[Let it die]

What a story @Lousy1995. Too good .
Slow burning of her emotions and breaking bit by bit, felt too good.
The story was so good I have to make an account to appreciate. Very few stories are on this platform. ?

Just a small request don't let her break too soon. Let her always hate him when he is not around but crave at the same time. Don't make it too obvious.

And @lou12 this is definitely not AI Generated, I too used various platforms to complete various stories but they are bad at writting like this, even the paid ones. Good on you for appreciating him atleast.?

[Let it die]

What a story @Lousy1995. Too good .
Slow burning of her emotions and breaking bit by bit, felt too good.
The story was so good I have to make an account to appreciate. Very few stories are on this platform. ?

Just a small request don't let her break too soon. Let her always hate him when he is not around but crave at the same time. Don't make it too obvious.

And @lou12 this is definitely not AI Generated, I too used various platforms to complete various stories but they are bad at writting like this, even the paid ones. Good on you for appreciating him atleast.?

[vk64]

Plz next update

[Raj_Rohan]

I write the entire story on my own. After that, I run it through QuillBot just to fix grammar and improve readability. The AI doesn't write the story—it only corrects my mistakes.

If AI were writing the story for me, I'd have no problem releasing daily updates in just an hour.

Focus on the story brother,... Chapter by chapter story getting to peak level. 
Wherever u go negative people will be there.

Don't mind. Try to update daily with pics and gifs

[Lousy1995]

Next update will be posted tomorrow .

[exbiixossip2]

[vk64]

Plz update

[Raj_Rohan]

Pls give us atleast 3 update today

[Lousy1995]

Chapter 16: Broken Silence

The silence that followed Ravi’s departure was heavier than any scream. It was a suffocating vacuum, thick with the scent of incense, jasmine, and betrayal. I remained frozen behind the fallen pillar, my body locked in place, my lungs burning as I struggled to breathe. The ruined sanctum felt like a tomb, the ancient stone walls closing in, waiting for the final, broken sound of a soul shattering.

Slowly, I forced myself to move, pressing my eye to the narrow gap once more.

The sight that greeted me burned itself into my soul like a brand.

Lakshmi was on her knees. Not in prayer, but in complete and utter defeat. Her body, which had burned with defiant fury only moments ago, had collapsed into a trembling ruin of soft flesh and crumpled green silk. The magnificent saree pooled around her like a discarded shroud, creased and damp with sweat and tears. Her heavy breasts, once proud and full, now hung low, the weight of them pulling her forward toward the cold stone floor. Her head was bowed low, forehead nearly touching the ground, her long hair disheveled and sticking to her tear-streaked face. Both hands clutched desperately at the two thaalis around her neck.

Her own simple gold chain — the one Murugan had tied on her twenty years ago — felt like a distant memory. But the new one… Ravi’s thaali… was a brutal, ornate monster. Heavy, thick, and cold, its large pendant rested against her skin like a claim of ownership, a collar marking her as his.

Her fingers trembled violently as they tugged and pulled at the unyielding gold, nails scbanging desperately against the links, trying to tear it off. But it was useless. The knots were too tight, the chain too strong. A fresh wave of broken, ugly sobs tore from her throat as she whispered again and again, voice hoarse and shattered:

“Enna panniten .. enna panniten…”

She wasn’t speaking to the forgotten gods of this ruined temple. She was begging the husband she had betrayed, the life she had destroyed, the woman she used to be.

And I, her son, watched from the shadows — a helpless, sick voyeur. My mind was no longer my own. It was a violent storm of rage, guilt, helplessness, and a dark, twisted arousal that made me hate myself more than I ever thought possible. I wanted to burst out, to smash Ravi’s face into the stone until there was nothing left. I wanted to rip that thaali from her neck and burn it. But I couldn’t move. My legs refused to obey. All I could do was watch my mother break apart on the cold floor of a defiled temple, her spirit crumbling under the weight of the chain she now wore.

And beneath it all, coiling like a venomous snake in the pit of my stomach, was the arousal. The dark, twisted, sickening arousal. It was there, a throbbing, insistent heat in my veshti, a traitorous response to the most heartbreaking, the most sacred, the most profane sight I had ever witnessed. The sight of my mother, broken and sobbing on the floor of a defiled temple, her body adorned for a man who was not her husband, her spirit crushed—it was the most erotic, the most agonizing, the most profoundly corrupting thing I had ever seen. And a part of me, the sick, perverted part that had been born on the terrace years ago, was feeding on her pain, on her degradation, on her shattered beauty. I hated myself. I wanted to die. But I couldn’t look away. I was trapped, a prisoner of my own corrupted senses, forced to watch the woman I loved die a slow, agonizing death in front of my eyes.

I almost stepped out. Twice. The first time, when a particularly violent sob shook her entire body, a sound so full of pain it was like a physical blow to my chest. My foot moved forward, my body coiled to spring, but the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the scene paralyzed me. What would I do? What could I say? I would just be another witness, another source of shame. The second time, when she whispered my father’s name, her voice so full of love and regret it shattered my heart. A raw, animal sound of grief tore from my own throat, and I had to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it, my body shaking with the force of my own silent sobs.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, watching her break. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Time had lost its meaning. The sun moved across the sky, the shadows in the temple lengthened, but she remained on her knees, a statue of grief, her tears finally slowing, then stopping, until she was just an empty, hollowed-out shell.

When she finally stirred, it was with the slow, heavy movements of an old woman. She pushed herself up, her body stiff and sore, and stood swaying on her feet. She looked down at herself, at the green silk, at the garland, at the two thaalis, and her face was a mask of profound, soul-crushing disbelief. She was a stranger to herself.

She turned and walked out of the sanctum, not looking back, her steps slow and shuffling. I waited until she was gone, until the sound of her footsteps had faded into the distance. Then I collapsed, my body giving out, sliding down the rough stone wall until I was sitting in the dirt, my head in my hands, my body shaking with a storm of tears and a hard, painful arousal that wouldn't die.

The walk back was a journey through a personal hell. She didn’t take the path. She stumbled through the overgrown fields, the tall, dry grass scratching at her legs, the thorns of forgotten bushes catching at the green silk of her saree. The sun was high now, beating down on her, but she didn’t seem to feel the heat. She was lost in a world far darker and colder than any summer afternoon.

I followed her, a silent, guilty shadow. I kept my distance, hiding behind trees and clumps of bushes, a coward and a predator rolled into one. I needed to see. I needed to know what this had done to her, to the woman who was my mother.

She walked for what seemed like an eternity, her body moving on some kind of grim, heartbreaking autopilot. Then, she saw it. The lake. A large, stagnant pool of water on the edge of the village, a place where women washed clothes and children splashed in the monsoon months. Today, it was deserted, the water a murky, greenish-brown, reflecting the cloudless sky like a flawed, dirty mirror.

She walked to the edge and stood there, staring at the water, her body a rigid line of tension. The wind picked up, catching the green silk, making it billow around her like a ghostly shroud. The heavy gold thaali glinted in the sunlight, a cruel, beautiful spark against the dark fabric of her despair.

She sat down onto the ground, not gracefully, but in a heap, as if her bones had suddenly turned to water. She sat there for a long time, just staring at the water, at the distorted reflection of a woman she no longer recognized.

Then, she began to cry again. Not the violent, gut-wrenching sobs from the temple, but a quieter, deeper kind of weeping. The tears flowed silently, tracing clean paths down her dusty, tear-stained cheeks, dripping from her chin onto the green silk, darkening the fabric. She cried until she had no more tears, until her body was just a dry, empty husk, her eyes red and swollen, her face a mask of profound, hollowed-out grief.

Her hands came up to her neck again, to the two thaalis. Her fingers traced the familiar, simple chain of her own marriage, a touch of nostalgia, of a life that seemed a million years away. Then they moved to the new one, the heavy, ornate collar of her sin. She pulled at it, not with the desperate frenzy from the temple, but with a slow, resigned hopelessness, as if she already knew it was useless.

She looked from the thaalis to the water, as if considering something unspeakable, something that would finally end this pain. But she didn't. She was too much a coward for that, and too much a mother. She had me to think of, and the thought of what her death would do to me was the one thing that was stronger than her despair.

She sat there for hours, it felt like. The sun began its slow descent, the light growing softer, more golden, casting long, distorted shadows across the water. The village came alive in the distance—the lowing of cattle being brought home, the distant chatter of women, the call of a man to his son. But here, by the lake, there was only the sound of the wind and the quiet, rhythmic lapping of the water against the shore.

I watched her from my hiding place behind a thick clump of bamboo, my heart aching with a pain so sharp it was almost physical. I saw the guilt in the slump of her shoulders, the fear of sin in the way she kept touching the thaali, the worry for me in the way her eyes would occasionally dart toward the path that led to our house. And I saw something else. A terrifying, dawning realization of what she had done, of the line she had crossed, of the woman she had become. She was no longer just Lakshmi, the devoted wife, the loving mother. She was something else now. Something broken. Something tainted. And she was just beginning to understand the full, horrifying extent of it.

My own feelings were a chaotic mess. My heart broke for her, for the pain she was in, for the woman she had been and the woman she had become. I wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her it would be okay, even though I knew it wouldn't be. But I couldn't. I was frozen, trapped by my own sickness. Because watching her there, so broken, so vulnerable, so utterly destroyed, was also intensely, painfully arousing. Her shattered state, her complete and utter surrender, was a dark, twisted aphrodisiac that made my cock throb with a guilty, shameful heat. I was a monster. A parasite, feeding on the decay of my own mother, and the knowledge of it made me want to scream, to tear my own eyes out, to do anything to stop the sickening, thrilling pulse of desire that coursed through my veins.

Finally, as the sky began to turn the color of a bruised plum, she stirred. She slowly, stiffly, pushed herself to her feet. She looked one last time at the water, at her distorted, broken reflection, and then turned and began to walk home. Her steps were heavy, each one a burden, but there was a new resolve in them, a grim, fatalistic acceptance. She had made her decision. She had chosen her path. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, what that path was.

The house was a tomb when she returned. The air was thick with the sour, miasmic smell of cheap arrack and stale sweat. Murugan was home. He was slumped on the cot in the hall, a half-empty bottle beside him, his eyes already glazed with the dull sheen of a man who had been drinking for hours. He was a wreck, a pathetic shadow of the man he had once been, and the sight of him, in his oblivious, drunken state, was a stark, painful contrast to the quiet, shattered strength of the woman who had just walked through the door.

Lakshmi didn't look at him. She just moved around him, her body a study in careful evasion, her movements a silent, desperate dance to avoid any contact, any interaction. She went to the kitchen, her face a mask of grim determination, and began to prepare the evening coffee, the clatter of the pot and the rhythmic *swish-swish* of the broom a frantic attempt to force a return to normalcy.

I was in the hall, pretending to read a book, but my entire being was focused on the doorway, on the man who was about to walk through it. I knew he would come. I knew he wouldn't be able to resist, not today, not after what he had done.

And I was right.

The front gate creaked open, and Ravi walked in. He wasn’t smiling. There was no trace of the polite, helpful neighbour tonight. He moved with a quiet, predatory confidence, dressed in a simple white veshti and shirt that clung slightly to his frame. An aura of cold ownership surrounded him, far more terrifying than any open aggression.

He gave me a brief, dismissive nod, his eyes already scanning the house for her. Murugan was slumped on the cot in the hall like a discarded sack, his body limp, mouth half-open, a thin trail of drool leaking onto his chest. The empty arrack bottle lay on its side near his feet, the sharp, sour smell of cheap liquor heavy in the air.

“M-Murugan anna…” Ravi said smoothly, his voice carrying just the right amount of concern. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. Thought I should check on you.”

Murugan barely reacted. He mumbled something incoherent, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus before rolling back slightly. His head lolled heavily to one side as another loud, wet snore escaped him. He was completely gone — dead to the world in his drunken stupor.

Lakshmi appeared from the kitchen a moment later, carrying a small steel tumbler of coffee. Her hands were trembling so badly that the liquid inside rippled. She kept her eyes downcast, refusing to look at Ravi, her pallu pulled tightly across her chest as if it could shield her.

She bent down to place the tumbler on the low stool beside the cot. As she did, the green silk of her saree stretched across her heavy breasts and the soft curve of her waist, the new gold thaali hidden but still pressing noticeably against her skin.

Ravi leaned in slightly while Murugan was distracted, his voice a low, arrogant whisper meant only for her ears.

“You look beautiful even when scared… my wife.”

Ravi’s eyes darkened with hunger.

While Murugan was completely lost in his drunken haze, Ravi moved with shocking boldness. He stepped closer under the pretext of steadying the tumbler, and his hand slid beneath the edge of her pallu, his fingers possessively gripping the soft, warm flesh of her waist. His thumb pressed firmly into the curve just above her hip, feeling the give of her flesh through the thin cotton.

Lakshmi froze. A sharp, strangled gasp escaped her lips. Her entire body jerked violently as if she had been burned. Her face flushed a deep, humiliated red, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. She pulled away so fast she nearly stumbled, the coffee tumbler wobbling dangerously as she fled toward the kitchen like a frightened animal.

Ravi slowly withdrew his hand, a dark, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glanced around the hall carefully, checking if I was watching. I quickly lowered my head, pretending to be absorbed in my book, my heart pounding wildly.

Satisfied that no one had noticed, he stood up. He walked toward the kitchen doorway and stopped just outside it. In a low but clear voice, loud enough for her to hear, he said:

“Don’t be late tomorrow… my wife.”

Before leaving, he reached into the fold of his veshti and pulled out a carefully wrapped bundle. He placed it on the small table near the kitchen entrance — a new, expensive red silk saree, grand and bridal, folded neatly.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the house, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier and more terrifying than any scream.

The night was a special kind of hell. The house was filled with the oppressive weight of unspoken things, with the sour smell of my father's drunken sleep and the faint, sweet scent of the jasmine that still clung to Lakshmi's skin, a ghostly reminder of the defiled temple.

She spent the night in torment. I heard her from my room, the soft, restless sounds of her suffering. I heard her in the bathroom, the sound of her trying, again and again, to remove the new thaali.. I heard her in her room, the soft *swish* of fabric as she took off the new red silk saree Ravi had given her, a gesture of final, desperate resistance. But then I heard the sound again, the sound of her putting it back on, followed by a fresh wave of quiet, broken tears. She was trapped. The money, the thaali, the sheer, overwhelming weight of Ravi's psychological manipulation—it was all a cage, and she was the animal pacing inside it, knowing there was no escape.

She had several quiet breakdowns while cooking the next day's lunch, the rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of the stone grinding lentils punctuated by the sound of her muffled sobs. I saw her through the gap in the kitchen door, standing over the pot, her body rigid, her shoulders shaking, her eyes fixed on the unconscious form of her husband on the cot. She would look at him, a picture of pathetic oblivion, and then whisper to herself, a desperate, broken mantra: "I will not go. I will not go. I cannot do this. I am Murugan's wife. Only his." But even I, from a distance, could hear the lie in her voice. The fight was over. She was just going through the motions of a resistance that had already died.


The next day, Friday, passed in a heavy, suffocating silence. The air in the house was thick with unspoken dread, a palpable presence that made every breath feel like we were drawing water into our lungs. I was spiraling. The events of the previous day, the sight of Ravi's bold, possessive touch, the sound of his final, arrogant command, had pushed me to the brink. I was a taut wire, vibrating with a tension so intense it was almost painful.

Right after Ravi's visit the previous evening, I had almost confronted her. I had stood up, my fists clenched, my mouth open to scream, to demand to know what was happening, to tell her I knew everything. But the words had died in my throat. What could I say? *I know you're going to another man's house tomorrow night to let him fuck you because I've been secretly watching you for months and I saw him tie a thaali on you today?* The confession was too monstrous, too damning. It would not only destroy her; it would destroy me, revealing the depth of my own sickness, my own complicity in her corruption. So I had stayed silent, a coward, and the silence had festered inside me, growing into a toxic, cancerous thing.

I spent the day on the terrace, my usual sanctuary, but it offered no comfort today. The sun was a merciless eye in the sky, beating down on me, exposing my thoughts, my shame. I sat with my back against the pabangt, my knees drawn up to my chest, and I broke. It was a raw, ugly breakdown, the kind a boy has when he realizes his world is ending and he is powerless to stop it. I cried, great, heaving sobs that wracked my entire body, the tears hot and salty on my face. I cried for my mother, for the woman she was and the woman she had become. I cried for my father, for the man he had been and the pathetic drunk he was now. I cried for myself, for the loss of my innocence, for the sickness in my soul that made me arousal at the thought of my own mother's pain.

My cock was hard, a traitorous, throbbing presence in my veshti, a constant, shameful reminder of my own corruption. I was torn between two overwhelming, contradictory impulses: the desperate, all-consuming need to protect her, to save her from the monster who was destroying her, and the dark, addictive hunger to watch her fall, to witness her complete and utter corruption, to see her become the thing my sick fantasies had always wanted her to be. The conflict was tearing me apart, a war in my soul that left me feeling hollowed out, broken, and utterly alone.


The climax came late that night. The house was dark, the only light the faint sliver of the moon filtering through the windows. Murugan was in a drunken stupor on the cot in the hall, his loud, rhythmic snores a constant, oppressive reminder of his obliviousness. I was in my room, pretending to sleep, but my entire being was coiled with tension, waiting for the sound I knew was coming.

I heard her door open. The soft, hesitant creak of the hinges. Her footsteps in the hall, slow and deliberate. I got up and went to my doorway, my heart a cold, heavy stone in my chest.

She was standing in the hall, a silhouette in the dim light. She was wearing the new red silk saree, the fabric a dark, vibrant slash of color against the gloom. Her hair was oiled and coiled, her face pale, her eyes wide with a terror so profound it was almost tangible.

"Arjun," she said, her voice a soft, strained whisper. "I'm going out."

My blood ran cold. "Where?" I asked, my voice hoarse, cracking with the weight of my own dread.

"To a friend's house," she said, the lie a thin, brittle thing that shattered in the air between us. "In the nearby street. For some… urgent work."

That was it. The moment. The point of no return.

"Which friend?" I asked, my voice rising, the desperation I had been holding back for days finally breaking free. "Which house? What work? Amma, tell me the truth. I know you're lying."

She flinched, her body tensing, but she didn't turn around. "It's nothing, Arjun. Just… some woman's things. You wouldn't understand."

Her voice was strained, thin, like a thread about to snap. She still wouldn’t look at me directly, her eyes fixed somewhere on the floor between us. The red silk saree she had changed into earlier in the evening now looked different under the dim hall light — heavier, more dangerous, like the color of fresh blood.

I stood there, my fists clenched at my sides, the words I wanted to scream burning in my throat. I know where you’re really going. I know what he did to you today. I saw the thaali. I saw everything. But I couldn’t say it. The confession was too big, too ugly. It would destroy her. It would destroy whatever was left of us.

Instead, my voice came out cracked and desperate.

“Amma… please. Don’t go tonight. Whatever it is, it can wait till morning. You’ve been… you’ve been different since the festival. Since yesterday. I’m worried about you.”

She flinched as if I had slapped her. For a second, something raw and painful flashed across her face — guilt, shame, exhaustion. Then her jaw tightened, and she finally looked at me. Her eyes were red, swollen, filled with a storm she was barely holding back.

“Arjun,” she said, her voice low but trembling, “I told you. It’s nothing. Just go to sleep.”

“But you never go out this late,” I pressed, my voice rising despite myself. “Not like this. Not without telling me properly. Who is this friend? Why can’t it wait?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. I saw her hands tighten around the edge of her pallu, twisting the silk so hard her knuckles turned white. Her breathing grew faster, shallower.

“Enough, Arjun.” Her voice cracked. “Stop asking so many questions. Just… just go to sleep.”

I took a step closer, my heart hammering. “Amma, please. Talk to me. I’m not a child anymore. If something is wrong, if someone is forcing you—”

“ENOUGH!”

The shout tore out of her like a wound finally splitting open. It was the first time in my entire life that my mother had ever raised her voice at me. The sound echoed in the silent hall, sharp and broken, full of guilt and desperation and something deeper — something almost feral.

She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, tears glistening in her eyes. The red silk saree suddenly looked wrong on her, too bright, too bridal for this moment of raw pain.

“Don’t interfere in my matters, Arjun,” she said, her voice shaking but lower now, almost pleading. “Just… just go to sleep. Please.”

She turned away from me before I could respond, her shoulders hunched, her steps hurried as she disappeared into her room. The door closed behind her with a soft but final click.

I stood there, stunned, the echo of her shout still ringing in my ears. My gentle, patient Amma — the woman who had never once raised her voice at me, even when I was at my worst — had just shouted at me. Not out of anger at me… but out of fear. Out of shame. Out of the unbearable weight of the secret she was carrying.

And I had pushed her to that point.

Later that night

I didn’t sleep.

I lay in my room in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying the sound of her voice cracking when she shouted. The house was quiet except for my father’s loud, drunken snores from the hall. The silence between those snores felt heavier than anything I had ever known.

Then I heard it.

The soft creak of her bedroom door.

I got up silently and moved to my doorway. Through the narrow gap, I saw her.

She was dressed.

The new red silk saree clung to her body like it had been made for this night alone. The fabric shimmered faintly in the moonlight, dbangd low on her wide hips, exposing the soft curve of her belly. Her hair was freshly oiled and tied in a neat bun, a few jasmine flowers tucked into it. The heavy gold thaali — Ravi’s thaali — rested against her chest, partially hidden by the pallu, but I could still see its outline.

She stood there for a long moment in the hall, looking toward my room, then toward the hall where her husband lay unconscious. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She looked utterly broken — a woman walking toward her own execution, dressed in bridal silk.

She adjusted her pallu one last time, her hands trembling. Then, with a quiet, defeated breath, she turned toward the back door.

I watched from the shadows as my mother — my Amma — stepped out into the night, heading toward Ravi’s house.

Ready to consummate the marriage he had forced upon her.

[Wangi]

ARRE... WAHH.. WHAT AN INTENSIVE BUILD UP UFFF OUT OF BREATH. WAITING FOR THOSE SLEEPLESS NIGHT

[Lousy1995]

Sorry if this chapter wasn't what many of you were expecting. I understand your disappointment, and I truly appreciate your patience. I'll make sure the upcoming update is worth the wait and delivers a much better experience. Thank you for sticking with me and supporting the story.

[vk64]

Best update
Eagerly waiting for next update

[Mahesh12345]

In single word mind blowing update.

Waiting for how ravi claim Lakshmi as a wife and how he fucked her and also after this first night He Will directly come to Murugan house and also he will fuck infront of murgan at that time he is in drunkun position and Arjun is also in helpless position 

Here afterwards Lakshmi is not Arjun mother she is ravi wife that's why she talked harshly with Arjun 

Waiting for next update 

[saka1981]

After Ravi tied the thali around Lakshmi's neck, you beautifully portrayed her state of mind. Lakshmi keeps insisting that Murugan is her husband, yet when night falls, she wears the red saree Ravi gave her and goes to meet him. Even though her son, Arjun, tries to stop her by asking her not to go, why does she still choose to go to Ravi? Is it because of physical desire?

If physical desire is the reason, then why did Lakshmi break down in tears after Ravi tied the thali around her neck? I still can't understand what she's going through emotionally.

[Raj_Rohan]

Dear author
Story is really fantastic and inch by inch getting it's peak level. Keep it up and gives us regular updates atleast 3 a day.

I guess 'will be there a situation of removing old thalli" which means amma started loveing ravi.

Waiting to know about the story. Waiting for next update. Update soon

[Lousy1995]

After Ravi tied the thali around Lakshmi's neck, you beautifully portrayed her state of mind. Lakshmi keeps insisting that Murugan is her husband, yet when night falls, she wears the red saree Ravi gave her and goes to meet him. Even though her son, Arjun, tries to stop her by asking her not to go, why does she still choose to go to Ravi? Is it because of physical desire?

If physical desire is the reason, then why did Lakshmi break down in tears after Ravi tied the thali around her neck? I still can't understand what she's going through emotionally.

• Lakshmi is not going because of pure physical desire.
  
• She is torn.
  
• After Ravi tied the thaali, she broke down because that moment made the betrayal feel real, permanent, and sacred. In her mind, she is still Murugan’s wife, so the thaali felt like a heavy sin and a loss of her identity.
  

• But at night she still goes because:
  
• The money has already been taken and her family still needs it
  
• Ravi has psychologically trapped her with the sacred knot and the priest’s words
  
• Her resistance has slowly been worn down over many chapters
  
• A small, unwanted part of her body has started responding, even while her heart and mind are full of guilt and pain
  

So she is not choosing pleasure.  
She is choosing survival, duty, and the path she feels she can no longer escape ,  while still crying and calling Murugan her only husband ( may be for now ).

[vk64]

Plz next update

[Mahesh12345]

• Lakshmi is not going because of pure physical desire.
  
• She is torn.
  
• After Ravi tied the thaali, she broke down because that moment made the betrayal feel real, permanent, and sacred. In her mind, she is still Murugan’s wife, so the thaali felt like a heavy sin and a loss of her identity.
  

• But at night she still goes because:
  
• The money has already been taken and her family still needs it
  
• Ravi has psychologically trapped her with the sacred knot and the priest’s words
  
• Her resistance has slowly been worn down over many chapters
  
• A small, unwanted part of her body has started responding, even while her heart and mind are full of guilt and pain
  

So she is not choosing pleasure.  
She is choosing survival, duty, and the path she feels she can no longer escape ,  while still crying and calling Murugan her only husband ( may be for now ).

That means in future may be she will accept ravi also her husband and then after continuously fucking and pregnency she will think ravi is only husband for her and also she got jealous about meena for taking her husband ravi

Am I Right 

[vk64]

Wait for next update
What happen
See it

[saka1981]

• Lakshmi is not going because of pure physical desire.
  
• She is torn.
  
• After Ravi tied the thaali, she broke down because that moment made the betrayal feel real, permanent, and sacred. In her mind, she is still Murugan’s wife, so the thaali felt like a heavy sin and a loss of her identity.
  

• But at night she still goes because:
  
• The money has already been taken and her family still needs it
  
• Ravi has psychologically trapped her with the sacred knot and the priest’s words
  
• Her resistance has slowly been worn down over many chapters
  
• A small, unwanted part of her body has started responding, even while her heart and mind are full of guilt and pain
  

So she is not choosing pleasure.  
She is choosing survival, duty, and the path she feels she can no longer escape ,  while still crying and calling Murugan her only husband ( may be for now ).

Tnq  For ur explanation . real twist is  ur last word " may be for now " . so in future anything will happen ...we are waiting for b'ful mom turn to ravi's lustful wife . Thinking about Arjun makes me feel a little sad. He's caught between love and lust, helplessly struggling between them.