Adultery Radiance of Vanitha, Daughter-in-Law and Instagram Influencer

[adams_masala]

Somewhere i  remember reading Yazhini in night shift in hospital when rangam went to selvam house and now CEO of vanmmer production.

You are right.

[Gopal Ratnam]

You are right.

So she discontinued the studies and dance practices.

[Ajay Kailash]

19 year old college dropout controlling biggest production house is just a big joke.

[Vettaiyyan]

With one time fuck she made tara pregnant(???). After so many fuck he can't make anyone pregnant.

After miscarriage how Vanitha allow latha in house. Having known the affair.

Why latha not telling Ashok about Vanitha affair with selvam

[adams_masala]

So she discontinued the studies and dance practices.

Never

[adams_masala]

With one time fuck she made tara pregnant(???). After so many fuck he can't make anyone pregnant.

After miscarriage how Vanitha allow latha in house. Having known the affair.

Why latha not telling Ashok about Vanitha affair with selvam

It will be revealed

[Sankamithira]

Waiting for super star selvam
Sorry Global star selvam

[zulfique]

Is Ashok happy with selvam marry Yazhini younger than him.

How he will react when he knows the playboy adventures of selvam and his wife is one among the women opened their legs to him.
Can't wait to read

[adams_masala]

Is Ashok happy with selvam marry Yazhini younger than him.

How he will react when he knows the playboy adventures of selvam and his wife is one among the women opened their legs to him.
Can't wait to read

no, ashok was not happy. he was there at the wedding and he shared with selvam how he felt

[masti.bhai]

Is there going to be menage a trois with the daughter and mom?

[xbiilove]

no, ashok was not happy. he was there at the wedding and he shared with selvam how he felt

Like Vanitha he should hate selvam then. Why the hell de doesn't. May be once he knows selvam had fucked Vanitha multiple times and they had honeymoon trips etc

He should commit suicide unable to bear the betrayal of the trusted people around him.

[Sankamithira]

Waiting for Ashok death and Vanitha marriage with selvam

[Losliyafan]

Great going. No update today

[maitripatel]

Updates missing

150 & 151

[adams_masala]

So sorry 150 is numbering error. 151 is real miss, that’s the most important Flashback chapter i’ll post it here.

[adams_masala]

I missed the chapter number 150 not the chapter itself, just the numbering error. Also I missed the entire chapter 151. This worked in our favor :). Anyway this Flashback is kind of a chapter that makes sense, reading it now.

Chapter 151: Flashback

# Scene 1

As Selvam and Yazhini came back from the fitting room, they finished shopping and got ready to leave.

Ranganayaki’s mind travelled 25 years back in time.

Rangam was 19 years old.  Adyar. July.

Moorthy was 30, Selvam was 23. This is 3 years before Rangam got married to Moorthy.

4 years before Yazhini was born.

Selvam and Moorthy, both were hanging out in front of the corner shop when Rangam noticed they were ogling at her.

Krishnamoorthy says, “Look machan, she looks like Trisha.”

Selvam, “Too skinny for me.” they both laughed.

“I am going to tell her I love her.” Krishnamoorthy said.

“You love every girl, the second you see them.” Selvam said.

Selvam had a rented house at that time, he had converted the ground floor into a fitness center.”

Krishnamoorthy stopped by every evening for a week.

“‘Fitness Center.’ Very ambitious, Selvam. People will think you’re selling cement.”

Selvam smiled. Said nothing.

Ranganayaki from three doors down. Fair Tamil brahmn skin that caught the light. A body that hadn’t learned to curve yet. Straight-backed. Slender.

She signed up on a Tuesday.

“Seven days a week,” Selvam said. “Five-thirty. Before the sun.”

“Five-thirty.” She nodded. “I can do that.”

The real reason she signed up was the empty fitness center. Two weeks of watching Selvam sweep the floor at dawn, arrange the weights, check the doorframe for the hundredth time. No one came. The hand-painted sign gathered dust. She could not stand it. Someone who built things properly deserved someone who came.

She told herself this. Believed it for two weeks.

She came in a cotton saree. Pale yellow. No exercise clothes existed in her wardrobe. The idea of wearing anything else to a neighbor’s house would require an explanation she did not have.

Selvam never commented on the saree.

“Feet shoulder-width. Brace through the core.”

His hand touched her shoulder blade. Once. Impersonal. Left.

“Breathing.” His palm pressed flat against her lower ribs. “In through here. Not the chest.”

She breathed. His hand stayed.

Six-thirty. The room filled with first light. She moved through the movements he showed her. Squats. Presses. The pull-up bar was too high. He brought a stool.

“Grip like this.” His fingers arranged hers on the bar. Warm. Dry. Gone.

Week two. Her cotton saree settled lower on her hips. The morning dbang. She retied it once. Twice. The third time she left it.

His eyes found her midriff for half a second during a plank.

“Sorry, your saree… its showing…”

She looked down. Her rare navel was visible, the pale hollow sat above the waistband. Two inches of skin she had never meant to expose.

“I’ll fix it, if it’s affecting the movement.”

“It’s not.” he confessed.

She didn’t fix it.

Week three. Krishnamoorthy stopped by the fitness room at six-fifteen. Caught them mid-session. Selvam was crouched behind her, hands on her hips, correcting the squat depth.

“Early risers,” Krishnamoorthy said. His eyes moved from the pull-up bar to the weights to Ranganayaki’s saree, which had slipped another inch overnight.

“Fitness,” Selvam said. “Good for everyone.”

“For some more than others.” Krishnamoorthy winked at her. Left.

She did not look at Selvam. He did not look at her. The session continued. His hand returned to her hip. Lower this time. Thumb pressed into the soft place above the iliac crest.

“Breathe.”

She breathed. His thumb stayed.

Week four. The saree dbanging low enough that the waist chain settled across bare skin. The navel hollow deepened with each breath. Round. Dark in the center. She had never stood this way in front of anyone. Not her mother. Not herself in a mirror.

Selvam said nothing.

His hands found new places. The small of her back during a bridge. The inside of her elbow during a tricep extension. Always brief. Always necessary. Always two degrees warmer than the air.

She stopped retying the saree altogether. Let it fall where it wanted. The morning light found the hollow of her navel hole. Selvam’s eyes found it and did not look away.

Week five. She wore the thinnest cotton she owned. Almost translucent in the right light. The waist chain sat loose. The navel showed completely now, the deep round hole that had never been exposed to anyone, and Selvam saw it and did not say a word and his next correction took three seconds longer than the one before.

“Like this,” he said. His hand spanned her lower back. His fingers pressed into the muscle on either side of her spine.

“Yes.”

His breath touched her shoulder. Warm. Close. Gone.

Six weeks. Thursday morning. The other two regulars canceled. Festival preparation. Krishnamoorthy watched her walk across the street from his home, not having the courage to tell her he is into her. But he had spoken to her parents about arranged marriage.

The fitness room was empty except for Selvam and Ranganayaki. The mats. The weights. The hand-painted sign watching from the window.

Selvam ran the session as he always did.

“Two more.”

She did two more. Her saree pooled at her hips. The waist chain caught light. The navel hollow opened and closed with each breath.

At the end, she stretched on the mat. He crouched beside her. His hand rested at the small of her back to correct the angle of her spine.

Neither of them moved.

She looked at him over her shoulder. He looked back. The beat extended. The room held its breath.

The saree lay between them. Yellow cotton. Gold chain. Twenty-three years ago and not a single day since.

# Scene 2

“The saree is getting in the way,” Selvam said.

Her mouth curved. Left corner higher than the right. She knew exactly what he meant.

“My saree has been in the way for six weeks.”

He didn’t smile. His eyes stayed on hers.

“It has.”

She shifted on the mat. His hand moved with her.

“Your friend Krishnamoorthy is in love with me.”

Selvam’s thumb pressed once against her spine.

“Krishnamoorthy is in love with everyone he sees. The bank teller. The vegetable seller. The woman who walks her dog past his window at seven-fifteen.”

“He times her?”

“He times everyone.”

She laughed. The sound filled the empty room. His hand tightened.

“I’m not serious about him either.” She looked at the ceiling. The pull-up bar. The hand-painted sign. “But his parents are interested. In an arrangement.”

Selvam was quiet. His hand stayed put.

“His father spoke to mine last week. About horoscope charts. The usual.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I’m 19. I have time.”

The light shifted. A bird landed on the windowsill. Flew off. The room held its breath.

She looked at him. His face was still. Composed. The particular stillness of a man who had decided something and was waiting for permission to say it.

“Is this saree coming in our way?” she asked.

The question hung. Simple. Direct. No metaphor in it.

Selvam’s breathing changed. She felt it in the hand on her back. A deeper draw. A longer hold.

She looked down.

His loose cotton shorts hung low on his hips, the fabric stretched taut over the unmistakable ridge of his erection. The seam strained against the thick, heavy length of him... veined, flushed dark at the tip, the head already damp where it pressed insistently against the thin cotton. Morning light spilled across the curve of it, tracing the swollen outline with cruel precision.

Her throat closed. She looked away. Then back. Couldn’t help it.

“That’s new,” she said.

“It’s not new.” His voice came low. Rough at the edges. “It’s been there since week two.”

“Week two.”

“The day you stopped retying the saree.”

She swallowed. The waist chain sat warm against her skin. The navel hollow felt exposed in a way it never had before.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I was being professional.”

“You’re not being professional now.”

“No.” His hand left her back. Moved to her hip. The bare skin above the waistband. His thumb found the edge of the navel. Circled once. Light. “I’m not.”

She shivered. The chain links shifted against her stomach.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

Selvam looked at her. Really looked. The dark eyes. The full mouth. The saree pooled at her hips and the gold chain and the hollow he had been watching for six weeks.

“That depends,” he said, “on whether you want the saree to come off.”

The bird returned. Landed. Watched. Flew away.

# Scene 3

He reached for the pallu first. Both hands. The cotton was warm from her skin. He lifted it from her shoulder with the care of a man handling something fragile.

Dbangd it over the weight bench. Neat. Flat.

“Stand,” he said.

She stood. The saree hung loose without the pallu. He took the free end and began to unwind it. Slow. One full turn. Another. The cotton whispered against her skin. Each layer came away. The fabric pooled on the mat in a soft yellow circle.

He knelt. His fingers found the petticoat drawstring. The knot came loose under his touch. The cotton waistband loosened. Fell. Pooled around her ankles. She stepped out. Barefoot on the mat.

The blouse hooks started at the bottom. His knuckles grazed the underside of her breasts with each one. The first hook. The second. Her breath caught. The third hook. His thumb brushed her nipple through the thin cotton. She gasped.

“Sorry,” he said, thumb still brushing her nipple.

She arched into the touch. “You’re apologizing for making me feel good?” Her voice was low, teasing. “Or for finally doing what we’ve both wanted since week two?”

The fourth hook. The fifth. The blouse came open. He peeled it from her shoulders. Set it with the pallu on the bench. His hands were steady. His breathing was not.

The bra strap unclasped at the back. One motion. The cotton fell away. Her breasts were small. High. Pale gold in the morning light. Her nipples had gone tight the moment his thumb brushed them.

She stood in his fitness room. Bare. The waist chain sat across her hips. Gold links against skin. The navel hollow looked deeper naked. Round. Dark at the center.

Selvam traced the chain with his thumb. Followed the gold links across her stomach. Across the navel. His thumb dipped into the hollow. Once. Light.

She understood then. He found it beautiful. Not incidental. Not something to work around. The waist chain belonged. The navel belonged. She belonged.

He laid her on the mat. The only soft surface in the room. The morning light came through the high window and found her body.

His mouth found her throat first. Open. Warm. He sucked once below her ear. She arched. His hand came up and cupped her breast. His thumb circled her nipple. Then his mouth replaced his hand. He took her nipple between his lips. Sucked. His tongue flicked the tip. She made a sound. Low. Unpracticed.

He moved to her other breast. Same attention. His mouth was wet. Warm. Her hands found his hair. Gripped.

He took her wrist. Turned it. Kissed the inside. His tongue traced the blue vein. She shivered. He did the same to the other wrist. His mouth was gentle there. Almost reverent.

Then he moved down. His mouth found her navel. The hollow he had watched for six weeks. His tongue circled the rim. Slow. Deliberate. Then he kissed the center. Open-mouthed. Warm. His tongue pressed into the deepest part.

She cried out. The sound bounced off the empty walls.

His hands spread her thighs. His mouth moved lower. Found her pussy. Wet. Already. His tongue traced her slit. Once. Twice. Then settled on her clit. He sucked. Light. Then firmer. His tongue worked the hood. Back and forth. Around.

She came hard. Her hips lifted off the mat. Her hand clamped over her mouth. The sound came through her fingers anyway. Unfamiliar.

He kissed his way back up her body. Her stomach. Her breasts. Her throat. His mouth found hers. She tasted herself on his tongue. Salt. Warm.

He was hard against her thigh. Thick. She could feel the shape of him through his shorts.

“I need to... ” he started.

“Yes.”

He stood. Pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was lean. Defined. Twenty-five and already carrying the muscle he would keep for life. His shorts came down. His cock sprang free. Heavy. Dark. The head was wet.

He came back to the mat. Between her thighs. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance. Wet. Hot.

He pushed. Slowly. The stretch burned. She gasped. Hid her face against his shoulder. The sound went into his skin. Low. Involuntary. Her body took him inch by inch. Tight. Reluctant. Then yielding.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

She breathed. His cock slid deeper. To the root. She felt him there. Full. Complete.

He started slow. Each thrust measured. Careful. His hips met hers with a gentle press. Then again. Deeper. Her pussy gripped him. Wet. Warm. The waist chain moved with each stroke. Gold links shifting across her stomach.

His pace built. Not rushed. Gradual. Each thrust came harder than the last. Her hips rose to meet him. Her hands gripped his back. Her nails dug into his shoulders. She was making sounds she didn’t recognize. Low. Open-mouthed. His name in fragments.

He fucked her with the building force of a man who had been holding something back for six weeks. Deep. Hard. The mat slid beneath them. Her back pressed into the rubber. His hands gripped her hips. His cock drove into her. Wet. Relentless.

The waist chain caught light with each thrust. Gold against gold skin. Her navel hollow opened and closed with each breath. His thumb found it. Pressed. Circled. She came again. Harder. Her pussy clamped around his cock. Pulsed. He kept going. Didn’t stop.

She felt him swell inside her. Thicker. Harder. His rhythm faltered. His breath broke against her neck.

“Ranga... ” He didn’t finish. His cock pulsed. Deep. Hot. He came inside her. Pulse after pulse. His hips pressed her into the mat. His mouth found her shoulder. Bit. Not hard. Enough.

They lay there. Breathing. The morning light moved across the ceiling. Sweat cooled on their skin. His cock was still inside her. Softening. Warm.

Her fingers found the waist chain. Traced the links. Gold against gold. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The chain had survived everything. Would survive this.

Selvam kissed her forehead. Once. Light. His hand stayed on her hip. His thumb rested in the hollow of her navel.

The bird returned. Landed. Watched. Flew away.

They never spoke of it.

# Scene 4

The saree shop came back. Crimson silk. Gold zari. The fluorescent light hummed overhead.

The attendant stood beside Yazhini. “Turn, ma. Let the pleats fall.”

Yazhini turned. Slow. The crimson silk whispered. The pleats settled. The waist chain caught light. Gold against gold.

Ranganayaki watched. Her hands were folded in her lap. Steady. The recognition moved through her chest. Warm. Not jealousy. Not grief. Something cleaner.

The man who had first taught her the difference between being looked at and being seen and being fucked was about to do the same for her daughter.

She had spent three weeks fighting this. Arguing with Krishnamoorthy. Crying in the kitchen. The sleeping pills on the nightstand. The hospital. All of it led here. To a T. Nagar silk shop on a Tuesday afternoon. To a man holding a blouse through a curtain. To a waist chain that would survive this too.

She looked at Yazhini’s face in the mirror. The careful composure. The lifted chin. A young woman trying not to show how much she wanted to be chosen. Ranganayaki knew that face. Had worn it herself. Twenty-three years and not a day different.

She looked at Selvam’s face. The sealed room opened. Just long enough. His eyes were on her daughter’s waist. On the chain. On the hollow beneath it. The same look.

[mulaikallan]

Selvam took the virginity of mother and daughter. Kris married a girl fucked by his childhood friend. Now given his daughter married to same man. What a shameless bastard he is.

[Gilmalover]

Waiting for Ashok death and Vanitha marriage with selvam

Yes I will also be happy only if moorthi and Ashok die. Two useless male characters

[Thangaraasu]

After fucking with selvam why did she marry that wimp krishna moorthi

[adams_masala]

After fucking with selvam why did she marry that wimp krishna moorthi

At that time Selvan was not rich and he was a single dad. But Murthy had a stable job. And this was 3 years before they got married, Moorthy and Rangam.