01-09-2025, 12:52 AM
@Admin, please unban my ashuezy account. I think it was automatically banned by some automatic algorithm.
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Saga 3 - Scene 1 - Rupa ki lalsa
======================
One week later, Dipa was directing Sameer’s driver as he unloaded cartons of food packets and stacks of blankets from the car's trunk. She had convinced Sameer that her "noble work" should continue, and he had happily funded this charity drive, eager for the stories she would bring back. She wore a simple, sleeveless blouse and a fine cotton sari, a soft brassiere and no panties beneath it. Her large, heavy breasts swayed with her every movement, their outlines clearly visible against the thin fabric.
A crowd of slum dwellers quickly formed around her, a sea of hands and hopeful faces.
Dipa: Please, please, one at a time. There is enough for everyone.
As she handed out the packets, she felt the press of the crowd. A hand brushed her hip and lingered. Someone’s fingers grazed her bare arm. A child, pushed forward by the crowd, stumbled against her, his face pressing into her soft breasts for a moment before his mother pulled him back. It was an invasion of her space, a hundred tiny, curious touches, but she felt no fear, only a strange, powerful thrill at being the center of so much raw, human need.
Suddenly, a woman with wild, desperate eyes pushed her way to the front. Her sari was old and torn at the shoulder, exposing the full, heavy side of one of her own ample breasts.
Woman: Madam! Madam, thank you! God bless you for this food!
Dipa: You are welcome. Please, take what you need.
Woman: Food can fill the belly, madam, but it cannot fill a woman’s womb. I… I have a much bigger problem. A sorrow that is killing me. Please, can I speak to you alone for a moment?
Dipa, her curiosity and pity piqued, nodded. The woman, whose name was Rupa, led her away from the chaotic distribution, into a quieter alley between two rows of huts.
Rupa: Madam, you are a mother. You have a beautiful son. You understand a woman’s greatest pain.
Dipa: What is it? How can I help?
Rupa: It is my husband, Harish. His first wife died without giving him a child. Now… now he is my husband, but he is broken. He is impotent, madam. He cannot give me a child. We have tried everything. The doctors, the prayers… nothing works.
Tears streamed down Rupa’s face, her story a torrent of practiced despair.
Dipa: I am so sorry. Such terrible sadness...
Rupa: But there is one hope. Somebody in the slum told us about a cure. He told us your story. My husband’s seed is asleep. It has forgotten its purpose. To reawaken it, he needs the touch of the healing mother, which is you, Memsahab, your pure healing energy, as a fertile and a lactating mother. Not for lust, madam! For life! The person said the life-giving energy in your milk could shock his body back into working, so that he can finally put a baby inside me.
Dipa stared at her, stunned. This was a new request, bizarre and deeply intimate.
Dipa: But… what you are asking… I am a married woman. I can’t just…
Rupa: (grabbing Dipa’s hands) Please, madam! I am begging you as a woman! I see you, a goddess of fertility, and I am barren. You have the power to help me become a mother! It is not a sin to create life! Please, just come and talk to him. My hut is right here.
The temptation was overwhelming. It was a weird, uncomfortable story, but the goal was so pure: helping another woman. This wasn't for a man's pleasure; it was for a future child. Her savior complex roared to life.
Dipa: Okay. I will come and talk to him.
Rupa’s hut was small. Inside, a man, Harish, sat on a cot, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Another man, his friend Gopal, sat on a stool beside him, offering silent support.
Rupa: Harish, look! The healing mother from the stories, she has come to help us!
Harish looked up at Dipa, his eyes full of a deep, profound shame.
Dipa: I heard about your problem. I want to help, if I can.
Harish: (his voice a whisper) There is no help for me. I am in deep depression.
Rupa: Don’t say that! Memsahab is here to cure you! Please, Memsahab, you have to wake him up. His soul is asleep. His manhood is asleep. You are the only one who can do it. Please.
Dipa looked from Rupa's pleading face to Harish's defeated one. The scenario felt familiar, a problem only she could solve. The air in the hut was thick with despair, a vacuum that her energy was meant to fill.
Dipa: A man’s spirit is tied to his body. If his body is asleep, how can his spirit be awake? Rupa, you are his wife. You must be the one to awaken him.
Rupa: I have tried, Memsahab! My touch does nothing! He does not see me as a woman anymore, only as a reminder of his failure. But you… you are a goddess. Your body is a temple of fertility. He needs to remember what a woman is. What a woman’s body can do.
Dipa took a deep breath. She was the expert here. She knew the language of the body.
Dipa: Okay. But I will not touch him. You will. I will only… guide you. I will show you what a man’s body needs to see, to feel, to remember.
She stood in the center of the small hut. Rupa and Gopal watched, transfixed. Dipa slowly, deliberately, reached up and unpinned the pallu of her sari, letting it fall from her shoulder.
Dipa: A man’s eyes must be opened first. He must see the promise of life.
She unhooked her blouse, her movements fluid and confident. She slid it off her shoulders. She wore only her soft cotton bra now, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the size and shape of her huge, heavy breasts, or the dark circles of her nipples.
Rupa: Oh, Memsahab… they are so… full. So heavy with milk.
Harish’s eyes, which had been fixed on the floor, lifted. He stared at her chest, a flicker of something—not desire, but a faint, distant curiosity—in their depths. Gopal shifted on his stool, his own breath catching in his throat.
Dipa: Now, Rupa. Go to him. Touch his face. Let him feel your hands.
Rupa went to the cot and gently caressed her husband's cheek. He didn't pull away.
Dipa: That is not enough. A woman’s power is not just in her hands. It is her voice and body. Take off your sari, Rupa. Let him feel your skin against his.
Rupa looked shocked, but then nodded, a look of grim determination on her face. She unwrapped her own sari, letting it fall. She was now in her blouse and petticoat.
Dipa: Now, lie beside him. Press your body against his. Whisper in his ear. Tell him what you want. Tell him about the child you dream of.
Rupa did as she was told, her body molding against his, her lips at his ear. Dipa watched, a feeling of immense power surging through her.
Dipa: He still does not respond. His body needs a stronger signal. It needs to remember its purpose.
Dipa reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her massive, bare breasts swung free, heavy and pendulous. The nipples were already hard, poking forward.
Harish: (a soft groan)
Dipa: He hears. He sees. But it is not enough. Rupa, your husband’s seed needs nourishment. It needs a source. It needs to be reminded of what it is for.
She looked at Rupa, a command in her eyes.
Dipa: Rupa come here.
Rupa stared, uncomprehending.
Dipa: My breast, Rupa. Take it in your hand. Show it to him.
Hesitantly, Rupa reached out. Her rough, calloused hand cupped Dipa’s soft, heavy breast. The contrast was startling.
Dipa: Now… squeeze it. Gently.
Rupa squeezed. A thin stream of white milk shot out from Dipa's nipple, landing on Harish's bare chest.
Harish: (gasps)
His eyes were wide now, fixed on the drop of milk on his skin.
Dipa: You see? Life calls to life. But it is not for him to drink. It is for you, Rupa. You must take this energy into yourself, so you can give it to him.
Rupa: Me? Memsahab, I…
Dipa: Drink. Drink my milk. Become the vessel for this cure.
Slowly, awestruck, Rupa leaned forward. She put her mouth to Dipa’s breast and began to suckle. Rupa drank from Dipa's nipples, Rupa's hands feeling the size of the entire breast. She was not only sucking, she was smelling the breast, hands gently moving, her eyes driectly looking into Dipa's eyes as she continued to suckle.
Dipa closed her eyes, a wave of dizzying ecstasy washing over her. She was not being violated; she was giving a sacrament. She was transferring her divine fertility to this barren woman, so that she could, in turn, heal her broken husband. It was the most profound, the most noble, the most erotic act of her life.
Rupa: Memsahab, I feel so happy that you are with me.
Dipa: Drink Rupa, you need my energy.
Rupa: Memsahab, you are a divine Mother.
Rupa drank like a hungry child and Dipa stroked her hair affectionately.
Dipa: You are all my hungry babies. A Mother never lets go of her children. A mother always cares for her children no matter the problem.
To be continued..
====================================================================
Saga 3 - Scene 1 - Rupa ki lalsa
======================
One week later, Dipa was directing Sameer’s driver as he unloaded cartons of food packets and stacks of blankets from the car's trunk. She had convinced Sameer that her "noble work" should continue, and he had happily funded this charity drive, eager for the stories she would bring back. She wore a simple, sleeveless blouse and a fine cotton sari, a soft brassiere and no panties beneath it. Her large, heavy breasts swayed with her every movement, their outlines clearly visible against the thin fabric.
A crowd of slum dwellers quickly formed around her, a sea of hands and hopeful faces.
Dipa: Please, please, one at a time. There is enough for everyone.
As she handed out the packets, she felt the press of the crowd. A hand brushed her hip and lingered. Someone’s fingers grazed her bare arm. A child, pushed forward by the crowd, stumbled against her, his face pressing into her soft breasts for a moment before his mother pulled him back. It was an invasion of her space, a hundred tiny, curious touches, but she felt no fear, only a strange, powerful thrill at being the center of so much raw, human need.
Suddenly, a woman with wild, desperate eyes pushed her way to the front. Her sari was old and torn at the shoulder, exposing the full, heavy side of one of her own ample breasts.
Woman: Madam! Madam, thank you! God bless you for this food!
Dipa: You are welcome. Please, take what you need.
Woman: Food can fill the belly, madam, but it cannot fill a woman’s womb. I… I have a much bigger problem. A sorrow that is killing me. Please, can I speak to you alone for a moment?
Dipa, her curiosity and pity piqued, nodded. The woman, whose name was Rupa, led her away from the chaotic distribution, into a quieter alley between two rows of huts.
Rupa: Madam, you are a mother. You have a beautiful son. You understand a woman’s greatest pain.
Dipa: What is it? How can I help?
Rupa: It is my husband, Harish. His first wife died without giving him a child. Now… now he is my husband, but he is broken. He is impotent, madam. He cannot give me a child. We have tried everything. The doctors, the prayers… nothing works.
Tears streamed down Rupa’s face, her story a torrent of practiced despair.
Dipa: I am so sorry. Such terrible sadness...
Rupa: But there is one hope. Somebody in the slum told us about a cure. He told us your story. My husband’s seed is asleep. It has forgotten its purpose. To reawaken it, he needs the touch of the healing mother, which is you, Memsahab, your pure healing energy, as a fertile and a lactating mother. Not for lust, madam! For life! The person said the life-giving energy in your milk could shock his body back into working, so that he can finally put a baby inside me.
Dipa stared at her, stunned. This was a new request, bizarre and deeply intimate.
Dipa: But… what you are asking… I am a married woman. I can’t just…
Rupa: (grabbing Dipa’s hands) Please, madam! I am begging you as a woman! I see you, a goddess of fertility, and I am barren. You have the power to help me become a mother! It is not a sin to create life! Please, just come and talk to him. My hut is right here.
The temptation was overwhelming. It was a weird, uncomfortable story, but the goal was so pure: helping another woman. This wasn't for a man's pleasure; it was for a future child. Her savior complex roared to life.
Dipa: Okay. I will come and talk to him.
Rupa’s hut was small. Inside, a man, Harish, sat on a cot, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Another man, his friend Gopal, sat on a stool beside him, offering silent support.
Rupa: Harish, look! The healing mother from the stories, she has come to help us!
Harish looked up at Dipa, his eyes full of a deep, profound shame.
Dipa: I heard about your problem. I want to help, if I can.
Harish: (his voice a whisper) There is no help for me. I am in deep depression.
Rupa: Don’t say that! Memsahab is here to cure you! Please, Memsahab, you have to wake him up. His soul is asleep. His manhood is asleep. You are the only one who can do it. Please.
Dipa looked from Rupa's pleading face to Harish's defeated one. The scenario felt familiar, a problem only she could solve. The air in the hut was thick with despair, a vacuum that her energy was meant to fill.
Dipa: A man’s spirit is tied to his body. If his body is asleep, how can his spirit be awake? Rupa, you are his wife. You must be the one to awaken him.
Rupa: I have tried, Memsahab! My touch does nothing! He does not see me as a woman anymore, only as a reminder of his failure. But you… you are a goddess. Your body is a temple of fertility. He needs to remember what a woman is. What a woman’s body can do.
Dipa took a deep breath. She was the expert here. She knew the language of the body.
Dipa: Okay. But I will not touch him. You will. I will only… guide you. I will show you what a man’s body needs to see, to feel, to remember.
She stood in the center of the small hut. Rupa and Gopal watched, transfixed. Dipa slowly, deliberately, reached up and unpinned the pallu of her sari, letting it fall from her shoulder.
Dipa: A man’s eyes must be opened first. He must see the promise of life.
She unhooked her blouse, her movements fluid and confident. She slid it off her shoulders. She wore only her soft cotton bra now, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the size and shape of her huge, heavy breasts, or the dark circles of her nipples.
Rupa: Oh, Memsahab… they are so… full. So heavy with milk.
Harish’s eyes, which had been fixed on the floor, lifted. He stared at her chest, a flicker of something—not desire, but a faint, distant curiosity—in their depths. Gopal shifted on his stool, his own breath catching in his throat.
Dipa: Now, Rupa. Go to him. Touch his face. Let him feel your hands.
Rupa went to the cot and gently caressed her husband's cheek. He didn't pull away.
Dipa: That is not enough. A woman’s power is not just in her hands. It is her voice and body. Take off your sari, Rupa. Let him feel your skin against his.
Rupa looked shocked, but then nodded, a look of grim determination on her face. She unwrapped her own sari, letting it fall. She was now in her blouse and petticoat.
Dipa: Now, lie beside him. Press your body against his. Whisper in his ear. Tell him what you want. Tell him about the child you dream of.
Rupa did as she was told, her body molding against his, her lips at his ear. Dipa watched, a feeling of immense power surging through her.
Dipa: He still does not respond. His body needs a stronger signal. It needs to remember its purpose.
Dipa reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her massive, bare breasts swung free, heavy and pendulous. The nipples were already hard, poking forward.
Harish: (a soft groan)
Dipa: He hears. He sees. But it is not enough. Rupa, your husband’s seed needs nourishment. It needs a source. It needs to be reminded of what it is for.
She looked at Rupa, a command in her eyes.
Dipa: Rupa come here.
Rupa stared, uncomprehending.
Dipa: My breast, Rupa. Take it in your hand. Show it to him.
Hesitantly, Rupa reached out. Her rough, calloused hand cupped Dipa’s soft, heavy breast. The contrast was startling.
Dipa: Now… squeeze it. Gently.
Rupa squeezed. A thin stream of white milk shot out from Dipa's nipple, landing on Harish's bare chest.
Harish: (gasps)
His eyes were wide now, fixed on the drop of milk on his skin.
Dipa: You see? Life calls to life. But it is not for him to drink. It is for you, Rupa. You must take this energy into yourself, so you can give it to him.
Rupa: Me? Memsahab, I…
Dipa: Drink. Drink my milk. Become the vessel for this cure.
Slowly, awestruck, Rupa leaned forward. She put her mouth to Dipa’s breast and began to suckle. Rupa drank from Dipa's nipples, Rupa's hands feeling the size of the entire breast. She was not only sucking, she was smelling the breast, hands gently moving, her eyes driectly looking into Dipa's eyes as she continued to suckle.
Dipa closed her eyes, a wave of dizzying ecstasy washing over her. She was not being violated; she was giving a sacrament. She was transferring her divine fertility to this barren woman, so that she could, in turn, heal her broken husband. It was the most profound, the most noble, the most erotic act of her life.
Rupa: Memsahab, I feel so happy that you are with me.
Dipa: Drink Rupa, you need my energy.
Rupa: Memsahab, you are a divine Mother.
Rupa drank like a hungry child and Dipa stroked her hair affectionately.
Dipa: You are all my hungry babies. A Mother never lets go of her children. A mother always cares for her children no matter the problem.
To be continued..
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