5 hours ago
Part Two: The Seven Days of Ownership
Chapter One: Day 8 – Monday, 25 May 2020
**The Bedroom Welcome**
The master bedroom was a realm of quiet opulence, the kind of space that whispered of a life carefully curated—teakwood furniture polished to a high sheen, the king-size bed with its crisp white cotton sheets tucked in with military precision, embroidered silk pillows stacked like sentinels at the headboard. Heavy burgundy velvet curtains filtered the early afternoon sun into a warm, diffused amber glow, casting long shadows across the maroon Persian rug that muffled footsteps and the faint scent of jasmine incense from Radha's morning puja lingered in the air, mingling with the clean, underlying aroma of sandalwood from the carved dresser. A full-length mirror leaned against one wall, its ornate gold frame reflecting the open door like a silent invitation to judgment. It was 1:32 p.m., and the flat beyond the door was empty—Lakshmi's footsteps had faded down the corridor two minutes ago, her double shift at the neighbors' a gift of four uninterrupted hours. The door's soft click and the chain's rattle still echoed in Radha's ears, a final punctuation to the ordinary world she was about to leave behind.
Radha stood in the center of the room, heart hammering a relentless tattoo against her ribs, dressed in the full regalia of her everyday armor: a deep maroon handloom saree, six yards of starched cotton dbangd in the flawless Nivi style, nine razor-sharp pleats tucked precisely at her navel, the pallu pinned securely over her left shoulder with a small, unforgiving safety pin. Beneath it, the long white petticoat clung to her legs, its drawstring knotted tight at the waist like a vow of modesty. The sleeveless cream blouse was buttoned with all six hooks, sturdy and modest, cupping her breasts in a beige cotton bra that felt like iron bands after yesterday's fleeting freedom. Her hair was twisted into its severe bun, secured with six steel clips that bit into her scalp, not a single strand daring to escape. The mangalsutra hung heavy at her throat, sindoor streaked thick in her parting like a line drawn in blood, a large black bindi centered on her forehead like a third eye of warning. Gold bangles clinked softly on her wrists—four on the right, three on the left—a subtle symphony that grounded her in the role she had inhabited for decades: the married teacher, the pillar of propriety, the untouchable authority who commanded fear with a glance.
But today, the armor was nothing more than a fragile shell, a costume she was about to dismantle piece by piece for the boy who had once trembled at her shadow. *He's coming,* she thought, fingers twitching at her sides, the saree's pallu brushing her arm like a traitor's whisper. *My bedroom. His territory now. Strip for him. Everything at his feet—like offerings to a conqueror.* The command from yesterday echoed in her mind, sending a shiver cascading down her spine, humiliation and anticipation coiling tight in her belly like a serpent waking. *The marital bed. Where Arvind and I built a life of silences.* The thought made her clench involuntarily, wetness gathering already, soaking the high-waisted cotton panty beneath the petticoat, the fabric a damp secret against her skin. *He's nineteen. Virgin. Innocent. But he's mine to obey.* Doubt flickered at the edges—*What if he hesitates? What if the power overwhelms him, and he retreats to the boy I broke?*—but she crushed it, resolve hardening like steel. *No. Yesterday he commanded the bedroom. Today he claims it. Let him see how far I'll fall to prove it. Let him walk on what was mine.*
The door creaked open at 1:35 p.m., a soft groan of wood on wood that sliced through the quiet like a blade. Nikhil stepped in barefoot, the marble cool under his soles, wearing only his grey briefs that clung to his thighs from the humidity, the fabric already tenting slightly from the morning's building tension. His hair was still damp from a hurried wash, dark strands curling at his temples, eyes widening as they swept the room—the grand bed looming like an altar, the mirror reflecting her standing form like a portrait of poised vulnerability, the faint jasmine scent wrapping around him like an embrace. *Her bedroom. The real one. The big bed Arvind uncle sleeps in.* His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that drowned the distant hum of the city below, the fantasies from last night roaring back—dark visions of revenge turned conquest, her body his to command. But the innocence lingered, a knot of uncertainty twisting in his gut: *She's dressed. Full saree, blouse, everything. What if she backs out? What if I can't... take it like she expects?* He swallowed hard, throat clicking in the silence, voice emerging steady but threaded with awe: "Radha."
The name on his lips was a spark to tinder, making Radha's knees weaken, a fresh wave of heat blooming low in her core. *Radha. Not Ma'am. His to say.* She stepped forward, the bangles on her wrists jingling softly like chimes of surrender, hands moving to the pallu first. The safety pin released with a tiny clink, falling to the rug like a discarded shackle. The fabric slid from her shoulder in a slow cascade, pooling at her elbow, the weight lifting like a breath held too long. "Welcome to your bedroom, Sir," she said, voice soft but resonant, eyes locking on his with unwavering certainty, the title a vow that made her nipples tighten against the confines of the blouse. Her fingers went to the hooks next—pop, pop, pop—the cotton parting sound by sound, revealing the beige bra cupping her breasts, the lace edge peeking like a secret. She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, the fabric whispering down her arms, and folded it once with deliberate care before bending at the waist—breasts straining against the bra, the curve of her ass presented briefly in the mirror's reflection—and placed it at his feet. The garment landed soft as a sigh on the marble, the warmth of her body still clinging to it.
Nikhil's breath hitched audibly, eyes tracing the line of her body as the blouse joined the floor at his toes. *Blouse. Her blouse. Under my feet.* The sight—her in the saree and petticoat now, bra visible and straining, standing vulnerable in her own sanctuary—made his cock twitch sharply, the briefs a cruel, tightening cage. He stepped forward instinctively, bare foot brushing the fallen fabric, the residual warmth seeping into his sole like a brand. *Warm. From her skin. Mine to step on.*
Radha's hands moved to the saree tuck at her waist, fingers finding the knot with practiced ease, pulling it free with a slow, deliberate tug. The fabric loosened, unwinding in a sinuous whisper of maroon cotton—circling her body once, twice, the pleats unraveling like a spell breaking—before falling in a shimmering pool at her feet, the handloom silk sighing as it hit the floor. She stepped out of it carefully, the cool air kissing her bare legs from mid-thigh down, and bent low to fold it—breasts heavy in the bra, ass lifting slightly, the mirror capturing the curve like a forbidden portrait—placing it atop the blouse with the reverence of a ritual. Now in petticoat, bra, and panty, the vulnerability deepened, her skin prickling under his gaze.
Nikhil's pulse thundered in his ears, the pile under his sole now thicker—the saree yielding soft and luxurious, the petticoat's cotton sticking slightly to his skin from the humidity. *Her saree. The one she wore to college. Crushed under me.* The sensation—silk against his arch, the faint scent of her soap rising—stirred something primal deep in his gut, his cock hardening fully, straining the briefs to their limit. The power bloomed, dark and intoxicating, fantasies flickering at the edges—revenge turned dominion, her body his to conquer inch by inch.
Radha straightened, fingers hooking into the panty's waistband—the same white cotton from Friday, now a talisman of her fall, high-waisted and innocent. She slid it down slowly, the fabric dragging over the curve of her hips, revealing the dark triangle of hair, the slick inner thighs that betrayed her arousal. It pooled at her ankles like a shed skin; she stepped out, the marble cool against her bare soles, and bent low to fold it—breasts swaying in the bra, ass presented again in the mirror's merciless reflection—placing it on the pile with trembling hands. Now naked from the waist down except the petticoat, the exposure was acute, air kissing her most private places, wetness cooling on her skin.
The petticoat's drawstring came next, loosening with a soft hiss as she tugged the knot free. The white cotton slid down her legs in a slow cascade, whispering against her calves, pooling at her feet like a fallen veil. She bent at the waist—breasts heaving in the bra, the curve of her ass fully exposed now, the mirror capturing every inch—and folded it neatly, the fabric still warm from her body heat, placing it atop the pile with a quiet reverence. Her bare legs trembled slightly, the vulnerability sinking deeper, every movement a reminder of her bareness below.
Nikhil's throat worked, a low groan escaping as he watched, the pile now a substantial carpet under his sole—petticoat soft and yielding, the saree beneath it crushed deeper with each shift of his weight. *Her petticoat. What she wore under everything. Now under me.* The intimacy of it—the private layer, warm from her skin—made his cock ache, pre-cum dampening the briefs, the power surging like a tide.
The bra came last. Radha's fingers reached behind her back, unclasping the hooks with a series of soft snaps—click, click, click—the beige cotton loosening, straps slipping down her shoulders like a confession. The cups fell away, freeing her heavy breasts, nipples dark and erect in the room's gentle air, swaying with the motion. She let the bra slide down her arms, the lace whispering against her skin, and bent low—breasts hanging full and free, nipples brushing the air, ass lifted high in the mirror's gaze—to fold it once, the underwire still warm, placing it on the pile like the final seal of her defeat. Now completely naked except the mangalsutra, her body open to him: breasts heaving with each breath, the dark triangle between her thighs glistening, the faint silver lines on her stomach a map of a life he was now claiming.
The pile was complete: saree, blouse, petticoat, panty, bra—a crumpled carpet of her dignity, crushed under his sole as he took another deliberate step forward, the fabrics yielding and sticking slightly to his skin.
Radha knelt then, as if in deepest prayer, the marble biting cold against her knees, her naked body a study in vulnerability—hair still pinned in its bun, mangalsutra swinging between her breasts like a traitor's medal. *Everything at his feet. My armor. Trampled.* Humiliation flushed her from cheeks to chest, but the thrill drowned it, wetness dripping down her inner thigh in a slow, shameful trail. *He's walking on them. Owning them. Owning me. The boy I terrorized now treads my secrets.*
Nikhil reached the foot of the bed, the pile left behind like trampled banners of conquest. His eyes darkened, the command rising unbidden, bold and raw: "Welcome me to your bed, Radha. Bow. Open your hair. Lay it forward on the ground."
Radha's breath snagged, shock rippling through her like a stone in still water—*Bow? On my hair? The last thing I control?* The degradation crashed over her, scalp tingling at the thought of him walking on the long black waves she had spent years pinning into submission. *Like a doormat. My crowning glory under his feet.* But beneath the shock bloomed a fierce, unexpected happiness, blooming warm in her chest—*He's commanding. Truly. The frightened boy is stepping into the man, taking without apology.* The realization made her clench, arousal spiking sharp and sudden. *Yes. Let him. Let him trample what was mine.* She nodded, voice steady despite the flush: "Yes, Sir."
She bowed low, forehead pressing to the cool marble in full prostration, arms stretched forward in supplication. Her fingers worked the six steel pins from her bun one by one—clink, clink, clink—the metal scattering like fallen stars. The long black river of her hair cascaded free, thick and glossy, falling forward in a heavy curtain to brush the floor. She spread it out deliberately with her hands, the strands fanning like a dark silken carpet from her bowed head across the rug to the bed's edge, the ends curling slightly in the air-conditioned breeze.
Nikhil stepped onto it, bare foot sinking into the soft mass, the warmth of her scalp still lingering in the strands like a ghost of her control. *Her hair. The bun I feared. Now under me.* The sensation was intimate, intoxicating—silk sliding against his sole, the faint coconut oil scent rising, each step crushing the waves deeper, a symbolic trampling of her last stronghold. He walked the length of it to the bed, the dark tresses yielding under his weight, some strands catching between his toes like threads of surrender.
Radha felt every press of his foot, the weight on her hair sending electric shivers of humiliation through her scalp and down her spine—*My hair. The symbol of my poise, my power. Now his path, trampled like dirt.* The degradation was profound, tears pricking her eyes, but the happiness overrode it, a radiant glow in her chest: *He's leading. Owning without mercy. The boy I broke is breaking me.* Her pussy clenched, wetness dripping onto the marble below her bowed form, the thrill of his command making her body hum.
Nikhil reached the bed, sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under him, and looked down at her bowed form—hair spread like a dark halo, naked body arched in submission. "Up. Here."
Radha rose on her knees, the strands trailing behind her like a surrendered train, crawling the short distance to him on hands and knees, the marble biting into her palms. She knelt between his legs, eyes lifting to his, the pile of her clothes crushed in the distance.
Nikhil's hand cupped her face, thumb tracing her lower lip with a tenderness that belied the command in his eyes. *Her face. Mine to touch.* He leaned in slowly, heart pounding a frantic rhythm, the distance closing inch by inch, their breaths mingling—hers soft and waiting, scented with jasmine, his ragged with nerves and need. His lips brushed hers first, tentative as a question, the contact feather-light, electric. *Kissing her. My teacher. Real.* The softness surprised him, warm and yielding, her mouth parting slightly under his, inviting.
Radha's world narrowed to the press of his lips, the innocent hesitation making her melt from the inside out. *His first kiss. With me. In my bedroom.* She parted her lips further, tongue flicking out to meet his, guiding gently with a slow sweep, the taste of him—salt and youth and untapped power—flooding her senses like forbidden wine. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the loose waves of her hair, pulling her closer with growing confidence. Tongues tangled in a slow, exploratory dance, wet and warm, her moan vibrating against his mouth. *He's learning. Taking my mouth like it's his right.* The wrongness—the age, the history, the power she had wielded—made her clit throb, humiliation and desire blurring into one aching need.
Nikhil pulled back at last, breathless, lips swollen and glistening, eyes dark with a hunger that had shed its innocence. "Lie back. On the bed. Open for me."
Radha obeyed without pause, reclining against the cool pillows, the sheets whispering against her bare back as she bent her knees and let her thighs fall apart, exposing everything—the pink inner folds slick with arousal, the tight pucker below untouched and waiting. *Open. For him. In Arvind's bed.* The vulnerability hit like a wave, her wetness visible in the light, but the command in his voice made her arch slightly, offering.
Nikhil climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs, hands exploring now with bolder strokes—tracing the underside of her breasts, pinching nipples until she gasped, sliding down to her pussy, fingers parting the folds to feel the slick heat. "So wet," he murmured, one finger circling her clit, the other breaching her entrance, curling to find the rough patch inside. "Here? The G-spot?"
"Yes, Sir... harder..." Radha arched, moan spilling free, the precision of his touch undoing her.
He pumped slowly, thumb on her clit, watching her face contort. *She's moaning. Writhing. For me.* Boldness surged; he leaned down, tongue lapping her wetness from entrance to clit, the taste salty-sweet and addictive. *Dripping. Mine.* He sucked her clit, finger curling inside until she shattered, thighs clamping his head, crying "Sir!" as she came, flooding his mouth with her release.
Nikhil pulled back, face slick, eyes blazing with possession. *She came. From me. Now... her ass. Virgin. Mine.* The offer from yesterday burned in him, the dark fantasies converging—revenge turned conquest, her last untouched place his to claim. "Turn over. On your stomach. Ass up."
Radha's breath caught, the command raw and direct, sending a jolt through her core. *Now. In the bed. His first. My last.* She rolled onto her stomach, knees bending, ass lifting high, the pillow cool under her cheek. *Exposed. Waiting. For him to invade.* Humiliation flushed her, but the thrill made her drip, pussy clenching around nothing.
Nikhil knelt behind her, hands gripping her hips, cock hard and leaking. *Her ass. Tight. Virgin. For me.* He spat into his palm, slicked himself, then her—finger circling the pucker, pushing in slowly, feeling her tense, then yield with a gasp. *So tight. Hot. Clenching.* He added a second finger, scissoring gently, preparing her, the sight of her arched back and spread cheeks making him groan. "Ready?"
"Yes, Sir... take it..."
He positioned himself, pressing the tip against her entrance, pushing in inch by inch—the ring of muscle resisting, then giving way with a burn that made her cry out. *God. Tight. Like fire.* He bottomed out, hands digging into her hips, stilling to let her adjust. Radha moaned, the fullness stretching her, pain blooming into pleasure, tears pricking her eyes. *Invaded. Filled. By him. My student. Owning my last.*
Nikhil moved then, slow thrusts at first, learning the rhythm—the way she clenched around him, the sounds she made—then faster, hips slapping against her ass, one hand reaching around to rub her clit. *Mine. Taking her first. Her virgin ass.* The power surged, dark and complete, fantasies alive in every thrust. "Come for me. On my cock in your ass."
Radha shattered, walls clenching, crying "Sir!" as the orgasm ripped through her, body convulsing under him.
Nikhil followed, burying deep, coming in hot spurts inside her ass, marking his territory with a low growl, the heat flooding her.
He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from her stretched hole, the sight making him throb again. *Invaded. Filled. Mine forever.* Radha collapsed forward, panting, cum trickling down her thigh. "Thank you, Sir."
Nikhil lay beside her, pulling her close. "Will... will you get pregnant? From... this?"
Radha smiled, soft and knowing, turning to kiss his shoulder. "No, Sir. Not from coming in my ass. That's safe. For us."
"Clean me," he said, voice rough, cock still semi-hard and slick with them both.
Radha reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, instinctive, the cloth a reflex of modesty. But Nikhil's hand caught her wrist, eyes dark. "No. Lick it. Clean me with your mouth."
The command hit like a lash, Radha's breath catching, humiliation flooding her—*Lick him clean. Tasting us from his cock.* But the thrill made her obey, leaning down, tongue flicking the tip, lapping the mixed release, sucking him deep until he was spotless. *Owned. Completely.*
The territory was sealed.
Tomorrow, more conquests.
Chapter One: Day 8 – Monday, 25 May 2020
**The Bedroom Welcome**
The master bedroom was a realm of quiet opulence, the kind of space that whispered of a life carefully curated—teakwood furniture polished to a high sheen, the king-size bed with its crisp white cotton sheets tucked in with military precision, embroidered silk pillows stacked like sentinels at the headboard. Heavy burgundy velvet curtains filtered the early afternoon sun into a warm, diffused amber glow, casting long shadows across the maroon Persian rug that muffled footsteps and the faint scent of jasmine incense from Radha's morning puja lingered in the air, mingling with the clean, underlying aroma of sandalwood from the carved dresser. A full-length mirror leaned against one wall, its ornate gold frame reflecting the open door like a silent invitation to judgment. It was 1:32 p.m., and the flat beyond the door was empty—Lakshmi's footsteps had faded down the corridor two minutes ago, her double shift at the neighbors' a gift of four uninterrupted hours. The door's soft click and the chain's rattle still echoed in Radha's ears, a final punctuation to the ordinary world she was about to leave behind.
Radha stood in the center of the room, heart hammering a relentless tattoo against her ribs, dressed in the full regalia of her everyday armor: a deep maroon handloom saree, six yards of starched cotton dbangd in the flawless Nivi style, nine razor-sharp pleats tucked precisely at her navel, the pallu pinned securely over her left shoulder with a small, unforgiving safety pin. Beneath it, the long white petticoat clung to her legs, its drawstring knotted tight at the waist like a vow of modesty. The sleeveless cream blouse was buttoned with all six hooks, sturdy and modest, cupping her breasts in a beige cotton bra that felt like iron bands after yesterday's fleeting freedom. Her hair was twisted into its severe bun, secured with six steel clips that bit into her scalp, not a single strand daring to escape. The mangalsutra hung heavy at her throat, sindoor streaked thick in her parting like a line drawn in blood, a large black bindi centered on her forehead like a third eye of warning. Gold bangles clinked softly on her wrists—four on the right, three on the left—a subtle symphony that grounded her in the role she had inhabited for decades: the married teacher, the pillar of propriety, the untouchable authority who commanded fear with a glance.
But today, the armor was nothing more than a fragile shell, a costume she was about to dismantle piece by piece for the boy who had once trembled at her shadow. *He's coming,* she thought, fingers twitching at her sides, the saree's pallu brushing her arm like a traitor's whisper. *My bedroom. His territory now. Strip for him. Everything at his feet—like offerings to a conqueror.* The command from yesterday echoed in her mind, sending a shiver cascading down her spine, humiliation and anticipation coiling tight in her belly like a serpent waking. *The marital bed. Where Arvind and I built a life of silences.* The thought made her clench involuntarily, wetness gathering already, soaking the high-waisted cotton panty beneath the petticoat, the fabric a damp secret against her skin. *He's nineteen. Virgin. Innocent. But he's mine to obey.* Doubt flickered at the edges—*What if he hesitates? What if the power overwhelms him, and he retreats to the boy I broke?*—but she crushed it, resolve hardening like steel. *No. Yesterday he commanded the bedroom. Today he claims it. Let him see how far I'll fall to prove it. Let him walk on what was mine.*
The door creaked open at 1:35 p.m., a soft groan of wood on wood that sliced through the quiet like a blade. Nikhil stepped in barefoot, the marble cool under his soles, wearing only his grey briefs that clung to his thighs from the humidity, the fabric already tenting slightly from the morning's building tension. His hair was still damp from a hurried wash, dark strands curling at his temples, eyes widening as they swept the room—the grand bed looming like an altar, the mirror reflecting her standing form like a portrait of poised vulnerability, the faint jasmine scent wrapping around him like an embrace. *Her bedroom. The real one. The big bed Arvind uncle sleeps in.* His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that drowned the distant hum of the city below, the fantasies from last night roaring back—dark visions of revenge turned conquest, her body his to command. But the innocence lingered, a knot of uncertainty twisting in his gut: *She's dressed. Full saree, blouse, everything. What if she backs out? What if I can't... take it like she expects?* He swallowed hard, throat clicking in the silence, voice emerging steady but threaded with awe: "Radha."
The name on his lips was a spark to tinder, making Radha's knees weaken, a fresh wave of heat blooming low in her core. *Radha. Not Ma'am. His to say.* She stepped forward, the bangles on her wrists jingling softly like chimes of surrender, hands moving to the pallu first. The safety pin released with a tiny clink, falling to the rug like a discarded shackle. The fabric slid from her shoulder in a slow cascade, pooling at her elbow, the weight lifting like a breath held too long. "Welcome to your bedroom, Sir," she said, voice soft but resonant, eyes locking on his with unwavering certainty, the title a vow that made her nipples tighten against the confines of the blouse. Her fingers went to the hooks next—pop, pop, pop—the cotton parting sound by sound, revealing the beige bra cupping her breasts, the lace edge peeking like a secret. She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, the fabric whispering down her arms, and folded it once with deliberate care before bending at the waist—breasts straining against the bra, the curve of her ass presented briefly in the mirror's reflection—and placed it at his feet. The garment landed soft as a sigh on the marble, the warmth of her body still clinging to it.
Nikhil's breath hitched audibly, eyes tracing the line of her body as the blouse joined the floor at his toes. *Blouse. Her blouse. Under my feet.* The sight—her in the saree and petticoat now, bra visible and straining, standing vulnerable in her own sanctuary—made his cock twitch sharply, the briefs a cruel, tightening cage. He stepped forward instinctively, bare foot brushing the fallen fabric, the residual warmth seeping into his sole like a brand. *Warm. From her skin. Mine to step on.*
Radha's hands moved to the saree tuck at her waist, fingers finding the knot with practiced ease, pulling it free with a slow, deliberate tug. The fabric loosened, unwinding in a sinuous whisper of maroon cotton—circling her body once, twice, the pleats unraveling like a spell breaking—before falling in a shimmering pool at her feet, the handloom silk sighing as it hit the floor. She stepped out of it carefully, the cool air kissing her bare legs from mid-thigh down, and bent low to fold it—breasts heavy in the bra, ass lifting slightly, the mirror capturing the curve like a forbidden portrait—placing it atop the blouse with the reverence of a ritual. Now in petticoat, bra, and panty, the vulnerability deepened, her skin prickling under his gaze.
Nikhil's pulse thundered in his ears, the pile under his sole now thicker—the saree yielding soft and luxurious, the petticoat's cotton sticking slightly to his skin from the humidity. *Her saree. The one she wore to college. Crushed under me.* The sensation—silk against his arch, the faint scent of her soap rising—stirred something primal deep in his gut, his cock hardening fully, straining the briefs to their limit. The power bloomed, dark and intoxicating, fantasies flickering at the edges—revenge turned dominion, her body his to conquer inch by inch.
Radha straightened, fingers hooking into the panty's waistband—the same white cotton from Friday, now a talisman of her fall, high-waisted and innocent. She slid it down slowly, the fabric dragging over the curve of her hips, revealing the dark triangle of hair, the slick inner thighs that betrayed her arousal. It pooled at her ankles like a shed skin; she stepped out, the marble cool against her bare soles, and bent low to fold it—breasts swaying in the bra, ass presented again in the mirror's merciless reflection—placing it on the pile with trembling hands. Now naked from the waist down except the petticoat, the exposure was acute, air kissing her most private places, wetness cooling on her skin.
The petticoat's drawstring came next, loosening with a soft hiss as she tugged the knot free. The white cotton slid down her legs in a slow cascade, whispering against her calves, pooling at her feet like a fallen veil. She bent at the waist—breasts heaving in the bra, the curve of her ass fully exposed now, the mirror capturing every inch—and folded it neatly, the fabric still warm from her body heat, placing it atop the pile with a quiet reverence. Her bare legs trembled slightly, the vulnerability sinking deeper, every movement a reminder of her bareness below.
Nikhil's throat worked, a low groan escaping as he watched, the pile now a substantial carpet under his sole—petticoat soft and yielding, the saree beneath it crushed deeper with each shift of his weight. *Her petticoat. What she wore under everything. Now under me.* The intimacy of it—the private layer, warm from her skin—made his cock ache, pre-cum dampening the briefs, the power surging like a tide.
The bra came last. Radha's fingers reached behind her back, unclasping the hooks with a series of soft snaps—click, click, click—the beige cotton loosening, straps slipping down her shoulders like a confession. The cups fell away, freeing her heavy breasts, nipples dark and erect in the room's gentle air, swaying with the motion. She let the bra slide down her arms, the lace whispering against her skin, and bent low—breasts hanging full and free, nipples brushing the air, ass lifted high in the mirror's gaze—to fold it once, the underwire still warm, placing it on the pile like the final seal of her defeat. Now completely naked except the mangalsutra, her body open to him: breasts heaving with each breath, the dark triangle between her thighs glistening, the faint silver lines on her stomach a map of a life he was now claiming.
The pile was complete: saree, blouse, petticoat, panty, bra—a crumpled carpet of her dignity, crushed under his sole as he took another deliberate step forward, the fabrics yielding and sticking slightly to his skin.
Radha knelt then, as if in deepest prayer, the marble biting cold against her knees, her naked body a study in vulnerability—hair still pinned in its bun, mangalsutra swinging between her breasts like a traitor's medal. *Everything at his feet. My armor. Trampled.* Humiliation flushed her from cheeks to chest, but the thrill drowned it, wetness dripping down her inner thigh in a slow, shameful trail. *He's walking on them. Owning them. Owning me. The boy I terrorized now treads my secrets.*
Nikhil reached the foot of the bed, the pile left behind like trampled banners of conquest. His eyes darkened, the command rising unbidden, bold and raw: "Welcome me to your bed, Radha. Bow. Open your hair. Lay it forward on the ground."
Radha's breath snagged, shock rippling through her like a stone in still water—*Bow? On my hair? The last thing I control?* The degradation crashed over her, scalp tingling at the thought of him walking on the long black waves she had spent years pinning into submission. *Like a doormat. My crowning glory under his feet.* But beneath the shock bloomed a fierce, unexpected happiness, blooming warm in her chest—*He's commanding. Truly. The frightened boy is stepping into the man, taking without apology.* The realization made her clench, arousal spiking sharp and sudden. *Yes. Let him. Let him trample what was mine.* She nodded, voice steady despite the flush: "Yes, Sir."
She bowed low, forehead pressing to the cool marble in full prostration, arms stretched forward in supplication. Her fingers worked the six steel pins from her bun one by one—clink, clink, clink—the metal scattering like fallen stars. The long black river of her hair cascaded free, thick and glossy, falling forward in a heavy curtain to brush the floor. She spread it out deliberately with her hands, the strands fanning like a dark silken carpet from her bowed head across the rug to the bed's edge, the ends curling slightly in the air-conditioned breeze.
Nikhil stepped onto it, bare foot sinking into the soft mass, the warmth of her scalp still lingering in the strands like a ghost of her control. *Her hair. The bun I feared. Now under me.* The sensation was intimate, intoxicating—silk sliding against his sole, the faint coconut oil scent rising, each step crushing the waves deeper, a symbolic trampling of her last stronghold. He walked the length of it to the bed, the dark tresses yielding under his weight, some strands catching between his toes like threads of surrender.
Radha felt every press of his foot, the weight on her hair sending electric shivers of humiliation through her scalp and down her spine—*My hair. The symbol of my poise, my power. Now his path, trampled like dirt.* The degradation was profound, tears pricking her eyes, but the happiness overrode it, a radiant glow in her chest: *He's leading. Owning without mercy. The boy I broke is breaking me.* Her pussy clenched, wetness dripping onto the marble below her bowed form, the thrill of his command making her body hum.
Nikhil reached the bed, sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under him, and looked down at her bowed form—hair spread like a dark halo, naked body arched in submission. "Up. Here."
Radha rose on her knees, the strands trailing behind her like a surrendered train, crawling the short distance to him on hands and knees, the marble biting into her palms. She knelt between his legs, eyes lifting to his, the pile of her clothes crushed in the distance.
Nikhil's hand cupped her face, thumb tracing her lower lip with a tenderness that belied the command in his eyes. *Her face. Mine to touch.* He leaned in slowly, heart pounding a frantic rhythm, the distance closing inch by inch, their breaths mingling—hers soft and waiting, scented with jasmine, his ragged with nerves and need. His lips brushed hers first, tentative as a question, the contact feather-light, electric. *Kissing her. My teacher. Real.* The softness surprised him, warm and yielding, her mouth parting slightly under his, inviting.
Radha's world narrowed to the press of his lips, the innocent hesitation making her melt from the inside out. *His first kiss. With me. In my bedroom.* She parted her lips further, tongue flicking out to meet his, guiding gently with a slow sweep, the taste of him—salt and youth and untapped power—flooding her senses like forbidden wine. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the loose waves of her hair, pulling her closer with growing confidence. Tongues tangled in a slow, exploratory dance, wet and warm, her moan vibrating against his mouth. *He's learning. Taking my mouth like it's his right.* The wrongness—the age, the history, the power she had wielded—made her clit throb, humiliation and desire blurring into one aching need.
Nikhil pulled back at last, breathless, lips swollen and glistening, eyes dark with a hunger that had shed its innocence. "Lie back. On the bed. Open for me."
Radha obeyed without pause, reclining against the cool pillows, the sheets whispering against her bare back as she bent her knees and let her thighs fall apart, exposing everything—the pink inner folds slick with arousal, the tight pucker below untouched and waiting. *Open. For him. In Arvind's bed.* The vulnerability hit like a wave, her wetness visible in the light, but the command in his voice made her arch slightly, offering.
Nikhil climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs, hands exploring now with bolder strokes—tracing the underside of her breasts, pinching nipples until she gasped, sliding down to her pussy, fingers parting the folds to feel the slick heat. "So wet," he murmured, one finger circling her clit, the other breaching her entrance, curling to find the rough patch inside. "Here? The G-spot?"
"Yes, Sir... harder..." Radha arched, moan spilling free, the precision of his touch undoing her.
He pumped slowly, thumb on her clit, watching her face contort. *She's moaning. Writhing. For me.* Boldness surged; he leaned down, tongue lapping her wetness from entrance to clit, the taste salty-sweet and addictive. *Dripping. Mine.* He sucked her clit, finger curling inside until she shattered, thighs clamping his head, crying "Sir!" as she came, flooding his mouth with her release.
Nikhil pulled back, face slick, eyes blazing with possession. *She came. From me. Now... her ass. Virgin. Mine.* The offer from yesterday burned in him, the dark fantasies converging—revenge turned conquest, her last untouched place his to claim. "Turn over. On your stomach. Ass up."
Radha's breath caught, the command raw and direct, sending a jolt through her core. *Now. In the bed. His first. My last.* She rolled onto her stomach, knees bending, ass lifting high, the pillow cool under her cheek. *Exposed. Waiting. For him to invade.* Humiliation flushed her, but the thrill made her drip, pussy clenching around nothing.
Nikhil knelt behind her, hands gripping her hips, cock hard and leaking. *Her ass. Tight. Virgin. For me.* He spat into his palm, slicked himself, then her—finger circling the pucker, pushing in slowly, feeling her tense, then yield with a gasp. *So tight. Hot. Clenching.* He added a second finger, scissoring gently, preparing her, the sight of her arched back and spread cheeks making him groan. "Ready?"
"Yes, Sir... take it..."
He positioned himself, pressing the tip against her entrance, pushing in inch by inch—the ring of muscle resisting, then giving way with a burn that made her cry out. *God. Tight. Like fire.* He bottomed out, hands digging into her hips, stilling to let her adjust. Radha moaned, the fullness stretching her, pain blooming into pleasure, tears pricking her eyes. *Invaded. Filled. By him. My student. Owning my last.*
Nikhil moved then, slow thrusts at first, learning the rhythm—the way she clenched around him, the sounds she made—then faster, hips slapping against her ass, one hand reaching around to rub her clit. *Mine. Taking her first. Her virgin ass.* The power surged, dark and complete, fantasies alive in every thrust. "Come for me. On my cock in your ass."
Radha shattered, walls clenching, crying "Sir!" as the orgasm ripped through her, body convulsing under him.
Nikhil followed, burying deep, coming in hot spurts inside her ass, marking his territory with a low growl, the heat flooding her.
He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from her stretched hole, the sight making him throb again. *Invaded. Filled. Mine forever.* Radha collapsed forward, panting, cum trickling down her thigh. "Thank you, Sir."
Nikhil lay beside her, pulling her close. "Will... will you get pregnant? From... this?"
Radha smiled, soft and knowing, turning to kiss his shoulder. "No, Sir. Not from coming in my ass. That's safe. For us."
"Clean me," he said, voice rough, cock still semi-hard and slick with them both.
Radha reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, instinctive, the cloth a reflex of modesty. But Nikhil's hand caught her wrist, eyes dark. "No. Lick it. Clean me with your mouth."
The command hit like a lash, Radha's breath catching, humiliation flooding her—*Lick him clean. Tasting us from his cock.* But the thrill made her obey, leaning down, tongue flicking the tip, lapping the mixed release, sucking him deep until he was spotless. *Owned. Completely.*
The territory was sealed.
Tomorrow, more conquests.
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