luck with that. Don’t let them overcharge you, anna.”
Ramu rolled his eyes. “If I survive this trip, I deserve sweets from both houses.”
“Done,” Meena said. “Now get your chappals. We leave in ten.”
Before grabbing her handbag, Sakshi turned slightly to Ramu, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Ramu anna, since you’re going to be my official partner for this wedding, I need your opinion.”
Ramu raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “My opinion?”
“Yes,” she said sweetly. “Tell me—what kind of saree would you want me to wear when we walk in together? Be honest. You’re my date now, after all.”
Meena burst into a snort-laugh while Murugan froze, eyes flicking upward slowly from his tumbler, his expression tightening though he didn’t speak.
Ramu chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention. “Ah, if you’re really asking… always wanted to see a deep maroon silk saree, thin gold border, pleated high. And the blouse…”—he grinned—“sleeveless, tight, with a low cut at the back. I tried for years to convince my wife, God rest her, to wear one like that. She’d chase me out with a broom every time.”
Sakshi placed a hand over her heart theatrically. “Ramu anna, your wish might finally come true. I always wanted an excuse to try something bold.”
Murugan’s jaw clenched subtly. His hand, still holding the empty tumbler, twitched just slightly.
“But don’t worry,” Sakshi added with a wink, looking over her shoulder at her husband. “Only my wedding partner gets a say this time. You forfeited that right when you skipped the invite.”
Murugan offered a thin smile. Inside, though, his thoughts churned bitterly. 
He watched the easy way Sakshi leaned toward Ramu, the way her laughter lilted freely around him. She had never asked Murugan what saree he preferred on her. Never asked his opinion on her blouses, her look, her styling—not in the years they'd been married. And yet here she was, practically offering herself for styling tips from the upstairs widower.
He could feel his jealousy rising like bile, but he swallowed it. There were three of them now—Sakshi, Meena, Ramu—joking, teasing, playing their little game. What could he say that wouldn't make him look petty? Insecure? Controlling?
So he said nothing. Just gritted his teeth behind that thin smile and watched them get ready like it was a play he wasn’t cast in.
“Just don’t let him pick your jewelry too,” he managed to mutter.
“No promises,” she said with a grin.
“All set?”
“Let’s go,” Meena said, already slipping into her sandals.
Ramu gave one last dramatic sigh and followed them out.
And just like that, the trio stepped into the bright sunlit street, the hum of the bazaar already calling them forward.
The bazaar was already alive with the pulse of morning commerce when the trio arrived. The sun filtered down in beams through colorful cloth awnings, casting shifting shadows on the uneven stone paths. Every corner overflowed with noise and scent—shouted bargains, bangles clinking, incense, turmeric, jasmine, and the irresistible aroma of roasting groundnuts. 
Meena led the way like a queen in her domain, Sakshi close at her side, clutching her handbag and eyes scanning every window with the trained precision of a saree connoisseur. Ramu trailed behind, amused and slightly out of place—older, less nimble, but clearly enjoying being pulled into their rhythm. There was a hint of pride in the way he watched them, especially Sakshi, who walked with a quiet purpose and growing glow.
They stepped into a spacious saree showroom tucked beneath an ornate signboard. Inside, the air was cool and perfumed, the lighting soft and golden, and gentle instrumental music played overhead. Racks of vibrant dbangs beckoned like waves of molten color. A young salesperson, hair stiff with gel and smile glued in place, bounded toward them.
“Aunty, looking for bridal saree?” he asked eagerly.
Meena laughed, waving him off. “No weddings for us, pa. Just trying to outshine the actual bride.”
They moved to the premium section at the back, surrounded by thick bundles of Kanchipuram and Banarasi silks. Sakshi reached out and ran her fingers down a deep green weave threaded with gold. But just as she pulled one free, Meena’s phone buzzed. She frowned, eyes narrowing at the screen.
“One sec,” she murmured, stepping aside with a sigh.
While Sakshi continued flipping through options, holding some up to her shoulder, Ramu leaned against the display case, watching her with mild admiration and something deeper simmering beneath. Her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary on a lavender piece trimmed in copper. He noticed.
Minutes later, Meena returned with a resigned look.
“Hey… I’m really sorry,” she said, voice a touch regretful. “I’ve got to run. Amma’s yelling about some courier parcel mess, and it has to be fixed before I fly tomorrow. She’s in a panic. You know how she gets.”
Sakshi’s brows lifted. “You’re leaving me now?”
Meena leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t be silly. You’re in good hands. Ramu anna will help you—maybe even better than I would. He’s got sharper eyes and… more dangerous taste.”
She gave Sakshi an unmistakable wink, followed by a smirk aimed at Ramu. "Take your time. Find something that makes his eyes widen—and his jaw drop."
Sakshi blushed. “Meena… behave.”
Meena was already backing away. “Bye! Don’t call me unless it’s to tell me the blouse color you *shouldn’t* be wearing!” she called out, disappearing into the street with a laugh.
Left alone in the gentle hum of the shop, Sakshi turned toward the saree counter again. “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” she said, trying to sound casual.
Ramu approached her with a half-smile. “Not stuck at all. Honestly, I was hoping she’d disappear.”
She picked up a wine-colored silk with a soft sheen. “You heard her. Apparently, I’m yours to style now.”
He stepped closer, his voice softer now, intimate. “Then let me be honest. Pick something daring. Not too bridal. Not too demure. Deep tones. Something rich… like that plum one you brushed past earlier. It needs to hug your curves here.”
He let a finger hover just above her hipbone, where the pleats would tuck.
Her breath hitched. “And the blouse?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Sleeveless. Gold trim. Deep scoop in the back, tied with delicate strings. A bit of shimmer. You’re walking in with me—I want every man there regretting who they married.”
She glanced at him sideways. “Shameless.”
“Honest,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his kurta. “And you asked.”
She turned toward the mirror, dbanging the fabric across her chest. “Let’s see if you can handle what you’re wishing for.”
Just then, the salesperson returned with a fresh stack and glanced between them. His curiosity couldn’t be contained.
“Madam,” he asked sheepishly, “this sir… is he your father?”
Sakshi turned slowly, lips curving into a dangerously sweet smile. “No, not my father,” she said, pausing just long enough for effect. “He’s my partner for the wedding. The only one who gets a say in what I wear that day.”
The boy blinked, caught off guard, clearly trying to compute the dynamic. “Oh… I see, madam. Sorry, I assumed—”
“No need to assume anything,” Ramu said smoothly. “All you need to know is—she’ll be the most stunning woman in that hall. And I’ll be the luckiest man to walk beside her.”
The salesperson nodded, cheeks flushing with awkwardness. “Of course, sir… madam… you will definitely turn many heads.”
Sakshi laughed softly, flicking her fingers through a shimmering stack of silk. “That’s the plan.”
After finalizing the plum silk saree with the elegantly woven gold border, Sakshi led Ramu through a narrow passage to the tailoring section tucked behind the main showroom. This part of the shop had its own atmosphere—intimate, busy, and filled with the quiet hum of sewing machines and the rustle of fabrics. Folded blouses in a rainbow of shades hung like trophies from hooks overhead, measuring tapes swung lazily from wooden pegs, and the warm scent of starch, fabric glue, and freshly pressed cotton lingered heavily in the air.
A middle-aged tailor with a slightly hunched back and thick glasses perched on his nose approached them with a practiced smile. “Madam, blouse stitching? Ready size or custom fit?”
“Custom,” Sakshi said without hesitation, already taking the plum saree from the bag. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
The tailor nodded and gestured toward a curtained corner with a faded floral pattern. “You can show your design there, madam. We’ll take your measurements also.”
Sakshi walked confidently toward the partition but then paused, turning her head. “Ramu, come here. I need a second opinion.”
Ramu raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression. “Me? Inside?”
She grinned. “Yes. Who else is going to help me decide how scandalous I should be?”
Chuckling under his breath, Ramu followed her behind the curtain, leaving the tailor behind with his notebook, blinking in surprise.
Inside the small changing space, Sakshi pulled the fabric against her chest, holding it up like a shield and a weapon both. “So… if I’m to wear a backless blouse, how low is too low?”
Ramu leaned against the wall, eyes locked on her. “You’re asking a dangerous man for that answer.”
She turned slowly and lifted her hair, revealing the graceful curve of her back. “Here?” she asked, tapping just above her waist.
He stepped closer, voice lower now. “No, a bit lower. Let them wonder where it ends. Tie it with doris—thin gold cords. Make it a slow-burning mystery.”
She smirked. “You’ve clearly imagined this before.”
“I have,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Too many times. But never with someone who’d actually wear it for me.”
Outside, the tailor cleared his throat. “Shall I come in for measurements, madam?”
Sakshi called out calmly, “Yes, come in.”
Ramu stepped aside, brushing the curtain back as the tailor entered with a tape around his neck. The tailor gave Ramu a quick, respectful nod and focused on his task. Sakshi stood tall, composed, eyes forward as the tailor gently looped the tape around her bust, shoulders, waist, and arms. Ramu watched in silence, every inch of his restraint tested.
“Neck style, madam? High back, square, scoop…?”
“Low back,” she said firmly, then looked at Ramu over her shoulder. “With doris?”
He nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And a plunging V in front. No lining. Let it flow.”
The tailor blinked, pen pausing midair. “Okay, madam.”
After a few final notes, the tailor excused himself and ducked out.
The curtain settled. The silence returned.
Sakshi turned back to Ramu, her expression unreadable, then slowly broke into a wicked smile. “So, you’ll get your fantasy blouse. But only because I want to see your face when I wear it.”
Ramu’s smile deepened, slow and full of heat. “Then I’ll remember every detail—the fabric, the cut, the way your voice sounded when you said yes.”
She stepped past him, deliberately brushing her shoulder against his chest. “Let’s get you a sherwani next. I don’t want to outshine you too much.”
“Impossible,” he murmured, following her out. “But let’s try.”
As they stepped out of the tailoring section, Sakshi adjusted the pallu of her plum saree with delicate fingers, letting it fall just so over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The fabric shimmered faintly under the market's golden sunlight filtering through the boutique's glass panes. Ramu, silent but steady, walked over to the cashier’s counter, pulling out his thick, worn leather wallet. Without drawing attention, he slid several crisp notes into the tailor’s hand and tucked the bill inside before Sakshi could see.
“Hey,” she said, catching his motion from the corner of her eye. “I could’ve paid for mine, you know.”
Ramu didn’t look up as he signed the receipt. “You could’ve. But I didn’t let you. Consider it a gift. A retired man’s indulgence. I’ve got pension piling up, stock market ticking in the green, and no one to spend it on but troublemakers like you.”
Sakshi narrowed her eyes playfully, a smile tugging at her lips. “So you’re rich *and* stubborn.”
“I’ve got to be good at something.” He winked with that slow, practiced ease that made her heart flutter just a little more than she would admit.
The shopkeeper returned with the delivery confirmation. “It will all be delivered to the sir’s address within two working days. Saree, blouse—everything.”
Sakshi raised an eyebrow. “Your place? Why not mine?”
Ramu gave her a sly look. “Because I want to be the first one to see you in it. If that blouse fits the way I imagined, I might need a few minutes to recover before you walk out in public.”
She gave him a playful smack on the arm and laughed. “Incorrigible.”
They exited the shop into the heat of the afternoon, the energy of the bazaar swirling around them in waves of color and sound.
“Now what?” Sakshi asked, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.
“Now it’s my turn,” Ramu said, turning down a side lane. “Can’t have my blouse-muse outshining me on the big day.”
They entered a high-end men’s boutique, where cool air and the scent of new fabric embraced them. Shelves brimmed with folded kurtas, sherwanis in rich brocade, and embroidered waistcoats. In moments, a short, overly enthusiastic salesman appeared, practically bouncing on his toes.
“Sir! Welcome, sir! Shopping for wedding, sir?”
Before Ramu could reply, Sakshi stepped forward, tossing her hair back. “He’s my wedding partner. He needs to look royal. Regal. Something people will remember even after the reception snacks are gone.”
The salesman blinked at her, then at Ramu—clearly computing the age gap but too polite to comment. He nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, madam! Sir, shall I show classic sherwanis? Indo-western fusion? Velvet bandhgalas?”
Ramu smiled indulgently. “I leave my fate in her hands today.”
Sakshi sauntered over to a display, scanning rows of fabrics like a hawk. Her fingers paused on a navy blue sherwani with antique gold embroidery and a high collar. “This one,” she declared. “Paired with beige churidar pants. Elegant. Intimidating. You’ll look like a king.”
The salesman nodded like his life depended on it. “Excellent, madam. I’ll fetch size forty-two. Sir will look like film star. Please wait, one moment.”
Ramu groaned softly. “You’re turning me into a groom again. Next thing, you’ll be throwing a garland around my neck.”
Sakshi leaned in, voice low, sultry. “You already caught the bride, remember?”
The salesman returned, arms full of fabric. “Sir, trial room this way!”
Ramu disappeared behind the curtain. Sakshi sat back in a plush chair and accepted the complimentary coffee from a boy who appeared out of nowhere. She sipped slowly, lips curving as she imagined him inside, fumbling with the heavy buttons.
When he stepped out, the salesman gasped dramatically. “Sir! Wah! Sir looks younger by ten years! Like Tamil superstar!”
Ramu stood awkwardly, arms spread a little. The sherwani fit like it had been tailored for him—emphasizing his shoulders, slimming his waist. His eyes scanned Sakshi’s face, waiting.
She lowered her coffee, stood, and walked around him slowly, eyes dragging across every embroidered inch.
“Not bad, Ramu. Not bad at all. You might even outshine me.”
He grinned. “Only if you let me walk beside you.”
She stopped in front of him, raised her coffee in mock toast again. “We’ll walk in together. Let every whisper begin and end with us.”
The salesman clapped once, excited. “Shall I pack, sir? I will send both outfits to your address, sir. Wedding look complete!”
Ramu nodded. “Yes, send everything together. Hers and mine. Same day delivery.”
The salesman scribbled rapidly. “Yes, sir. Very lucky man.”
Ramu glanced sideways at Sakshi, eyes crinkling with warmth. “That’s one way to put it.”
Sakshi smiled, then leaned in close and whispered, “You haven’t seen lucky yet.”
The sun had begun its slow descent by the time Ramu and Sakshi made their way back through the narrow lanes of the neighborhood. The bazaar's hum still echoed faintly behind them—bells chiming, distant auto horns, the occasional street hawker yelling prices—but the residential street was calmer, bathed in a golden hush. Sakshi walked a step ahead, the soft glow of satisfaction still painted on her face, her fingers idly brushing the folds of her saree. Ramu trailed beside her, a small, warm parcel of sweets in hand—Mysore pak from that one old stall she liked—chosen not just for flavor but to serve as a symbolic, half-serious offering of goodwill.
As they rounded the final turn toward their street, Sakshi’s eyes immediately spotted the silhouette seated on the familiar wooden bench just outside their home. Murugan. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, his eyes fixed ahead. The moment he noticed them approaching, he straightened with visible stiffness, rising to his feet like someone preparing to be cordial but not yet sure how.
“There you are,” he said, his voice level but tinged with something else. His eyes scanned them both—lingering on her face, her saree, the extra glow in her cheeks, the parcel in Ramu’s hand.
“Tired?” he asked, though his tone made it sound more like a probe than concern. His eyes flicked to Ramu for a fraction of a second.
“Productively tired,” Sakshi replied breezily, brushing her fingers across her shoulder as if wiping off the dust of indulgence. “We got everything—my saree, blouse, even Ramu’s sherwani. All taken care of.”
Ramu held up the parcel with a grin. “Brought you some hot Mysore pak on the way back. Thought you’d need something sweet to go with the shock.”
Murugan accepted the packet with a forced nod. “Thanks. You didn’t have to bribe me with sugar just because she listens to you more than me these days.”
A heavy silence followed, not angry but dense. Sakshi turned her back to both men, reaching for the key and unlocking the door with exaggerated calm.
Ramu lingered, clearly unfazed. “The delivery will come in a couple of days,” he said lightly. “I asked them to send everything to my place first. Just to make sure the fit’s right before she wears it.”
Murugan’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t have to go that far. Makes it harder for a simple husband like me to keep up. She’s never asked me for a saree recommendation—not once in fifteen years.”
“I wanted to,” Ramu replied evenly. “She deserves to look her best. Besides, I owed her something beautiful.”
Sakshi turned around, tossing her hair back. “Stop sulking, Murugan. Ramu saved me hours of boring bargaining and dragged me to the one shop with decent taste. That alone deserves a thank you.”
Murugan looked between them, the corners of his mouth pulling tight. He gave a short huff of breath and leaned back against the bench again, arms crossed. “Hope it’s worth it. She hasn’t come back from shopping looking that pleased in... well, I honestly can’t remember when.”
Ramu chuckled, eyes not leaving Murugan’s. “You’ll see, brother. It’s going to be worth every stitch.”
Sakshi slipped inside the door, pausing in the frame. “I’m going to freshen up. You two don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving both men outside.
Murugan exhaled slowly, hands clenched lightly in his lap. “You know, she never called me handsome when I wore something new. Not once.”
Ramu didn’t answer right away. His smile was calm, but his gaze held a knowing gleam. “Maybe you never asked her what she wanted to see.”
Murugan offered a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I used to think being dependable was enough.”
Ramu leaned back, stretching his legs out. “It is. But being seen—that’s something else entirely.”
Silence again. Not hostile, but full of undercurrents. The late sun stretched shadows over the porch, as Murugan sat with unspoken jealousy curling in his gut—bitter, reluctant, but still yielding.
He said nothing more. Just stared ahead while beside him, Ramu sat calm, collected, quietly triumphant.
The room was dim, the only light leaking in through the slatted window, casting long shadows across the walls like ghostly bars. The ceiling fan creaked on its lowest setting, lazily pushing warm air in uneven circles. Outside, a dog barked into the night before falling silent, and from a distant street came the faint honk of a passing auto. Inside the bedroom, a quiet hum settled over everything—uneasy, unfinished.
Sakshi lay on her side, facing the wall, the cool cotton sheet pulled loosely over her hip. Her saree blouse had been exchanged for a soft, slightly oversized cotton top, and her hair was tied in a lazy knot that rested near the nape of her neck. Her body was sore in a satisfying way—from hours of walking, twirling in front of mirrors, lifting fabrics, laughing too much, and maybe from something deeper, something that lingered from the way Ramu had looked at her when she asked about blouse designs.
Murugan lay beside her, pretending to scroll through his phone. He'd barely spoken a word since she walked through the door earlier that evening, arms full of shopping bags and cheeks tinged with color. He'd watched her from the corner of his eye as she hung her saree, as she told him—casually, like it didn’t mean anything—that Ramu had picked a sherwani too, and they’d had some snacks, and oh, did she mention that Ramu insisted on paying for everything?
The words hadn’t left his mind.
Now, in bed, he shifted slightly. The glow of his screen cast a dull light over his face before he locked it and set it aside. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and then to her.
The line of her spine.
The faint rise and fall of her breath.
The hem of her top, slightly lifted, exposing the curve of her lower back.
He cleared his throat softly, testing the silence. “Sakshi.”
She didn’t respond, but he noticed the way her breath paused for half a second before resuming.
He moved closer. His fingers, hesitant, slid across the bed toward her. When he reached her hip, he let his hand rest lightly.
She didn’t jump or recoil, but her voice came flat, edged with something that wasn’t quite anger—but wasn’t warmth either.
“Murugan,” she said, exhaling through her nose. “You’re not suddenly a romantic just because someone else noticed me today.”
He blinked. “That’s not why. I just... I saw you laughing. Looking... happy. It reminded me of when—”
She turned to face him slowly, propped on one elbow, her expression unreadable in the dark. “When what?” she asked softly. “When you used to look at me like I was interesting? Desired?”
He swallowed. “I didn’t stop caring.”
“No,” she said, voice gentle but firm, “you just stopped *showing* it. And now that someone else did, you’re noticing the gap.”
“I know I’ve been distracted,” he muttered. “Work, the house, the baby—”
“Murugan,” she interrupted, “I’m not mad. I’m tired. My feet hurt, my back hurts, and I just want to sleep without suddenly becoming the object of a late-night guilt trip.”
He looked down, then chuckled awkwardly. “It’s just... I saw you today, glowing. I felt like I didn’t know you for a second.”
She smiled faintly, laying her head back on the pillow. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe you should get to know me again. Properly. Without waiting for someone else to make me glow.”
He reached out again but stopped himself. “Okay,” he said softly.
She leaned over and kissed his forehead gently—affectionate, not passionate. “You’re not in trouble,” she murmured. “But tonight? Let’s not make this awkward. Let’s just sleep. Tomorrow you can try again—with better timing.”
Murugan sighed, smiling despite himself. “Alright. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Murugan.”
As his breathing slowed beside her, she turned slowly to face the wall again. But her thoughts didn’t stay beside him.
They wandered.
To the way Ramu’s eyes had trailed her body when she asked how low the blouse should dip.
To the firm, teasing way he’d suggested a deep V in front, no lining, and strings that hung just above the waistline.
To the little things: the way he stood too close when dbanging the saree over her shoulder, the way he murmured compliments that felt like confessions.
Her lips parted slightly.
Her hand slipped under the sheet, fingers brushing over her thigh, then up, stopping at her stomach.
She smiled into the quiet.
She fell asleep not thinking of bedsheets or routine. She dreamed of dbangd silk, low necklines, firm hands.
And of a man who saw her—not because he had to, but because he *wanted* to.
She believed him.