Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[Dinesh5]

Bloody Bitch

[opheliyaa]

She is on her second and real honey moon now?

[hotandluking]

What a story......Absolutely awesome.
Please update soon.Just cant wait to read more of this hot story.

[hotandluking]

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This font is very troubling for the eyes and not so attractive,use some mild colour with increased font size.

[yodam69420]

The morning air was crisp with dew, carrying the sweet scent of damp earth and hibiscus blooms after a brief drizzle at dawn. The trees swayed lightly, their leaves glistening in soft gold, and birds chirped in scattered bursts as if waking the sleepy street. Sakshi stepped out onto the side veranda with a woven basket of freshly washed laundry balanced on her hip. Her faded, well-worn house saree was tucked high at the waist, revealing her calves as she moved barefoot across the stone tiles. The loose pallu was pinned neatly over her shoulder, brushing against her upper arm with every step.



Her hair was messily bunched into a high knot, several damp tendrils curling against her neck where the steam from her early morning bath still lingered. She breathed deeply, her chest lifting in rhythm with the slow calm of the morning.

She approached the thin, sagging clothesline strung diagonally across the small courtyard. A blue blouse, a pair of her son’s tiny shorts, a towel—each item was carefully shaken out and pinned with wooden clips. Her movements were practiced, rhythmic, almost meditative. Her thoughts, however, were less still.

She was still half-lost in the memory of the previous day—the swish of silk, Ramu’s laughter, the teasing glance he gave her in the trial room, the way his voice had dipped when describing how the blouse should fall on her back.

“Sunlight suits you.”

She startled slightly and turned. Ramu stood just outside the gate, one hand resting on the latch, the other cradling a steel tumbler of steaming tea. He looked disarmingly casual—white vest clinging slightly to his chest, lungi tied loosely around his waist, his salt-and-pepper hair still tousled from sleep. But his gaze was alert, playful, fixed firmly on her glowing face and the bare skin of her arms.

“You’re always up early,” she said, fighting a smile as she turned back to her clothes.

He raised his tumbler in mock salute. “Beats the crowd at the tea stall. And the sunrise is better when it’s falling on someone worth watching.”

She rolled her eyes, though her smile deepened. “Is that your version of a good morning?”

“Only for those who earn it,” he replied, stepping inside the gate with the confidence of a man who knew he wasn’t unwelcome.

Sakshi shook out another piece of cloth and pinned it up, not looking at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you pretend not to enjoy it.” He leaned casually against the pillar, watching her work. “I was thinking about that plum saree.”

She paused. “Oh?”

“The blouse,” he said, lowering his voice just a little. “That deep cut you picked. I keep wondering how it’ll catch the light when you move.”

She turned slowly to face him, crossing her arms. “So you’re imagining me in it now?”

He didn’t blink. “I paid for it. Seems fair I get a few daydreams out of the deal.”

She laughed, a low teasing sound. “You’ll see it soon enough. But keep your hands to yourself.”

“Who said anything about touching?” he asked innocently. “I’m a patient man. I can wait. Watching has its own charm.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You really do know how to flirt in broad daylight.”

“Only when the woman makes the morning brighter than the sun,” he said, and sipped his tea with a slow grin.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Murugan stood at the kitchen window, half-hidden behind the curtain. He had come to refill his cup but froze when he heard Sakshi’s voice outside. Now he watched—still, silent—as the banter floated to him. The familiarity, the comfort, the faint flirtation in every word. It twisted something inside him.

His jaw tightened. He looked down at his cup, still empty.

Ramu glanced toward the house, sensing the movement behind the curtain. “Should I be worried?” he asked softly.

Sakshi barely glanced upward. “Let him stew. He had more than enough chances.”

Ramu chuckled. “I’ll bring tea tomorrow. Strong, fresh, and exactly how you like it.”

She gave him a long, sideways look. “If you add a pinch of scandal, I just might accept.”

They both laughed, their voices mingling and drifting softly through the courtyard. The morning sun climbed higher, pouring honeyed light across the hanging clothes, the cracked walls, and the barely bridled tension shimmering between them.

Inside, Murugan turned away slowly, his grip on the steel tumbler tightening as he poured hot water into it with mechanical precision.

He didn’t drink it.

---
The midday sun filtered lazily through the kitchen window, spilling soft golden light across the tiled floor. The scent of simmering sambar filled the air, mingling with the faint trace of jasmine oil still clinging to Sakshi’s hair from her morning bath. She stood at the counter in a cotton saree, sleeves slightly damp from splashes, absentmindedly stirring the bubbling pot as her mind drifted. Her phone buzzed next to the spice box, its screen lighting up with Meena’s name.

She wiped her hands hastily on her pallu and picked up the call. “Hello?”

“Sakshi!” Meena’s voice burst through the speaker, full of mischief and excitement. “You didn’t call me back yesterday, madam! You survived the Ramu shopping adventure, or should I be preparing a rescue mission?”

Sakshi let out a small laugh, setting the ladle down and lowering the stove flame. “Survived? Barely. It was less shopping and more... theater. He didn’t just help me choose—he practically choreographed the entire fitting. Saree, blouse, even the neckline. And Meena… you should’ve seen his face. Like a boy unwrapping a secret present.”

Meena cackled. “Oh no, don’t tell me he made you go full backless?”

Sakshi’s voice turned teasing. “Not completely. But it’s... minimal. Low cut. Thin doris. All his suggestions. He said he wanted people to guess where the blouse ends and imagination begins.”

“Oh my god, that man is dangerous,” Meena said, nearly choking on her laughter. “And Murugan? Did he see the ‘imagination blouse’?”

Sakshi rolled her eyes and leaned against the tiled wall, stirring her tea with one hand. “He didn’t even need to. The moment he saw Ramu carrying my bags and giving me advice, he turned silent. Frowned through dinner like he bit a green chili.”

Meena snorted. “And this is only the beginning! We haven’t even reached the real field trip. Wait till the hotel check-in.”

Sakshi chuckled, then lowered her voice slightly. “Meena… I’m nervous.”

Meena's tone softened. “What happened?”

“It’s one thing to flirt in shops, tease over tea, or brush fingers while handing over a blouse,” Sakshi said, her voice dropping. “But the trip… it’s going to be overnight. Close quarters. Shared space. Late nights. It’s different. I haven’t done anything like this. Not since...”

She trailed off, but Meena filled in the silence with knowing warmth. “Not since you stopped being seen.”

Sakshi inhaled slowly. “Exactly. And now someone’s looking. Deeply. And I—”

“You like it,” Meena finished for her.

“Yes,” Sakshi whispered. “It’s not just physical. When he talks to me, I feel… unzipped. Like I don’t need to hide the parts of me I shelved long ago. And that scares me, Meena. Because I want more. I want to feel that way without guilt.”

Meena was quiet for a beat. Then, with her usual confidence, she said, “Are you scared of what you’ll do… or scared of how right it’ll feel?”

Sakshi smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the small swirl of steam rising from her cup. “Both. He told me he wants to walk into that wedding hall with me, like we’re already something. Not hiding. Not pretending. And I keep hearing that in my head.”

“Then maybe it’s time you stop hiding too,” Meena said softly. “You know your heart, Sakshi. Don’t let fear wrap it back up.”

“I wish you were coming with us,” Sakshi said. “Just to buffer the chaos a little.”

“I’ll be there in spirit—and on speed dial,” Meena said. “Now, tell me. What are you really packing for the trip?”

Sakshi’s laugh bubbled out, warm and shy. “Not over the phone, you wicked woman. Let’s just say… I’m not packing like a guest.”

They both laughed, the sound brightening the kitchen like a breeze. And for a little while, the knot in Sakshi’s chest—twisting with excitement, dread, longing—uncoiled just enough to breathe.


-----
Late afternoon sunlight poured over the veranda as the delivery boy wheeled in two garment bags and a small box wrapped in brown paper. The air shimmered with heat, cicadas chirping lazily in the background. Ramu signed the slip with a quiet nod and a flash of anticipation behind his eyes. He thanked the boy, then lifted the bags with careful reverence—garments, after all, were more than cloth today. They were symbols of something bolder, riskier, something dangerously delicious.

Instead of heading inside, he peeled the navy sherwani from its protective cover and dbangd it over his shoulders right there on the veranda. The gold embroidery caught the sunlight like flame against deep sea. He straightened the collar, smoothed down the front, adjusted the sleeves until they sat just right, and admired the transformation in the mirror panel near the door. For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of feeling like a groom.

Across the courtyard, Murugan sat on the living room divan, legs crossed, flipping through a dog-eared magazine he wasn’t reading. The moment he heard footsteps approach, his eyes darted toward the source. He looked up and paused, frozen. There stood Ramu, dressed like he was about to host the wedding, not attend it.

What the hell is he trying to prove? Murugan thought, swallowing back the sudden dryness in his throat. His gaze stayed fixed too long on the intricate gold embroidery, the confident way Ramu carried himself. He’s not the groom. But he sure looks like he’s playing one.

"Delivery came early," Ramu said casually, stepping over the threshold with his usual easy swagger. His voice was calm, but it had that undertone of mischief. "Thought I’d bring them in myself. And figured I’d test this beauty out on the way."

Murugan raised his brows, voice dry. "You sure you’re not headed for a photoshoot instead?"

Ramu chuckled and ran his hand along his sleeve. "Just making sure the lighting does it justice."

Murugan tried to mask the unease curling in his gut. "Well, if Sakshi doesn’t try hers on now, we’ll all be outshined."

"That’s the idea," Ramu replied with a light smile.

He called toward the kitchen, where the clink of steel dishes hinted at activity. "Sakshi! The outfits are here. Come check."

Sakshi emerged a few seconds later, drying her hands on a towel, the ends of her hair still damp from an afternoon rinse. Her eyes locked instantly on Ramu’s sherwani. She blinked, then gave a slow, approving smile.

"You didn’t wait for me?"

"Couldn’t help myself," Ramu said, spreading his arms playfully. "You can’t unwrap a gift like this and just leave it lying around."

Murugan gave a tight smile. "You better go change too, Sakshi. Or else we’ll have to roll out a red carpet for him alone."

She chuckled and picked up the box and blouse. As she turned toward the bedroom curtain, a sharp wail came from the toddler’s room.

"You take care of him," she said, gesturing toward Murugan with mock urgency. "I need to try this."

Murugan stood, reluctant. "Right now?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, now. You’ve got two hands, haven’t you?"

With a sigh and mutter, he disappeared into the room with their son.

Sakshi vanished behind the curtain. Moments later, fabric rustled, bangles clinked, and the sound of hooks being secured drifted out.

Ramu looked toward the curtain and called out, this time with a teasing lilt, loud enough for Murugan to hear, "Murugan, mind if I steal a peek? Just to make sure my selection fits right."

From the other room, Murugan replied with dry humor, "As long as you remember she’s my wife and not your mannequin."

"Fair point," Ramu said with a grin. "I’ll leave the final unveiling to her husband, then."

Sakshi’s laugh rang out from behind the curtain, amused by both of them. Then she called out, playful but firm, "No peeking, Ramu—even through your jokes. Let the magic happen one reveal at a time."

She emerged minutes later, fully dbangd, stepping in front of the mirror. The plum silk shimmered with elegance, hugging her figure. The blouse elevated her presence into something regal.

Murugan returned, child dozing on his shoulder. He stopped mid-step.

"Well… at least now you match his drama," he said, attempting levity, but his tone carried something else.

Ramu, still watching her intently, added, "You’ll stop traffic at that wedding."

Sakshi gave him a sly smile. "Let’s see how well you keep up, Mr. Sherwani."

She walked over and circled him slowly, her fingers brushing the embroidery on his chest. Murugan’s eyes followed her hand, narrowing subtly.

"You’ll outshine the groom," she said softly. "But maybe not me."

Murugan sat again, gently patting their son’s back. He offered a scoff, amused on the surface, but something deeper burned under his skin.

They’re both glowing. And I’m the shadow in the room, he thought, watching how Sakshi smiled wider than he’d seen in weeks.

Ramu stood proud, his stance confident, unbothered by Murugan’s presence. Sakshi stood beside him like she belonged there.

Between them, an invisible current pulsed—faint to anyone passing by, but undeniable to those who knew where to look.

And Murugan knew. Oh, he knew.

He just didn’t know what to do with it.

------
The late afternoon sun filtered through the bathroom window in warm, honeyed shafts, dancing on the tiled walls as Sakshi stood in front of the small, slightly speckled mirror, wrapped in a thin cotton towel that clung damply to her curves. The door was locked—not merely for privacy, but because this moment was sacred. It belonged to her, and only her. No baby cries, no domestic interruptions, no husband’s eyes. Just the quiet hum of her own breathing, and the whisper of steam curling from the copper pot by her feet.

She dipped her razor into the bowl of warm water and began gliding it carefully over the soft slope of her underarm. Her skin shimmered in the golden light, dewy and supple. Each stroke felt like a reclamation—of attention, of time, of care. These rituals had once been routine, done for someone else. But today, they were done for herself, with the image of another man’s gaze etched warmly in her mind.

After finishing one side, she turned slightly, her hips shifting with instinctive grace, and continued on the other. Her breath moved in rhythm with her strokes, measured, steady. When she finished, she examined her reflection. Her collarbones peeked out from under the towel, the hollows of her shoulders catching the light. There was color in her cheeks, a soft flush that hadn’t been there just weeks ago. Something was changing. Something had awakened.

She reached for the small vial of sandalwood-saffron oil and uncorked it. The scent rose instantly—deep, warm, and just a touch seductive. She poured a few drops into her palm and began smoothing it into her arms with long, fluid strokes. Her fingers traced her neck, down to her chest, across her belly and the backs of her knees. Her skin drank it in. She tilted her body toward the mirror, twisting just enough to admire the angle of her lower back.

She imagined Ramu’s eyes—how they had paused at the sharp dip of her spine during their fitting, the hunger in his gaze when she’d asked his opinion about the blouse. He hadn’t spoken much. He hadn’t needed to. His eyes had said everything.

She turned to mimic the angle she remembered, slowly running her hands over the sides of her waist.

“He’ll notice this,” she whispered with a small, knowing smile.

Her fingers moved to her feet next, massaging cream into her heels, toes, arches. She lingered there longer than usual, enjoying the sensation of being tended to—even if by herself. She dusted her skin with talcum powder at the base of her neck, at the bend of her elbows, and behind her knees. Her next reach was for the slender glass perfume bottle tucked behind a comb on the shelf.

She spritzed the air, stepped into it, then dabbed at the insides of her wrists, behind each ear, and the narrow strip of skin just above her navel. She felt dbangd in more than scent—she felt wrapped in anticipation.

She loosened the towel slowly and let it fall in a gentle heap at her feet. She stepped into a deep wine-colored petticoat and then lifted the matching blouse. It was snug, newer than the others. The neckline curved just above her breasts, while the back plunged low with crisscrossing doris that tied at her spine. She tugged the strings tight and studied herself in the mirror.

Ramu would see this. And not as a stranger or admirer, but as something more. She straightened, adjusted her bust gently, and bit back a smile that made her eyes sparkle.

She adorned her wrists with bangles, slipped on her earrings, and gave her head a small shake, letting her hair tumble naturally over her shoulders. She looked radiant, alive.

Just then, the door handle clicked gently.

“Sakshi?” came Murugan’s voice, uncertain but curious.

She paused, catching her reflection one last time. “Just a minute,” she replied, with a sweetness that masked her fire.

When she emerged, fully dressed, a faint glow on her cheeks, Murugan was standing in the hallway, arms folded across his chest. His eyes moved from her freshly oiled arms to the way her blouse clung to her back.

“You getting ready for something?” he asked, trying for casual.

“Just taking care of myself,” she said lightly, brushing past him with an elegance that made even her simplest words feel pointed.

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered longer than he intended on the dori tied across her back, on the smell of sandalwood that followed her down the hallway like a breeze after a storm.

“I see,” he said at last.

But he didn’t ask more.

And she didn’t turn around.

The soft click of her anklets faded down the hall, along with the last golden thread of afternoon light, leaving Murugan staring at a closed door, and a version of his wife he hadn’t seen in years.


-----------

The evening air had cooled, casting a quiet stillness through the house. Only the kitchen lights glowed, golden and gentle, and a soft yellow bulb hummed above the dining table like an old friend clinging to silence. The smell of roasted mustard seeds and curry leaves floated through the air. Sakshi stood at the counter preparing dinner, her bangles clinking faintly as she stirred the sambar with one hand and wiped the rim of a plate with the other. Her movements were practiced, seamless—yet beneath the smooth rhythm, her eyes flicked toward the hallway now and then. Alert. Watchful.

Murugan sat at the table, hunched slightly, fingers tapping against the wooden surface. He wasn’t reading the newspaper spread before him. The television in the next room was off. The child’s toys were scattered but untouched. He was watching her. Not openly, but through those quiet glances filled with thought. His jaw worked slowly as if chewing on questions rather than food.

“How many blouses did you get stitched?” he asked, the words springing from the silence like a stone tossed into still water. His tone was casual, but his eyes stayed locked on her.

“Just the ones I needed for the wedding,” Sakshi replied evenly, not turning from her ladle.

“Blouse seemed a bit... low,” he murmured, lowering his gaze to his plate like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

She smiled, spooning sambar into a small steel bowl. “Ramu picked it. Said if heads aren’t turning, why bother dressing up?”

The clang of spoon against plate was sharper this time.

“Did he, now?” Murugan said, too slowly.

She turned, ladling sambar into his plate with deliberate care, eyes amused. “Don’t act so shocked. He has good taste. Better than yours, anyway. You always pretended like blouses didn’t exist.”

He forced a laugh, low and stiff. “Didn’t know necklines were a... shared activity now.”

Sakshi turned away with a shrug, the sway of her hips carrying a silent retort. Her silence said more than her words, and it rattled him.

Murugan ate slowly, chewing but not tasting. His mind churned.

*What was happening here?*

He wasn’t naïve. He saw the way Ramu looked at her—the heavy, deliberate gaze that lingered too long. He noticed the change in Sakshi. Her new perfume. The time she took getting ready. The way she hummed while doing chores. The extra shimmer in her bindi. The way she pressed her lips together when thinking, as if replaying a moment that didn’t belong to their house.

Even the way she spoke had changed. Less guarded. More playful. Not with him. Not anymore.

There was a distance. Not angry or dramatic, but deep—like the sea pulling back before a wave. She moved through the house like someone lit from within. Someone with secrets.

And it scared him.

*What if she’s slipping away? And I’m too slow to catch her?*

He watched her from across the table as she finally sat down with her plate, adjusting the pleats of her saree, sliding her hair back behind her ear. She didn’t fill the silence like she used to. She let it linger, as if comfortable in her own private world.

He cleared his throat. “You’re looking different these days.”

She looked at him over her glass of water. “Different how?”

“Just... different. Glowing. Not tired like before.”

Her head tilted slightly, amused. “That’s good, right?”

He nodded slowly. “Different enough to make me wonder if I’m still part of that world.”

She smiled—warm, but distant. “You’re always part of the world, Murugan. Whether you notice the view or keep staring at the same corner... that’s your choice.”

He didn’t speak after that. Even long after dinner was cleared. After she sang their son to sleep with a lullaby she hadn’t sung in years. After she emerged from his room quietly, adjusting her blouse as if already preparing for someone else’s gaze.

Later, when the lights were off and she lay beside him in bed, her back to him, her breathing calm and even, Murugan stared at the ceiling fan. The rhythmic creak of its blades seemed louder tonight.

*She’s right here,* he thought, *but she’s not mine anymore, is she?*

She hadn’t left. She hadn’t cheated. She hadn’t yelled or fought. But she was somewhere else. She had crossed a line he couldn’t see, and now she was dancing on the other side with someone who wasn’t afraid to watch her sparkle.

He turned slightly, careful not to disturb her. The outline of her shoulder in the moonlight looked both familiar and unreachable.

He wanted to ask her to come back. But how do you ask someone to return when you never noticed they were leaving?

His heart thudded against his ribs, thick with a guilt he hadn’t earned that day—but perhaps had collected over years.

He couldn’t afford to push her. He couldn’t risk a confrontation. One wrong word and the fragile rope between them would snap.

And then what?

He would be left with memories. With routines. With the ache of what he never said.

So he stayed quiet. Watched the ceiling. Held the sheets a little tighter.

*I love her,* he thought. *Even if she’s slipping through my fingers.*

And as her perfume lingered softly in the dark, he whispered to himself the one vow he hadn’t made on their wedding day:

*I won’t make her feel trapped ever again.*


------

Ramu’s phone buzzed just after sunset, while he was seated outside on the veranda sipping a strong cup of evening filter coffee. The breeze was picking up, and the scent of the tulsi plant mixed with the sharp edge of roasted chicory. He glanced at the screen—Ismail.

He answered with a chuckle. "Aiyo, bhai! You’re calling at last. Planning already done or more chaos added?"

Ismail’s voice was rich with excitement, tinged with pride. “Not chaos, my friend. Upgrade! The wedding’s moved—destination wedding style! It’s happening in Agra now. Venue confirmed today. We’re making it big. Palatial hotel, gardens, lights, everything. A proper royal celebration.”

Ramu blinked, eyebrows raising as he adjusted his lungi. “Agra? That’s far. What about the logistics? Guests, rooms?”

“All arranged,” Ismail assured him. “We’ll send you itinerary and stay details tomorrow. Just come prepared. I want you there, and I want her there too. I want everyone to see the queen you’re bringing.”

Ramu laughed heartily, his chest swelling with a mixture of nerves and pride. “I’ll tell her. She’ll like that news.”

They exchanged a few more details before ending the call.

Moments later, Ramu pushed himself up, walked across the veranda, and stepped into the house where Sakshi was rearranging a stack of blouses in her closet.

“Sakshi,” he said, his voice laced with that slow amusement he reserved only for her. “Change of plans.”

She looked up, curious. “What now?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “Agra. Destination wedding. Fancy venue. Lights, gardens... royalty types. That’s where we’re headed now.”

Her eyes widened, mouth parting slightly in surprise. “Agra? Really?”

He nodded. “It’s official. Meena needs to tell the story now. She’ll have to inform your husband too. Better the change comes from her. It keeps the lie intact.”

Sakshi nodded slowly, already calculating. “You’re right. He’ll believe it more if it comes from her mouth.”

Ramu pulled out his phone and held it up. “Call her. Time for her to play her part.”

---------

Sakshi closed the closet slowly, her mind already racing ahead. She picked up her phone, stepped into the next room, and dialed Meena. The call connected quickly.

“Hey,” Meena answered, her voice light, almost teasing. “What now, bride-to-be?”

Sakshi chuckled but didn’t waste time. “Change of plans. Ramu just got a call from his friend. The wedding is now a destination affair. Agra. Fancy palace venue, big crowd. Everything’s shifted.”

“Agra? Seriously?” Meena gasped. “That’s a big jump. And Murugan still thinks this is happening locally?”

“Exactly why I’m calling you,” Sakshi said, lowering her voice. “We need to update the story. You have to call him. Make it sound natural. Just mention it like an official update from your side. Tell him the wedding’s been shifted. Same people, same family. Just a new location.”

Meena groaned. “You’re lucky I love drama. Okay, I’ll do it. When?”

“Half an hour,” Sakshi replied firmly. “He’ll be home. I’ll place the phone on the table and go to the bathroom. You talk like it’s meant for me, but he’ll answer. Just play along, okay? Don’t go overboard. Just enough to convince.”

Meena snorted. “Fine, fine. But if I win an award for this performance, you better give a speech for me.”

Sakshi grinned. “Deal. Just be ready. We only get one take.”

They hung up, and Sakshi leaned back against the wall, inhaling slowly. The web was tightening, but it was holding—for now.


-----

The late evening was quiet, the hum of the ceiling fan the only sound filling the living room as Murugan sat with a cup of tea in hand. Sakshi had just stepped into the bathroom, her towel and comb in hand. The phone vibrated gently on the table, the screen flashing: Meena Calling.

Murugan glanced around, then picked it up. “Hello?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Meena’s voice came through, sweet and slightly sheepish. “Oh! Murugan anna? I thought Sakshi would answer. But maybe it’s better I speak with you directly.”

He furrowed his brow. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes. Nothing bad. Just... change of plans.” She exhaled for effect. “The wedding, the one we talked about? It’s been shifted. It’s now in Agra. Destination wedding. And it’s become a full seven-day affair.”

“Seven days?” Murugan blinked, leaning back in his chair. “Agra? But that’s—”

“I know,” Meena interrupted gently. “Believe me, it shocked all of us too. Big venue, huge celebration, both families are going all out. And... as you already know, I won’t be able to go. Amma’s condition hasn’t improved, and there’s too much here at home. But I really think Sakshi should still attend.”

Murugan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t respond immediately. His mind played images of Sakshi—smiling, glowing, talking to Ramu with an ease that gnawed at him.

“She’s been so excited about this trip,” Meena continued, her tone steady. “She’s done so much planning already. She deserves something like this. It’s not just about the wedding anymore—it’s a break. A reset. And she won’t be alone. Ramu uncle is going. He knows the crowd. She’ll be fine.”

“It’s seven days,” Murugan repeated, his voice barely above a murmur.

“I know it sounds like a lot,” Meena said gently, “but she’ll call often. She’ll update you, video chat, everything. You just have to trust her. And believe me, if you try to stop her now, it’ll feel like you’re trying to clip her wings when she’s only just started to fly again.”

There was a pause, then Meena added with a hint of mischief, “Besides, would you really want her cooped up here while Ramu uncle’s off charming the whole wedding crowd alone? You’ll make yourself jealous for no reason.”

Murugan gave a strained chuckle, one that barely masked the sharp twinge behind his ribs. “It’s not that. I just… it’s a long time. A long distance.”

“And she’s strong. She can handle it,” Meena said, tone soft but certain. “And she’ll come back to you. Maybe even more herself than ever before.”

Murugan rubbed his forehead. That strange combination of pride and fear twisted deeper. He didn’t want to be the villain. He didn’t want to be the reason she looked back at this moment with resentment.

“Alright,” he said finally, exhaling slowly. “She can go.”

Meena sighed in relief. “Thank you, Murugan anna. Really. She’ll be so happy. And you’ve done the right thing.”

They hung up.

Murugan sat alone, staring at the empty cup in his hand. He had said yes. Because he didn’t know how to say no without losing her completely.


------

The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint clang of utensils in the kitchen. A faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, mixed with the moisture of fresh bathing. Sakshi emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over her shoulder, hair still damp and curling around her cheeks. Droplets trailed down the side of her neck as she passed the mirror, humming softly under her breath. She walked toward the bedroom to check on her son, pausing briefly to glance at the clock, when Murugan’s voice stopped her.

"Sakshi..."

She turned slowly, towel mid-fold in her hands. His voice was unusually soft, uncertain.

Murugan stood near the dining table, one hand resting on the chair, the other holding her phone. The light from the kitchen threw a shadow across his face, exaggerating the tiredness in his eyes. The call with Meena had just ended minutes ago, and the silence between them felt heavier than the fan’s dull rhythm overhead.

“She called,” he said, his voice cracking slightly at the edges.

Sakshi raised her eyebrows, waiting. Her heartbeat quickened—not with fear, but anticipation she tried hard to hide.

He cleared his throat. “Meena. The wedding… it’s not local anymore. They’ve moved it. It’s in Agra now. A full seven-day affair.”

She blinked, taken aback even though she knew the plan. "Seven days? Agra?"

He nodded, eyes fixed on the floor like they might betray more emotion if they met hers. "Destination wedding. Some palace venue. Meena said everything’s already arranged. Big celebration."

There was a pause. Sakshi watched him, expression neutral, lips slightly parted. Her hands tightened around the towel, her chest tightening with suppressed excitement.

"And..." Murugan’s voice faltered again. He let out a shaky exhale. "She said you should go. That you’ve been involved so much already, and she can’t attend herself. She wants you to experience it. She said you’ve earned this."

A faint smile began to form on Sakshi’s lips, but she pressed them together, attempting composure.

“I told her you could go,” he added after a long pause, his voice low and hoarse. “If you want to.”

Sakshi stepped forward slowly, each footfall soft on the cool floor tiles. "You told her that?"

He looked up, his eyes damp but not tearful. "Yes. I... didn’t want to be the one who says no. Not when it’s something you’ve looked forward to."

Before Sakshi could respond, the front gate creaked open. The iron hinges groaned lightly in the dusk air. A knock followed, firm but familiar.

"Ramu," Murugan muttered, not surprised.

He walked to the door and opened it. Ramu stood there in a crisply pressed cream shirt, the collar stiff, an envelope in one hand and a gentle smile playing on his face.

"I brought the official invite," Ramu said, holding it out. "Didn’t want to be too late in delivering the big news."

Murugan stepped aside. "No. She just heard."

Ramu entered, eyes shifting quickly to Sakshi. His expression softened. "Seven days, Sakshi. Agra. Lights, music, palaces… and plenty of free time. You still up for it?"

Sakshi tried to contain the grin that rose unbidden. For years, she had dreamed of visiting Agra—of standing before the Taj Mahal, of tracing its white marble with her eyes, of walking through those historic archways like a queen reborn. The idea had always lingered in the corners of her mind, distant and unattainable. And now, without warning, the dream had stepped forward into her reach, dressed in silk and celebration. Her eyes shimmered with a quiet, restrained thrill. She nodded slowly. “I think I am.”

Murugan watched their interaction from a distance. The subtle way her body leaned slightly toward Ramu, how his words lit something behind her eyes. The room felt suddenly smaller. He turned away without a word, moving toward the table again, his spine stiff.

“She’s all packed,” he muttered, not looking at either of them. More to himself than to anyone else.

Sakshi’s eyes followed him. For the first time, she noticed how the light didn’t catch in his eyes like it once did. How his frame, once broad with pride, looked smaller, folded in by years and quiet sacrifices.

She stepped toward him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

Murugan gave a small nod, the tension in his jaw relaxing just enough to acknowledge her touch. But his eyes didn’t lift.

Behind her, Ramu stood watching with a quiet, unreadable expression. He didn’t speak, but something in the way he straightened his shoulders suggested he understood the weight of the moment.

Sakshi’s excitement swelled like a tide, uncontainable, but underneath it pulsed a quiet ache. One man’s silence, another’s offer, and her own restless heart beating right at the edge of choice and consequence.

The afternoon sun slanted through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor of Ramu’s room. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional horn were muffled by the thick summer air. Inside, it was still—comfortably quiet.

Sakshi stepped in with a tiffin box, her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, eyes flickering with something between nerves and excitement. Ramu, seated on the edge of his cot, smiled up at her as she placed the box down.

“I thought I’d feed you something before we finalize plans,” she said lightly.

He chuckled. “If I knew travel discussions came with lunch service, I’d have started these meetings sooner.”

They both laughed, the sound soft, familiar.

As they ate, they talked—about train timings, the guest schedule, and how they’d avoid unnecessary questions. Murugan would be in the office until late tomorrow, and that gave them the perfect window to leave without fuss.

“Rajdhani Express," Ramu said, sipping water. "I checked. They have private compartments in the sleeper coach—just one compartment, two beds. Curtains. Privacy. A little world of our own.”

Sakshi didn’t respond right away, just continued eating, but her lips curled slightly.

He glanced at her sideways. “Just us, no distractions. ”

She raised an eyebrow playfully. “That generous, hmm?”

“You deserve it. After all, you’re packing the magic.”

Her eyes met his then—steady, unwavering. “I did pack something. Something special.”

His brow lifted. “For the wedding?”

“For you,” she replied simply.

He leaned back, lips parted in amused surprise. “And what might that be?”

She stood, gathering the tiffin slowly. “That’s for you to discover. One evening at a time.”

Ramu stood too, closer now. Their eyes locked in that hush between breaths.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice softer.

Sakshi nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than ever.”

Outside, a bird chirped from the terrace wall. But inside, time had folded around them—past, present, and whatever came next. All suspended in that golden light.

The afternoon sun slanted through the window blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor of Ramu’s room. Outside, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional horn were muffled by the thick summer air. Inside, it was still—comfortably quiet.

Sakshi stepped in with a tiffin box, her pallu tucked neatly at her waist, eyes flickering with something between nerves and excitement. Ramu, seated on the edge of his cot, smiled up at her as she placed the box down.

“I thought I’d feed you something before we finalize plans,” she said lightly.

He chuckled. “If I knew travel discussions came with lunch service, I’d have started these meetings sooner.”

They both laughed, the sound soft, familiar.

As they ate, they talked—about train timings, the guest schedule, and how they’d avoid unnecessary questions. Murugan would be in the office until late tomorrow, and that gave them the perfect window to leave without fuss.

“Rajdhani Express," Ramu said, sipping water. "I checked. They have private compartments in the sleeper coach—just one compartment, two beds. Curtains. Privacy. A little world of our own.”

Sakshi didn’t respond right away, just continued eating, but her lips curled slightly.

He glanced at her sideways. “Just us, no distractions. ”

She raised an eyebrow playfully. “That generous, hmm?”

“You deserve it. After all, you’re packing the magic.”

Her eyes met his then—steady, unwavering. “I did pack something. Something special.”

His brow lifted. “For the wedding?”

“For you,” she replied simply.

He leaned back, lips parted in amused surprise. “And what might that be?”

She stood, gathering the tiffin slowly. “That’s for you to discover. One evening at a time.”

Ramu stood too, closer now. Their eyes locked in that hush between breaths.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked, voice softer.

Sakshi nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than ever.”

Outside, a bird chirped from the terrace wall. But inside, time had folded around them—past, present, and whatever came next. All suspended in that golden light.

[Jayam Ramana]

Shobha ?????? where is Sakshi ?????

[olumannan]

As long as things happen within four walls no one will know. When the old man and young woman goes out, the affair will come out. people will laugh. who is bothered as long as dick is strong.

[Vidhi Valiyathu]

Very good. Pathetic thing is the husband did not even notice his wife wearning mangalsutra not tied by him.

[jiivajothii]

superb

[Sanjjay Rangasamy]

Waiting for sakshi to become more bold in front of her useless husband.

[yodam69420]

The soft amber of the evening sun filtered in through the half-closed curtains, casting long golden stripes across the polished floor of the living room where Ramu, Sakshi, and Murugan sat. The air inside was thick with the mingled scent of coriander, simmering dal, and sandalwood oil—a quiet domestic hum underscored by the rhythmic whirr of the ceiling fan and the occasional whistle from the pressure cooker in the kitchen.


Sakshi, dressed in a light, pale green cotton saree with tiny floral prints, radiated an energy that seemed to ripple across the room. Her freshly oiled hair was tied into a neat braid, and her bangles jingled as she fluttered from the window to the table and back again, unable to stay still. There was a lightness in her step, a glow in her cheeks that hadn’t been there in months. Excitement danced in her every move.

Ramu lounged comfortably on the divan, legs crossed, his shirt half unbuttoned in the heat, revealing his thin white vest beneath. He leaned back, one arm over the cushion, the other idly stroking his salt-and-pepper stubble. “It’s finally happening tomorrow,” he said, his grin half playful, half sincere. “Agra. The Taj. The palace hotel. And our private little coupe. I can’t wait.”

Sakshi turned toward him with a grin of her own, the dimple on her cheek deepening. “I barely slept last night,” she said, placing a stack of freshly folded towels near the entrance. “Every hour I keep checking the clock. I feel like a collegegirl before a picnic.”

Murugan sat stiffly in the armchair, his legs crossed at the ankle, his eyes fixed on the edge of the rug. He hadn’t spoken much all evening. “Well, just make sure you don’t oversleep and miss the train in all this excitement,” he muttered, not quite looking at anyone.

Ramu chuckled, unfazed. He stretched lazily. “One thing though—even if it’s government railway, I can’t stand the food they serve. Overcooked everything. Watery curries. Their pulao tastes like boiled tissue with a splash of masala.”

Sakshi, who had just placed her purse near the door, paused. Her hand froze mid-air as she turned to face him, feigning mock indignation. “Excuse me? Are you telling me I’m taking you on the most exciting trip of your life and you’re going to survive on mineral water and packets of biscuit?”

Ramu raised his palms in playful surrender. “I’m just saying… I was kind of hoping you’d spoil me a little.”

Without hesitation, Sakshi spun on her heel and marched toward the kitchen. “Fine. Then you’ll be eating better than any Rajdhani passenger ever has.”

He laughed, following her with his eyes. “I like the sound of that. What’s on the menu, then?”

She began ticking off her list, opening the spice cupboard with practiced grace. “Hot parathas—rolled thick and layered with ghee. Steaming aloo gobi. My special tangy mango pickle. Sliced onions tossed with chaat masala. Sev for crunch. A couple of sweets—kaju katli, of course, and maybe a few pieces of coconut burfi if time permits.”

Ramu gave an exaggerated moan of pleasure. “This isn’t a train journey, it’s a royal banquet on rails.”

From his corner, Murugan remained silent, but his jaw tightened. He shifted in his chair, then muttered, "Funny how suddenly someone’s cooking becomes five-star when it’s for someone else."

His gaze followed Sakshi’s figure as she fluttered between shelves and spice jars, her eyes shining in a way that made him ache. The joy she gave so freely to Ramu, the attention, the laughter—he couldn’t remember the last time it was directed at him.

"I guess you never packed parathas and sweets when we traveled," he added with a forced chuckle. "Just the regular snacks and store-bought mixture."

He sighed, louder this time, as if waiting for someone to acknowledge his bitterness. "Well, I suppose Ramu anna gets the royal treatment. You’ve certainly got energy for it now."

Sakshi turned her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting, but she didn’t answer.

Ramu simply smiled, almost lazily, and said, “She’s doing it because she wants to. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know you were taking your entire kitchen with you,” he said finally, his tone sharp with a bitter edge.

Sakshi didn’t even pause. “Good food is part of a good memory. And I plan to make this one unforgettable.”

Her voice floated back through the arch of the kitchen doorway as she pulled out the flour container. The rhythm of her hands mixing dough, the clatter of utensils, the sizzling of spices—all sounded like a prelude to something far more intimate than just food.

Ramu leaned back against the cushions, watching her with open admiration. He didn’t hide the way his eyes lingered. There was no need to, not anymore.

Murugan sat rigidly, hands folded tight in his lap, trying not to look at either of them. He could feel the laughter, the ease, the invisible thread binding them—stronger, more certain with every passing minute.

And in his gut, he knew: the train hadn’t even left the station, but she was already miles away.


The morning broke golden and humid, the city already stirring with the metallic clang of cycles, street vendors' shouts, and the distant whistle of a departing local. Inside their modest flat, the air buzzed with energy as Sakshi emerged from the bedroom, her face lit with anticipation that couldn’t be masked. Her saree—cream with a border of deep maroon—hugged her frame perfectly, pleated and pinned with precise care. Her anklets chimed gently with each movement, a rhythmic melody that followed her through the hallway.

The scent of ghee lingered in the air, warm and homey, from the parathas she had just folded into foil, each layer separated by butter paper to keep them soft. She'd also packed sabzi glistening with mustard seeds, jars of tangy pickle, sliced onions wrapped in newspaper, crunchy sev sealed in a pouch, and sweets nestled in a small steel tiffin—kaju katlis, two coconut burfis, and a couple of milk pedas, just in case.

Murugan stood near the kitchen door, arms folded tightly across his chest. His eyes moved slowly over her figure, not with admiration, but with a quiet rage he kept buried deep beneath his skin. He said nothing, only watching as she checked her list twice, applied a final touch of kajal, and adjusted the gold studs in her ears.

“Can you drop us to Chennai Central?” she asked casually, brushing past him with that same air of detachment she’d worn for weeks now.

He gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

Minutes later, the three of them were in the car. Ramu sat comfortably in the backseat next to Sakshi, his knee brushing hers each time they turned. His hand rested just close enough to her thigh that it made Murugan’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

“So, what’s the first thing you want to do once we’re in Agra?” Ramu asked, voice low and teasing.

Sakshi turned to him with a smirk. “See the Taj Mahal under moonlight. And maybe feed you some parathas if you behave.”

Ramu laughed. “With food like yours, I might start misbehaving on purpose.”

She playfully slapped his arm. “You better not snore tonight, though.”

“I only snore if I’m well-fed and well… spoiled,” he said, grinning.

Murugan cleared his throat loudly. Neither of them looked up.

He watched them through the rearview mirror, eyes darting between Sakshi’s leaning frame and the way Ramu seemed to speak only in murmurs designed to coax a giggle from her. He gritted his teeth. The city buzzed past them—cows, chai stalls, early commuters—all blurring behind the windshield.

At the station, before the car had fully stopped, Sakshi opened the door, practically hopping out. She adjusted the strap of her bag, looked around once, and beamed at the crowd ahead. Ramu followed with a calm swagger, lifting both bags with ease. 

Murugan moved to get out, to maybe lift something, maybe say goodbye, but Sakshi had already started walking.

“We’ll manage,” she said without turning back.

Not a glance. Not a wave. Not even a passing smile. Just the soft fading jingle of her anklets as she disappeared into the flow of travelers.

He stood beside the car for a moment longer than he needed to, the metal of the door hot under his hand. His fingers curled into fists.

Back inside the car, the silence was sharper. The air conditioning buzzed, but the air felt thick and hard to breathe. He put the car in gear, glancing once more at the platform. No sign of them. They were gone.

*What’s the first thing they’ll do in that coupe?* The thought burst into his head like a firecracker. *Will she lay her head in his lap? Undo her blouse in the dark? Whisper all the things she never whispered to me?*

He shook his head, lips pressing into a hard line. *No. Stop it. They’re just traveling. Just sleeping. Like adults.*

But the image wouldn’t leave—her fingers brushing Ramu’s cheek, her saree slipping off one shoulder, the curtain pulled shut as she bit her lip to stifle a moan.

He groaned, hitting the steering wheel once before catching himself. At the daycare, his son stood waiting with his bag, clutching a half-eaten biscuit. Murugan forced a smile, opened the passenger door, and helped him in.

But as he drove away, the sounds of morning around him—the horns, the street chatter, the birds—faded into the background. All he could hear was the soft echo of anklets fading into a station crowd.

And the sound of laughter that hadn’t been meant for him.


Sakshi and Ramu arrived at the bustling Chennai Central station, dragging behind them the scent of anticipation, fresh jasmine in her hair, and steel tins filled with lovingly prepared parathas wrapped in clean cloth. The crowd was thick, the announcements echoing over the platform with a metallic ring, but nothing seemed to dim the gleam in Sakshi’s eyes. Her steps were springy, her anklets sang a gentle rhythm, and her saree—a soft teal with a gold zari border—fluttered slightly as she moved, dbangd with a precision only she could command. Her lips held a constant, involuntary smile, while her eyes flicked between the departure boards and Ramu, unable to settle on just one.

Ramu, clad in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, carried their bags with ease, his usual languid grace sharpened with quiet excitement. He wasn’t just savoring the idea of the trip, but the woman by his side—this bold, secretive woman whose energy made even a mundane railway platform feel like the threshold of some great adventure.

Ten minutes later, the sleek red-and-white First AC coach welcomed them aboard. Ramu—who never cared much for comfort—found himself admiring the soft carpeting, the plushness of the bedding, and the way the coupe felt like a sanctuary. This wasn’t just about legroom or temperature control. It was about privacy. Anticipation. Two berths. Two people. And a curtain drawn against the rest of the world.

The interior of the coupe gleamed with quiet opulence. The bottom berth was already arranged into a spacious sofa, upholstered in navy blue with matching pillows. A full-length mirror shimmered on one side, reflecting Sakshi’s silhouette as she walked in slowly, fingers trailing along the edges of the window. She inspected the velvet dbangs, the gleaming reading lamps, the small digital control panel mounted into the wall. The coupe even smelled luxurious—a faint blend of linen spray and fresh wood polish.

At exactly 6:05, the Rajdhani began to glide forward, slipping smoothly away from the platform with a deep rumble that quickly melted into a rhythmic purr beneath the steel wheels. The city dissolved into shadowy alleys and flashes of passing light. The inside of the coupe, in contrast, glowed with warmth and quiet energy—the perfect cocoon for secrets to unfold.

Ramu reached over, slid the heavy latch closed with a soft metallic thud, then turned back to Sakshi, who had now perched herself on the edge of the lower berth, admiring the neat stitching on the seat. She adjusted the pallu of her saree, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled as he approached.

Without a word, he placed one hand on her hip, the other cupping the small of her back, and pulled her gently but insistently into his lap. She landed with a soft yelp and immediately laughed, pressing her palm over her mouth to stifle it.

"You’re incorrigible," she whispered, squirming in his lap but not really trying to escape.

Ramu tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I didn’t book this coupe for the upholstery tour, Sakshi.”

He leaned in, lips brushing against her cheek—first one, then the other—leaving behind tingles and warmth. She turned her face away, half-laughing, half-blushing, hiding behind her hands. But he gently pulled her wrists down and held them against the berth’s cushion.

“Don’t play shy now,” he murmured, his voice like silk sliding along skin. “You’ve been packing for this night since last week. Don’t tell me it was just for the food.”

Sakshi’s breath hitched, her chest rising slowly as she met his gaze. “Maybe I packed something else. For later,” she whispered.

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Oh? Like what?”

She leaned closer, her lips almost grazing his ear. “You’ll have to undress the mystery yourself.”

Before he could respond, his hands slid upward, brushing the swell of her breasts through her blouse. His touch was reverent, but insistent. He cupped her softly, then firmer, thumbs tracing the edge where fabric met skin.

Sakshi’s breath caught, her lashes fluttering shut. Her head tipped back onto his shoulder, and a small moan escaped her lips.

“You’re going to spoil me,” he whispered.

“Maybe that’s the idea,” she murmured, shifting slightly in his lap, her hips angling until she could feel the heat building between them, separated only by thin fabric and unspoken promises.

The coupe rocked gently as the train picked up speed. The world outside was nothing now—just trees and telephone poles vanishing into darkness. Inside, time unraveled. Their fingers tangled, breaths quickened, eyes burned with unspoken hunger.

Their knees brushed. Her bangles clicked as she looped her arms around his shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her throat, then lower.

But it wasn’t just desire that filled the space. It was intimacy—quiet, electric, unfiltered. They weren’t rushing. They didn’t need to. The coupe was theirs. The night was long. The journey had only just begun.


Just then, there were three soft knocks at the coupe door—crisp and polite, yet cutting through the thick air of anticipation hanging between the two like a thread stretched to snapping. The gentle sway of the train, the hum of metal on metal, and the ambient light filtering through the curtained windows only added to the intimacy of the moment. They froze for a heartbeat, caught between tension and interruption.

Ramu rose from the berth with a reluctant sigh, straightening his shirt with fingers that still tingled from Sakshi’s touch. He cast her a glance—half warning, half longing—before walking across the small coupe. Sakshi adjusted the pleats of her saree with practiced grace, her heart fluttering in her chest. She sat up straighter, smoothing her pallu over her chest as she heard the latch click.

When the door opened, a neatly uniformed Train Ticket Examiner stood on the threshold. Clipboard in hand, cap slightly askew, he bore the air of a man both professional and mildly amused by the secrets cabins like these often held.

"Good evening, sir. May I see your ticket, please?" the TTE asked, his voice courteous but his gaze drifting past Ramu’s shoulder with unmistakable curiosity. The glimmer of lamp light behind him framed Sakshi in a golden halo, her features composed, cheeks still flushed from recent warmth.

"Evening," Ramu responded with a nod, handing over their tickets with deliberate calm. The TTE’s eyes flicked down to the names and back up again. A small, knowing smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, different surnames," he noted casually, flipping a page on his clipboard. "Are you two related, or... just companions on the journey?"

Sakshi spoke before Ramu could answer, her voice confident and laced with mischief. "No, we’re not family," she said, her gaze unwavering. "We’re something far more interesting than that."

The TTE chuckled, the clipboard dropping slightly. "Private coupe, long journey, quiet lighting... sounds like Rajdhani still lives up to its reputation."

Ramu smirked as Sakshi tilted her head, replying smoothly, "Only if you know how to enjoy the ride."

"I imagine you do," the TTE said with a wink. He scribbled something quickly, returned the tickets, and backed away with a whistle and a grin. "Happy travels, madam, sir. May it be one to remember."

The latch clicked closed with finality. The moment stretched again—thicker now, heavy with promise. Ramu lingered at the door, watching her. She hadn’t moved, but her eyes called to him, daring him to bridge the gap.

In two strides, he crossed to her, pulling her into his arms again with practiced ease. Her body fit into his like a note into a melody, soft and urgent. That same scent of rosewater and coconut oil clung to her skin, now tinged with something warmer, more dangerous. His hands wrapped around her waist as she leaned into his chest.

"Ramu ji," she murmured breathlessly, half laughing, half serious. "Enough now, please… at least have breakfast first. We have all day."

He grinned against her shoulder, lips teasing the soft skin there. “Sweetheart, it’s just 8:20. We’ll eat at nine-thirty. I’ve got time for something sweet and secret before that.”

He released her briefly, reached down into his bag and pulled out a small, sleek silver flask. Unscrewing the cap with a familiar flick, he poured a small stream into a disposable cup.

Sakshi’s eyes widened slightly. “What’s that?” she asked, lowering her voice.

He smirked. “A little courage in liquid form.”

Her gaze lingered on the cup, hesitating. "I’ve never… my husband, my family—they never allowed anything like that. It was always forbidden. Even the idea seemed outrageous."

Ramu’s tone softened. “Well, this journey is about breaking a few rules, isn’t it?”

There was silence, save for the rhythmic thud of the tracks beneath them. Then, slowly, she reached out. Her bangles clinked faintly as she took the cup from him and brought it to her lips. One sip—sharp, burning, unfamiliar. Her eyes watered slightly as the warmth spread down her throat.

Just then, a mischievous idea lit up in her mind. Without saying a word, she pulled her phone from the side pocket of her bag and dialed Meena.

“Who are you calling?” Ramu asked, watching her with curiosity.

She pressed the speaker icon and grinned. “Just showing off a little.”

Meena answered after two rings, her voice groggy. “Sakshi? It’s early, yaar. Are you okay?”

“I’m better than okay,” Sakshi purred, eyeing the flask. “Guess what I just did?”

There was a pause. “You didn’t… you didn’t drink something, did you?”

Ramu chuckled in the background. “She did. And she handled it better than most men I know.”

“Shut up, Ramu!” Meena yelped, then turned her disbelief back to Sakshi. “Are you serious? You’ve never even touched anything before!”

“First time for everything,” Sakshi said, her voice rich with mischief. “It burns a little, but it feels… powerful.”

“I’m jealous!” Meena groaned. “And with Ramu there, I bet you’re glowing like a goddess.”

Sakshi laughed. “Just wanted to let you know I’m breaking all kinds of rules this trip. One sip at a time.”

Ramu leaned in close to the phone. “Don’t worry, Meena. I’m keeping her very safe… and very entertained.”

Meena’s dramatic sigh echoed through the speaker. “Next time, I’m coming too.”

Sakshi ended the call, her smile still lingering as she looked at Ramu. “She never imagined I’d go this far.”

He raised the flask slightly. “And we haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

He watched her, eyes glowing with admiration. She handed the cup back, exhaling. “God, that’s stronger than I imagined.”

Ramu took the last of it in a single swallow, his throat moving with a smooth gulp. "Strong things are often worth it."

Sakshi turned to her small bag and began unfolding a clean napkin. She retrieved a small steel box, opening it to reveal fried cashews and a piece of jaggery wrapped in wax paper. She set it down on a plate between them.

“Snack before breakfast,” she said playfully. "You’ve had your sip, Mr. Ramu. Now earn the rest."

He leaned forward, brushing a stray hair from her cheek, his voice a low hum. “Oh, I plan to. But first, I want to savor the appetizer.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away as he leaned closer again, this time slower, more reverent. Their laughter faded, replaced by a charged quietude. Beyond the coupe, the train surged forward through a country still bathed in the early hush of morning.

Inside, time folded around them—slowing, stretching, steeping like tea in silence. There was still breakfast, still a full day ahead, but in that moment, none of it mattered.

Only the woman.

Only the man.

And the secrets whispered in the warmth between them.


“Ramu ji, I need to change clothes—I’m switching off the light. Don’t spill your drink!” Sakshi’s voice floated out from the other side of the coupe, tinged with lightness but layered with something else—something deeper, richer, coiled with unspoken electricity.

Ramu didn’t stir from the lower berth. He lounged there, one hand wrapped lazily around the warm cup in his palm, the other sprawled behind his head, his grin deepening. “What’s there to change into?” he called back, his voice low and velvety with playful menace. “Just take everything off. You’re going to lose it all anyway in a little while, aren’t you?”

A musical peal of laughter burst from her side of the coupe, echoing off the paneled walls and pooling into every crevice. “Ramu ji, stop it! If you want to be a naked sadhu, be my guest! I’m not joining your ashram today!”

But Ramu could hear the subtle shift in her tone—the thrum behind her words that wasn’t entirely teasing.

Then came the rustle. Soft at first, like paper being gently folded. Then more deliberate—the unmistakable sounds of zippers parting, hooks clicking, fabric slinking off warm skin. Every movement punctuated by the occasional chime of her bangles or the slide of a hairpin falling to the wooden floor.

Darkness swallowed the coupe whole as she flipped the main light off, but to Ramu, the blackness was alive with sound, scent, tension. He could see with his ears, breathe with his skin.

Then something weightless and scented landed in his lap.

Her saree.

Then her blouse.

Then the petticoat—heavier, fragrant with sandalwood and her perfume.

Then a sudden flutter: her panties. Warm. Intimate. Delicate lace that still held the heat of her core.

And finally, her bra. It dbangd over his thigh like a silk ribbon from some conquered prize.

Ramu’s hand moved slowly, reverently, bringing the fabric to his nose. The scent overwhelmed him—intoxicating, fertile, primal. He held it longer than necessary, breathing it in like it could nourish him.

Then the lights flicked back on with a soft click.

He looked up.

And froze.

Sakshi stood there, her figure illuminated in the dim golden glow. She wore a sheer, pastel pink nightie, the kind made of whisper-light net, clinging to every curve and hollow. The front-open design was tied only at the bust with a delicate satin ribbon, and beneath it, her body was poetry.

Her breasts—full, firm—swayed gently with her breath, the dusky nipples pushing against the sheer material as if aching for release. The nightie clung to the swell of her hips and stopped indecently high on her thighs, teasing at the bare softness below.

She didn’t speak. She simply bent, folded her discarded clothes with neatness, her movements hypnotic. Her thick thighs shimmered faintly with body oil, and as she turned slightly to place her stack on the luggage rack, Ramu caught the breathtaking view of her bare ass beneath the hem—round, high, teasing.

Sakshi walked over to the opposite berth and sat cross-legged, entirely composed. She picked up a magazine from the corner as if nothing had happened, opened it to a random page, and pretended to read.

Ramu stared, his throat dry, heart racing. He lifted his drink with shaky fingers, trying to cool the storm building inside, but his hand moved almost instinctively to his phone. He opened the camera and, slow and quiet, began to record.

He zoomed in gently—her knee, the way her nightie rode up as she shifted, the tease of the curves underneath. Frame by frame, he captured her.

He adjusted the lens upward, tracing the graceful lines of her waist, the smooth dip above her navel, the curve of her breast barely restrained beneath the gauzy material.

Sakshi peeked from behind her magazine. One brow lifted in mock disapproval.

“You’re shameless,” she murmured.

She didn’t stop him.

And so he didn’t stop.

She looked celestial. Her hands and feet still bore the deep reddish tint of wedding mehendi, intricate patterns curling around her fingers. Her toes glowed with alta, crimson against her pale skin. Her nails were immaculate, her ankles adorned with gold payals that chimed each time she shifted.

She reached out for a cashew from the small tin beside her, and the simple movement made her breasts shift within the nightie—an unintentional performance that made Ramu ache. He adjusted his lungi subtly, biting back a groan.

He kept filming. Every delicate twitch, every breath, every flutter of her lashes. The train rocked gently, lulling them deeper into a dream neither wanted to wake from.

She was an idol.

A forbidden goddess.

And he was her trembling, half-drunk, mad devotee—consumed by the grace of her quiet defiance, the sensual command in her casual pose.

A slow, deliberate descent into heaven and hell at once.

And Ramu? He didn’t want to be saved.

Not Today.


About an hour later, once Ramu had drained the last of his drink and the heat in the coupe had simmered into a quiet, sultry tension, Sakshi stirred from her stillness like a ripple over calm water. The soft overhead light bathed her features in golden warmth as she sat up straighter and reached into her suitcase with calm purpose. Her fingers, steady and elegant, pulled out a neatly stacked tower of stainless-steel containers wrapped tightly in a cotton cloth. The coupe swayed gently with the motion of the train, but she moved with the effortless grace of someone who had done this before—someone who knew the rhythm of preparation like a ritual.

With a rustle and a slight smile, she spread out a sheet of folded newspaper across the berth, smoothing it meticulously. There was something ceremonial about the way she unwrapped each item—careful, reverent, as though laying a feast at a temple altar. The foil came off with a soft hiss, releasing an aromatic steam of ghee and flour. She revealed parathas layered with care, their surfaces spotted golden-brown, warm and pliant.

She laid them beside a small copper bowl of sabzi, whose spicy perfume filled the coupe with the fragrance of cumin, mustard seeds, and simmered tomatoes. Another container held tangy mango pickle, its red oil glinting in the low light. A smaller dish with sliced onions kissed with lemon juice and green chilies sat next to crunchy sev folded into parchment. Two foil-wrapped sweets—kaju katlis shaped like silver-dusted diamonds—were placed beside it all.

Despite being on the premium Rajdhani Express, neither of them had touched the railway meal delivered earlier. This was their pact from the beginning: if they were going to break rules, hide truths, and steal hours under the guise of a journey, then they’d nourish each other only with what was theirs. Sakshi’s hands. Her kitchen. Her effort. Her devotion.

She didn’t announce the meal. She simply picked up a piece of paratha, dipped it into the steaming sabzi, and brought it to Ramu’s lips with fingers as soft as ghee-soaked cotton.

Her hand trembled just faintly. From nerves or hunger or the weight of everything they weren’t saying. But her eyes were steady—locked onto his.

He leaned forward and took the bite, his lips brushing her fingertips. The taste was rich and spiced, but the moment—that moment—was sweeter still. She fed him not just food, but herself. Her care. Her trust. Her pleasure in his pleasure.

He didn’t speak. Just reached for a paratha, tore off a piece, and mimicked the gesture—dipping, lifting, offering it to her. She leaned forward and took the bite with a smile, her lips warm on his skin. For a long minute, their eyes stayed fixed on one another.

No words. Only silence and hunger—two kinds.

For the next ten, maybe fifteen minutes, they ate slowly, with unspoken reverence. The food was delicious, but it wasn’t about that. Each bite was a question and an answer. Their gazes lingered longer than necessary. Fingers brushed often—too often to be coincidence.

When the food was gone and the heat of the meal had settled in their stomachs, Sakshi began packing up with the same quiet care she’d shown while unpacking. Ramu stood, stretched, and without a word, stepped into the aisle of the coach. He walked the corridor slowly, the dim lights above casting long shadows over his tall frame. The rhythmic hum of the train beneath his feet, the cool metal of the walls—it grounded him briefly. But only briefly.

When he returned, five minutes later, the coupe was silent again, but the air had shifted. It was heavier. More electric. The warmth of food had given way to something more primal.

Sakshi stood in front of the mirror, her thick, dark hair tumbling in waves past her shoulders. Her nightie—a gauzy pink slip of fabric barely clinging to decency—hugged her body like a second skin. She combed her hair in long, languid strokes, humming softly, her eyes watching herself.

Ramu closed the door behind him with a quiet finality, slid the bolt into place, and watched her for a moment, silent.

Then, like a man drawn by instinct alone, he crossed the room. He didn’t ask. He didn’t speak. He pressed his chest to her back, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin layers between them. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other reached up to cup her breast through the sheer fabric.

She gasped. The comb slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

His lips found the crook of her neck, kissing gently, then with hunger. "You smell like every fantasy I’ve ever had,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

She turned in his arms, hands rising to his neck, pulling him down to her. Their mouths collided. It wasn’t tender. It was raw, wet, desperate. Their lips opened, their tongues met, and she moaned into him—deep and shuddering.

Ramu’s hand didn’t leave her breast. It cupped, kneaded, thumb brushing her nipple until it stood hard beneath the cloth. Sakshi’s thighs shifted restlessly. One hand slid down her side and pushed the nightie up, bunching it into her hips, her palm pressing the fabric into her slick heat.

He groaned into her mouth. His cock throbbed and pulsed beneath his lungi, straining, hard and demanding.

Her other hand trailed down his spine, nails dragging lightly. She needed him. She ached. They both did.

They didn’t move to the bed. They stayed there, tangled, rocking slightly with the train. It was like the world had paused just for them—like everything outside the coupe was another life.

His kiss deepened. Her moan answered. His fingers slipped lower.

And in that moment, beneath the warm hum of the train, the scent of sabzi and sweat and desire lingering between them, they knew—

The day had only just begun.



His cock was throbbing now, urgent, heavy with desire that had been building like storm clouds since the sun first lit the train tracks that morning.

The air inside the coupe had become a furnace of breath, sweat, and tension. With a rough, primal motion, Ramu reached for Sakshi’s dayy and peeled it from her trembling body, the fabric slipping off her curves like silk over heated bronze. It dropped with a sigh of surrender onto the berth, a silent testament to everything they no longer needed between them. She stood before him, gloriously nude—no pretense, no lace, no ornaments, only the raw, bronze glow of her bare skin kissed by amber light from the small lamp overhead.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover herself. She stood with her spine straight, her thighs parted just slightly, her breasts bold and full, rising and falling with every breath, as though they, too, hungered for touch. A slight sheen of perspiration coated her skin, the delicate glisten highlighting every inch—her collarbones, the curves of her waist, the valley between her breasts. Her nipples, dark and taut, stood out like declarations. Her stomach quivered, her hips curved out lushly. Her mound was smooth, gleaming, glistening from arousal and anticipation.

Ramu’s eyes devoured her. Not a glance, not a look—devoured. His hands reached before his mind could stop them, pulling her into his arms with the desperation of a man who’d starved and found his first bite.

He clutched her, palms mapping her flesh like a sculptor rediscovering his art. His mouth found her throat, his tongue tracing her pulse. His teeth grazed her shoulder as his grip on her breasts tightened. He squeezed, massaged, pinched—his thumbs swirling over her nipples, drawing out moans that filled the coupe like an ancient chant.

Sakshi responded in kind, her own body rising like fire to match his flame. Her nails scbangd over his back, hips bucking into his, lips brushing his jaw as she whispered obscenities only lust could craft.

Her hands fumbled with his shirt, trembling fingers trying to undo the buttons. When they couldn’t move fast enough, Ramu growled and yanked the shirt open, tearing it in one clean motion, buttons flying and vest ripped clean off. His chest—hairy, broad, lined with age but powered by want—pressed against hers. Their skin met with a slap of sweat and need.

He crushed her to him, burying his face between her breasts, kissing them, sucking the soft flesh, biting the undersides as she arched her back and cried his name. One hand locked around her ribs, holding her like a lifeline, the other curled in her hair, tugging her head back to bare her neck.

“Ahh... Ramuji… slowly, please... you’ll break my ribs,” she gasped, giggling through her moan. But her legs were trembling, spreading, inviting.

She kissed his chest, wet open-mouthed kisses, smearing sweat and scent with her lips. Then her hand trailed downward, caressing his belly, then gripping the hard, pulsing bulge beneath his lungi.

She stroked him through the cloth first—slow, deliberate, tracing the outline, teasing the shape. His breath hitched. Her other hand followed suit, cupping his sac through the cloth with a tenderness that sent shockwaves down his spine.

Then, bold and ruthless, she slipped her hand inside, past the waistband. Her fingers wrapped around his cock, skin-on-skin, hot and wet. It jumped at her touch. She moaned at the sheer feel of it—thick, veined, throbbing like a heartbeat.

Ramu groaned deep, his body twitching, the spell broken. He shoved down his lower and underwear in one swift move, groaning as his cock was freed. It sprang out—a fierce, pulsing beast, standing proud between them. The head was flushed dark, leaking, the foreskin rolled back just enough to glisten.

Sakshi inhaled sharply. “It’s even bigger now,” she whispered, wrapping both hands around it, stroking with reverence. She pulled the foreskin back fully, swiped her thumb across the swollen tip, spreading his pre-cum like perfume. Her other hand massaged his balls—slow, heavy caresses that made him grunt with need.

Outside, the train thundered across the countryside, the wheels screeching with speed and weight. Inside, their world was still. Focused. Hot.

She dropped to her knees.

Her breasts heaved as she looked up at him, one hand still stroking him, the other holding his balls. Her mouth hovered near his cock, breath warm.

But she didn’t take him in—not yet.

Instead, she licked the underside of his shaft slowly, from base to tip, as if worshipping a deity. Her tongue flicked across the sensitive skin beneath the crown, her lips brushing the slit. Ramu hissed, his knees buckling.

Still, she didn’t swallow him.

She rose again, face flushed, and pulled him down onto the berth with her. He landed half over her, half beside her. She climbed atop him, her wetness painting his thigh.

They kissed again—sloppy, deep, carnal. His hands roamed. Her legs locked around his hips.

The AC struggled to cool the room, fogged with sweat and heat. Their skin slipped against each other, their bodies slick, chests heaving.

They were no longer just two bodies. They were myth. Fire and storm. Desire personified.

Ramu—65, seasoned, starved—consumed her.

Sakshi—25, insatiable, freed—offered herself, whole.

The coupe rocked. The train howled. Their moans drowned the world.

And the night?

The night was still theirs to devour.


Then came the moment Ramu had been aching for—an ache not merely in his body, but buried in every fiber of his being, coiled and throbbing beneath his skin like a secret too heavy to bear. Sakshi, with her breath coming light and warm against his belly, lowered herself slowly, her knees pressing into the soft carpet of the coupe floor. Her eyes, dark and burning, never once strayed from his as she descended. There was no shame in her gaze—only intent. Hunger.

On her haunches, she leaned forward with the grace of a tigress approaching prey and kissed the swollen, veiny crown of his cock. It twitched under her lips, and she smirked, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek before letting her tongue slip out. She licked it slowly—long, swirling licks that danced down the shaft, up again, spreading heat across his flesh like she was tasting the very essence of him.

Her breath warmed him. Her tongue painted him. And then, with a slow, greedy inhale, she opened her mouth and let his cock slide past her lips, inch by inch, her lips sealing tightly around him as if claiming him fully.

His head fell back against the wall, a groan escaping his throat. Her tongue danced along the underside with teasing precision, curling and gliding in ways that made him twitch and throb. She began to suck—firm, wet, deep. Each motion of her head was a rhythm of worship, a slow crescendo of pleasure that made his thighs shake.

This wasn’t hurried. This wasn’t clumsy. This was mastery born of devotion. Her mouth moved with sinful grace—down, deeper, cheeks hollowing, then back, her lips sliding along him with the slick sound of pure obscenity. Every wet *slurp*, every gasp between sucks, echoed in the quiet, confined space of the coupe. Her hands pressed against his thighs for support, fingertips digging into his skin as she took more of him, inch by greedy inch.

And the way she moaned around him—soft, filthy sounds of satisfaction—made his legs go weak. No wife had ever done this. The woman who’d borne his child had never taken him this way. But Sakshi—this radiant, untamed, wild beauty—was now on her knees, worshipping him like he was the god of her hunger.

“Aaah, Sakshi beti... yes, just like that… my sweet, you’re something else today,” Ramu groaned, his voice hoarse, his fingers brushing gently along her flushed cheek.

Sakshi looked up, lips stretched around his shaft, her eyes gleaming with lust. She pulled back slightly, just enough to speak, her voice breathy and mischievous.

“Ramuji, it’s been a whole year and a half since I’ve had this. Let me love it properly.”

Before he could reply, she dove back down with a moan, taking him in deeper, faster. Her cheeks puffed and hollowed with each stroke, her mouth warm and slick and relentless. Drool spilled from the corners of her lips, trailing down her chin. Her nails scbangd lightly along his thighs, teasing, coaxing. She wanted to make him unravel.

Her head bobbed, her mouth sucking and twisting, tongue swirling—until he could barely breathe. He watched her—this beautiful woman who once lived quietly next door, now transformed into this insatiable nymph, giving herself completely to his pleasure. And she was loving every second.

Not long after, as pressure built inside him like a dam ready to burst, Ramu’s hand found her hair. He threaded his fingers gently through the dark strands and tugged—not hard, just enough to pause her.

“Enough now, my jaan… come sit on the berth,” he said, breath ragged, stroking her head with tenderness.

Sakshi let his cock slip from her lips with a wet, audible pop, licking her lips slowly, as if savoring the taste. Her mouth glistened with spit and desire. She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes burning with fire.

“Okay, Ramuji,” she purred, her voice a sinful promise. She stood gracefully, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then climbed onto the berth—her hips swaying slightly, her eyes never leaving his.

She sat cross-legged on the sheets, waiting for him, lips still shining, her body humming with anticipation.

And Ramu? Ramu followed her like a man bewitched, the taste of her devotion still pulsing through his veins.

[Sanjjay Rangasamy]

Awesome update. Hope she will be pregnant when they are back from honeymoon.

[Karmayogee]

The sexy game has just started. Let him fuck in open. He should make her drink his urine now.

[Aman34]

Bhai gif dalo na please request hai

[yodam69420]

“Ramu ji ee ee... please fuck me with your cock!” Sakshi moaned, her voice thick with desperation, her eyes clenched shut as her hips lifted from the berth, seeking him with the ache of a woman who had waited lifetimes.

Sensing the tremble in her voice, the need rippling through her like a tide dragging her to sea, Ramu positioned himself at her entrance. The swollen head of his cock nestled against the wet heat of her dripping slit, her folds parting eagerly. He grasped both of her breasts firmly, his fingers sinking into the soft, generous flesh like they belonged there. Her nipples pressed against his palms, hard and hungry.

Before he could even drive into her, Sakshi surged upward with an urgency that defied gravity, thrusting her hips with such force that she swallowed his length into her soaked cunt in one greedy, hungry motion. Her mouth dropped open in a soundless cry.

At that exact moment, a train roared past in the opposite direction. The windows of their coupe trembled as a massive gust of wind screamed by, horn blaring, the rails screaming with metal-on-metal thunder. It was as if the world outside bore witness to their feral union, echoing their madness in steel and noise.

Inside, Sakshi had wrapped her legs tightly around Ramu’s waist, her ankles locking behind his back, holding him prisoner within her heat. Her lips found his, kissing wildly, hungrily, like she could drink the moan from his throat and swallow it whole. When Ramu tried to pull back for a proper thrust, she clung even tighter—so tightly that her body lifted with him, refusing to let go.

"Sakshi baby, unwrap your legs and lift them up!" Ramu gasped, his voice strained from trying to hold himself back, from the sheer, overwhelming pressure of being buried in her so tight, so wet.

“Mmm no... you’ll pull your cock out!” she whined, breath trembling, her pout blooming across his cheek as she locked her ankles tighter, as though her cunt had developed its own will and wouldn't let go. Her eyes sparkled with defiance, gleaming with the mischief of a woman who knew exactly how powerful she had become.

Ramu laughed, throbbing deep inside her. That innocence-turned-ferocity made him love her more, worship her more. "No way I’m pulling out now, baby. I’ve got to wreck that pussy good!"

He leaned in, kissed her full on the mouth—deep, slow, claiming. "But first... promise me you’ll never hold back again."

“Okay, my queen Sakshi... I promise,” she whispered, breathless, her fingers digging into his back.

At last, Sakshi let her legs fall open, bending her knees up high. Her thighs parted, her pussy now glistening, swollen, her clit pulsing visibly. The scent of sex filled the coupe like incense in a shrine. Ramu dipped his head, lowering himself between her legs, and rubbed the rough stubble of his chin across her clit.

"Aaah! Ramu ji!" she gasped, hips jerking, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin with a desperation that bordered on need.

He pinched her nipples between his calloused fingers, tugging them, twisting gently. Her moans grew deeper, throatier, primal. As he sucked her lower lip into his mouth, their breaths mingled in a cloud of heat and desire.

She wrapped her arms around him again, clutching him tight, like she needed to anchor herself before she drowned in him.

"Love you, Ramu ji... so much..." she breathed, every syllable soaked in surrender.

"I love you too, Sakshi," he growled into her ear, just before claiming her left breast with his mouth, suckling, nibbling, marking her as his with lips and teeth.

Her pussy was overflowing. Juices streamed out of her like a river, soaking the sheets, marking the moment as sacred. Without waiting a second longer, he drove back into her, his cock sliding deep into her slick heat, their bodies meeting with a wet slap that made both of them moan.

He began slow—torturously slow—dragging himself out, then thrusting back in harder with every stroke. Each collision echoed in the small coupe—the sound of wet flesh, frantic breath, gasping pleasure. The bed creaked beneath them, its metal legs rattling with every deep plunge.

Sakshi met his every thrust with fire. Her hips rolled, bucked, pushed against him like she was dancing, a sensual, filthy rhythm born only in lovers who had lost themselves completely. Her cries grew louder, bolder, rising to a fever pitch that threatened to crack the walls of their cabin.

Then Ramu snapped.

He lost every shred of control. He reared back and slammed into her like a beast unleashed. He gripped her thighs, spread them even wider, his eyes locked on the place where they joined—where his cock disappeared into her soaked cunt again and again. He began pounding her with every ounce of strength in his aging but formidable body.

Skin slapped. The train shook. The world dissolved.

"Crush this pussy good today, Ramu ji! Don’t hold back!"

“Yeah baby… take it… take it all… my Sakshi, my fucking queen!” he growled, adjusting into a brutal position—hands braced against the mattress, feet planted, his whole body hovering above her, his cock buried to the hilt.

Her face contorted in ecstasy, her mouth falling open in a scream too loud to be heard.

"Aaah Ramu ji… you're wild. Fuck my pussy harder... punish it… this pussy keeps tormenting me, making me ache every day. Ruin it for me today, please!"

Ramu delivered. Thrust after thrust, unrelenting. He slammed through the resistance of her walls, coaxing out scream after scream. Her hands flailed, grabbing sheets, grabbing his arms, his neck—anything to hold onto as wave after wave of pleasure smashed through her.

Then, like a tidal wave crashing down, their orgasms hit.

Ramu’s body tensed. His cock pulsed violently as it erupted, thick ropes of cum flooding her. Sakshi’s body arched, every muscle locked, her limbs wrapping around him in perfect synchronicity. She cried out, shaking, trembling as the aftershocks of her climax tore through her.

They collapsed into each other, skin on skin, slick with sweat, breathless and dazed.

Without breaking the embrace, Ramu reached for the switch by the wall and flicked the lights off. The darkness came like a curtain, blanketing their naked bodies in silence.

They lay there, still joined, lips brushing softly, hearts thudding slowly back into rhythm. Occasionally, the train passed a small station—brief lights flickered across the room, catching the sheen of sweat and love on Sakshi’s bare skin—before fading again into peaceful dark.

Ramu had never experienced sex like this. Not in his youth. Not in marriage. Not even in his fantasies.

And wrapped in her arms, in the silence that followed, with her scent still clinging to his breath and his seed still warm inside her, sleep claimed them both—sated, tangled, and blissfully lost in the shadow of their shared sin.

[xavierrxx]

Superb updates

[Mehndi 99]

Make sakshi wear the lowest possible saree showing her navel and make her suck and rink his cum ....awesome writing and the images and gifs are too good...love it

[Vasanthan]

awesome

[Aman34]

Update please

[Dorabooji]

Super update. Let him bred her soon.