Adultery Undercover Desires

[PELURI]

great writting....effortlessly captivating....bang in the middle, ma ka phone khelpidi hogaya..

[Astroboy11]

It still stings to see them moving on and living their lives. I wanted their world to crash and burn. The way the story is headed, that might not happen. Great writing as usual, the latest update gives what a lot of readers were asking for but keeps the moment grounded with the phone call. The parents have been brought back into the story and their change in stance has been somewhat justified, it’s tied up one loose end. I request that the author give an update on the ex-husband.

[PELURI]

on hearing Dad's awake and able to speak and is asking for Kavya, Danish responds..."that's wonderful...you go to dad...I'll be fine...call me if anything changes.."...this guy Danish is such a soulful wonderful human...an obedient son, a romantic lover and an able husband, also responsible son in law despite having been rejected and disowned...great guy...thanks to our author for sculpting such a strong character, what a vivacious girl like kavya or for that matter any young girl truly deserves....

[Chennaiboy]

EXPECTING A HOT ROMANCE BETWEEN DANISH AND MIL

[Ayush01111]

Need little justicd for kavya first husband let him guvk kavya in hospital and danish get his video then it will be best part

[Rakul1985]

We were expecting by now Kavya will be seating naked in Feroz's lap and sucking him

[John446]

Guys just give your feedback about the story, as it will motivate me to write more. Thank you

[John446]

CHAPTER – 70


A week slipped by in a blur of cautious hope and quiet miracles. Kavya’s father, once a frail shadow in the ICU, grew stronger with each passing day. The doctors marveled at his recovery—the stroke’s grip loosening, his speech returning in halting but clear sentences, his eyes lighting up whenever Kavya entered the room. The hospital corridors, once heavy with dread, now buzzed with a tentative joy. Kavya spent her days by his bedside, holding his hand, reading him old letters from her childhood, her laughter mingling with his weak but genuine chuckles. Her mother, her face no longer etched with exhaustion, began to smile again, the lines around her eyes softening as she watched her husband reclaim his strength.
Through it all, Danish stood like a pillar—unwavering, steadfast, a quiet force that held the family together. He arrived at the hospital each morning. He stayed until the wards dimmed, fetching tea for Kavya’s mother, coordinating with doctors, ensuring every bill was settled without a word of complaint. When Kavya’s father needed a special diet, Danish scoured Delhi’s markets for the right ingredients, returning with bags of fresh vegetables and fruits
He sat with Kavya’s mother during the long afternoons, listening to her stories of Kavya’s childhood, his patience endless, his presence a bridge over the chasm of past judgments. Kavya watched him, her heart swelling with love and gratitude, the memory of their interrupted passion a warm undercurrent beneath the chaos of recovery.
By the seventh day, the doctors delivered the news everyone had prayed for: Kavya’s father was ready to be discharged. His vitals were stable, his speech nearly back to normal, his steps slow but steady with the help of a walker. The family gathered in his room, the sterile air now filled with laughter and tears of relief. Kavya hugged her father tightly, his frail arms stronger around her than they’d been in weeks, his voice gruff but warm as he whispered, “My brave girl.” Her mother clasped Danish’s hand, her eyes glistening. “You’ve given us our family back,” she said, her voice breaking. Danish only smiled, shaking his head humbly, but Kavya saw the quiet pride in his eyes, the weight of his efforts etched in the faint shadows beneath them.
The day of discharge arrived crisp and bright, the Delhi sky a clear blue, the autumn air carrying the faint scent of marigolds from nearby temples. Kavya’s father, dressed in a simple kurta-pajama, walked out of the hospital with Kavya on one arm, her mother on the other, Danish carrying the small bag of belongings and medications. The cab ride home was filled with chatter—her father recounting old anecdotes, her mother teasing him gently, Kavya laughing through happy tears. Danish sat quietly, his hand resting on Kavya’s knee, his thumb tracing soft circles, the gesture a silent promise of their shared strength.
They arrived at the modest yellow house, its small garden blooming with marigolds and roses, the front door adorned with a fresh mango-leaf toran her mother had hung that morning. As they stepped inside, the familiar scent of turmeric, sandalwood, and home enveloped them, the living room unchanged but now alive with possibility. Kavya’s mother, her eyes bright with purpose, had prepared for this moment. She led them to the threshold, where a small brass thali waited on a stool—filled with a lit diya, a small bowl of kumkum, rice grains, and a coconut wrapped in red thread.
“Danish, beta,” she said, her voice thick with emotion as she turned to him, the thali trembling slightly in her hands. “This is your home now, truly. Come.” She gestured for him to step forward, her eyes meeting his with a warmth that erased years of distance. Danish hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but Kavya’s gentle nudge and her father’s nod urged him on. He stepped onto the threshold, the faded floral mat soft under his shoes, and Kavya’s mother began the rasam.
She dipped her fingers into the kumkum, marking a tilak on his forehead, the red powder stark against his skin, a symbol of welcome and blessing. “You are our son now,” she said softly, her voice breaking as she pressed rice grains to the tilak, some sticking, some falling to the floor in tradition. She handed him the coconut, her hands guiding his to hold it firmly, then lit a small camphor flame in the thali, waving it in slow circles before him. The diya’s flame flickered, casting golden light across his face, the scent of camphor mingling with the marigolds tucked into the toran. Danish bowed his head respectfully, his eyes glistening as he accepted the ritual, the weight of her acceptance settling over him like a warm embrace.
Kavya’s father, leaning on his walker, smiled broadly, his voice gruff but proud. “Welcome home, beta,” he said, reaching out to pat Danish’s shoulder. Kavya stood beside them, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mangalsutra glinting in the sunlight streaming through the open door. She took Danish’s hand, squeezing it tightly, her heart full as she watched her family—once fractured—now whole.
Her mother completed the rasam by sprinkling rosewater over them all, the cool droplets catching the light, then led Danish inside, guiding him to step over the threshold with his right foot first, the coconut cradled in his arms. The house seemed to hum with joy, the old sofa creaking as Kavya’s father settled into it, the brass lamps on the walls glowing softly as her mother lit them one by one. A small puja was performed in the living room, the diya’s flame dancing before a framed photo of Lord Ganesha, the air thick with the scent of incense and the soft chant of mantras. Danish sat cross-legged on the floor beside Kavya, his hand never leaving hers, his tilak still bright on his forehead, a mark of belonging.
The evening unfolded in a haze of celebration—Kavya’s mother preparing a feast of aloo parathas, paneer curry, and kheer, the kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of utensils. Kavya’s father recounted stories of his youth, his voice stronger with each tale, while Danish listened intently, asking questions that drew warm smiles from both parents. Kavya moved between the kitchen and the living room, her dupatta slipping occasionally to reveal the faint marks on her neck, a secret smile playing on her lips as she caught Danish’s eye. The house, once a place of painful memories, now pulsed with love, the rituals and rasams weaving Danish into its heart, the family’s joy a testament to the miracles of recovery and reconciliation.
Rajesh, Kavya’s father, leaned back in his armchair, his walker tucked beside him, a woolen shawl dbangd over his shoulders despite the mild evening. His face, once pale and drawn, now carried a healthy flush, his eyes bright as he gestured animatedly. Trisha, Kavya’s mother, sat on the sofa beside Kavya, her simple cotton saree pallu tucked neatly, her hands folded in her lap, though her fingers occasionally twisted the edge of her pallu in a habit of old nervousness now softened by joy. Danish sat cross-legged on a cushion opposite Rajesh, his kurta slightly rumpled from the day, the kumkum tilak still faintly visible on his forehead, a reminder of the afternoon’s rasam. Kavya nestled close to him, her dupatta dbangd loosely, her hand resting lightly on his knee, the mangalsutra glinting where it peeked from beneath her kurti.
The conversation flowed easily, the clink of chai cups and the soft creak of the sofa punctuating their words. Rajesh, his voice gruff but warm, turned to Danish with a curious glint in his eye. “So, Danish, tell us—how does a Hyderabad boy end up working in a big IT firm? Kavya says you’re always on calls, even in the hospital corridors.” He chuckled, leaning forward, genuinely intrigued.
Danish smiled, setting his cup down, his fingers brushing Kavya’s as he spoke. “It’s not that glamorous, Papa ji,” he said with a modest laugh. “I studied computer science and joined an IT firm right after college. I’m a senior software engineer now—mostly coding, debugging, late-night deployments. The hospital calls were just me juggling deadlines while being here for you all.” His voice was steady, humble, but his eyes lit up as he described the thrill of solving complex bugs, the satisfaction of a clean code merge. Kavya watched him, her heart swelling, her thumb tracing idle circles on his knee.
Trisha leaned forward, her eyes soft with curiosity. “And your family back in Hyderabad? What do they do?” Her tone was gentle, probing without judgment, a far cry from the reserve of years past.
Danish’s smile softened, a quiet warmth in his gaze as he chose his words carefully. “My father he is retired now. He’s always buried in books—old classics, poetry. They’re simple people, but they taught me everything about hard work and kindness.” He glanced at Kavya, a subtle nod passing between them, keeping the deeper details unspoken for now. She squeezed his knee gently, appreciating his tact.
Rajesh nodded approvingly, his shawl slipping slightly. “Good, good. A man who respects his roots is a man worth keeping.” He winked at Kavya, who blushed, her fingers tightening on Danish’s knee. “But tell me, what was Kavya like when you met her? She was always stubborn, even as a child.”
Kavya groaned, covering her face with her dupatta, but Danish laughed, his voice warm. “The first time I saw her, she was arguing with a vendor over the price of tomatoes—won him over in two minutes flat.” He grinned as Kavya swatted his arm, her laughter muffled. “But seriously, Rajesh ji, she’s the strongest person I know. The way she faces everything… it’s what made me fall for her.”
Trisha’s eyes glistened, her hand reaching to pat Kavya’s cheek. “My girl was always like that. Even when she was little, she’d climb the mango tree in the backyard, no matter how many times I scolded her.” She turned to Danish, her voice softening. “I was a collegeteacher too, you know—history and Hindi, before Kavya was born. I stopped when Rajesh’s job moved us to Delhi. But I still love reading—Tagore, Premchand. Do you read, Danish?”
He nodded eagerly, leaning forward. “Whenever I get the time, Trisha ji. I love Urdu poetry—Ghalib, Faiz. My father used to read them to me as a child. Maybe we can share some books?” Trisha’s face lit up, a spark of connection forming as she described her favorite Tagore poems, her hands gesturing animatedly, the pallu of her saree slipping unnoticed.
Rajesh, Kavya’s father, a sturdy 60-year-old with a wheatish complexion that spoke of years under the Delhi sun, sat in his favorite armchair. At 5 feet 7 inches, he was neither tall nor short, his frame carrying the slight paunch of retirement from his government job as a bank manager, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, a few strands falling over his forehead as he gestured. His eyes, sharp and kind, crinkled at the corners when he laughed, and his hands—calloused from decades of paperwork and now softened by rest—rested on the armrests, a woolen shawl dbangd loosely over his shoulders despite the mild evening air. He had retired five years ago, trading ledgers for cricket matches on TV and afternoon naps, his voice still carrying the authoritative gruffness of a man used to being heard.
Trisha, Kavya’s mother, was a vision of graceful vitality at 50, standing at a poised 5 feet 6 inches, her height accentuated by the way she carried herself—upright, with a subtle sway in her step that hinted at the dancer she once dreamed of being in her youth. Time had been extraordinarily kind to her; with her disciplined routine of early bedtimes by 10 PM sharp and a clean diet of fresh fruits, homemade dals, and minimal oil, she could easily pass for a woman not a day over 40. Her skin glowed with a soft, fair luminescence, unmarred by harsh lines except for the faint crow’s feet that appeared only when she smiled wide, which was often these days. Her figure was slightly chubby in the most endearing way—a gentle roundness to her cheeks that made her look perpetually approachable, a softness around her waist that filled out her cotton sarees beautifully, the fabric dbanging over curves that spoke of motherhood and comfort rather than excess, with a remarkably flat tummy that spoke of her daily yoga practice and the right amount of plush flesh on her thighs and buttocks that gave her a balanced, feminine fullness, perfectly proportioned and enhancing her natural elegance. Her breasts, even at this age, remained surprisingly firm, their gentle swell pressing softly against the blouse of her saree, a testament to her active lifestyle and the grace with which she aged. Her hair, thick and black with just a few silver strands she wore like badges of wisdom, was always tied in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, secured with a simple black clip, though a few loose tendrils framed her face, curling slightly at the ends from the kitchen steam.
Trisha’s hands were her tell—small and expressive, with neatly trimmed nails painted a subtle coral pink that matched the bindis she wore daily, her fingers often fidgeting with the edge of her pallu when deep in thought or twisting a thin gold bangle on her wrist, a habit from her teaching days. She had a faint beauty mark just above her upper lip on the left side, adding an asymmetrical charm to her oval face, and her eyes—large, doe-like, and a warm hazel—sparkled with quiet intelligence and unwavering kindness. She favored simple cotton sarees in pastel shades—today a soft lavender with a thin silver border—that she starched herself, the pleats always crisp, the pallu pinned with a small safety pin engraved with a tiny Ganesha. Around her neck hung a delicate gold chain with a pearl pendant, a gift from Rajesh on their 25th anniversary, and her ears bore small gold jhumkas that swayed gently when she moved. Even in quiet moments, she exuded a subtle fragrance of Chandan soap and fresh jasmine tucked into her bun from the morning puja.
Her voice was melodic, a remnant of her thumri-singing college days, soft but firm when needed, laced with a Lucknowi lilt that surfaced when she was emotional. Trisha was meticulous—waking at 5:30 AM for yoga, her mat rolled out in the balcony facing the rising sun, followed by a glass of warm lemon water. She kept a small diary by her bedside, jotting down daily gratitude notes in neat Hindi cursive, and her kitchen shelves were labeled in her precise handwriting. Yet, beneath her orderliness was a playful spirit; she’d hum old film songs while chopping vegetables, her hips swaying slightly, or tease Rajesh about his snoring with a twinkle in her eye. The ten-year gap between her and Rajesh had always made her the youthful spark to his steady flame, her energy keeping their home alive even through the toughest times.
As the clock on the wall ticked past ten, Rajesh yawned, his eyelids drooping despite his efforts to stay engaged. “Enough stories for one night,” he declared, pushing himself up with the walker, his shawl slipping to the floor. Kavya rose to help, but he waved her off with a gruff smile. “I’m fine, beta. Just need my bed.” Trisha stood, adjusting his shawl with practiced care, her touch tender as she guided him toward their bedroom, her saree rustling softly. “Sleep well, Rajesh,” she said, her voice soft. He paused at the doorway, turning to Danish with a nod. “You’re a good man, Danish. Take care of my girl.” With that, he shuffled off, the walker’s soft thud fading down the hall.
The living room settled into a quieter warmth, the lamps’ glow softer now, the chai cups empty on the table. Trisha returned, sinking onto the sofa beside Kavya, her saree rustling as she tucked her feet beneath her, smoothing the pleats with a habitual flick of her wrist. Danish leaned back, his arm around Kavya’s shoulders, her head resting against him, the faint marks on her neck hidden but pulsing faintly with the memory of their earlier fire. The three of them sat in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of the day’s joy and the week’s trials lingering in the air, Trisha’s subtle jasmine scent mingling with the room’s sandalwood.
Trisha broke the silence, her voice low and reflective, twisting her gold bangle absentmindedly. “Danish, I never thanked you properly—for everything. You didn’t just help Rajesh; you gave me my daughter back.” Her eyes glistened, her hand reaching to touch Kavya’s, the safety pin on her pallu glinting. Danish shook his head, his voice gentle. “Trisha ji, Kavya’s my family. You all are now.” Kavya’s heart swelled, her fingers intertwining with his, the mangalsutra catching the lamplight as she leaned closer, the living room a cocoon of newfound unity, the night wrapping them in its quiet embrace.
The next few days blurred into a gentle rhythm of family life, Rajesh and Trisha insisting that Danish extend his stay. “Beta, you’ve done so much—stay a little longer, rest with us,” Rajesh had said over breakfast the morning after discharge, his voice firm despite his recovery. Trisha nodded eagerly, her hazel eyes bright as she placed another aloo paratha on Danish’s plate. “Yes, Danish, just two-three more days. We want to know you better.” Kavya smiled, squeezing Danish’s hand under the table, grateful for the unexpected harmony. Danish, touched by their warmth, agreed, pushing his return ticket back, his IT work managed through early morning calls.
The first day passed in lazy domesticity—Rajesh napping in his armchair, Trisha in the kitchen humming old melodies while preparing lunch, Kavya and Danish helping with small chores, laughter echoing through the house. The second day brought a visit from neighbors, curious about Rajesh’s miracle recovery, Trisha proudly introducing Danish as “our son-in-law,” her hand patting his back affectionately. Evenings were spent playing cards, Rajesh teaching Danish the rules of teen patti with mock seriousness, Trisha scolding them both when they got too competitive, her laughter light and infectious.
On the last day, Danish woke early, the clock on the bedside table reading 6:00 AM. The house was still, the faint chirp of morning birds filtering through the window. Kavya slept soundly beside him in the guest room, her face peaceful, one arm dbangd across his chest, her breathing soft and even. He slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to disturb her, pulling on a simple t-shirt and track pants before going towards the living room, the wooden steps cool under his feet.
The living room was still cloaked in the hush of pre-dawn, the old ceiling fan turning lazily overhead, its blades slicing through the cool air with a faint whirr-whirr. Danish sat on the floral-print couch, elbows on his knees, palms rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The house breathed quietly around him—Rajesh’s faint snores from the master bedroom, the distant drip of the kitchen tap, the soft rustle of marigolds brushing the balcony railing in the breeze. A single brass lamp on the side table cast a low amber pool of light, but beyond the open balcony doors, the world was silvered by the first pale wash of dawn.
Trisha was already there.
She had unrolled her faded blue cotton yoga mat on the narrow balcony floor, the edges curling slightly from years of use. The mat faced east, toward the rising sun, its first tentative rays gilding the edges of the neem trees in the garden below. She wore a sleeveless pale-blue kurti—simple, soft, slightly worn at the hem—paired with loose charcoal yoga pants that ended mid-calf. The kurti’s modest round neckline sat just below her collarbones, but as she lifted her arms in the opening pranayama, the fabric shifted, revealing the gentle, natural swell of her breasts, the faint shadow of cleavage catching the soft light. Her hair was pulled into its usual neat bun, secured with a black clip, but a few damp tendrils had escaped, curling against the nape of her neck and along her temples, glistening with the early humidity.
Danish’s gaze drifted to her—slowly, unintentionally. He had meant to look away, to give her privacy, but the quiet rhythm of her movements held him like a tide. She stood barefoot, toes spread wide on the mat for balance, her soles pale against the dark blue weave. Her arms rose in a smooth arc, palms pressing together overhead in Tadasana, elbows straight, shoulders rolling back. The sleeveless armholes gaped slightly with the stretch, exposing the smooth, fair skin of her underarms—neatly maintained, with only the faintest natural shadow of soft, dark hair, barely visible in the low light. A subtle crease formed beneath each arm as her muscles engaged, the skin there unlined, untouched by time, faintly dewy from the morning air.
She inhaled deeply, chest expanding, the kurti stretching across her firm breasts, the neckline dipping just enough to reveal a delicate, unintentional valley of cleavage—soft, fair, rising and falling with each measured breath. Danish’s eyes followed the line of her throat, the gentle curve where neck met shoulder, the way her collarbones caught the light like quiet architecture. There was no lust in his stare—only a stunned, almost reverent stillness, as if he were witnessing something sacred and private, a ritual older than the house itself.
Trisha transitioned into Surya Namaskar. She folded forward into Uttanasana, her palms flattening on the mat beside her feet, spine long and straight. The kurti rode up slightly at the back, revealing the taut plane of her lower back, the faint dimples just above the waistband of her yoga pants. Her buttocks—rounded, plush, perfectly proportioned—lifted as she hinged at the hips, the fabric of the pants hugging the gentle curve without clinging, shifting softly with the motion. Danish’s gaze lingered on the subtle play of muscle beneath the softness, the way her thighs—firm yet yielding—supported her weight with quiet strength.
She stepped back into Plank, her body a straight line from heels to crown, arms strong, shoulders directly over wrists. The kurti hung loose from her torso, the neckline dipping forward with gravity to reveal more of that light, natural cleavage—two gentle swells of fair skin, the faint blue trace of a vein near the center, rising and falling with her controlled breath. A single bead of sweat formed at her temple, tracing a slow path down her cheek, past the beauty mark above her lip, and dripping onto the mat with a soundless plink.
Danish didn’t move. His breath had synced with hers without realizing it—slow, deep, steady. He watched as she lowered into Chaturanga, elbows hugging her sides, triceps flexing, the soft underside of her arms brushing her ribs. Then up into Urdhva Mukha Svanasana—her chest lifting, throat exposed, the kurti stretching tight across her breasts, the neckline pulling lower to reveal the full, gentle arc where flesh met fabric. Her armpits were fully visible now, the faint shadow of hair catching the light, the skin there pale and smooth, a faint sheen of perspiration beginning to form in the crease as her body warmed.
She flowed into Adho Mukha Svanasana, hips high, heels pressing toward the mat. The kurti fell forward, hanging loose, but from Danish’s angle on the couch, he could see the inverted line of her body—the flat plane of her tummy, the soft inward curve of her waist, the way her breasts hung heavy within the fabric, the neckline sagging just enough to reveal the full, natural shape beneath. Her thighs trembled slightly with effort, the plush flesh quivering as she held the pose, her calves defined, ankles strong.
A soft “Hmmm” escaped her lips—a quiet, focused exhale—as she walked her feet forward into another fold. Danish’s eyes traced the line of her spine, the way her bun had loosened slightly, a few strands now sticking to the damp skin at the back of her neck. She rose slowly into Tadasana again, arms overhead, and for a fleeting moment, her gaze flicked toward the living room.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Trisha’s hazel eyes widened—barely a flicker—but she didn’t flinch. A faint flush crept up her neck, but she held the pose, palms still pressed together, chest lifted. Danish froze, heat flooding his face, but he didn’t look away. There was no accusation in her gaze, no shame—only a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment. I see you. You see me. Then she lowered her arms, turned her back to him, and continued—Virabhadrasana II, one leg bent, the other straight, arms extended, warrior strong.
Danish exhaled shakily, sinking back into the couch, his heart pounding. The moment passed as gently as mist, but it lingered in the air between them like incense.
The final day unfolded in simple, unhurried moments—a late breakfast where Rajesh insisted on sharing his favorite cricket anecdotes from the 1983 World Cup, Trisha packing a small tiffin of homemade theplas for Danish’s journey back, Kavya teasing her father about his outdated commentary style. Afternoon brought a short walk in the nearby park, Rajesh leaning on his walker but managing a few steady steps on the path lined with neem trees, the family pausing to watch children play Cricket. Evening chai was accompanied by Trisha’s recitation of a Tagore poem, her voice melodic as always, Danish nodding appreciatively while Kavya rested her head on his shoulder. As night deepened, goodbyes were exchanged with warm hugs and promises of soon visits, the house settling into sleep, Rajesh snoring softly in his room, the clock ticking past midnight.
Trisha stirred awake around 1:30 AM, her throat parched from the dry autumn air. She slipped out of bed carefully, not disturbing Rajesh’s rhythmic breathing, her cotton nightie whispering against her skin as she padded barefoot to the kitchen. The house was silent save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. She filled a glass from the water bottle on the counter, the cool liquid soothing as she drank, but on her way back, muffled sounds drifted from the guest room—soft, rhythmic, intimate murmurs that made her pause mid-step.
She meant to ignore it, to hurry back to bed, but curiosity—or perhaps an unspoken maternal instinct—drew her closer. The door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of moonlight spilling into the hallway from the window inside. Without fully understanding why, Trisha approached quietly, her heart thudding inexplicably, and peeked through the narrow gap.
The room was bathed in a soft silver glow, the curtains parted just enough for the moon to paint pale stripes across the bed. Kavya lay on her back, her legs lifted high and folded over Danish’s broad shoulders, her knees bent sharply, ankles resting near his neck. The position folded her body almost in half, her hips tilted upward, her nightie bunched around her waist, exposing the smooth curve of her lower belly and the dark triangle between her thighs. Danish knelt between her legs, his weight balanced on his knees and one forearm braced beside her head, the other hand cradling the small of her back to support the arch of her spine. Their foreheads touched, noses brushing, eyes locked in a haze of shared breath—slow, deliberate, reverent.
He moved with exquisite restraint. Each withdrawal was full and unhurried, his hips pulling back until only the swollen tip remained inside her, the thick, veined length of his shaft glistening with her wetness in the moonlight. Then he sank forward again, inch by inch, the broad head parting her folds, the shaft stretching her visibly as it disappeared into her body, her inner lips clinging to him on every slow glide. The rhythm was hypnotic—back until nearly free, forward until fully seated, his pelvis finally pressing flush against hers, the soft mound of her sex molded to the hard plane of his lower abdomen.
Trisha’s gaze, frozen and unblinking, traced the motion helplessly. Danish’s buttocks—firm, rounded, powerful—flexed with each thrust, the muscles bunching and releasing in perfect synchrony, the skin there slightly paler than the rest of him, a faint sheen of sweat catching the light. When he drew back, the full length of him was exposed in stark relief: thick, rigid, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat, the underside ridged with a prominent vein that disappeared into Kavya’s body as he pushed in again. Kavya’s toes curled in the air, her heels digging lightly into the backs of his shoulders, her fingers splayed across his back, nails leaving faint crescent marks on his skin.
A soft, wet sound accompanied each deep penetration—the slick slide of flesh meeting flesh, barely audible but unmistakable in the stillness. Then Danish shifted his angle slightly, rolling his hips in a slow grind once fully inside, and Kavya’s breath hitched, a low, trembling moan escaping her lips, muffled against his shoulder. He responded by quickening just a fraction—not rushed, still controlled, but with a subtle urgency. The pace increased to a steady, deliberate rhythm, and with each forward thrust, the soft weight of his balls—drawn tight and heavy—tapped gently against the curve of her buttocks, a quiet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap that echoed faintly in the room, intimate and raw.
Trisha stood rooted, her hand pressed to her chest, the forgotten glass of water trembling in her other grip. She saw everything: the way Kavya’s thighs quivered with each deep stroke, the way Danish’s back muscles rippled under her daughter’s hands, the way their bodies fit together with a kind of practiced, wordless devotion. She had never imagined such a position—her daughter so open, so vulnerable, so completely taken. The sight was overwhelming, intimate beyond words, and yet there was a strange, quiet beauty to it: the tenderness in Danish’s slow pace, the trust in Kavya’s surrender.
For one fleeting second, Trisha wondered.
How does it feel?
To be folded like that—legs over shoulders, hips lifted, completely taken? To feel that slow, deep stretch, that fullness, that possession? To have someone watch your face like it’s the only thing in the world, to be loved with such deliberate care? The thought flashed—unbidden, shocking—and vanished just as quickly, replaced by a wave of heat that flooded her cheeks, her chest, her stomach.
A sudden, sharper moan from Kavya—soft but unmistakable—snapped Trisha from her trance. She stepped back abruptly, her bare feet silent on the cool floor, her face burning as if scorched. She fled down the hallway on unsteady legs, slipping back into her room and sliding under the covers beside Rajesh, her heart racing, breath shallow. She lay still, eyes wide in the dark, the image burned into her mind: the slow, deep glide, the flex of muscle, the quiet slap of skin on skin, the way two bodies could move as one in a way she had never known.
She had never thought someone could make love like that—folded, exposed, yet so deeply connected. The thought lingered, unbidden and unsettling, until exhaustion finally pulled her under, the house once again silent around her.

[PELURI]

thank you dear author for such lengthy update....the writting is asusual good...the contexts/situations are natural...may be i am wrong, but something tells me that you're soon to open a treasure house of carnal escapades...at Delhi and hyderabad as well...only request is increase the dose of sexcapades..
viz., completely fulfilling like the Karva Chowth  night and their very first night after Rahul had left for US....

Otherwise no complaints only accolades for such an wonderful treatise....

[PELURI]

It still stings to see them moving on and living their lives. I wanted their world to crash and burn. The way the story is headed, that might not happen. Great writing as usual, the latest update gives what a lot of readers were asking for but keeps the moment grounded with the phone call. The parents have been brought back into the story and their change in stance has been somewhat justified, it’s tied up one loose end. I request that the author give an update on the ex-husband.

dear astroboy....marked a 'like' for this comment of yours...nonetheless,  curious as to why the most wonderful couple should crash and burn....they should be flourishing to offer carnal delicacies to us...

[Chennaiboy]

AS EXPECTED TRISHA IS GOING TO ENJOY THE SECOND HONEYMOON WITH HER SON IN LAW. LET DANISH TAKE HER TO THE PARADISE

[PELURI]

AS EXPECTED TRISHA IS GOING TO ENJOY THE SECOND HONEYMOON WITH HER SON IN LAW. LET DANISH TAKE HER TO THE PARADISE

I join your prayers dear chennaiboy to the God, requesting to influence our author to sketch a second honeymoon to Kavya's mom Trisha.... nevertheless,  the name Trisha for a mom doesn't appear very apt....may be our John will make mom a young and vivacious lady once again to enjoy with SIL...I hope I pray

[PELURI]

appears Kavya's mom appears to be active & fit, as she is practicing YOGA very seriously....

[Chennaiboy]

THE NAME TRISHA IS APT AS IS SIMILAR TO ACTRESS TRISHA.SHE IS SLIM AND YOGIC. SHE IS JUST 50 YEARS OLD WITH GOOD ASSESTS. NEED TO BE FIT AND YOGIC TO TASTE THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT

[Rockket Raja]

Now danish and his father will fuck kavya and her mother happily.

[momass]

"i stopped reading story "

now some people will say why you are here ,so my answer to them is that "this story is not like others ,it was focused heavily on emotions ,and very very few writer does that"

and no matter what i will keep eye on this story and will raise my voice for rahul

rahul needs to comeback ,for saving his family and revenge for kavya and danish

#justice_for_rahul

[Rockket Raja]

"i stopped reading story "

now some people will say why you are here ,so my answer to them is that "this story is not like others ,it was focused heavily on emotions ,and very very few writer does that"

and no matter what i will keep eye on this story and will raise my voice for rahul

rahul needs to comeback ,for saving his family and revenge for kavya and danish

#justice_for_rahul

What a joke 

[PELURI]

Now danish and his father will fuck kavya and her mother happily.

oh God! what an idea Sir ji....real kick ass....father fucking the daughter and the son fucking the mother, simultaneously but clandestinly at two different places....what a treat that would be....hope our author likes this idea

[Chennaiboy]

VERY GOOD IDEA

[PELURI]

dear momass! Rahul has lived his purpose....bcoz of him...Kavya and Danish, two beautiful souls are now together...and so rahul can vanish now...forever