04-05-2025, 12:03 PM
The light from the western window bathed the living room in a mellow orange, stretching shadows long across the floor. Sakshi sat alone on the sofa, a cup of tea cooling between her hands, her mind far removed from the quiet domestic hum of evening. The sound of a pressure cooker, the soft rattle of her son’s toy from the next room, even the distant chant of a street hawker—all faded into silence beneath the weight of memory.
Her body still remembered.
Every time she crossed her legs, or leaned too far back, the soreness inside reminded her of him. Ramu. That first time had undone something deep in her. A part of her that had been starved, quietly howling behind the veil of routine, had finally been fed.
She closed her eyes.
She could still feel it—his touch, the first brush of his lips on her navel, the way his voice had dropped when he whispered filth into her ear. He hadn’t just claimed her body; he had awakened it. Each thrust had drawn cries from her she never thought herself capable of making. It wasn’t just physical—it was possession. And the worst part? She wanted to be possessed again. Needed it.
Sakshi shifted in her seat, thighs pressing tight. The thought made her wet all over again. The evening’s peace felt fragile, like glass waiting to shatter. Her gaze drifted toward the bedroom door, where her husband lay napping before his night shift. Unaware. Unworthy.
She sipped her tea absently, but her thoughts wandered to what she’d wear tonight. Should she go subtle? A cotton saree, loose blouse, easy hooks? Or something louder—silk that clung, a bra that strained under the weight of what he now worshipped? She smiled to herself. No matter what she chose, he’d strip it away anyway.
The hunger wasn’t just his. It had awakened in her too.
In the kitchen, she lit the stove, more for distraction than cooking. Her hands moved by habit—dal, rice, a side of pickle—but her mind replayed every filthy word, every sloppy kiss, every deep push that had made her bite into her own palm to keep from screaming.
The light dimmed slowly. Her son babbled something from the floor, and she bent to pat his head gently, fingers trailing through his hair. Her face softened. This was her life. And yet… there was another life now. One that started every time she walked through that old wooden door upstairs.
She glanced at the clock. His dinner time was nearing.
Her pulse quickened.
She didn’t know what would happen tonight. But her body already knew what it wanted to happen.
-------
The kitchen was full of cumin and steam, the dal bubbling lazily on the back burner. Sakshi stood barefoot on the cool tile, her blue cotton saree tied low on her hips, blouse clinging from the humidity, a light sheen of sweat across her back. Her hair was loosely pinned, a few wet strands sticking to her neck. She didn’t hear the door open.
But she felt him.
A familiar warmth behind her, the distinct breath, the sudden stillness of air—Ramu had entered without a word, his presence sharp and heavy like storm clouds rolling in. She didn’t turn.
“I heard someone at the door,” she said, already knowing.
“It was me,” came the deep reply. “Tired from today’s work. Thought you might spoil me with some coffee.”
She laughed softly, eyes still on the TV, one arm wrapped loosely around her toddler. “Tired? Just for that?”
He smirked. “Tired, yes. But I didn’t say I wasn’t hard.”
She blinked, caught mid-smile.
He stepped forward, took her hand and guided it to his cock through his lungi. She felt it swell under her palm, growing firm with her touch. Heat surged between her thighs.
“Ramu…” she whispered, voice trembling with mischief.
He followed her into the kitchen. She turned with a teasing glare. “I thought you came to see me because you wanted more.”
“I do,” he said, pressing in close, breath hot at her nape. “More of you. Every evening, every part.”
He tugged at the pallu of her saree, lifting it along with her petticoat. His hand landed with a soft smack on her ass, fingers spreading possessively.
She gasped, biting her lip. “Ramu, we’re in the kitchen…”
“Perfect,” he growled. “I want to taste you where you feed others.”
His fingers trailed down her ass, slid between her thighs and began to rub the lips of her pussy with slow, teasing strokes. Her knees buckled slightly.
“Ramu…” she moaned again, weaker.
He slipped one finger inside her, curling it with precision, feeling her pulse around him. She clutched the counter with both hands, rocking against his touch.
Then he turned her, gently but firmly, until she faced him. He knelt in front of her like a worshipper.
Lifting her left leg over his shoulder, he buried his face between her thighs.
Sakshi let out a whimper, fingers finding his scalp.
He kissed her pussy like it was fruit—soft licks, firm presses, teasing strokes with the tip of his tongue. The suction pulled moans from her lips she didn’t know she could make.
No one had ever done this to her. Not her husband. Not in her wildest dreams.
She leaned forward, panting, and pulled his ear close.
“Let’s move to the bedroom,” she whispered.
He stood, eyes burning with lust, and silently slipped out of the kitchen.
She adjusted her saree, heart thudding, and followed seconds later—wet, throbbing, desperate for more.
------------
I then moved to the hall where my son was playing with his toys and watching cartoons. His giggles echoed in the room like bells—pure, innocent, untouched by the weight of the secrets I now carried. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and the last meal I’d cooked. I crouched beside him for a moment, running my fingers through his hair, watching his chubby hands grasp blocks with fascination. I kissed his forehead, murmuring a soft promise I didn’t intend to break: “Amma will be right back.”
There was no guilt. Only the heady thrill of contrast. One door away, a child’s world. Another door, mine—a woman’s hunger unchecked.
I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind me with exaggerated care. The thud was soft, final.
Ramu was there, already waiting—bare-chested, lounging like a king without his throne, the creases of the bedsheet clinging to his back. His lungi was hitched carelessly, the promise of what lay beneath pressing lightly against the cloth. His eyes gleamed under the ceiling fan's lazy rotation.
"My dear wife," he said, voice thick with mischief as he stretched one arm behind his head. "Don’t make this old man more tired than he already is."
I didn’t answer at once. I let my hips sway as I approached, the rhythmic pull of the saree around my waist tightening with each step. The air around us pulsed with heat. As I reached him, I bent forward slightly, my breasts brushing against his chest. "Old?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "This doesn’t feel old."
With a teasing smile, I slid my hand under the folds of his lungi. His cock was warm, thick, and already beginning to harden. I let my fingers wrap around it, squeezing gently, marveling at how quickly he responded to just my touch. It pulsed in my hand like it remembered me.
"Seems your cock is more energetic than your tongue," I teased, flicking my tongue across his earlobe. "But don’t worry. I’m not going to drain it yet. I want every single drop stored and ready for when I ride you."
He groaned under his breath, his hips lifting involuntarily into my palm. "You’re going to kill me, woman. One day I’ll die with a smile on my lips and your scent in my nose."
I chuckled, deep and slow, my other hand now resting against his firm chest. "Then die well. I want to watch you unravel."
I gave his cock one last slow stroke, squeezing the base before letting go. His shaft twitched in protest. I pulled back, slowly, deliberately, dragging my saree pallu along his thigh. The heat between us was a living thing now, stretching invisible threads of want from one breath to the next.
The look in his eyes was worship and desperation rolled into one. As if he’d waited his whole life to be undone by me again.
And I had every intention to do exactly that—slowly, teasingly, completely.
-------------------
"Now I want the energy of your tongue," I whispered, voice thick with heat. The moment the words left my lips, he obeyed—his tongue darted out, sliding up and down his lips with deliberate slowness, as if teasing me with the promise of what was to come.
I grinned and placed my hand firmly on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed. He fell back with a low chuckle, eyes glued to me with worship and want. As he lay there, I stood before him, unwrapping my saree slowly, layer by layer, letting it slide down my body with sensuous grace. My hips swayed in a rhythm that was less dance, more seduction. The silk whispered against my skin as it pooled around my feet, a puddle of desire.
His breath grew heavier, deeper, and more ragged with each slow, teasing move I made. I held his gaze as I unhooked the blouse slowly, one button at a time, each pop of fabric echoing louder than necessary, punctuating our silence with soft provocations. Then I threw it onto his face with a smirk. He caught it, inhaled it deeply as if it were scented with pure lust itself, eyes burning brighter with hunger. I turned around deliberately, letting my bare back tease him, displaying the curve of my spine, the soft indentations of my waist, then walked to the bed, each step calculated, every motion a silent command.
He reached forward eagerly, fingers fumbling slightly with excitement at the clasp of my bra. He leaned in closer, surprising me as his teeth found the string of my petticoat. With an enticing growl, he pulled at it gently but firmly, the sensation of his teeth grazing my skin sending delightful shivers cascading down my spine. My petticoat fell effortlessly, joining the pile of discarded clothing at our feet. Now standing fully nude, I reveled under his ravenous stare, feeling powerful and worshipped.
“You’re going to kill me like this,” he growled, voice rough and filled with restrained desperation.
I crawled onto the bed slowly, deliberately, like a tigress stalking her prey, eyes locked onto his with predatory intensity. I placed my knees on either side of his torso and leaned down until my lips brushed his ear, whispering softly yet commandingly, “Then die with your face buried in heaven. Lick me.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His head disappeared eagerly between my thighs, and I gasped audibly as his tongue expertly explored my folds, tracing every line from top to tip, savoring every inch of me. His tongue was masterful—soft, teasing strokes that gave way to firm, deep, purposeful swipes. He kissed and bit gently at my sensitive flesh, eliciting a sharp moan as my fingers dived desperately into his hair, guiding and urging him.
“Fuck, Ramu… just like that,” I gasped, grinding my hips shamelessly against his mouth.
I pulled his head tighter to my dripping core, smothering him in the warmth of my arousal. He responded like a man starved, licking me furiously, passionately. I shifted, straddling his chest more completely, allowing his tongue the perfect angle to delve deeper, to explore fully. His eyes became half-lidded, drunk and intoxicated by my taste, his moans vibrating through me, heightening every sensation.
I rolled my hips rhythmically over his mouth, his tongue plunging deep into my wet heat with each sensual movement. He opened his mouth wider, sucking greedily at my lips, tugging me closer possessively with both hands firmly gripping my ass. The heat between us built fast and furious, driving us closer to an explosive release.
He didn’t stop. He devoured me with relentless hunger, passion radiating from every deliberate motion of his tongue.
And I surrendered fully, letting him consume me.
I rode his face, the way he once confessed he dreamt of, moaning loudly, writhing shamelessly, completely undone and overtaken by nothing but the powerful, skilled energy of his tongue. My body shook, pleasure building to the brink, every nerve ignited, every sensation heightened beyond reason.
He was performing wonders upon me, each lick, each kiss sending electric pulses through my veins, pulling me closer and closer to ecstasy.
After a few intense moments, my entire body stiffened, a tremor surged through me, and I felt an overwhelming wave crash over me. I squirted unexpectedly, coating his mouth and chin generously with my release. He didn't flinch or pull back; instead, he groaned deeply, lapping hungrily, savoring every drop as if it were the nectar he'd long been craving.
Panting, I watched him lick his lips, tasting me, his expression one of deep satisfaction and pride. Gently, we both rose from the bed, our bodies tingling from the shared intimacy. He smiled warmly, his eyes gleaming with fulfilled desire, and quietly returned to his room. I gathered my scattered clothing, dressing slowly, my mind replaying every electrifying detail, the echoes of pleasure lingering on my skin.
--------------------------
After I suddenly heard my hubby calling me,
I quickly adjusted my saree, smoothing it down hastily, and hurried toward the hall window. My heart skipped when I saw him waving at me with an unusually cheerful smile from outside. Curious, I opened the window wider, forcing a neutral expression.
"Guess what?" he shouted enthusiastically, his eyes shining like a fool. "They’ve given me permanent night shifts—for the next few weeks!"
I blinked. Permanent? Night shifts? He was grinning like he’d just received a promotion. I frowned.
"Why are you smiling like that? Is working all night and sleeping all day something to celebrate now?" I asked, my voice laced with exaggerated annoyance.
He scratched his head, taken aback. "I thought you’d be happy. You always say I’m in the way during the day."
"So you decided for me, did you? Without even asking what I think? Typical," I muttered, narrowing my eyes.
"It’s good money, Sakshi. Overtime. I thought it was a good thing for us."
"For us? Or for your sleep cycle?" I snapped, slamming the window shut more forcefully than necessary.
Inside, I fumed. Not because of the shift. But because he dared to act like this was some generous act. He always thought he knew what was best. But tonight, I’d decide what I wanted.
Returning to Ramu’s room, my steps slowed, more deliberate. My pulse raced.
He was there, eating dinner, the empty jug in his hand like a signal. He looked up, playful hunger in his eyes. "Care to refill my drink, my dear?"
I sat beside him, brushing my thigh against his. "One good news, one bad. Which first?"
He leaned in. "Bad first."
"Hubby’s not leaving tomorrow morning."
His lips thinned, disappointment flashing.
"Good news?"
I slowly lifted my saree, smirking. Holding the jug beneath my pussy, I released a warm stream into it while his eyes drank in the view. I leaned close to his ear.
"The good news is—night shifts start tomorrow. Our real nights begin."
His grin returned, wolfish.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "you’ll be mine."
"And you’ll be owned," I murmured, handing him the filled jug, brushing his hand with mine.
Back home, I found my husband arranging his clothes for the next day. He looked up, hopeful. "Want to sleep early? We can... you know..."
I crossed my arms. "Oh, now you want attention? After dropping night shift news like it’s a gift?"
He hesitated. "I didn’t mean—"
"Exactly. You didn’t think. So don’t expect cuddles or anything else. I’m not in the mood to be treated like an afterthought."
He sighed, defeated. "You’re always angry lately."
"And you’re always clueless. Good night."
I turned away, slipped into my side of the bed, and let silence wrap the rest of the night in a bitter quiet. My body throbbed—not for him, never for him. But for the one who would have me tomorrow And only him.
------------
Next morning, as usual, I woke up around 6:45. The room was still blanketed in a soft, cool hush, the kind of morning silence that held the echo of dreams. I slid out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb the small form of my son snuggled beside me, and padded to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face, I stared into the mirror a little longer than necessary. My eyes carried a gleam they hadn’t known in years.
Wrapping my saree tight around my waist, I headed to the kitchen. The movements were muscle memory—lighting the stove, boiling milk, scooping out the coffee powder. As I stirred the decoction into the milk, the rich aroma enveloped me like a secret. My lips curled slowly.
I remembered.
Ramu. My second man. My secret indulgence. The one who had torn through the monotony of my life like a monsoon breaking summer heat. My body still pulsed with the memory of his mouth, his grip, the way he looked at me like I was the only truth in a world of lies.
And he hadn’t had his coffee yet.
A strange thrill shot through me as I filled another steel tumbler, this one more carefully, more deliberately than the first. I paused for a moment, the steam rising like whispered temptation against my lips. Without a sound, I slipped out the back door, glancing once over my shoulder to make sure my husband was still snoring away.
Upstairs, the air was still. I tapped lightly on Ramu’s door, nerves buzzing like live wire beneath my skin. Once. Twice.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Hair disheveled, eyes bleary but alert the moment he saw me, lungi hanging loose over one shoulder. The smell of sleep still clung to him, and it stirred something primal in me.
His lips curled into that crooked, devilish grin. “What’s this? Couldn’t wait to fuck me again, is it? Came running like a desperate housewife—with coffee?”
I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks flushed. “Is this how you talk to a woman bringing you hot coffee at dawn? Shameless mongrel.”
I shoved the tumbler into his hand with a huff, spun on my heel and began descending the stairs.
“Arrey, come on now! I was teasing,” he called out, half-laughing, half-apologetic.
Let him stew. He’d learn.
Back in the kitchen, I poured a second coffee, this one for the man who bore my name, if not my passion. I walked into the bedroom, placing the cup beside the bed.
He stirred, yawned, stretched lazily. “You’re up early. Smells like sambhar already.”
“Some of us work before the sun rises,” I said, not unkindly, but with an edge.
He took the coffee and gave me a soft smile. “Thanks, Sakshi.”
As he went to bathe, I turned to my duties. The idli batter was just right. I steamed the idlis and set the table. By the time he returned, fresh and towel-clad, everything was plated and perfect. I handed him his breakfast—extra chutney, extra care.
As he dug in, I felt a mischievous heat bloom inside me.
I returned to the kitchen, took another plate and spooned in idlis and sambhar—this time with more focus, more flourish. Each item was placed precisely. Garnished. Decorated. Then I walked back into the living room.
“Do me a favor. Take this to Ramu. He must be hungry.”
He blinked. “Now? Should I?”
“Why not? You said you wanted to know the tenants better.” I offered the plate with a syrupy smile.
Still unsure, he took it and walked out. I followed to the window, peeking through the curtain. He knocked. A pause. Ramu opened the door.
He didn’t say a word.
Five minutes later, my husband returned, his face tense.
“What happened?” I asked, feigning confusion.
“He didn’t even say thank you,” he muttered. “Just took the plate. Didn’t look at me properly.”
“Welcome to my world,” I replied dryly. “You sulk after one try. Imagine dealing with that all the time.”
He grunted, clearly annoyed, and sat back down with his newspaper.
Then after a pause, still flipping a page distractedly, he said, “He wasn’t like this before.”
I looked up from wiping the kitchen counter. “Who?”
“Ramu. That man upstairs. When he moved in, he used to smile. Asked about our son, helped me with the gas cylinder once. I even remember him laughing when I slipped on the stairs.”
I chuckled faintly. “That does sound like him.”
“But now?” He shook his head. “He’s like a stone. Never smiles. Doesn’t say anything. It’s like he hates the world.”
I poured some more water into the rice cooker and said, without looking up, “Maybe the world gave him nothing to smile about.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
I leaned against the fridge, letting my voice drop just slightly. “He lost his wife. His daughter moved abroad, barely calls. He wakes up to silence and eats alone. That kind of solitude—it stains a man.”
My husband seemed uncomfortable. “Still. He could be civil.”
“Sure,” I said. “But we only see the result. Not the years that made it.”
He went quiet for a while, staring at his coffee again, as if trying to see through it. “You talk like you know him well.”
I looked him straight in the eye, a soft smile playing on my lips. “Maybe I just understand what silence does to people.”
He nodded slowly, uncertainly, and returned to his paper.
I let him stew. My son had begun fussing, so I moved on to feeding him, wiping his face, changing his clothes, humming lullabies I barely paid attention to. My mind was already upstairs.
Afterward, I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, wiped the counter, and loaded the washing machine with the morning’s laundry. The hum of domestic life returned. But under the surface, I simmered.
By 11, I was freshly bathed, wrapped in a bright yellow saree that clung lovingly to my curves. As I stepped out onto the terrace to hang the wet clothes, the sunlight spilled over me like a blessing. My pallu flared in the breeze, my bare waist kissed by warmth.
The world saw a dutiful wife.
But I knew the truth.
This day was only just beginning.
----------------
My husband was snoring lightly in the bedroom, sprawled across the mattress in a pose that screamed ignorance and ease. I stepped out onto the terrace, a basket of wet clothes in hand, the scent of detergent mixing with the late morning breeze. My yellow saree clung tightly to my skin, the pallu teasing at my waist as I clipped each piece to the line.
That’s when I heard the door creak.
Ramu stepped out from his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, lungi carelessly tied, chest bare. He looked at me, hesitated, then slowly approached the railing, keeping his voice low.
"Sakshi…? Listen, about earlier—"
I didn’t turn. Didn’t even glance at him. I simply adjusted my blouse, letting the tight fabric strain ever so slightly over my chest, and leaned forward to pin the final saree on the line. The blouse hugged my breasts, the curve of my hip peeked beneath the pallu, all while my eyes stayed focused on the clothes in front of me.
Ramu shifted uncomfortably. "I didn’t mean to say it like that. I was just joking, yaar. Don’t stay angry. Please."
Still silent. I picked up the empty basket and walked away without acknowledging him, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind me. Not with force—but with intent. Just enough to let him know I wasn’t pleased. But also enough to let him stew in the tease I left behind.
Back inside, the house was warm with the scent of tamarind and coconut oil. I moved into the kitchen, setting the rice on low flame and flipping the dosas with swift efficiency. My husband stirred from the bedroom and wandered into the living room, yawning.
"Lunch ready?" he asked, plopping on the sofa.
"Almost. Why don’t you take some to Ramu’s room today?"
He frowned. "No way. After how he looked at me yesterday? Didn’t even say thank you. I’m not stepping into his room again."
I shrugged. "Fine, I’ll go."
He didn’t argue. I served his plate first, letting the sambar steam rise and fog my glasses. Then I sat with my son, feeding him soft idli pieces dipped in ghee and sugar, wiping his mouth after each messy bite. By 2 PM, both were full and dozing.
I plated a separate meal for Ramu—more sambar, an extra spoon of pickle—and carried it upstairs. I knocked once before opening. He was sitting shirtless, freshly bathed, his hair wet and combed back, like he had been waiting.
I walked in, placed the plate on the table without meeting his eyes, and turned to leave.
He glanced toward the jug. "You didn’t give me any water."
I paused. The jug was full, untouched.
"You didn’t drink it," I said, my tone clipped.
He smiled softly. "My wife didn’t serve it. So how could I drink?"
The nerve.
Without a word, I picked up the empty steel tumbler beside the jug, stood still for a second, then slowly lifted the front of my saree. His eyes widened.
"Sakshi…"
I held his gaze as I peed into the glass, the liquid golden and warm, filling it nearly to the rim. He watched, lips parted, not blinking.
As he reached out to take it, I stepped back, denying him.
"This isn’t for you to take when you want. I came here to give lunch. That’s all. Not for anything else."
He leaned forward, amused. "Then why fill the glass?"
I set it carefully on the table. "Because it’s a wife’s duty to serve her husband. I won’t let him go thirsty."
With that, I turned and left, not waiting for his reply. The door clicked shut behind me.
Back home, I changed the channel to a loud Tamil movie, lay back on the mattress, and let the fan cool my burning skin. The scene played out on the screen, dramatic and overacted—but none of it compared to the drama unfolding in my own body.
---------------
It was around 5 PM. The golden light of early evening filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. My husband had just finished his coffee and was sprawled across the sofa like a lazy lion, the TV remote balanced on his belly as he flipped through channels with the attention span of a child. Our son crawled around the floor, babbling to himself and playing with his scattered plastic toys.
My husband mentioned casually, between yawns, that he’d leave for his night shift by 7 PM. My ears perked, heart quickening slightly. That gave me just enough of a window—time for something I’d been craving since I woke up.
I moved into the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly ground filter coffee filled the air. I carefully filled two steel tumblers with the steaming liquid, letting the fragrance linger in my senses. One for my husband, which I handed him with the usual pleasantries. The other… that one was special. That was for the man whose scent I could still feel on my skin from days ago. The man who wasn’t sleeping in my bed—but had filled my dreams all night.
I handed the tumbler to my husband and casually said, “I’m going up to clean Ramu’s room. Shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes.”
He nodded absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the TV. "Hmm, okay. Just be back soon. He might start crying if I get up."
“Don’t worry,” I replied with a slight smirk, “he’s already half-asleep.”
I went to the bedroom, closed the door, and immediately my routine changed. I tied my hair neatly, splashed cold water on my face to kill the dullness, dabbed a little talcum at my neck and between my breasts. I adjusted my blouse, tugging it gently so it framed my curves just right. My saree pleats were smoothed, pallu adjusted to dbang low across my chest. I gave myself one last glance in the mirror and picked up the second tumbler.
By 5:30, I was standing outside Ramu’s door. My heart thudded as I raised my hand to knock—but the door was already slightly ajar. I pushed it open quietly, careful not to creak the hinges.
He was asleep. Dbangd in his lungi, his toned chest exposed, one leg dangling off the cot. His arm was slung over his face. The sight was enough to make my throat dry.
I stepped inside quietly, the steel tumbler trembling just a bit in my fingers. I set the coffee on the side table and tiptoed to adjust the corner of the mat, eyes on the floor, pretending not to be overwhelmed by his presence.
Suddenly, a strong hand gripped my wrist.
“Caught you,” he whispered huskily, voice thick with sleep and desire. He yanked me toward him, and I gasped in surprise.
“Ramu!” I hissed, feigning protest. But before I could wriggle free, he pulled me down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around me in a warm, possessive hold.
His body radiated heat, the scent of sleep and skin intoxicating.
“You’re angry?” he murmured, his nose brushing my ear, the tip tracing the shell slowly.
I turned my face away, hiding the smile trying to break across my lips. “You think I’d bring coffee to someone I’m not talking to?”
He chuckled, squeezing my waist, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “You ignored me all day. Wouldn’t even glance at me. My heart was breaking, Sakshi. You’re cruel.”
I smacked his chest lightly, lips twitching. “Don’t act innocent. You know what you said this morning. You were the one being a donkey.”
He shifted beneath me, his fingers drifting down my spine, grazing the base of my back. “What did I say?”
I stared at him, brows raised. “You told me I came running to fuck you—with coffee in my hand.”
He laughed, the sound sending vibrations through my chest. “Was I wrong?”
I tried to pout. “You’re incorrigible.”
He gently tugged at the front of my blouse. “No. I’m just desperate. You in this blouse… this saree... Do you know what you do to me?”
I tried to push him, but my hands landed softly on his chest. He caught my wrist, kissed my palm.
“Pervert,” I whispered, cheeks flushed.
His grin widened. He lifted my pallu and let his fingers skim the curve of my waist. “You smell like talcum and heat. Like temptation.”
I sighed, allowing myself to melt into his warmth. “I just came to give you coffee.”
He turned my face to his, holding my jaw with a tenderness that always caught me off guard. “Then why do you look like you want me to sip you instead?”
My throat tightened. My legs felt heavy. I couldn’t speak.
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips over mine—soft, questioning, not yet a kiss. Just enough to pull me closer, to make me ache. My eyes fluttered shut. The coffee sat forgotten, cooling on the side table as the heat between us ignited into a slow burn neither of us wanted to put out.
And in that quiet room, the day began to shift. Not with words or coffee—but with a breath, a graze, a promise unspoken but deeply understood.
------------
I walked up to his chest, the soft swish of my saree brushing his skin as I straddled his torso, hovering just above him. My pallu veiled his face like a sacred curtain, the folds of my saree and petticoat cloaking him in my scent. His shoulders pressed firm between my thighs, the heat from his breath already teasing my lower lips. I smirked and whispered, "What do you see down there, you dirty old man?"
His voice was muffled but clear, thick with hunger. "I see your sweet, juicy pussy... and I want to eat it until you scream."
I bent down, lowering myself slowly, letting my folds brush over his lips. His mouth latched onto me like a beast starved, kissing my pussy with wet, smacking sounds, his tongue teasing out my slickness.
Then I straightened up, lifted my saree and petticoat, revealing everything to his hungry eyes. "Get ready," I warned with a wicked grin. "There’s something more coming."
Without another word, I began to pee.
A warm stream gushed onto his tongue. He opened his mouth wide, drinking it like a calf under a cow, his throat working hard to swallow every drop. The golden liquid spilled down his cheeks, soaking his neck and chest, but he didn’t stop. He gulped and slurped like a man parched in the desert, and even when it overflowed, he kept trying. Only 75% made it into him—the rest trickled down his skin, soaking the cot. When I finally stopped, he leaned forward, licking the last stray drops from my pussy lips.
I slid forward and sat fully on his chest, my wetness dripping onto him. He looked up at me, smeared and shining, and asked, "Are you satisfied, Sakshi?"
I grinned, bent down, and kissed his forehead gently. "Very," I whispered.
His hand caressed my hip. "What about our first night? When is my goddess finally going to ride me properly?"
I arched an eyebrow, rolling my hips slightly against him. "If you’re lazing around like this, how do you expect it to happen?"
"Then tell me what you want," he said, voice breathless.
I slid my hand behind me, groping through the thin lungi until I found his semi-hard cock. I gave it a firm squeeze. "I want this... all of it." Then I pressed two fingers against his lips and whispered, "And I want this one too."
His cock twitched in my palm.
He chuckled. "Anything else, my queen? All the rest—just tell me what to buy."
I paused, fingers still playing with him. "And what do you want, hmm?"
He pulled me into a tight hug, my breasts mashed against his chest. His voice was low, tender. "Just you, my dear wife. Nothing else."
I leaned into his ear, nipped it playfully, and whispered, "Then you better buy condoms."
He blinked, surprised. "Should I, really?"
"Definitely, my dear husband," I teased.
As I got up, I gave his cock a sharp little pinch through the lungi. "This one’s dangerous. Might make a mother out of me in one night. I better be careful."
He burst out laughing, and I bent down, kissing and biting at his now fully hard cock through the cloth, sending him into a groaning frenzy.
Then I adjusted my saree and headed back to my house, my body still tingling, my heart thudding, and the taste of tomorrow burning on my lips.
---------
I heard a knock at the door around 6:30, the kind that’s soft enough to be casual, but deliberate enough to signal mischief. I was in the kitchen, hands dripping from rinsing the coffee pot, towel tucked into the waist of my saree. Wiping quickly, I moved toward the front door, pulse picking up even before I saw who it was.
The fading orange evening light spilled through the hallway, casting long golden lines across the floor. As I cracked the door just slightly open, trying to appear composed, I felt the heat crawl up my neck.
It was Ramu.
He leaned casually against the frame, his posture careless but charged. The lungi around his hips was slung low, clinging lazily to one side. His chest was bare, still glistening from a recent bath, droplets clinging to his collarbone like sinful ornaments. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends, wild and untamed.
"Going out to buy a few things," he said, his voice slow, warm. But his eyes? They were already all over me—tracking the movement of my chest as I breathed, the curve of my waist, the tension in my lips.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything—but before a word could form, his hand darted forward. Quick. Confident. His fingers slid under my pallu, cupped my breast firmly through the blouse, fingers spreading like he was taking ownership.
My breath caught. A gasp half left my lips, stopped only by years of habit and fear. His hand was warm, insistent, his thumb circling over my nipple until it hardened beneath the fabric. My knees threatened to give way under the shock, the heat, the sheer fucking audacity of it.
And then—
"Sakshi, who is it?"
My husband’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
I stiffened. My heart pounded in my chest, throat dry. My mouth parted in panic—but Ramu didn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers only pressed harder, deliberately dragging his thumb once more over my sensitive nipple, making it strain even more against the tight blouse.
"Sakshi...?"
I could hear him getting up. I turned my head toward the inside of the house, shouting back with every ounce of forced calm I could muster, "It’s just Ramu, he’s going to the shop!"
Before I could retreat or pull away, my son’s voice joined in from behind, innocent and loud. "Ammaaa, come here!"
My entire body tensed. I tried to pull back, but Ramu leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he murmured, "Your tits are so fucking soft right now... just like I remembered. I could stay here squeezing them until your husband walks out."
My eyes widened in alarm. The door was barely open—just one more push, one curious step, and everything would be exposed. But my body? My traitorous body throbbed against his touch, skin heating like I’d stepped into flame.
"Let go," I hissed, teeth clenched, face flushed with fear and craving.
He didn’t let go. Not immediately. He gave one last firm squeeze, his palm molding the soft flesh, before finally letting his hand drop with infuriating slowness. "You love the risk, don’t lie," he whispered again, the smirk in his voice undeniable.
I shoved his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. My eyes darted up and down the corridor. "Go. Before someone really sees you, idiot!"
He grinned like the devil. "You’ll think about that touch all night. You’ll squeeze yourself later, pretending it’s my hand."
With that, he turned and sauntered off down the corridor, each step slow and exaggerated, as if daring me to watch.
I closed the door carefully and pressed my back to it, the cold wood grounding my overheated skin. My heart was thudding so loudly I was sure it echoed through the walls. My nipple still throbbed under my blouse, the fabric now slightly damp from sweat and his touch.
From the living room, my husband’s voice came again, casual and distracted. "What did he want?"
I forced a deep breath, adjusted my pallu, and replied, "Just... going out for some groceries."
But even as I walked back into the living room, the feel of Ramu’s fingers burned like a brand over my breast. The whisper still lingered, curling up my spine like smoke I couldn’t shake. And I knew I’d press my own hand to that same spot later, in the quiet of the night, and imagine his voice calling me filthy all over again.
----------------
My hubby was ready to leave by 7 pm. He had his bag slung over one shoulder and was adjusting his belt absentmindedly, muttering about traffic and punch-in time. I handed him his lunch box with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, my heart thudding faster with every tick of the clock. Because tonight wasn’t his night—it was ours.
As he laced up his shoes, I let out a sigh and muttered just loud enough, "You’re leaving again... just when the evening gets peaceful."
He glanced up, amused. "What’s that? Missing me already?"
I shrugged, crossing my arms, pretending to pout. "Of course. Who else will toss the remote around, leave socks everywhere, and demand tea in the middle of my serial?"
He laughed. "Well, I’m sure our moody upstairs tenant can give you company. Ramu won’t let you be lonely."
I raised an eyebrow, hiding my smirk. "That old man? He barely speaks three words a day. More likely he’ll complain about the fan being too loud or my anklet making noise."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Exactly. Harmless. He’s too grumpy to be interested in anything."
"Hmm," I murmured with mock agreement. "You’re right. Too grumpy. And yet... strangely present."
He didn’t catch the twist in my tone. With a final pat on his pocket to check for keys, he leaned forward and gave me a peck on the forehead. "Be good, Sakshi. I’ll call you around 11."
I nodded, watching him step out. As the door shut behind him, I didn’t linger at the threshold. I moved through the house like I was shedding skin, switching off lights, tidying up toys, my mind already upstairs.
Then I began my own ritual.
I locked the bathroom door, stripped slowly. The cold tiles sent a sharp thrill up my legs. I picked up the razor, my movements practiced and precise—underarms first, then legs, then the fine fuzz at my nape. And finally, between my thighs. Smooth. Bare. Ready.
I poured warm water into a copper bowl, mixed in a few drops of jasmine and sandalwood oil. The fragrance lifted around me like a cocoon. I lathered gently, massaging it into my skin, the scent of the oil clinging to every inch. The bath was not just cleansing—it was ceremonial.
Once dried, I rubbed a fine paste of turmeric and milk around my elbows, knees, even behind my ears. Then came the rose water splash, the talcum dusted under my breasts and between my thighs.
I picked out my lingerie with purpose—a soft crimson lace bra that cupped my breasts snugly, pushing them up without effort. The matching panty was thin, silky, and sat low on my hips, exposing the freshly smoothed skin above.
In front of the mirror, I kohl-lined my eyes until they looked deeper, darker. A touch of vermilion on my lips, a dot of sandalwood on my collarbone, and the faintest trace of perfume between my breasts.
By 7:30, I heard Ramu’s familiar footsteps above. Heavy. Sure. Dominant. My ears picked up the slight drag of his slipper as he walked past the window and paused.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to.
From outside, he smirked through the window grill and said in that husky tone that always made my knees weak, "Come to my room, Sakshi. I've been waiting."
Ten minutes later, I climbed the stairs. My pulse was racing, my palms slightly damp. I barely raised my hand to knock when the door opened from within. Ramu stood behind it, shirtless, eyes gleaming. The second I stepped in, he pulled me into his arms from behind, his lips landing on my cheek, then my neck. His stubble scratched me deliciously.
I laughed, wiggling away just enough to look over my shoulder. "How did you know it was me, without even looking?"
He grinned wickedly. "Even the wind wouldn’t dare sound like you. But it was your anklets, darling. I’ve memorized the music of your steps."
The room was faintly fragrant with incense and the ripeness of fresh fruits. Two bags sat on the table—apples, oranges, bananas—and next to them, a heap of jasmine flowers, bundled neatly like temple garlands. My breath caught.
He opened his bureau with flair, like he was revealing treasure, and pulled out a vibrant red chiffon saree. The color burned in the dim light.
"Wear this tonight," he said, eyes roaming over me hungrily. "It will stick to you like my hands."
I bit my lip, took the saree, and nodded. "Give me fifteen minutes."
I slipped back downstairs. The clock neared 9 pm when he came to my house, this time softer, calmer. He sat cross-legged on the floor, playing gently with my son, stacking plastic blocks while the little one giggled. The image should’ve been domestic, but the undercurrent between us turned every glance into foreplay.
Dinner was quiet. Tense with unspoken anticipation. The clink of steel plates, the clatter of serving spoons. I didn’t speak much—neither did he. But our eyes? They had already said everything.
After cleaning up, I went for my bath. The cold water couldn’t kill the heat in my veins. I scrubbed gently, washed away every trace of the day, and emerged into the night.
The red saree waited for me, its folds dbangd across my bed like a lover’s arms. I wore it slow, tying each hook with care. My skin tingled as the fabric slid over it. Then I adorned my hair with the jasmine garland, twisted into a soft braid.
In the kitchen, I warmed milk, added spoon after spoon of sugar—sweetness to balance the fire building in me.
The glass trembled slightly in my hand as I walked upstairs again. The night wasn’t just beginning.
It was about to burn.
Her body still remembered.
Every time she crossed her legs, or leaned too far back, the soreness inside reminded her of him. Ramu. That first time had undone something deep in her. A part of her that had been starved, quietly howling behind the veil of routine, had finally been fed.
She closed her eyes.
She could still feel it—his touch, the first brush of his lips on her navel, the way his voice had dropped when he whispered filth into her ear. He hadn’t just claimed her body; he had awakened it. Each thrust had drawn cries from her she never thought herself capable of making. It wasn’t just physical—it was possession. And the worst part? She wanted to be possessed again. Needed it.
Sakshi shifted in her seat, thighs pressing tight. The thought made her wet all over again. The evening’s peace felt fragile, like glass waiting to shatter. Her gaze drifted toward the bedroom door, where her husband lay napping before his night shift. Unaware. Unworthy.
She sipped her tea absently, but her thoughts wandered to what she’d wear tonight. Should she go subtle? A cotton saree, loose blouse, easy hooks? Or something louder—silk that clung, a bra that strained under the weight of what he now worshipped? She smiled to herself. No matter what she chose, he’d strip it away anyway.
The hunger wasn’t just his. It had awakened in her too.
In the kitchen, she lit the stove, more for distraction than cooking. Her hands moved by habit—dal, rice, a side of pickle—but her mind replayed every filthy word, every sloppy kiss, every deep push that had made her bite into her own palm to keep from screaming.
The light dimmed slowly. Her son babbled something from the floor, and she bent to pat his head gently, fingers trailing through his hair. Her face softened. This was her life. And yet… there was another life now. One that started every time she walked through that old wooden door upstairs.
She glanced at the clock. His dinner time was nearing.
Her pulse quickened.
She didn’t know what would happen tonight. But her body already knew what it wanted to happen.
-------
The kitchen was full of cumin and steam, the dal bubbling lazily on the back burner. Sakshi stood barefoot on the cool tile, her blue cotton saree tied low on her hips, blouse clinging from the humidity, a light sheen of sweat across her back. Her hair was loosely pinned, a few wet strands sticking to her neck. She didn’t hear the door open.
But she felt him.
A familiar warmth behind her, the distinct breath, the sudden stillness of air—Ramu had entered without a word, his presence sharp and heavy like storm clouds rolling in. She didn’t turn.
“I heard someone at the door,” she said, already knowing.
“It was me,” came the deep reply. “Tired from today’s work. Thought you might spoil me with some coffee.”
She laughed softly, eyes still on the TV, one arm wrapped loosely around her toddler. “Tired? Just for that?”
He smirked. “Tired, yes. But I didn’t say I wasn’t hard.”
She blinked, caught mid-smile.
He stepped forward, took her hand and guided it to his cock through his lungi. She felt it swell under her palm, growing firm with her touch. Heat surged between her thighs.
“Ramu…” she whispered, voice trembling with mischief.
He followed her into the kitchen. She turned with a teasing glare. “I thought you came to see me because you wanted more.”
“I do,” he said, pressing in close, breath hot at her nape. “More of you. Every evening, every part.”
He tugged at the pallu of her saree, lifting it along with her petticoat. His hand landed with a soft smack on her ass, fingers spreading possessively.
She gasped, biting her lip. “Ramu, we’re in the kitchen…”
“Perfect,” he growled. “I want to taste you where you feed others.”
His fingers trailed down her ass, slid between her thighs and began to rub the lips of her pussy with slow, teasing strokes. Her knees buckled slightly.
“Ramu…” she moaned again, weaker.
He slipped one finger inside her, curling it with precision, feeling her pulse around him. She clutched the counter with both hands, rocking against his touch.
Then he turned her, gently but firmly, until she faced him. He knelt in front of her like a worshipper.
Lifting her left leg over his shoulder, he buried his face between her thighs.
Sakshi let out a whimper, fingers finding his scalp.
He kissed her pussy like it was fruit—soft licks, firm presses, teasing strokes with the tip of his tongue. The suction pulled moans from her lips she didn’t know she could make.
No one had ever done this to her. Not her husband. Not in her wildest dreams.
She leaned forward, panting, and pulled his ear close.
“Let’s move to the bedroom,” she whispered.
He stood, eyes burning with lust, and silently slipped out of the kitchen.
She adjusted her saree, heart thudding, and followed seconds later—wet, throbbing, desperate for more.
------------
I then moved to the hall where my son was playing with his toys and watching cartoons. His giggles echoed in the room like bells—pure, innocent, untouched by the weight of the secrets I now carried. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and the last meal I’d cooked. I crouched beside him for a moment, running my fingers through his hair, watching his chubby hands grasp blocks with fascination. I kissed his forehead, murmuring a soft promise I didn’t intend to break: “Amma will be right back.”
There was no guilt. Only the heady thrill of contrast. One door away, a child’s world. Another door, mine—a woman’s hunger unchecked.
I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind me with exaggerated care. The thud was soft, final.
Ramu was there, already waiting—bare-chested, lounging like a king without his throne, the creases of the bedsheet clinging to his back. His lungi was hitched carelessly, the promise of what lay beneath pressing lightly against the cloth. His eyes gleamed under the ceiling fan's lazy rotation.
"My dear wife," he said, voice thick with mischief as he stretched one arm behind his head. "Don’t make this old man more tired than he already is."
I didn’t answer at once. I let my hips sway as I approached, the rhythmic pull of the saree around my waist tightening with each step. The air around us pulsed with heat. As I reached him, I bent forward slightly, my breasts brushing against his chest. "Old?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "This doesn’t feel old."
With a teasing smile, I slid my hand under the folds of his lungi. His cock was warm, thick, and already beginning to harden. I let my fingers wrap around it, squeezing gently, marveling at how quickly he responded to just my touch. It pulsed in my hand like it remembered me.
"Seems your cock is more energetic than your tongue," I teased, flicking my tongue across his earlobe. "But don’t worry. I’m not going to drain it yet. I want every single drop stored and ready for when I ride you."
He groaned under his breath, his hips lifting involuntarily into my palm. "You’re going to kill me, woman. One day I’ll die with a smile on my lips and your scent in my nose."
I chuckled, deep and slow, my other hand now resting against his firm chest. "Then die well. I want to watch you unravel."
I gave his cock one last slow stroke, squeezing the base before letting go. His shaft twitched in protest. I pulled back, slowly, deliberately, dragging my saree pallu along his thigh. The heat between us was a living thing now, stretching invisible threads of want from one breath to the next.
The look in his eyes was worship and desperation rolled into one. As if he’d waited his whole life to be undone by me again.
And I had every intention to do exactly that—slowly, teasingly, completely.
-------------------
"Now I want the energy of your tongue," I whispered, voice thick with heat. The moment the words left my lips, he obeyed—his tongue darted out, sliding up and down his lips with deliberate slowness, as if teasing me with the promise of what was to come.
I grinned and placed my hand firmly on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed. He fell back with a low chuckle, eyes glued to me with worship and want. As he lay there, I stood before him, unwrapping my saree slowly, layer by layer, letting it slide down my body with sensuous grace. My hips swayed in a rhythm that was less dance, more seduction. The silk whispered against my skin as it pooled around my feet, a puddle of desire.
His breath grew heavier, deeper, and more ragged with each slow, teasing move I made. I held his gaze as I unhooked the blouse slowly, one button at a time, each pop of fabric echoing louder than necessary, punctuating our silence with soft provocations. Then I threw it onto his face with a smirk. He caught it, inhaled it deeply as if it were scented with pure lust itself, eyes burning brighter with hunger. I turned around deliberately, letting my bare back tease him, displaying the curve of my spine, the soft indentations of my waist, then walked to the bed, each step calculated, every motion a silent command.
He reached forward eagerly, fingers fumbling slightly with excitement at the clasp of my bra. He leaned in closer, surprising me as his teeth found the string of my petticoat. With an enticing growl, he pulled at it gently but firmly, the sensation of his teeth grazing my skin sending delightful shivers cascading down my spine. My petticoat fell effortlessly, joining the pile of discarded clothing at our feet. Now standing fully nude, I reveled under his ravenous stare, feeling powerful and worshipped.
“You’re going to kill me like this,” he growled, voice rough and filled with restrained desperation.
I crawled onto the bed slowly, deliberately, like a tigress stalking her prey, eyes locked onto his with predatory intensity. I placed my knees on either side of his torso and leaned down until my lips brushed his ear, whispering softly yet commandingly, “Then die with your face buried in heaven. Lick me.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. His head disappeared eagerly between my thighs, and I gasped audibly as his tongue expertly explored my folds, tracing every line from top to tip, savoring every inch of me. His tongue was masterful—soft, teasing strokes that gave way to firm, deep, purposeful swipes. He kissed and bit gently at my sensitive flesh, eliciting a sharp moan as my fingers dived desperately into his hair, guiding and urging him.
“Fuck, Ramu… just like that,” I gasped, grinding my hips shamelessly against his mouth.
I pulled his head tighter to my dripping core, smothering him in the warmth of my arousal. He responded like a man starved, licking me furiously, passionately. I shifted, straddling his chest more completely, allowing his tongue the perfect angle to delve deeper, to explore fully. His eyes became half-lidded, drunk and intoxicated by my taste, his moans vibrating through me, heightening every sensation.
I rolled my hips rhythmically over his mouth, his tongue plunging deep into my wet heat with each sensual movement. He opened his mouth wider, sucking greedily at my lips, tugging me closer possessively with both hands firmly gripping my ass. The heat between us built fast and furious, driving us closer to an explosive release.
He didn’t stop. He devoured me with relentless hunger, passion radiating from every deliberate motion of his tongue.
And I surrendered fully, letting him consume me.
I rode his face, the way he once confessed he dreamt of, moaning loudly, writhing shamelessly, completely undone and overtaken by nothing but the powerful, skilled energy of his tongue. My body shook, pleasure building to the brink, every nerve ignited, every sensation heightened beyond reason.
He was performing wonders upon me, each lick, each kiss sending electric pulses through my veins, pulling me closer and closer to ecstasy.
After a few intense moments, my entire body stiffened, a tremor surged through me, and I felt an overwhelming wave crash over me. I squirted unexpectedly, coating his mouth and chin generously with my release. He didn't flinch or pull back; instead, he groaned deeply, lapping hungrily, savoring every drop as if it were the nectar he'd long been craving.
Panting, I watched him lick his lips, tasting me, his expression one of deep satisfaction and pride. Gently, we both rose from the bed, our bodies tingling from the shared intimacy. He smiled warmly, his eyes gleaming with fulfilled desire, and quietly returned to his room. I gathered my scattered clothing, dressing slowly, my mind replaying every electrifying detail, the echoes of pleasure lingering on my skin.
--------------------------
After I suddenly heard my hubby calling me,
I quickly adjusted my saree, smoothing it down hastily, and hurried toward the hall window. My heart skipped when I saw him waving at me with an unusually cheerful smile from outside. Curious, I opened the window wider, forcing a neutral expression.
"Guess what?" he shouted enthusiastically, his eyes shining like a fool. "They’ve given me permanent night shifts—for the next few weeks!"
I blinked. Permanent? Night shifts? He was grinning like he’d just received a promotion. I frowned.
"Why are you smiling like that? Is working all night and sleeping all day something to celebrate now?" I asked, my voice laced with exaggerated annoyance.
He scratched his head, taken aback. "I thought you’d be happy. You always say I’m in the way during the day."
"So you decided for me, did you? Without even asking what I think? Typical," I muttered, narrowing my eyes.
"It’s good money, Sakshi. Overtime. I thought it was a good thing for us."
"For us? Or for your sleep cycle?" I snapped, slamming the window shut more forcefully than necessary.
Inside, I fumed. Not because of the shift. But because he dared to act like this was some generous act. He always thought he knew what was best. But tonight, I’d decide what I wanted.
Returning to Ramu’s room, my steps slowed, more deliberate. My pulse raced.
He was there, eating dinner, the empty jug in his hand like a signal. He looked up, playful hunger in his eyes. "Care to refill my drink, my dear?"
I sat beside him, brushing my thigh against his. "One good news, one bad. Which first?"
He leaned in. "Bad first."
"Hubby’s not leaving tomorrow morning."
His lips thinned, disappointment flashing.
"Good news?"
I slowly lifted my saree, smirking. Holding the jug beneath my pussy, I released a warm stream into it while his eyes drank in the view. I leaned close to his ear.
"The good news is—night shifts start tomorrow. Our real nights begin."
His grin returned, wolfish.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "you’ll be mine."
"And you’ll be owned," I murmured, handing him the filled jug, brushing his hand with mine.
Back home, I found my husband arranging his clothes for the next day. He looked up, hopeful. "Want to sleep early? We can... you know..."
I crossed my arms. "Oh, now you want attention? After dropping night shift news like it’s a gift?"
He hesitated. "I didn’t mean—"
"Exactly. You didn’t think. So don’t expect cuddles or anything else. I’m not in the mood to be treated like an afterthought."
He sighed, defeated. "You’re always angry lately."
"And you’re always clueless. Good night."
I turned away, slipped into my side of the bed, and let silence wrap the rest of the night in a bitter quiet. My body throbbed—not for him, never for him. But for the one who would have me tomorrow And only him.
------------
Next morning, as usual, I woke up around 6:45. The room was still blanketed in a soft, cool hush, the kind of morning silence that held the echo of dreams. I slid out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb the small form of my son snuggled beside me, and padded to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face, I stared into the mirror a little longer than necessary. My eyes carried a gleam they hadn’t known in years.
Wrapping my saree tight around my waist, I headed to the kitchen. The movements were muscle memory—lighting the stove, boiling milk, scooping out the coffee powder. As I stirred the decoction into the milk, the rich aroma enveloped me like a secret. My lips curled slowly.
I remembered.
Ramu. My second man. My secret indulgence. The one who had torn through the monotony of my life like a monsoon breaking summer heat. My body still pulsed with the memory of his mouth, his grip, the way he looked at me like I was the only truth in a world of lies.
And he hadn’t had his coffee yet.
A strange thrill shot through me as I filled another steel tumbler, this one more carefully, more deliberately than the first. I paused for a moment, the steam rising like whispered temptation against my lips. Without a sound, I slipped out the back door, glancing once over my shoulder to make sure my husband was still snoring away.
Upstairs, the air was still. I tapped lightly on Ramu’s door, nerves buzzing like live wire beneath my skin. Once. Twice.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Hair disheveled, eyes bleary but alert the moment he saw me, lungi hanging loose over one shoulder. The smell of sleep still clung to him, and it stirred something primal in me.
His lips curled into that crooked, devilish grin. “What’s this? Couldn’t wait to fuck me again, is it? Came running like a desperate housewife—with coffee?”
I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks flushed. “Is this how you talk to a woman bringing you hot coffee at dawn? Shameless mongrel.”
I shoved the tumbler into his hand with a huff, spun on my heel and began descending the stairs.
“Arrey, come on now! I was teasing,” he called out, half-laughing, half-apologetic.
Let him stew. He’d learn.
Back in the kitchen, I poured a second coffee, this one for the man who bore my name, if not my passion. I walked into the bedroom, placing the cup beside the bed.
He stirred, yawned, stretched lazily. “You’re up early. Smells like sambhar already.”
“Some of us work before the sun rises,” I said, not unkindly, but with an edge.
He took the coffee and gave me a soft smile. “Thanks, Sakshi.”
As he went to bathe, I turned to my duties. The idli batter was just right. I steamed the idlis and set the table. By the time he returned, fresh and towel-clad, everything was plated and perfect. I handed him his breakfast—extra chutney, extra care.
As he dug in, I felt a mischievous heat bloom inside me.
I returned to the kitchen, took another plate and spooned in idlis and sambhar—this time with more focus, more flourish. Each item was placed precisely. Garnished. Decorated. Then I walked back into the living room.
“Do me a favor. Take this to Ramu. He must be hungry.”
He blinked. “Now? Should I?”
“Why not? You said you wanted to know the tenants better.” I offered the plate with a syrupy smile.
Still unsure, he took it and walked out. I followed to the window, peeking through the curtain. He knocked. A pause. Ramu opened the door.
He didn’t say a word.
Five minutes later, my husband returned, his face tense.
“What happened?” I asked, feigning confusion.
“He didn’t even say thank you,” he muttered. “Just took the plate. Didn’t look at me properly.”
“Welcome to my world,” I replied dryly. “You sulk after one try. Imagine dealing with that all the time.”
He grunted, clearly annoyed, and sat back down with his newspaper.
Then after a pause, still flipping a page distractedly, he said, “He wasn’t like this before.”
I looked up from wiping the kitchen counter. “Who?”
“Ramu. That man upstairs. When he moved in, he used to smile. Asked about our son, helped me with the gas cylinder once. I even remember him laughing when I slipped on the stairs.”
I chuckled faintly. “That does sound like him.”
“But now?” He shook his head. “He’s like a stone. Never smiles. Doesn’t say anything. It’s like he hates the world.”
I poured some more water into the rice cooker and said, without looking up, “Maybe the world gave him nothing to smile about.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
I leaned against the fridge, letting my voice drop just slightly. “He lost his wife. His daughter moved abroad, barely calls. He wakes up to silence and eats alone. That kind of solitude—it stains a man.”
My husband seemed uncomfortable. “Still. He could be civil.”
“Sure,” I said. “But we only see the result. Not the years that made it.”
He went quiet for a while, staring at his coffee again, as if trying to see through it. “You talk like you know him well.”
I looked him straight in the eye, a soft smile playing on my lips. “Maybe I just understand what silence does to people.”
He nodded slowly, uncertainly, and returned to his paper.
I let him stew. My son had begun fussing, so I moved on to feeding him, wiping his face, changing his clothes, humming lullabies I barely paid attention to. My mind was already upstairs.
Afterward, I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, wiped the counter, and loaded the washing machine with the morning’s laundry. The hum of domestic life returned. But under the surface, I simmered.
By 11, I was freshly bathed, wrapped in a bright yellow saree that clung lovingly to my curves. As I stepped out onto the terrace to hang the wet clothes, the sunlight spilled over me like a blessing. My pallu flared in the breeze, my bare waist kissed by warmth.
The world saw a dutiful wife.
But I knew the truth.
This day was only just beginning.
----------------
My husband was snoring lightly in the bedroom, sprawled across the mattress in a pose that screamed ignorance and ease. I stepped out onto the terrace, a basket of wet clothes in hand, the scent of detergent mixing with the late morning breeze. My yellow saree clung tightly to my skin, the pallu teasing at my waist as I clipped each piece to the line.
That’s when I heard the door creak.
Ramu stepped out from his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, lungi carelessly tied, chest bare. He looked at me, hesitated, then slowly approached the railing, keeping his voice low.
"Sakshi…? Listen, about earlier—"
I didn’t turn. Didn’t even glance at him. I simply adjusted my blouse, letting the tight fabric strain ever so slightly over my chest, and leaned forward to pin the final saree on the line. The blouse hugged my breasts, the curve of my hip peeked beneath the pallu, all while my eyes stayed focused on the clothes in front of me.
Ramu shifted uncomfortably. "I didn’t mean to say it like that. I was just joking, yaar. Don’t stay angry. Please."
Still silent. I picked up the empty basket and walked away without acknowledging him, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind me. Not with force—but with intent. Just enough to let him know I wasn’t pleased. But also enough to let him stew in the tease I left behind.
Back inside, the house was warm with the scent of tamarind and coconut oil. I moved into the kitchen, setting the rice on low flame and flipping the dosas with swift efficiency. My husband stirred from the bedroom and wandered into the living room, yawning.
"Lunch ready?" he asked, plopping on the sofa.
"Almost. Why don’t you take some to Ramu’s room today?"
He frowned. "No way. After how he looked at me yesterday? Didn’t even say thank you. I’m not stepping into his room again."
I shrugged. "Fine, I’ll go."
He didn’t argue. I served his plate first, letting the sambar steam rise and fog my glasses. Then I sat with my son, feeding him soft idli pieces dipped in ghee and sugar, wiping his mouth after each messy bite. By 2 PM, both were full and dozing.
I plated a separate meal for Ramu—more sambar, an extra spoon of pickle—and carried it upstairs. I knocked once before opening. He was sitting shirtless, freshly bathed, his hair wet and combed back, like he had been waiting.
I walked in, placed the plate on the table without meeting his eyes, and turned to leave.
He glanced toward the jug. "You didn’t give me any water."
I paused. The jug was full, untouched.
"You didn’t drink it," I said, my tone clipped.
He smiled softly. "My wife didn’t serve it. So how could I drink?"
The nerve.
Without a word, I picked up the empty steel tumbler beside the jug, stood still for a second, then slowly lifted the front of my saree. His eyes widened.
"Sakshi…"
I held his gaze as I peed into the glass, the liquid golden and warm, filling it nearly to the rim. He watched, lips parted, not blinking.
As he reached out to take it, I stepped back, denying him.
"This isn’t for you to take when you want. I came here to give lunch. That’s all. Not for anything else."
He leaned forward, amused. "Then why fill the glass?"
I set it carefully on the table. "Because it’s a wife’s duty to serve her husband. I won’t let him go thirsty."
With that, I turned and left, not waiting for his reply. The door clicked shut behind me.
Back home, I changed the channel to a loud Tamil movie, lay back on the mattress, and let the fan cool my burning skin. The scene played out on the screen, dramatic and overacted—but none of it compared to the drama unfolding in my own body.
---------------
It was around 5 PM. The golden light of early evening filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. My husband had just finished his coffee and was sprawled across the sofa like a lazy lion, the TV remote balanced on his belly as he flipped through channels with the attention span of a child. Our son crawled around the floor, babbling to himself and playing with his scattered plastic toys.
My husband mentioned casually, between yawns, that he’d leave for his night shift by 7 PM. My ears perked, heart quickening slightly. That gave me just enough of a window—time for something I’d been craving since I woke up.
I moved into the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly ground filter coffee filled the air. I carefully filled two steel tumblers with the steaming liquid, letting the fragrance linger in my senses. One for my husband, which I handed him with the usual pleasantries. The other… that one was special. That was for the man whose scent I could still feel on my skin from days ago. The man who wasn’t sleeping in my bed—but had filled my dreams all night.
I handed the tumbler to my husband and casually said, “I’m going up to clean Ramu’s room. Shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes.”
He nodded absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the TV. "Hmm, okay. Just be back soon. He might start crying if I get up."
“Don’t worry,” I replied with a slight smirk, “he’s already half-asleep.”
I went to the bedroom, closed the door, and immediately my routine changed. I tied my hair neatly, splashed cold water on my face to kill the dullness, dabbed a little talcum at my neck and between my breasts. I adjusted my blouse, tugging it gently so it framed my curves just right. My saree pleats were smoothed, pallu adjusted to dbang low across my chest. I gave myself one last glance in the mirror and picked up the second tumbler.
By 5:30, I was standing outside Ramu’s door. My heart thudded as I raised my hand to knock—but the door was already slightly ajar. I pushed it open quietly, careful not to creak the hinges.
He was asleep. Dbangd in his lungi, his toned chest exposed, one leg dangling off the cot. His arm was slung over his face. The sight was enough to make my throat dry.
I stepped inside quietly, the steel tumbler trembling just a bit in my fingers. I set the coffee on the side table and tiptoed to adjust the corner of the mat, eyes on the floor, pretending not to be overwhelmed by his presence.
Suddenly, a strong hand gripped my wrist.
“Caught you,” he whispered huskily, voice thick with sleep and desire. He yanked me toward him, and I gasped in surprise.
“Ramu!” I hissed, feigning protest. But before I could wriggle free, he pulled me down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around me in a warm, possessive hold.
His body radiated heat, the scent of sleep and skin intoxicating.
“You’re angry?” he murmured, his nose brushing my ear, the tip tracing the shell slowly.
I turned my face away, hiding the smile trying to break across my lips. “You think I’d bring coffee to someone I’m not talking to?”
He chuckled, squeezing my waist, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “You ignored me all day. Wouldn’t even glance at me. My heart was breaking, Sakshi. You’re cruel.”
I smacked his chest lightly, lips twitching. “Don’t act innocent. You know what you said this morning. You were the one being a donkey.”
He shifted beneath me, his fingers drifting down my spine, grazing the base of my back. “What did I say?”
I stared at him, brows raised. “You told me I came running to fuck you—with coffee in my hand.”
He laughed, the sound sending vibrations through my chest. “Was I wrong?”
I tried to pout. “You’re incorrigible.”
He gently tugged at the front of my blouse. “No. I’m just desperate. You in this blouse… this saree... Do you know what you do to me?”
I tried to push him, but my hands landed softly on his chest. He caught my wrist, kissed my palm.
“Pervert,” I whispered, cheeks flushed.
His grin widened. He lifted my pallu and let his fingers skim the curve of my waist. “You smell like talcum and heat. Like temptation.”
I sighed, allowing myself to melt into his warmth. “I just came to give you coffee.”
He turned my face to his, holding my jaw with a tenderness that always caught me off guard. “Then why do you look like you want me to sip you instead?”
My throat tightened. My legs felt heavy. I couldn’t speak.
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips over mine—soft, questioning, not yet a kiss. Just enough to pull me closer, to make me ache. My eyes fluttered shut. The coffee sat forgotten, cooling on the side table as the heat between us ignited into a slow burn neither of us wanted to put out.
And in that quiet room, the day began to shift. Not with words or coffee—but with a breath, a graze, a promise unspoken but deeply understood.
------------
I walked up to his chest, the soft swish of my saree brushing his skin as I straddled his torso, hovering just above him. My pallu veiled his face like a sacred curtain, the folds of my saree and petticoat cloaking him in my scent. His shoulders pressed firm between my thighs, the heat from his breath already teasing my lower lips. I smirked and whispered, "What do you see down there, you dirty old man?"
His voice was muffled but clear, thick with hunger. "I see your sweet, juicy pussy... and I want to eat it until you scream."
I bent down, lowering myself slowly, letting my folds brush over his lips. His mouth latched onto me like a beast starved, kissing my pussy with wet, smacking sounds, his tongue teasing out my slickness.
Then I straightened up, lifted my saree and petticoat, revealing everything to his hungry eyes. "Get ready," I warned with a wicked grin. "There’s something more coming."
Without another word, I began to pee.
A warm stream gushed onto his tongue. He opened his mouth wide, drinking it like a calf under a cow, his throat working hard to swallow every drop. The golden liquid spilled down his cheeks, soaking his neck and chest, but he didn’t stop. He gulped and slurped like a man parched in the desert, and even when it overflowed, he kept trying. Only 75% made it into him—the rest trickled down his skin, soaking the cot. When I finally stopped, he leaned forward, licking the last stray drops from my pussy lips.
I slid forward and sat fully on his chest, my wetness dripping onto him. He looked up at me, smeared and shining, and asked, "Are you satisfied, Sakshi?"
I grinned, bent down, and kissed his forehead gently. "Very," I whispered.
His hand caressed my hip. "What about our first night? When is my goddess finally going to ride me properly?"
I arched an eyebrow, rolling my hips slightly against him. "If you’re lazing around like this, how do you expect it to happen?"
"Then tell me what you want," he said, voice breathless.
I slid my hand behind me, groping through the thin lungi until I found his semi-hard cock. I gave it a firm squeeze. "I want this... all of it." Then I pressed two fingers against his lips and whispered, "And I want this one too."
His cock twitched in my palm.
He chuckled. "Anything else, my queen? All the rest—just tell me what to buy."
I paused, fingers still playing with him. "And what do you want, hmm?"
He pulled me into a tight hug, my breasts mashed against his chest. His voice was low, tender. "Just you, my dear wife. Nothing else."
I leaned into his ear, nipped it playfully, and whispered, "Then you better buy condoms."
He blinked, surprised. "Should I, really?"
"Definitely, my dear husband," I teased.
As I got up, I gave his cock a sharp little pinch through the lungi. "This one’s dangerous. Might make a mother out of me in one night. I better be careful."
He burst out laughing, and I bent down, kissing and biting at his now fully hard cock through the cloth, sending him into a groaning frenzy.
Then I adjusted my saree and headed back to my house, my body still tingling, my heart thudding, and the taste of tomorrow burning on my lips.
---------
I heard a knock at the door around 6:30, the kind that’s soft enough to be casual, but deliberate enough to signal mischief. I was in the kitchen, hands dripping from rinsing the coffee pot, towel tucked into the waist of my saree. Wiping quickly, I moved toward the front door, pulse picking up even before I saw who it was.
The fading orange evening light spilled through the hallway, casting long golden lines across the floor. As I cracked the door just slightly open, trying to appear composed, I felt the heat crawl up my neck.
It was Ramu.
He leaned casually against the frame, his posture careless but charged. The lungi around his hips was slung low, clinging lazily to one side. His chest was bare, still glistening from a recent bath, droplets clinging to his collarbone like sinful ornaments. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends, wild and untamed.
"Going out to buy a few things," he said, his voice slow, warm. But his eyes? They were already all over me—tracking the movement of my chest as I breathed, the curve of my waist, the tension in my lips.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything—but before a word could form, his hand darted forward. Quick. Confident. His fingers slid under my pallu, cupped my breast firmly through the blouse, fingers spreading like he was taking ownership.
My breath caught. A gasp half left my lips, stopped only by years of habit and fear. His hand was warm, insistent, his thumb circling over my nipple until it hardened beneath the fabric. My knees threatened to give way under the shock, the heat, the sheer fucking audacity of it.
And then—
"Sakshi, who is it?"
My husband’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
I stiffened. My heart pounded in my chest, throat dry. My mouth parted in panic—but Ramu didn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers only pressed harder, deliberately dragging his thumb once more over my sensitive nipple, making it strain even more against the tight blouse.
"Sakshi...?"
I could hear him getting up. I turned my head toward the inside of the house, shouting back with every ounce of forced calm I could muster, "It’s just Ramu, he’s going to the shop!"
Before I could retreat or pull away, my son’s voice joined in from behind, innocent and loud. "Ammaaa, come here!"
My entire body tensed. I tried to pull back, but Ramu leaned in, his lips brushing my ear as he murmured, "Your tits are so fucking soft right now... just like I remembered. I could stay here squeezing them until your husband walks out."
My eyes widened in alarm. The door was barely open—just one more push, one curious step, and everything would be exposed. But my body? My traitorous body throbbed against his touch, skin heating like I’d stepped into flame.
"Let go," I hissed, teeth clenched, face flushed with fear and craving.
He didn’t let go. Not immediately. He gave one last firm squeeze, his palm molding the soft flesh, before finally letting his hand drop with infuriating slowness. "You love the risk, don’t lie," he whispered again, the smirk in his voice undeniable.
I shoved his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. My eyes darted up and down the corridor. "Go. Before someone really sees you, idiot!"
He grinned like the devil. "You’ll think about that touch all night. You’ll squeeze yourself later, pretending it’s my hand."
With that, he turned and sauntered off down the corridor, each step slow and exaggerated, as if daring me to watch.
I closed the door carefully and pressed my back to it, the cold wood grounding my overheated skin. My heart was thudding so loudly I was sure it echoed through the walls. My nipple still throbbed under my blouse, the fabric now slightly damp from sweat and his touch.
From the living room, my husband’s voice came again, casual and distracted. "What did he want?"
I forced a deep breath, adjusted my pallu, and replied, "Just... going out for some groceries."
But even as I walked back into the living room, the feel of Ramu’s fingers burned like a brand over my breast. The whisper still lingered, curling up my spine like smoke I couldn’t shake. And I knew I’d press my own hand to that same spot later, in the quiet of the night, and imagine his voice calling me filthy all over again.
----------------
My hubby was ready to leave by 7 pm. He had his bag slung over one shoulder and was adjusting his belt absentmindedly, muttering about traffic and punch-in time. I handed him his lunch box with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, my heart thudding faster with every tick of the clock. Because tonight wasn’t his night—it was ours.
As he laced up his shoes, I let out a sigh and muttered just loud enough, "You’re leaving again... just when the evening gets peaceful."
He glanced up, amused. "What’s that? Missing me already?"
I shrugged, crossing my arms, pretending to pout. "Of course. Who else will toss the remote around, leave socks everywhere, and demand tea in the middle of my serial?"
He laughed. "Well, I’m sure our moody upstairs tenant can give you company. Ramu won’t let you be lonely."
I raised an eyebrow, hiding my smirk. "That old man? He barely speaks three words a day. More likely he’ll complain about the fan being too loud or my anklet making noise."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Exactly. Harmless. He’s too grumpy to be interested in anything."
"Hmm," I murmured with mock agreement. "You’re right. Too grumpy. And yet... strangely present."
He didn’t catch the twist in my tone. With a final pat on his pocket to check for keys, he leaned forward and gave me a peck on the forehead. "Be good, Sakshi. I’ll call you around 11."
I nodded, watching him step out. As the door shut behind him, I didn’t linger at the threshold. I moved through the house like I was shedding skin, switching off lights, tidying up toys, my mind already upstairs.
Then I began my own ritual.
I locked the bathroom door, stripped slowly. The cold tiles sent a sharp thrill up my legs. I picked up the razor, my movements practiced and precise—underarms first, then legs, then the fine fuzz at my nape. And finally, between my thighs. Smooth. Bare. Ready.
I poured warm water into a copper bowl, mixed in a few drops of jasmine and sandalwood oil. The fragrance lifted around me like a cocoon. I lathered gently, massaging it into my skin, the scent of the oil clinging to every inch. The bath was not just cleansing—it was ceremonial.
Once dried, I rubbed a fine paste of turmeric and milk around my elbows, knees, even behind my ears. Then came the rose water splash, the talcum dusted under my breasts and between my thighs.
I picked out my lingerie with purpose—a soft crimson lace bra that cupped my breasts snugly, pushing them up without effort. The matching panty was thin, silky, and sat low on my hips, exposing the freshly smoothed skin above.
In front of the mirror, I kohl-lined my eyes until they looked deeper, darker. A touch of vermilion on my lips, a dot of sandalwood on my collarbone, and the faintest trace of perfume between my breasts.
By 7:30, I heard Ramu’s familiar footsteps above. Heavy. Sure. Dominant. My ears picked up the slight drag of his slipper as he walked past the window and paused.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to.
From outside, he smirked through the window grill and said in that husky tone that always made my knees weak, "Come to my room, Sakshi. I've been waiting."
Ten minutes later, I climbed the stairs. My pulse was racing, my palms slightly damp. I barely raised my hand to knock when the door opened from within. Ramu stood behind it, shirtless, eyes gleaming. The second I stepped in, he pulled me into his arms from behind, his lips landing on my cheek, then my neck. His stubble scratched me deliciously.
I laughed, wiggling away just enough to look over my shoulder. "How did you know it was me, without even looking?"
He grinned wickedly. "Even the wind wouldn’t dare sound like you. But it was your anklets, darling. I’ve memorized the music of your steps."
The room was faintly fragrant with incense and the ripeness of fresh fruits. Two bags sat on the table—apples, oranges, bananas—and next to them, a heap of jasmine flowers, bundled neatly like temple garlands. My breath caught.
He opened his bureau with flair, like he was revealing treasure, and pulled out a vibrant red chiffon saree. The color burned in the dim light.
"Wear this tonight," he said, eyes roaming over me hungrily. "It will stick to you like my hands."
I bit my lip, took the saree, and nodded. "Give me fifteen minutes."
I slipped back downstairs. The clock neared 9 pm when he came to my house, this time softer, calmer. He sat cross-legged on the floor, playing gently with my son, stacking plastic blocks while the little one giggled. The image should’ve been domestic, but the undercurrent between us turned every glance into foreplay.
Dinner was quiet. Tense with unspoken anticipation. The clink of steel plates, the clatter of serving spoons. I didn’t speak much—neither did he. But our eyes? They had already said everything.
After cleaning up, I went for my bath. The cold water couldn’t kill the heat in my veins. I scrubbed gently, washed away every trace of the day, and emerged into the night.
The red saree waited for me, its folds dbangd across my bed like a lover’s arms. I wore it slow, tying each hook with care. My skin tingled as the fabric slid over it. Then I adorned my hair with the jasmine garland, twisted into a soft braid.
In the kitchen, I warmed milk, added spoon after spoon of sugar—sweetness to balance the fire building in me.
The glass trembled slightly in my hand as I walked upstairs again. The night wasn’t just beginning.
It was about to burn.
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