Traditional Wife Broken by Gangster's Obsession

[RedDranzar]

After a few months Muthu will convert Chithra to even worse than Nirmala
.She should greet guests wearing just jwellery over naked body and offer herself as a welcome gift.

[Sankamithira]

Awesome

[kkkhot86]

Superb...

[Uvaaaa]

Amazing update and waiting for your next update

[Vijay kinh]

Next update whenn

[RedDranzar]

Waiting for next updates

[Umavictor32]

Chapter 9: Chithra- Real Parasite

The door clicked shut behind her.

Chithra stood in the living room of her Porur flat, the morning light slanting through the windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air. The silence pressed against her ears—no Aaryan's chatter, no Vijay's keyboard clatter, no TV murmur. Just the ceiling fan's creak, krr, krr, counting out the seconds of her aloneness.

Her right palm still stung. Phantom heat from Vijay's cheek, four times over.

She stared at her hand. The lines of her palm. The faint red imprint of impact.

What have I done?

The thought arrived without weight. Hollow. She'd slapped her husband senseless. Spat on his face like he was garbage on the street. And somewhere beneath the horror of it, beneath the shame that should have flooded her—nothing.

">

Just quiet.

"Chithra."

The voice came from the kitchen doorway.

Saroja stood there, arms crossed, whistle resting against her faded green saree. Her leathery face held no judgment. No surprise. Just the flat assessment of a woman who'd seen everything and expected less.

"You saw," Chithra said. Not a question.

"I saw." Saroja pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. "The whole street saw. Half of Porur will know by evening."

Chithra's throat tightened. "Vijay—"

"Gone. The cab left five minutes ago. Aaryan was waving out the back window." Saroja stopped a foot away. Her sharp eyes traveled Chithra's face—the tear tracks she hadn't bothered to wipe, the hollow look, the trembling hands. "You want to sit?"

"No."

"Then stand." Saroja shrugged. "Today's the day."

The words landed like stones in still water.

Friday.

Chithra's stomach lurched. She'd known—of course she'd known; she'd counted every hour since the deal—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real. Tangible. Inescapable.

"I know," she whispered.

"Do you?" Saroja tilted her head. "Because you've got that look. The one women get when they think they might still escape. There's no escape, Chithra. The husband's gone. The boy's gone. The debts are real, the house is mortgaged, and Muthu Pandi is waiting."

"I said I know."

"Good." Saroja turned. Walked to the sofa. Sat. "Come here."

Chithra didn't move.

"Chithra."

"I heard you."

"Then come." Saroja's voice was patient. Almost kind. "I need to ask you something."

The woman's tone—friendly, not commanding—pulled at something in Chithra. She walked forward on wooden legs and stood before the sofa like a collegegirl called to the headmistress.

"Sit."

"I'll stand."

"Fine." Saroja leaned back. Studied her. "Tell me something. Down there." She gestured vaguely toward Chithra's lap. "You have hair?"

The question hit like a slap.

"What?"

"Hair. On your pussy. Do you have it?"

Chithra's face burned. "Chi! How can you ask such nasty questions?"

The Tamil exclamation—that sharp, visceral sound of disgust—shot from her mouth before she could stop it. Her hands flew to her hips, a defensive gesture she hadn't used since childhood.

Saroja didn't flinch. "I'm asking because I need to know. Do you have hair on your pussy?"

"Why do you need to—" Chithra's voice cracked. "That's private. That's—you can't just—"

"I can ask whatever I want." Saroja's tone remained conversational. "You're going to Muthu Pandi tonight. There are things he likes. Things he doesn't. My job is to make sure you're ready. So—" She waited. "Hair. Yes or no?"

Chithra's chest heaved. The intimacy of the question—the sheer vulgarity of it—made her want to run. But where would she run? The door led to the stairs, the stairs to the street, the street to—

She had nowhere.

"Yes," she said finally. "I have hair."

"Good. That's all I needed to know." Saroja reached into the bag at her feet. A black case, zippered, unremarkable. She unzipped it—zzzzip—and pulled out a trimmer. Pink plastic body, silver blade, small enough to fit in a palm.

Chithra stared at it. "What is that?"

"Trimmer." Saroja held it up. "Muthu Pandi doesn't like hairy pussy. Says it smells bad, holds sweat, looks unkempt. He wants his women smooth. Bare. No hiding anything."

"No."

"Chithra—"

"No." Chithra stepped back. Her hands rose, palms out, as if fending off a blow. "I'm not—you're not—no."

Saroja set the trimmer on the sofa cushion. Her voice stayed level. "You think I'm going to force you? Hold you down? I'm sixty-three years old, girl. I don't have the strength, and even if I did, that's not how this works."

"Then why—"

"Because tonight, when Muthu Pandi sees you, he'll check. He always checks. And if he finds hair—" She let the sentence hang. "He'll remove it himself. With his hands. Or his knife. Or whatever he decides. You want that?"

Chithra's blood went cold.

"I'll do it myself," she whispered.

"You know how to use a trimmer?"

"No."

"Then let me—"

"I said I'll do it myself." Chithra's voice shook but held. "I'll figure it out."

Saroja picked up the trimmer. Turned it over in her gnarled hands. Then she laughed—a short, humorless sound.

"You can't even hold it right. Your hands shake. You'll nick yourself, bleed all over, show up tonight looking like you fought a cat." She set the trimmer down again. "Let me help you. There's nothing to be shy about. I've seen everything. I've done everything. You think your pussy is special?"

"It's not—I'm not—" Chithra's tears came then. Not sobs. Just a slow leak down cheeks already raw from crying. "I've never—no one's ever—Vijay's never even—"

Saroja's eyes narrowed. "Your husband's never seen you? Never touched your pussy with the lights on? Never—"

"Twice," Chithra choked. "Maybe twice. In five years. And always in the dark. Always under the sheet. He never—I never let him—"

"Ah." Saroja's expression shifted. Something like understanding. Something like pity. "So it's true."

"What?"

"Your husband. He told Saroja—no, he told Muthu—that you're cold. Bent. That you don't like men, don't like touch, don't like anything. They thought it was the rumors. They thought he was making excuses." She paused. "It's not excuses."

Chithra's face crumpled. "I'm not broken."

"I didn't say you were."

"I had reasons. I had—my mother—and Vijay, he was—we never had time, we never had—"

"Shh." Saroja rose. Stepped close. Her hand came up and—gently, unexpectedly—cupped Chithra's cheek. "I'm not judging. I'm preparing. And preparation means knowing what we're working with. So." She pulled back. "Strip."

"What?"

"Your bottom. The salwar. Pull it down."

Chithra's hands clutched the waistband of her salwar. "No."

"Chithra—"

"I said no." Her voice broke into a shout. "You can't just—this is my body—you have no right—"

"I have every right." Saroja's tone didn't change. "Muthu Pandi owns you now. And by extension, I work for him. That means your body, your pussy, your virtue—all of it belongs to him. So when I tell you to strip, you strip. Or I'll call him. Right now. And he'll come here himself."

Chithra froze.

Saroja pulled out her phone. Held it up. "One call. He'll be here in twenty minutes. You want that? You want him to see you fighting? To see you crying? To do this himself?"

The phone screen glowed. The contact name—Muthu—was just a word.

"No," Chithra breathed. "Please."

"Then strip."

The fan creaked. Krr, krr.

Chithra's fingers moved to the drawstring of her salwar. Slow. Trembling. The knot loosened—fft—and the fabric sagged.

She looked at Saroja. The woman watched without blinking.

"Go on."

Chithra pushed the salwar down. It pooled around her ankles, a puddle of cheap cotton. Her kameez still hung to her thighs, covering everything.

"Kameez too."

"No." Chithra's voice was small. "Please. Just—the panty. I'll keep the kameez."

Saroja considered. Then shrugged. "Fine. But when we get to the panty, I'm taking it off. No negotiation."

Chithra nodded. Her throat worked.

Saroja knelt. It took effort—her knees popped, tk, tk—but she managed, settling onto the floor with a grunt. From this angle, Chithra's body was close, her thighs bare, her skin golden in the morning light.

"Panty," Saroja said.

Chithra closed her eyes. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. They were plain. White cotton. Faded. She pulled them down—one inch, two—and the fabric slid past her hips, past her thighs, past her knees.

Ffwp. The panty fell to join the salwar.

She stood in just her kameez now, her lower half bare, the hem brushing her upper thighs.

And then—

Sniff.

Saroja's nostrils flared. Her head tilted. She inhaled again, deliberate, audibly.

Sniff. Snnnif.

The smell hit her—sharp, organic, the unmistakable pungency of stale urine. It rose from the space between Chithra's thighs, where the hair was coarse and tangled and matted with something that had dried hours ago.

"Mmh." Saroja made a low sound. Not disgust. Something else. "There it is."

Chithra's eyes flew open. "What?"

"Your smell." Saroja didn't look up. Her eyes were fixed on the triangle of dark hair. "You don't wash down there, do you?"

"I—"

"Don't lie." Saroja's voice was almost thoughtful. "I've smelled this before. This is the smell of a woman who pees and doesn't wipe. Who lets it sit. Who wants the stink to keep people away."

Chithra's face went crimson. "That's—I don't—"

"It's smart." Saroja reached into her bag again. Pulled out a small bottle of water, a cloth, shaving cream, a fresh razor. "Stupid, but smart. Keep the husband away. Keep the sex away. Keep everything away." She uncapped the water bottle. "But here's the problem, Chithra."

"What?"

"I like it."

The words hung in the air.

Chithra's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "What?"

"Your urine smell." Saroja poured water onto the cloth. "It's nasty. It's disgusting. It's the smell of a woman who's given up." She wrung the cloth—splsh—and the droplets scattered. "But it's also honest. Real. Not perfumed. Not fake. Just a woman who's stopped pretending."

She reached up. The wet cloth pressed against Chithra's mound, and Chithra jerked back—gasp—but Saroja's other hand caught her hip.

"Hold still."

The cloth was cold. The friction of it against her skin was alien—no one had touched her down there in years. Chithra's legs trembled.

"Please—"

"Sit."

Chithra sank onto the sofa. Saroja settled between her knees, the trimmer now in her right hand.

"I know why you did it," Saroja said. The trimmer clicked on—shrrrrr—and the blade buzzed against Chithra's thigh. "You didn't want Vijay to touch you. So you made yourself disgusting. Made yourself smell. Made it so that every time he came close, he'd flinch and turn away."

The trimmer moved. Hair fell—tk, tk, tk—little dark curls landing on the floor.

"That's why you never loved him," Saroja continued. "Not because you're cold. Not because you're broken. Because you're a parasite."

Chithra's head snapped up. "What did you call me?"

"Parasite." Saroja didn't pause. The trimmer hummed, carving neat paths across Chithra's mount. "You took everything from that man. His money. His house. His son. His life. But you never gave anything back."

Chithra's eyes flashed. "How dare you?"

The words came out sharp, hot—a sudden fire in her chest.

"How dare you call me a parasite?" Her voice rose, cracking at the edges. "I cooked for him. I cleaned for him. I raised his son. I did everything a wife is supposed to do. Every single duty. Every single day. Alone. While he was in Delhi. While he was at office. While he was—"

She stopped. Her chest heaved.

Saroja's hands never paused. The trimmer buzzed, relentless, stripping away hair in neat strips.

"A servant can cook," she said quietly.

Chithra's mouth opened.

"A maid can clean," Saroja continued. The razor replaced the trimmer now. Shhhk. Shhhk. Slow, deliberate strokes. "And Aaryan?" She tilted her head. "You raised him alone because you wanted it that way. You didn't want Vijay involved. You wanted the boy to yourself. Something that was yours. Something the husband couldn't touch."

"That's not—"

"Then what did you give him?" Saroja's voice was calm. Patient. "What did you give Vijay that a servant couldn't? A warm bed? You wouldn't share it. A touch? You flinched away. Sex?" She laughed—that short, humorless sound. "Four times in five years. Four. And each one in the dark. Under a sheet. Like it was a punishment."

Chithra's tears came faster now. Hot. Silent.

"So what Vijay did," Saroja said, "was justified."

The words hit like a physical blow.

"What?"

"Parasite," Saroja repeated. "You took his money. His house. His life. And you gave him nothing back. Not love. Not pleasure. Not even a clean pussy to come home to." The razor moved. Shhhk. "So when Muthu Pandi offered him a way out—when he offered to clear the debts, pay the house, in exchange for one weekend—Vijay did what any man would do. He traded a parasite for his freedom."

Chithra's hand shot out. She grabbed Saroja's wrist—hard—and the razor clattered to the floor.

"Stop," she hissed. "Stop saying that."

Saroja looked at the hand on her wrist. Then at Chithra's face—the tears, the fury, the cracks in her composure.

"I'm not saying it to hurt you," she said. "I'm saying it because it's true. And because tonight, Muthu Pandi will prove it."

"Prove what?"

"That you're not cold." Saroja pried Chithra's fingers off her wrist, one by one. "That you're not broken. That you're just a woman who's been hiding. Hiding behind your virtue. Hiding behind your mother's divorce. Hiding behind your son. But tonight—" She picked up the razor. "Tonight, you'll stop hiding."

The razor resumed its work. Shhhk. Shhhk.


"After Muthu Pandi fucks you," Saroja said, "you won't keep your pussy smelly anymore. You won't not-wash. Because for the first time in your life, you'll want someone to touch it. You'll want him inside you. You'll crave it. The smell that kept Vijay away? It'll become the smell that drives you crazy. The smell of your own need."

">




Chithra's thighs trembled. The razor moved lower, along her labia.

"Ahhhh—" The sound escaped before she could stop it. A gasp. A whimper.

"Ufffff," Saroja echoed, mocking, gentle. "You feel that? That's your body waking up. That's your pussy remembering what it's for."

"Stop—"

">



"And after Monday—" Saroja's voice dropped. "After Monday, everyone will know. The neighbors. The shopkeepers. The women at the temple. They'll look at you and they'll know. Not because you're dirty—because you're hungry. Because you're a woman who finally learned what her body is for."

She set the razor down. Wiped her hands on the cloth.

"Done."




Chithra didn't move. Her legs were shaking. Her pussy was bare—smooth, exposed, the soft brown lips visible for the first time in years.

And then Saroja leaned forward.

Her lips pressed against Chithra's pussy.

MMMH.

The kiss was deliberate. Wet. Her tongue extended, tracing the slit—




"CHIII!" Chithra screamed.

Her hand shot down. Fingers tangled in Saroja's hair. Yanked—hard—and Saroja's face was wrenched away.

"What are you doing?"

Chithra scrambled backward on the sofa. Her legs clamped together. Her eyes were wild.

Saroja wiped her mouth. Her expression was calm.

"It happens," she said.

"It does not happen!"

"You think you're the first?" Saroja rose. "I've done this fifty times. Women like you—soft, sweet, desperate—they get to me. I can't help it."

"Then stop."

"I will." Saroja picked up her bag. Zipped it—zzzzip. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

She turned. Walked toward the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Chithra's voice cracked.

"To make a call. You take your bath. You'll want to be clean for tonight."

The bedroom door clicked shut.

---

Chithra sat on the sofa for a long time.

Her hand was pressed over her pussy—as if covering it could undo what had happened. The skin was smooth. Bare. The air touched parts of her that had never felt air, and the sensation was strange.

And beneath the shock—beneath the horror—something else stirred.

The kiss.

She could still feel the wet pressure of Saroja's mouth. The tickle of her tongue.

No.

She stood. Grabbed her clothes. Walked to the bathroom.

The water was cold when she turned it on. She stepped under the spray—shhhh—and let it run over her body.

Parasite, the water seemed to whisper.

Parasite. Parasite. Parasite.

---

In the kitchen, Saroja held her phone to her ear.

"He's in Ooty," she said. "Nirmala took him. The boy was asleep."

Muthu's voice crackled through. "Good."

"Chithra's preparing. I shaved her. She fought at first, but she came around."

"She'll do more than come around." A pause. "Anything else?"

Saroja hesitated. Then: "I kissed her."

Silence.

"I know you said not to touch," Saroja continued. "But she was—the way she looked. The shaved pussy. The smell. I couldn't stop myself."

Still silence.

"Someday," Saroja said quietly, "I want that slut on my bed. I want to eat her out for hours. Make her come on my face."

She waited.

Instead—

"PARASITE."

The word cut through the line.

"Sir?"

"That's a nice word to trigger Chithu." Muthu's voice was soft. Almost amused. "Keep using it. Remind her what she is. A parasite. A woman who takes and never gives. By the time I'm done with her, she'll beg to give. She'll crawl to give. And when she does—" A pause. "Then we'll talk about your bed."

The line went dead.

Saroja lowered the phone. Stared at the screen.

Then she smiled.

---

In the bathroom, Chithra stood under the water, her hand pressed against the wall.

Parasite.

The word echoed in her skull.

She closed her eyes.

And somewhere deep inside her—somewhere she'd never looked—something cracked open

[Sk rehan]

Fabulous

[Umavictor32]

Chapter 10: Guilt And Anger Destroyed Everything

Time: 11am chengalpattu

The Innova hummed along the highway, its tires singing against the asphalt—vrrmmmm—a steady, hypnotic drone that had been lulling Aaryan toward sleep for the past twenty minutes.

Vijay sat in the back seat, his son's head heavy against his thigh. Aaryan's eyelids drooped, fluttered, drooped again. His small fingers clutched the toy elephant, its trunk worn smooth from months of chewing.

"Close your eyes, kanna," Vijay murmured. He stroked the boy's hair—soft, damp with sweat. The air conditioning wheezed, struggling against the Chennai heat that seeped through the windows. "Appa's here. Sleep."

Aaryan mumbled something—mmmnn—and shifted, his cheek pressing into Vijay's lap.

Nirmala turned from the front passenger seat. Her purple silk saree rustled—shshk—as she twisted her torso to look back. Lipstick the color of dried blood. Bangles stacked to her elbows. Gold nose stud glinting in the afternoon light.

"Don't force him," she said. Her voice was low, honeyed, with an edge beneath it. "He'll sleep when he's ready."

Vijay's jaw tightened. "He needs rest. It's a long drive."

"Then let him rest properly." Nirmala tapped the driver's shoulder—a lean man with sun-darkened skin and a terse expression. "Stop at the next tea stall. There's one coming up. I know the owner."

The driver grunted. The Innova slowed, tires crunching over gravel—krrrk—as they pulled into a roadside stall.

---

The tea stall was a ramshackle affair—corrugated tin roof, wooden benches stained with years of spills, a blackened kettle steaming over a kerosene flame. The owner, a plump woman with kind eyes and a jasmine-scented saree, rushed forward when she saw Nirmala.

"Nirmala! After so long!"

"Kamala." Nirmala embraced her—thmp—then pulled back. "I need boiled milk. Fresh. For the child."

Kamala's eyes flicked to the Innova, to the small figure slumped against Vijay. "Of course. Give me five minutes."

Nirmala didn't wait. She walked past the stall, past the row of wilting banana trees, toward a small market tucked behind the highway. Vijay watched her go—the sway of her hips, the confident stride—and felt something twist in his gut.

She's one of his.

The thought arrived without warning. He pushed it away.

---

Nirmala returned ten minutes later with a green tin of Cerelac and a bottle of boiled milk, still warm. She climbed into the back seat beside Vijay and reached for Aaryan.

"Give him to me."

Vijay hesitated.

"Give him," she repeated. Not unkind. Not kind either. Just—firm.

Vijay passed the boy over. Aaryan stirred, whimpered—nnngh—then settled into Nirmala's arms.

She poured the milk into a steel tumbler, added two scoops of Cerelac, and stirred with a small spoon—tink, tink, tink. The smell rose—sweet, milky, faintly vanilla—and Aaryan's nose twitched.

"Open, kanna." Nirmala pressed the tumbler to his lips. "Just a little."

Aaryan drank. His eyes stayed closed.

"Good boy." Nirmala dabbed his chin with her pallu. "Now—story time."

She began to speak. Soft. Rhythmic. A tale about a movie she'd seen last week—Baththa, starring Vijay Sethupathi. 

">

A story of a small boy, a corrupt politician, a mystery that unfolded slowly.

"—and the boy knew the secret," Nirmala murmured. "He knew who had killed the man. But he was scared. So scared. Because the politician was powerful. And the boy was just—"

Aaryan's breathing deepened. His fingers loosened around the elephant. His mouth fell open.

"—just a child." Nirmala's voice dropped to a whisper. "And the politician—Vijay Sethupathi—he looked at the boy and said—"

Aaryan was asleep.

Nirmala smiled. She wiped his face with a wet cloth—swp, swp—then eased him into the baby seat. His head lolled. His chest rose and fell.

"There," she said. "Done."

---

The Innova pulled back onto the highway.

Vijay stared out the window. The fields blurred past—green, brown, green—and the sun hung low, bleeding orange into the horizon.

Chithra.

Her name rose unbidden. Her face. Her voice. The way she'd looked at him that morning—broken, hollow, done.

I sold her.

The thought hit like a fist. He pressed his palm against the window, felt the glass vibrate—brrrrr—and something inside him cracked.

"Stop." His voice came out hoarse.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Sir?"

"Stop the car." Vijay's throat worked. "I need—I need to go back."

Nirmala turned. "What?"

"I can't do this." He was shaking now. Full-body tremors. "I can't—she's my wife. My wife. I can't sell her. I'll work overtime. I'll sell the flat. I'll—I'll do anything. Just take me back."

The driver reached for his phone. "I need to inform—"

Nirmala's hand shot out. She snatched the phone from his grip—tk—and held it to her chest.

"Drive," she said.

The driver blinked. "But Muthu sir—"

"Drive," she repeated. Her voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Take us back to Chennai. As he says."

The driver hesitated. Then nodded. The Innova made a U-turn—screeeech—and the tires bit into the road.

---

Vijay's hands were shaking. He pulled out his phone. Speed-dialed Chithra.

Rrrring. Rrrring.

Saroja answered.

"Vijay." Her voice was flat. Unsurprised.

"I need to talk to Chithra." His words tumbled out. "Please. Just—put her on. I'm coming back. I'm coming home. I'm not—I'm not doing this. Tell her. Tell her I—"

"Hold on." A rustle—shff—the phone moving.

Vijay waited. His heart hammered. The Innova's engine growled—grrrrr—and the road rushed beneath them.

---

In Porur, Saroja stood in the kitchen doorway, the phone pressed to her ear. Chithra sat on the sofa, her knees drawn up, her body wrapped in a faded nightie. Her face was pale—drawn—and her hands kept drifting to her lap, pressing against the fabric of her nightie.

The shaving had left her raw. Not bleeding, not wounded—just exposed. Every brush of cotton against her bare skin sent a spark of sensation through her. Itch. Heat. A strange, alien awareness.

She couldn't sit still.

"Chithra." Saroja extended the phone. "Vijay wants to talk to you."

Chithra's stomach lurched. "No."

"Chithra—"

"I said no." Her voice cracked. "I don't want to—I can't—"

"Tell him I'm busy."

">

Saroja's eyes narrowed. She put the phone back to her ear. "She doesn't want to talk."

"I need to—" Vijay's voice broke. "Please. Just five minutes. I need to explain—"

"She said no."

"Then make her!" His voice rose. "She's my wife! I have a right—"

Saroja's tone change. What the hell you think you are chithra ?"

Silence.

"And you know—" Saroja glanced at Chithra, who was staring at the floor, her hands clenched in her lap. "—she's also used you as a parasite."

Chithra's head snapped up...

Saroja ignored her. She kept speaking into the phone. "Vijay understood his mistake.... He is asking sorry... He is rectifyinh his mistake by deciding to come back to chennai... But you are soo adamant... If he is wrong, then you used him for your survival... You didnt give him proper sexual pleasure which every husband gets from his wife.... If he is wrong then what are you... Aren't you a parasite? Saroja roared...

The word hit Chithra like a physical blow.

Parasite.

The morning flooded back. Saroja's hands. The razor. The kiss. The word repeated—again and again—parasite, parasite, parasite—until it felt carved into her bones.

And now—now Vijay was hearing it too.

She stood. Her legs shook. The nightie brushed against her bare pussy—fft—and she flinched, but she didn't stop.

"Saroja." Her voice was ice. "Give me the phone."

Saroja turned. Surprised.... Still gave phone to her.



Silence.

"Maybe Saroja's right," Chithra said. "Maybe I am a parasite. Maybe I used you too. For money. For security. For a house." She laughed—broken, hollow. "Maybe we're both parasites. Two insects, feeding off each other."

"Chithra, please—"

"But you know what?" Her voice dropped. "I'd rather get fucked by Muthu Pandi than spend another day as your wife."

The words hung in the air.

Chithra's heart stopped. She hadn't meant it. She hadn't—she swore she hadn't. But the word parasite had triggered something. A defense. A shield. If she was going to be called a parasite, then by God, she'd be one.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say. I didn't mean it. Please. Please come home.


">

But the words wouldn't come.

"There was dead silence from vijay's end and call got disconnected."

Click.

The line went dead.

---

Vijay lowered the phone. His hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

The Innova hummed. The fields blurred. Aaryan slept in his seat, his face peaceful, his elephant clutched tight.

And then—

Ting.

A WhatsApp notification. A voice message from an unknown number.

Vijay's thumb hovered. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But something—curiosity? dread? self-destruction?—made him tap it.

The first voice clip played.

Moaning. Chithra's moaning. Low and broken and involuntary—mmmmnph—and beneath it, the buzz of a trimmer—shrrrrr—and Saroja's voice, soft and coaxing.

Vijay's face went white.

His thumb hovered again. The second clip.

Saroja's voice. Chithra's voice. A conversation.

"—yes, Vijay is an asshole," Chithra was saying. "I was using him. Just for survival. I hate his touch. That's why I never washed my pussy after urinating. I wanted him to stay away. I wanted—"

Crack.

The phone hit the window. Then the floor. Then the dashboard. But unknown to vijay, this message was not completly correct... Some portions were being fabricated by muthu....

Vijay was screaming. Not words—just sound. A raw, animal roar that filled the Innova and bounced off the windows.

"VIJAY!" Nirmala grabbed his arm. "Stop! Stop!"

Aaryan woke. His eyes flew open—gasp—and his face crumpled. He began to cry.

Nirmala released Vijay. She scooped Aaryan into her arms—hff—and pressed his head to her shoulder.

"Shhh, kanna. Shhh. It's okay. It's okay."

The boy sobbed. His small body shook.

Nirmala rocked him. Murmured in his ear. Ten minutes passed—ten long, tense minutes—and slowly, Aaryan's cries faded to whimpers, then to silence, then to sleep.

---

The driver watched through the rearview mirror. He waited until Vijay had quieted—until the man's screams had died to ragged breathing—and then he pulled out his own phone.

He broke his phone. Threw it. Screaming.

He sent the message. Then pocketed the phone.

---

Ten minutes later, Nirmala's phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen. Read the message.

80% of Vijay's debt is cleared. The loan will be marked as paid by Monday.

Nirmala's eyebrow rose. She said nothing.

---

Vijay sat slumped in his seat. His fists were clenched. His breath came in sharp bursts—hhk, hhk, hhk.

"Take me to Ooty," he said.

The driver blinked. "Sir?"

"Ooty." Vijay's voice was stone. "I said—take me to Ooty."

Nirmala leaned forward. "Vijay—"

"Don't." He didn't look at her. "Just—don't."

"I was only going to say—" She paused. "Why not call Chithra again? Talk to her. Give her one last chance."

Vijay turned.

His hand moved before he could think—SMACK—and his palm connected with Nirmala's cheek.

The sound was sharp. Absolute.

Nirmala's head snapped sideways. Her bangles jangled—chlng—and she went still.

Silence.

The Innova hummed. Aaryan slept. The fields blurred.

Nirmala touched her cheek. Slow. Deliberate. Then she straightened.

"It's okay," she said. Quiet. Calm. "I can understand."

Vijay stared at his hand. His palm stung. His throat worked.

"I—"

"It's okay," Nirmala repeated. She turned to face the front. "Driver. Take us to Ooty."

The driver nodded. The Innova accelerated—vrrmmmm—and the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire.

---

Aaryan slept. Nirmala watched the road. Vijay stared at nothing.

And somewhere in Chennai, in a cramped flat in Porur, Chithra sat on the floor, the phone still pressed to her ear, listening to the silence.

I didn't mean it.

The thought looped. Again. Again.

I didn't mean it.

But the phone was dead. And Vijay was gone. And the night stretched ahead—dark, endless, waiting.

The fan creaked. Krr, krr.

Chithra closed her eyes without knowing the fact that she created a grave for herself........

[rajboy]

Excellent keep writing

[Umavictor32]

AUTHOR NOTE:

I am really sorry to say this... I tried my  to post pictures but unable to do it in a simple manner... Its taking a long time.... For writting its taking for me two hours... But when i add pica its taking hell lot of time... So please forgive... I wont be able to post pictures....

[Muthiah Sivaraman]

Very good. Muthu should make chithra pregnant and make her husband father of another man child. It is the best punishment for life.

[chrisgale159]

Ok nice update

[Umavictor32]

AUTHOR NOTE:

PLEASE PROVIDE FEEDBACK FOR THE STORY...
PLEASE TELL. ME WHETHER STORY IS MOVING IN A PROPER DIRECTION...

[Abhi T]

Bro your story is very good I understand your problem but it possible please add 3 or 4 pictures because pictures give reader more pleasure to read the story

[RedDranzar]

Story is going good. Good that you started the mental transformation. Saroja should play more with her mind to convince her she is a slut.

If she will eventually become a whore don't make her pregnant. She should start taking contraceptives.

If it's taking lots of time for pics no need to add them . Since you are describing the dress and figure of Every character in detail readers will build the image in mind.

[Pvzro]

Completely fine
The updates are pretty erotic 
Love the way u are taking this ahead in the best possible manner
If inserting pics and gifs is a challenge let it be we are ok to read the story
Your writing is so realistic that every word is making an imapect
Love the way keep writing

[Uvaaaa]

Fire update

[desiass]

please update, the story is good with out pictures too but the ordeal has to start, waiting for the chitra's three days humiliation and transformation.

[desiass]

is there a possibility of get an update today? Umavictor32?