Adultery NAZRIN AN INNOCENT WIFE (With pics)

[Vishal Ramana]

Super writing

[magneticpersonality]

Waiting for the update

[Herbiee]

Woow. Erotic update. Will it happen finally? They got the perfect chance. Both are starving for this moment. Let them experience the real pleasures. Update soon please.

[Harsh.9555]

Bro when we will get the next update?

[Herbiee]

Waiting for ur next update. . . .

[abcturbine]

waiting dear

[savitaPatil]

Please update

[Kobir99]

Nice story...

[Aparna Saha]

Really extraordinary and interesting update

[Afruza Sumi]

Any suggestion on continuing, Am stuck and taking more time come up with continuation. shall nazrin get fucked by two boys or shall she fuck some stranger guy

Please don't let anyone to seduce and fuck Nazrin rather than this villain.

[NityaSakti]

First come first in. the boys should do first.

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 19:

 

Muthu moved first, unable to resist any longer. He knelt before her, his towel slipping dangerously low as he reached for her feet. His fingers traced the arch of her foot, sending shivers up her spine. "Ma'am," he whispered, his voice thick with desire, "you're so beautiful." His hands slid up her calves, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her knees.
 
Praveen joined him, pressing against her side. His breath hitched as his hand found the bare skin of her midriff. "Let us touch you properly," he pleaded, fingers sliding beneath her crop top to graze the underside of her breast. The towel around his waist tented obscenely as he leaned in.
 
Nazrin's phone buzzed violently on the coffee table—Fahim's name flashing like a warning flare. Muthu froze mid-caress, his thumb circling her anklebone. Praveen's palm stilled against her ribs. She snatched the phone, thumb trembling as she swiped accept. "Fahim?" Her voice sounded unnaturally bright. "Everything okay?"
 
But the voice wasn't Fahim's. It was clipped, bureaucratic, devoid of warmth. "Mrs. Nazrin Fahim? This is Inspector Kumar from Thiruvananthapuram East security officer Station." The words landed like ice shards. "Your husband is involved in an illegal betting ring. Loan sharks have filed a formal complaint—he borrowed a significant sum against your property papers. He's currently in custody pending bail hearing."
 
Nazrin’s hand tightened on the phone, knuckles paling. Muthu’s fingers stilled on her ankle, Praveen’s breath catching mid-exhale against her ribs. The humid air, thick with unspent desire moments before, suddenly felt suffocating. She forced her voice level, a brittle calm. "I see. What do you need from me?"
 
The inspector’s tone remained clipped, impersonal. "It’s better you come to the station and discuss the particulars, Madam. Your husband named you as his guarantor. We have the forged property documents here." A pause, heavy with implication. "And… there are other matters." Nazrin’s mind raced—*other matters?* Had Fahim dragged her into something deeper? The students exchanged bewildered glances, their arousal evaporating under the sudden chill. Praveen slowly withdrew his hand from beneath her crop top.
 
Nazrin stood abruptly, the movement dislodging Muthu’s grip. "I’ll be there within the hour," she stated, her voice unnervingly steady. Ending the call, she stared at the dark screen, the reflection showing Praveen hastily adjusting his towel, Muthu scrambling to his feet. The humid air now felt thick with dread. "You both," she commanded, not looking at them, "get dressed. Find something dry—anything—and leave. Now." Her authority sliced through the tension, sharp and absolute. This wasn’t a game anymore.
 
"But Ma'am," Muthu protested, stepping forward, his towel clutched low. "You're in trouble. We can't just leave you like this." Praveen nodded vigorously, his earlier lust replaced by earnest concern. "He's right," he added, voice firm. "Tell us what happened. We'll help you—whatever it takes." Their sudden shift from hungry boys to protective allies was jarring, almost comical in its intensity. Nazrin paused, her hand hovering over the bedroom door handle. She studied them—their damp hair, wide eyes, the genuine worry etched on their faces. A flicker of something unexpected pierced her panic: relief.
 
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Fahim," she stated flatly, the name tasting sour, "got tangled with loan sharks. Gambling debts. He used our house papers as collateral—forged them, apparently." Her laugh was brittle, devoid of humor. "Now he's in custody, and the security officer want me because I'm the 'guarantor.' They mentioned 'other matters' too. Probably means he dragged my name through the mud." She gestured vaguely towards the storm-lashed window. "So, my cozy little world? It just collapsed. My husband’s a fool, my career hangs by a thread if this gets out, and I might lose the roof over my head." The simplicity of the statement felt surreal. Her grand rebellion had led to *this*.
 
Praveen stepped forward, his towel forgotten, pooling at his feet. His gaze wasn't hungry now; it was fierce, protective. "Ma'am," he said, voice low and urgent, cutting through her numbness. "We didn't follow you here tonight—or *any* night—just because of lust. That's not why we stayed." He glanced at Muthu, who nodded sharply, jaw set. "We really like you. Not just... *that*. You're smart, you're fierce, you don't take shit from anyone. Seeing you command a room, argue with Professor Rajan about circuit diagrams... that's what hooked us first." He swallowed hard. "The rest... it was just... finding out you felt something too."
 
Muthu moved then, grabbing his discarded wet jeans from the clothesline. He yanked them on over damp skin, ignoring the clinging discomfort. "Praveen's right," he declared, zipping up with finality. "This isn't some cheap thrill for us anymore. We're *with* you." He met her stunned gaze squarely. "So, no," he stated, his voice firm and clear, echoing slightly in the suddenly quiet room. "We're not leaving. We will accompany you to the station." He gestured sharply towards the bedroom. "Get changed, Ma'am. Something dry, something strong. We'll be ready."
 
The raw sincerity in their eyes—devoid of the practiced lust she knew so well—struck Nazrin like a physical blow. It wasn't desire clouding their judgment; it was conviction. A tremor, different from arousal, ran through her—part fear, part something startlingly close to hope. Without another word, she turned and pushed open her bedroom door. The familiar space, usually a sanctuary for secrets, felt charged. She bypassed the crumpled crop top and shorts, her fingers instead finding the folded silk of a deep emerald saree—one Fahim had once called "too severe." She pulled it out, the cool, heavy fabric whispering promises of armor. Shedding the soaked remnants of her earlier defiance felt like shedding skin. The blouse she chose was high-necked, practical. The red lace vanished beneath sober cotton. When she emerged moments later, the transformation was stark: the provocative lecturer replaced by a composed, formidable woman, her damp hair ruthlessly pinned back.
 
Muthu and Praveen stood waiting by the door. They too had transformed. Gone were the clinging towels. Muthu wore slightly-too-large trousers—likely borrowed from Fahim's forgotten wardrobe—and a plain, dry t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. Praveen had managed to pull on his own damp jeans and a dark, collared shirt buttoned to the throat. Their expressions mirrored hers: focused, serious, the playful hunger replaced by a watchful readiness. They looked less like students now, more like determined escorts. "Ready, Ma'am?" Praveen asked, his voice low and steady.
 
"Yes," Nazrin breathed, the single word carrying the weight of shattered porcelain. She didn't hesitate. They walked out into the storm together. Rain lashed down instantly, plastering her carefully pinned hair against her scalp and soaking the silk pallu of her saree within seconds. The street was a dark, wet mirror reflecting the blurred orange glow of distant streetlights. Muthu spotted the auto first—a battered yellow three-wheeler parked under a dripping neem tree. He waved sharply, his shout barely audible over the drumming rain. The auto driver, hunched beneath a plastic sheet, flicked on his headlight, bathing them in a watery yellow beam.


 
They piled into the cramped auto, Nazrin sliding onto the cracked vinyl bench first, the damp silk clinging coldly to her legs. Muthu squeezed in beside her, his borrowed trousers darkening with rainwater, while Praveen folded himself onto the jump seat facing them, water dripping from his collar onto the floor. The smell of wet clothes and stale diesel filled the tiny cabin. "Thiruvananthapuram East security officer Station," Nazrin instructed the driver, her voice clear despite the tightness in her throat. The engine coughed to life with a shudder that vibrated through the seat, and the auto lurched forward into the curtain of rain. Inside the rattling metal box, no one spoke. Nazrin stared straight ahead, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white beneath the skin. Muthu watched the rain streak down the fogged-up window beside her, his jaw clenched. Praveen kept his gaze fixed on Nazrin’s profile, his expression unreadable but intensely focused. The only sounds were the frantic swish of the wiper blades fighting a losing battle and the rhythmic thump of tires hitting unseen potholes in the flooded road.
 
The security officer station loomed ahead, its harsh fluorescent lights bleeding into the wet darkness like a beacon of dread. Nazrin paid the driver with numb fingers, the coins cold and slippery. Stepping out, the rain instantly plastered stray strands of hair to her temples. She didn't hesitate, pushing through the heavy wooden doors into a cacophony of noise and stale cigarette smoke. The fluorescent glare was blinding after the storm-darkened streets. A low-ceilinged room stretched before them, crowded with harried constables, anxious civilians huddled on benches, and the sharp, metallic scent of fear mixed with cheap disinfectant. Behind a high counter littered with paperwork, a bored-looking sergeant glanced up. Nazrin approached, her chin lifted, the emerald silk of her saree—now darkened by rain to near-black—looking incongruously elegant amidst the institutional grime. "Inspector Kumar," she stated, her voice cutting through the background hum. "He's expecting me. Nazrin Fahim." The sergeant’s eyes flickered over her damp form, then dismissively to Muthu and Praveen flanking her like silent, rain-soaked sentinels. He jerked his thumb towards a row of plastic chairs against a peeling yellow wall. "Wait."
 
They sat—Nazrin rigidly upright, Muthu scanning the room with narrowed eyes, Praveen bouncing his knee nervously. Minutes crawled by, punctuated by the clatter of typewriters, the crackle of radios, and the low murmur of despair. A drunkard was dragged past, shouting obscenities; a weeping woman clutched a child. Nazrin focused on a water stain spreading across the ceiling tiles, its shape vaguely like a distorted map of Kerala. The absurdity struck her: her carefully constructed world of illicit thrills collapsing into this fluorescent purgatory. Muthu leaned close, his voice barely audible. "Ma'am, whatever they say," he murmured, his breath warm against her damp ear, "remember we're here. We're *your* guarantors now." Praveen nodded fiercely, his fist clenching on his damp knee. The unexpected declaration, raw and earnest, pierced the numbness. It wasn't lust; it was allegiance forged in the downpour.
 
Inspector Kumar finally emerged—a gaunt man with tired eyes and a clipboard clutched like a shield. He beckoned Nazrin with a curt nod, his gaze flickering dismissively over Muthu and Praveen. "Only Mrs. Fahim," he stated flatly. Nazrin stood, spine straightening instinctively. "These are my students," she countered, her voice crisp, authoritative—the lecturer reclaiming her podium. "They witnessed my husband's distress call. They stay." Kumar's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he shrugged, gesturing towards a cramped, windowless interview room smelling of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant. As Nazrin followed, Muthu and Praveen fell into step behind her, their presence a tangible shield against the institutional chill.
 
Inside the stark room, Kumar settled behind a scarred metal desk piled high with files. He gestured vaguely at the single plastic chair opposite him. Nazrin remained standing, forcing Kumar to crane his neck slightly. Muthu positioned himself at her right shoulder, Praveen at her left, both adopting unnervingly still postures—like soldiers awaiting orders. Kumar cleared his throat, flipping open a file. "Mrs. Fahim," he began, his voice devoid of inflection, "your husband, Fahim Rahman, was apprehended tonight following a complaint lodged by Ragavan." He tapped a grainy photograph clipped to the file—Fahim looking terrified, flanked by two thuggish men. "Fahim borrowed two-point-five crore rupees from Ragavan—an unlicensed lender—to fund an ongoing gambling habit. Specifically, high-stakes card games." Kumar paused, his eyes lifting to meet Nazrin's. "He wagered your joint property deed as collateral. Forged your signature on the transfer documents." He slid a photocopy across the desk—a blurry signature beneath Fahim’s neat script. "He lost. Badly. The deed now legally belongs to Ragavan. Your house," Kumar stated with brutal simplicity, "was lost in the game."
 
Nazrin stared at the photocopy. The signature was a clumsy approximation—nothing like her own sharp, angular script. A strange calm washed over her—not numbness, but clarity. She leaned forward, palms flat on the cold metal desk. "I have no idea about this," she stated, her voice crisp and unwavering—the tone she used to correct a student’s faulty logic. "He said he was having a business trip and went for two days. He was supposed to come tonight." She gestured sharply towards the storm-lashed window beyond the grimy door. "That call? That was the first I heard of any gambling, any loan, any forged signature." Kumar’s expression remained impassive, but his pen stopped scratching notes. He studied her—the damp emerald silk clinging to her shoulders, the ruthlessly pinned hair, the unwavering gaze. Beside her, Praveen shifted almost imperceptibly, radiating protective tension. "He lied to you," Kumar stated flatly. "For months. This wasn't a sudden trip. He'd been frequenting underground clubs near the harbor."
 
"Can I see him?" Nazrin cut in, her voice slicing through Kumar's monotone. Her eyes locked onto his, unblinking. "I want to ask him myself." The request wasn't pleading; it was a demand. Kumar hesitated, his gaze flickering to Muthu and Praveen—their silent, watchful presence amplifying Nazrin's authority. After a beat, he sighed, pushing his chair back with a metallic scbang. "Five minutes," he conceded, standing. "Supervised." He gestured towards a heavy metal door at the back of the room. "Through there. Holding cells."
 
Nazrin followed Kumar down a narrow corridor smelling of bleach and despair. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering intermittently. Behind her, Muthu and Praveen moved in tandem, their footsteps echoing—a protective flank against the institutional chill. Kumar stopped before a reinforced door, peering through a wire-mesh window. Inside, Fahim sat hunched on a concrete bench, head in his hands, his tailored shirt rumpled and stained. Kumar unlocked the door with a heavy clunk. "Five minutes," he repeated, stepping aside but remaining in the doorway, arms crossed.
 
Nazrin entered alone. The cell smelled of stale urine and cheap soap. Fahim looked up, his eyes bloodshot, widening in desperate hope. "Nazrin!" he rasped, scrambling to his feet. "Thank god—you'll fix this, right? Tell them it's a mistake!" His hands trembled as he reached for her. She remained still, her emerald silk pooling at her ankles like frozen water. "Two-point-five crore," she stated, her voice unnervingly calm. "Gambling debts. Our house papers forged." Fahim flinched, his gaze darting to Kumar's impassive silhouette in the doorway. "They—they pressured me! Ragavan's men—they threatened you!" Nazrin tilted her head, studying him as if he were a flawed circuit diagram. "Threatened *me*? And you solved that by gambling away our home?" A brittle laugh escaped her. "Tell me the truth, Fahim. Did you even think of me once?"
 
Fahim crumpled onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry—so sorry!" he sobbed, the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Please, Nazrin, save me! I know you don't have money, but we'll figure something out!" His fingers dug into his scalp. "Sell your jewellery, take a loan—anything! They'll kill me if I don't pay!" Nazrin watched a cockroach scuttle along the damp floor seam. "A loan?" she echoed softly. "Against what? The house Ragavan already owns?" She stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. "You didn't protect me, Fahim. You sold my safety for a hand of cards." His head snapped up, tears streaking grime on his cheeks. "What about us? Our marriage?" Nazrin's smile was knife-thin. "Our marriage died months ago. You just didn't notice."
 
She remembered the early days—Fahim pressing steaming chai into her hands during monsoon fevers, laughing as he carried her across flooded streets. How he’d traced her eyebrow scar with reverence, whispering *"My warrior queen."* Now those hands had forged her signature, traded their roof for roulette chips. The disconnect was dizzying. She inhaled the stench of bleach and hopelessness. "Fine," she said, voice flat as a guillotine blade. "I'll see what I can do." Fahim lunged forward, grasping her saree pallu. "Thank you—thank you! I'll change, I swear!" Nazrin pried his fingers off the silk. "Don't touch me."
 
In the corridor, Kumar leaned against peeling paint, watching Muthu and Praveen flank Nazrin like twin pillars. She stepped close, rain-soaked silk whispering against Kumar's uniform sleeve. "Is there any chance of getting him out *now*?" Her voice was low, urgent—a lecturer debating a flawed theorem. Kumar scratched his stubble, gaze sliding to the students. "You can pay twenty-five thousand rupees," he conceded. "Take him on bail tonight." He paused, letting the number hang—a month's salary. "But he reports here daily at nine sharp. Signs the register." Kumar's eyes narrowed. "Every single day. Till his case closes"
 
Nazrin didn't hesitate. "Fine." She turned to Muthu and Praveen, their borrowed clothes dripping onto cracked tiles. "Come." They walked back through the fluorescent glare—past weeping families, past a drunkard vomiting into a plastic bin—towards the registrar's cage. Nazrin pulled her phone from her damp blouse pocket, fingers trembling only once as she logged into her banking app. The screen glowed: ₹25,327.86. Her last salary. Her emergency fund. Her escape money. She tapped *transfer*, entered Kumar's scribbled UPI ID, keyed in the amount. The confirmation chime sounded like shattering glass.
 
Outside, the rain had softened to a misty drizzle. Fahim stumbled between them, shivering in his stained shirt, Kumar's warning about daily sign-ins ringing in the humid air. Nazrin hailed another auto—smaller, reeking of stale betel nut. They squeezed in: Fahim hunched on the jump seat, avoiding her eyes; Muthu and Praveen bracketing Nazrin on the bench, thighs pressed warm against hers through damp silk. No one spoke. The auto rattled past shuttered shops, through puddles reflecting neon *paan* signs. At their apartment gate, Nazrin paid the driver with wet coins. Fahim mumbled something about a shower, fleeing inside without meeting her gaze.
 
They followed—Nazrin first, then Praveen, then Muthu—and froze just past the threshold. The living room light blazed. Two sleek black SUVs with tinted windows were parked haphazardly on their narrow driveway, doors left open like gaping jaws. Inside, their modest space felt violated: the coffee table shoved aside, Fahim's prized bonsai overturned on the rug. Five men stood motionless—impossibly broad-shouldered, necks thick as tree trunks, clad in identical black tracksuits. Their stillness was more terrifying than any shout. Seated calmly on their frayed velvet sofa was a man in his fifties: silver hair swept back, sharp charcoal suit immaculate, one polished loafer resting lightly on Fahim's crumpled shirt from earlier. He held a steaming cup of tea in a delicate porcelain cup, incongruous against his predatory stillness.
 
The silver-haired man took a slow sip, his eyes—cold and assessing—locking onto Nazrin. "Am Ragavan," he announced, his voice smooth as poured oil. He gestured dismissively towards the hallway where Fahim had fled. "And you must be this fucker’s wife." He placed the teacup down with deliberate precision. "Your husband owes me two-point-five crore rupees. Plus"—he flicked a manicured finger—"vig. Daily compounding." His gaze swept over her damp emerald silk, then flickered to Muthu and Praveen flanking her. A faint, contemptuous smile touched his lips. "Pretty boys. Sentiment won't erase debts."
 
Nazrin stepped forward, placing herself squarely between Ragavan and the students. Her voice emerged brittle but clear—the clipped cadence of a lecturer explaining a fundamental theorem to slow learners. "Am his wife Nazrin," she stated, her tamil accent thickening deliberately. "I did not know anything about this debt. Just now, at security officer station, Kumar-sir told me." She spread her hands, palms upturned—a gesture of empty pockets. "We are very poor people. I work as professor—salary twenty-five thousand rupees only." She met Ragavan’s icy stare unflinchingly. "Please show some mercy. How can I pay you back?"
 
Ragavan’s gaze slid past her shoulder like oil on water, settling on Muthu and Praveen. "Who are the boys?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild. One of his enforcers shifted—a drill press of muscle tensing beneath a black tracksuit. Nazrin didn’t turn. "My students," she replied, her voice gaining steel. "They escorted me through the storm after Kumar-sir released Fahim." Behind her, Praveen’s jaw tightened; Muthu’s knuckles whitened on the damp hem of his borrowed shirt. Ragavan’s smile deepened, revealing teeth too white and even. "Students," he echoed, savoring the word. "Loyal. Admirable." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "But loyalty doesn’t pay vig, Professor. Neither does twenty-five thousand rupees."
 
Fahim whimpered from the hallway shadows, a sound like a kicked dog. Ragavan snapped his fingers without looking. Two enforcers hauled Fahim forward by his collar, dumping him at Ragavan’s polished loafers. He curled there, trembling, face pressed to the rug beside his overturned bonsai. Ragavan studied him dispassionately. "Your husband," he murmured, almost conversationally, "betrayed you. Forged your name. Gambled away your roof." He lifted his hand—a slow, deliberate arc—and brought it down hard. *Crack.* The slap echoed off the walls. Fahim cried out, head jerking sideways. Ragavan struck again. *Crack.* Blood bloomed bright on Fahim’s lip. "This house," Ragavan declared, gesturing at the cramped living room with its peeling paint and water-stained ceiling, "is mine now. Fifty lakhs’ compensation." He paused, wiping his palm on a silk handkerchief produced by an enforcer. "Remaining two crores." His eyes pinned Nazrin. "When? How?"
 
Nazrin sank to her knees beside Fahim’s crumpled form. The damp silk of her saree pooled around her like spilled ink. She didn’t touch him. Her shoulders shook—not with sobs, but with a tremor of pure, distilled fury. Her voice cracked open, raw and jagged: "*Lease* sir," she choked, the Tamil word thick with desperation, "*give me some time. And I will see what can I do. Please—I beg you.*" Tears tracked hot paths down her cheeks, mingling with rainwater still clinging to her temples. She pressed her forehead to the rug, fingers digging into the coarse weave. "*Please.*" Behind her, Muthu made a low noise—half protest, half anguish. Praveen took an involuntary step forward, halted by the sudden shift of an enforcer’s bulk. Ragavan watched Nazrin’s abasement, his expression unreadable. He sipped his tea. The porcelain clicked softly against the saucer.
 
"Okay," Ragavan said at last. His voice was a silk-covered blade. "I will give you one week." He placed the teacup down with unnerving precision. "Seven days. Not a minute more." His gaze swept over her bowed head, then flicked dismissively to Muthu and Praveen. "But understand—this isn't charity. Vig accrues daily. Ten percent." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his polished loafer nudging Fahim’s shuddering shoulder. "Fail," he murmured, "and I take more than money." His eyes lingered on Nazrin’s exposed nape, damp hair clinging to skin. "Your husband’s hands. His tongue. Perhaps," his voice dropped to a whisper, "something... *precious*... from you." Behind him, an enforcer cracked his knuckles—a sound like snapping twigs.
 
Nazrin lifted her head slowly. Her tears were gone, replaced by a terrifying stillness. She met Ragavan’s gaze directly. "One week is not enough for two crores," she stated, her voice brittle but clear—the lecturer correcting a fundamental miscalculation. Her Tamil accent thickened deliberately. "I need at least two months." She didn’t plead. She *calculated*. "Sixty days. Properly structured." Her eyes flicked to Fahim’s bleeding lip, then back to Ragavan. "Give me time, and I will pay *everything*. Principal and vig." She held his stare, unblinking. "You want your money? Or just… sport?"
 
Ragavan leaned back, studying her damp emerald silk, the defiant set of her shoulders. A slow, reptilian smile spread across his face. "Two months?" He chuckled softly, tapping a manicured finger against his knee. "In that manner, Professor…" His voice dropped to a silken murmur. "Let’s say you give me twenty-five lakhs every week. Like clockwork." He leaned forward, his polished loafer pressing down on Fahim’s trembling shoulder. "*Then* in two months… two crores will be paid." He paused, letting the impossible figure hang—a weekly ransom larger than her yearly salary. "Fail *one* payment," he added softly, "and the deal vanishes. We revert to… original terms." Behind him, an enforcer cracked his knuckles again—a punctuation mark.


 
Nazrin didn’t flinch. Her mind raced—calculating, discarding, restructuring. Twenty-five lakhs weekly wasn’t sustainable; it was annihilation. Yet, it bought sixty days. Sixty days to breathe, to strategize, to find leverage Ragavan couldn’t crush. "Agreed," she stated, her voice stripped bare of tremor. She met his icy stare. "But I need confirmation. In writing. Terms clear. Payment schedule." She gestured towards Fahim, still pinned beneath Ragavan’s shoe. "And he stays *here*, untouched. Under my watch." Ragavan’s smile widened fractionally—a predator amused by prey negotiating cage dimensions. He snapped his fingers. An enforcer produced a sleek leather-bound notebook and a gold pen. Ragavan scrawled swiftly, tore out the page, and held it out. Nazrin took it, the paper crisp against her damp palm. The numbers glared back: *₹25,00,000. Weekly. Commencing 7 days.*
 
Ragavan rose, smoothing his charcoal suit. His polished loafer lifted from Fahim’s shoulder. "One late payment," he murmured, his voice silkier now, almost conversational, "and the deal evaporates." He paused, letting the silence thicken like clotting blood. His gaze slid over Nazrin’s emerald silk, then lingered—deliberate, invasive—on Muthu and Praveen’s rigid stances. "And you," he added, the threat shifting shape, viscous and explicit, "will get fucked. By whoever I choose." He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. The implication hung—a blade suspended over flesh. "Street sweeper. Taxi driver. My enforcer here." He nodded towards the mountain of muscle beside him. "Or perhaps..." His eyes flicked back to the students, "...these loyal boys. Wouldn’t that be poetic? Payment in flesh instead of cash." Behind Nazrin, Praveen inhaled sharply; Muthu’s hand curled into a fist. Ragavan smiled. "I don’t care *how* you get the money. Steal it. Sell yourself. Sell *them*. Just deliver."
 
The enforcers filed out—silent, efficient—leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and stale betel nut. The front door clicked shut. Nazrin didn’t move. She remained kneeling on the rug, Ragavan’s handwritten contract crumpled in her damp palm. Fahim whimpered beside her, a low, continuous sound like a leaking pipe. The overturned bonsai lay shattered, soil spilled across the synthetic fibers. Muthu shifted first. "Madam..." he began, his voice tight. Nazrin raised a hand—silencing. Her eyes stayed fixed on the closed door. "Water," she ordered, her tone flat, detached. "Bring water. And a cloth." Praveen moved towards the kitchen, his borrowed trousers clinging to his thighs. Muthu hovered, uncertain. Nazrin finally turned her head, her gaze landing on Fahim’s bleeding lip, his trembling hands. "Get up," she commanded, no pity in her voice. "Clean yourself."
 
Fahim scrambled backwards, pressing himself against the peeling wallpaper. "Nazrin—please—" he stammered, tears mixing with blood on his chin. "I didn’t know—I didn’t think—" Nazrin unfolded her legs, rising smoothly. She stepped over the bonsai debris, ignoring him. Praveen returned with a chipped enamel bowl and a faded dish towel. Nazrin took both without thanks. She dipped the cloth, wrung it hard, then knelt again—not to Fahim, but to wipe the muddy footprint Ragavan’s loafer had left on her rug. Methodical. Precise. The silence stretched, broken only by Fahim’s ragged breathing and the drip-drip of rainwater from Muthu’s sleeves onto the linoleum. Nazrin finished scrubbing, tossed the soiled cloth into the bowl. "Twenty-five lakhs," she stated, her voice unnervingly calm. "Every seven days. Starting next Tuesday." She looked up, her eyes sweeping over Fahim’s cowering form, then lifting to meet Praveen’s horrified stare, Muthu’s clenched jaw. "Ideas?"
 
Praveen shifted his weight, rainwater pooling around his worn sneakers. "We’ll work it out, Madam," he insisted, his voice low but fierce. "Somehow." He stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between Nazrin and the hallway where Fahim trembled. "We know people." His gaze flicked to Muthu, a silent signal passing between them. "Connections. Resources." Muthu nodded sharply, cracking his knuckles—a sound like dry twigs snapping. "Yeah," he growled, his eyes fixed on Fahim with undisguised contempt. "Sir?" Muthu’s voice was thick with challenge. "Any idea *you* got? Or just bleeding on Madam’s floor?"
 
Fahim pushed himself upright against the peeling wallpaper, wiping blood from his split lip with a shaking hand. His eyes darted wildly between Praveen’s protective stance and Muthu’s coiled aggression. "Who the hell are you?" Fahim spat, voice ragged with panic and indignation. He jabbed a trembling finger at the students. "Why are *they* here? In my house? Looking at me like—like *that*?" His gaze locked onto Nazrin, desperate and accusing. "Nazrin! Tell them to leave!"
 
Nazrin didn’t turn. She remained kneeling by the stained rug, her damp emerald silk pooling around her like spilled poison. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t a shout—it was a blade honed to a lethal edge, slicing through the humid air. "They are my students," she stated, each syllable precise and glacial. "They stood with me tonight at the security officer station when Kumar-sir told me you forged my signature. They stood with me when Ragavan put his boot on your neck." She finally lifted her head, her eyes meeting Fahim’s—devoid of pity, burning with contempt. "They stood with me when *no one else did*. Not like you—selling our roof, selling *me*, to gundas for your gambling debts."

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 19:

 

Fahim recoiled as if struck again, pressing deeper into the peeling wallpaper. "That’s—that’s not true!" he stammered, blood smearing his chin. "I never meant—" But Nazrin was already rising, unfolding herself with predatory grace. She stepped over the shattered bonsai, ignoring the spilled soil, and moved toward the kitchen. "Truth?" she called over her shoulder, her laughter brittle as cracked ice. "You gambled our deed. You forged my name. You brought Ragavan here." She yanked open a cabinet, pulling out a cheap steel tumbler. "Truth is, Fahim, you sold us both. For nothing."
 
Fahim’s eyes darted wildly between Praveen’s protective stance and Muthu’s coiled aggression. "Fine!" he blurted, desperation sharpening his voice. He wiped his bleeding lip with a trembling sleeve. "Let the boys go, Nazrin. Please." His gaze locked onto hers, pleading. "I’ll disclose everything—all the details, the accounts, the contacts—in private. Just us." Behind Nazrin, Muthu snorted derisively. Praveen shifted his weight, rainwater pooling around his worn sneakers. "Madam," Praveen began, his voice low with warning, "he’s stalling. Trying to isolate you." Nazrin filled the tumbler at the sink, the water drumming loud in the sudden silence. She didn’t turn.
 
The storm lashed against the kitchen windowpane, wind howling through cracks in the frame. Nazrin shut off the tap, the abrupt quiet amplifying Fahim’s ragged breathing. She placed the tumbler on the counter with deliberate calm. "Boys," she announced, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel, "the storm hasn't settled." She turned, her gaze sweeping over Praveen and Muthu—drenched, vigilant, standing like sentinels between her and Fahim’s cowering form. "Stay for the night. Call your parents. Let them know." Praveen answered instantly, his tone flat, rehearsed: "Ma’am, our parents are on a business trip. Since mine and Muthu’s parents are partners." Fahim’s eyes widened—a flicker of suspicion cutting through his panic. Muthu nodded once, sharp and final, cracking his knuckles again. "Yeah," he added, his stare never leaving Fahim. "Dubai. Texted earlier."
 
Nazrin leaned back against the sink, rainwater dripping from her hairline onto her collarbone. She studied Muthu—his jaw set, shoulders squared beneath the soaked borrowed shirt. "How long?" she asked, her voice devoid of inflection. Muthu met her gaze, unwavering. "Two weeks," he stated. "Minimum. They’re negotiating contracts. Till then..." He paused, deliberately shifting his stance to block Fahim’s line of sight to Nazrin. "We’ll stay with you. Help sort this problem." Praveen echoed him, softer but firm: "We’ll stay, Madam. Help." Fahim choked out a protest, "You can’t—this is my house—" but Nazrin cut him off with a raised palm, her eyes still locked on Muthu.
 
"Good," Nazrin declared, pushing off the sink. She strode past Fahim without glancing at him, her damp silk whispering against her calves. "Praveen—fetch towels. Muthu—board up that broken kitchen window." She tossed Fahim the stained dish towel. "Clean your mess." Fahim stared at the cloth in his hands, blood blooming anew on his split lip. "Nazrin, please," he whispered, "we need to talk—alone—" Nazrin didn’t pause. She moved to the hallway closet, pulling out threadbare blankets and pillows. "Talk?" Her laugh was brittle as shattered glass. "You lost that privilege when you forged my signature."
 
Muthu dragged the splintered dining chair toward the kitchen, its legs scbanging like claws on linoleum. "Two weeks," he repeated, louder now, driving a fist into the plywood covering the shattered pane. The impact echoed through the cramped house. "Plenty of time." He didn’t look at Fahim, but the promise hung heavy: *Plenty of time to make you pay.* Praveen returned with towels, handing one silently to Nazrin. His knuckles brushed hers—deliberate, electric—as he kept his body angled between her and Fahim’s trembling form. "Madam," he murmured, "where should we sleep?"
 
Nazrin dbangd the thin towel over her damp shoulders. Her gaze swept the cramped hallway—the peeling wallpaper, the stained rug, Fahim hunched like a beaten dog beside the shattered bonsai. She pointed down the narrow corridor. "Bedroom," she announced, her voice stripped bare. Her eyes locked onto Praveen’s, then Muthu’s. "You boys. With me." She didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Then her finger jabbed toward the shadowed alcove beneath the stairs—a space barely large enough for a man to stand. "Fahim." The name dropped like a stone. "Store room." Fahim’s head snapped up, bloodied mouth agape. "Nazrin—you can’t—"
 
Praveen stepped forward, blocking Fahim’s view of Nazrin. "Madam," he began, low and urgent, "is that wise? He could—" Nazrin cut him off with a sharp gesture. "He signed away this house," she stated, her voice icy calm. "He signed away *me*. Tonight?" Her laugh was brittle as cracked porcelain. "He sleeps with the brooms and buckets." She turned, silk whispering against her thighs. "Muthu—bring the extra mattress." Behind her, Fahim scrambled to his feet. "Nazrin! Listen! Ragavan’s men—they know people at the college! They’ll—"
 
Nazrin didn’t pause. She strode into the bedroom, ignoring Fahim’s choked protests echoing from the hallway. The cracked vanity mirror reflected her damp silk, smudged kohl, the tremor in her hands masked by forced stillness. She pulled a thin cotton nighty from the bottom drawer—pale blue, frayed at the hem, bought years ago for humid Chennai nights. It felt flimsy, almost cheap against her skin. She shut the bathroom door, locking it with a decisive click. The shower hissed, steam rising like ghosts as she scrubbed Ragavan’s threat, Fahim’s cowardice, the mud-streaked rug from her skin. Water sluiced down her spine, pooling at her feet. She didn’t hurry.
 
She emerged ten minutes later, skin flushed pink, hair dripping onto bare shoulders. The nighty clung—translucent where wet, outlining the dark triangle between her thighs, the hard peaks of her breasts. Water darkened the thin fabric across her stomach, plastering it like a second skin. She didn’t towel dry. Didn’t cover herself. She walked barefoot into the living room, where Fahim hunched on the splintered chair, Muthu hammering the last board over the kitchen window, Praveen folding towels with rigid precision. The dripping faucet echoed. Three pairs of eyes snapped to her—Praveen’s widening, Muthu’s hammer freezing mid-swing, Fahim’s jaw slackening. Silence thickened, broken only by her wet footsteps on linoleum.


 
“Nazrin,” Fahim choked out, scrambling upright, his gaze darting between her near-nakedness and the students. His voice cracked. “What is this? The boys—they’re *here*!” He gestured wildly at Muthu and Praveen, who stood paralyzed, towels forgotten, tools hanging limp. Muthu swallowed hard, his knuckles white on the hammer handle. Praveen’s breath hitched—a sharp, audible intake. Nazrin ignored Fahim. She moved to the center of the room, water pooling around her feet, and turned slowly, deliberately, letting the damp silk outline every curve, every shadow. Her gaze swept over Muthu’s frozen stance, Praveen’s locked stare, before finally settling on Fahim’s horrified face.
 
“Boys,” she announced, her voice crisp as snapping ice, slicing through the humid air. She gestured dismissively at their soaked trousers and shirts clinging to their bodies. “Your clothes are wet. I know you don’t have spares.” She paused, letting the implication hang—heavy, deliberate. Her eyes held theirs—unyielding, commanding. “Sleep in your undies.” Fahim gasped, a strangled sound. Praveen’s cheeks flushed crimson; Muthu’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. Nazrin didn’t waver. She turned, the thin fabric of her nighty clinging obscenely as she walked towards the bedroom door, leaving wet footprints like accusations on the linoleum.
 
Without hesitation, Praveen obeyed. His fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his borrowed shirt, the damp fabric peeling away to reveal lean muscle and smooth brown skin beneath. He folded it neatly, placing it on the splintered chair beside Fahim’s trembling form. Then came his trousers, pooled around his ankles. He stepped out, clad only in simple grey boxer briefs clinging low on his hips. Muthu followed, movements rougher, defiant. He tore off his soaked shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the muddy rug. His trousers followed, kicked aside. He stood tall in dark blue trunks, shoulders squared, glaring at Fahim—a silent challenge etched in every tensed sinew. Fahim stared, mute horror twisting his bloodied face.


 


Nazrin watched from the bedroom doorway, steam still curling from her damp skin beneath the sheer nighty. Her gaze swept over the students’ near-naked forms—Praveen’s disciplined stillness, Muthu’s coiled aggression—then flicked to Fahim’s crumpled posture. “Bedroom,” she commanded, her voice low and resonant. Praveen moved first, bare feet silent on the worn linoleum. Muthu lingered a heartbeat longer, his stare drilling into Fahim before turning to follow. Nazrin stepped aside, allowing them passage into the dimly lit room behind her. The air crackled with unspoken tension—victory, defiance, raw exposure.
 
Fahim scrambled forward as Muthu crossed the threshold. “Stop!” he choked out, one hand outstretched toward Nazrin. “You can’t—” But the bedroom door swung shut with deliberate finality, cutting off his plea. The latch clicked—a small, sharp sound that echoed through the suddenly hollow hallway. Fahim stood frozen, palm pressed against cheap plywood, listening to the muffled rustle of bodies shifting beyond it. Rain lashed the boarded-up window. In the silence, the dripping faucet sounded like a countdown.

[Cuckoldindian]

Update 20:

Inside the cramped bedroom, Nazrin leaned back against the closed door, her damp nighty plastered to her hips. Praveen stood rigid near the sagging mattress, gaze fixed on a water stain blooming across the ceiling. Muthu prowled the narrow space between bed and wall, bare feet silent on cracked tiles. He stopped before the cracked vanity mirror, staring at his own reflection—the borrowed blue trunks clinging low, the coiled tension in his shoulders. “He’s listening,” Muthu muttered, not turning. “At the door. Like a fucking cockroach.” Praveen’s jaw tightened. Nazrin didn’t move. Her eyes traced the path of a single drop sliding down Muthu’s spine toward his waistband. The air thickened—wet cotton, sweat, the sharp scent of hammered nails lingering on Muthu’s skin.

 
Nazrin pushed off the door. She crossed to the bed—a narrow cot barely wide enough for two—and sank onto its edge. The cheap mattress springs groaned. She patted the space beside her. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice stripped of its earlier ice, leaving only exhaustion and raw command. Praveen obeyed instantly, perching stiffly on the edge near the headboard, knees drawn together. Muthu hesitated, watching Nazrin’s damp silhouette against the thin fabric clinging to her breasts. He finally sat heavily on her other side, thigh pressing against hers through the sheer cotton. The bed dipped dangerously. Nazrin didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, the nighty gaping slightly at the neckline. “Twenty-five lakhs,” she stated flatly. “By Tuesday. Ideas. *Real* ones.”
 
Muthu shifted, his bare shoulder brushing hers. He stared at the peeling paint on the opposite wall. “Madam,” he began, voice low and rough. “If we want to acquire that huge sum…” He paused, swallowing hard. “…we’ll have to do something illegal.” The words dropped like stones into the humid silence. Praveen stiffened beside her. Outside the door, Fahim’s ragged breathing hitched—a sharp, audible gasp against the plywood. Nazrin didn’t move. Her gaze remained fixed on the water stain spreading across the ceiling. “Illegal,” she repeated softly, tasting the word. Not a question. An acknowledgment. Her thumb traced a loose thread on the frayed hem of her nighty. “Specifics, Muthu.”
 
Praveen leaned forward, elbows on knees mirroring Nazrin’s posture. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, yet carried the precision of a scalpel. “We don’t know anything for certain,” he cautioned, eyes darting to the door. He lowered his voice further. “But last week? When Muthu and I went to buy cocaine from our peddler? He was complaining.” Praveen’s gaze locked onto Nazrin’s. “Said he overheard some suppliers talking—big players. They were frustrated. Having difficulty moving their product. A lot of it. Stuck somewhere.” He paused, letting the implication hang. Muthu nodded grimly beside her. “He didn’t say *what* product,” Praveen added quickly. “Or where. Just… difficulty selling.”
 
Nazrin remained utterly still, the damp cotton of her nighty clinging coldly to her skin. Only her eyes moved, sharpening as they fixed on Praveen. “Difficulty selling,” she echoed flatly, not a question. Her thumb stopped tracing the frayed hem. “Meaning… surplus. Meaning… price drops for desperate sellers. Or…” She tilted her head slightly, the movement predatory. “…opportunity for desperate buyers.” She shifted her gaze to Muthu. “This peddler. How much trust does he have in you? Enough to talk?” Muthu snorted, a harsh sound in the quiet room. “Trust? With that guy? Madam, he sells us coke. We pay. That’s the relationship. Friendly? No. Useful? Maybe.” He cracked his knuckles, a sharp pop echoing Fahim’s muffled gasp outside. “We can try. Ask questions. Pretend we’re looking to buy bulk ourselves. See what spills.”
 
Praveen leaned closer, his bare knee pressing against Nazrin’s thigh. The contact was deliberate, grounding. “It’s a big risk, Ma’am,” he murmured, his voice taut with suppressed urgency. His eyes flickered towards the thin plywood door separating them from Fahim’s listening ear. “If we probe too deep, ask the wrong things… these suppliers aren’t college professors. They don’t give warnings. They give bullets. Or worse.” He swallowed, the muscles in his jaw working. “One wrong word, one suspicious glance… and we vanish. Or end up in pieces dumped near the Marina.” His gaze locked onto Nazrin’s, searching for understanding, for caution. “We’d be stepping into a snake pit blindfolded.”
 
Nazrin didn’t flinch. She reached out, her damp fingers brushing lightly over Praveen’s clenched fist resting on his knee. Her touch was cool, deliberate. “I understand,” she said, her voice low and surprisingly soft, stripping away the earlier command. She looked from Praveen’s worried eyes to Muthu’s hardened stare. “You are college-going boys. Smart boys. You have futures. Degrees. Families expecting something… respectable.” She paused, letting the weight of their potential paths hang in the humid air. “If you want to move away from this… this filth I’ve dragged you into… walk out that door right now…” Her gesture encompassed the cramped room, the boarded window, the listening husband beyond. “…I would not think bad of you. Not for a second.” Her gaze held theirs, utterly sincere, devoid of manipulation. “Go home. Forget Ragavan. Forget me. Save yourselves.”
 
Muthu leaned back sharply against the protesting mattress springs, his bare shoulder bumping hers harder than intended. A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him, startlingly loud. “Madam,” he scoffed, shaking his head, rainwater droplets still clinging to his dark hair flying. He gestured broadly at his own near-naked torso, clad only in damp boxers, then swept a hand indicating Praveen’s tense posture and Nazrin’s sheer, clinging nighty. “Look at us. Seriously, *look*. Do you ever think,” he continued, his voice thick with bitter amusement, “that Praveen and I will actually pass out of college with degrees? That we’ll ever wear ties and sit in air-conditioned offices?” He snorted again, the sound sharp against the drumming rain. “That ship sailed long before Ragavan knocked.”
 

Praveen shifted beside Nazrin on the sagging mattress, his bare thigh pressing warm against hers through the thin cotton. He didn’t look at Muthu, his gaze fixed instead on Nazrin’s damp profile etched against the dim lamplight. His voice, when it came, was softer than Muthu’s, yet carried a chilling certainty. “He’s right, Madam,” Praveen murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm on her shoulder. “We never saw our lives working like that. Never imagined pushing papers. Even before we started selling coke, before we met you…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “We knew. The streets, the hustle, the… *other* kinds of business? That’s where we were headed. Always.” He lifted a hand, not quite touching her arm. “This? Ragavan? It just… accelerated things. We’d have ended up here eventually.”
 
Nazrin studied them both—Praveen’s quiet resignation, Muthu’s defiant glare—then slowly turned her head towards the thin plywood door. Beyond it, Fahim’s ragged breathing rasped against the wood like sandpaper. She raised her voice slightly, cold and clear. “Are you guys sure?” The question hung heavy, not directed at the boys alone, but flung like a knife towards the listening ear outside. “Really sure? Once we start asking questions… there’s no stepping back onto some clean path.” She kept her eyes on the door, imagining Fahim’s flinch. “This isn’t tutoring. This isn’t flirting in the ECE lab. This is… something else entirely.”
 
Muthu leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs. A fierce grin slashed across his face, bright and reckless against the gloom. “Madam,” he declared, voice rough-edged and loud enough to carry through the cheap wood. “We weren’t born for clean paths. We were born *ready*.” He shot a sharp glance at Praveen, who gave a single, solemn nod. “Ready for whatever comes. Ready for Ragavan. Ready for the peddler. Ready for *this*.” He gestured sharply around the cramped room, encompassing the damp nighty, the boarded window, the listening husband—the entire tangled mess. His grin widened, predatory. “Born ready.”


 
Nazrin’s gaze snapped back to Muthu, sharp and assessing. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a cold, focused intensity. Her thumb stopped worrying the frayed hem. “Good,” she stated, crisp as breaking glass. “The peddler. The one who overheard the suppliers. What’s his name?” She leaned in slightly, the damp silk neckline gaping, revealing the shadowed swell of her breast. Her eyes held Muthu’s, demanding an answer—not a detail, but a key. Praveen shifted beside her, drawing her attention momentarily. His voice was low, deliberate. “Kannan. Calls himself ‘Kannan Anna’. Runs out of a tea stall near the old Perambur railway yard. Sells mostly to college kids and bus drivers.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the door. “He’s paranoid. Always has two thugs nearby. Thin guy. Missing front tooth. Smells like cheap rum and stale betel.”\
 
Nazrin absorbed this, her expression unreadable. The humid air felt charged, thick with the scent of wet cotton and Praveen’s lingering soap. Outside, Fahim’s ragged breathing hitched again. Nazrin ignored it. Her focus was absolute. “Kannan Anna,” she repeated, testing the name. She looked from Praveen’s tense profile back to Muthu’s hardened stare. Her next question sliced through the silence, practical and ice-cold. “When can we meet him?” Muthu blinked, momentarily thrown by the directness. “Tomorrow?” he ventured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Afternoon? He’s usually there after three, when the yard shift changes.” Praveen nodded confirmation, his knee pressing tighter against Nazrin’s thigh. “We’d need a reason to ask about bulk,” he murmured. “A believable buyer. Fast.”
 
A sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over Nazrin, profound and bone-deep. The adrenaline seeped away, leaving her limbs heavy as lead. The sheer blue cotton felt like sandpaper against her flushed skin. She pushed herself upright from the sagging mattress, the springs groaning in protest. Her voice, when it came, was stripped bare, the command replaced by raw fatigue. “Good. That’s… something.” She ran a trembling hand through her damp hair, pulling it back from her forehead. “We will plan tomorrow,” she announced, her words slightly slurred, the crispness dissolving. “I need… mi mind to ssleep.” The deliberate lapse into broken English underscored her utter depletion. “Now. Silence.”
 
Without another word, Nazrin pivoted towards the bed. She didn’t glance at the door where Fahim listened. She didn’t look at Praveen or Muthu. She simply crawled onto the narrow cot, pushing herself towards the wall, her back pressing against the cool, peeling paint. She pulled the thin sheet up over her damp nighty, covering herself to the waist, leaving her bare shoulders exposed. The space beside her yawned—a narrow strip of worn mattress ticking. She patted it once, a weary gesture. “Praveen,” she murmured, her voice thick with impending sleep. “Here.” Then, shifting slightly, she patted the space against the wall, the cramped spot she’d just vacated. “Muthu. There.” The implication was stark, undeniable: she lay between them. The thin sheet was the only barrier separating her damp silk from their bare skin.
 
Praveen moved first, silent as smoke. He slid onto the mattress beside her, his body rigidly respectful, leaving inches of space. He lay flat on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling, hands clasped over his stomach above the sheet. Muthu hesitated, his gaze darting from Nazrin’s closed eyes to Praveen’s tense posture. He finally climbed over her legs, careful not to touch her, and wedged himself into the narrow space against the wall. He curled onto his side, facing the peeling plaster, his back a solid wall inches from Nazrin’s shoulder. The bed groaned under the combined weight. Nazrin didn’t open her eyes. Her breathing deepened almost instantly, a ragged exhaustion claiming her. Praveen remained statue-still. Outside the door, Fahim’s ragged breathing grew louder, punctuated by a muffled sob. No one spoke. The only sounds were the drumming rain, the dripping faucet, and Nazrin’s slow descent into oblivion.
 
Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, clawed through a gap in the boarded window, painting a hot stripe across Nazrin’s eyelids. She stirred, groggy, her body heavy. Heat pressed against her back—the solid furnace of Muthu’s chest, his arm dbangd loosely over her waist beneath the thin sheet. Against her front, Praveen’s lean form curved into her, his face buried in the damp silk covering her shoulder, one leg hooked possessively over her thigh. Something thick and insistent nudged against the cleft of her buttocks through Muthu’s boxers. Simultaneously, Praveen’s morning hardness pressed insistently against her lower belly through the damp nighty and his briefs. A low groan escaped Nazrin, half-sleep, half-arousal. She shifted minutely, and the twin pressures intensified, rubbing firmly against her in the humid stillness.
 
"Madam?" Praveen’s sleep-roughened murmur vibrated against her collarbone. His hips flexed unconsciously, grinding his erection against her softness. Behind her, Muthu grunted, his own hips pushing forward, pinning her tighter between them. The sheet tangled around their legs. Nazrin kept her eyes closed, feigning deeper sleep, letting the twin sensations wash over her—the delicious friction, the illicit warmth, the sheer *ownership* of their bodies bracketing hers. Fahim’s muffled cough echoed from beyond the door, a harsh intrusion. Muthu’s arm tightened around her waist possessively. "Ignore the cockroach," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and something darker. His hips rocked again, slow and deliberate, grinding himself against her backside. Praveen mirrored the movement against her front.
 
Nazrin finally opened her eyes. Sunlight glared off the peeling paint. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she arched her back subtly, pressing herself more firmly into Praveen’s hardness while pushing her hips back against Muthu’s persistent nudge. A low hum vibrated in her throat. "Enough," she commanded, her voice raspy but clear. Not rejection. Instruction. She twisted slightly, freeing an arm. Her hand slid down Praveen’s chest, over the waistband of his briefs, and wrapped firmly around his straining cock. Simultaneously, she reached back behind her, fingers finding the thick ridge tenting Muthu’s boxers and gripping it through the damp cotton. Both boys froze, breaths catching. "Silent," Nazrin hissed, her gaze fixed on the boarded window. "Fast."


 
She began moving her hands in sharp, efficient strokes. Her grip was firm, demanding. Praveen gasped, hips jerking involuntarily into her fist. Behind her, Muthu bucked against her palm, a choked groan escaping his lips. Nazrin tightened her hold on Praveen. "Fahim," she breathed, the name barely audible above the frantic rustle of sheets and ragged breathing. "He listens." She increased her pace, her own breath quickening. "Make sounds," she ordered, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Loud ones. He should hear it." Her eyes flicked towards the thin plywood door, imagining Fahim pressed against it. "He *needs* to hear it."
 
Praveen obeyed instantly. "Ahhhh... *yesss*, Ma'am!" he cried out, the words ragged and loud, pitched high with genuine pleasure mixed with performance. His hips pistoned faster against her hand. Beside her ear, Muthu growled, low and guttural. "Fuck," he snarled, thrusting harder against her palm trapped between his hips and her backside. "Fuck... *yeah*... Madam!" His voice was a rough counterpoint to Praveen's strained cry. The sounds filled the cramped room—gasps, groans, the slick slide of skin against damp cotton, the rhythmic creak of the protesting bedsprings. Nazrin kept her movements relentless, her gaze fixed on the boarded window slit where dawn light bled through. She pictured Fahim’s face contorted in agony just beyond the flimsy barrier.
 
The climaxes hit them fast and brutally, spurred by her demanding hands and the illicit thrill of the audience. Praveen came first with a choked, high-pitched whine, his body convulsing against her front. Warmth gushed thickly over Nazrin’s knuckles and wrist. Almost simultaneously, Muthu bucked violently, pinning her hand against herself as he groaned, a deep, shuddering sound that vibrated through her spine. Heat pulsed against her palm through his boxers, soaking the thin fabric. The room filled with the sharp, musky scent of release and the frantic panting of spent breath. Nazrin didn’t pause, maintaining her grip until both boys sagged against her, trembling.
 
Warmth bloomed across Nazrin’s skin. A thick stripe of Praveen’s cum coated her inner thigh, sticky and cooling. Another splash landed high on her hipbone, gleaming in the intrusive sunlight. Below her, Muthu’s release had soaked through his boxers onto the thin sheet beneath them, leaving a dark, wet patch. Nazrin slowly withdrew her hands, fingers slick and glistening. She held them up, examining the mess clinically, ignoring the shuddering breaths against her skin. Praveen’s head lolled weakly against her shoulder; Muthu’s forehead pressed damply between her shoulder blades. Outside the door, silence had fallen – thick, absolute, and heavy.
 
Nazrin shoved Praveen’s spent body aside with her elbow, the movement brisk and devoid of tenderness. She swung her legs off the bed, her damp nighty clinging obscenely to her thighs. Cum smeared onto the mattress ticking as she stood. “Up,” she commanded, her voice flat, devoid of the previous night’s exhaustion or arousal. She strode towards the bedroom door, ignoring the sticky trails on her skin, the pungent musk hanging thick in the humid air. Behind her, Praveen groaned softly, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Muthu rolled onto his back, wiping a hand across his face. Nazrin didn’t look back. Her hand closed on the cheap brass doorknob. It felt cold against her palm.
 
She yanked the door open. Fahim wasn’t just listening. He was kneeling. Hunched directly before the threshold on the grimy hallway tiles, his forehead pressed against the splintered wood frame where it met the floor. His shoulders shook silently. A small pool of saliva or tears darkened the concrete beneath his face. He flinched violently as the door opened, scrambling backwards like a startled crab, his bloodshot eyes wide with horror, fixed on the sticky mess coating Nazrin’s inner thigh and the gleaming patch high on her hipbone. His gaze darted past her into the room, taking in Muthu stretching lazily on the stained sheets and Praveen stumbling towards his discarded underwear. A choked sound escaped Fahim’s throat.
 
Nazrin stepped over him, the damp hem of her nighty brushing his shoulder. “Get up,” she commanded, crisp as a snapped twig. Her voice carried none of the night’s exhaustion or the morning’s ragged arousal. It was pure, cold utility. She walked towards the kitchen sink without looking back. “Let’s get our day started.” Water hissed from the tap as she scrubbed her hands, the scent of cheap soap momentarily overpowering the musk clinging to the air. Behind her, Fahim remained frozen on the floor, a crumpled monument to humiliation.
 
“Make breakfast and tea for all,” Nazrin ordered, rinsing her wrists. She didn’t specify who. The command hung in the humid stillness, aimed squarely at Fahim’s hunched form. Her gaze flicked towards the bedroom doorway where Muthu and Praveen now stood, watching silently. “Eggs. Toast. Strong tea. Enough for four.” She turned off the tap, shaking droplets from her fingers. “I will take a bath.” She strode past Fahim again, heading for the cramped bathroom. At the threshold, she paused, her eyes sweeping over the students. “You two,” she added, her tone softening fractionally, “sit. Let him serve you.”
 
Fahim scrambled to his feet. His movements were jerky, mechanical. He avoided looking at the bedroom—at the crumpled sheets, the damp stains. He shuffled towards the kitchenette, shoulders slumped. Behind him, Praveen hesitated, then nudged Muthu. They moved to the small plastic table, sitting stiffly. Fahim cracked eggs into a chipped bowl, the shells snapping like tiny bones. The rhythmic scbang of butter on burnt toast filled the silence. Outside, Chennai roared awake—the blare of auto-rickshaws, the distant clang of temple bells. Inside, the air remained thick with the aftermath. Fahim’s hands trembled as he poured tea into mismatched cups. Steam curled upwards, carrying the scent of cheap dust-leaf brew. He placed a plate of greasy eggs before each boy, his eyes fixed on the stained linoleum. Praveen murmured a hesitant “Thank you, sir.” Muthu just grunted, stabbing an egg yolk with his fork. It bled yellow across the plate.
 
The bathroom door clicked open. Nazrin emerged, water-darkened hair slicked back from her temples. A threadbare cotton towel wrapped tight around her torso, tucked securely above her breasts. Another smaller towel turbaned her head. Droplets traced paths down her collarbones, disappearing into the terrycloth valley between her breasts. She padded barefoot across the gritty floor, ignoring Fahim’s hunched form at the stove. The damp towel clung to her hips, outlining the curve of her waist, the flare of her thighs. She walked with deliberate calm, the slap of her wet soles echoing in the cramped space. Fahim froze, a spatula hovering over the pan. Muthu’s fork paused mid-stab. Praveen’s gaze snapped upwards, tracking her progress. Only the distant hawse pipes’ metallic groan broke the silence.


 
Nazrin stopped beside the plastic table. The scent of cheap coconut soap and damp skin cut through the lingering musk and grease. She didn’t glance at Fahim. Her eyes swept over Muthu and Praveen. “Move,” she commanded softly. Praveen instantly shoved his chair sideways, scbanging loudly against the linoleum. Nazrin lowered herself onto the vacated seat. The towel tightened across her lap as she sat, riding up high on her thighs. The damp fabric offered scant coverage; the pale skin of her upper legs gleamed wetly in the harsh overhead bulb light. She reached forward, plucking a piece of toast from Praveen’s plate. She took a deliberate bite, crumbs scattering onto the towel. “Eat,” she ordered the boys, her voice muffled by bread. “Don’t let it get cold.” Fahim stared, spatula trembling. A bead of egg slid off its edge, sizzling onto the hot burner.
 
Nazrin swallowed the toast. Her gaze remained fixed on Muthu and Praveen, ignoring Fahim’s hunched silhouette by the stove. “After this,” she announced, crisp and efficient, “I will go to college. Speak to Srinivasan.” She paused, picking a stray crumb from her thigh. “Apply leave for the next week.” Her eyes flicked between them. “I will tell them your parents also applied leave for you both.” Praveen nodded instantly, his spoon clattering against his plate. Muthu grunted through a mouthful of egg. “Good,” Nazrin stated. She leaned back slightly, the towel straining dangerously low across her chest. A droplet traced a path down her collarbone, disappearing beneath the terrycloth. “You two,” she continued, her tone shifting to command, “go to your houses. Get clothes. Two weeks’ worth.”
 
Muthu wiped yolk from his chin with the back of his hand. “Me and Praveen will go,” he confirmed, pushing his plate away. His eyes met Nazrin’s, hard and assessing. “Get our dresses. Two weeks.” Praveen shifted beside him, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the plastic tabletop. “Yes, Madam,” he murmured, his gaze darting towards the silent Fahim. “We’ll be quick. Back before noon.”
 
Nazrin nodded once, a sharp dip of her chin. She took a final sip of lukewarm tea, the tannins bitter on her tongue. “Good.” Her gaze shifted to Praveen, pinning him. “And you?” Praveen swallowed, his throat working visibly. “I will connect with Kannan Anna,” he stated, forcing his voice steady. “Confirm the meeting. Today at two.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll tell him… a buyer. Serious. Needs bulk.” Nazrin’s eyes narrowed fractionally, a flicker of something cold moving behind them. “See that you do,” she said, her voice low. “No mistakes.” Praveen nodded, a bead of sweat tracing his temple despite the fan’s weak breeze.
 
Nazrin stood abruptly, the plastic chair scbanging harshly against the linoleum. The sudden motion loosened the towel tucked precariously above her breasts. It slipped, sliding downward an inch, revealing the damp swell of cleavage before she caught it with a swift, practiced jerk of her elbow. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react beyond the swift correction. Her eyes, sharp and utterly devoid of warmth, snapped towards Fahim, who still stood frozen by the stove, spatula dangling uselessly. “The bedsheets in the bedroom,” she stated, her voice slicing through the humid air, crisp as shattered glass. “They’re stained.” She paused, letting the implication hang thick and pungent. “Change them. Then clean the house. Thoroughly.”


 
Fahim flinched, his gaze darting towards the bedroom door, then back to Nazrin’s damp, towel-clad form. His voice cracked, pleading. “Nazrin, please… I can help you. Whatever you guys are doing—with Kannan Anna, the money—I can help. I know things, I have contacts…” He took a hesitant step forward, desperation etching lines around his eyes. “Let me fix this. Let me—”
 
Nazrin’s hand snapped up, palm out like a blade. “What you have done,” she cut in, her voice glacial, precise, “is *enough*. More than enough.” Her eyes didn’t waver from his crumpled posture. “You gambled away our roof. You forged my name. You brought Ragavan’s knife to our door.” She paused, letting the weight of each failure land like a hammer blow. “Now? You clean the stains *you* enabled.” Her chin tilted slightly, dismissing him utterly. “Fetch fresh linen. Scrub every corner. Make this filth disappear. That is your contribution.” She turned sharply, the damp towel shifting dangerously low again before she cinched it tighter with a swift, contemptuous jerk.
 
She strode into the bedroom, the cheap plywood door clicking shut behind her. Inside, the humid air still clung thickly with musk and the metallic tang of Fahim’s dried blood near the doorway. Ignoring the rumpled, stained sheets, she moved directly to the battered steel wardrobe. The hinges screamed protest as she yanked it open. Inside, past faded saris and Fahim’s neglected shirts, hung the garment she needed: a deep plum salwar kameez, the silk heavy and cool against her fingers. She pulled it out, the fabric whispering promises. The kurta’s neckline plunged deliberately low, the thin fabric designed to dbang, to reveal. The accompanying dupatta was sheer chiffon, useless for modesty. Perfect.
 
Nazrin shed the damp towel, letting it pool on the gritty floor. She pulled on the soft cotton salwar pants first, tying the drawstring tight at her waist. Then came the kurta. She slid it over her shoulders, the silk cool against her flushed skin. The deep V-neck settled snugly, framing the swell of her breasts, the cleft deliberately exposed. She adjusted the fabric, pulling it lower still, ensuring the soft curve of cleavage was unmistakable, undeniable. A quick glance in the wardrobe’s cracked mirror confirmed the effect: professional lecturer transformed into a proposition wrapped in silk. Srinivasan wouldn’t just agree to leave; he’d be desperate to grant it. She dbangd the sheer dupatta loosely over her shoulders, a transparent veil over the invitation.


 
She emerged from the bedroom, the silk whispering against her thighs. Fahim was scrubbing furiously at the kitchen counter, his back rigid. Muthu and Praveen sat slumped at the plastic table, their damp boxers clinging uncomfortably. Nazrin’s gaze swept over them. "Boys," she announced, crisp and efficient. "I think your clothes are dry. Wear them." She gestured towards the balcony where their jeans and shirts hung limp on a sagging line. "We’ll leave. Drop me at college on Fahim’s bike. Then go to your houses." Her eyes flicked towards Fahim, still scrubbing. "We take his bike."
 
Muthu pushed back his chair instantly, the legs scbanging concrete. Praveen followed, rising stiffly. Without hesitation, they hooked thumbs into their waistbands and peeled the damp boxers down their legs. They stepped out of them, kicking the crumpled cotton aside. Naked, they walked towards the balcony door—Muthu’s stride purposeful, Praveen’s slightly hesitant. Fahim froze mid-scrub, his knuckles white around the sponge. His eyes locked onto Praveen’s exposed erection, still half-swollen, then darted to Muthu’s flaccid state. A choked gasp escaped him. The boys ignored him entirely, retrieving their jeans from the line.


 
“Hurry,” Nazrin commanded, her plum silk clinging as she slid Fahim’s bike keys from the hook by the door. She didn’t glance at Fahim, now slumped against the countertop. Muthu zipped his jeans roughly, shirt untucked. Praveen fumbled with his belt buckle, eyes avoiding Nazrin’s plunging neckline. Nazrin flung the front door open. “Move,” she snapped. The humid street air rushed in—traffic fumes, frying oil, the distant scent of temple flowers. Muthu brushed past Fahim without a word. Praveen hesitated, murmured “Sir…” then followed Nazrin into the stairwell. Fahim remained motionless, staring at the abandoned boxers on the floor.
 
Nazrin tossed the keys—a heavy brass Honda emblem—to Muthu. “Drive.” She swung her leg over the pillion seat, settling her silk-clad hips back. The deep plum fabric stretched taut across her thighs. Praveen squeezed behind her, his knees pressing into her hips, hands hovering awkwardly near her waist. Muthu kicked the starter. The engine roared, a raw, impatient sound that drowned out Fahim’s muffled sob drifting from the doorway. Nazrin didn’t look back. Her fingers curled loosely around Muthu’s waistband. “College. Fast,” she ordered into his ear. Muthu nodded, gunned the throttle. The bike lurched forward, weaving into the chaotic Chennai morning traffic—autos, cycles, lumbering buses. Nazrin leaned into the turn, her silk dupatta whipping behind her like a defiant flag.