12-12-2025, 07:36 PM
The room smelled of medicines and death. Sathiyamoorthy Sir lay propped on pillows, face grey, eyes sunken, breathing shallow through an oxygen tube. The moment he saw me his eyes lit up with the last fire left in him.
He lifted one trembling hand, pointed at the door, and rasped, “Lock.”
I locked the bedroom door, heart pounding.
He looked at my saree-clad body, eyes hungry even in death, and with great difficulty began pulling at my pallu with weak fingers.
Tears filled my eyes.
I understood.
This man had used my pussy for years, promised me dreams, given me loans, protected me from worse men, and now, on his death bed, he wanted one last look, one last touch of the body he had owned so many times.
I stepped closer, emotional, voice breaking, “Sir… let me help.”
I pulled the pallu off my shoulder myself, let the saree fall to the floor in a heap.
He watched, breathing harder.
I unhooked my blouse, let it drop, exposed my bra cupping my boobs.
His eyes begged.
I unhooked the bra, let my boobs spill free, nipples hardening in the cool air, mangalsutra resting between them.
He nodded weakly.
I untied my petticoat string, let it fall, stepped out.
Only panties remained.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband, dragged my panties down my thighs, over my knees, stepped out naked.
Completely naked except for the mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
He looked at my pussy, my ass cheeks, my nipples, my mangalsutra, eyes filling with tears of lust and farewell.
With the last strength in his body he patted the bed beside him.
I climbed on, emotional, tears rolling down my cheeks.
He grabbed my waist with surprising force, pulled me on top of him, spread my thighs wide with shaking hands so I straddled his wasted hips.
His cock, surprisingly hard one final time, poked up from his lungi.
I reached down, lifted his lungi, guided his cock to my pussy lips, and sank down slowly.
He groaned deep, hands grabbing my ass cheeks, pulling me down until his cock filled my pussy completely.
I rode him gently, boobs bouncing softly, mangalsutra swinging between us, tears dropping onto his chest.
He looked into my eyes, whispered with his last breath, “Thank you… my second wife…”
His hips gave one weak thrust upward, cock throbbing inside my pussy, balls tightening against my ass cheeks.
Then he came.
Hot, thick spurts of dying cum shot deep into my pussy, flooding my womb one final time.
His hands loosened on my ass cheeks.
His eyes lost focus.
His chest stopped rising.
Sathiyamoorthy Sir died with his cock buried inside my pussy, his final load warm in my womb.
I stayed on top of him, naked, pussy gripping his softening cock, cum starting to leak out around him, boobs heaving with silent sobs, mangalsutra resting on his still chest.
Minutes passed.
I finally climbed off, his dead cock slipping out of my pussy with a wet sound, his last cum dripping down my thighs.
I dressed slowly: pulled up my panties soaked with his final load, tied my petticoat, hooked my bra, buttoned my blouse, dbangd my saree, pinned the pallu.
I touched my mangalsutra, now carrying the weight of his death, felt his cum warm inside my panties, and whispered to his body:
“Thank you, Sir.
For everything.
Rest now.”
I opened the door, told his wife calmly, “He is gone.”
They rushed in crying.
I stood aside, naked under my saree, pussy full of a dead man’s cum, and felt strangely at peace.
He had taken from me for years.
I had given him the most intimate goodbye any man could ask.
His death inside my pussy was the final payment on every promise he ever kept.
The house construction continued.
The loan kept flowing.
And deep inside my pussy, his last warmth slowly cooled,
a secret only my body and I would ever know.
A mother’s pussy gives life.
Sometimes, it also gives death a gentle end.
Sathiyamoorthy Sir was gone.
His ashes had scattered into the river, his wife had moved away, Manoj remained silent in America, and suddenly there was nobody left in the world to help me.
The multi-storey house now had the ground floor fully completed and fully furnished: proper walls, tiled floor, doors, windows, a small kitchen with gas stove, one bedroom with a double bed, steel cupboard, dressing table, and a bathroom with running water. Varun and I lived there comfortably, the upper floors still rising above us.
All the money I had, every salary rupee, every loan installment, every saved paisa had poured into bricks and cement.
I had nothing left.
Nothing except the 2 lakhs hidden inside the steel cupboard in our bedroom.
Two tight bundles of thousand-rupee notes wrapped in plastic, locked behind a small padlock, the key hanging on a black thread between my boobs, resting against my mangalsutra.
That 2 lakhs was untouchable.
It was Varun’s final-year college fees, the last date tomorrow.
Varun was studying in the college hostel three hours away by bus from the small place where I worked as a Receptionist, and was waiting for me to bring the cash so he could pay before the office closed and they barred him from exams.
Tomorrow morning I had to take the early bus, reach the hostel, hand him the bundles, watch him pay at the college office, hug him goodbye, and return home relieved.
Tonight I sat on the double bed in our fully furnished ground-floor bedroom, wearing my old green saree, pallu tucked at my waist after cooking, blouse loose from the day’s heat, mangalsutra glinting between my boobs under the tube light.
I opened the steel cupboard, took out the plastic-wrapped bundles, hugged them to my boobs, felt the crisp notes against my blouse, and whispered to the quiet room:
“Tomorrow, baby.
Tomorrow amma reaches the hostel, gives you this money, and your degree is safe.”
I kissed the bundles, placed them back carefully, locked the cupboard, hung the key again between my boobs where it always stayed, warm against my nipples through the blouse.
I lay down on our soft double bed with clean sheets in the fully furnished bedroom, saree riding slightly up my thighs, panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, mangalsutra resting in the valley between my boobs, and fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
The ground floor was fully completed and fully furnished, doors locked, windows shut, the upper floors silent skeletons above.
The night was still.
The house was safe.
The 2 lakhs waited in the cupboard for tomorrow’s bus journey to the hostel.
Little did I know a thief was already outside, watching through a small gap in the window curtain, eyes fixed on the steel cupboard, waiting for the deepest hour of night to slip in and steal my son’s entire future.
Tomorrow was the last date for fees.
Varun waited in the hostel.
Tonight was the night my world would break open.
My pussy would become the only wall between that thief and my son’s 2 lakhs.
But I did not know it yet.
I slept peacefully on the double bed in our fully furnished ground floor, mangalsutra rising and falling with my boobs, key warm between them, dreaming of handing the bundles to Varun at the hostel gate tomorrow, seeing his smile, knowing his degree was secure.
The thief waited in the dark.
The night grew heavier.
And fate sharpened its cruelest knife for a mother who had nothing left to give except her body.
The deepest hour of night arrived.
I lay asleep on the double bed in our fully furnished ground-floor bedroom, wearing my yellow saree and matching yellow blouse, pallu displaced slightly from tossing in sleep, exposing the deep navel in my midriff, mangalsutra resting between my heavy boobs, key to the steel cupboard still hanging on the black thread between my boobs.
The bedroom door creaked open silently.
Two thieves slipped inside like shadows.
One tall and rough, the other shorter but stronger, both masked with cloths over their mouths, eyes shining with greed.
They moved straight to the old steel cupboard in the corner, the one I called my bero, the one holding Varun’s 2 lakhs.
The tall thief took out a crowbar from his bag and began working on the lock, metal scbanging softly against metal.
The noise woke me.
I sat up bolt upright on the bed, heart slamming against my boobs, mangalsutra swinging wildly.
“Who are you? Get out!” I screamed, lunging toward them.
The shorter thief moved faster.
He dropped behind me, grabbed me from behind, one arm locking around my waist, the other bringing a long knife to my throat, cold blade hugging my neck just below my mangalsutra.
“Scream again and I cut your throat,” he hissed in my ear, breath hot, knife steady.
I froze, tears flooding my eyes, body trembling in my yellow saree.
“Please… please don’t hurt me… I have a son…” I begged, voice breaking.
The tall thief ignored me, kept working on the cupboard lock.
I saw the key on the black thread between my boobs, but I dared not move.
“That’s my son’s college fees… only 2 lakhs… please leave it… take anything else… please… tomorrow is the last date… he is in hostel… I have to give it tomorrow…” I pleaded, tears rolling down my cheeks, dripping onto my yellow blouse.
They did not listen.
The tall thief reached up to the top of the cupboard for the spare key I sometimes kept there.
His fingers brushed it.
The key slipped.
It fell through the tiny gap at the top of the old cupboard and disappeared inside with a soft clink.
He cursed under his breath.
Now the only way was to break the door open.
He wedged the crowbar harder, metal groaning.
I panicked.
“No! Please don’t open the cupboard! That’s my son’s fees! Tomorrow last date! He will lose his seat! Please, I beg you!” I cried, trying to move toward him, but the shorter thief tightened his arm around my waist, knife still at my throat.
He was not listening to my begging.
But he was looking.
Looking at me from head to toe in my yellow saree and yellow blouse, eyes lingering on my boobs heaving with every sob, on my deep navel exposed where the saree had shifted low on my hips, on my ass cheeks outlined under the saree, on my naked midriff, on my mangalsutra dancing between my boobs.
His breathing changed.
His grip on my waist shifted lower, fingers brushing the curve of my ass cheek over the saree.
His cock began hardening against my lower back.
I felt it.
He lifted one trembling hand, pointed at the door, and rasped, “Lock.”
I locked the bedroom door, heart pounding.
He looked at my saree-clad body, eyes hungry even in death, and with great difficulty began pulling at my pallu with weak fingers.
Tears filled my eyes.
I understood.
This man had used my pussy for years, promised me dreams, given me loans, protected me from worse men, and now, on his death bed, he wanted one last look, one last touch of the body he had owned so many times.
I stepped closer, emotional, voice breaking, “Sir… let me help.”
I pulled the pallu off my shoulder myself, let the saree fall to the floor in a heap.
He watched, breathing harder.
I unhooked my blouse, let it drop, exposed my bra cupping my boobs.
His eyes begged.
I unhooked the bra, let my boobs spill free, nipples hardening in the cool air, mangalsutra resting between them.
He nodded weakly.
I untied my petticoat string, let it fall, stepped out.
Only panties remained.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband, dragged my panties down my thighs, over my knees, stepped out naked.
Completely naked except for the mangalsutra shining between my boobs.
He looked at my pussy, my ass cheeks, my nipples, my mangalsutra, eyes filling with tears of lust and farewell.
With the last strength in his body he patted the bed beside him.
I climbed on, emotional, tears rolling down my cheeks.
He grabbed my waist with surprising force, pulled me on top of him, spread my thighs wide with shaking hands so I straddled his wasted hips.
His cock, surprisingly hard one final time, poked up from his lungi.
I reached down, lifted his lungi, guided his cock to my pussy lips, and sank down slowly.
He groaned deep, hands grabbing my ass cheeks, pulling me down until his cock filled my pussy completely.
I rode him gently, boobs bouncing softly, mangalsutra swinging between us, tears dropping onto his chest.
He looked into my eyes, whispered with his last breath, “Thank you… my second wife…”
His hips gave one weak thrust upward, cock throbbing inside my pussy, balls tightening against my ass cheeks.
Then he came.
Hot, thick spurts of dying cum shot deep into my pussy, flooding my womb one final time.
His hands loosened on my ass cheeks.
His eyes lost focus.
His chest stopped rising.
Sathiyamoorthy Sir died with his cock buried inside my pussy, his final load warm in my womb.
I stayed on top of him, naked, pussy gripping his softening cock, cum starting to leak out around him, boobs heaving with silent sobs, mangalsutra resting on his still chest.
Minutes passed.
I finally climbed off, his dead cock slipping out of my pussy with a wet sound, his last cum dripping down my thighs.
I dressed slowly: pulled up my panties soaked with his final load, tied my petticoat, hooked my bra, buttoned my blouse, dbangd my saree, pinned the pallu.
I touched my mangalsutra, now carrying the weight of his death, felt his cum warm inside my panties, and whispered to his body:
“Thank you, Sir.
For everything.
Rest now.”
I opened the door, told his wife calmly, “He is gone.”
They rushed in crying.
I stood aside, naked under my saree, pussy full of a dead man’s cum, and felt strangely at peace.
He had taken from me for years.
I had given him the most intimate goodbye any man could ask.
His death inside my pussy was the final payment on every promise he ever kept.
The house construction continued.
The loan kept flowing.
And deep inside my pussy, his last warmth slowly cooled,
a secret only my body and I would ever know.
A mother’s pussy gives life.
Sometimes, it also gives death a gentle end.
Sathiyamoorthy Sir was gone.
His ashes had scattered into the river, his wife had moved away, Manoj remained silent in America, and suddenly there was nobody left in the world to help me.
The multi-storey house now had the ground floor fully completed and fully furnished: proper walls, tiled floor, doors, windows, a small kitchen with gas stove, one bedroom with a double bed, steel cupboard, dressing table, and a bathroom with running water. Varun and I lived there comfortably, the upper floors still rising above us.
All the money I had, every salary rupee, every loan installment, every saved paisa had poured into bricks and cement.
I had nothing left.
Nothing except the 2 lakhs hidden inside the steel cupboard in our bedroom.
Two tight bundles of thousand-rupee notes wrapped in plastic, locked behind a small padlock, the key hanging on a black thread between my boobs, resting against my mangalsutra.
That 2 lakhs was untouchable.
It was Varun’s final-year college fees, the last date tomorrow.
Varun was studying in the college hostel three hours away by bus from the small place where I worked as a Receptionist, and was waiting for me to bring the cash so he could pay before the office closed and they barred him from exams.
Tomorrow morning I had to take the early bus, reach the hostel, hand him the bundles, watch him pay at the college office, hug him goodbye, and return home relieved.
Tonight I sat on the double bed in our fully furnished ground-floor bedroom, wearing my old green saree, pallu tucked at my waist after cooking, blouse loose from the day’s heat, mangalsutra glinting between my boobs under the tube light.
I opened the steel cupboard, took out the plastic-wrapped bundles, hugged them to my boobs, felt the crisp notes against my blouse, and whispered to the quiet room:
“Tomorrow, baby.
Tomorrow amma reaches the hostel, gives you this money, and your degree is safe.”
I kissed the bundles, placed them back carefully, locked the cupboard, hung the key again between my boobs where it always stayed, warm against my nipples through the blouse.
I lay down on our soft double bed with clean sheets in the fully furnished bedroom, saree riding slightly up my thighs, panties hugging my pussy and ass cheeks, mangalsutra resting in the valley between my boobs, and fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
The ground floor was fully completed and fully furnished, doors locked, windows shut, the upper floors silent skeletons above.
The night was still.
The house was safe.
The 2 lakhs waited in the cupboard for tomorrow’s bus journey to the hostel.
Little did I know a thief was already outside, watching through a small gap in the window curtain, eyes fixed on the steel cupboard, waiting for the deepest hour of night to slip in and steal my son’s entire future.
Tomorrow was the last date for fees.
Varun waited in the hostel.
Tonight was the night my world would break open.
My pussy would become the only wall between that thief and my son’s 2 lakhs.
But I did not know it yet.
I slept peacefully on the double bed in our fully furnished ground floor, mangalsutra rising and falling with my boobs, key warm between them, dreaming of handing the bundles to Varun at the hostel gate tomorrow, seeing his smile, knowing his degree was secure.
The thief waited in the dark.
The night grew heavier.
And fate sharpened its cruelest knife for a mother who had nothing left to give except her body.
The deepest hour of night arrived.
I lay asleep on the double bed in our fully furnished ground-floor bedroom, wearing my yellow saree and matching yellow blouse, pallu displaced slightly from tossing in sleep, exposing the deep navel in my midriff, mangalsutra resting between my heavy boobs, key to the steel cupboard still hanging on the black thread between my boobs.
The bedroom door creaked open silently.
Two thieves slipped inside like shadows.
One tall and rough, the other shorter but stronger, both masked with cloths over their mouths, eyes shining with greed.
They moved straight to the old steel cupboard in the corner, the one I called my bero, the one holding Varun’s 2 lakhs.
The tall thief took out a crowbar from his bag and began working on the lock, metal scbanging softly against metal.
The noise woke me.
I sat up bolt upright on the bed, heart slamming against my boobs, mangalsutra swinging wildly.
“Who are you? Get out!” I screamed, lunging toward them.
The shorter thief moved faster.
He dropped behind me, grabbed me from behind, one arm locking around my waist, the other bringing a long knife to my throat, cold blade hugging my neck just below my mangalsutra.
“Scream again and I cut your throat,” he hissed in my ear, breath hot, knife steady.
I froze, tears flooding my eyes, body trembling in my yellow saree.
“Please… please don’t hurt me… I have a son…” I begged, voice breaking.
The tall thief ignored me, kept working on the cupboard lock.
I saw the key on the black thread between my boobs, but I dared not move.
“That’s my son’s college fees… only 2 lakhs… please leave it… take anything else… please… tomorrow is the last date… he is in hostel… I have to give it tomorrow…” I pleaded, tears rolling down my cheeks, dripping onto my yellow blouse.
They did not listen.
The tall thief reached up to the top of the cupboard for the spare key I sometimes kept there.
His fingers brushed it.
The key slipped.
It fell through the tiny gap at the top of the old cupboard and disappeared inside with a soft clink.
He cursed under his breath.
Now the only way was to break the door open.
He wedged the crowbar harder, metal groaning.
I panicked.
“No! Please don’t open the cupboard! That’s my son’s fees! Tomorrow last date! He will lose his seat! Please, I beg you!” I cried, trying to move toward him, but the shorter thief tightened his arm around my waist, knife still at my throat.
He was not listening to my begging.
But he was looking.
Looking at me from head to toe in my yellow saree and yellow blouse, eyes lingering on my boobs heaving with every sob, on my deep navel exposed where the saree had shifted low on my hips, on my ass cheeks outlined under the saree, on my naked midriff, on my mangalsutra dancing between my boobs.
His breathing changed.
His grip on my waist shifted lower, fingers brushing the curve of my ass cheek over the saree.
His cock began hardening against my lower back.
I felt it.
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