01-02-2026, 04:23 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-02-2026, 04:24 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 38: The Affair and the Guilt
Vikram returned home that evening with the taste of revenge still bitter on his tongue.
The rented house was quiet—tin roof ticking in the cooling dusk, a single bulb glowing in the kitchen. Mirna was stirring something simple on the stove—dal and rice, the smell warm and familiar. She turned when the door opened, smile brightening her face.
Then she saw his hand.
Bruised knuckles, split skin, dried blood crusting the edges.
Her eyes widened. “Vikram… what happened?”
He forced a calm smile, flexing his fingers as if it didn’t hurt.
“Old man at the shop got locked in the storage room. Panicked, tried to break the door. I helped him out—hand got caught. Nothing serious.”
Mirna hurried over, worry creasing her forehead. She took his hand gently, turning it under the light.
“Sit,” she said softly.
He sat at the small table. She fetched the first-aid box—cotton, antiseptic, bandage—and knelt between his knees.
She blew cool air over the cuts first—soft puffs, like soothing a child. Then she dabbed antiseptic carefully, wincing when he hissed.
“Sorry…” she whispered.
Her eyes filled with tears—small, quick ones that didn’t fall.
Vikram’s chest tightened.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice rough. “Really.”
She leaned in and kissed the worst knuckle—soft lips on raw skin. Then another. Then his palm.
He pulled her up gently, kissed her forehead—lingering, guilty.
“I love you,” he murmured.
She smiled through the tears. “I love you too.”
But the guilt built like a slow tide.
He feared what would happen if she ever knew the real story.
Knew the dark side he’d unleashed that day.
Knew he could be brutal.
That night, he didn’t touch her.
Nor the next.
For almost a week, he held back—claiming tiredness from the shop, long hours, new branch stress.
Mirna never pushed. She curled into him each night, head on his chest, trusting him completely.
On the seventh night, he couldn’t wait any longer.
He kissed her slowly—lips gentle, hands careful. They moved to the bed, clothes slipping off in familiar rhythm.
Missionary again—slow, deep, eyes locked.
He was extra careful—watching every flinch, every sigh, slowing when she tensed even slightly. Overcompensating.
Mirna noticed the difference—his restraint felt almost reverent.
She cupped his face. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head, kissed her deeper—sealing lip to lip, tongues soft, bodies moving in quiet harmony.
She came with a soft cry, clinging to him.
He followed—quiet, controlled, spilling inside her.
They lay entwined after, breathing together.
She trusted him blindly.
He hated himself for it.
Meanwhile, the electronics shops thrived.
Monthly twice—Malavika came.
Always in the back room of the first shop, after hours.
Vikram was brutal with her—slamming her against shelves, bending her over crates, hand around her throat, slapping her ass red, fucking her hard and fast until she begged. These days mostly in condoms. No mercy. She took it—moaning, crying out, body responding even when tears fell.
Afterward, they talked—old stories spilling out.
Malavika admitted quietly one night, lying spent beside him:
“I knew you touched my breast that day in the theatre. I felt it. But I was scared… scared of losing a good friend, scared of losing everything. So I avoided you. Then Kaushik… he pushed me to frame you. I went along.”
Vikram stared at the ceiling.
They formed a strange bond—enemies turned secret lovers, guilt and lust twisted together.
But over time, Vikram told her:
“I’ll leave this soon. It’s not forever.”
Malavika laughed softly. “Nothing like that. You need to open to her slowly. Train her. You both speak. When you can speak to me about sex, why not with her? If she says no, then stop. If not… you still have ways. But not even trying is…”
Vikram understood. “Then soon, let’s stop our affair.”
Malavika nodded—resigned, with relief.
Money came from all corners.
Krish wanted to discuss secret money and some agency work—which needed a safe place. So Vikram decided to build himself a place.
That is when Vikram decided to build a new house.
A beach house—sleek glass walls, open to the sea, cars gleaming in the drive. But it had a secret: it was monitored with CCTV cameras hidden everywhere, as the house was going to be a place where secret money would be hidden. A store room no one could see—from where monitors displayed all visuals.
It took another six months to complete the house.
Shops multiplied—branches in every suburb, then districts beyond Chennai.
He never asked Mirna to quit nursing. He valued her work, her quiet strength, the way she came home smelling faintly of antiseptic and kindness.
Their life held its rhythm—love talks in the dark, arms entwined, simple dinners, shared laughter.
Only now spiced with new flavors.
They came to the new house…
Vikram finally decided to open sex to her slowly.
In their bed, kinks bloomed—nothing dark, just different.
New positions murmured in the dark—her on top, shy at first, then bolder; him behind her, hands gentle on her hips; her in lace or silk slipping over her curves, giggling as he peeled it off slowly.
He pulled up videos on his phone—soft, sensual ones—showing her angles, touches, ways to move.
Her shy giggles turned to bold lessons as they explored—her riding him slowly, learning how to grind, how to take control for a moment before he flipped her and took over again.
The intimacy deepened—a private dance of trust and heat.
Though it opened her to new shyness, they lost themselves in it—lovers still, unaware of the seeds it planted for later.
Nothing hard sex, but everything in a gentle way, slowly—but Mirnaa knows.
Money’s weight crept into Vikram then.
His humbleness frayed as Krish and Swathi settled in Dubai, full access to cash and power swelling his stride.
He didn’t see the change—thought himself the same—but a distance grew in his gaze, a hardness stirring beneath.
He slowly planned about returning to the dark network but he at times stopped for Mirnaa. His max was money hiding through Krish.
And in the quiet moments—when Mirna slept, thali resting between her breasts—Vikram sometimes stared at the ceiling.
The ring still sat in the suitcase.
The past was buried.
But buried things have a way of rising.
Especially when the revenge card is still open… Malar.
Vikram returned home that evening with the taste of revenge still bitter on his tongue.
The rented house was quiet—tin roof ticking in the cooling dusk, a single bulb glowing in the kitchen. Mirna was stirring something simple on the stove—dal and rice, the smell warm and familiar. She turned when the door opened, smile brightening her face.
Then she saw his hand.
Bruised knuckles, split skin, dried blood crusting the edges.
Her eyes widened. “Vikram… what happened?”
He forced a calm smile, flexing his fingers as if it didn’t hurt.
“Old man at the shop got locked in the storage room. Panicked, tried to break the door. I helped him out—hand got caught. Nothing serious.”
Mirna hurried over, worry creasing her forehead. She took his hand gently, turning it under the light.
“Sit,” she said softly.
He sat at the small table. She fetched the first-aid box—cotton, antiseptic, bandage—and knelt between his knees.
She blew cool air over the cuts first—soft puffs, like soothing a child. Then she dabbed antiseptic carefully, wincing when he hissed.
“Sorry…” she whispered.
Her eyes filled with tears—small, quick ones that didn’t fall.
Vikram’s chest tightened.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice rough. “Really.”
She leaned in and kissed the worst knuckle—soft lips on raw skin. Then another. Then his palm.
He pulled her up gently, kissed her forehead—lingering, guilty.
“I love you,” he murmured.
She smiled through the tears. “I love you too.”
But the guilt built like a slow tide.
He feared what would happen if she ever knew the real story.
Knew the dark side he’d unleashed that day.
Knew he could be brutal.
That night, he didn’t touch her.
Nor the next.
For almost a week, he held back—claiming tiredness from the shop, long hours, new branch stress.
Mirna never pushed. She curled into him each night, head on his chest, trusting him completely.
On the seventh night, he couldn’t wait any longer.
He kissed her slowly—lips gentle, hands careful. They moved to the bed, clothes slipping off in familiar rhythm.
Missionary again—slow, deep, eyes locked.
He was extra careful—watching every flinch, every sigh, slowing when she tensed even slightly. Overcompensating.
Mirna noticed the difference—his restraint felt almost reverent.
She cupped his face. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head, kissed her deeper—sealing lip to lip, tongues soft, bodies moving in quiet harmony.
She came with a soft cry, clinging to him.
He followed—quiet, controlled, spilling inside her.
They lay entwined after, breathing together.
She trusted him blindly.
He hated himself for it.
Meanwhile, the electronics shops thrived.
Monthly twice—Malavika came.
Always in the back room of the first shop, after hours.
Vikram was brutal with her—slamming her against shelves, bending her over crates, hand around her throat, slapping her ass red, fucking her hard and fast until she begged. These days mostly in condoms. No mercy. She took it—moaning, crying out, body responding even when tears fell.
Afterward, they talked—old stories spilling out.
Malavika admitted quietly one night, lying spent beside him:
“I knew you touched my breast that day in the theatre. I felt it. But I was scared… scared of losing a good friend, scared of losing everything. So I avoided you. Then Kaushik… he pushed me to frame you. I went along.”
Vikram stared at the ceiling.
They formed a strange bond—enemies turned secret lovers, guilt and lust twisted together.
But over time, Vikram told her:
“I’ll leave this soon. It’s not forever.”
Malavika laughed softly. “Nothing like that. You need to open to her slowly. Train her. You both speak. When you can speak to me about sex, why not with her? If she says no, then stop. If not… you still have ways. But not even trying is…”
Vikram understood. “Then soon, let’s stop our affair.”
Malavika nodded—resigned, with relief.
Money came from all corners.
Krish wanted to discuss secret money and some agency work—which needed a safe place. So Vikram decided to build himself a place.
That is when Vikram decided to build a new house.
A beach house—sleek glass walls, open to the sea, cars gleaming in the drive. But it had a secret: it was monitored with CCTV cameras hidden everywhere, as the house was going to be a place where secret money would be hidden. A store room no one could see—from where monitors displayed all visuals.
It took another six months to complete the house.
Shops multiplied—branches in every suburb, then districts beyond Chennai.
He never asked Mirna to quit nursing. He valued her work, her quiet strength, the way she came home smelling faintly of antiseptic and kindness.
Their life held its rhythm—love talks in the dark, arms entwined, simple dinners, shared laughter.
Only now spiced with new flavors.
They came to the new house…
Vikram finally decided to open sex to her slowly.
In their bed, kinks bloomed—nothing dark, just different.
New positions murmured in the dark—her on top, shy at first, then bolder; him behind her, hands gentle on her hips; her in lace or silk slipping over her curves, giggling as he peeled it off slowly.
He pulled up videos on his phone—soft, sensual ones—showing her angles, touches, ways to move.
Her shy giggles turned to bold lessons as they explored—her riding him slowly, learning how to grind, how to take control for a moment before he flipped her and took over again.
The intimacy deepened—a private dance of trust and heat.
Though it opened her to new shyness, they lost themselves in it—lovers still, unaware of the seeds it planted for later.
Nothing hard sex, but everything in a gentle way, slowly—but Mirnaa knows.
Money’s weight crept into Vikram then.
His humbleness frayed as Krish and Swathi settled in Dubai, full access to cash and power swelling his stride.
He didn’t see the change—thought himself the same—but a distance grew in his gaze, a hardness stirring beneath.
He slowly planned about returning to the dark network but he at times stopped for Mirnaa. His max was money hiding through Krish.
And in the quiet moments—when Mirna slept, thali resting between her breasts—Vikram sometimes stared at the ceiling.
The ring still sat in the suitcase.
The past was buried.
But buried things have a way of rising.
Especially when the revenge card is still open… Malar.
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