Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[yodam69420]

The next morning didn’t come gently.
The sky was bruised with clouds, low and swollen, like they too held something they couldn’t quite let go. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and something more intimate—the ghost of sex, of need unfulfilled, thick in the sheets Sakshi had refused to change.
Her thighs still bore the faded stickiness of the night before, and her cunt throbbed with the soreness of pleasure denied to another. She’d slept without her saree, dbangd only in a thin cotton towel that had slipped somewhere during the night. Her son still dozed on the other mattress, thumb half in his mouth, blissfully unaware of what power his mother now wielded.
Ramu came just after sunrise.
No invitation. No knock.
He stepped inside quietly, shirt buttoned, eyes lowered like a temple devotee unsure if he was entering a sanctum or a battlefield.
She was already up, sipping tea at the table, dbangd in a soft cotton saree with no blouse beneath, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric, hair wet and slicked back from her bath.
She didn’t look at him when he entered.
"Good morning," he murmured.
"Is it?" she replied, sipping slowly. "Still hard, Ramu? Or just sore?"
He exhaled shakily. "Both."
She finally looked up. "What do you want?"
He swallowed. "You. Again."
"Be more specific."
He hesitated, eyes lowering.
"Your... fluid."
She set her cup down slowly.
"Ah. The bhakt returns for prasad."
He nodded.
She rose from the chair, walking near him—never close enough to touch, but close enough to make him ache. Her feet were bare and silent on the cool floor. She circled him once, then twice, like a lioness scenting her kill.
"You want piss again, or something sweeter this time?"
He looked up, eyes filled with raw hunger. "Anything."
"Anything?" she echoed, voice playful, dangerous.
She tilted her head, not touching, not brushing—just letting her presence skim over his nerves.
"Maybe I’ll spit into your mouth today. Or wring my panties into a cup and watch you drink. Maybe I’ll bleed for you. Would you lick it off the floor?"
He trembled. "Yes."
She laughed, throaty and mean. "Fuck. You are sick, Ramu."
Then, softer: "And you’re mine."
She stepped back, keeping the distance firm. "But you don’t get to ask anymore. You beg. You wait. You earn it. This..."—she lifted her saree slightly, flashing the glistening heat beneath, still not touching him—"is sacred."
His knees buckled. He dropped, forehead pressed to the floor.
"Tell me your rule today," she whispered, standing over him. "Your new ritual."
He kissed the floor. "I suffer for your taste. I starve until you feed me."
She smiled, turned, and walked away.
"Good. Then suffer until I’m ready to drip."
And with that, the day began—not with prayers or pooja, but with silence, wet thighs, and the slow shaping of a ritual no god had ever dared write down.
Later that morning, she took a steel plate in one hand and a breakfast tumbler in the other. She walked to his room, where he sat waiting like a child outside a temple gate.
When she entered, he stood, but she waved him down with a glance.
She placed the food on the small table. As he reached for the tumbler, she raised an eyebrow.
"Wait. I forgot something."
He paused. She turned away, walked toward the corner of his room. His eyes followed her every move.
"Ramu," she said without turning, "your jug. Give it to me."
He obeyed. Handed it over.
She smirked. "You could’ve filled it yourself."
"But you do it better," he whispered.
Her smile curled dark. "And what if I told you to come fill it from the source?"
His throat bobbed.
She turned, hiked her saree, and without another word, he knelt in front of her, carefully placing the jug between her legs.
She didn’t touch him. She didn’t look down. She simply let herself relax.
The hiss began softly.
The stream was warm, steady, splashing into the metal. His hands trembled as he held the jug in place.

He didn’t look away from her cunt, bare now.
"Is that better?" she whispered.
He nodded, reverent.
"Good. Because you’re going to drink every drop."
He nodded again, eyes glassy.
She lowered her saree slowly, deliberately.
"Before that, though," she said, stepping away, "there’s something you asked of me."
He looked up, confused.
"You said you wanted to see me bare down there. No hair. Just skin."
His lips parted.
"I didn’t forget. I never forget what my devotees ask for."
She walked back, hips swaying.
"But you don’t get to see it. Not yet."
She leaned in. "You’ll taste it first. When I say."
Then she turned and left.
Leaving behind the jug, the scent of her stream, and the promise of a bare heaven not yet his to touch.
-------
The weekend had been a slow torment.
Murugan was home for two full days, and Sakshi had barely gotten a moment to herself. The house was never quiet enough, never empty enough. Ramu’s request echoed in her mind like a slow drumbeat: “I want to see your pussy without hair.” She hadn’t answered him then. Just turned and walked away, her heart pounding, her thighs pressed tight.
But she hadn’t forgotten.
By Monday morning, butterflies stirred in her belly. Murugan left for work at his usual time, 8:30 a.m., his lunch packed, shirt tucked, not noticing the heat simmering beneath his wife's skin. Her son, already settled with his toys and morning routine, was no longer a distraction. The air felt different the moment the front door shut. Like the world had shifted just enough to unlock something forbidden.
She waited till she was sure—fully sure—that he was gone.
Then moved.
She took her time in the bathroom, locking the door. The blade felt cool in her hand as she stood before the mirror. Every stroke of the razor was deliberate. Intimate. With each pass, she stripped away something—not just hair, but inhibition. By the end, her skin was soft, flushed, bare. She rinsed slowly, standing under the shower for longer than usual, fingers lingering between her thighs, not for pleasure, but reverence. She was preparing herself.
After the bath, she dried her body with care, every inch of her feeling more exposed, more aware. She oiled her skin with jasmine-scented oil, letting it soak in. Her breasts felt heavier somehow. Her hips swayed on their own. There was a warmth building inside her—steady, humming.
She stood before the mirror once more and stared at her reflection. Her nipples were already taut, her skin still damp. She imagined him seeing her like this.
The mangalsutra Ramu had given her sat in the drawer. She opened it. Looked at it. Touched it.
But did not wear it.
Not yet.
She dressed herself in the blue saree—the one he always stared at. She skipped the blouse, skipped the petticoat. Let the silk cling to her skin like a whisper. She tied it loose enough that every movement promised a glimpse. The end of her pallu slid down her back like a hand.
She checked on her son, settled with toys in the living room, then slipped out. Her feet silent, her pace measured.
She knocked softly on Ramu’s door.
When he opened it, his breath caught. She was a vision: wet hair, glowing skin, the barest tease of cleavage under soft cotton.
She smiled, calm and sure. "Come to my house for breakfast."
He followed her without a word.
She moved through her home like a breeze, setting the plates with practiced grace. The food steamed. The coffee smelled strong. But his eyes were only on her. Her hips. Her back. The curve of her waist. The way the saree dipped just above the swell of her rear.
He stood silently until finally, with a voice raw from restraint, he asked, "Why don’t you wear the mangalsutra I gave you?"
She turned toward him slowly, her eyes playful, dangerous. She stepped closer, each footstep silent, until she was just in front of him.
She rose on her toes and leaned in. Her breath was warm against his ear.
"Because," she whispered, "a mangalsutra must be tied by a man to a woman. Only then does it mean anything. Otherwise, it’s just beads."
Before he could respond, she turned and slipped into the kitchen, her hips swaying with every step.
He stood there stunned, then burst into laughter. A full, joyful sound. "You sexy Sakshi... you want me to tie it? That’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time?"
She didn’t answer.
She simply stirred the sambar, letting the moment linger.
He came to her, slow but certain. Stood behind her, close enough to feel her warmth, but not touching yet.
"Then I’ll do as you wish, my dear," he murmured.
She extended her palm behind her, the chain coiled like gold fire.
He took the mangalsutra.
He stepped in front of her, fingers trembling just slightly.
With reverent hands, he brushed aside her braid, lifting it gently as if lifting a veil. The beads felt cool against her freshly bathed skin. When he looped the thread around her neck, his knuckles brushed her shoulder blades, sending a shiver through her.
He tied the knot.
Once.
Twice.

Pulled it snug. The pendant rested against the top of her chest, just above the fabric line of her saree. It gleamed. It claimed.
She turned to face him, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling with quiet breath.
"So," she said softly, "am I yours now?"
He didn't answer with words. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into him.
He held her tightly, like he’d never let go.
His hands roamed down her back, to the swell of her ass, firm and eager. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her jaw—whispers between each kiss.
"My Sakshi... my wife... my gift from god... I'm the luckiest bastard alive."
She didn’t stop him. She let him claim her with hands, with kisses, with breath.
And when he kissed her mouth, she kissed him back.
Slow.
Hungry.
She whispered, "Now you’ve tied it. Now I’m yours."
He grinned.
And the food sat forgotten.
Because what they’d hungered for had just begun to feed them.
-------------------
The kitchen smelled of roasted ghee, sambar bubbling on the stove, and fresh dosa browning on the tawa—but none of that reached him.
His senses were flooded with her.
The scent of her skin, still damp from the bath. The cling of her blue saree wrapped low around her waist, hips bare beneath the loose dbang. Her breasts unbound beneath the pallu, nipples brushing the cotton with every breath. She sat on the dining table, legs crossed, the metal of her anklets clinking softly, her eyes fixed on Ramu like he was hers to command and consume.
Ramu knelt before her, knees digging into the cold tile. But he didn’t feel pain. Only heat. Only want.
“Eat,” she whispered, sliding the end of her pallu from her shoulder.

She wore nothing underneath.
Her stomach, flat and glowing, curved gently into the smooth skin above her mound. He leaned in, kissing just below her navel, slow, reverent, worshipful.
She sighed. “Lower.”
He obeyed, tongue tracing the space between her navel and the edge of her saree’s tuck. She didn’t stop him. She opened her legs just enough.
He moved down and kissed the crease of her thigh. The scent of her pussy hit him—musky, warm, fresh—and he moaned.
She parted her legs wider. "Open me. Taste me."
He peeled her saree back. Her cunt was bare. Shaved smooth. Gleaming.
"So clean..." he murmured.
She smiled. “For you.”
He buried his face between her legs. Licked her folds slowly, then faster, tongue flicking, stroking, sucking. Her hands found his hair.
“That’s it. Drink me. Suck every drop.”
He groaned. She tasted like jasmine and sin.
She gasped, her hips grinding into his mouth. He feasted on her like a starving man. She moaned, then screamed, thighs trembling, pussy gushing. He drank her down, chin slick.
Panting, she pulled him back, flushed, dazed.
But before he could catch his breath, he whispered, “Can I have some water?”
She smirked. “There’s none in the jug.”
He looked up. “Then maybe... I could drink it directly?”
Her smile curled. “Of course.”
She stood slowly. Walked around to him. Lifted her saree up.
He crawled forward, placed his head under the folds, right between her thighs.
He kissed her bare pussy again, reverently. "This... this should’ve been my breakfast. Why did you hide it so long, Sakshi?"
She laughed, hand stroking his hair. “It’s all yours now. Do as you like.”
She relaxed.
A soft hiss escaped her lips as her piss began to stream.
It hit his tongue hot, salty, direct.
He opened his mouth, drank it down greedily, like a calf drinking from the udder. She held his head, watched his throat work, her stream steady and unashamed.
He didn’t stop until the last drop had dripped into his mouth.
Then he pulled back, face soaked, eyes shining.
He looked up at her.
“Sakshi... when will your pussy eat my cock? It looks so hungry.”
She grinned, cheeks flushed. “I’m ready. Shall we start?”
He stood, took her hand. “Not here. Let’s go to my room.”
Just as she was about to follow, her phone buzzed.
Meena.
She picked it up, voice still heavy with breath. "Tell me, Meenu."
"You sound breathless. Did round two just end or begin?"
Sakshi laughed. "He's passed all three tests, Meena. Piss, food play, and denial. And now... now I’m about to let him fuck me."
"You sound like a woman reborn."
Meena’s voice turned soft with disbelief. "You’ve really taken this into another level, Sakshi. What about... what about Murugan?"
Sakshi stared at the wall, quiet for a moment. "Murugan hasn't touched me like he meant it in years. Not since our son was born. We barely talk anymore unless it's about groceries or fees. He doesn’t look at me, Meena. I became furniture in his life."
"And your son?"
"He’s innocent. He knows only that his Amma loves him. And that won’t change. I’ll protect that part of my life, always. But this... this is for me."
There was a pause.
"You know people would call this cheating."
"Let them," Sakshi said. "I’ve been loyal, quiet, patient for years. But I’m not a ghost. I’m a woman. And for the first time, I’m being seen like one. Desired like one."
Meena sighed. "And the age gap? You don’t care?"
"I care that he worships me. That when I walk into the room, his breath catches. When I sit, he kneels. When I speak, he listens. Age never gave me that. Love did."
"And now?"
"Now I shaved. Wore the blue saree. Let him drink from me again this morning. He begged to fuck. I told him yes."
Meena exhaled like she’d run a race. "This is too much. This is erotic mythology. You’ve made him your bhakt and now he’s earning the right to become your man."
Sakshi looked down at her chest, the mangalsutra glinting faintly against her bare skin. "He already tied the Mangalsutra. He called me his wife. I didn’t stop him."
"You don’t want to."
"I don’t."
There was a long pause.
"Sakshi... are you happy?"
She touched her thigh, the memory of his mouth still warm. "I’m powerful. I’m wanted. And right now, I’m about to be fucked like I’ve waited my whole marriage to be."
"Then go, kanna. Go give your cunt what it craves. Let that old man make you a new woman. And tomorrow morning, I want every detail."
Sakshi smiled.
"Every drop, Meena."
She hung up.
Checked on her son. Made sure he was still asleep.
Then she walked to the mirror. Adjusted her saree, let it dbang low on her hips.
And with her heartbeat thudding between her thighs, she stepped out the door and toward Ramu’s room.
This time, there would be no begging.
Only taking.