21-01-2026, 02:55 PM
Sorry readers please.... for delay......
Note: As already mention it is some dark theme story. If any one not interested in type of stories they
may not to be read. It is better...
Part: Intro
In the upscale Defence Colony bungalow of South Delhi, life moved with the quiet confidence of old money
newly multiplied. Karthik Mehra, 35, had turned his father's modest trading firm into a mid-size logistics
empire in just nine years. Container yards, cold-chain warehouses, last-mile delivery contracts — his
signature was everywhere in the northern supply chain. Tall, broad-shouldered, always dressed in crisp Tom
Ford shirts even at home, Karthik carried the easy arrogance of a man who had never truly lost.
Shailaja, his wife of seven years, was the perfect counterpoint. At 33 she still looked like the demure bride
from a small Andhra town who had walked into an arranged marriage with wide, frightened eyes. Fair-
skinned, long jet-black hair almost always braided or pinned in a traditional knot, she wore only silk sarees at
home — never salwar kameez, never anything modern. Her figure had ripened beautifully after two early
miscarriages: 36D breasts that strained gently against every blouse, a deep, perfectly round navel that
Karthik loved to tease with his tongue, and wide childbearing hips that swayed with unconscious grace when
she moved between kitchen and pooja room.
Their bedroom on the first floor smelled permanently of jasmine agarbatti, Chandan paste, and the faint
musk of their nightly coupling.
Tonight was no different.
Karthik returned at 10:40 pm, tie already loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt open. He found Shailaja
waiting near the staircase in a deep maroon Kanjeevaram, the pallu dbangd modestly over both shoulders.
She had lit the diya in the small mandir alcove; the flame danced across the gold zari border of her saree.
“You ate?” she asked softly, eyes lowered the way her mother had taught her.
“Meeting ran late. Just want you now.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. His large palm cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing her lower lip. Then he
pulled her against him, crushing the silk between their bodies. Shailaja gave the tiny gasp she always did —
half surprise, half surrender — even after seven years.
He walked her backward into their bedroom, kicking the door shut. The moment they crossed the threshold
his hands found her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her petticoat string.
“Blouse first,” he ordered quietly.
Shailaja’s fingers trembled only a little as she reached behind to unhook the three press buttons. The deep-
red blouse parted like ripe fruit. Karthik inhaled sharply when he saw the black lace bra she had started
wearing secretly the last few months — a small rebellion against the plain cotton ones her mother-in-law
once insisted on. The upper swells of her breasts spilled over the cups; her nipples were already dark and
peaked beneath the lace.
He bent and kissed the deep valley between them, then dragged his tongue slowly upward until he captured
one covered nipple between his lips. Shailaja whimpered, fingers sinking into his hair.
“Take it off,” he murmured against her skin.
She unclasped the bra with practiced movements. Heavy breasts tumbled free, swaying slightly. Karthik
caught them in both palms, thumbs circling the wide areolas before pinching the stiff tips hard enough to
make her back arch.
“Always so ready for me,” he said, voice thick.
He pushed her gently onto the bed. Shailaja lay back, saree still dbangd across her torso, petticoat bunched
at her waist. Karthik knelt between her knees and hooked his fingers into the saree folds at her navel. He
pulled slowly, unwrapping her like a gift. When the last pleat fell away, he stared at that deep, inviting navel —
the one he had first kissed on their wedding night while she cried silently into the pillow.
He dipped his head and pushed his tongue inside it, swirling, tasting the faint salt of her skin. Shailaja
moaned, hips lifting involuntarily. His hands slid under her hips, yanking the petticoat down along with her
panties in one impatient motion.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, pupils blown wide.
Karthik stood just long enough to shed his shirt and trousers. His cock sprang free — thick, veined, already
leaking at the tip. He stroked it once, twice, watching her gaze drop to it with that mixture of shyness and
hunger he loved.
He came over her, notched himself at her entrance, and pushed in one long, unrelenting stroke.
Shailaja cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. She was always tight — always — no matter how many
times he took her. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, feeling the hot, wet clasp of her around every
inch.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, bottoming out until his balls pressed against her ass. Shailaja’s
legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his lower back.
“Harder…” she whispered — the only time she ever asked for anything in bed.
Karthik grinned against her neck and obliged.
The headboard began to knock rhythmically against the wall. Her breasts bounced with every slam; he
caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hips pistoned. Shailaja’s moans turned into broken little sobs
of pleasure. Her fingers raked down his back, leaving faint red trails.
When he felt her walls begin to flutter, he slipped one hand between them and rubbed firm circles over her
swollen clit.
“Come for me, jaan,” he growled. “Let me feel it.”
She shattered almost instantly — back bowing, mouth open in a silent scream, thighs clamping around him
like a vice. Karthik fucked her through it, drawing out every tremor until her body went limp beneath him.
Only then did he let go.
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural groan, flooding her with heat. Pulse after pulse. He
stayed inside her long after, kissing her damp forehead, her closed eyelids, the corner of her trembling mouth.
“I love you,” he murmured — rare words from a man who usually showed rather than spoke.
Shailaja just held him tighter, legs still locked around his waist, keeping him deep inside her.
Outside, the Delhi night was quiet.
But across the city, in a glass-and-steel tower in Gurgaon, Vikram Oberoi sat in his penthouse office staring
at a single spreadsheet.
Karthik’s latest container shipment — 180 TEUs of electronics bound for the Northeast — had been “delayed
indefinitely” at the ICD due to a sudden customs audit. The same audit that Vikram’s lobbyist had quietly
requested forty-eight hours earlier.
Vikram swirled the single malt in his glass and smiled thinly.
He was forty-one, sharper-featured than Karthik, more ruthless, and — most importantly — far wealthier.
Their rivalry had started in college, turned personal when Karthik outbid him for a major warehouse contract
three years ago, and had simmered ever since.
Tonight the simmer was about to become fire.
Vikram opened another file on his screen: a discreetly taken photo of Shailaja stepping out of a temple in a
cream silk saree, pallu slipping just enough to show the deep curve of her navel.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he dialled a number.
“Start phase two tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I want his cash flow choked by end of month.”
He ended the call without waiting for confirmation.
In the Mehra bedroom, Shailaja had already drifted into light sleep against her husband’s chest, unaware that
the comfortable world she had known for seven years was about to fracture.
Note: As already mention it is some dark theme story. If any one not interested in type of stories they
may not to be read. It is better...
Part: Intro
In the upscale Defence Colony bungalow of South Delhi, life moved with the quiet confidence of old money
newly multiplied. Karthik Mehra, 35, had turned his father's modest trading firm into a mid-size logistics
empire in just nine years. Container yards, cold-chain warehouses, last-mile delivery contracts — his
signature was everywhere in the northern supply chain. Tall, broad-shouldered, always dressed in crisp Tom
Ford shirts even at home, Karthik carried the easy arrogance of a man who had never truly lost.
Shailaja, his wife of seven years, was the perfect counterpoint. At 33 she still looked like the demure bride
from a small Andhra town who had walked into an arranged marriage with wide, frightened eyes. Fair-
skinned, long jet-black hair almost always braided or pinned in a traditional knot, she wore only silk sarees at
home — never salwar kameez, never anything modern. Her figure had ripened beautifully after two early
miscarriages: 36D breasts that strained gently against every blouse, a deep, perfectly round navel that
Karthik loved to tease with his tongue, and wide childbearing hips that swayed with unconscious grace when
she moved between kitchen and pooja room.
Their bedroom on the first floor smelled permanently of jasmine agarbatti, Chandan paste, and the faint
musk of their nightly coupling.
Tonight was no different.
Karthik returned at 10:40 pm, tie already loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt open. He found Shailaja
waiting near the staircase in a deep maroon Kanjeevaram, the pallu dbangd modestly over both shoulders.
She had lit the diya in the small mandir alcove; the flame danced across the gold zari border of her saree.
“You ate?” she asked softly, eyes lowered the way her mother had taught her.
“Meeting ran late. Just want you now.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. His large palm cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing her lower lip. Then he
pulled her against him, crushing the silk between their bodies. Shailaja gave the tiny gasp she always did —
half surprise, half surrender — even after seven years.
He walked her backward into their bedroom, kicking the door shut. The moment they crossed the threshold
his hands found her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her petticoat string.
“Blouse first,” he ordered quietly.
Shailaja’s fingers trembled only a little as she reached behind to unhook the three press buttons. The deep-
red blouse parted like ripe fruit. Karthik inhaled sharply when he saw the black lace bra she had started
wearing secretly the last few months — a small rebellion against the plain cotton ones her mother-in-law
once insisted on. The upper swells of her breasts spilled over the cups; her nipples were already dark and
peaked beneath the lace.
He bent and kissed the deep valley between them, then dragged his tongue slowly upward until he captured
one covered nipple between his lips. Shailaja whimpered, fingers sinking into his hair.
“Take it off,” he murmured against her skin.
She unclasped the bra with practiced movements. Heavy breasts tumbled free, swaying slightly. Karthik
caught them in both palms, thumbs circling the wide areolas before pinching the stiff tips hard enough to
make her back arch.
“Always so ready for me,” he said, voice thick.
He pushed her gently onto the bed. Shailaja lay back, saree still dbangd across her torso, petticoat bunched
at her waist. Karthik knelt between her knees and hooked his fingers into the saree folds at her navel. He
pulled slowly, unwrapping her like a gift. When the last pleat fell away, he stared at that deep, inviting navel —
the one he had first kissed on their wedding night while she cried silently into the pillow.
He dipped his head and pushed his tongue inside it, swirling, tasting the faint salt of her skin. Shailaja
moaned, hips lifting involuntarily. His hands slid under her hips, yanking the petticoat down along with her
panties in one impatient motion.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, pupils blown wide.
Karthik stood just long enough to shed his shirt and trousers. His cock sprang free — thick, veined, already
leaking at the tip. He stroked it once, twice, watching her gaze drop to it with that mixture of shyness and
hunger he loved.
He came over her, notched himself at her entrance, and pushed in one long, unrelenting stroke.
Shailaja cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. She was always tight — always — no matter how many
times he took her. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, feeling the hot, wet clasp of her around every
inch.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, bottoming out until his balls pressed against her ass. Shailaja’s
legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his lower back.
“Harder…” she whispered — the only time she ever asked for anything in bed.
Karthik grinned against her neck and obliged.
The headboard began to knock rhythmically against the wall. Her breasts bounced with every slam; he
caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hips pistoned. Shailaja’s moans turned into broken little sobs
of pleasure. Her fingers raked down his back, leaving faint red trails.
When he felt her walls begin to flutter, he slipped one hand between them and rubbed firm circles over her
swollen clit.
“Come for me, jaan,” he growled. “Let me feel it.”
She shattered almost instantly — back bowing, mouth open in a silent scream, thighs clamping around him
like a vice. Karthik fucked her through it, drawing out every tremor until her body went limp beneath him.
Only then did he let go.
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural groan, flooding her with heat. Pulse after pulse. He
stayed inside her long after, kissing her damp forehead, her closed eyelids, the corner of her trembling mouth.
“I love you,” he murmured — rare words from a man who usually showed rather than spoke.
Shailaja just held him tighter, legs still locked around his waist, keeping him deep inside her.
Outside, the Delhi night was quiet.
But across the city, in a glass-and-steel tower in Gurgaon, Vikram Oberoi sat in his penthouse office staring
at a single spreadsheet.
Karthik’s latest container shipment — 180 TEUs of electronics bound for the Northeast — had been “delayed
indefinitely” at the ICD due to a sudden customs audit. The same audit that Vikram’s lobbyist had quietly
requested forty-eight hours earlier.
Vikram swirled the single malt in his glass and smiled thinly.
He was forty-one, sharper-featured than Karthik, more ruthless, and — most importantly — far wealthier.
Their rivalry had started in college, turned personal when Karthik outbid him for a major warehouse contract
three years ago, and had simmered ever since.
Tonight the simmer was about to become fire.
Vikram opened another file on his screen: a discreetly taken photo of Shailaja stepping out of a temple in a
cream silk saree, pallu slipping just enough to show the deep curve of her navel.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he dialled a number.
“Start phase two tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I want his cash flow choked by end of month.”
He ended the call without waiting for confirmation.
In the Mehra bedroom, Shailaja had already drifted into light sleep against her husband’s chest, unaware that
the comfortable world she had known for seven years was about to fracture.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)