27-01-2026, 02:29 AM
That day I did not go to college. After Shiva came deep inside my pussy, filling me with his hot cum, we stayed locked together inside the empty Mariyamma temple, his cock still buried in my sore pussy, my ass cheeks quivering against his balls, cum slowly leaking out around his cock and dripping down my thighs onto the stone floor. Pain and pleasure mixed in my body like fire and honey: the sharp sting from losing my virginity lingered in my pussy walls, but the fullness, the throbbing aftershocks of my orgasm, made my clit pulse with filthy satisfaction. I clung to the ledge, boobs heaving under the white shirt, nipples still hard over the shirt, tears streaming down my cheeks from the overwhelming rush.
I began crying softly, scared and emotional, thinking about what we had done. “Shiva… what if I get pregnant? What will my family say? They will kill me… us…” My voice broke, body shaking, pussy clenching around his softening cock one last time. He pulled out gently, cum pouring from my pussy lips in thick white streams, soaking my thighs and the navy blue skirt bunched at my waist. He turned me around, hugged me tight against his chest, kissing my forehead, wiping my tears with rough thumbs.
“Don’t cry, queen. You are mine now. No one can take you from me. Not your family, not anyone.” He looked around the dim temple, eyes landing on the small idol of Mariyamma, where a simple gold mangalsutra lay as an offering among the flowers and lamps. Without hesitation he took it, the black beads and gold pendant still warm from the lamp flame.
He lifted my hair, tied the mangalsutra around my neck, the pendant settling heavy between my boobs, resting right above my still-heaving cleavage under the white shirt. “With this mangalsutra, in front of Mariyamma, you are my wife now, Meena. No priest, no ceremony needed. You belong to me forever. Your pussy, your boobs, your ass cheeks, your everything is mine. We are married.” His voice was raw, emotional, possessive, eyes shining with love and triumph. I touched the mangalsutra, fingers trembling, feeling the weight of it like a chain of fate and desire. Tears fell harder, but they were mixed with joy now, stupid foolish love flooding my heart. I nodded, whispering “Yes… I am your wife, Shiva.”
He kissed me deeply, tongue claiming my mouth, hands grabbing my boobs over the white shirt, squeezing gently, then sliding down to rub my cum-soaked pussy over the navy blue skirt. We stayed in the temple until the pain in my pussy eased a little, until the cum stopped dripping so much down my thighs. He adjusted my panties back over my leaking pussy lips, smoothed my navy blue skirt down, fixed my white shirt so no one would suspect anything, then rode me home on the RX 100, one arm around my waist, the new mangalsutra swinging between my boobs with every bump.
Now I am the mother of three sons, all born from Shiva’s cock filling my pussy over the years, each time raw and filthy, each time ending with his cum deep inside me while I moaned and came all over his cock. My boobs grew heavier with every pregnancy, nipples darker, ass cheeks fuller, but Shiva still grabs them possessively, still fucks my pussy like the first time. He continues deep in rowdy activities, running with gangs, settling scores with knives and threats, now on the security officer encounter list, always one step ahead of raids, always hiding when cases pile up. I wait for him in our small house, mangalsutra heavy between my boobs, saree dbangd low on my hips, pussy ready for whenever he returns, loyal and emotional fool that I am, loving my rowdy husband more than life itself, even as danger circles closer every day.
One night, a cop who had always stayed loyal to my husband slipped him a secret warning in a dark alley near the slum. The cop whispered low, voice tense, “Shiva anna, you are on the encounter list now. The higher-ups gave orders. They are planning to kill you in a fake shootout soon. Run, anna. Hide fast.” My husband’s face hardened, but he nodded once, slapped the cop’s shoulder in thanks, and disappeared into the shadows.
From that moment my husband began to abscond. He left our small house before dawn, taking only a few clothes and his knife, moving to an abandoned fisherman’s hut on the outskirts near the Marina Beach backwaters. Only I knew the exact location: a single-room shack hidden behind tall weeds and palm trees, roof leaking in rain, walls cracked but safe from prying eyes. No one else in the slum, not even our sons, knew where their father hid. I visited him in secret at night, dbangd in a dark saree, pallu pulled low over my boobs to hide my face, mangalsutra tucked inside the blouse so it did not glint under streetlights.
When I reached the hut that first night, my husband pulled me inside quickly, bolted the door, and hugged me tight against his chest. His hands grabbed my ass cheeks over the saree, squeezed hard, but his eyes were heavy with fear and anger. “The cops are searching everywhere for me, Meena. They want me dead. One wrong move and they will shoot me like a dog. I can’t come home. I can’t see our boys.” His voice cracked, raw and emotional, the strong rowdy breaking for the first time.
I started fearing for my family, especially our three sons. Tears filled my eyes as I clung to him, boobs crushing against his chest over my blouse, mangalsutra swinging between us. “What will happen to us? The boys are small. If they kill you… if they come for us… I can’t lose you. They need their father. I need my husband.” My pussy lips ached under my panties from his touch, but terror overpowered the desire. I cried against his shoulder, body shaking, imagining security officer raiding our house, dragging me away, our sons left alone.
My husband held me tighter, one hand rubbing my back over the saree, the other sliding down to grab my ass cheeks again, possessive even in fear. “I will not die that easy, Meena. But you have to be strong. Keep the boys safe. Bring me food, information. And come to me whenever you can. Your pussy, your boobs, your everything keeps me alive.” He kissed me fiercely, tongue deep in my mouth, hands squeezing my boobs over the blouse, nipples hardening under his palms.
I left the hut that night with my heart torn, saree damp from tears and sweat, mangalsutra heavy between my boobs like a promise and a burden. The inciting fear had taken root: my husband was hunted, our family on the edge of destruction, and only I could save him now, even if it meant crossing lines I never imagined, my loyal pussy and emotional heart ready to do anything for the rowdy who owned me completely.
I had never seen my husband this weak. He was always the strongest man I knew, the rowdy who made others tremble with one look, but that night in the fisherman’s hut he broke. He stood by the small window, staring into the dark backwaters, shoulders shaking, and tears rolled down his rough cheeks. Silent at first, then low sobs escaped him. He knew the cops would track him down eventually, corner him in some lane or empty plot, and shoot him dead in an “encounter,” claiming he resisted arrest. The thought of never seeing our three sons again, of leaving me alone to raise them, crushed him.
I walked up behind him quietly, my saree rustling softly, and hugged him from behind, my boobs crushing against his back over my blouse, mangalsutra pressing between us. My arms wrapped around his waist, hands resting on his belly, holding him tight. “I will save you, my husband. I swear on our sons, I will do anything to keep you alive.” My voice trembled, tears wetting his shirt.
He shook his head, voice hoarse and broken. “You can’t, Meena. No one can. They have orders from the top. I am finished.” He began crying harder, body shuddering in my embrace, the powerful rowdy reduced to a frightened man fearing for his life and family.
His right-hand man Dhamu, who had come with me to keep watch, stood in the corner, head lowered, eyes wet too. My husband wiped his face roughly, turned to Dhamu, and said in a low voice “Dhamu, take her home in your auto. Make sure no one follows. She has to be safe with the boys.”
Dhamu nodded silently, started the auto outside. I kissed my husband one last time, tasting salt from his tears, then climbed into the auto, saree pallu clutched tight over my boobs, mangalsutra heavy against my chest. As the auto pulled away through the dark lanes, I began crying helplessly, loud sobs shaking my body. They would shoot my husband for sure. Our sons would grow up fatherless. I would lose the only man I ever loved. The fear clawed at my chest, making my pussy clench in grief under my panties.
Dhamu slowed the auto in a quiet stretch near the canal, turned to me with serious eyes. “Meena akka, stop crying. There is a way to save Shiva anna. But you have to listen to me completely, and do exactly what I say.”
I wiped my tears, nodded desperately. “Anything, Dhamu. Tell me. I will do anything to save my husband.”
He took a deep breath. “The MLA’s personal assistant, Govindan, is the only man who can pull strings to remove all cases and cancel the encounter order. He is very close to the MLA, handles all his dirty work, controls the security officer stations in this area. One word from Govindan, and the encounter list gets torn up. Shiva anna walks free, no questions asked. But Shiva anna can never know about this meeting. His ego will clash, he will refuse help from politicians, and he will die proud instead of alive.”
My heart leaped with sudden hope. “Then take me to Govindan. I will beg him, do whatever it takes. Just save my husband.”
Dhamu looked at me steadily. “Govindan is powerful, akka. He can make the entire security officer force back off with one phone call. He has done it for others. He has the MLA’s ear, controls money, cases, everything. If you convince him, Shiva anna will be safe forever. The boys will have their father. You will have your husband back home, fucking you every night like before, no more hiding.”
Tears of relief mixed with my earlier grief. Hope bloomed hot in my chest, pushing aside the terror. My husband could live. Our family could stay whole. I nodded fiercely, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs as the auto jerked forward again. “Take me to him, Dhamu. I will save my husband. Whatever the price.” My pussy clenched with determination under my panties, emotional fool ready to sacrifice anything, even my dignity, to keep the rowdy I loved alive.
Dhamu stopped the auto near our lane, looked at me with steady eyes, and said “Meena akka, wait for my call. I will use my contacts to arrange a meeting with Govindan. It might take a day or two, but I will make it happen. Stay strong for Shiva anna and the boys. Do not tell anyone, not even family.” I nodded, tears still wet on my cheeks, mangalsutra heavy between my boobs under the saree pallu. He waited until I stepped inside our house safely, then drove away into the night.
In the evening, while I was cooking for the boys, my phone rang. Dhamu’s voice came through low and urgent. “Akka, I got it. Appointment with Govindan tomorrow morning. He agreed to meet. I will come pick you up at seven sharp. Wear something simple, nothing flashy. And remember, Shiva anna must not know. This stays between us.” My heart jumped with fresh hope, fear mixing with determination. “I will be ready, Dhamu. Thank you. This will save my husband.” I hung up, hands trembling, boobs rising and falling fast under my blouse.
After feeding the boys and putting them to sleep, I slipped out quietly to the nearby Mariyamma temple. The evening lamps glowed soft, jasmine fragrance thick in the air. I wore my dark saree low on my hips, pallu tucked tight across my boobs, mangalsutra resting heavy between them, swaying with each step. I knelt before the goddess, hands folded, eyes closed tight.
I offered fresh jasmine flowers at the idol’s feet, the white petals bright against the red kumkum. “Mariyamma, protect my husband. He is a rowdy, but he is a good father, a good man to me. Do not let them kill him. Give me strength to save him, whatever the cost. Keep our sons safe. Let Govindan help. Let my husband come home to me, to fuck me again, to hold me, to live.” Tears fell onto the stone floor as I prayed, pussy clenching under my panties from the emotional storm, fear and hope twisting inside me like a knife. I touched the idol’s feet, whispered “Save him, Amma. I will do anything for him.”
I stayed there until the lamps dimmed, mangalsutra sticky with sweat against my boobs, saree clinging to my thighs. When I walked back home, hope burned stronger than the fear. Tomorrow I would meet the man who could pull my husband from death’s edge. My loyal heart, my emotional fool soul, my pussy ready to sacrifice if needed, all of it focused on one thing: bringing my husband home alive.
The next day I woke up early, heart pounding with nervous hope, the mangalsutra heavy between my boobs under the nighty. I slipped out of bed quietly so the boys would not wake yet, went to the kitchen, and prepared breakfast: hot idli with sambar and chutney, the steam rising thick with the smell of mustard seeds and curry leaves. I packed their college lunch boxes with rice, rasam, and vegetable poriyal, tying each one carefully. When the boys stirred, I helped them dress in their uniforms, combed their hair, kissed their foreheads, and told them with a calm smile “Today amma is going to bring your appa back home. He is returning from Bangalore. Be good at college, eat your lunch, and come straight home after. Amma will be waiting with appa.” It was a lie to keep them from worrying, but their eyes lit up with joy, believing their father was safe and coming back. I sent them off early with the neighbor aunty who walked them to college, watching until they disappeared around the corner, my boobs tight with emotion under the nighty.
Once the house was empty, I opened my old suitcase under the bed and picked out the clothes for the meeting: a bright yellow saree, matching yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, and maroon panties. I laid them neatly on the chair, the yellow saree folds shining in the morning light, then grabbed a towel and went inside the bathroom.
I locked the door, removed my nighty completely, standing naked except for the mangalsutra resting between my boobs. I filled the bucket with hot water, steam rising, and took the razor and shaving cream. First I sat on the low stool, spread my thighs wide, and applied cream generously over my pussy lips and mound area. The cool cream made my clit twitch slightly. I took the razor slowly, gliding it in smooth strokes from top to bottom, removing every trace of hair, careful around the sensitive edges of my pussy lips so the skin stayed smooth and bare. I rinsed the razor after each pass, watching the cream and tiny hairs swirl down the drain, my pussy now completely shaved, pussy lips plump and exposed, glistening slightly from the hot water and my own building tension.
Next I turned around, bent forward slightly, spread my ass cheeks with one hand, and applied cream around my asshole. The sensation made me clench involuntarily. I shaved carefully in small gentle strokes, circling the tight asshole until it was smooth and clean, no hair left, the area pink and sensitive from the razor’s touch. I rinsed with hot water, feeling the warmth trickle between my ass cheeks and down my thighs.
Then I raised my arms one by one, applied cream to my armpits, and shaved them smooth too, long slow strokes until both armpits were bare and silky. I rinsed everything with hot water, soaping my boobs, navel, thighs, and ass cheeks, letting suds slide over my shaved pussy and asshole, the heat soothing the slight sting. I dried myself slowly with the towel, patting my pussy lips gently, feeling the fresh smoothness, then wrapped the towel around my boobs loosely and stepped out of the bathroom.
My mangalsutra swung between my still-damp boobs as I walked to the chair where the yellow saree, yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, and maroon panties waited. I stood naked for a moment, breathing deep, ready to dress and face whatever Govindan would demand to save my husband. Hope and fear twisted in my belly, my shaved pussy tingling with nervous anticipation, emotional fool heart set on bringing my husband home alive no matter the cost.
I toweled my boobs slowly, circling the towel over each heavy mound, drying the water droplets that clung to my nipples, making them harden further from the rough texture. I patted my navel, letting the towel glide down my belly, then spread my thighs slightly to dry between them, the towel rubbing gently over my shaved pussy lips and clit, sending a small shiver through my body. I turned, bent forward a little, and dried my ass cheeks, sliding the towel between them to pat my shaved asshole clean and dry. I wrapped the towel loosely around my boobs again, ends barely meeting at my back, nipples poking against the towel fabric, and stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom.
My mangalsutra swung between my boobs under the towel as I walked to the chair. I let the towel drop to the floor, standing naked once more, shaved pussy and asshole smooth and bare, boobs swaying free, nipples erect in the morning air.
I picked up the maroon panties first. Holding the waistband open with both hands, I stepped my right foot through the right leg hole, then my left foot through the left leg hole. I pulled the maroon panties upward slowly, the material gliding along my thighs, inch by inch, until the crotch reached my pussy. I tugged higher, the front panel sliding over my shaved mound and settling snug against my pussy lips, covering my clit completely. The back panel hugged my ass cheeks, the seam sliding deep between them to rest against my shaved asshole. I adjusted the waistband over my hips, smoothing it flat so the maroon panties sat perfectly, the legs hugging the lower part of my ass cheeks, the crotch pressing intimately against my pussy lips, making my clit throb once with filthy awareness.
Next I picked up the white bra. I slid the straps over my shoulders, letting the cups fall under my boobs. I reached behind my back, fingers locating the bra hooks, and fastened them one by one with slow, deliberate clicks: first hook, second hook, third hook, each one tightening the white bra around my boobs. The cups lifted my heavy boobs, cradling them fully, the plain material hugging every inch, straps settling secure on my shoulders. I adjusted the front center gore so the white bra sat even, nipples now hidden but pressing lightly against the cups, the mangalsutra nestling perfectly in the deep cleavage the white bra created between my boobs.
I stood there, maroon panties snug on my hips and hugging my shaved pussy and asshole, white bra supporting and lifting my boobs, mangalsutra dangling heavy between them. My heart raced with hope and nervous fear for the meeting with Govindan, emotional fool ready to dress in the yellow saree and face whatever he demanded to bring my husband home alive. The yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree waited next on the chair, but I paused, breathing deep, feeling the maroon panties rub against my pussy lips with every small shift of my hips, the white bra hugging my boobs like quiet armor for the sacrifice ahead.
I picked up the yellow petticoat from the chair, holding the waistband open wide with both hands, the bright yellow petticoat soft and light against my palms. I stepped my right foot through the waistband first, then my left, the yellow petticoat sliding upward along my thighs in a slow, teasing glide, the inner hem brushing the sensitive inner sides of my thighs where they met my maroon panties and shaved pussy lips. The yellow petticoat whispered against my shaved mound as I pulled higher, the waistband catching for a delicious moment on the flare of my hips, then easing over them with a gentle tug that made my ass cheeks jiggle slightly under the maroon panties.
I settled the yellow petticoat around my waist, the nada hanging loose at my left side. I reached to the left hip, fingers finding the nada, and began tying it slowly, sensually. I pulled the nada tight against my left hip, the string digging just a little into the soft flesh above my hip bone, knotting it in a firm double bow that rested high on my left hip, not below my navel. The knot pressed against my left hip, the yellow petticoat now cinched snug, hugging my waist and hips perfectly, the front panel dbanging over my maroon panties and shaved pussy lips, the yellow petticoat thin enough to hint at the outline of my pussy lips when I shifted weight.
The back of the yellow petticoat stretched taut across my ass cheeks, outlining every round contour, the maroon panties underneath wedged deeper between my ass cheeks, the seam rubbing my shaved asshole with every tiny movement. I smoothed my hands down the sides of the yellow petticoat, fingers gliding over my hips and the side knot, feeling how the yellow petticoat molded to my body like a second skin, accentuating the flare of my ass cheeks and the dip of my navel that peeked just above the high waistband. I turned slowly, watching in the small mirror, my ass cheeks jiggling under the yellow petticoat with the motion, the side-tied nada pulling the yellow petticoat tighter on my left hip, making my hips sway in a filthy, erotic rhythm.
My mangalsutra dangled between my boobs still cradled in the white bra, swinging with every breath, the pendant brushing the tops of my boobs as my nipples poked hard against the bra cups from the sensual act of tying the nada. The yellow petticoat felt deliciously possessive, hugging my shaved pussy and asshole beneath the maroon panties, the side knot a constant reminder of my hips and the body I was preparing to offer if needed to save my husband. My pussy lips throbbed under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat, wet with nervous anticipation, emotional fool heart racing as I reached for the yellow blouse and yellow saree next, ready to complete the look that would face Govindan and whatever filthy bargain he demanded.
I picked up the yellow blouse from the chair, holding it open in front of me, the short sleeves and front hooks gleaming in the morning light. I slid my right arm through the right sleeve first, the yellow blouse gliding over my shoulder, then my left arm through the left sleeve, the yellow blouse settling loosely over my white bra. The cups of the white bra peeked slightly at the deep neckline as I pulled the yellow blouse closed across my boobs.
I started hooking the front hooks one by one, slowly, sensually, each click a small erotic sound in the quiet room. First hook at the bottom: I pinched the two ends together just below my boobs, the yellow blouse edges meeting right under the lower curve of my heavy boobs, and pushed the hook through the eyelet, fastening it with a soft snap that pulled the yellow blouse snug against the undersides of my boobs. My boobs lifted slightly with the tension, nipples poking harder against the white bra cups beneath.
Second hook midway: I grabbed the next set of ends higher up, fingers brushing the soft undersides of my boobs over the yellow blouse, and hooked it deliberately, the yellow blouse squeezing my boobs together more firmly, creating deeper cleavage where the mangalsutra rested heavy and swaying. The white bra straps stayed visible at my shoulders, but the yellow blouse hugged my boobs so tightly that my nipples pressed outward, tiny peaks visible over the yellow blouse as hard points begging for attention.
Third hook near the top: I pulled the final ends together just under my collarbone, fingers lingering on the soft boobs over the yellow blouse, and fastened the hook with a slow push, the yellow blouse now fully closed, ending right below my boobs, the hem sitting just under the lower curve of my boobs, leaving my navel and midriff completely exposed. The yellow blouse stretched taut across my boobs, every breath making my nipples rub against the white bra cups inside, sending small jolts straight to my clit under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat.
I smoothed my hands over the yellow blouse, palms gliding up from the hem just below my boobs to the neckline, feeling how it squeezed my boobs together, accentuating their round fullness, the front hooks straining slightly with each inhale. I turned side to side, watching my boobs bounce gently under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging between them like a filthy promise. The yellow blouse ended provocatively short, right below my boobs, exposing my deep navel and the soft roll of my belly above the yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, making my body look even more inviting, more ready to be grabbed, squeezed, offered.
The yellow blouse felt possessive and erotic, hugging my boobs so tightly that every movement reminded me of the body I was preparing to display, to beg with, to perhaps offer to Govindan if it meant saving my husband. My pussy lips throbbed wet under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat, emotional fool heart pounding as I reached for the yellow saree next, ready to dbang myself in sacrifice and hope.
I picked up the yellow saree from the chair, the long bright folds heavy in my hands, and held one end against my left hip where the yellow petticoat nada was tied. I began dbanging the yellow saree slowly around my waist, the first turn gliding over my hips and ass cheeks, the yellow saree hugging my maroon panties underneath, the material sliding sensually against my shaved pussy lips through the yellow petticoat as I wrapped it twice more, tucking the folds deep into the yellow petticoat at my waist, the tuck pulling tight just above my navel, forcing the yellow saree to sit dangerously low on my hips, the petticoat knot pressing against my left hip like a secret mark.
I pulled the remaining yellow saree pallu over my left shoulder, letting it fall down my back in slow, teasing waves, the end brushing my ass cheeks over the yellow petticoat and yellow saree layers. I adjusted the pallu across my boobs, pulling it tight so the yellow saree crushed my boobs together under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra now fully visible in the deep cleavage, pendant nestling between my boobs, swaying with every breath. The yellow saree pallu dbangd low, exposing most of my boobs above the yellow blouse neckline, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, tiny peaks begging under the thin yellow saree layer.
I smoothed the yellow saree over my boobs with both hands, palms gliding down from collarbone to navel, feeling how the yellow saree molded to my boobs, accentuating their heavy roundness, the front tuck pulling the yellow saree taut across my ass cheeks, making them jiggle with every small step. The yellow saree clung to my thighs when I walked, outlining their thickness, the maroon panties seam rubbing my shaved asshole and pussy lips beneath the layers, wetness seeping into the maroon panties crotch as I missed my husband desperately.
My pussy throbbed hard under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat and yellow saree, clit swollen and aching, remembering how my husband used to grab my hips over my saree, pull me close, shove his cock into my pussy from behind while the mangalsutra swung wildly between my bouncing boobs. I imagined him here now, unhooking the yellow blouse front hooks one by one, squeezing my boobs over the white bra, lifting my yellow saree and yellow petticoat, shoving the maroon panties aside, ramming his thick cock deep into my wet pussy until I screamed his name. My pussy lips clenched at the thought, more wetness soaking the maroon panties, nipples throbbing painfully hard over the yellow blouse, emotional fool tears pricking my eyes as horny desire mixed with grief for my missing husband.
I turned in front of the small mirror, ass cheeks jiggling under the yellow saree and yellow petticoat, boobs bouncing gently under the yellow blouse and yellow saree pallu, mangalsutra swinging like a filthy reminder of my vows and my need. The yellow saree looked perfect, low and provocative, ready to beg Govindan, to beg on my knees if necessary, my shaved pussy dripping under the layers, heart aching for my husband’s cock inside me again, ready to do anything, sacrifice anything, to bring him home safe so he could fuck me raw like before.
I began crying softly, scared and emotional, thinking about what we had done. “Shiva… what if I get pregnant? What will my family say? They will kill me… us…” My voice broke, body shaking, pussy clenching around his softening cock one last time. He pulled out gently, cum pouring from my pussy lips in thick white streams, soaking my thighs and the navy blue skirt bunched at my waist. He turned me around, hugged me tight against his chest, kissing my forehead, wiping my tears with rough thumbs.
“Don’t cry, queen. You are mine now. No one can take you from me. Not your family, not anyone.” He looked around the dim temple, eyes landing on the small idol of Mariyamma, where a simple gold mangalsutra lay as an offering among the flowers and lamps. Without hesitation he took it, the black beads and gold pendant still warm from the lamp flame.
He lifted my hair, tied the mangalsutra around my neck, the pendant settling heavy between my boobs, resting right above my still-heaving cleavage under the white shirt. “With this mangalsutra, in front of Mariyamma, you are my wife now, Meena. No priest, no ceremony needed. You belong to me forever. Your pussy, your boobs, your ass cheeks, your everything is mine. We are married.” His voice was raw, emotional, possessive, eyes shining with love and triumph. I touched the mangalsutra, fingers trembling, feeling the weight of it like a chain of fate and desire. Tears fell harder, but they were mixed with joy now, stupid foolish love flooding my heart. I nodded, whispering “Yes… I am your wife, Shiva.”
He kissed me deeply, tongue claiming my mouth, hands grabbing my boobs over the white shirt, squeezing gently, then sliding down to rub my cum-soaked pussy over the navy blue skirt. We stayed in the temple until the pain in my pussy eased a little, until the cum stopped dripping so much down my thighs. He adjusted my panties back over my leaking pussy lips, smoothed my navy blue skirt down, fixed my white shirt so no one would suspect anything, then rode me home on the RX 100, one arm around my waist, the new mangalsutra swinging between my boobs with every bump.
Now I am the mother of three sons, all born from Shiva’s cock filling my pussy over the years, each time raw and filthy, each time ending with his cum deep inside me while I moaned and came all over his cock. My boobs grew heavier with every pregnancy, nipples darker, ass cheeks fuller, but Shiva still grabs them possessively, still fucks my pussy like the first time. He continues deep in rowdy activities, running with gangs, settling scores with knives and threats, now on the security officer encounter list, always one step ahead of raids, always hiding when cases pile up. I wait for him in our small house, mangalsutra heavy between my boobs, saree dbangd low on my hips, pussy ready for whenever he returns, loyal and emotional fool that I am, loving my rowdy husband more than life itself, even as danger circles closer every day.
One night, a cop who had always stayed loyal to my husband slipped him a secret warning in a dark alley near the slum. The cop whispered low, voice tense, “Shiva anna, you are on the encounter list now. The higher-ups gave orders. They are planning to kill you in a fake shootout soon. Run, anna. Hide fast.” My husband’s face hardened, but he nodded once, slapped the cop’s shoulder in thanks, and disappeared into the shadows.
From that moment my husband began to abscond. He left our small house before dawn, taking only a few clothes and his knife, moving to an abandoned fisherman’s hut on the outskirts near the Marina Beach backwaters. Only I knew the exact location: a single-room shack hidden behind tall weeds and palm trees, roof leaking in rain, walls cracked but safe from prying eyes. No one else in the slum, not even our sons, knew where their father hid. I visited him in secret at night, dbangd in a dark saree, pallu pulled low over my boobs to hide my face, mangalsutra tucked inside the blouse so it did not glint under streetlights.
When I reached the hut that first night, my husband pulled me inside quickly, bolted the door, and hugged me tight against his chest. His hands grabbed my ass cheeks over the saree, squeezed hard, but his eyes were heavy with fear and anger. “The cops are searching everywhere for me, Meena. They want me dead. One wrong move and they will shoot me like a dog. I can’t come home. I can’t see our boys.” His voice cracked, raw and emotional, the strong rowdy breaking for the first time.
I started fearing for my family, especially our three sons. Tears filled my eyes as I clung to him, boobs crushing against his chest over my blouse, mangalsutra swinging between us. “What will happen to us? The boys are small. If they kill you… if they come for us… I can’t lose you. They need their father. I need my husband.” My pussy lips ached under my panties from his touch, but terror overpowered the desire. I cried against his shoulder, body shaking, imagining security officer raiding our house, dragging me away, our sons left alone.
My husband held me tighter, one hand rubbing my back over the saree, the other sliding down to grab my ass cheeks again, possessive even in fear. “I will not die that easy, Meena. But you have to be strong. Keep the boys safe. Bring me food, information. And come to me whenever you can. Your pussy, your boobs, your everything keeps me alive.” He kissed me fiercely, tongue deep in my mouth, hands squeezing my boobs over the blouse, nipples hardening under his palms.
I left the hut that night with my heart torn, saree damp from tears and sweat, mangalsutra heavy between my boobs like a promise and a burden. The inciting fear had taken root: my husband was hunted, our family on the edge of destruction, and only I could save him now, even if it meant crossing lines I never imagined, my loyal pussy and emotional heart ready to do anything for the rowdy who owned me completely.
I had never seen my husband this weak. He was always the strongest man I knew, the rowdy who made others tremble with one look, but that night in the fisherman’s hut he broke. He stood by the small window, staring into the dark backwaters, shoulders shaking, and tears rolled down his rough cheeks. Silent at first, then low sobs escaped him. He knew the cops would track him down eventually, corner him in some lane or empty plot, and shoot him dead in an “encounter,” claiming he resisted arrest. The thought of never seeing our three sons again, of leaving me alone to raise them, crushed him.
I walked up behind him quietly, my saree rustling softly, and hugged him from behind, my boobs crushing against his back over my blouse, mangalsutra pressing between us. My arms wrapped around his waist, hands resting on his belly, holding him tight. “I will save you, my husband. I swear on our sons, I will do anything to keep you alive.” My voice trembled, tears wetting his shirt.
He shook his head, voice hoarse and broken. “You can’t, Meena. No one can. They have orders from the top. I am finished.” He began crying harder, body shuddering in my embrace, the powerful rowdy reduced to a frightened man fearing for his life and family.
His right-hand man Dhamu, who had come with me to keep watch, stood in the corner, head lowered, eyes wet too. My husband wiped his face roughly, turned to Dhamu, and said in a low voice “Dhamu, take her home in your auto. Make sure no one follows. She has to be safe with the boys.”
Dhamu nodded silently, started the auto outside. I kissed my husband one last time, tasting salt from his tears, then climbed into the auto, saree pallu clutched tight over my boobs, mangalsutra heavy against my chest. As the auto pulled away through the dark lanes, I began crying helplessly, loud sobs shaking my body. They would shoot my husband for sure. Our sons would grow up fatherless. I would lose the only man I ever loved. The fear clawed at my chest, making my pussy clench in grief under my panties.
Dhamu slowed the auto in a quiet stretch near the canal, turned to me with serious eyes. “Meena akka, stop crying. There is a way to save Shiva anna. But you have to listen to me completely, and do exactly what I say.”
I wiped my tears, nodded desperately. “Anything, Dhamu. Tell me. I will do anything to save my husband.”
He took a deep breath. “The MLA’s personal assistant, Govindan, is the only man who can pull strings to remove all cases and cancel the encounter order. He is very close to the MLA, handles all his dirty work, controls the security officer stations in this area. One word from Govindan, and the encounter list gets torn up. Shiva anna walks free, no questions asked. But Shiva anna can never know about this meeting. His ego will clash, he will refuse help from politicians, and he will die proud instead of alive.”
My heart leaped with sudden hope. “Then take me to Govindan. I will beg him, do whatever it takes. Just save my husband.”
Dhamu looked at me steadily. “Govindan is powerful, akka. He can make the entire security officer force back off with one phone call. He has done it for others. He has the MLA’s ear, controls money, cases, everything. If you convince him, Shiva anna will be safe forever. The boys will have their father. You will have your husband back home, fucking you every night like before, no more hiding.”
Tears of relief mixed with my earlier grief. Hope bloomed hot in my chest, pushing aside the terror. My husband could live. Our family could stay whole. I nodded fiercely, mangalsutra swinging between my boobs as the auto jerked forward again. “Take me to him, Dhamu. I will save my husband. Whatever the price.” My pussy clenched with determination under my panties, emotional fool ready to sacrifice anything, even my dignity, to keep the rowdy I loved alive.
Dhamu stopped the auto near our lane, looked at me with steady eyes, and said “Meena akka, wait for my call. I will use my contacts to arrange a meeting with Govindan. It might take a day or two, but I will make it happen. Stay strong for Shiva anna and the boys. Do not tell anyone, not even family.” I nodded, tears still wet on my cheeks, mangalsutra heavy between my boobs under the saree pallu. He waited until I stepped inside our house safely, then drove away into the night.
In the evening, while I was cooking for the boys, my phone rang. Dhamu’s voice came through low and urgent. “Akka, I got it. Appointment with Govindan tomorrow morning. He agreed to meet. I will come pick you up at seven sharp. Wear something simple, nothing flashy. And remember, Shiva anna must not know. This stays between us.” My heart jumped with fresh hope, fear mixing with determination. “I will be ready, Dhamu. Thank you. This will save my husband.” I hung up, hands trembling, boobs rising and falling fast under my blouse.
After feeding the boys and putting them to sleep, I slipped out quietly to the nearby Mariyamma temple. The evening lamps glowed soft, jasmine fragrance thick in the air. I wore my dark saree low on my hips, pallu tucked tight across my boobs, mangalsutra resting heavy between them, swaying with each step. I knelt before the goddess, hands folded, eyes closed tight.
I offered fresh jasmine flowers at the idol’s feet, the white petals bright against the red kumkum. “Mariyamma, protect my husband. He is a rowdy, but he is a good father, a good man to me. Do not let them kill him. Give me strength to save him, whatever the cost. Keep our sons safe. Let Govindan help. Let my husband come home to me, to fuck me again, to hold me, to live.” Tears fell onto the stone floor as I prayed, pussy clenching under my panties from the emotional storm, fear and hope twisting inside me like a knife. I touched the idol’s feet, whispered “Save him, Amma. I will do anything for him.”
I stayed there until the lamps dimmed, mangalsutra sticky with sweat against my boobs, saree clinging to my thighs. When I walked back home, hope burned stronger than the fear. Tomorrow I would meet the man who could pull my husband from death’s edge. My loyal heart, my emotional fool soul, my pussy ready to sacrifice if needed, all of it focused on one thing: bringing my husband home alive.
The next day I woke up early, heart pounding with nervous hope, the mangalsutra heavy between my boobs under the nighty. I slipped out of bed quietly so the boys would not wake yet, went to the kitchen, and prepared breakfast: hot idli with sambar and chutney, the steam rising thick with the smell of mustard seeds and curry leaves. I packed their college lunch boxes with rice, rasam, and vegetable poriyal, tying each one carefully. When the boys stirred, I helped them dress in their uniforms, combed their hair, kissed their foreheads, and told them with a calm smile “Today amma is going to bring your appa back home. He is returning from Bangalore. Be good at college, eat your lunch, and come straight home after. Amma will be waiting with appa.” It was a lie to keep them from worrying, but their eyes lit up with joy, believing their father was safe and coming back. I sent them off early with the neighbor aunty who walked them to college, watching until they disappeared around the corner, my boobs tight with emotion under the nighty.
Once the house was empty, I opened my old suitcase under the bed and picked out the clothes for the meeting: a bright yellow saree, matching yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, and maroon panties. I laid them neatly on the chair, the yellow saree folds shining in the morning light, then grabbed a towel and went inside the bathroom.
I locked the door, removed my nighty completely, standing naked except for the mangalsutra resting between my boobs. I filled the bucket with hot water, steam rising, and took the razor and shaving cream. First I sat on the low stool, spread my thighs wide, and applied cream generously over my pussy lips and mound area. The cool cream made my clit twitch slightly. I took the razor slowly, gliding it in smooth strokes from top to bottom, removing every trace of hair, careful around the sensitive edges of my pussy lips so the skin stayed smooth and bare. I rinsed the razor after each pass, watching the cream and tiny hairs swirl down the drain, my pussy now completely shaved, pussy lips plump and exposed, glistening slightly from the hot water and my own building tension.
Next I turned around, bent forward slightly, spread my ass cheeks with one hand, and applied cream around my asshole. The sensation made me clench involuntarily. I shaved carefully in small gentle strokes, circling the tight asshole until it was smooth and clean, no hair left, the area pink and sensitive from the razor’s touch. I rinsed with hot water, feeling the warmth trickle between my ass cheeks and down my thighs.
Then I raised my arms one by one, applied cream to my armpits, and shaved them smooth too, long slow strokes until both armpits were bare and silky. I rinsed everything with hot water, soaping my boobs, navel, thighs, and ass cheeks, letting suds slide over my shaved pussy and asshole, the heat soothing the slight sting. I dried myself slowly with the towel, patting my pussy lips gently, feeling the fresh smoothness, then wrapped the towel around my boobs loosely and stepped out of the bathroom.
My mangalsutra swung between my still-damp boobs as I walked to the chair where the yellow saree, yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, white bra, and maroon panties waited. I stood naked for a moment, breathing deep, ready to dress and face whatever Govindan would demand to save my husband. Hope and fear twisted in my belly, my shaved pussy tingling with nervous anticipation, emotional fool heart set on bringing my husband home alive no matter the cost.
I toweled my boobs slowly, circling the towel over each heavy mound, drying the water droplets that clung to my nipples, making them harden further from the rough texture. I patted my navel, letting the towel glide down my belly, then spread my thighs slightly to dry between them, the towel rubbing gently over my shaved pussy lips and clit, sending a small shiver through my body. I turned, bent forward a little, and dried my ass cheeks, sliding the towel between them to pat my shaved asshole clean and dry. I wrapped the towel loosely around my boobs again, ends barely meeting at my back, nipples poking against the towel fabric, and stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom.
My mangalsutra swung between my boobs under the towel as I walked to the chair. I let the towel drop to the floor, standing naked once more, shaved pussy and asshole smooth and bare, boobs swaying free, nipples erect in the morning air.
I picked up the maroon panties first. Holding the waistband open with both hands, I stepped my right foot through the right leg hole, then my left foot through the left leg hole. I pulled the maroon panties upward slowly, the material gliding along my thighs, inch by inch, until the crotch reached my pussy. I tugged higher, the front panel sliding over my shaved mound and settling snug against my pussy lips, covering my clit completely. The back panel hugged my ass cheeks, the seam sliding deep between them to rest against my shaved asshole. I adjusted the waistband over my hips, smoothing it flat so the maroon panties sat perfectly, the legs hugging the lower part of my ass cheeks, the crotch pressing intimately against my pussy lips, making my clit throb once with filthy awareness.
Next I picked up the white bra. I slid the straps over my shoulders, letting the cups fall under my boobs. I reached behind my back, fingers locating the bra hooks, and fastened them one by one with slow, deliberate clicks: first hook, second hook, third hook, each one tightening the white bra around my boobs. The cups lifted my heavy boobs, cradling them fully, the plain material hugging every inch, straps settling secure on my shoulders. I adjusted the front center gore so the white bra sat even, nipples now hidden but pressing lightly against the cups, the mangalsutra nestling perfectly in the deep cleavage the white bra created between my boobs.
I stood there, maroon panties snug on my hips and hugging my shaved pussy and asshole, white bra supporting and lifting my boobs, mangalsutra dangling heavy between them. My heart raced with hope and nervous fear for the meeting with Govindan, emotional fool ready to dress in the yellow saree and face whatever he demanded to bring my husband home alive. The yellow blouse, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree waited next on the chair, but I paused, breathing deep, feeling the maroon panties rub against my pussy lips with every small shift of my hips, the white bra hugging my boobs like quiet armor for the sacrifice ahead.
I picked up the yellow petticoat from the chair, holding the waistband open wide with both hands, the bright yellow petticoat soft and light against my palms. I stepped my right foot through the waistband first, then my left, the yellow petticoat sliding upward along my thighs in a slow, teasing glide, the inner hem brushing the sensitive inner sides of my thighs where they met my maroon panties and shaved pussy lips. The yellow petticoat whispered against my shaved mound as I pulled higher, the waistband catching for a delicious moment on the flare of my hips, then easing over them with a gentle tug that made my ass cheeks jiggle slightly under the maroon panties.
I settled the yellow petticoat around my waist, the nada hanging loose at my left side. I reached to the left hip, fingers finding the nada, and began tying it slowly, sensually. I pulled the nada tight against my left hip, the string digging just a little into the soft flesh above my hip bone, knotting it in a firm double bow that rested high on my left hip, not below my navel. The knot pressed against my left hip, the yellow petticoat now cinched snug, hugging my waist and hips perfectly, the front panel dbanging over my maroon panties and shaved pussy lips, the yellow petticoat thin enough to hint at the outline of my pussy lips when I shifted weight.
The back of the yellow petticoat stretched taut across my ass cheeks, outlining every round contour, the maroon panties underneath wedged deeper between my ass cheeks, the seam rubbing my shaved asshole with every tiny movement. I smoothed my hands down the sides of the yellow petticoat, fingers gliding over my hips and the side knot, feeling how the yellow petticoat molded to my body like a second skin, accentuating the flare of my ass cheeks and the dip of my navel that peeked just above the high waistband. I turned slowly, watching in the small mirror, my ass cheeks jiggling under the yellow petticoat with the motion, the side-tied nada pulling the yellow petticoat tighter on my left hip, making my hips sway in a filthy, erotic rhythm.
My mangalsutra dangled between my boobs still cradled in the white bra, swinging with every breath, the pendant brushing the tops of my boobs as my nipples poked hard against the bra cups from the sensual act of tying the nada. The yellow petticoat felt deliciously possessive, hugging my shaved pussy and asshole beneath the maroon panties, the side knot a constant reminder of my hips and the body I was preparing to offer if needed to save my husband. My pussy lips throbbed under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat, wet with nervous anticipation, emotional fool heart racing as I reached for the yellow blouse and yellow saree next, ready to complete the look that would face Govindan and whatever filthy bargain he demanded.
I picked up the yellow blouse from the chair, holding it open in front of me, the short sleeves and front hooks gleaming in the morning light. I slid my right arm through the right sleeve first, the yellow blouse gliding over my shoulder, then my left arm through the left sleeve, the yellow blouse settling loosely over my white bra. The cups of the white bra peeked slightly at the deep neckline as I pulled the yellow blouse closed across my boobs.
I started hooking the front hooks one by one, slowly, sensually, each click a small erotic sound in the quiet room. First hook at the bottom: I pinched the two ends together just below my boobs, the yellow blouse edges meeting right under the lower curve of my heavy boobs, and pushed the hook through the eyelet, fastening it with a soft snap that pulled the yellow blouse snug against the undersides of my boobs. My boobs lifted slightly with the tension, nipples poking harder against the white bra cups beneath.
Second hook midway: I grabbed the next set of ends higher up, fingers brushing the soft undersides of my boobs over the yellow blouse, and hooked it deliberately, the yellow blouse squeezing my boobs together more firmly, creating deeper cleavage where the mangalsutra rested heavy and swaying. The white bra straps stayed visible at my shoulders, but the yellow blouse hugged my boobs so tightly that my nipples pressed outward, tiny peaks visible over the yellow blouse as hard points begging for attention.
Third hook near the top: I pulled the final ends together just under my collarbone, fingers lingering on the soft boobs over the yellow blouse, and fastened the hook with a slow push, the yellow blouse now fully closed, ending right below my boobs, the hem sitting just under the lower curve of my boobs, leaving my navel and midriff completely exposed. The yellow blouse stretched taut across my boobs, every breath making my nipples rub against the white bra cups inside, sending small jolts straight to my clit under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat.
I smoothed my hands over the yellow blouse, palms gliding up from the hem just below my boobs to the neckline, feeling how it squeezed my boobs together, accentuating their round fullness, the front hooks straining slightly with each inhale. I turned side to side, watching my boobs bounce gently under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging between them like a filthy promise. The yellow blouse ended provocatively short, right below my boobs, exposing my deep navel and the soft roll of my belly above the yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, making my body look even more inviting, more ready to be grabbed, squeezed, offered.
The yellow blouse felt possessive and erotic, hugging my boobs so tightly that every movement reminded me of the body I was preparing to display, to beg with, to perhaps offer to Govindan if it meant saving my husband. My pussy lips throbbed wet under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat, emotional fool heart pounding as I reached for the yellow saree next, ready to dbang myself in sacrifice and hope.
I picked up the yellow saree from the chair, the long bright folds heavy in my hands, and held one end against my left hip where the yellow petticoat nada was tied. I began dbanging the yellow saree slowly around my waist, the first turn gliding over my hips and ass cheeks, the yellow saree hugging my maroon panties underneath, the material sliding sensually against my shaved pussy lips through the yellow petticoat as I wrapped it twice more, tucking the folds deep into the yellow petticoat at my waist, the tuck pulling tight just above my navel, forcing the yellow saree to sit dangerously low on my hips, the petticoat knot pressing against my left hip like a secret mark.
I pulled the remaining yellow saree pallu over my left shoulder, letting it fall down my back in slow, teasing waves, the end brushing my ass cheeks over the yellow petticoat and yellow saree layers. I adjusted the pallu across my boobs, pulling it tight so the yellow saree crushed my boobs together under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra now fully visible in the deep cleavage, pendant nestling between my boobs, swaying with every breath. The yellow saree pallu dbangd low, exposing most of my boobs above the yellow blouse neckline, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, tiny peaks begging under the thin yellow saree layer.
I smoothed the yellow saree over my boobs with both hands, palms gliding down from collarbone to navel, feeling how the yellow saree molded to my boobs, accentuating their heavy roundness, the front tuck pulling the yellow saree taut across my ass cheeks, making them jiggle with every small step. The yellow saree clung to my thighs when I walked, outlining their thickness, the maroon panties seam rubbing my shaved asshole and pussy lips beneath the layers, wetness seeping into the maroon panties crotch as I missed my husband desperately.
My pussy throbbed hard under the maroon panties and yellow petticoat and yellow saree, clit swollen and aching, remembering how my husband used to grab my hips over my saree, pull me close, shove his cock into my pussy from behind while the mangalsutra swung wildly between my bouncing boobs. I imagined him here now, unhooking the yellow blouse front hooks one by one, squeezing my boobs over the white bra, lifting my yellow saree and yellow petticoat, shoving the maroon panties aside, ramming his thick cock deep into my wet pussy until I screamed his name. My pussy lips clenched at the thought, more wetness soaking the maroon panties, nipples throbbing painfully hard over the yellow blouse, emotional fool tears pricking my eyes as horny desire mixed with grief for my missing husband.
I turned in front of the small mirror, ass cheeks jiggling under the yellow saree and yellow petticoat, boobs bouncing gently under the yellow blouse and yellow saree pallu, mangalsutra swinging like a filthy reminder of my vows and my need. The yellow saree looked perfect, low and provocative, ready to beg Govindan, to beg on my knees if necessary, my shaved pussy dripping under the layers, heart aching for my husband’s cock inside me again, ready to do anything, sacrifice anything, to bring him home safe so he could fuck me raw like before.
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