16-11-2025, 12:44 AM
As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, unforgiving glow over the tangled sheets, Ramesh stirred. His body, heavy and sated from the night's excesses, pressed against Divya's for a lingering moment before he rolled away. She lay there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling, her mind a fog of exhaustion, guilt gnawing like a dull ache in her chest. The room smelled of sweat and sex, a reminder she couldn't escape. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, as if it could shield her from the reality settling in.
Ramesh sat up, scratching his belly absently, his dark hair tousled. He glanced at her, a smirk tugging at his lips, possessive, almost casual, like this was just another morning. "Morning," he said, voice gravelly from sleep, the word twisting her insides anew. He leaned down, planting a rough kiss on her forehead, his stubble scbanging her skin. "Be good today. I'll be back by evening."
Divya didn't respond, her throat tight. She watched as he stood, naked and unashamed, stretching with a yawn that revealed the mundane boy beneath the monster—obese but tall, average in every way except the depravity he'd unleashed. He rummaged through his discarded clothes on the floor, pulling on his boxers, then jeans and a rumpled t-shirt. No shower, no rush, just the lazy efficiency of someone who owned the space. He grabbed his backpack from the corner, where he'd tossed it the night before, slinging it over one shoulder.
"College calls," he said with a wink, as if this were normal, as if he weren't leaving her alone in the wreckage of her life. He paused at the door, turning back. "Cook something nice for dinner. And think about me, about what we'll do tonight."
His eyes raked over her form under the sheet, hunger flickering again, before he slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind him.
The house fell silent, oppressively so. Divya lay there for what felt like hours, the weight of it all pressing down. Ajay's face in her mind, Mohit's trusting voice on the phone yesterday, the mangalsutra still around her neck like a chain of lies. Tears came unbidden, hot and silent, soaking the pillow. Eventually, she forced herself up, legs shaky, the soreness between her thighs a constant throb. She showered again, scrubbing until her skin was raw, but the marks, the faint bruises on her hips, red welts on her ass—stared back in the mirror. "What have I become?" she whispered to her reflection, eyes hollow, the conservative homemaker fractured.
The wooden spoon scbangd the copper pot, a rhythmic, grating sound that was Divya’s only anchor in the rising storm inside her. The kitchen air was thick with cumin and garlic, a rich, spicy cloud that should have been comforting, but instead felt suffocating. Her pale blue sleeveless shalwar kurta clung to her, a damp second skin in the Hyderabad heat. Her full breasts pushed against the fabric, straining slightly, and the modest neckline still revealed the vulnerable curve of her collarbone, a faint sheen of sweat on her fair skin. The salwar pants, soft cotton, hugged her hips and thighs, outlining their generous curve. A sheer dupatta, worn thin and frayed, dbangd loosely, offering little cover. This was just what she wore every day, sleeveless by necessity, never once thinking about it until now. Now, every exposed inch felt like a flare, a silent invitation she’d never intended. Her dark hair, damp at the roots, pulled back in a loose, heavy bun, strands already escaping to frame her face.
Her North Indian features, still delicate, almond eyes, faint kohl, the small red bindi. They were a mask she struggled to maintain. The gold mangalsutra at her throat felt heavy, a mocking weight.
The clock on the wall pulsed, each tick a hammer blow. Seven PM. The dread in her stomach was a cold, spreading stain. She dropped the spoon with a clatter, wiping her wet hands on a kitchen towel, and leaned against the cool counter, letting her mind sink into the familiar abyss.
What the hell have I become? The thought was a rasping whisper. Just weeks ago, I was Divya: Ajay’s devoted wife, up before dawn to pack his lunch, a chaste peck goodbye. Mohit’s loving mother, fussing over his college meals, laughing at his stupid jokes. A good, respectable North Indian woman, raised with modesty, duty, family above all.
I wore these very clothes, sleeveless in the heat, never feeling exposed, never imagining they could be... a trigger to turn someone on. Just comfortable. And I was always warm, welcoming. Especially to Mohit’s friends. Ramesh. God, Ramesh.
That average boy with the shy smile, a little soft, dark-skinned, so unremarkable. I treated him like another son. How could I have been so blind? That behind those eyes was this… this animal?
She lifted her arm absently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her nose grazed her underarm. A faint scent rose: clean soap, mingling with the subtle, warm musk of her own body, a day’s sweat. Why is he so obsessed with this? she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if confessing to the empty kitchen. "Armpits... of all things. It’s not like I ever flaunted myself, exposed myself indecently. I was always proper. But he... he just soiled me that first night."
The memory slammed into her: the sheer, tearing shock of his lies about Mohit, the rough rip of her maxi dress, the cold, wet spit in her mouth, his tongue on her face, the vile words—"randi," "kutiya"—as he plowed into her on her own marital bed, marking her. That raw, savage hunger in his eyes. His breath was hot, ragged, smelling faintly of stale cigarettes and something else, something animalistic. His body, heavy and sweating, crushed me into the mattress, his weight a suffocating reality. I felt his rough hands, calloused from God knows what, forcing my thighs apart, obscenely wide. These were his friend Mohit's mother’s thighs, Ajay’s wife’s loyal thighs, spread open for him, a crude invasion. The heat, the friction, the tearing shame, and then... that terrifying, shameful flicker of something else, a response deep inside me I never knew existed. How could I have felt anything but revulsion? What is wrong with me? What drives a boy like him? His mother’s absence? Or just pure, sick evil? Or to just destroy something pure that he could never have?
And me... why did my body respond? Am I still the wife Ajay deserves, the mother Mohit needs? Or just a woman now, awakened to this dark, shameful hunger I never knew existed? God, help me...
The front door clicked, a sharp, metallic sound that ripped through her thoughts. Ramesh. His backpack hit the floor with a dull thud. He didn't rush, didn't offer any casual greeting. He moved slowly, deliberately, a predator enjoying the drawn-out chase. He paused in the hallway, kicking off his shoes, a soft scuffing sound. His eyes scanned the house, then locked onto her silhouette in the kitchen doorway. His t-shirt, dark with sweat from the commute, clung to his obese frame, the faint outline of his belly prominent. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, his dark skin glistening under the harsh overhead light. His expression was unreadable, but his patience was a cruel, terrifying thing, savoring the anticipation.
Divya’s heart began to hammer, a frantic drum against her ribs. Her hands clamped onto the counter’s edge, the laminate digging into her palms. He’s back. He thinks he owns this place. He thinks he owns me. She turned back to the stove, a futile pretense of checking the curry, but her entire body tightened, every nerve alive to his approach. He stopped at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes moved over her, a slow, possessive crawl: the pale blue cotton, the full, rounded swell of her breasts, the sleeveless cut exposing the smooth, fair skin of her arms. The dupatta had slipped, revealing the soft, vulnerable curve of her shoulder. Her salwar pants felt impossibly tight, outlining her fertile hips, the fabric whispering as she shifted, a nervous tremor under his heavy, oppressive gaze. She felt utterly exposed now, not just physically, but deep inside.
Those sleeveless tops, once innocent, now felt like a deliberate lure, and her armpits suddenly prickled, hyper-aware, burning with the vivid memory of his obsession.
"Smells good," he said at last, his voice low, a flat, measured tone, devoid of any warmth, pure, chilling appraisal. He took a step closer, then another, each movement agonizingly slow, calculated. Close enough for her to feel his heat, but not touching her yet. "Stand up straight," he commanded softly, the cruel edge in his voice sharpening. "Raise your arms. Let me see you properly."
Her breath hitched, a painful knot in her chest. As Ajay’s wife, I should scream, fight. As Mohit’s mother, protect our home. But as a woman... god, why does this stir something in me? Her hands trembled, but she obeyed. She stood taller, slowly lifting her arms above her head, the kurta riding up just a sliver, exposing the soft, yielding flesh of her midriff. The dupatta slid further down, falling to her elbows, baring her underarms. Clean-shaven, faintly scented with soap and the day’s subtle sweat. Ramesh’s eyes darkened, that predatory gleam intensifying. He leaned in, his breath warm and heavy against her right side, his nose inches from her armpit. He inhaled deeply, audibly, a long, savoring sound, a low grunt escaping his throat. The faint, musky feminine aroma fueled his hunger, and she could feel, rather than see, the shameful, hard twitch of his cock pressing against his jeans.
"Fuck, that's what I needed," he murmured, his voice now thick with depravity, a cruel, slow smile twisting his lips. He savored her scent like a drug, drawing out the torment. "All day at college, thinking of this, your smell, your body. Now, turn around. Let me get hungrier."
Guilt surged, a hot wave: Ajay’s gentle, loving touches, Mohit’s innocent, comforting hugs. But her body, against her will, responded. Her nipples hardened under the thin kurta, a shameful, hot wetness began to build low in her groin as Ramesh’s breath ghosted her skin, his cruelty a slow, deliberate burn igniting something deep within her, despite everything.
Ramesh sat up, scratching his belly absently, his dark hair tousled. He glanced at her, a smirk tugging at his lips, possessive, almost casual, like this was just another morning. "Morning," he said, voice gravelly from sleep, the word twisting her insides anew. He leaned down, planting a rough kiss on her forehead, his stubble scbanging her skin. "Be good today. I'll be back by evening."
Divya didn't respond, her throat tight. She watched as he stood, naked and unashamed, stretching with a yawn that revealed the mundane boy beneath the monster—obese but tall, average in every way except the depravity he'd unleashed. He rummaged through his discarded clothes on the floor, pulling on his boxers, then jeans and a rumpled t-shirt. No shower, no rush, just the lazy efficiency of someone who owned the space. He grabbed his backpack from the corner, where he'd tossed it the night before, slinging it over one shoulder.
"College calls," he said with a wink, as if this were normal, as if he weren't leaving her alone in the wreckage of her life. He paused at the door, turning back. "Cook something nice for dinner. And think about me, about what we'll do tonight."
His eyes raked over her form under the sheet, hunger flickering again, before he slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind him.
The house fell silent, oppressively so. Divya lay there for what felt like hours, the weight of it all pressing down. Ajay's face in her mind, Mohit's trusting voice on the phone yesterday, the mangalsutra still around her neck like a chain of lies. Tears came unbidden, hot and silent, soaking the pillow. Eventually, she forced herself up, legs shaky, the soreness between her thighs a constant throb. She showered again, scrubbing until her skin was raw, but the marks, the faint bruises on her hips, red welts on her ass—stared back in the mirror. "What have I become?" she whispered to her reflection, eyes hollow, the conservative homemaker fractured.
The wooden spoon scbangd the copper pot, a rhythmic, grating sound that was Divya’s only anchor in the rising storm inside her. The kitchen air was thick with cumin and garlic, a rich, spicy cloud that should have been comforting, but instead felt suffocating. Her pale blue sleeveless shalwar kurta clung to her, a damp second skin in the Hyderabad heat. Her full breasts pushed against the fabric, straining slightly, and the modest neckline still revealed the vulnerable curve of her collarbone, a faint sheen of sweat on her fair skin. The salwar pants, soft cotton, hugged her hips and thighs, outlining their generous curve. A sheer dupatta, worn thin and frayed, dbangd loosely, offering little cover. This was just what she wore every day, sleeveless by necessity, never once thinking about it until now. Now, every exposed inch felt like a flare, a silent invitation she’d never intended. Her dark hair, damp at the roots, pulled back in a loose, heavy bun, strands already escaping to frame her face.
Her North Indian features, still delicate, almond eyes, faint kohl, the small red bindi. They were a mask she struggled to maintain. The gold mangalsutra at her throat felt heavy, a mocking weight.
The clock on the wall pulsed, each tick a hammer blow. Seven PM. The dread in her stomach was a cold, spreading stain. She dropped the spoon with a clatter, wiping her wet hands on a kitchen towel, and leaned against the cool counter, letting her mind sink into the familiar abyss.
What the hell have I become? The thought was a rasping whisper. Just weeks ago, I was Divya: Ajay’s devoted wife, up before dawn to pack his lunch, a chaste peck goodbye. Mohit’s loving mother, fussing over his college meals, laughing at his stupid jokes. A good, respectable North Indian woman, raised with modesty, duty, family above all.
I wore these very clothes, sleeveless in the heat, never feeling exposed, never imagining they could be... a trigger to turn someone on. Just comfortable. And I was always warm, welcoming. Especially to Mohit’s friends. Ramesh. God, Ramesh.
That average boy with the shy smile, a little soft, dark-skinned, so unremarkable. I treated him like another son. How could I have been so blind? That behind those eyes was this… this animal?
She lifted her arm absently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her nose grazed her underarm. A faint scent rose: clean soap, mingling with the subtle, warm musk of her own body, a day’s sweat. Why is he so obsessed with this? she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if confessing to the empty kitchen. "Armpits... of all things. It’s not like I ever flaunted myself, exposed myself indecently. I was always proper. But he... he just soiled me that first night."
The memory slammed into her: the sheer, tearing shock of his lies about Mohit, the rough rip of her maxi dress, the cold, wet spit in her mouth, his tongue on her face, the vile words—"randi," "kutiya"—as he plowed into her on her own marital bed, marking her. That raw, savage hunger in his eyes. His breath was hot, ragged, smelling faintly of stale cigarettes and something else, something animalistic. His body, heavy and sweating, crushed me into the mattress, his weight a suffocating reality. I felt his rough hands, calloused from God knows what, forcing my thighs apart, obscenely wide. These were his friend Mohit's mother’s thighs, Ajay’s wife’s loyal thighs, spread open for him, a crude invasion. The heat, the friction, the tearing shame, and then... that terrifying, shameful flicker of something else, a response deep inside me I never knew existed. How could I have felt anything but revulsion? What is wrong with me? What drives a boy like him? His mother’s absence? Or just pure, sick evil? Or to just destroy something pure that he could never have?
And me... why did my body respond? Am I still the wife Ajay deserves, the mother Mohit needs? Or just a woman now, awakened to this dark, shameful hunger I never knew existed? God, help me...
The front door clicked, a sharp, metallic sound that ripped through her thoughts. Ramesh. His backpack hit the floor with a dull thud. He didn't rush, didn't offer any casual greeting. He moved slowly, deliberately, a predator enjoying the drawn-out chase. He paused in the hallway, kicking off his shoes, a soft scuffing sound. His eyes scanned the house, then locked onto her silhouette in the kitchen doorway. His t-shirt, dark with sweat from the commute, clung to his obese frame, the faint outline of his belly prominent. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, his dark skin glistening under the harsh overhead light. His expression was unreadable, but his patience was a cruel, terrifying thing, savoring the anticipation.
Divya’s heart began to hammer, a frantic drum against her ribs. Her hands clamped onto the counter’s edge, the laminate digging into her palms. He’s back. He thinks he owns this place. He thinks he owns me. She turned back to the stove, a futile pretense of checking the curry, but her entire body tightened, every nerve alive to his approach. He stopped at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes moved over her, a slow, possessive crawl: the pale blue cotton, the full, rounded swell of her breasts, the sleeveless cut exposing the smooth, fair skin of her arms. The dupatta had slipped, revealing the soft, vulnerable curve of her shoulder. Her salwar pants felt impossibly tight, outlining her fertile hips, the fabric whispering as she shifted, a nervous tremor under his heavy, oppressive gaze. She felt utterly exposed now, not just physically, but deep inside.
Those sleeveless tops, once innocent, now felt like a deliberate lure, and her armpits suddenly prickled, hyper-aware, burning with the vivid memory of his obsession.
"Smells good," he said at last, his voice low, a flat, measured tone, devoid of any warmth, pure, chilling appraisal. He took a step closer, then another, each movement agonizingly slow, calculated. Close enough for her to feel his heat, but not touching her yet. "Stand up straight," he commanded softly, the cruel edge in his voice sharpening. "Raise your arms. Let me see you properly."
Her breath hitched, a painful knot in her chest. As Ajay’s wife, I should scream, fight. As Mohit’s mother, protect our home. But as a woman... god, why does this stir something in me? Her hands trembled, but she obeyed. She stood taller, slowly lifting her arms above her head, the kurta riding up just a sliver, exposing the soft, yielding flesh of her midriff. The dupatta slid further down, falling to her elbows, baring her underarms. Clean-shaven, faintly scented with soap and the day’s subtle sweat. Ramesh’s eyes darkened, that predatory gleam intensifying. He leaned in, his breath warm and heavy against her right side, his nose inches from her armpit. He inhaled deeply, audibly, a long, savoring sound, a low grunt escaping his throat. The faint, musky feminine aroma fueled his hunger, and she could feel, rather than see, the shameful, hard twitch of his cock pressing against his jeans.
"Fuck, that's what I needed," he murmured, his voice now thick with depravity, a cruel, slow smile twisting his lips. He savored her scent like a drug, drawing out the torment. "All day at college, thinking of this, your smell, your body. Now, turn around. Let me get hungrier."
Guilt surged, a hot wave: Ajay’s gentle, loving touches, Mohit’s innocent, comforting hugs. But her body, against her will, responded. Her nipples hardened under the thin kurta, a shameful, hot wetness began to build low in her groin as Ramesh’s breath ghosted her skin, his cruelty a slow, deliberate burn igniting something deep within her, despite everything.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)