Misc. Erotica YAMUNA RANI
#6
Chapter 2: The Smell of Power

Yamuna didn’t sleep that night. She didn’t need to. Knowing that every man within a hundred-meter radius had dreamt of her that evening — that was enough rest for her pride.

She stood before the mirror at midnight, brushing her thick hair, still damp from the rain. The red blouse had dried on the balcony, hanging beside a row of socks and undergarments. Aneesh had carefully washed it by hand, scrubbing even the inside stains near the armpits. He had smelled it while doing so. She knew that. She always knew.

In the mirror, she admired her skin — so pale and glowing it made her doubt she came from that tea-stall bloodline. Her father was dark and hunched, always smelling of cardamom and sweat. Her mother — that sly, busty woman — had passed down her techniques but not her complexion.

“Maybe I am someone else's daughter,” Yamuna whispered with a grin.

Behind her, Aneesh entered, quietly folding her petticoat. His eyes were low, like always.

"Come here," she said, not turning.

He stepped closer.

"Tell me again what you like about me."

He cleared his throat, his hands shaking slightly. “Your skin. Your...smell. Your breasts. Your sweat. Your—”

She turned then, placing a single finger on his lips. “Not breasts,” she said sharply. “Say it properly.”

He swallowed. “Your...cleavage. That deep, creamy line. It makes me dizzy.”

She smiled.

“Good dog.”

She pulled his face into the space between her breasts, holding him there, suffocating him in her scent. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. His hands stayed behind his back, trembling.

She remembered her mother doing this. Leaning over the tea counter, letting her chest do the talking while the old bank manager dropped a ₹100 note into her blouse. That blouse would reek by evening, but her father never complained. He would wash it gently, even caress it while hanging it to dry.

Yamuna tilted Aneesh's chin up.

"Would you wash my smelly underwear?"

"Yes," he said instantly.

"Even if it stinks of sweat and something more?"

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

She bent closer. “That’s why I chose you. You’re like him. My father. You don't question. You just serve.”

She pushed him gently to his knees.

Next morning, the entire colony buzzed with fresh gossip. That Yamuna had walked in the rain. That her red blouse had almost burst open. That a man on a scooter had crashed into a pole watching her. That one old uncle claimed he got a heart attack seeing her from behind.

Yamuna heard it all as she stepped into the neighborhood temple with flowers in her hair and a blouse so tight the priest looked away mid-prayer.

The '. women near the market turned their backs when they saw her. One of them, in a burqa, muttered something under her breath.

Yamuna smiled sweetly and kept walking, letting her hips swing a little more.

They hate me, she thought. Because their husbands would fall at my feet in one second.

Her thoughts flickered back to college — that day with Fathima. The gang of girls who slapped her, kicked her, tore her pride from her body. The loud fart. The smell. The laughter. She had clung to Fathima’s legs, begged. The humiliation was tattooed in her bones.

But now?

Now she ruled. No one could touch her. Not here. Not anymore.

That evening, she wore a purple chiffon saree with a gold-bordered blouse — sleeveless, of course. Aneesh stayed home, polishing his fake gold wristwatch, planning tomorrow’s bribes. He had a visit from a man begging for a transfer letter.

“Did you bring the envelope?” Aneesh asked, smirking.

“Sir, please, I don’t have much. My wife is sick—”

Aneesh raised a hand. “Then no letter.”

The man handed him ₹2000 reluctantly. Aneesh stuffed it into his drawer.

“Wait outside. I’ll ‘process’ it.”

The man left. Aneesh turned to Yamuna.

“That fellow touched your feet once in a temple,” he said with a laugh.

Yamuna’s lip curled. “They all want to touch me. Some want to lick.”

She walked past him, the scent of jasmine from her hair mixing with the sweat under her arms.

Aneesh whispered, “I want to do both.”

She didn’t stop him that night.

He worshipped her body like a temple. He started with her armpits, burying his face there, inhaling deeply. She watched him with cold eyes, like a queen watching a loyal subject.

“Is this sacred too?” he asked, kissing her feet.

She nodded. “Especially when it smells.”

She let him clean her with his tongue.

The smell of sweat, of cloth worn too long, of female scent unwashed — it made him tremble.

She pressed his face into her waist, guiding him lower. His breath was shallow. His nose rubbed against skin soaked in long hours of walking and sitting and ruling over the colony's fantasy.

And she whispered, “Say you belong to me.”

“I do,” he gasped.

“You serve me, not because I’m your wife. But because I am Yamuna Nair.”

He nodded again and again, lost in her.

She laughed that laugh again. Sharp. Victorious. Cruel.
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YAMUNA RANI - by wepew - 20-08-2025, 01:55 AM
RE: YAMUNA RANI - by Pvzro - 20-08-2025, 09:02 AM
RE: YAMUNA RANI - by behka - 20-08-2025, 01:30 PM
RE: YAMUNA RANI - by wepew - 21-08-2025, 02:24 AM
RE: YAMUNA RANI - by wepew - 21-08-2025, 02:26 AM
RE: YAMUNA RANI - by wepew - 21-08-2025, 02:27 AM
RE: YAMUNA RANI - by wepew - 22-08-2025, 10:38 PM



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