Adultery Radiance of Vanitha

[adams_masala]

Chapter 14: Comments to private messaging

As Ashok went to sleep, she grabbed her phone to read comments on her reels to see what Ashok said is true. Do all these men on the comments just want to fuck me? Don’t they follow me for my fashion and health tips? She read one comment that really bothered her.

“I want to jack-off and fill her navel hole with my thick cum” for that another guy replied

“I won’t waste that cum, it should be used to put a baby in that flat & curvy tummy of hers”

Vanitha's fingers froze over the screen, a shudder running through her that was nothing like the pleasant tremors Ashok had drawn from her body moments before. The crude words glowed in the darkness of their bedroom, casting an eerie blue light across her features. She glanced at Ashok, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep, unaware of how his warnings were materializing before her eyes.

She scrolled further, unable to stop herself. Comment after comment revealed desires she'd never intended to provoke. Men from countries she'd never visited describing what they'd do to her body in explicit detail. The reverence she'd thought was for her grace, her culture, her wellness journey—it was something else entirely.

Then she spotted a notification. A direct message from silverfox77.

Her thumb hovered over it, hesitating. This particular follower had always seemed different—his comments

Vanitha's thumb hovered over the notification, her heart beating rapidly. With a quick glance at Ashok's sleeping form, she tapped on the message, curiosity overcoming her better judgment.

"Your yoga demonstration today transcended mere physical practice," silverfox77 had written. "The way you honor tradition while embracing modern wellness speaks to a deeper understanding. I noticed the small Murugan pendant at your throat—my mother wore one exactly like it."

Vanitha's brow furrowed as she read on.

"I apologize for the comments others leave. Please know that many of us follow you for the genuine cultural appreciation you share. As a Tamil man living in Chennai, your content shows how women should take care of their body in the most respectful way."

She sat up slightly, pulling the silk bedsheet around her bare shoulders. This wasn't what she'd expected. The message continued:

"I rarely message content creators directly, but something about your authenticity compelled me.”

She looked up his profile, he only follows her and there was no post or any information about the profile. Just his username. Only Selvam knows he’s messaging her beautiful daughter-in-law under his fake account silverfox77. She didn’t know she was talking to Selvam, but his comments were stark resemblance to the comments Selvam made. She recalled the way his eyes had lingered on her during the Pongal celebrations last year when she went to Chennai, how he'd complimented the dbang of her silk pavadai with an appreciation that went beyond mere familial admiration.

Vanitha's fingers trembled slightly as she studied silverfox77's profile once more. There was something oddly comforting about his message compared to the vulgarity of the others—a respect that felt familiar. She hesitated, then began typing a response.

"Thank you for your kind words. It means a lot to know someone appreciates the cultural aspects of my content rather than just..." She paused, unsure how to phrase it delicately. "...the physical elements."

She hit send before she could reconsider, then immediately felt a flush of guilt. Was this appropriate? Responding to a male follower while her husband slept beside her? But there was nothing flirtatious about it, she reasoned. Just gratitude for a respectful comment.

Almost immediately, three dots appeared, indicating silverfox77 was typing a response. Vanitha glanced nervously at Ashok, Selvam typed slowly.

Selvam's heart raced as he saw her response appear on his screen. Sitting in his modest Chennai apartment, surrounded by framed photos of Ashok at various ages and a recent wedding portrait of the young couple, he felt a complex mixture of emotions. His weathered fingers, strong from decades of disciplined fitness routines, hovered over the keyboard.

"You're most welcome," he typed carefully. "A woman of your caliber deserves respect, not objectification."

He typed with some reluctance, “Sorry I am not suggesting the physical elements are… not worthy of appreciation, please don’t mistake me” he couldn’t find words but hit send.

Vanitha got curious to see if such a complex man admires her physical elements as well, so she decided to probe further. Her fingers hesitated above the screen before she typed:

"I'm curious—what aspects of my content do you find most valuable? The yoga techniques, the cultural elements, or..." She paused, wondering if she was crossing a line, but continued, "...something else?"

She sent the message, then immediately set her phone face-down on the bedside table, her heart racing. What was she doing? This wasn't like her—the disciplined beauty queen, the devoted wife. Yet something about this follower's respectful tone made her want to understand the male gaze that Ashok had warned her about.

Across the city in Chennai, Selvam stared at her message, feeling a complex mixture of emotions. His fitness-honed fingers trembled slightly as he considered his response. He was treading dangerous waters—this was his son's wife, a woman he should admire only from the appropriate distance of a father-in-law.

"I value the authenticity in your demonstrations," he began typing, choosing his words with careful precision. "The way you honor tradition while embodying modern strength. The discipline evident in your postures speaks to years of dedication."

He paused, his weathered fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"And if I'm being completely honest," Selvam continued typing, the blue light of his phone illuminating his disciplined features in the darkness of his Chennai apartment, "there is an unmistakable physical grace to your movements that commands respect."

He hesitated, then added: "Beauty, when presented with dignity as you do, deserves admiration rather than vulgar commentary. The way you carry yourself reminds me of classical sculptures in our temples—to be revered, not desecrated with base thoughts."

Vanitha read his response, feeling a strange flutter in her chest. This was different from the crude comments—more thoughtful, more controlled, yet still acknowledging her physical presence. She glanced at Ashok's sleeping form, his chest rising and falling peacefully beside her.

"Thank you for your honesty," she typed back. "It's refreshing to hear appreciation expressed with respect. Do I really look like those sculptures in our temples? How exactly do I resemble that?" She probed.

Ashok's response came quickly, his words carefully chosen yet filled with admiration. "Vanitha, those temple sculptures at Khajuraho and Konark that I grew up admiring—they celebrate the divine feminine form with such reverence. The artists carved women with perfect proportions, their bare curves flowing like poetry in stone. When I saw you in those reels, the way your body moved with such grace and strength reminded me of those sculptures—the confident posture, the elegant neck, the proud shoulders."

Vanitha felt heat rise to her cheeks as she read on.

"But, those temple goddesses stand nearly unclothed, dbangd only in stone jewelry...” she typed not knowing what to expect..

Selvam's breath caught as he read her message, the implications sending a jolt through his disciplined body. In his spartan Chennai apartment, surrounded by the fitness equipment that had been his constant companion through decades of solitude, he felt the boundaries of propriety stretching dangerously thin.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for several long minutes. As a man who had lived by strict principles since losing his wife, who had channeled all passion into his fitness regimen and raising his son, he knew he should end this conversation immediately. Yet something compelled him to respond.

"The divine feminine in those temple sculptures," he typed carefully, "is celebrated in its entirety. The artists understood that true beauty lies in the harmonious balance of form—the curve where waist meets hip, the elegant arch of the neck, the strength in the limbs."

“But they are naked, they are only wearing jewelry” she probed.

Selvam stared at her message, his disciplined mind battling with thoughts he'd suppressed for years. After the long loneliness following his wife's death, these feelings were both foreign and achingly familiar.

"Yes," he typed slowly, "they are adorned only with jewelry, their divine forms celebrated without shame. The artists understood that true beauty needs no concealment." He paused, then added, "The sculptures represent the ideal—perfection in proportion and grace. When I see your yoga demonstrations, I'm reminded of that same divine harmony of form."

Selvam's fingers trembled slightly as he continued typing. "Your movements in those reels—the way your body flows from one pose to another in your saree is so elegant."

Vanitha felt her breath quicken as she read his words. She wanted to keep pushing the limits to see how far this mysterious fan would go.

"Thank you for your poetic words," Vanitha typed, her fingers trembling slightly. "I'm curious though—when you see me in my sarees, do you ever... imagine what those temple sculptures look like beneath?"

She pressed send before she could reconsider, then immediately covered her mouth with her hand. What was she doing? This wasn't like her at all. She glanced at Ashok, still sleeping peacefully beside her, guilt washing over her like a cold wave.

On the other side of the screen, Selvam nearly dropped his phone. His disciplined body tensed as he read her message, a mixture of shock and forbidden desire coursing through him. For years, he had channeled all his energy into fitness and raising his son, suppressing his own needs as a man. Now, his daughter-in-law's words had breached the carefully constructed walls of his restraint.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His fingers moved mechanically over the screen, typing and deleting several responses before he finally settled on one.

"Vanitha," he wrote, "I would be dishonest if I claimed such thoughts had never crossed my mind. The human form, when maintained with discipline and care as yours clearly is, naturally invites admiration. But I hold such thoughts in check with the respect you deserve."

He paused, then added, "In our tradition, beauty and divinity are intertwined. The sculptures celebrate rather than exploit. That is how I see you—as someone to be revered, not merely desired."

Vanitha read his words, her heart pounding against her ribs. The eloquence of his response stirred something within her—not just physical attraction, but a longing to be understood in the way this stranger seemed to comprehend her.


Vanitha read his words, her heart pounding against her ribs. The eloquence of his response stirred something within her—not just physical attraction, but a longing to be understood in the way this stranger seemed to comprehend her.

"You speak of respect," she typed, "but I sense something deeper in your words. Tell me truthfully—when you see me perform yoga in my reels, which poses make you think most of those temple sculptures?"

She sent the message, then set the phone down, her hands slightly trembling. Beside her, Ashok shifted in his sleep, and she froze, watching as he turned away from her, still deep in slumber.

Selvam read her message, his disciplined body tense with conflict. This conversation had ventured far beyond appropriate boundaries, yet he couldn't bring himself to end it. After years of solitude, the connection—however inappropriate—felt like water to a man dying of thirst.

"The triangle pose," he typed, his weathered fingers moving carefully across the screen. "When you extend your arm skyward, your body forms a perfect line from fingertips to ankle. The way your saree dbangs across your hips in that moment..." He paused, deleting and retyping several times before continuing. "It reminds me of the Apsara sculptures at Mahabalipuram—divine dancers caught in a moment of perfect balance between strength and grace."

He hesitated, then added: "And when you perform Chakrasana, the wheel pose, with your body arched like a temple dome...”

“I see, do you imagine me wearing only those jewelry?” She couldn’t believe she actually typed that.

Selvam's breath caught in his throat. His fitness-trained fingers trembled over the keyboard, hovering uncertainly. The disciplined routine of his life—decades of controlled emotions and channeled desires—seemed to crumble under the weight of her question.

"Forgive me," he finally typed, "but yes. In those moments when you achieve perfect form, I sometimes see you as those ancient artisans might have—adorned only with the gold that accentuates rather than conceals."

He immediately followed with: "I speak not from base desire but from appreciation of divine form. Our temples celebrate the human body as a vessel of divinity."

Vanitha felt heat bloom across her skin, spreading from her cheeks down her neck and chest. She glanced at Ashok, guilt mingling with a forbidden thrill. What would her husband think if he knew she was engaging in such conversation? And yet, something about this stranger's words felt different from the crude comments she'd read earlier—there was reverence in his description, a kind of worship rather than degradation.

"Your words are beautiful," she typed, her fingers moving almost of their own accord. "If I were to create content just for appreciative eyes like yours—content that truly embraced the temple sculpture aesthetic—what would you hope to see?"

The moment she sent it, a wave of shame washed over her. What was she doing? This wasn't the disciplined beauty queen who had won Miss Chennai with her poise and cultural grace. This wasn't the devoted wife who had followed Ashok to America, this is a woman exploring her true power of femininity and how her body is so powerful.

In Chennai, Selvam stared at the message, his heart hammering against his ribs. The small bedroom of his apartment seemed to shrink around him as he contemplated her words. The disciplined man who had raised his son alone, who had channeled all desires into his fitness regimen for decades, found himself at a crossroads of temptation he never anticipated.

"Vanitha," he typed slowly, "what you suggest ventures into territory that..." He paused, deleted the words, and began again.

"If you were to embrace that aesthetic fully," he wrote carefully, "I would hope to see you perform the Nataraja pose—Lord Shiva's cosmic dance. The balance required, the extension of limbs, the perfect harmony of movement... in traditional temple art, this pose reveals the divine merger of power and beauty."

His finger hovered over the send button. He added,

"But I must ask—are you certain this is a path you wish to explore? Once crossed, some boundaries cannot be restored."

Vanitha read his message, her thumb tracing the edge of her phone as she contemplated her response. The question felt weighted with meaning beyond the words themselves. She glanced at Ashok's sleeping form beside her, his features peaceful in the soft glow from her screen.

"I'm not certain of anything right now," she typed honestly. "I've spent my entire life being the perfect daughter, the perfect pageant contestant, the perfect wife. Tonight is the first time I've seen how men truly view me—some with vulgarity, but you with something that feels like... reverence."

She paused, then added: "I'm curious about that reverence. About being seen as those temple goddesses are seen."

Selvam's heart raced as he read her words.

She continued “you said Apsaras, now why Nataraja? what did you truly want to see me as?”

Selvam felt his carefully maintained composure slipping. The discipline that had guided him through decades of single fatherhood wavered as he stared at her question. His fitness-honed fingers trembled slightly above the keyboard.

"I mentioned Nataraja because it would be safer," he finally typed. "The truth is..." He paused, deleted the words, then started again. "In the temples at Khajuraho, there are sculptures of Apsaras in poses of sublime sensuality. They stand with weight on one leg, hip gently curved, one hand raised to adjust jewelry or touch their hair."

He took a deep breath before continuing: "These poses celebrate feminine grace in its most natural state. They are not performing—simply existing in their divine beauty. That is how I imagine you. Not performing for an audience, but simply being."

Vanitha read his message, her breath catching in her throat. His description painted such a vivid image—one that stirred something deep within her that she hadn't fully acknowledged before.

"I understand," she typed back. "To be admired not for a performance but for simply existing in my natural form." She hesitated, then added, "There's something liberating about that thought—being appreciated as a divine creation rather than for what I do."

Her fingers hovered over the screen as she contemplated her next words. "Would you... would you like me to share a photo that captures that essence? Not for public consumption, but for someone who truly sees with the eyes of those ancient artisans?"

The moment she sent the message, her heart raced with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. What was she doing? This wasn't like her at all. And yet, there was something intoxicating.

Selvam conflicted. What would she if she know who truly Silverfox77 is? But he could not resist so he typed carefully…

Selvam stared at her message, his disciplined body rigid with tension. Decades of restraint warred with a hunger he'd denied since becoming a widower. His son's wife—his daughter by marriage—was offering something forbidden, something that would forever alter the carefully constructed balance of their family.

"Vanitha," he typed, his weathered fingers moving with deliberate precision, "I would be lying if I said I didn't desire to see you as those temple artisans saw their divine subjects. But I cannot, in good conscience, accept such an offering."

He paused, considering his next words carefully.

"True reverence sometimes means keeping distance. The most sacred spaces in our temples are those we cannot enter—we worship from afar, maintaining the purity of what we admire."

“I want to send you a photo something like the Apsaras sculpture tomorrow. It’s getting late. Good Night.”

Selvam's heart nearly stopped as he read her message. His disciplined hands trembled over the phone screen, the blue light illuminating the lines of age and experience on his face. After years of channeling his desires into fitness and fatherhood, the possibility of receiving such an intimate image from his daughter-in-law sent waves of both desire and shame crashing through him.

"Vanitha," he typed, deleting and retyping several times before finally continuing, "what you offer is both beautiful and dangerous. Like viewing a sacred flame too closely, it may burn us both."

He hesitated, then added: "If you truly wish to explore this aspect of yourself, I cannot and should not stop you. But consider carefully the boundaries you cross. Some temples, once entered, change us forever."

In her bedroom, Vanitha read his response, the weight of his words settling into her consciousness.