Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[yodam69420]

The sky outside was a dull, unchanging grey, heavy with heat, but the air inside her home buzzed with something far more electric. The floor was freshly swept, smelling faintly of phenyl and sandal. The curtains were half-drawn, letting slivers of dusty light slant across the tiled floor like fingers of something divine—or obscene.
Sakshi stood near the window, the mangalsutra still in her palm from the conversation the night before. It didn’t feel like jewelry anymore. It felt like a trigger. A test. A dare. Not just gold now, but weight—of possibility, of power.
He had said he would do anything. Anything she asked. Any trial she set.
So she would give him one.
Ramu arrived exactly on time, as she knew he would. There was no knock this time—just the faint clearing of his throat outside the door. She opened it without ceremony. He stepped inside without permission.
His shirt was freshly pressed, collar tight. The top button undone. His eyes didn’t wander. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he walked to where she gestured: the wooden chair at the center of the room, placed beneath the bare lightbulb. A spotlight.
"Sit," she said. No affection in the tone. Pure instruction.
He obeyed without question.

There were no snacks today. No coffee. Just silence and breath. Her breath, slow and controlled. His, shallow and quick.
She walked slowly toward him, her bare feet whispering across the cool tile. The rustle of her saree louder than the ceiling fan overhead. She stopped just close enough for him to feel her warmth. Her scent—jasmine from her hair, musk from between her breasts—wrapped around him like silk.
She held the mangalsutra out. Let it dangle. The beads caught the light like blackened stars.
"You remember your words?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"Anything I ask?"
"Yes."
She walked behind him, her voice low. "Even if it costs you dignity?"
He didn’t blink. "Yes."
She stepped in front of him again. Eyes sharp, playful.
"Then here’s what I want," she said. Her voice dropped further, wrapped in heat. "I want to see what kind of man I'd be binding myself to. How deep his hunger runs. How low he'll kneel."
She took a deep breath and knelt before him—not reverent, but predatory. Her eyes locked onto his. "Give me your hand."
He obeyed, slowly. She took it, held it palm-up, then placed it gently on the warm flesh of her thigh, through her saree. The heat made him tremble.
"Don’t move," she whispered.
Then she stood, guiding his hand toward a brass water jug that had been sitting nearby. "Hold this. Steady."
He gripped the jug. Confused, but unmoving.
She turned away from him slightly, pulling the pallu of her saree over one shoulder but letting the back fall loose. Then, very slowly, she lifted the layers of silk from behind. Just enough to reveal thigh. Then curve. Then more.
She positioned herself over the jug. No warning. No more words.
Then came the sound.
A hiss.
A stream.
Hot piss splashed into the brass.
She pissed hard, full force, her legs bent, her thighs spread open above the wide-mouthed vessel. The thick steady stream steamed as it hit metal. He stared. Not with horror. Not with hesitation. With awe.


His hand didn’t move.
She didn’t hide her face. Didn’t flinch.
She emptied herself into the jug until the last few dribbles hissed out.
Then she stood. Adjusted her saree. Looked at him.
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
She took the jug. Placed it on the floor in front of him.
"Drink."
It wasn’t a request.
He picked it up. No questions.
He brought it to his lips.
And drank. A deep gulp. Then another.

Piss coated his tongue. Hot. Sharp. Hers.
He swallowed it.
Set the jug down.
Licked his lips.
Looked at her.
"What’s next, my wife?"
She stared.
Her cunt clenched. Her thighs dampened. Her heart thundered.
He had fucking done it.
Not blinked. Not hesitated.
He drank her like holy water.
She turned.
Silent.
Swaying.
Wet.
And this? This was just the beginning.