Adultery Undercover Desires

[John446]

CHAPTER – 56
A Few Months Later: A Quiet Ending, A New Beginning
The divorce had gone through.
It was a weekday morning — no drama, no chaos. Just signatures exchanged in a sterile office, papers handed over by a clerk, and two people who once promised each other forever now walking away in silence.
Kavya sat in the auto outside the family court building, staring at the file in her lap. Inside it — the final papers, stamped, signed, and sealed — lay a version of herself she was leaving behind. Rahul hadn’t said much in the courtroom. He didn’t look angry. Just tired. Defeated. As if he had finally accepted that some things don’t go back to how they were.
And that hurt Kavya the most — not the yelling, not the pain. But the quiet resignation in Rahul’s eyes.
She reached home, opened the door, and found Danish waiting.
He stood up the moment she walked in, searching her face. She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse. She simply stepped toward him and leaned into his chest, arms loosely wrapping around him.
“It’s done,” she whispered.
Danish said nothing — only kissed her on the forehead and held her tighter.
For minutes, neither of them moved. The house was silent, but inside that silence, a thousand emotions passed between them — relief, grief, guilt, hope.
The Weeks That Followed
The first few weeks were not easy.
Even though the legal chapter was closed, the emotional residue lingered. Kavya often found herself waking up in the middle of the night — not crying, just staring at the ceiling, lost in thoughts.
She thought about Rahul’s kindness. His ambitions. The early days of their marriage. And then, she reminded herself why she left. Why she had chosen a different path — not for desire, not for rebellion — but for truth.
During those moments, Danish never pushed her.
He never said “forget the past” or “move on.”
He simply sat beside her, brought her tea, ran warm water for her bath, and offered quiet companionship. They talked a lot — sometimes for hours. About life, about regrets, about how hard it is to live authentically in a world that judges love based on tradition instead of connection.
Building a New Life Slowly
As days passed, Kavya began to reclaim joy in small ways. She painted a wall in their living room — a soft shade of teal. She began practicing yoga again in the mornings, and on some weekends, Danish would cook for her while she played old Bollywood songs in the kitchen.
They weren’t in a rush to define what they had.
They had seen how fragile relationships can be — how timing, circumstance, and unspoken feelings can make or break a love.
So they took it slowly. They went for walks, talked about the future, but without pressure.
Kavya even began freelancing part-time, rediscovering her passion for writing — pouring her journey into stories, essays, poetry.
Some of it was about heartbreak.
Some about healing.
And some about hope.
One Evening, on the Balcony
It had rained that afternoon. The scent of wet earth still lingered in the air.
Kavya stood by the railing, sipping ginger tea, her hair tied in a loose bun, wearing Danish’s oversized hoodie. Danish joined her, pulling her closer with one arm.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
She looked at him, eyes tired but calm.
“Yes… I think I’m finally learning how to breathe again.”
Danish didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at her — really looked at her — and for the first time since everything had happened, he smiled without hesitation.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispered.
Kavya leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.
“Thank you for standing beside me when everything else was falling apart,” she said.
Scene: The Return to Hyderabad
The train rumbled steadily as it carried Danish and Kavya toward Hyderabad. Their hearts were filled with anticipation — and questions. Kavya leaned against the window, her fingers brushing Danish's hand occasionally. He gave her a small smile.
Danish: “Woh sunenge iss baar.”
(This time, he'll listen.)
Kavya: “Aur main tayyar hoon. Jo bhi hoga, tumhaare saath face karungi.”
(And I'm ready. Whatever happens, I'll face it with you.)
At Feroz Khan’s House
The air in Banjara Hills carried a hint of nostalgia. Feroz Khan was seated in the living room, tall and composed, wearing a crisp white kurta-pajama. His eyes — sharp and observant — moved from Danish to Kavya.
Danish: “Assalamu Alaikum, Abba.”
(Peace be upon you, Father.)
Feroz Khan: “Wa Alaikum Assalam.”
(And peace be upon you too.)
He gave a curt nod to Kavya.
Feroz Khan: “Aao, baitho.”
(Come, sit.)
The Conversation Begins
Danish: “Abba... hum phir se aaye hain aapke paas. Lekin is baar sab kuch saaf kehne ke liye.”
(Father… we’ve come to you again. But this time, to speak with complete honesty.)
Feroz Khan: “Kya kehna chahte ho?”
(What do you want to say?)
Danish: “Kavya aur Rahul ka divorce ho chuka hai. Ab woh azaad hai. Aur... sabse badi baat, woh ., qubool karne ke liye tayyar hai.”
(Kavya and Rahul are divorced now. She’s free. And most importantly, she’s ready to accept .,.)
Feroz’s eyes shifted to Kavya, more piercing now.
Feroz Khan: “Tum samajhti ho iska matlab?”
(Do you understand what this means?)
Kavya nodded with steady eyes.
Kavya: “Haan. Maine bohot soch kar yeh faisla liya hai. Yeh kisi zabardasti mein nahi... apne dil se kiya hai.”
(Yes. I’ve thought a lot before making this decision. It’s not out of pressure… it comes from the heart.)
Feroz Khan: “Tum ***** ho. *****. Apne maa-baap ko bataya?”
(You’re *****. A *****. Have you told your parents?)
Kavya: “Abhi nahi. Lekin main jaldi bata dungi. Waqt chahiye unhe bhi.”
(Not yet. But I will soon. They need some time too.)
Feroz’s Demand
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced.
Feroz Khan: “Main Danish ka baap hoon. Aur main apne mazhab ke mamle mein kabhi compromise nahi karta. Agar tum ., qubool karti ho, sachche dil se — toh hi main iss rishte ke baare mein soch sakta hoon.”
(I am Danish’s father. And I never compromise when it comes to faith. If you accept .,, truly and wholeheartedly — only then will I consider this relationship.)
Danish: “Woh tayyar hai, Abba. Aap chaahein toh kisi maulana se baat karwa sakte hain.”
(She’s ready, Abba. If you want, we can speak to a religious scholar.)
Feroz Khan: “Theek hai. Lekin agar mujhe zara bhi mehsoos hua ki yeh sab sirf shaadi ke liye ho raha hai... toh main is rishte ke khilaf ho jaunga.”
(Alright. But if I even slightly feel that this is only for marriage… I will stand against it.)
Outside – After the Talk
In the garden, the air was lighter than before.
Kavya: “Tumne kar diya.”
(You did it.)
Danish: “Nahi... humne.”
(No… we did it.)

[Astroboy11]

Maturity was not something I was expecting from an adultery based erotica. I was hoping for anger, outbursts and even violence. There was none of that, perhaps for the best. Phasing out Rahul maybe best for progression of the story.

Still pining for some sort of justice for the betrayed husband but I’m okay with the story moving on. I am curious about the financial situation of this new couple. Last I remember, Danish worked at Rahul’s office or got the job because of him. Don’t remember if Kavya worked? They no longer have the same financial security as before. Would appreciate the author’s thoughts on that.

The next chapters seem to be about religious conversion, so I urge the author to tread lightly. Don’t want this wonderful story being flagged as inappropriate.

Looking forward to next updates. Keep up the good work. Also, it’s about time they banged.

[momass]

i didnt replied to last update because i thought that you ended the story ,and for me ,it was the worst ending of all stories i read

but good to know ,story is moving forward

do whatever with kavya and danish

but dont leave rahul , even though its just a story ,but i can feel rahul pain ,do something please

#justice_for rahul

[Astroboy11]

i didnt replied to last update because i thought that you ended the story ,and for me ,it was the worst ending of all stories i read

but good to know ,story is moving forward

do whatever with kavya and danish

but dont leave rahul , even though its just a story ,but i can feel rahul pain ,do something please

#justice_for rahul

Lol, maybe Rahul should bang Danish’s sister.

[Paty@123]

One or two episodes back writer has told the it's long story, but closed abruptly

[Kartikjessie]

Good that useless Rahul is thrown out of this womans life. He is impotent dog and no one should marry him.

[Paul5]

I think it's end of story rest being remains on readers all are free for further improvements depending on their on mind

[John446]

CHAPTER – 57


Preparing for the Step – A Quiet Journey
The mornings in the house began with a sense of calm. Danish and Kavya took long walks around the Banjara Hills neighborhood, talking about what lay ahead. Kavya asked many questions — not just about rituals, but about faith, meaning, and how this change would impact her identity.
Danish, patient and reassuring, answered all he could.
One evening, over tea, Feroz Khan called Danish aside.
Feroz Khan (firmly but calmly):
"Kal hum Maulana Sahib se milne jaayenge. Unse achhi tarah samjha dena Kavya ko sab kuch. Samajhna zaroori hai, sirf kehna kaafi nahi."
(Tomorrow, we’ll meet the Maulana. It’s important Kavya understands everything — it’s not just about saying it, but understanding it.)
Danish nodded.
The Meeting with the Maulana
The next afternoon, they visited the local mosque. A soft-spoken, wise Maulana sat with them in a quiet room at the back of the masjid. The scent of attar hung faintly in the air.
Kavya sat with folded hands, her eyes clear but nervous. The Maulana began with kindness.
Maulana Sahib:
"I s l a m mein jab koi khud se aata hai, hum uska khair-muqadam karte hain. Lekin pehle yeh zaroori hai ki aap samjhein — yeh sirf ek rivaayat nahi, ek zimmedari hai."
(When someone comes to ., by their own will, we welcome them. But it is vital that you understand — this isn’t just a ritual, it’s a responsibility.)
For the next hour, he gently explained the Shahada, the pillars of .,, the concept of Tauheed (oneness of God), and what it meant to walk this path with honesty.
Kavya listened intently. Her heart was calm — not because the words were simple, but because the conviction was real.
 
 
Kavya’s Reflection the Night Before
That night, Kavya sat on the terrace under the stars. Danish joined her quietly.
Kavya:
"Mujhe darr lagta tha ke main apne astitva ko kho dungi. Par ab lagta hai maine use aur gehraai se samjha hai."
(I used to fear that I would lose my identity. But now I feel like I’ve understood it even more deeply.)
Danish:
"Tum wohi ho, Kavya. Bas ab tumhara raasta thoda aur roshan ho gaya hai."
(You’re still the same Kavya. Only now your path is a bit more illuminated.)
They sat in silence after that, not needing to say more.
 
The Day of Embracing Faith
The next morning, a small group gathered at the mosque. Feroz Khan, Danish, a few elders, and the Maulana.
Kavya, in a simple but graceful light-colored salwar suit with her dupatta loosely dbangd over her head, stood with composure. Her eyes didn’t waver.
The Maulana guided her through the Shahada:
"Ashhadu an la ilaha illa ,.', wa ashhadu anna Muhammadur Rasul ,.'."
(I bear witness that there is no god but ,.', and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of ,.'.)
Her voice didn’t tremble. When she finished, there was a soft pause — and then quiet nods of acknowledgment. Some women in the mosque hugged her warmly.
Feroz Khan stood nearby, hands behind his back. When their eyes met, he nodded — just once, but deeply.
Feroz Khan:
"Mubarak ho, Kavya."
(Congratulations, Kavya.)
 
Scene: After the Shahada – Silent Conversations Through Eyes
The air in the small prayer hall had just quieted after Kavya softly completed the Shahada. A few murmurs of “Subhan,.'” and “Mubarak ho” echoed among the gathered elders.
As Kavya stood, adjusting her dupatta over her head, her eyes instinctively searched for one person — Feroz Khan.
He hadn’t moved. Standing tall, arms crossed lightly, his face was unreadable — composed, regal, but not cold.
Their eyes met.
And for a fleeting moment… time slowed.
There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes—dark, deep-set, and sharp—held something. Something that pierced through Kavya’s chest like a slow, burning wind.
She had never been looked at like that by a man of his age. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t judgment. It was power.
Graceful, composed power.
"Unki aankhon mein kuch tha..."
(There was something in his eyes...)
She held his gaze, only to realize… he wasn’t just watching her. He was listening to her, silently, with the gravity of a man who had known love, loss, and sacrifice.
She didn't need to say anything.
And neither did he.
In that moment, their eyes exchanged more than pleasantries. They shared understanding. Skepticism. And perhaps, beneath it all — curiosity.
 
Scene: Back Home – The Ceremony Meal
Back at the house, a simple meal was laid out. Dates, sheer khurma, and saffron chai.
Feroz sat at the head of the low dining table, his white kurta pristine, his watch glinting faintly in the warm yellow light. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms — he looked less like a 60-year-old man, and more like a dignified poet out of another era.
Kavya sat diagonally across, feeling his gaze even when he wasn’t looking at her. When their eyes did meet — across conversation, across the table — it was like reading an unspoken poem. One written in glances.
At one point, when Danish was helping her with the tea, Feroz spoke, not loudly, but with intention.
Feroz (without breaking eye contact with Kavya):
"Zindagi ke kuch faisle... khud ko pehle samajhne ke baad hi liye jaate hain."
(Some decisions in life… should only be made after truly understanding oneself.)
Kavya didn’t reply. She just nodded slowly, absorbing it.
His voice was like silk brushing stone — deep, aged, and yet effortlessly refined.
 
Scene: A Pause Between Steps
Later that evening, while Danish had stepped out for a call, Kavya found herself alone in the living room. She stood near the bookshelf, her fingers trailing over the spines of Urdu poetry books.
"Faiz Ahmed Faiz," she whispered, seeing a faded spine. A soft smile formed.
“Aap ko Faiz pasand hai?”
The voice came from behind — unmistakable.
She turned. Feroz stood near the doorway, hands behind his back.
Kavya (composed):
"Bahut... unki kavitaayein samajhne mein waqt lagta hai, par mehsoos turant ho jaati hain."
(A lot… His poems take time to understand, but you can feel them instantly.)
He gave the faintest nod, his eyes once again locking into hers.
Feroz (after a pause):
"Aap bhi waise hi hain."
(So are you.)
 
Hyderabad – Feroz Khan’s Ancestral Home
It had been over a week since Kavya and Danish arrived in Hyderabad. The initial tension had slowly given way to quiet familiarity. The warmth of the house—blended with the fragrance of agarbatti in the morning and the distant echo of azaan in the evenings—had started to feel like a second home to Kavya.
After her formal conversion, which was a significant and deeply emotional event, Kavya found herself carrying a strange calm inside. Not because she had given up something, but because Feroz Khan, a man she had feared might never accept her, turned out to be far more understanding than she imagined.
One afternoon, as they sat under the neem tree in the courtyard, sipping chai in silence, Feroz looked at Kavya and said, his voice gentle yet deeply rooted:
"Kavya, tumne I s l a m qubool kiya, isse main khush hoon. Lekin iska matlab yeh nahi ke tum apni purani pehchaan bhool jao."
("Kavya, I’m happy you’ve accepted .,. But that doesn’t mean you must forget who you used to be.")
She looked up, surprised. Her eyes searched his face, unsure if he truly meant it.
He continued, “Tumhare H i n d u sanskaar, tumhari rasmein – yeh sab tumhara hissa hain. Main chahata hoon ke tum woh sab na chhodo. Tum jaise ho waise hi raho. I s l a m sirf ek rasta hai, ek zariya – insaaniyat sabse badi cheez hoti hai.”
("Your H i n d u values, your rituals – they are part of who you are. I don’t want you to let them go. Stay true to yourself. I s l a m is a path, a way – but humanity is above all.")
Kavya felt a knot inside her chest loosen. She hadn’t realized how much pressure she’d been carrying – not from Danish, but from the expectations she imagined Feroz would place on her. But here he was, a man in his 60s, with the wisdom of age and the grace of acceptance, giving her the gift of being herself.
She smiled warmly, her voice slightly trembling as she replied, "Aapko yeh sab kehna bahut zaruri tha. Main andar hi andar thoda ghabra rahi thi."
("It was important to hear this from you. I was quietly anxious.")
Feroz smiled too. “Zindagi mein jo cheezein dil se ki jaayein, woh kabhi galat nahi hoti.”
("Things done from the heart are never wrong.")
From that day, Kavya began to feel more at home. She helped around in the kitchen, asked questions about traditions, and even taught Feroz how to make aloo parathas her mother used to make back in Mumbai. Their bond deepened—not just through long talks but through shared silences and mutual respect.
The next day Feroz, Danish and kavya went to a family friends wedding. he wedding venue thrummed with vibrant energy, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine garlands and the pulsating rhythm of dhol music. Golden fairy lights twinkled above, casting a warm, magical glow over the guests. Kavya stood radiant in her emerald-green sleeveless kurta and salwar, the intricate embroidery catching the light with every movement, accentuating her graceful form. The flowing salwar swayed gently, adding elegance to her presence. Feroz Khan, at sixty, cut a striking figure in his cream sherwani with subtle gold accents, his silver-flecked hair and easy charm lending him an air of timeless charisma. Danish, Feroz’s son, had wandered off to the dance floor, his laughter blending with the chatter of friends, leaving Feroz and Kavya to navigate the lively crowd together.
Feroz guided Kavya toward a group of family friends gathered near a table adorned with vibrant marigold centerpieces, his hand resting lightly on her elbow, a steadying gesture amidst the festive chaos. The group greeted him warmly, their voices overlapping with jovial exclamations. “Feroz bhai, you haven’t aged a day!” one uncle teased, clapping him on the shoulder. Kavya stood slightly to the side, her lips curved in a polite smile, her dupatta dbangd elegantly over one shoulder. Feroz, with his natural flair for storytelling, launched into a humorous anecdote about the groom’s childhood, drawing laughter from the group. Then, with a proud glint in his eyes, he turned to Kavya, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Everyone, this is Kavya,” he said, his voice warm and deliberate. “Danish’s fiancée.”
The word “fiancée” sent a flutter through Kavya’s chest, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. She hadn’t expected such a formal introduction, and the weight of it, delivered by Feroz’s commanding yet gentle voice, felt both thrilling and overwhelming. The family friends erupted into smiles, offering congratulations and playful remarks. “Danish is a lucky man!” an auntie exclaimed, her bangles jingling as she squeezed Kavya’s hand. Kavya responded with warmth, her nerves easing as she thanked them, though she felt Feroz’s gaze linger on her, his charm almost palpable, stirring a mix of admiration and self-consciousness. At nearly twice her age, his presence carried a gravitas that made her feel both seen and slightly unsteady.
As the conversation flowed, a stray strand of Kavya’s hair slipped loose from her carefully pinned updo, brushing against her cheek. Instinctively, she raised her right arm, her fingers gliding through the soft waves to tuck the strand behind her ear. The movement caused her sleeveless kurta to shift, the fabric sliding just enough to reveal the smooth, bare curve of her underarm. The soft lighting cast a gentle sheen on her skin, highlighting its delicate texture—a fleeting, unintentional exposure that seemed to still the world around her. Feroz, mid-sentence about the groom’s infamous dance moves, caught the glimpse from the corner of his eye. His words faltered, his voice trailing off as his gaze instinctively flicked toward her.
Kavya’s arm lingered for a moment, her fingers still entwined in her hair, unaware of the effect of her gesture. Then, sensing a shift, she lowered her arm slowly, her eyes meeting Feroz’s. Time seemed to stretch, the wedding’s vibrant hum fading into a distant murmur. Their gazes locked, and Kavya’s breath caught, her heart racing as she registered the intensity in his dark eyes. Feroz, with his seasoned charm and worldly confidence, held her gaze with a look that was both surprised and admiring, a flicker of something deeper—perhaps appreciation—crossing his features. At sixty, his presence was magnetic, his silver hair and warm smile only amplifying the allure of his seasoned charisma. Kavya felt a rush of conflicting emotions: a flush of embarrassment at the unintended exposure, a spark of flattery at being the focus of his attention, and a quiet awe at the way his gaze made her feel both vulnerable and significant. The age gap between them, nearly double her years, heightened the moment’s intensity, his charm wrapping around her like a warm, disarming embrace.
Her cheeks burned, and she felt a flutter of self-consciousness, aware of how his eyes, wise with experience, seemed to see her in a way that was both respectful and piercing. The moment felt intimate, almost too personal for the crowded setting, and she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of it. Feroz’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but instead, a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that felt both reassuring and playfully knowing. It was a smile crafted to ease the tension, to ground them both, yet it carried a warmth that made her pulse quicken further.
Kavya’s own lips curved into a shy, hesitant smile, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta as she tried to steady herself. The moment had caught her off guard, and Feroz’s charm—his effortless ability to make her feel seen without judgment—left her both flustered and intrigued. “What were you saying about the groom’s dancing?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a playful lilt, an attempt to steer them back to safer ground. Feroz chuckled, the sound low and rich, and seamlessly resumed his story, his voice regaining its confident rhythm. The group laughed, oblivious to the quiet exchange that had unfolded.
But the moment lingered. As they continued mingling, Kavya stayed close to Feroz, their conversation flowing with an ease that felt both familiar and charged with new awareness. The family friends peppered her with questions about her work, her family, and the wedding plans, their enthusiasm infectious. Feroz joined in, teasing about Danish’s knack for keeping everyone waiting, earning a bright laugh from Kavya. Yet, beneath the light-hearted banter, there was an unspoken connection—a fleeting vulnerability sparked by that unguarded moment, amplified by Feroz’s commanding yet gentle presence, a secret they carried through the evening, subtle but undeniable.

[Kartikjessie]

Looks like Feroz is going to seduce kavya and bed her and make his son see it. It was then Danish will realize kavya is a bitch. So he will not marry her and Feroz will find a girl from his religion.

[Vasanthan]

The story has started boring after divorce. Rahul has given his house to his wife and her lover? No conversation between close friends. Kavya parents and relatives are no more?

[Samadhanam]

From cheating housewife story it has turned like a mslim propoganda

[momass]

nothing to say except

justice_for_rahul

[Paty@123]

Disappointed

[prm.patil024]

CHAPTER – 57


Preparing for the Step – A Quiet Journey
The mornings in the house began with a sense of calm. Danish and Kavya took long walks around the Banjara Hills neighborhood, talking about what lay ahead. Kavya asked many questions — not just about rituals, but about faith, meaning, and how this change would impact her identity.
Danish, patient and reassuring, answered all he could.
One evening, over tea, Feroz Khan called Danish aside.
Feroz Khan (firmly but calmly):
"Kal hum Maulana Sahib se milne jaayenge. Unse achhi tarah samjha dena Kavya ko sab kuch. Samajhna zaroori hai, sirf kehna kaafi nahi."
(Tomorrow, we’ll meet the Maulana. It’s important Kavya understands everything — it’s not just about saying it, but understanding it.)
Danish nodded.
The Meeting with the Maulana
The next afternoon, they visited the local mosque. A soft-spoken, wise Maulana sat with them in a quiet room at the back of the masjid. The scent of attar hung faintly in the air.
Kavya sat with folded hands, her eyes clear but nervous. The Maulana began with kindness.
Maulana Sahib:
"I s l a m mein jab koi khud se aata hai, hum uska khair-muqadam karte hain. Lekin pehle yeh zaroori hai ki aap samjhein — yeh sirf ek rivaayat nahi, ek zimmedari hai."
(When someone comes to ., by their own will, we welcome them. But it is vital that you understand — this isn’t just a ritual, it’s a responsibility.)
For the next hour, he gently explained the Shahada, the pillars of .,, the concept of Tauheed (oneness of God), and what it meant to walk this path with honesty.
Kavya listened intently. Her heart was calm — not because the words were simple, but because the conviction was real.
 
 
Kavya’s Reflection the Night Before
That night, Kavya sat on the terrace under the stars. Danish joined her quietly.
Kavya:
"Mujhe darr lagta tha ke main apne astitva ko kho dungi. Par ab lagta hai maine use aur gehraai se samjha hai."
(I used to fear that I would lose my identity. But now I feel like I’ve understood it even more deeply.)
Danish:
"Tum wohi ho, Kavya. Bas ab tumhara raasta thoda aur roshan ho gaya hai."
(You’re still the same Kavya. Only now your path is a bit more illuminated.)
They sat in silence after that, not needing to say more.
 
The Day of Embracing Faith
The next morning, a small group gathered at the mosque. Feroz Khan, Danish, a few elders, and the Maulana.
Kavya, in a simple but graceful light-colored salwar suit with her dupatta loosely dbangd over her head, stood with composure. Her eyes didn’t waver.
The Maulana guided her through the Shahada:
"Ashhadu an la ilaha illa ,.', wa ashhadu anna Muhammadur Rasul ,.'."
(I bear witness that there is no god but ,.', and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of ,.'.)
Her voice didn’t tremble. When she finished, there was a soft pause — and then quiet nods of acknowledgment. Some women in the mosque hugged her warmly.
Feroz Khan stood nearby, hands behind his back. When their eyes met, he nodded — just once, but deeply.
Feroz Khan:
"Mubarak ho, Kavya."
(Congratulations, Kavya.)
 
Scene: After the Shahada – Silent Conversations Through Eyes
The air in the small prayer hall had just quieted after Kavya softly completed the Shahada. A few murmurs of “Subhan,.'” and “Mubarak ho” echoed among the gathered elders.
As Kavya stood, adjusting her dupatta over her head, her eyes instinctively searched for one person — Feroz Khan.
He hadn’t moved. Standing tall, arms crossed lightly, his face was unreadable — composed, regal, but not cold.
Their eyes met.
And for a fleeting moment… time slowed.
There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes—dark, deep-set, and sharp—held something. Something that pierced through Kavya’s chest like a slow, burning wind.
She had never been looked at like that by a man of his age. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t judgment. It was power.
Graceful, composed power.
"Unki aankhon mein kuch tha..."
(There was something in his eyes...)
She held his gaze, only to realize… he wasn’t just watching her. He was listening to her, silently, with the gravity of a man who had known love, loss, and sacrifice.
She didn't need to say anything.
And neither did he.
In that moment, their eyes exchanged more than pleasantries. They shared understanding. Skepticism. And perhaps, beneath it all — curiosity.
 
Scene: Back Home – The Ceremony Meal
Back at the house, a simple meal was laid out. Dates, sheer khurma, and saffron chai.
Feroz sat at the head of the low dining table, his white kurta pristine, his watch glinting faintly in the warm yellow light. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms — he looked less like a 60-year-old man, and more like a dignified poet out of another era.
Kavya sat diagonally across, feeling his gaze even when he wasn’t looking at her. When their eyes did meet — across conversation, across the table — it was like reading an unspoken poem. One written in glances.
At one point, when Danish was helping her with the tea, Feroz spoke, not loudly, but with intention.
Feroz (without breaking eye contact with Kavya):
"Zindagi ke kuch faisle... khud ko pehle samajhne ke baad hi liye jaate hain."
(Some decisions in life… should only be made after truly understanding oneself.)
Kavya didn’t reply. She just nodded slowly, absorbing it.
His voice was like silk brushing stone — deep, aged, and yet effortlessly refined.
 
Scene: A Pause Between Steps
Later that evening, while Danish had stepped out for a call, Kavya found herself alone in the living room. She stood near the bookshelf, her fingers trailing over the spines of Urdu poetry books.
"Faiz Ahmed Faiz," she whispered, seeing a faded spine. A soft smile formed.
“Aap ko Faiz pasand hai?”
The voice came from behind — unmistakable.
She turned. Feroz stood near the doorway, hands behind his back.
Kavya (composed):
"Bahut... unki kavitaayein samajhne mein waqt lagta hai, par mehsoos turant ho jaati hain."
(A lot… His poems take time to understand, but you can feel them instantly.)
He gave the faintest nod, his eyes once again locking into hers.
Feroz (after a pause):
"Aap bhi waise hi hain."
(So are you.)
 
Hyderabad – Feroz Khan’s Ancestral Home
It had been over a week since Kavya and Danish arrived in Hyderabad. The initial tension had slowly given way to quiet familiarity. The warmth of the house—blended with the fragrance of agarbatti in the morning and the distant echo of azaan in the evenings—had started to feel like a second home to Kavya.
After her formal conversion, which was a significant and deeply emotional event, Kavya found herself carrying a strange calm inside. Not because she had given up something, but because Feroz Khan, a man she had feared might never accept her, turned out to be far more understanding than she imagined.
One afternoon, as they sat under the neem tree in the courtyard, sipping chai in silence, Feroz looked at Kavya and said, his voice gentle yet deeply rooted:
"Kavya, tumne I s l a m qubool kiya, isse main khush hoon. Lekin iska matlab yeh nahi ke tum apni purani pehchaan bhool jao."
("Kavya, I’m happy you’ve accepted .,. But that doesn’t mean you must forget who you used to be.")
She looked up, surprised. Her eyes searched his face, unsure if he truly meant it.
He continued, “Tumhare H i n d u sanskaar, tumhari rasmein – yeh sab tumhara hissa hain. Main chahata hoon ke tum woh sab na chhodo. Tum jaise ho waise hi raho. I s l a m sirf ek rasta hai, ek zariya – insaaniyat sabse badi cheez hoti hai.”
("Your H i n d u values, your rituals – they are part of who you are. I don’t want you to let them go. Stay true to yourself. I s l a m is a path, a way – but humanity is above all.")
Kavya felt a knot inside her chest loosen. She hadn’t realized how much pressure she’d been carrying – not from Danish, but from the expectations she imagined Feroz would place on her. But here he was, a man in his 60s, with the wisdom of age and the grace of acceptance, giving her the gift of being herself.
She smiled warmly, her voice slightly trembling as she replied, "Aapko yeh sab kehna bahut zaruri tha. Main andar hi andar thoda ghabra rahi thi."
("It was important to hear this from you. I was quietly anxious.")
Feroz smiled too. “Zindagi mein jo cheezein dil se ki jaayein, woh kabhi galat nahi hoti.”
("Things done from the heart are never wrong.")
From that day, Kavya began to feel more at home. She helped around in the kitchen, asked questions about traditions, and even taught Feroz how to make aloo parathas her mother used to make back in Mumbai. Their bond deepened—not just through long talks but through shared silences and mutual respect.
The next day Feroz, Danish and kavya went to a family friends wedding. he wedding venue thrummed with vibrant energy, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine garlands and the pulsating rhythm of dhol music. Golden fairy lights twinkled above, casting a warm, magical glow over the guests. Kavya stood radiant in her emerald-green sleeveless kurta and salwar, the intricate embroidery catching the light with every movement, accentuating her graceful form. The flowing salwar swayed gently, adding elegance to her presence. Feroz Khan, at sixty, cut a striking figure in his cream sherwani with subtle gold accents, his silver-flecked hair and easy charm lending him an air of timeless charisma. Danish, Feroz’s son, had wandered off to the dance floor, his laughter blending with the chatter of friends, leaving Feroz and Kavya to navigate the lively crowd together.
Feroz guided Kavya toward a group of family friends gathered near a table adorned with vibrant marigold centerpieces, his hand resting lightly on her elbow, a steadying gesture amidst the festive chaos. The group greeted him warmly, their voices overlapping with jovial exclamations. “Feroz bhai, you haven’t aged a day!” one uncle teased, clapping him on the shoulder. Kavya stood slightly to the side, her lips curved in a polite smile, her dupatta dbangd elegantly over one shoulder. Feroz, with his natural flair for storytelling, launched into a humorous anecdote about the groom’s childhood, drawing laughter from the group. Then, with a proud glint in his eyes, he turned to Kavya, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Everyone, this is Kavya,” he said, his voice warm and deliberate. “Danish’s fiancée.”
The word “fiancée” sent a flutter through Kavya’s chest, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. She hadn’t expected such a formal introduction, and the weight of it, delivered by Feroz’s commanding yet gentle voice, felt both thrilling and overwhelming. The family friends erupted into smiles, offering congratulations and playful remarks. “Danish is a lucky man!” an auntie exclaimed, her bangles jingling as she squeezed Kavya’s hand. Kavya responded with warmth, her nerves easing as she thanked them, though she felt Feroz’s gaze linger on her, his charm almost palpable, stirring a mix of admiration and self-consciousness. At nearly twice her age, his presence carried a gravitas that made her feel both seen and slightly unsteady.
As the conversation flowed, a stray strand of Kavya’s hair slipped loose from her carefully pinned updo, brushing against her cheek. Instinctively, she raised her right arm, her fingers gliding through the soft waves to tuck the strand behind her ear. The movement caused her sleeveless kurta to shift, the fabric sliding just enough to reveal the smooth, bare curve of her underarm. The soft lighting cast a gentle sheen on her skin, highlighting its delicate texture—a fleeting, unintentional exposure that seemed to still the world around her. Feroz, mid-sentence about the groom’s infamous dance moves, caught the glimpse from the corner of his eye. His words faltered, his voice trailing off as his gaze instinctively flicked toward her.
Kavya’s arm lingered for a moment, her fingers still entwined in her hair, unaware of the effect of her gesture. Then, sensing a shift, she lowered her arm slowly, her eyes meeting Feroz’s. Time seemed to stretch, the wedding’s vibrant hum fading into a distant murmur. Their gazes locked, and Kavya’s breath caught, her heart racing as she registered the intensity in his dark eyes. Feroz, with his seasoned charm and worldly confidence, held her gaze with a look that was both surprised and admiring, a flicker of something deeper—perhaps appreciation—crossing his features. At sixty, his presence was magnetic, his silver hair and warm smile only amplifying the allure of his seasoned charisma. Kavya felt a rush of conflicting emotions: a flush of embarrassment at the unintended exposure, a spark of flattery at being the focus of his attention, and a quiet awe at the way his gaze made her feel both vulnerable and significant. The age gap between them, nearly double her years, heightened the moment’s intensity, his charm wrapping around her like a warm, disarming embrace.
Her cheeks burned, and she felt a flutter of self-consciousness, aware of how his eyes, wise with experience, seemed to see her in a way that was both respectful and piercing. The moment felt intimate, almost too personal for the crowded setting, and she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of it. Feroz’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but instead, a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that felt both reassuring and playfully knowing. It was a smile crafted to ease the tension, to ground them both, yet it carried a warmth that made her pulse quicken further.
Kavya’s own lips curved into a shy, hesitant smile, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta as she tried to steady herself. The moment had caught her off guard, and Feroz’s charm—his effortless ability to make her feel seen without judgment—left her both flustered and intrigued. “What were you saying about the groom’s dancing?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a playful lilt, an attempt to steer them back to safer ground. Feroz chuckled, the sound low and rich, and seamlessly resumed his story, his voice regaining its confident rhythm. The group laughed, oblivious to the quiet exchange that had unfolded.
But the moment lingered. As they continued mingling, Kavya stayed close to Feroz, their conversation flowing with an ease that felt both familiar and charged with new awareness. The family friends peppered her with questions about her work, her family, and the wedding plans, their enthusiasm infectious. Feroz joined in, teasing about Danish’s knack for keeping everyone waiting, earning a bright laugh from Kavya. Yet, beneath the light-hearted banter, there was an unspoken connection—a fleeting vulnerability sparked by that unguarded moment, amplified by Feroz’s commanding yet gentle presence, a secret they carried through the evening, subtle but undeniable.

every1 r shouting & blaming tht writer is doing injustice with rahul, giving momedian/Mslim angle etc etc.. v expect tht thr should be violence n revenge frm rahul side but writer is focusing on kavya n Danish.. 
actually current condition is like this only.. wife r doing extra marital affairs n we expect husband to do something..
writer is trying to show wht leads to extra marital affairs and specially love jihad... actually women don't think wht r consequences of love jihad n they blinding except this for sake of love..
writer is trying to give natural justice to rahul.. kavya will attract with father in law n will not b loyal with Danish also.. at the end she will loose everything..

[prm.patil024]

now a days writers r coming with creative ideas n new stories.. they r not just focusing on sex but they r trying to cover different angles.. 
basically every1 comes here for sex.. most of the stories are just baseless n full of imaginary sex content.. 
this story is also imaginary story but writer tried to cover various topics.. love jihad is seriously a strong n dangerous things in which girls are falling badly in sake of love.. 
riter should give a strong sexual story of danish father and kavya.. danish should also feel the pain of cheating.. kavya should realise consciousness of love jihad and cheating wife

[John446]

CHAPTER – 58


The wedding had left a vibrant afterglow, its music and laughter still echoing in their minds as Feroz, Danish, and Kavya stepped out of the car and into the quiet of their home. The night air was cool, a stark contrast to the warm, bustling energy of the venue. Kavya’s emerald-green sleeveless kurta shimmered faintly under the streetlights, her dupatta now slightly askew from the evening’s festivities. Danish, his tie loosened and jacket slung over one shoulder, was still buzzing with energy, recounting a hilarious moment from the dance floor to Kavya, who laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Feroz, at sixty, carried himself with a quiet dignity in his cream sherwani, though his silver-flecked hair was slightly tousled from the night’s revelry. His mind, however, was elsewhere, replaying the evening—not just the wedding’s joy, but the fleeting, charged moment when his eyes had met Kavya’s.
Inside, the house was a haven of warmth, the soft glow of lamps casting long shadows across the living room. The trio shed their shoes at the entrance, the clink of Kavya’s bangles mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioner. Danish flopped onto the couch, stretching out with a contented sigh. “That was one hell of a party,” he said, grinning at Kavya. “Did you see Uncle Raza trying to do that bhangra move? Nearly took out the dessert table!”
Kavya chuckled, settling into an armchair, tucking her legs beneath her. “He was having the time of his life,” she said, her voice warm with affection for the chaotic joy of the night. She glanced at Feroz, who had moved to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of water, his movements deliberate, almost contemplative. The memory of their earlier moment—her adjusting her hair, the glimpse of her underarm, their locked gazes—lingered in her mind, stirring a quiet flutter in her chest. She pushed it aside, focusing on Danish’s animated chatter.
Feroz turned, glass in hand, and leaned against the sideboard, his gaze settling on the two of them. The room felt intimate, the three of them cocooned in the afterglow of the evening. He took a sip of water, then set the glass down, his expression shifting to one of quiet resolve. “You two,” he began, his voice steady but carrying a weight that drew their attention. Danish sat up slightly, his grin fading into curiosity, while Kavya’s fingers paused on her dupatta, her eyes meeting Feroz’s with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty.
“I’ve been thinking,” Feroz continued, his tone warm but firm, “about you both, about your future.” He paused, letting the words settle, his eyes moving between Danish and Kavya. “Tonight, seeing you together, seeing how well you fit into this family, this community—it made it clear. You shouldn’t wait. I’m going to speak with Maulana Qasim tomorrow to start arranging your marriage. You should marry as soon as possible.”
The words landed like a gentle thunderclap, filling the room with a sudden, profound stillness. Danish blinked, caught off guard, his mouth opening as if to protest, but no words came. Kavya’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on the armrest. The idea of marriage wasn’t new—she and Danish had talked about it, dreamed about it—but Feroz’s declaration, delivered with such conviction, felt like a tide pulling them forward.
Feroz carried an authority that was both paternal and persuasive, his charming presence amplified by the sincerity in his eyes. Kavya felt a rush of emotions: excitement at the thought of solidifying her bond with Danish, a touch of nervousness at the speed of it all, and, inexplicably, a flicker of awareness of Feroz himself—his steady gaze, the way he seemed to see her so clearly.
Danish recovered first, running a hand through his hair. “Abbu, that’s… wow, that’s sudden,” he said, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I mean, we’ve talked about it, but so soon?” He glanced at Kavya, searching her face for her reaction. “What do you think, Kavya?”
Kavya’s lips parted, but she hesitated, her mind racing. Feroz’s words had stirred something deep within her—a sense of inevitability, but also a quiet question about what this haste meant. She glanced at Feroz, his expression a mix of encouragement and quiet determination, and she felt the weight of his belief in their future. “I… I think it’s a beautiful idea,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “But it’s a lot to take in. We’d need to plan, to talk it through.” Her eyes flicked to Danish, seeking his reassurance, but she couldn’t help noticing Feroz’s faint smile, as if he’d expected her measured response.
Feroz nodded, stepping closer to the couch, his presence commanding yet gentle. “Of course, you’ll plan,” he said, his voice softening. “But life moves fast, and when you know something is right, you don’t wait. I’ve seen enough to know you two are meant for this. Maulana Qasim will help set a good date, and we’ll make it happen—simple, meaningful, surrounded by family.” He looked at Kavya, his eyes holding hers for a moment longer than necessary, and she felt that same flutter from earlier, a warmth that was both comforting and disorienting given his age and stature.
Danish leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression a mix of excitement and apprehension. “Okay, Abbu, let’s say we do this. What’s the rush? Why now?” His tone was curious, not defiant, and he reached for Kavya’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Feroz’s smile deepened, lines crinkling around his eyes. “Because tonight reminded me how precious time is,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. “Seeing you both, surrounded by love, laughter, family—it’s what life’s about. I want to see you start that journey together, not later, but now.” His gaze shifted to Kavya, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the weight of his attention, as if his words were meant for her as much as for Danish. She wondered, briefly, if the intensity of the evening—their shared glance, the unspoken connection—had influenced his urgency.
Kavya squeezed Danish’s hand back, grounding herself. “Let’s talk to Maulana Qasim,” she said, her voice gaining confidence. “We’ll figure out what feels right.” She looked at Feroz, her smile warm but tinged with curiosity, as if trying to decipher the layers behind his words. Feroz nodded, satisfied, and picked up his glass again, taking a slow sip.
“Good,” he said, his tone lighter now. “I’ll call him first thing tomorrow. For now, get some rest—you’ve got a big future to prepare for.” He flashed a playful grin, easing the room’s tension, and Danish laughed, pulling Kavya closer.
As Feroz excused himself to his room, Kavya watched him go, his broad shoulders retreating down the hallway. The night had been a whirlwind—of joy, connection, and unexpected moments—and now, with the prospect of marriage looming, she felt both anchored by Danish’s presence and stirred by the quiet intensity of Feroz’s resolve. The house settled into silence, but the air felt alive with possibility, the future unfolding faster than she’d ever imagined.
The morning after the wedding dawned bright, the golden sunlight filtering through the curtains of Feroz Khan’s home, casting a warm glow across the living room where the trio had shared their late-night conversation. The air still carried the faint echo of the previous evening’s festivities—laughter, music, and that unspoken moment between Feroz and Kavya that lingered in the quiet corners of her mind. Kavya, now dressed in a simple peach kurta, sipped her morning chai at the dining table, her thoughts drifting between excitement and nervous anticipation about Feroz’s declaration. Danish, still half-asleep in his pajamas, scrolled through his phone, occasionally chuckling at wedding photos posted online. Feroz, ever the early riser, was already dressed in a crisp kurta, his silver-flecked hair neatly combed, his demeanor purposeful as he prepared to follow through on his promise.
After breakfast, Feroz excused himself, his phone in hand, and stepped onto the balcony for privacy. The morning breeze carried the distant call of a muezzin as he dialed Maulana Qasim, a respected scholar and family friend known for his wisdom and warmth. The phone rang twice before Maulana’s calm, familiar voice answered, “As-salamu Alaikum, Feroz bhai. What brings you so early?”
“Wa Alaikum As-salam, Maulana,” Feroz replied, his tone warm but resolute. “I need your guidance on something important. It’s about Danish and Kavya—his fiancée. I want to move forward with their marriage, and I’d like your help to set a good date and begin the arrangements.”
Maulana Qasim’s voice carried a smile through the line. “Masha’,.', that’s wonderful news! Danish and Kavya are a fine pair. What’s prompted this urgency, if I may ask?” His tone was gentle, probing, as if sensing the weight behind Feroz’s words.
Feroz leaned against the balcony railing, his gaze drifting to the bustling street below. “Last night at the wedding, I saw them together—how they fit, how the family embraced Kavya. It felt right, Maulana. Life’s too short to wait when you know something’s meant to be.” His voice softened, tinged with a conviction that carried the memory of the previous evening—the way Kavya’s laughter had lit up the room, the fleeting moment their eyes had met when she adjusted her hair, stirring something unspoken in him.
Maulana Qasim listened thoughtfully, then responded, “Well said, Feroz bhai. A marriage blessed by love and family is a gift from ,.'. Let’s consult the calendar for an auspicious date. Have Danish and Kavya shared any preferences for the timing or the ceremony?”
Feroz paused, considering. “They’re still processing, I think,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I might’ve surprised them last night. But they’re ready, Maulana. Kavya’s sensible, and Danish—well, he’s got a good heart, even if he takes his time. I’d like it to be soon, within a few months, so we can celebrate while the family’s still buzzing from last night’s joy.”
Maulana Qasim hummed in agreement. “Very well. I’ll look at the ---c calendar and suggest a few dates—perhaps in the next three months, after Ramadan, when the community can gather easily. We’ll need to discuss the nikah, the mahr, and the guest list. Would you like me to meet with Danish and Kavya soon to counsel them?”
“Yes, that’d be perfect,” Feroz said, his voice brightening. “They’d appreciate your guidance. Kavya’s new to some of our traditions, and Danish could use a reminder to take this seriously.” He laughed softly, picturing his son’s playful grin. “I’ll bring them to the masjid this weekend if you’re free.”
“Consider it done,” Maulana Qasim replied warmly. “I’ll prepare some advice for them and check the dates. Let’s aim for a simple, heartfelt nikah—nothing too extravagant, but filled with barakah. I’ll call you tomorrow with the details.”
“Thank you, Maulana,” Feroz said, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “This means a lot to me—to all of us.” As he ended the call, he lingered on the balcony, the morning sun warming his face. His mind flickered back to Kavya—her grace, her quiet strength, and that fleeting moment at the wedding that had stirred something in him. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the joy of seeing his son settled, but the memory lingered, subtle and persistent.
Back inside, Kavya and Danish were clearing the breakfast dishes, their easy banter filling the room. Danish nudged Kavya playfully, teasing her about her attempt at a dance move the night before. She swatted his arm, laughing, but her eyes flicked to Feroz as he reentered, sensing the purpose in his step. “Everything okay, Abbu?” Danish asked, drying his hands on a towel.
Feroz nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Just spoke with Maulana Qasim,” he said, settling into a chair. “He’s going to help us find a good date for your nikah. I suggested within a few months, after Ramadan. He wants to meet you both this weekend to talk it through.”
Kavya’s heart skipped a beat, her fingers pausing on the mug she was holding. The reality of Feroz’s words from last night was taking shape, and the speed of it both thrilled and unnerved her. She glanced at Danish, who looked equally surprised but excited, his grin returning. “Wow, you’re not messing around, Abbu,” he said, half-laughing. “You cool with this, Kavya?”
Kavya set the mug down, her smile soft but genuine. “It’s… a lot, but it feels right,” she said, her voice steadying as she spoke. “A few months sounds good. I’d love to meet Maulana Qasim and hear his advice.” Her eyes met Feroz’s, and for a moment, she felt the weight of his gaze—warm, encouraging, and tinged with that same intensity from the night before.
Feroz’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling with warmth. “Good. It’ll be a beautiful day, insha’,.'. We’ll make it simple, meaningful—just like you two.” He stood, clapping Danish on the shoulder. “Now, don’t slack off today. You’ve got a wedding to prepare for.” His tone was teasing, but his glance at Kavya held a quiet reassurance, as if to say he’d be there every step of the way.
As Feroz retreated to his study, Kavya and Danish exchanged a look, their excitement tempered by the weight of the moment. The house hummed with a new energy, the future unfolding before them, guided by Feroz’s unwavering vision and the subtle, unspoken threads that connected them all.

[momass]

now a days writers r coming with creative ideas n new stories.. they r not just focusing on sex but they r trying to cover different angles.. 
basically every1 comes here for sex.. most of the stories are just baseless n full of imaginary sex content.. 
this story is also imaginary story but writer tried to cover various topics.. love jihad is seriously a strong n dangerous things in which girls are falling badly in sake of love.. 
riter should give a strong sexual story of danish father and kavya.. danish should also feel the pain of cheating.. kavya should realise consciousness of love jihad and cheating wife

not everyone comes for sex 

i like this story because of emotions

writer tries his best effort ,but still i feel its weak towards rahul

and yes kavya should face the consequences of her cheating

justice_for_rahul

[momass]

still 3 months for marriage ,it means a lot of things can happen ,lets see what will these 3 months will bring to us

#justice_for_rahul

[masti.bhai]

The writer has the gift of erotica. Those who come for cheap thrill should look elsewhere.
Look at the way how he described Kavya unintentionally showing her smooth underarm to her would be father-in-law Feroze who was mesmerized.

I'd like to see either Danish voluntarily offering the hand of Kavya to Feroze or even better Feroze declaring it himself. Or, the mom telling the son he's not man enough for the beauty and rather suggests she should become Abbu's second wife.

I know the author is more kinky than me and I'll lap up anything he dishes out. ?

No matter what my fantasy is, you, the author, are brilliant. Don't worry about your dustractors. There's a dedicated following of your diehard fans.

[John446]

The writer has the gift of erotica. Those who come for cheap thrill should look elsewhere.
Look at the way how he described Kavya unintentionally showing her smooth underarm to her would be father-in-law Feroze who was mesmerized.

I'd like to see either Danish voluntarily offering the hand of Kavya to Feroze or even better Feroze declaring it himself. Or, the mom telling the son he's not man enough for the beauty and rather suggests she should become Abbu's second wife.

I know the author is more kinky than me and I'll lap up anything he dishes out. ?

No matter what my fantasy is, you, the author, are brilliant. Don't worry about your dustractors. There's a dedicated following of your diehard fans.

Thank you bro means alot to me.