10-12-2025, 04:38 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-12-2025, 10:33 PM by ashuezy2. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
Scene 1
I am Sonalika. A North Indian woman of 25 years old, fair, Voluptuous, 5'6 height, Slim but full.
To the outside world, I look like the lucky wife of Lokesh — the woman he keeps well-presented and away from the world.
To my mother-in-law, Vimla Devi, I’m more of a burden, someone who has to take over the work her weak knees can no longer handle.
But this story isn’t about them.
It’s about the back room.
It’s about Babuji.
He is an old man now, all dry skin and fragile bones. He should be spending his days in prayer, waiting for peace. But instead, something inside him has changed. As his body grows weaker, a different kind of hunger has awakened in him — a craving that follows me everywhere.
The house may stay silent, but his longing does not.
And somehow, I have become the only thing it reaches for.
It was February — that short, beautiful time in Meerut when spring feels soft and gentle, just before summer turns everything scorching. But inside the house, the air felt thick, filled with the smell of old Babuji, dust, and unspoken things.
I stood in the hallway with a silver thali in my hands.
People outside notice my fair skin and full, curvy body. In the market, eyes often follow me.
But inside this house, none of that mattered.
Here, I was just the daughter-in-law.
Or at least, that’s what I believed then.
That day, everything felt different. My mother-in-law, Vimla Devi, was in the living room, holding her swollen knees and groaning softly. She couldn’t walk to the back room anymore. The responsibility had shifted to me.
“Go,” she told me without meeting my eyes. “He needs to eat. Make sure he finishes everything.”
I used my hip to push open the heavy wooden door.
The room was dim, Babuji lay on the large bed—a thin, tired man of sixty with a frail body.
But his eyes… they didn’t look weak at all.
They were wet, sharp, and fully awake.
He watched me enter. His gaze didn't stay on my face. It travelled down the curve of my neck, over the dbang of my sari, settling on my hips as I walked.
He released a long breath, almost as if relieved.
“I must be very lucky today,” he said. “My daughter-in-law herself has come to feed me.”
I didn’t react. I kept my face steady, calm, unmoving — like stone.
“Vimla Ma-ji is in pain, Babuji,” I said quietly. “So I will take care of you today.”
I set the tray on the bedside table and picked up the spoon. I stood at the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance.
But he immediately lifted his thin hand and patted the mattress right next to his hip.
“Come closer, beti. Look at Babuji properly. How will you feed me from all the way there?”
I paused. What he said made sense — I really couldn’t feed him while standing so far — but something in his tone felt uncomfortable. Still, I sat down.
The mattress sank slightly under my weight, pulling me a little toward him. My knee ended up just a few inches from his leg. I could smell the old scent of his room… and something else, something sudden in the air that made me tense.
===
I reached for the spoon again, but his hand suddenly moved.
It was thin, dry, almost skeletal — yet it closed around my left hand with unexpected strength.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Just hold my hand. It… calms me. The shaking stops when I touch something warm.”
I didn’t pull away. If this was what he needed to eat, I could tolerate it.
I let his bony fingers curl around mine.
He held on tightly, his thumb moving in slow, steady circles against my palm — a small, repeated motion meant to soothe himself.
“Now,” he said with a small, self-satisfied smile, nodding toward the food. “Feed me. Not with the spoon. It feels too cold. Use your hand instead. Food tastes better that way.”
My heartbeat thudded heavily in my chest.
This was a bold request, this was improper, but uncomfortably personal.
I dipped my fingers into the warm dal and rice, shaping a small bite. When I brought it toward him, he leaned forward quickly. His lips closed over the food, brushing against my fingertips as he ate. I felt his tongue, rough and wet all over my soft fingers.
He let out a low sound — not desire, but a kind of greedy satisfaction, like a hungry man finally tasting something he’d missed for too long.
Beti, This dal is tasty, but the taste of your hands is something else entirely.
He didn't let go of my other hand. In fact, he pulled it. He dragged my hand up from my lap and pressed it against his own chest, Then his grip slid to my forearm, pulling me closer until I could feel his breath near my face.
His eyes didn’t hide anything. They wandered lower, stopping on the front of my blouse, where the fabric of my sari was drawn tightly across my chest.
Oh bahu... why does your body feel so hot? I can see everything inside your blouse... look at your big melons, they are inviting me to suck them, come closer!
His words crossed a line direct, inappropriate, stripping away any attempt at respect. He spoke about my body as though it were an object he had a right to comment on.
A hot flush climbed up my neck not out of embarrassment, but from the sheer disbelief at how boldly he spoke.
I didn’t respond.
I simply shaped another bite of rice with my fingers.
He swallowed the second bite, but then his hand moved again.
This time, it slid down to my knee, touching it firmly before resting on my thick thighs over my sari. His thumb pressed into the fabric in slow, deliberate circles. He leaned closer, his voice turning rough and low.
Beti, What does Lokesh do with you all night? Does he press these soft thighs of yours like what I am doing right now?
He kept speaking, watching me carefully, testing how I reacted to every word and every touch.
I tried to remain composed, but my breath still hitched for a moment. He was stepping into a place that belonged only to my husband, crossing boundaries he had no right to cross.
The pressure of his hand on my thigh filled the cool room with an uneasy, confusing warmth.
He noticed I wasn’t pulling away.
My silence seemed to encourage him. His eyes shifted to the pallu resting on my shoulder. His free hand twitched slightly, reaching out as if to brush the edge of the fabric.
“Let me… move this pallu, beti. Let me see you properly,” he murmured, his voice trembling with a strange mix of pleading and insistence. “Just once. Let Babuji… just once.”
The air turned still.
This was the line, the one he should never cross.
He was asking and demanding at the same time, an old man trying to claim a right he did not have.
I looked at him, my hand still inside the rice bowl.
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t argue.
Instead, I lifted the next bite and pressed it firmly into his mouth, cutting his words short with food. His hand remained on my thigh, heavy and uncomfortable, but I didn’t move it. I just kept feeding him, one bite after another, while he watched me with a disturbing, satisfied calm.
When the plate was finally empty, he let go.
He looked strangely energized—more awake than he had seemed in months.
“Come tomorrow too, beti,” he said quietly. “Babuji… needs you now.”
I stood up, my legs slightly unsteady, and walked out.
The spring air outside was fresh and cool, but the memory of his hand still lingered on my skin like a shadow.
I am Sonalika. A North Indian woman of 25 years old, fair, Voluptuous, 5'6 height, Slim but full.
To the outside world, I look like the lucky wife of Lokesh — the woman he keeps well-presented and away from the world.
To my mother-in-law, Vimla Devi, I’m more of a burden, someone who has to take over the work her weak knees can no longer handle.
But this story isn’t about them.
It’s about the back room.
It’s about Babuji.
He is an old man now, all dry skin and fragile bones. He should be spending his days in prayer, waiting for peace. But instead, something inside him has changed. As his body grows weaker, a different kind of hunger has awakened in him — a craving that follows me everywhere.
The house may stay silent, but his longing does not.
And somehow, I have become the only thing it reaches for.
It was February — that short, beautiful time in Meerut when spring feels soft and gentle, just before summer turns everything scorching. But inside the house, the air felt thick, filled with the smell of old Babuji, dust, and unspoken things.
I stood in the hallway with a silver thali in my hands.
People outside notice my fair skin and full, curvy body. In the market, eyes often follow me.
But inside this house, none of that mattered.
Here, I was just the daughter-in-law.
Or at least, that’s what I believed then.
That day, everything felt different. My mother-in-law, Vimla Devi, was in the living room, holding her swollen knees and groaning softly. She couldn’t walk to the back room anymore. The responsibility had shifted to me.
“Go,” she told me without meeting my eyes. “He needs to eat. Make sure he finishes everything.”
I used my hip to push open the heavy wooden door.
The room was dim, Babuji lay on the large bed—a thin, tired man of sixty with a frail body.
But his eyes… they didn’t look weak at all.
They were wet, sharp, and fully awake.
He watched me enter. His gaze didn't stay on my face. It travelled down the curve of my neck, over the dbang of my sari, settling on my hips as I walked.
He released a long breath, almost as if relieved.
“I must be very lucky today,” he said. “My daughter-in-law herself has come to feed me.”
I didn’t react. I kept my face steady, calm, unmoving — like stone.
“Vimla Ma-ji is in pain, Babuji,” I said quietly. “So I will take care of you today.”
I set the tray on the bedside table and picked up the spoon. I stood at the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance.
But he immediately lifted his thin hand and patted the mattress right next to his hip.
“Come closer, beti. Look at Babuji properly. How will you feed me from all the way there?”
I paused. What he said made sense — I really couldn’t feed him while standing so far — but something in his tone felt uncomfortable. Still, I sat down.
The mattress sank slightly under my weight, pulling me a little toward him. My knee ended up just a few inches from his leg. I could smell the old scent of his room… and something else, something sudden in the air that made me tense.
===
I reached for the spoon again, but his hand suddenly moved.
It was thin, dry, almost skeletal — yet it closed around my left hand with unexpected strength.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Just hold my hand. It… calms me. The shaking stops when I touch something warm.”
I didn’t pull away. If this was what he needed to eat, I could tolerate it.
I let his bony fingers curl around mine.
He held on tightly, his thumb moving in slow, steady circles against my palm — a small, repeated motion meant to soothe himself.
“Now,” he said with a small, self-satisfied smile, nodding toward the food. “Feed me. Not with the spoon. It feels too cold. Use your hand instead. Food tastes better that way.”
My heartbeat thudded heavily in my chest.
This was a bold request, this was improper, but uncomfortably personal.
I dipped my fingers into the warm dal and rice, shaping a small bite. When I brought it toward him, he leaned forward quickly. His lips closed over the food, brushing against my fingertips as he ate. I felt his tongue, rough and wet all over my soft fingers.
He let out a low sound — not desire, but a kind of greedy satisfaction, like a hungry man finally tasting something he’d missed for too long.
Beti, This dal is tasty, but the taste of your hands is something else entirely.
He didn't let go of my other hand. In fact, he pulled it. He dragged my hand up from my lap and pressed it against his own chest, Then his grip slid to my forearm, pulling me closer until I could feel his breath near my face.
His eyes didn’t hide anything. They wandered lower, stopping on the front of my blouse, where the fabric of my sari was drawn tightly across my chest.
Oh bahu... why does your body feel so hot? I can see everything inside your blouse... look at your big melons, they are inviting me to suck them, come closer!
His words crossed a line direct, inappropriate, stripping away any attempt at respect. He spoke about my body as though it were an object he had a right to comment on.
A hot flush climbed up my neck not out of embarrassment, but from the sheer disbelief at how boldly he spoke.
I didn’t respond.
I simply shaped another bite of rice with my fingers.
He swallowed the second bite, but then his hand moved again.
This time, it slid down to my knee, touching it firmly before resting on my thick thighs over my sari. His thumb pressed into the fabric in slow, deliberate circles. He leaned closer, his voice turning rough and low.
Beti, What does Lokesh do with you all night? Does he press these soft thighs of yours like what I am doing right now?
He kept speaking, watching me carefully, testing how I reacted to every word and every touch.
I tried to remain composed, but my breath still hitched for a moment. He was stepping into a place that belonged only to my husband, crossing boundaries he had no right to cross.
The pressure of his hand on my thigh filled the cool room with an uneasy, confusing warmth.
He noticed I wasn’t pulling away.
My silence seemed to encourage him. His eyes shifted to the pallu resting on my shoulder. His free hand twitched slightly, reaching out as if to brush the edge of the fabric.
“Let me… move this pallu, beti. Let me see you properly,” he murmured, his voice trembling with a strange mix of pleading and insistence. “Just once. Let Babuji… just once.”
The air turned still.
This was the line, the one he should never cross.
He was asking and demanding at the same time, an old man trying to claim a right he did not have.
I looked at him, my hand still inside the rice bowl.
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t argue.
Instead, I lifted the next bite and pressed it firmly into his mouth, cutting his words short with food. His hand remained on my thigh, heavy and uncomfortable, but I didn’t move it. I just kept feeding him, one bite after another, while he watched me with a disturbing, satisfied calm.
When the plate was finally empty, he let go.
He looked strangely energized—more awake than he had seemed in months.
“Come tomorrow too, beti,” he said quietly. “Babuji… needs you now.”
I stood up, my legs slightly unsteady, and walked out.
The spring air outside was fresh and cool, but the memory of his hand still lingered on my skin like a shadow.
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