Adultery Mirna – Vikram's Innocent Hotwife

[heygiwriter]

Mirna – Vikram's Innocent Hotwife

This is a story primarily about two characters: Vikram and Mirna. Mirna and Vikram travelled a long path before falling in love and getting married, and even after that, their journey and struggles were much bigger — taking them from rags to riches.


But once Vikram tasted success, his hands on women — especially — grew bigger, and as the money doubled, so did the spectrum of his necessities. Whenever he came home, guilt over cheating on Mirna consumed him, yet his need to keep upping his game for more power demanded something further.

When guilt + necessity meet, Vikram pushed himself to take one big step — something his journey had secretly made him want. He decided to push Mirna into the world of adultery.

But she is innocent, naive, and pure. Will she bend? No — Vikram has to give that push. But will their love stand after all the tides hit?
Though the story primarily focuses on Mirna’s transformation and sexual awakening, at its base it is more of a coming-of-age story for Vikram.

The story includes themes of voyeurism, cheating, cuckolding, and extramarital affairs. People who are not into these themes can ignore.


Disclaimer: Asusual my stories generally wont have sex right away from the go.. it would take time may be some 8/10 chapters but once the story sets in when situation comes in you will have a good read and will love the erotic part (I believe).




Erotic Index


As this is a long story and i feel some people missing it out due to long character study.. so I'm making a quick index who wanted just the erotic part


1. Chapter 1 (Visual tease of Bharath's hand on Vikram's wife Mirna)
2. Chapter 3 & 4 (Malar's Sex with Vicky and Vikram witnessing it - Voyeurism ) 
3. Chapter 7 (Malavika tempts Vikram)
4. Chapter 8  (Malavika's Affair & Vikram's wicked thought - Voyeurism &  ) 

5. Chapter 13 - (Vikram unhooks Malar's blouse - very short one)
6. Chapter 15 (Swathi's Nude Show - Voyeurism )
7. Chapter 31 ( Vikram and Mirna's first sex. Gentle Romantic )   
8. Chapter 31 ( Bharath's sex with Priya - Aggressive & Straight opposite to Vikram) 
9. Chapter 35-26 (Glimpse of sex but not deatailed one, VIkrams internal conflicts. Sex between Vikram and Mirnaa)

10. Chapter 37 - (Vikram fucks Malavika)  

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 1: The Pull

Vikram knew the stakes. Every time he had pulled a string in this long game, Bharath had somehow scored ahead. This time he could not afford to lose.

The highway shimmered under the bright midday sun, heat rippling off the asphalt. Vikram’s sedan tailed the Thar Jeep at a careful distance for ten long minutes, engine steady, staying just out of easy sight.

Inside the Jeep, Bharath’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. His jaw clenched. “Looks like it’s Vikram.”

Mirna twisted in her seat, looking back through the glass. Her face paled as she recognized the sedan closing in. “How does he know we’re going here? How did he follow us?”

The question hung there, heavy with sudden realization—they had been unaware until that very moment.

The instant her gaze locked on his car, Vikram felt the shift. He knew she knew.

He accelerated hard.

The sedan surged forward. He could have signaled, flashed lights, forced them to pull over. But that was never going to settle this.

He mimicked the hit.

The front bumper came close—dangerously close—to the Thar’s rear, a feint so sharp and sudden that Bharath instinctively slammed the brakes. Tires screeched. The Jeep lurched to a stop on the shoulder, dust kicking up in a thick cloud.

Vikram didn’t slow. He cut past, drifted the sedan in a tight arc that smashed through the rusted chain-link gate of the abandoned mill. The car spun once and stopped in the shadowed yard, engine still growling.

Vikram threw the door open and ran into the mill block—boots pounding cracked concrete. 

The air inside was thick with rust and old machinery. He found the person he came for: wrists bound with rough rope, slumped against a pillar. One firm yank and the rope gave way. He dragged them toward the exit.


Two figures stepped from the shadows—enemies... A wooden bat swung fast. It connected solidly with the side of Vikram’s head. 

Pain flared sharp and bright. He staggered, knees buckling, collapsing to the ground as blood trickled warm from a gash above his ear.


He still managed to shove the bound person toward the sedan. “Go!”


The person scrambled inside. Engine roared. Gravel spat as the car tore away.


Vikram remained on his knees, vision blurring at the edges. Footsteps approached.


Then her voice cut through the dust and chaos.
“Vikram!”

The Thar—having recovered from the feint—skidded to a halt at the broken gate. 

Passenger door flew open. Mirna leapt out—saree fluttering in the hot wind—and ran toward him, bare feet slapping the dirt, face pale with raw fear.


Bharath was out an instant later. He lunged forward, thick arm hooking around Mirna’s waist and yanking her back hard against his chest. 

His hand clamped down on her hip—firm, protective—lifting her slightly off the ground to shield her body with his own, keeping her clear of the approaching rowdies who might turn on her next. She gasped once, sharp and startled. 

His other palm pressed over her mouth, muffling any sound that could draw their attention.

Through the haze of pain, Vikram watched. Bharath’s lips moved close to Mirna’s ear—whispering something low, urgent. Her body jerked once in his grip, a small, helpless shudder.


Vikram’s mouth curved into a slow, bloody smile.
He was ahead in the game now.
His vision tunneled. Darkness crept in.


Then—an explosion tore through the old mill building behind him. A deep, rolling boom shook the ground, flames bursting suddenly into the bright sky.

Mirna’s muffled cry broke free—“Vikram!”—raw, desperate, piercing.

His eyes snapped open again.


Mirna was still pinned against Bharath’s chest, his massive arm locked around her waist. In the sudden chaos of the explosion, his one hand had shifted higher—pressed firmly along the side of her breast, fingers splayed wide in that same protective hold, body shielding hers from the heat and falling debris. 

His other hand had drawn a pistol, arm extended, barrel aimed steady at the rowdies still advancing through the smoke.


Then the sedan—the one Vikram had freed—screeched back into the yard. The person inside leaned across, flung the passenger door open, and shouted at Mirna to get in.



Mirna’s eyes stayed locked on Vikram—wide, fixed, full of fear and something unspoken.

Bharath’s gaze flicked between the approaching rowdies and the waiting car. He released her in one swift motion, his arm loosening. With a firm push, he guided her toward the open door. 

Mirna stumbled forward, scrambling inside. The door slammed shut. The engine revved hard. The car peeled out again, carrying her away to safety.


Bharath lowered the pistol slowly, eyes turning back to Vikram.

Vikram smiled again—faint, bloody, triumphant.
I win.

It’s my fucking game.


His eyes dropped shut once more as the darkness finally took him.

He had been here before.




Twenty years ago.

He was twelve. The courtyard behind their slum shack reeked of diesel and open drains. His father—thin, stubborn, a mechanic who never backed down—had been dragged out by rowdies demanding money they could not pay.

Fists. Boots. A metal rod. Skull split open. Blood pooling black in the dirt. One of them laughed and pissed on the dying man—hot stream soaking cloth and skin while his father twitched once and stilled.

Vikram had screamed and charged. A backhand flung him into the mud. A kick folded him double. He lay there, tasting blood and tears, watching his father die while the rowdies wiped their hands and walked away.


No one came.
He stayed curled beside the body until dawn, the stink of piss and blood burning into him forever.

That night something shifted inside. Rage rooted deep. And beneath it, unnamed at twelve, a darker hunger stirred.
Now, twenty-five years later, the same darkness closed around him again.

Eyes dropping. Smile fading. Mirna’s cry—“Vikram!”—echoing one final time as the void swallowed him.




The story begins at 12 years of age, travel with Vikram to learn about betrayals he faced, friendship, love, marriage, business and the pleasure of taking, sharing and preserving

[Vijay kinh]

Fast update

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 2: Shadows of Home


The day after the rowdies left his father broken in the courtyard, Vikram was twelve and alone in the world. His mother had died when he was still a baby, leaving only faint stories and an empty space no one filled. The village elders spoke in low voices, and by evening his mother’s brother—Uncle Ramasamy—came .  he said, voice rough but not unkind. “You’ll stay with us.”


The house stood on the edge of the rural town, a modest tiled-roof building with a wide thinnai and a central courtyard where the women washed vessels and the men smoked beedis after work. It smelled of cow dung, wood smoke, and the faint sweetness of jasmine from the vine climbing the wall. Uncle's family lived in three small rooms: one for him and Aunt Lakshmi, one shared by the children, and a tiny kitchen. Vikram was given a mat in the corner of the children’s room, near the door where the night air came in cold.


Uncle loved him in his quiet way. He would pat Vikram’s head after dinner, slip him an extra dosa when Aunt wasn’t looking, and sometimes sit with him on the thinnai telling stories of their mother as a girl. But Aunt Lakshmi ruled the house like a queen with a thin smile and iron rules. “He’s not our blood debt,” she would say when Uncle tried to give Vikram more rice.


 “We already feed too many mouths.” Her word was final—even Uncle could not override it.


Relatives from nearby houses piled on the work. Fetch water from the borewell two streets away, twice a day. Sweep the courtyard at dawn. Run to the market for turmeric or salt. Clean the cowshed. Carry firewood. Vikram’s hands grew calloused fast, his shoulders ached, but he never complained. Complaining only brought Aunt’s sharp tongue and a slap that stung longer than the pain.


One person made the days bearable: Malar. Uncle and Aunt’s daughter, a year younger, with long braided hair and eyes that smiled before her mouth did. When Vikram was first brought in, Malar had run to him with a small tumbler of buttermilk. “Drink,” she whispered. “Amma won’t see.” Over the months, she shared her tiffin secretly—half a vada, a piece of jaggery—slipped notes under his mat when Aunt scolded him too hard.


She never spoke of the childhood promise Uncle had once made in front of family elders: that one day, when they grew up, Vikram and Malar would marry. But Vikram remembered every word. It was the only vow that felt real in a house full of grudges.


college became his second home. The government high college was a kilometer away, whitewashed walls and a playground of cracked earth. There, teachers noticed him. “Vikram, your answers are sharp,” the Tamil teacher said after his first composition. “Keep this up.” He topped every test, earned praise in assembly, felt eyes on him that weren’t judging. After chores, he studied by the single kerosene lamp in the corner, pages yellow under the weak flame, dreaming of college, a job in town, a life where no one called him burden.


Malar studied in the same college, Class 9 when he was in 10. She walked the same path home, sometimes falling into step beside him. “You’re going to be someone big,” she said once, smiling shyly. “I know it.” Her affection was quiet but steady—sharing her umbrella in rain, defending him when other girls teased his patched uniform. Vikram believed in the promise. Uncle had said it. Malar never denied it. One day, they would leave this house together.


But Vicky was always there. A distant cousin who lived two houses away, same age as Vikram, same college. Broad-shouldered, loud, with a smirk that never left his face. He challenged Vikram in everything—cricket, marks, arguments. Worst of all, he eyed Malar openly. “Look at her walk,” he’d mutter to friends when she passed in the corridor, loud enough for Vikram to hear. “One day she’ll be mine.” Vikram clenched his fists but said nothing. Malar would marry him. Uncle had promised.


By the end of 12th standard, Vikram’s marks were the talk of the college. College admission letters came—engineering seat in a town thirty kilometers away. He showed Uncle first. “I want to go,” he said quietly.


Uncle rubbed his chin. “The mill is hiring. Two thousand salary to start. You can marry Malar soon. Stay here, kanna.”

The words hit like a slap. 

Aunt overheard and stepped in, voice sharp. “Go to college if you want. But don’t expect a paisa from us. Work part-time or starve. I don’t care.”


Uncle looked down at his feet. He could not bypass her rule.


Vikram packed a small bag that night. 

Malar met him behind the cowshed, eyes shining. “You’ll do it,”  Keep this.. she gave up her savings of some few hundreads (Thousands for todays date)..

she whispered. “And when you come back, everything will be different.”

He left at dawn, the village still asleep, carrying only hope and the memory of her smile.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 3: Distance & Dreams


The town thirty kilometers away felt like another country. No cows wandering the streets, no thinnai gossip at dusk, only the constant hum of buses, the smell of diesel from lorries, and roadside tea stalls where men argued politics over strong filter coffee. Vikram rented a tiny room above a provision shop—single cot pushed against a cracked wall, shared bathroom at the corridor’s end that always smelled of damp stone. 

Rent took half his savings from odd jobs back home, but he never complained. Every rupee saved was a step further from Aunt Lakshmi’s sharp tongue and the courtyard where his father had died.

College was everything college had promised and more. Lectures in English, labs with real equipment, classmates from bigger places who spoke with confidence he was still learning. He worked mornings in the canteen—washing steel plates, serving idli-sambar—then attended classes, then evenings at a tuition center grading papers for extra cash. 

Sleep came in snatches, four or five hours at most, but his marks stayed high. 

Professors noticed. “You have fire in you, Vikram,” the mechanical engineering head said after a project presentation. “Don’t let it die.”

The only tether to the village was Uncle’s landline. Once a week, usually Sunday evenings when Aunt was at the temple, he called. Uncle always answered first—gruff but warm. “How are studies, kanna? Eating properly?” 

Then, after a few minutes, Malar would take the phone.

Her voice through the crackling line was the best part of the week.

“Mama, you sound tired. Did you eat biryani today?”

She teased. “Don’t forget to drink milk.” Sometimes she sent small envelopes through bus drivers—fifty rupees here, hundred there, folded inside a letter. “For food,” she wrote in neat Tamil script. “Don’t tell Amma.” 

He read those letters over and over, tracing her handwriting like it could pull him back home sooner.

The years blurred. First year, second, third. He grew taller, shoulders broader from lifting crates, voice deeper. Malar finished college, then joined a local arts college in the village. Their calls grew longer. She talked about her classes, her friends, how Aunt still complained about everything.

 “Appa asks about you every day,” she said once. “He says when you come back with a job, everything will be fine.” 

Vikram felt motivated because of her...

The childhood promise still lived in every conversation.


Final year exams came. He studied until his eyes burned, slept with textbooks open on his chest. Results day: first class, distinction. The college auditorium filled with cheers and camera flashes. Vikram stood on stage, degree certificate in hand, the weight of it real for the first time. Not a dream anymore. A fact.

That evening, he called home. Uncle answered, voice thick with pride. “You did it, kanna. I knew you would.” 

Then Malar came on the line.

“Maama…” Her voice was soft, almost shy. “Congratulations. You gave back everyone.. I know, You’re different from the rest of us.” 

A small laugh. “Come home soon. We’re waiting.”

His heart slammed against his ribs.

The old crush hadn’t faded—it had grown roots. He allowed himself to imagine it fully for the first time: returning with a job, asking Uncle formally, Malar in a new saree, the temple priest tying the thaali. He smiled into the phone like she could see it.

A week later, he boarded the bus back to the village. Friends met him at the stop—old collegemates, now working in fields or small shops. They clapped his back, called him “engineer saar,” dragged him to the old village theatre for celebration. “One film,” they insisted. “You deserve it.”


The theatre was the same as always: tin roof, wooden benches sticky from years of spilled soda, single fan creaking overhead, smell of popcorn and beedi smoke. 

The new film started—loud songs, bright colors. Midway through, nature called, he needs to urinate... 

Vikram slipped out, weaving through the dim corridor toward the toilets.

After urinating,, when he returned to wash his hand.. that is when he noticed...

A muffled gasp stopped him cold.

A woman’s voice—soft, broken into a moan. Then a low grunt, rhythmic, wet. The sounds came from the storage room at the corridor’s end, door slightly ajar.

Back in the village, people whispered about such things—illegal affairs in dark corners, husbands betrayed, wives sneaking away. 

Vikram had heard the stories all his life, felt the curious heat they stirred in him at nineteen, twenty, when urges came unbidden at night and he had to hide under the blanket to touch himself. Now, twenty-two and hardened by years of hard work, that same urge rose sharp and sudden, hotter than he expected.


He glanced around—no one in the corridor. His breath quickened. He stepped closer.

Hand trembling, he loosened his pants, pushed them down just enough, wrapped his fingers around his already stiff cock. 

He leaned forward, eye pressed to the narrow gap in the door, stroking slowly at first, then faster as the sounds pulled him in.

Through the dim light he saw bodies—her skirt hiked high, legs spread wide, hips rocking forward to meet each thrust. 

The man gripped her hips hard, pulling her onto him with bruising force. 

Skin slapped skin, wet and urgent. Her back scbangd the grimy wall. 

Sweat glistened on her thighs. Her moans grew louder, breathy, needy—each one sending a jolt straight to his groin. 

Five minutes passed. His hand moved heavy now, slick with pre-cum, pace frantic. 

He was getting high quick, head spinning, the forbidden rhythm of their bodies pushing him closer and closer to the edge. 

He was about to cum, muscles tensing, breath ragged—

Then the man shifted, turning slightly. to reveal himself but Vikram in ectasy closed his eyes.. he didn't realize his weight is now pressing door ajar...

To his shock the door creaked open alerting all.

Vikram shocked.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 4: Shattered Promises




The door creaked open under Vikram's weight, the rusty hinges groaning like a confession in the dim corridor. 

The storage room spilled its secrets into the open—shadows dancing from a single bare bulb, the air thick with sweat and the musky scent of bodies in heat. 

Vikram stumbled forward a step, his pants still bunched at his thighs, cock exposed and throbbing in his hand. 

His ecstasy shattered like glass.



Vicky's face turned first—sweat-slicked, eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing with a cruel grin. 

He didn't stop. If anything, he thrust harder, his hips slamming forward with brutal force. 

Malar was fully nude beneath him, blouse torn open, skirt shoved up around her waist like forgotten cloth. Her breasts heaved with each impact, dark nipples hardened, skin flushed red from the friction. Vicky's thick cock plunged deep into her, stretching her wet folds, the sound of it obscene—wet slaps echoing off the walls. 



Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper as if she couldn't get enough. 

That is when her eyes met Vikram... "Aahhh... Maama..." 

she moaned, voice breaking, body trembling under the assault. "Ayo... vidunga Vicky..." (Leave me, Vicky). 


But her hips bucked up to meet him, betraying her words, a gasp escaping as he ground against her clit.

Vikram's world tilted. The sight—his Malar, promised bride, childhood love—brutally fucked by the man who had always been his rival. Vicky's hands roamed possessively, one squeezing her breast hard, pinching the nipple until she cried out, the other gripping her thigh to spread her wider. 

Malar's eyes met Vikram's—wide with shock, tears streaming, but her body didn't stop moving, chasing the pleasure even as horror flooded her face. 

Vicky laughed low, fastening his pace, pounding into her with savage rhythm, his balls slapping against her ass. "Welcome back my rival see i took her as i said" he grunted, not missing a beat. Malar's moans turned frantic, her pussy clenching around him, juices glistening on his shaft as he pulled out almost fully before slamming back in.

Everything happened in fraction of seconds....



Vikram's hand unconsciously betrayed him stroking once, twice, the overload too much. He ejaculated hard, spurts hitting the floor before them, body convulsing in release. 

But his mind failed. Legs buckled. He crumbled to his knees, tears blurring his vision, sobs ripping from his chest. "Why... why did you do this to me?" The words choked out, raw and broken. 


Disgust crashed in—disgust at them, at himself. He'd been stroking to this, getting high on the forbidden moans, imagining some nameless woman. Now it was Malar. His Malar. The thought hurt worse than any beating, a knife twisting in his gut. He felt filthy, his cum cooling on the dirty floor like evidence of his weakness.


Vicky didn't care. He kept going, thrusts turning erratic, Malar's cries peaking—"Aahhh... Vicky!" They came together, her body arching off the wall, pussy pulsing around him as he growled and emptied inside her, hips jerking with the force of it. Hot seed leaked down her thighs as he pulled out, cock glistening, still hard.

Malar didn't delay a moment. She slid down the wall, crawling to Vikram on her knees, nude body trembling, breasts swaying with the movement.

"Sorry, Maama... don't say this to Appa, please..." Her hands reached for him, tears mixing with sweat on her face.

Vikram recoiled, voice cracking. "I believed you loved me..."

Malar shook her head, eyes pleading. "No, Maama... I liked you, but as a friend, not as lover. Vicky was the one I loved since college..."

Vicky snorted, zipping up his pants. "She's wrong. She indeed loved you but Only after you went to college, I tricked her into sex. She's mine now." He stepped forward, grabbing Vikram's shirt collar roughly. "You think you had a chance?"



Malar stopped him, pushing Vicky back. "Enough, Maama. Whatever may be, he is my lover, and I will marry him. 

It's just an old promise of our parents. And yes, who doesn't have childhood love? I had on you, and you had on me, but I've moved on now. You should move on too."

Vikram stared, heart splintering. "Will Uncle allow this?"

Malar's face hardened. "No, he won't... but glad you saw now. I didn't know how to open with you. Glad you saw... else even if you marry me, I will sleep with him. I'm sorry—be practical, Maama."

Look at you and him.. You know Vicky owns this theatre... his father has 8 rental properties.. 30 acres of land

So... you should understand...

She stood, grabbing her scattered clothes, slipping into her skirt and blouse with quick, practiced movements. Vicky smirked, slinging an arm around her waist. They walked out together, leaving Vikram kneeling in the filth, the door swinging shut behind them.


He stayed there, stuck in the place, mind numb. The movie ended outside—cheers, footsteps shuffling—but Vikram didn't move. The image burned: Vicky's cock buried in her, her moans, the way she trembled and came. His own hand on himself, ejaculating to the sight of his betrayal. Friends called his name in the corridor, searched, but he huddled in the shadows until they left. Only then did he get sense, wipe his face, pull up his pants, and stagger home in the dark.

He reached the house late, the courtyard lit by a single bulb. Malar was already there, sitting innocently on the thinnai. The family gathered—Uncle, Aunt, relatives. Vicky stepped forward with a sneer. "Malar complained her money and ring missing she was crying .. i enquired and he said his name....  It was him—thief!"


Aunt shrieked instantly. "I knew it! Out! Thief!"

Uncle slammed the table, face torn but believing. "How could you, kanna?"

No defense was heard. Relatives nodded, Aunt's rules absolute. Vikram was thrown out that night, belongings stuffed in a sack, the door bolted behind him.

Vikram himself doesnt want to defend he want to leave this place - the place of betrayal asap.


He wandered to a nearby alley, sitting against a wall, degree crumpled in one hand. Footsteps approached—Malar. She knelt, pressing the gold ring into his palm. "This is for what I did to you... I fear you'll plan something with my dad to marry me. Take it. Don't tell about Vicky, or I'll never forgive you."

Vikram broken: "I loved you..."

Her cold, practical response: "Dad adores you, hates Vicky—but I like Vicky more. Be practical."

He has money maama.. Money.. you can buy anything with it.. Earn more find a place for you.. forgive me ... im selfish i did it for me.. and im a coward. i dont have strength to hurt you..or fight with dad... but today you saw all..

as i said earlier... "Good you caught us—else after marriage, you'd watch me with him anyway. Thanks, you escaped this. I did only good to you."

She hugged him tight, whispered "Sorry," , she quickly tucked few hundreds in his pocket and left, her scent lingering like a ghost.

Vikram alone, staring at the ring, the image of Vicky fucking her seared in his mind—brutal thrusts, her trembling body, their shared climax. He walked into the night, homeless, degree in one hand, ring in the other. He decided not to enter this town again. He needed to start life fresh from scratch in Chennai.


He wanted to throw the ring... but his mind said keep it, earn like she said, and give her back with interest...

His other mind whispered: first get something to eat with the hundreds she gave... Irony at his own state and his resolution.


He reached Chennai the next day, the city swallowing him whole.

[abcturbine]

Wonderful....

[desihunter]

Simply superb
I like all your stories

[heygiwriter]

Wonderful....

Thanks

[heygiwriter]

Simply superb
I like all your stories

Thanks a lot

[Muralimm]

Wow wow great start with superb character narrations

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 5: Chennai Streets & First Lifeline


The bus from the village rattled into Chennai at dawn, spilling Vikram onto the platform at Koyambedu like discarded luggage. His body ached from the overnight journey—back stiff, legs numb, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He stepped down carrying everything he owned: a crumpled degree certificate rolled inside a plastic cover, the gold ring tucked deep in his pocket, and the few hundred-rupee notes Malar had pressed into his hand before she walked away with Vicky.

The city hit him like a wall of noise and heat. Horns blared, autorickshaws weaved through crowds, vendors shouted over each other. He stood still for a long minute, letting the chaos wash over him. Then the irony sank in, bitter and sharp: the money in his pocket came from her—the woman who had just broken him. He walked to the nearest roadside stall, ordered tea and a bun, paid with one of her notes. The tea burned his tongue; the bun tasted like cardboard. He ate slowly, staring at the ring in his palm. “Keep it,” his mind whispered. “Earn enough. Return it with interest. Cut every link.”

But honor wouldn’t let him sleep on the street. He asked around, found directions to cheap lodges near the bus stand. He searched for long, feet aching from the concrete, asking at five or six places. Most were grimy holes with 1200+ rent, way beyond his reach. Then he found Mohan's mansion—a rundown building with "Men's Hostel" painted on the wall, rooms for laborers and students. Rent: 700 per month, 5000 advance.
Vikram explained his situation—he just came to Chennai to earn and he has less money. He can afford the rent upfront now but the advance he'd pay soon. Mohan, the manager—a wiry man in his fifties with a mustache and sharp eyes—shook his head. "No advance, no room. I've heard this story a hundred times. Go elsewhere."

Vikram searched further, walking kilometers through crowded streets, but nothing was affordable. By evening, exhausted and defeated, he came back to Mohan's mansion one last time. He ate two idlis with Malar's money at a pushcart stall, the spicy chutney burning his empty stomach, then approached Mohan again. "Just four days, anna. Once I get a job, I'll give the full amount. Please."

Mohan sighed, eyeing him up and down. He'd seen so many people—liars, cheats, but also genuine ones who needed a hand. Something in Vikram's eyes—the raw truth, the desperation without begging—softened him. "I know you have no place now. So just one day. Tonight only. Get out in the morning."

Vikram nodded gratefully. "Which room?"

"Stay with me in the ground floor hall. Sleep here, use my restroom, and be gone by morning."

The sleep time came. Mohan spread a mat on the hall floor, the fan whirring lazily overhead. As they lay down, Mohan started the conversation casually. "What's your father and mother doing?"

Vikram hesitated, then the story poured out—father's death, mother's early passing, uncle's house, aunt's cruelty, the betrayal with Malar and Vicky. The words came slowly at first, then rushed like a dam breaking. Two hours the conversation went… Mohan heard every word, face softening in the dim light.

By the end, Mohan sat up. "Get up, 222—it's yours. Go to the room now and sleep."

Vikram said, "Anna, advance?"

Mohan: "I've seen hard lives, boy. Yours is one. But never this intense—you are surrounded by wolves. Alright—two months you can stay here with that 700 upfront. Get a job soon. I believe you can give me double the advance." 

He patted Vikram on the shoulder and handed over the key.

Vikram was happy, relief washing over him like rain. He thanked Mohan again and again, and got into his single room. He hid the ring inside his small trunk box, wrapped in an old handkerchief. “When I’m up,” he promised himself, “I’ll return it with a big sum. Total cut. No looking back.” 


He was sleeping soundly for the first time in days.


Next day was routine for what he was going to do for the next seven days.

Days became routine. Dawn to dusk: job hunt. He targeted mechanical firms—factories, workshops, garages—degree in hand, asking for apprentice or junior technician roles. Most laughed. “No experience? No reference? Come back when you have both.” Some days he ate; most days he didn’t.

Hunger became a constant companion, gnawing but familiar. Nights he returned to the mansion exhausted, feet blistered, mind numb. The room was smelly but better than the platform.

But peace never came fully. Every night the dreams returned—haunting, relentless. Malar’s moans echoing in the dark storage room, Vicky’s hips slamming forward, her body arching. In the dream Vikram always tried to take her by force, to reclaim what was promised, but Vicky was always stronger, always won. Vikram woke sweating, cock hard against his thigh, shame burning hotter than arousal. Loser. The word followed him into waking hours.

In the mansion he met Ramesh and Suresh—two kind-eyed working-class men who had seen their share of broken arrivals.

Ramesh was mid-thirties, a mechanic, hands permanently stained with grease. Suresh was Vikram's age, working in a small factory, quiet but steady. Suresh generally spoke to a woman on the hostel phone—his girlfriend—long conversations in hushed Tamil. Vikram never asked. They noticed Vikram’s degree, heard bits of his story over shared tea in the common corridor. “You’re not like the others who come and cheat,” Ramesh said one evening. “We’ll help.”

They offered him a lead—small workshop near Ambattur where Ramesh had contacts. Vikram went for two days: cleaned tools, carried parts, learned fast. The owner nodded approval. “Come tomorrow. We’ll see about salary.”

Trouble came on the third morning.

A security officer jeep pulled up outside the mansion. Two constables stepped out, asking for Vikram by name. The entire mansion watched—men pausing mid-shave, peering from windows—as the cops read from a sheet: theft complaint from the village, gold ring and cash missing, FIR filed by Vicky.
Vikram’s stomach dropped. Malar’s lie had followed him 300 kilometers.

The constables took him—no handcuffs, just firm grips on his arms, bundling him into the jeep. Ramesh and Suresh rushed forward. “He’s not a thief! He’s been here only days—ask Mohan!” Mohan appeared, face hard. “Wait. Let me come with you. This boy is no criminal.”

The jeep drove off with Vikram in the back. Ramesh, identified as a friend of the security officer through his NGO work (helping on field with community patrols), explained the issue to the constables. Mohan followed in a cab, determined to reach the village station and speak for him.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 6: The Rescue & Arrival of Malavika


The jeep sped away from the mansion, Vikram in the back seat between two constables. No handcuffs, but their grip on his arms was firm enough to remind him he had no choice. He stared out the window as Chennai blurred past—crowded markets, billboards, the endless sea of people who didn’t know his name or his story. Inside, the ring in his pocket felt heavier than ever.

Mohan followed in a cab, cursing under his breath the whole way. He couldn’t see Vikram clearly through the jeep’s tinted windows, but he knew the boy was scared.

Back at the mansion, Ramesh got a call from the workshop manager.

“Where is Vikram? Why didn’t he come on the third day of the job?” the manager asked.

Ramesh explained: “security officer took him for interrogation. Seems like a false FIR.”

The manager paused. “We took him based on your referral, Ramesh. But with an FIR on record… sorry, we can’t take him anymore. Too much risk.”

Ramesh’s face darkened. Guilt hit him like a punch. He had vouched for Vikram, brought him into the fold. Now the boy was gone because of a lie from the village.

Ramesh made calls. His NGO contacts, security officer friends from community patrols—he pulled every string he had. “This boy is clean. It’s a family dispute gone wrong. We need him out tonight.” But everyone turned their hands and said, “It’s already filed an FIR. Go through legal process. Hire a lawyer.” The news came like a door slamming shut.

Vikram spent the night in a holding cell at the village station. The inspector was out on another case, so no questioning. Just a thin mat, flickering tube light, and the echo of Malar’s betrayal in his head. He didn’t sleep.

Next morning, Mohan, Ramesh, and Suresh arrived with a local lawyer. They marched into the station like men on a mission. Malar was already there—sitting quietly with Uncle and Vicky. When she saw Vikram being led in, her eyes widened.

The inspector listened to the lawyer’s argument: no evidence. security officer asked the complainant—Vikram.
Surprisingly, Malar stood up.

“I have no idea about any theft case being registered,” she said clearly. “I willingly gave him the money and ring. It was a gift. He didn’t steal anything.”

Uncle looked at her, surprised but proud. “See? My daughter is defending him even now.” He turned to Vikram, voice heavy. “I doubted my own upbringing. Instead of marrying her to you, I should marry her to Vicky. He has money, land, and he stands with her in all this misery.”
Uncle walked out, shaking his head. Vicky smirked from the corner.

Vikram just left a smirk of his own—small, bitter, hidden.

The security officer closed the FIR: “Misunderstood case. No further action.” A constable, Ramesh, and Suresh witnessed Malar approach Vikram afterward.
“Sorry, Maama,” she whispered. “I didn’t want this to happen. But Vicky wanted to hurt you. Sorry… I just wanted you to get a bad name so father would turn to Vicky, but I didn’t know it would push you here.”


The three men saw it clearly: her apology, her tears, the way she played innocent. They noticed how easily she lied, how she pushed Vikram aside for her own comfort. It made their blood boil.

Mohan, Ramesh, and Suresh brought Vikram back to Chennai in silence. The cab ride was long. No one spoke much.



Back at the mansion, reality hit again. The FIR—even closed—had left a mark. Companies whispered “troublemaker.” Doors shut faster. Vikram was back to zero. First they kicked him out of the village, now the shadow followed him here. He wanted to live peacefully, but one case had erased everything.


A few more days passed in hunger and rejection. Then Suresh sat him down.

“My girlfriend works at a bank loan procuring company. They need field agents—targets, good commission. Not mechanical, but the pay is decent. She can get you in.”

Vikram hesitated. “It’s not my field. Banking, loans… I don’t know.”

Suresh’s girlfriend—Malavika—called him “bro” on the phone the next day. “Come, anna. It’s easy. I’ll teach you everything. Suresh trusts you, so I trust you.” Her voice was warm, naive, friendly. 

He joined.


Vikram found her very beautiful in her own way—small frame, innocent face, soft smile.


Malavika was small but beautiful, with the most naive face Vikram had ever seen. 

As promised she guided him in the job. In initial days he was tempted whenever she helped him with targets—leaning close to explain forms, her perfume lingering. But he wanted to respect his friendship with Suresh… so he avoided such thoughts. Soon Malavika's own behavior made him respect her. The respect formed quickly.

The job stabilized over months. He gave Mohan the advance, then double as promised. Harmony returned. Those were the days when internet was spotty and movies came on pen drives passed hand to hand.

Vikram saw her arrival as a rescue of his mental state. The dreams of Malar stopped and Malavika slowly got in… unknowingly occupied him.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 7: The Temptation and Perverse Thoughts on Malavika



He learned a lot from her. She was friendly with everyone, her words never taken lightly in the company. He knew how he got the job; it was easy to see anyone could do anything for her. She worked overtime to save for her marriage with Suresh.

Soon Malavika and Vikram became friends. Working under the same roof they slowly started going together out in auto shops and films with teams… sharing movies in pen drive.


Whenever Suresh and Malavika fought over small things, Vikram mediated. He kept the peace.

At times Suresh gave his bike to Vikram to pick up and take Malavika to places she wanted.

But three months in, a big fight happened between Suresh and Malavika. Vikram felt the distance grow. 
Malavika assured him, “Don’t worry, anna. We’ve been like this for years.” and we will get back in months..


As they become close and been working on various things inside the company they regularly commuted in autos to reach client place or register office for giving files or other bank for the works.. Those rides and private time were sexual torture for Vikram

On crowded auto rides—when going to shops or team outings—they squeezed in tight. Her body pressed against his in every bump: shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. The auto jolted over potholes; her warmth seeped through the thin fabric of her salwar, her hip brushing his. During a sharp turn she held his arm for balance, fingers soft and warm on his bicep, gripping just long enough for him to feel the pulse in her palm.

Sometimes her head leaned on his shoulder “accidentally” from tiredness after a long day, her hair tickling his neck, jasmine perfume filling his lungs. This tempted him unbearably: “Her warmth seeps through—imagine that thigh wrapped around me, her holding on during something else… not an auto ride, but me inside her, her nails digging into my arms.”


During group movie nights with the team, she sat next to him, sharing popcorn. She used to laugh  at a comedy scene, body shaking, her breast brushing his arm through her dupatta—soft, accidental pressure that sent heat straight to his groin. and she used to whisper commentary in his ear, breath hot and sweet, lips close enough to graze his earlobe.

At times Vikram had perverse thoughts about her. Though she called him “anna” constantly, drawing a visible border, he secretly enjoyed her closeness—her smell, her cleavage when she bent over files to explain targets, her homely dressing sense, the way her assets filled her salwar.


He never thought he would come to this state. Exactly after such on auto ride he excused and reached mansion soon. he locked the door and masturbated to her , guilt and desire twisting together. He was thinking ill about his friend’s girlfriend. The friends who rescued him… this is absurd he thought to himself. But her beauty wanted him to break it.



It was the early days of cellular phones. Vikram spent half a month’s salary to buy her one. She hid it from Suresh for a while (the buyer part), then revealed it one day. “He’s a brother figure to me,” she told Suresh. Vikram loved her loyalty, but the wild thoughts never stopped.


She started reasoning with Vikram in private: “Suresh won’t take me out often… he will feel bad. But you’re like a brother. Take me secretly sometimes? Just to shops or movies. No one needs to know.”



Vikram agreed, heart racing. Those secret outings became his private torment and thrill.


Sometimes he took advantage of her lone time—long office hours, shared tea breaks—leading to a secret affair that grew quietly. For him it was an affair. For Malavika it was friendship. Nothing overt, just lingering touches, shared glances, tension building.


As days progressed… Vikram started seeing himself in Vicky’s place while he considered Suresh as his old self and Malavika as Malar. Some strange fantasy his mind kept running that made these perverse thoughts go on…


One evening, both Vikram and Malavika went out to the theatre. Suresh didn’t know. When the film got intense, Vikram gathered guts. He slowly put his arm around her. She didn’t say anything. His hand casually came around her breast—first time he touched a woman’s breast, not even Malar’s. Malavika was immersed in the movie but noticed. She turned and said softly, “Look where your hand is.”


Vikram suddenly pulled away panicked and said sorry multiple times... . Malavika smiled. “It’s accidental.” you are not that evil she smiled..




Next day after manager went out she said she had a headache and was going back to her room.

She asked Vikram if he could drop her.
Vikram dropped her on the bike. He asked, “Shall I come in?” (He purposely asked so that he can share some nice moments may be a luck like in theatre?)

But, Malavika said, “It’s a girls’ shared room. It’s alone here… people will mistake. You can go back to office.”



Whenever Malavika came out with Vikram, they used to return in the evening. But today he dropped her at noon.

Midway, he thought what if Malavika wanted me to bed her? . He assumed her other girl roommates would be out for work. Perfect chance to for them to bed.. he thinks she is close now after the breast grab she smiled and said i'm not that evil.. may be she want more?  may be she wanted to consume affair today she secretly calling me? headache as an excuse? He decided to reach her in the context of getting some new movies in pen drive and check his luck.

He came back in 30 minutes. He reached the house and silently climbed up. He smiled—only Malavika’s slippers were out. He placed his slipper on her slipper, mind reeling about how he would fuck her that day.


Suddenly Suresh’s call came. He put it on silent and panicked. He hid for 10 minutes to avoid suspicion.


He struggled to knock the door… no no what you are doing to Suresh is what Vicky has done to you… Please Vikram get back your senses if you want to try her… just wait make them split and come back and you don’t love her you just lust her… he said to himself.


When he hid, he found a balcony at the side—through which the door was open. The other part of brain doesn’t listen it said perfect.

Vikram jumped in… for countless probabilities.

[anushka]

Just a suggesstion.. can you put AI pics here.. it will be an addon to your story

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 8: The Hidden Truth & Another Wound


As soon as Vikram entered, his perverse thoughts consumed him. He switched off his phone, heart pounding, and stepped through the ajar door. The house didn’t look like a shared girls’ room at all—it was a small, neat 1 BHK: compact kitchen opening into a hall, single bedroom to the left, store room at the back. Air warm, scented with jasmine agarbatti and something musky. Malavika nowhere in sight.

He moved quietly into the bedroom. Her red salwar—the one she wore that day—lay tossed on the bed, still warm. Bra and panties scattered on the floor near the bedpost, discarded in a hurry. Shower running from the attached bathroom. She was in there.

Vikram’s breath caught. He bent, picked up her panties—soft cotton, damp at the crotch—and brought them to his nose. Her intimate scent hit like a drug. He licked the bra cup edge, tasting faint salt of her skin. Cock hardened instantly. Then eyes fell on an unopened condom box on the side table. He smiled darkly inside. “You thief… you wanted to have sex with me. That’s why you called me here.” Headache? Excuse. She wanted him.

He decided to surprise her. Stripped quickly, clothes pooling. Naked, fell onto the bed, wrapped her bra around his throbbing penis, lace soft against shaft. Stroked slowly, building rhythm, precum leaking onto fabric. Waited, eyes fixed on bathroom door, smiling in anticipation.
Shower stopped.

But sounds were odd—not just water off, but low moans, wet slaps, man’s grunt. Door opened.

Kaushik—manager, 35, married, thick-set with a gold chain around his neck—stepped out first, completely nude, thick cock still half-hard and glistening. Malavika wrapped around his hips, legs locked behind his back, arms around his neck. He pinned her to wall just outside bathroom, thrust once more deep inside her with wet sound. She gasped—“Aahhh… Kaushik…” They were lost in heat, eyes closed, bodies moving together.

He lifted her higher against the wall, her legs trembling, toes curling as he ground deep, pelvis rolling to hit every sensitive spot inside her. She bit his shoulder to muffle moans, whispering “Harder… don’t stop…” 

Their rhythm built—his balls slapping her ass with each powerful thrust, her juices coating his shaft, glistening in the dim light, dripping down her thighs. Her nails raked his back, leaving red trails. She arched, breasts bouncing with every slam, nipples hard and dark, head thrown back in pleasure.

Vikram watched frozen. Hand unconsciously stroked again, precum dripping, hating himself but unable to stop. The same Malar episode was happening again—another woman he desired, already taken by someone else. His cock throbbed in his fist, betraying him even as his heart cracked.
They didn’t see the man already nude on their bed, watching.

Malavika opened her eyes mid-thrust. Saw Vikram—naked, her bra wrapped around his erection, face pale with shock. Expression shifted from pleasure to horror. Kaushik followed her gaze, froze, cock still buried deep.


Both turned toward him at once.

Kaushik pulled out slowly, cum leaking down her thigh, stepped back. Malavika slid down the wall, legs shaky, pussy still swollen and glistening. She grabbed a towel but didn’t cover herself yet.

Kaushik first: “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Malavika, voice shaking but controlled: “Vikram… how did you get in? Why are you naked in my bed?”
Vikram stammered, hand dropping from his cock. “I… I thought you wanted—”
She cut him off. “You thought wrong. Leave. Now.”


Vikram’s face burned. “I won’t leave. You smiled after I grabbed your breast in the theatre.”

Malavika corrected sharply: “Sorry, your hand—I mean your fingers—brushed, not grabbed. And I genuinely thought it was accidental. 
And these things you thought I want to bed you?” 

She laughed, short and cold. “You really think that?”


Vikram got irritated. “No matter now. I know your secret. Don’t think I won’t tell Suresh. You cheated him.”


Malavika turned to Kaushik. “It’s a misunderstanding between me and him. Let me clear it. You please leave now.”


Vikram said, “Send him and come to me.”


She was about to wrap her body with the towel. Vikram pulled it from her hand. “I mean it.”
Malavika paused, eyes narrowing. “I will send him and come back.”

She came back in 10 minutes—still nude, skin glistening from the shower and sex, breasts rising with each breath, pussy lips swollen and wet. She stood at the foot of the bed, unashamed.

“So… how long have you had this intention on me?” she asked softly.
Vikram swallowed. “Not sure… but short. But you’ve been cheating on Suresh. Is that not wrong? And does it sound like a moral?”
Malavika hit back, eyes sharp. “You stroking my bra on your cock and making a deal with me to fuck me —does it sound like moral to you?”



Okay for the secrets you have just today? Its the deal
She stepped closer, took his cock in her hand—still wrapped in her bra—and stroked slowly. Vikram’s breath hitched. Ecstasy flooded him. His hand reached instinctively, grabbed her breast, squeezing the soft flesh.


Malavika climbed onto the bed, pushed Vikram to lie back. She straddled his hips, guiding his cock to her entrance. “I want you in me,” she whispered, voice husky, eyes half-lidded with what looked like desire.

Vikram’s mind blanked with triumph. The months of tension, guilt, secret touches, and fantasies all crashed together in that moment. And he needed control. He quickly turned, got up, and pulled her down on her back beneath him.

Her legs parted instinctively, thighs wrapping loosely around his waist. He positioned himself at her entrance again, the tip of his cock nudging her slick folds. She looked up at him, smiling slyly. “This is what I want…”


Befor he enters her..
suddenly—she shouted at the top of her lungs:
“Someone help me! Please! He’s forcing me!”


Vikram shocked, froze mid-thrust. Before he could react, the door burst open—Kaushik and two nearby women (two young women) rushed in  
Malavika screamed again, scrambling off him, grabbing the sheet to cover herself. “He broke in! He was molesting me!”



Kaushik grabbed Vikram’s arm, pinning him. The women gasped, one already tied a thread on his hand..
Vikram’s world shattered again. Nude, cock still hard, caught in the act—framed perfectly.


And the worst thing.. Kaushik said Malavika,, dial your boy friend Suresh… Vikram froze.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 9: Framed by Malavika.


The door burst open, and chaos exploded into the room.

Kaushik charged in first, eyes blazing, followed by two young women—neighbors or roommates, their faces twisted in shock and outrage.

Malavika's shout still echoed—"Someone help me! Please! He's forcing me!"—and she scrambled back on the bed, pulling the sheet over her nude body, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Vikram froze, cock still pressed at her entrance, mind reeling. Kaushik grabbed his arm, yanking him off the bed with brute force. "You bastard! Get off her!"

The women gasped, one tying a thread around his wrist as a makeshift restraint

Kaushik said, “Malavika, dial your boyfriend Suresh…


10 Mins later

The door flew open again. Suresh burst in—called by Malavika  

His eyes widened at the scene: Vikram naked, hard, on the bed; Malavika covered and crying; Kaushik holding him down.


Vikram stumbled, nude and exposed, heart slamming. "No... it's not... she let me..."

Malavika sobbed, clutching the sheet. "He forced me... I trusted him..."


Suresh's face contorted in rage. "You son of a bitch!" He lunged, punching Vikram square in the jaw. Pain exploded, blood filling his mouth. "How could you? She's my girl!"

Vikram reeled, collapsing to the floor. "Suresh... listen... it's a lie..."

Suresh drew back for another punch and said lets call security officer.., but Kaushik intervened. "Wait—don't. I worry about her reputation. Let's handle this quietly. No cops yet."

Suresh slapped Vikram hard across the face anyway, the sting burning. "You animal! I trusted you!"

He turned to Malavika, rushing to her side, wrapping an arm around her. "Baby... are you okay?"

Malavika pushed him away, tears flowing. "Don't speak to me! Your friend showed me who you are... is this why you sent him to take me everywhere on your bike? To set this up?"

Suresh's face drained of color. "What? No... I never..."
She sobbed harder. "I can't think anything right now. I need a break... from all of this."


Vikram, on the floor, tried to speak. "Don't believe her, Suresh! Kaushik and her are in an affair—I saw them fucking in the bathroom! She's cheating on you!"

The women scoffed. "He's lying! Just spreading lies to cover himself. We heard the shouts—we're witnesses!"

Suresh looked at Vikram, eyes cold. "I want to believe you... but one thing: who made you nude? Her? Kaushik? Or did it drop accidentally?"
Vikram's face turned down in guilt. He had stripped himself, waiting to surprise her. The silence spoke.

Suresh nodded, face hardening. "That speaks." He turned away, consoling Malavika as she cried into his shoulder.

The women dragged Vikram out, half-dressed, into the street. Neighbors gawked. No cops were called—Kaushik's "reputation" excuse held—but the damage was done. Suresh left with Malavika, not looking back.

Word spread like wildfire through the mansion. By evening, Ramesh and Mohan waited at the door. "We heard," Ramesh said, voice low.
"Molestation? We can't have that here."

Mohan sighed. "I trusted you, boy. But with Suresh and Ramesh... I don't want to spoil things. Get out."

Vikram begged, but it was no use. Evicted again, belongings in a sack, he wandered the streets. Back to zero: sleeping on platforms, mechanical dreams crushed forever, name ruined by the rumor of "pervert" and "molester." The FIR shadow lingered, but this was worse—personal betrayal.
All women lie, frame, cheat. Never trust again. He started hating women, a dark fire burning in his chest. He decided to just survive in the world until he really got something—power, money, control.

Midnight, as he huddled under a flyover, footsteps approached. Mohan. "There's an old room in the back of the mansion. Some times its used for political key persons to plan for their dark business. i never gave it to anyone.. except duplicates it 2-3 close aide of mine who are in politics.. Stay for a while. I still believe there's more to this."

Vikram looked up, a minute hope flickering in his worst phase. But inside, the hate simmered. Women had taken everything—love, friends, dreams. One day, he'd take it back.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 10: The Hidden Room & A Stranger's Mercy


For weeks Vikram stayed in the back room of the mansion—a forgotten corner of the old building that no one talked about. The main hostel buzzed with life, but this section was hidden behind overgrown vines and cracked walls, almost like it had been abandoned years ago.

Inside, though, it was surprisingly decent: a small hall with a cot, a fan, a tiny kitchenette, and a bathroom that still worked. Mohan had built the new hostel block in front, but he never demolished the old one. A few close friends in his political circle had quietly asked to use it for "temporary hideouts"—politicians dodging raids, rowdies lying low, or shady deals being planned away from prying eyes. Mohan never advertised it. It just sat there, useful when needed.

Vikram barely left the room. Mohan brought food twice a day—simple rice, dal, sometimes fish curry—and a bottle of cheap liquor to share in the evenings. At first it was just one drink to dull the pain. Then two. Then the bottle. The liquor took its toll fast. Vikram forgot why he had come to Chennai. The mechanical dreams, the degree, the ring hidden in his trunk—all faded into a haze. He slept through days, woke with headaches, stared at the ceiling remembering Malar’s moans, Malavika’s smile, Suresh’s punch. The dark fire inside him dulled to embers. He became someone he didn’t recognize.

Mohan watched it happen and felt wrong. He had introduced the boy to liquor thinking it would help him sleep, help him forget. Instead it was slowly killing the sharp mind he had once believed in.


Sekaran, the bigshot politico, started using the room more often. Thick-necked, gold-ringed fingers, expensive shirt always unbuttoned at the top. He appreciated Vikram for the small errands—cigars, beer, snacks—for mere 100, 200 rupees. Whenever a new visitor came, Sekaran would call for Vikram. "That boy is reliable," he'd say. "No questions, no drama." Vikram did it mechanically, the only thing keeping him from total collapse.
One night Sekaran was sitting in the hall when the constable arrived. 

The same constable who had taken Vikram to the village station months ago. He came for a different dark business: a politico-linked subject, hush money, threats. Sekaran listened, nodded, promised to handle it. 


Then he asked the constable to wait upstairs while he finished his drink—there were some guests Sekaran didn’t want to share his deals with.
The constable climbed the stairs, opened the door, and saw Vikram sprawled on the cot—drunk, snoring, empty bottle beside him.

He woke the boy gently. Vikram blinked, confused.

“You…” the constable said. “I remember you. The village case.”
Vikram sat up slowly, head pounding.

Sekaran appeared at the doorway, curious. “You know him?”

The constable nodded. “This guy was falsely labeled a thief back in the village. I enquired myself—he was first in his academy, a nice person. Due to a woman’s lie he’s facing this.”

Sekaran listened to the full Malar story—ring, expulsion, family turning on him. His face changed.
He turned to Mohan. “Is he drinking because of Malar?”

Mohan looked down. “No, sir. Malar was the first blow. The latest one was worse. A woman named Malavika—Suresh’s girlfriend, the one who got him the job. He molested his friend’s girlfriend… that’s what everyone says now. His name got ruined because of that. He says he is not at fault, but there is no proof. The mansion threw him out. He’s been drowning ever since.”

Sekaran frowned. “I don’t get this. Can you share the full story like the constable did?”

Mohan explained the full scene-by-scene betrayal from Suresh’s point of view—how Vikram was caught nude on the bed, Malavika crying and accusing him of molestation, witnesses confirming the shouts, Suresh’s punch and disbelief, the question about who made him nude, Vikram’s guilty silence, the eviction.

Sekaran asked a few sharp questions—questions that turned the entire drama inside out.

“How did Kaushik the manager arrive so soon from a 30-minute travel place?”

“Why didn’t she call Suresh first?”

“Going by what you all said, did you see the clothes were torn? How did you believe he was trying to bang her?”

He laughed—hard, bitter. “I believe he was betrayed a second time.”

Then he looked at Vikram, still half-drunk, eyes glassy.

“Mohan, I don’t want to see a sharp mind getting wasted. Look—his academics are good. It’s a shame. I know the pain of not getting educated. Sharp minds should not go wasted.”

He paused.

“Don’t give him liquor tomorrow. Ask him to meet me. I have two offers. Let’s see where he fits in.”

Mohan nodded, eyes shining. “Somewhere I too trust him… and I wanted to. Glad he is… thanks, sir.”

The drunken Vikram didn’t know it yet, but unknown forces—strangers, mercy from a man who had seen too many wasted lives—were about to shape him better.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 11: Two Offers & The Bigger Role


Vikram woke to sunlight cutting through the small window in the back room. No bottle beside the cot. No pounding headache. Just clarity—sharp, painful, like a blade scbanging rust off his mind.


Mohan had followed Sekaran’s order: no liquor last night. The fan spun lazily overhead. For the first time in weeks, Vikram didn’t feel like a ghost.

Mohan knocked softly, entered with a plate of idli and chutney. “Sekaran wants to meet you. Clean up—this could be your chance.”

Vikram stared at him. “What a big shot wants to meet me? I’m just a room boy who gets him beer and cigarettes!”


Mohan set the plate down. “Hey idiot… he is offering you something like a real job, not petty things. Take your resume with you. He has companies too.”

Vikram asked, “Am I an exhibition? Everyone wants to hear my stories… Is he offering me a job or wants to hear how ladies sexily betrayed me?”

Mohan assured him. “He really cares for you.”



Vikram joked, “He didn’t involve women there. I would work in a place where there are no women.”


Mohan came out laughing at his joke, but Vikram was determined. He hated women.


Vikram washed in the tiny bathroom, scrubbed the grime of weeks off his skin. He dressed in his least-worn shirt—still wrinkled, but clean—rolled the degree certificate tight, tucked it under his arm.

Internal voice: I’m not sure if I should believe, but what do I have to lose? Everything is already gone.

He climbed the stairs to the hall where Sekaran waited. The bigshot sat at the table, morning light catching the gold on his fingers, cigarette smoke curling upward. Papers spread before him—land deeds, bank slips, coded messages. Sekaran looked Vikram up and down, noting the sharp eyes behind the hangover.



“Sit, boy. Tell me your side—all of it.”


Vikram started with college, the top marks, the dreams. Sekaran waved a hand. “Cut that. I want Malar and Malavika. Why are you like this? Tell me straight. I’ll see if you fit into any of my expectations.”


Vikram exhaled. He recounted everything—honest, no embellishment. Malar’s betrayal in the theatre, the family expulsion, the theft lie. Then Malavika—Suresh’s girlfriend, the job she got him, the secret touches, the theatre brush, the headache excuse, the balcony jump, the framing shout. He left nothing out: the lust, the guilt, the hate that followed.


Sekaran listened, nodding once or twice. When Vikram finished, the bigshot leaned back.


“Why didn’t you reveal Malar’s affair there in the village station? But you tried to reveal Malavika here in Chennai?”


Vikram met his eyes. “Malar didn’t love me. I was only me. I could not see the face of her father—my uncle—who nurtured me, irrespective of love. Whatever happened there, the damage was to me only. So I didn’t care about myself—let them think what they want. But for Malavika, it affected my friend Suresh. I didn’t want him cheated like I was. Clearing my name was second; I wanted Suresh to realize her other side, to avoid the pain.”


Sekaran smiled—small, approving. “Selfless. 

You value respect for your uncle. You care for your friend’s heart. Loyalty—that’s rare.” 

He paused, eyes narrowing. “But you had bad thoughts for Malavika. Be honest: if Kaushik wasn’t there, and she still bedded you, what would you do?”


Vikram paused, then answered straight. “I would bed her. The lust was strong. 


Strong I could not control. But eventually, I would inform Suresh. He deserved the truth, even if it hurt. I didn’t force her into it, but she gave me wrong signs… thinking about that, it’s my fault now I get a clear picture—she never gave me one.”


Sekaran laughed—deep, genuine. “Honest too. Good.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I wanted to see you in one of these two offers, leaving it to your choice. But after your frank statement on not being able to control… 

I don’t see the first fitting. I don’t judge you. I still need to screen you.”


He leaned forward. “Come work with me. Start as a driver. Then slowly you will be no more a driver but an orchestrator. You’ll know everything—secrets, deals, communications for my inner circle. Betrayals, alliances, weaknesses. It’s dangerous, but you’ll give jobs to hundreds one day. Build empires, not just earn a salary.”


Vikram blinked.


Sekaran joked, “It’s a place where there are no women.” The people there laughed, including Mohan.

Mohan had revealed the morning small joke with Sekaran.

Vikram said, “I’m from the village. I don’t know how to drive.”


Sekaran smiled—slow, knowing. “Did you train to jump at your friend’s girlfriend’s house balcony? You’ll get a hand on it.”


He called out. “Rakesh! Come get him the keys. Train him. Next week he should be able to take me to Trichy.”


Rakesh—a lean, quiet man in his thirties—appeared with a set of keys to a black Innova. “Come, brother. We start now.”


Vikram followed, still dazed. As they walked to the car, Sekaran called after him. 

“Not all women are cheaters and wrong… you should start seeing the real world. Don’t take my joke serious and don’t take your joke yourself serious.”


Mohan, watching from the doorway, asked quietly, “You said you’d give him a decent position in office.”


Sekaran exhaled smoke. “Like I said—he is not a person who should sit under a salary. He has determination. Just if we fine-tune it, he will become a big shot like me. He didn’t commit any crime. I just don’t want to give him options that keep him small.” He smiled and went back.
Vikram sat in the driver’s seat for the first time. Rakesh beside him, patient. “Clutch in, gear one, ease the accelerator. You’ll learn.”


The engine roared to life. Vikram’s hands shook on the wheel, but the road ahead felt different. No more hiding. No more victim.
One day, driving Sekaran to Trichy, the bigshot looked at him in the rear-view mirror.


“You know why you got betrayed twice?”

Vikram kept eyes on the road. “Why?”

“All these days you let others take control of you. You need to practice taking control of everything in your way. Don’t make others take control of you.”

I’m telling this for a reason… I know why you started drinking heavily…


Vikram curious asked, “Why?”


“You are guilt-tripped. You realised if not Malavika affair you would have forced it on her… You lost the control… Even you panicked to face Suresh as a reason.”


Vikram said, “Yes sir, I realised and got guilt-tripped.”

“This is where the control comes… Imagine she is not in an affair and you have lust and you don’t want to use force… You become a soft speaker, you slowly get into her emotionally, then get her consent and be in an affair… That’s the control I’m speaking about. You should be orchestrator.”
Vikram nodded. “That should be the way.”

Sekaran joked, “I just said a relatable example for you. I do the same but in business, deals, shady deals. You should start doing it…”
I’m getting older. I need a perfect hand for my son to take care of this business. He has no intention in dark business, he is clean professional perfect. I want you to train to be his right hand but majorly taking what I'm doing..…

Vikram said, “Sir, am I only one for it?”


Sekaran said, “There are thousands out there. Only you seemed to be loyal and honest… Even for a friend who stopped communicating with you.”
Sekaran smiled. “From today, you start.”

Vikram nodded, grip tightening on the wheel. The dark—sorry, clear—path had begun.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 12: The Driver Who Became the Orchestrator & The Return of Malar



Age 23–26: Three Years of Forging

Vikram started as a driver — nothing more, nothing less. Sekaran’s black Innova became his world. He drove the bigshot everywhere: Trichy deals, Madurai meetings, Coimbatore warehouses. He never spoke unless spoken to. But he always listened.

Sekaran trained him personally — not with books or lectures, but with life. "You listen, you remember," he said on the first long drive. "Words are weapons. Silence is armor." Vikram learned the routes, the shortcuts, the places to avoid. He learned which politicians smiled while sharpening knives, which cops took bribes with a handshake and which with a threat. Most of all, he learned Sekaran’s voice — every tone, every pause, every hidden meaning.



Driver became informer without anyone noticing. He overheard rival calls on speakerphone. He saw meetings from the car window — who shook hands too long, who avoided eye contact. 
He learned who owed Sekaran money, who cheated on weights in sand trucks, who could be bought with a bottle or a girl. Sekaran taught him to read people: "Eyes lie less than mouths. Watch the hands — they betray first."



Informer became a deal closer. Sekaran started sending him alone to small jobs: collect protection money from a bar owner, negotiate a land grab with a reluctant farmer, close a deal with a corrupt sub-registrar. Vikram learned to speak softly but carry a knife. One night in a dark godown, a man pulled a blade. Vikram disarmed him — clean, cold, no rage. Sekaran heard about it and nodded. "Good. You're learning."



Learning to fight came next. Sekaran’s men took him to empty warehouses and back alleys. Street fights, knife defense, how to take a punch and give worse. One evening in a bar brawl, three men jumped him over a spilled drink. They beat him bloody. Next time the same men came looking for trouble, Vikram won — precise, ruthless, no emotion. He walked away without a word. Sekaran heard and smiled. "You’re not the boy who got framed anymore."


Business acumen grew quietly. He cracked Sekaran’s network — saw the real money flow: sand mafia cuts, real estate scams, politician bribes. He suggested small improvements: "If we route through this village, we save 20% on bribes." Sekaran started listening. The world still thought Sekaran was king — but Vikram was the brain behind many wins. He never took credit. He just watched, learned, and waited.



No more liquor. The hate for women hardened into cold pragmatism:

 "They cheat, so I’ll never let one close enough to hurt me again." The voyeur scar deepened. 
He witnessed betrayals in Sekaran’s deals — wives of close subordinates cheating with rivals, partners selling out secrets their husbands blabbered in bed. 


One time he imposed the same trick on a rival’s partner's wife — used his men to seduce her, recorded it, used it to blackmail the rival into backing off. It worked in one go. Vikram watched the video once, felt nothing. "If I ever marry, I’ll control it."



End of 3rd year..: Trichy Deal Gone Wrong


Sekaran entered Trichy for a big sand deal — opponents, a rival gang backed by a politico faction, cornered him in an abandoned godown. Vikram was driving. He spotted the ambush — five men with machetes, two with guns. He didn’t hesitate.


He fought single-handedly. Took the knife from the car’s glove box, defended Sekaran. Brutal, bloody — he slashed one man’s arm, broke another’s wrist, took a cut to his side but kept going. Sekaran fired two shots, wounded one, but caught a blade to the shoulder. Vikram dragged him to the Scorpio, drove at breakneck speed to the hospital, blood soaking the seats.


Sekaran, bleeding, gripped his hand. "You saved me, boy."




Hospital Encounter with Malar

At the hospital, Vikram waited downstairs near the Scorpio — blood on his shirt, knife in his pocket, calm but alert. He leaned against the car, breathing steady, eyes scanning the entrance.
Malar was there — visiting her father, who had been admitted after a wound by falling from bike. 


She spotted him from a window on the second floor.
Froze. Then came down.


She walked directly toward him, steps hesitant. As she neared, she saw the blood, the knife handle peeking from his pocket, the hardened lines on his face.
She realised this is  not the Vikram she wanted to see.


"Maama… what have you become?"


Vikram met her gaze. No rage. No disgust. Just calm clarity — something cold, confident, unbothered. The boy she betrayed was gone. In his place stood a man who had bled, fought, and learned to take control.


Malar stopped a few feet away. "You look… different  and scarier. she let the fear in her out in her words