27-01-2026, 02:30 AM
I sat at the small wooden dressing table, the yellow saree pallu dbangd over my left shoulder, yellow blouse hugging my boobs tight, yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, maroon panties rubbing my shaved pussy lips underneath. My mangalsutra rested heavy between my boobs, black beads and gold pendant warm against my cleavage from the morning heat.
I opened the small tin box of kumkum, dipped my ring finger into the bright red powder, and applied a large round bindi in the center of my forehead, pressing firmly so the kumkum dot stayed perfect, a traditional Tamil mark of married devotion and strength. Next I took the kajal stick, lined my upper and lower eyelids slowly, drawing thick black lines that made my eyes look deep and determined, the kajal extending slightly outward in the classic Tamil style to sharpen my gaze.
I picked up the small bottle of red liquid sindoor, tilted my head back slightly, and applied it along the parting of my hair with careful strokes, the bright red line running from forehead to crown, symbol of my marriage and my unbreakable bond with my husband, even while he hid from danger. The sindoor felt sticky and warm, a quiet reminder of the vows we made and the life I fought to protect.
I opened the jasmine flower basket, the strong sweet fragrance filling the room instantly. I took a long string of fresh jasmine gajra, white buds threaded tight, and pinned it into my long black hair at the back, tucking the ends so the jasmine garland hung down my back like a cascade of white against the yellow saree pallu. I added a second smaller string above my left ear, the jasmine buds brushing my earlobe and cheek, their scent mixing with my sweat and worry, calming my racing heart as I missed my husband’s rough hands in my hair, his voice calling me his queen.
I wore small gold jhumkas in my ears, the dangling bells tinkling softly against my neck with every turn of my head. I slipped gold bangles onto both wrists, the stack clinking together in the traditional Tamil rhythm, each sound a reminder of my status as a married Tamil wife, determined to bring her husband home safe. I added a thin gold chain around my waist over the yellow saree and yellow petticoat, the chain resting low on my hips, accentuating the flare and the way my ass cheeks moved under the layers.
Finally I applied a light coat of red lipstick to my full lips, pressing them together slowly, the color making them look soft and composed. I dabbed a tiny bit of attar behind my ears, on my navel, and between my boobs where the mangalsutra rested, the rose scent blending with jasmine to create a soothing, traditional aroma that steadied my nerves.
I stood up, adjusted the yellow saree pallu once more so it fell perfectly over my left shoulder, exposing my boobs cleavage and the mangalsutra, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, pussy aching with worry under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree. I missed my husband so fiercely it hurt: his strong arms around me, his voice promising forever, his presence that made our house a home. My pussy lips clenched under the layers with longing, emotional fool tears pricking my eyes again as desperate hope mixed with fear. I was ready, dressed in full Tamil traditional glory, jasmine in my hair, sindoor in my parting, kumkum on my forehead, gold on my body, mangalsutra claiming me as wife, to face Govindan, to beg humbly, to plead for mercy, to do whatever it took to save the rowdy husband I loved more than life. Dhamu would arrive soon, and I waited, heart racing, boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, ready for whatever came next.
Dhamu arrived exactly at seven, the auto engine rumbling outside our house. He honked once, a short sharp sound that cut through the morning quiet. I took a deep breath, adjusted the yellow saree pallu over my left shoulder one last time, making sure the mangalsutra rested perfectly between my boobs, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, then locked the front door and stepped out.
The moment Dhamu saw me walking toward the auto in the bright yellow saree, yellow blouse ending just below my boobs, yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, his eyes widened. A visible cock bulge formed instantly in his lungi, the lungi tenting forward as his cock hardened. His friend sitting next to him in the auto, another rowdy in a similar lungi, stared from my face down to my exposed navel, then lower to where the yellow saree hugged my hips and ass cheeks, and his cock also bulged hard in his lungi, the outline clear and thick.
For a moment both men looked embarrassed, shifting in their seats, hands moving awkwardly to cover their lungi bulges, faces flushing red. Dhamu cleared his throat, voice rough. “Meena akka, why have you dressed so perfectly? I told you to make it simple, nothing flashy.”
His friend, still ogling me from head to toe, eyes lingering on my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging in my cleavage, the jasmine garland in my hair, spoke up before I could answer. “No, Dhamu, she is perfect like this. Look at her, anna. This will grab Govindan’s full attention. He won’t be able to say no to anything she asks.” His voice was thick with lust, cock bulge twitching visibly in his lungi as he stared at my navel and the way the yellow saree dbangd low on my hips.
I felt my cheeks burn, but I kept my head high, emotional fool heart pounding with worry for my husband. As I climbed into the auto, lifting one leg over the side, the yellow saree and yellow petticoat rode up slightly, flashing my thighs and the lower edge of my maroon panties over my ass cheeks. Dhamu’s friend leaned close to Dhamu and whispered, voice low but clear enough for me to hear. “I better walk home now, anna. If I sit next to her the whole way, I will be tempted to fuck her right here.”
The filthy words hit me like a slap, strange heat flooding my body. My pussy lips clenched hard under the maroon panties, wetness seeping into the crotch, clit throbbing suddenly even though I stayed loyal to my husband in my heart, never thinking of another cock. The comment made me strangely horny, my boobs heaving faster under the yellow blouse, nipples poking harder over the yellow blouse, shame and unwanted arousal twisting in my belly.
Dhamu slapped his friend playfully on the back of the head, laughing low. “Get out, you bastard. Walk home before you make a fool of yourself.” The friend climbed down, still staring at my ass cheeks under the yellow saree as he adjusted his lungi bulge one last time, then turned and walked away quickly.
Dhamu started the auto engine, the vehicle jerking forward. I sat behind him, yellow saree pallu slipping slightly to expose more of my boobs cleavage and mangalsutra, pussy still throbbing wet under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, mind racing with fear for my husband and the strange, forbidden heat from that whispered comment. We drove toward Govindan’s office in silence, the auto bouncing over potholes, making my boobs jiggle under the yellow blouse, my loyal heart heavy but determined to beg and save the only man whose cock I ever wanted inside my pussy.
Dhamu drove fast through the Chennai streets, the auto bouncing over potholes, making my boobs jiggle hard under the yellow blouse, nipples rubbing painfully against the white bra cups, mangalsutra swinging wildly between my boobs. The yellow saree pallu slipped lower with every jolt, exposing more of my boobs cleavage and deep navel above the yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip. My shaved pussy lips throbbed wet under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, the auto vibrations sending small shocks to my clit.
We reached Govindan’s office building, a tall concrete structure with MLA posters plastered on every wall. Dhamu parked the auto at the gate, and we stepped down. All the men loitering near the entrance, security guards, office boys, visitors in dhotis and shirts, turned shamelessly to stare at me from head to toe. Their eyes devoured my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra nestling in my cleavage, my exposed navel and the way the yellow saree dbangd low on my hips, outlining my ass cheeks. Some licked their lips openly, others adjusted their dhotis where cock bulges formed, the ogling more intense than usual, as if my desperate beauty today screamed for attention. It was nothing new in the slum, but today it felt too much, too hungry, making my cheeks burn and my pussy clench nervously under the maroon panties.
Dhamu and I waited at the gate, my saree pallu clutched tight over my boobs to hide some of the cleavage. A voice called from inside. “Dhamu, come in. Bring the woman.” Dhamu nodded, took my elbow gently, and led me through the gate into the cool office corridor.
At the end of the room sat Govindan behind a large wooden table, dressed in a white shirt and white dhoti, dark skinned and ugly as fuck, thick mustache, pot belly straining the shirt buttons, eyes small and mean. The moment he saw me walking toward him, his mouth watered visibly, tongue darting out to wet his lips, gaze locking on my boobs under the yellow blouse, then sliding down to my navel and the yellow saree low on my hips. His eyes darkened with raw lust.
His assistant, a thin man in shirt and trousers, gestured us closer. “Come, sit.” Dhamu and I moved toward the two chairs in front of the table, but the assistant raised a hand sharply, signaling us not to sit. Fear gripped me instantly. We stopped, scared and nervous, standing toward Govindan’s left side of the table. Dhamu stood closest to Govindan, and I stood to Dhamu’s left, slightly behind, my boobs rising and falling fast under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra trembling between them, pussy clenching tight under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, heart hammering with terror for my husband and the power this ugly man held over his life.
Dhamu stepped forward slightly, voice respectful but firm. “Sir, this is Meena, Shiva’s wife. I brought her here because Shiva is in serious trouble. He is on the encounter list. The cops are planning to kill him soon. Only you can help us. Please talk to the MLA, sir. Pull some strings, remove the cases, cancel the encounter order. You are the only one with that power.”
Govindan leaned back in his chair, white shirt stretched over his pot belly, white dhoti riding high on his thighs, eyes never leaving me. He ogled me shamelessly from head to toe, gaze starting at the jasmine garland in my hair, sliding down to my kajal-lined eyes, my red lips, then lingering long on my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging in my deep cleavage, my exposed navel above the yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, the yellow saree dbangd low on my hips and hugging my ass cheeks. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, dark eyes hungry and bold.
He ignored Dhamu completely at first, speaking directly to me in a low, filthy voice. “Look at this face, Meena. Such beautiful eyes, lined with kajal like a goddess. Full red lips, perfect for... many things. High cheekbones, that innocent yet seductive look. Jasmine in your hair, sindoor in your parting, kumkum on your forehead. You came dressed to kill, didn’t you? Every man in this office is hard just looking at you.”
I ignored his words, heart hammering, fear for my husband overpowering any shame. My boobs rose and fell fast under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra trembling between them. I clasped my hands in front of me, voice shaking but steady. “Sir, please. My husband is a good man to our family. He has three small sons. They need their father. The cops will kill him in an encounter. Please, sir, talk to the MLA. Save his life. I beg you. Do whatever is needed, but save my husband.”
Govindan smiled slowly, ugly teeth flashing, eyes still roaming my boobs, my navel, the way the yellow saree outlined my hips and ass cheeks. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping lower. “Such a pretty plea from such a beautiful face. Those eyes begging, those lips trembling. Yes, Meena, I see your desperation. But saving a rowdy like Shiva is not cheap. We will discuss what you are willing to give.”
I swallowed hard, pussy clenching nervously under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, but kept my gaze on him, emotional fool tears welling in my eyes. “Anything, sir. Just save my husband. Please. He is everything to me and our sons.”
Dhamu shifted uncomfortably beside me, but stayed silent. Govindan’s stare never wavered, mouth still watering slightly, the room thick with tension as he openly ogled my face and body, deciding how far he would push the wife who came to beg for her rowdy husband’s life.
Govindan leaned forward over the table, elbows planted wide, white shirt buttons straining across his pot belly, white dhoti riding high on his thick thighs. His small dark eyes stayed locked on me, never blinking, mouth still wet from earlier. He spoke slowly, voice thick and bold, ignoring Dhamu completely.
“Such a beautiful neck, Meena. Long, graceful, perfect for kissing, for biting. The way it curves when you tilt your head to beg, like now. That jasmine garland brushing it, sindoor line running down your hair, kumkum dot shining on your forehead. You look like a goddess come to plead. Every man in this room wants to wrap his hand around that neck and pull you close.”
His gaze traced down my neck to the mangalsutra resting in my cleavage, then lingered on my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the yellow saree pallu slipping lower to expose more skin above my navel. I ignored every filthy word, heart slamming against my ribs, fear for my husband drowning out the shame and the strange heat his stare stirred in my pussy under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree.
I clasped my hands tighter in front of me, voice trembling but clear. “Sir, please listen to me. My husband is everything to our three sons. They are small, they need him. The security officer will kill him in an encounter. He has done wrong things, but he is a father, a husband. Please, sir, talk to the MLA. Remove the cases. Cancel the encounter order. Save his life. I am begging you on my knees if I must. Do not let my children grow up without their father.”
Govindan smiled wider, ugly and slow, eyes still devouring my neck, my boobs, the way my mangalsutra swung with my quick breaths. “Such sweet words from such a beautiful neck. Keep begging, Meena. I like the way your voice shakes, the way your neck trembles. We will see how much you really want to save him.”
I swallowed hard, tears welling in my kajal-lined eyes, but refused to look away, emotional fool heart breaking and burning at once. “Anything, sir. Just save my husband. Please. He is all we have. Do not let the cops take him from us.”
Dhamu shifted nervously beside me, silent, while Govindan’s stare grew heavier, bolder, the room thick with his lust and my desperate plea, my pussy clenching tight under the layers from fear and unwanted tension, loyal to my husband yet standing here, neck exposed, begging this ugly powerful man to spare the rowdy who owned my life.
Govindan pushed back his chair slowly and stood up, the white dhoti stretched tight across his fat thighs and belly. A huge cock bulge tented the front of his white dhoti prominently, the thick outline of his hard cock pushing against the thin white dhoti material, impossible to miss. He stepped around the table, coming closer to me and Dhamu, eyes fixed on my exposed midriff.
He stopped just in front of me, gaze dropping shamelessly to my waist and navel. “Look at this waist, Meena. So narrow, so perfect, curving in just right above those wide hips. And this deep navel, round and inviting, like a little hole waiting to be filled. The way it dips in the center, sweat already collecting there from your nervousness. A man could spend hours licking that navel, tonguing it deep while holding this tiny waist in his hands.”
His voice dripped with filthy lust, mouth watering again as he stared at my navel, the gold chain around my waist glinting above the yellow petticoat and yellow saree low on my hips. Dhamu, who had always respected me like an elder sister, who had protected me all these years, now stood frozen beside me. His eyes followed Govindan’s stare to my waist and navel, then lower to my hips under the yellow saree. A visible cock bulge grew in his lungi, hardening fast, tenting the front as lust overtook respect for the first time.
I ignored every word, every stare, every cock bulge in the room. My boobs heaved faster under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra trembling between them with my quick breaths. Tears filled my eyes but I kept my voice steady, pleading. “Sir, please. My husband’s life is in your hands. The cops will kill him in an encounter. Our three sons will lose their father. Please talk to the MLA. Remove the cases. Stop the encounter. I am begging you, sir. Save my husband’s life.”
Govindan chuckled low, stepping even closer, his cock bulge almost brushing my hip through the yellow saree. “Such a devoted wife. Begging so sweetly with that beautiful waist and deep navel on display. We will see how much you really want him alive, Meena.”
Dhamu swallowed hard beside me, his own cock bulge throbbing in his lungi, eyes still locked on my navel, shame and lust warring on his face. I stood firm, pussy clenching nervously under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, emotional fool heart breaking for my husband, ignoring the filth around me, focused only on the plea that might bring him home safe. “Please, sir. Do not let my children become orphans. Save him. I will do whatever you ask, but save my husband from the cops.”
Govindan stepped even closer, his white dhoti bulge massive and obscene now, the thick cock outline straining hard against the white dhoti front. His eyes dropped shamelessly to my boobs, locked on the heavy mounds squeezed together under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging deep in my cleavage with every scared breath.
He licked his lips slowly, voice low and bold. “And these boobs, Meena. So full, so heavy, pushing against that tight yellow blouse like they want to burst free. Look how they rise and fall when you beg, how the nipples poke hard over the yellow blouse, begging to be pinched, sucked. Perfect round boobs, perfect for grabbing, squeezing, burying my face between them. A woman with boobs like these should never beg alone, she should be on her knees offering them.”
Dhamu, who had treated me like an elder sister for years, now stood rigid beside me, his own cock bulge throbbing visibly in his lungi, eyes glued to my boobs under the yellow blouse, lust overtaking years of respect. His breathing grew heavier, hands twitching at his sides, unable to look away from my heaving boobs and the mangalsutra nestled between them.
I ignored every filthy word, every hungry stare, every cock bulge in the room. My pussy clenched tight under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, fear and loyalty warring inside me. Tears spilled down my cheeks but my voice stayed strong, pleading. “Sir, please. My husband does not deserve to die like this. The cops will shoot him in an encounter. Our three sons will lose their father forever. Please talk to the MLA. Cancel the order. Remove the cases. Save my husband’s life. I am on my knees begging you, sir. Do not let my children become fatherless.”
Govindan chuckled darkly, eyes still devouring my boobs, the way they bounced slightly with my sobs, nipples hard and prominent over the yellow blouse. “Such devotion. Those boobs heaving while you cry for him. We will see how much you are willing to do for your rowdy husband, Meena.”
I wiped my tears with the yellow saree pallu end, mangalsutra trembling between my boobs, emotional fool heart breaking but refusing to waver. “Anything, sir. Just save him. Please. Let him come home to us. Do not let the cops take him away.” My pussy ached with worry under the layers, clit throbbing from the tension, but my mind stayed fixed only on my husband, loyal and desperate, ignoring the lust filling the room as I begged this ugly powerful man to spare the life of the rowdy who owned me completely.
Govindan circled slowly around me, white dhoti still tented with his massive cock bulge, eyes dropping to my ass cheeks under the yellow saree. He stopped behind me, close enough that I felt his hot breath on my neck, staring down at the way the yellow saree dbangd over my round ass cheeks, the panty line visible over my ass cheeks over the yellow saree where the maroon panties wedged tight between them.
He spoke low, voice thick with lust. “And this ass, Meena. So round, so full, jiggling under that yellow saree every time you shift. Look at that perfect shape, those plump ass cheeks begging to be grabbed, slapped, spread. The panty line visible over your ass cheeks over the saree, showing exactly how tight those panties hug your asshole and pussy lips. A man could bury his face between those ass cheeks for hours, or bend you over and fuck you from behind while watching them bounce.”
Dhamu, standing to my right, could not stop staring at my boobs under the yellow blouse. His eyes stayed locked on my heaving boobs, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging in my cleavage. His cock bulge throbbed visibly in his lungi, harder now, years of treating me like an elder sister shattered by raw lust as he watched my boobs rise and fall with my quick, scared breaths.
I ignored every word, every stare, every cock bulge straining in the room. My pussy clenched tight under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, fear for my husband drowning out the humiliation and the unwanted heat pooling in my clit. Tears streamed down my cheeks but I kept pleading, voice cracking with desperation. “Sir, please. My husband will be killed in an encounter. Our three sons will have no father. They are small, innocent. Please talk to the MLA. Cancel the order. Remove the cases. Save my husband’s life. I am begging you on my knees, sir. Do not let my children lose him.”
Govindan moved back in front of me, cock bulge still huge in his white dhoti, eyes flicking from my ass cheeks to my boobs then back to my tear-streaked face. “Such a loyal wife. Begging so hard for a rowdy. Those ass cheeks trembling under your saree, those boobs heaving while you cry. We will see how far that loyalty goes, Meena.”
I wiped my tears with the yellow saree pallu end, mangalsutra trembling between my boobs, emotional fool heart shattering but refusing to break. “Anything, sir. Just save him. Please. Let him come home to us. Do not let the cops take him away from his sons, from me.” My pussy lips throbbed with worry under the layers, clit pulsing from tension, loyal to my husband yet standing here, ass cheeks ogled, boobs lusted after, begging this ugly powerful man to spare the rowdy who owned my entire life.
I opened the small tin box of kumkum, dipped my ring finger into the bright red powder, and applied a large round bindi in the center of my forehead, pressing firmly so the kumkum dot stayed perfect, a traditional Tamil mark of married devotion and strength. Next I took the kajal stick, lined my upper and lower eyelids slowly, drawing thick black lines that made my eyes look deep and determined, the kajal extending slightly outward in the classic Tamil style to sharpen my gaze.
I picked up the small bottle of red liquid sindoor, tilted my head back slightly, and applied it along the parting of my hair with careful strokes, the bright red line running from forehead to crown, symbol of my marriage and my unbreakable bond with my husband, even while he hid from danger. The sindoor felt sticky and warm, a quiet reminder of the vows we made and the life I fought to protect.
I opened the jasmine flower basket, the strong sweet fragrance filling the room instantly. I took a long string of fresh jasmine gajra, white buds threaded tight, and pinned it into my long black hair at the back, tucking the ends so the jasmine garland hung down my back like a cascade of white against the yellow saree pallu. I added a second smaller string above my left ear, the jasmine buds brushing my earlobe and cheek, their scent mixing with my sweat and worry, calming my racing heart as I missed my husband’s rough hands in my hair, his voice calling me his queen.
I wore small gold jhumkas in my ears, the dangling bells tinkling softly against my neck with every turn of my head. I slipped gold bangles onto both wrists, the stack clinking together in the traditional Tamil rhythm, each sound a reminder of my status as a married Tamil wife, determined to bring her husband home safe. I added a thin gold chain around my waist over the yellow saree and yellow petticoat, the chain resting low on my hips, accentuating the flare and the way my ass cheeks moved under the layers.
Finally I applied a light coat of red lipstick to my full lips, pressing them together slowly, the color making them look soft and composed. I dabbed a tiny bit of attar behind my ears, on my navel, and between my boobs where the mangalsutra rested, the rose scent blending with jasmine to create a soothing, traditional aroma that steadied my nerves.
I stood up, adjusted the yellow saree pallu once more so it fell perfectly over my left shoulder, exposing my boobs cleavage and the mangalsutra, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, pussy aching with worry under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree. I missed my husband so fiercely it hurt: his strong arms around me, his voice promising forever, his presence that made our house a home. My pussy lips clenched under the layers with longing, emotional fool tears pricking my eyes again as desperate hope mixed with fear. I was ready, dressed in full Tamil traditional glory, jasmine in my hair, sindoor in my parting, kumkum on my forehead, gold on my body, mangalsutra claiming me as wife, to face Govindan, to beg humbly, to plead for mercy, to do whatever it took to save the rowdy husband I loved more than life. Dhamu would arrive soon, and I waited, heart racing, boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, ready for whatever came next.
Dhamu arrived exactly at seven, the auto engine rumbling outside our house. He honked once, a short sharp sound that cut through the morning quiet. I took a deep breath, adjusted the yellow saree pallu over my left shoulder one last time, making sure the mangalsutra rested perfectly between my boobs, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, then locked the front door and stepped out.
The moment Dhamu saw me walking toward the auto in the bright yellow saree, yellow blouse ending just below my boobs, yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, his eyes widened. A visible cock bulge formed instantly in his lungi, the lungi tenting forward as his cock hardened. His friend sitting next to him in the auto, another rowdy in a similar lungi, stared from my face down to my exposed navel, then lower to where the yellow saree hugged my hips and ass cheeks, and his cock also bulged hard in his lungi, the outline clear and thick.
For a moment both men looked embarrassed, shifting in their seats, hands moving awkwardly to cover their lungi bulges, faces flushing red. Dhamu cleared his throat, voice rough. “Meena akka, why have you dressed so perfectly? I told you to make it simple, nothing flashy.”
His friend, still ogling me from head to toe, eyes lingering on my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging in my cleavage, the jasmine garland in my hair, spoke up before I could answer. “No, Dhamu, she is perfect like this. Look at her, anna. This will grab Govindan’s full attention. He won’t be able to say no to anything she asks.” His voice was thick with lust, cock bulge twitching visibly in his lungi as he stared at my navel and the way the yellow saree dbangd low on my hips.
I felt my cheeks burn, but I kept my head high, emotional fool heart pounding with worry for my husband. As I climbed into the auto, lifting one leg over the side, the yellow saree and yellow petticoat rode up slightly, flashing my thighs and the lower edge of my maroon panties over my ass cheeks. Dhamu’s friend leaned close to Dhamu and whispered, voice low but clear enough for me to hear. “I better walk home now, anna. If I sit next to her the whole way, I will be tempted to fuck her right here.”
The filthy words hit me like a slap, strange heat flooding my body. My pussy lips clenched hard under the maroon panties, wetness seeping into the crotch, clit throbbing suddenly even though I stayed loyal to my husband in my heart, never thinking of another cock. The comment made me strangely horny, my boobs heaving faster under the yellow blouse, nipples poking harder over the yellow blouse, shame and unwanted arousal twisting in my belly.
Dhamu slapped his friend playfully on the back of the head, laughing low. “Get out, you bastard. Walk home before you make a fool of yourself.” The friend climbed down, still staring at my ass cheeks under the yellow saree as he adjusted his lungi bulge one last time, then turned and walked away quickly.
Dhamu started the auto engine, the vehicle jerking forward. I sat behind him, yellow saree pallu slipping slightly to expose more of my boobs cleavage and mangalsutra, pussy still throbbing wet under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, mind racing with fear for my husband and the strange, forbidden heat from that whispered comment. We drove toward Govindan’s office in silence, the auto bouncing over potholes, making my boobs jiggle under the yellow blouse, my loyal heart heavy but determined to beg and save the only man whose cock I ever wanted inside my pussy.
Dhamu drove fast through the Chennai streets, the auto bouncing over potholes, making my boobs jiggle hard under the yellow blouse, nipples rubbing painfully against the white bra cups, mangalsutra swinging wildly between my boobs. The yellow saree pallu slipped lower with every jolt, exposing more of my boobs cleavage and deep navel above the yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip. My shaved pussy lips throbbed wet under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, the auto vibrations sending small shocks to my clit.
We reached Govindan’s office building, a tall concrete structure with MLA posters plastered on every wall. Dhamu parked the auto at the gate, and we stepped down. All the men loitering near the entrance, security guards, office boys, visitors in dhotis and shirts, turned shamelessly to stare at me from head to toe. Their eyes devoured my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra nestling in my cleavage, my exposed navel and the way the yellow saree dbangd low on my hips, outlining my ass cheeks. Some licked their lips openly, others adjusted their dhotis where cock bulges formed, the ogling more intense than usual, as if my desperate beauty today screamed for attention. It was nothing new in the slum, but today it felt too much, too hungry, making my cheeks burn and my pussy clench nervously under the maroon panties.
Dhamu and I waited at the gate, my saree pallu clutched tight over my boobs to hide some of the cleavage. A voice called from inside. “Dhamu, come in. Bring the woman.” Dhamu nodded, took my elbow gently, and led me through the gate into the cool office corridor.
At the end of the room sat Govindan behind a large wooden table, dressed in a white shirt and white dhoti, dark skinned and ugly as fuck, thick mustache, pot belly straining the shirt buttons, eyes small and mean. The moment he saw me walking toward him, his mouth watered visibly, tongue darting out to wet his lips, gaze locking on my boobs under the yellow blouse, then sliding down to my navel and the yellow saree low on my hips. His eyes darkened with raw lust.
His assistant, a thin man in shirt and trousers, gestured us closer. “Come, sit.” Dhamu and I moved toward the two chairs in front of the table, but the assistant raised a hand sharply, signaling us not to sit. Fear gripped me instantly. We stopped, scared and nervous, standing toward Govindan’s left side of the table. Dhamu stood closest to Govindan, and I stood to Dhamu’s left, slightly behind, my boobs rising and falling fast under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra trembling between them, pussy clenching tight under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, heart hammering with terror for my husband and the power this ugly man held over his life.
Dhamu stepped forward slightly, voice respectful but firm. “Sir, this is Meena, Shiva’s wife. I brought her here because Shiva is in serious trouble. He is on the encounter list. The cops are planning to kill him soon. Only you can help us. Please talk to the MLA, sir. Pull some strings, remove the cases, cancel the encounter order. You are the only one with that power.”
Govindan leaned back in his chair, white shirt stretched over his pot belly, white dhoti riding high on his thighs, eyes never leaving me. He ogled me shamelessly from head to toe, gaze starting at the jasmine garland in my hair, sliding down to my kajal-lined eyes, my red lips, then lingering long on my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging in my deep cleavage, my exposed navel above the yellow petticoat tied high on my left hip, the yellow saree dbangd low on my hips and hugging my ass cheeks. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, dark eyes hungry and bold.
He ignored Dhamu completely at first, speaking directly to me in a low, filthy voice. “Look at this face, Meena. Such beautiful eyes, lined with kajal like a goddess. Full red lips, perfect for... many things. High cheekbones, that innocent yet seductive look. Jasmine in your hair, sindoor in your parting, kumkum on your forehead. You came dressed to kill, didn’t you? Every man in this office is hard just looking at you.”
I ignored his words, heart hammering, fear for my husband overpowering any shame. My boobs rose and fell fast under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra trembling between them. I clasped my hands in front of me, voice shaking but steady. “Sir, please. My husband is a good man to our family. He has three small sons. They need their father. The cops will kill him in an encounter. Please, sir, talk to the MLA. Save his life. I beg you. Do whatever is needed, but save my husband.”
Govindan smiled slowly, ugly teeth flashing, eyes still roaming my boobs, my navel, the way the yellow saree outlined my hips and ass cheeks. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping lower. “Such a pretty plea from such a beautiful face. Those eyes begging, those lips trembling. Yes, Meena, I see your desperation. But saving a rowdy like Shiva is not cheap. We will discuss what you are willing to give.”
I swallowed hard, pussy clenching nervously under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, but kept my gaze on him, emotional fool tears welling in my eyes. “Anything, sir. Just save my husband. Please. He is everything to me and our sons.”
Dhamu shifted uncomfortably beside me, but stayed silent. Govindan’s stare never wavered, mouth still watering slightly, the room thick with tension as he openly ogled my face and body, deciding how far he would push the wife who came to beg for her rowdy husband’s life.
Govindan leaned forward over the table, elbows planted wide, white shirt buttons straining across his pot belly, white dhoti riding high on his thick thighs. His small dark eyes stayed locked on me, never blinking, mouth still wet from earlier. He spoke slowly, voice thick and bold, ignoring Dhamu completely.
“Such a beautiful neck, Meena. Long, graceful, perfect for kissing, for biting. The way it curves when you tilt your head to beg, like now. That jasmine garland brushing it, sindoor line running down your hair, kumkum dot shining on your forehead. You look like a goddess come to plead. Every man in this room wants to wrap his hand around that neck and pull you close.”
His gaze traced down my neck to the mangalsutra resting in my cleavage, then lingered on my boobs heaving under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the yellow saree pallu slipping lower to expose more skin above my navel. I ignored every filthy word, heart slamming against my ribs, fear for my husband drowning out the shame and the strange heat his stare stirred in my pussy under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree.
I clasped my hands tighter in front of me, voice trembling but clear. “Sir, please listen to me. My husband is everything to our three sons. They are small, they need him. The security officer will kill him in an encounter. He has done wrong things, but he is a father, a husband. Please, sir, talk to the MLA. Remove the cases. Cancel the encounter order. Save his life. I am begging you on my knees if I must. Do not let my children grow up without their father.”
Govindan smiled wider, ugly and slow, eyes still devouring my neck, my boobs, the way my mangalsutra swung with my quick breaths. “Such sweet words from such a beautiful neck. Keep begging, Meena. I like the way your voice shakes, the way your neck trembles. We will see how much you really want to save him.”
I swallowed hard, tears welling in my kajal-lined eyes, but refused to look away, emotional fool heart breaking and burning at once. “Anything, sir. Just save my husband. Please. He is all we have. Do not let the cops take him from us.”
Dhamu shifted nervously beside me, silent, while Govindan’s stare grew heavier, bolder, the room thick with his lust and my desperate plea, my pussy clenching tight under the layers from fear and unwanted tension, loyal to my husband yet standing here, neck exposed, begging this ugly powerful man to spare the rowdy who owned my life.
Govindan pushed back his chair slowly and stood up, the white dhoti stretched tight across his fat thighs and belly. A huge cock bulge tented the front of his white dhoti prominently, the thick outline of his hard cock pushing against the thin white dhoti material, impossible to miss. He stepped around the table, coming closer to me and Dhamu, eyes fixed on my exposed midriff.
He stopped just in front of me, gaze dropping shamelessly to my waist and navel. “Look at this waist, Meena. So narrow, so perfect, curving in just right above those wide hips. And this deep navel, round and inviting, like a little hole waiting to be filled. The way it dips in the center, sweat already collecting there from your nervousness. A man could spend hours licking that navel, tonguing it deep while holding this tiny waist in his hands.”
His voice dripped with filthy lust, mouth watering again as he stared at my navel, the gold chain around my waist glinting above the yellow petticoat and yellow saree low on my hips. Dhamu, who had always respected me like an elder sister, who had protected me all these years, now stood frozen beside me. His eyes followed Govindan’s stare to my waist and navel, then lower to my hips under the yellow saree. A visible cock bulge grew in his lungi, hardening fast, tenting the front as lust overtook respect for the first time.
I ignored every word, every stare, every cock bulge in the room. My boobs heaved faster under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, mangalsutra trembling between them with my quick breaths. Tears filled my eyes but I kept my voice steady, pleading. “Sir, please. My husband’s life is in your hands. The cops will kill him in an encounter. Our three sons will lose their father. Please talk to the MLA. Remove the cases. Stop the encounter. I am begging you, sir. Save my husband’s life.”
Govindan chuckled low, stepping even closer, his cock bulge almost brushing my hip through the yellow saree. “Such a devoted wife. Begging so sweetly with that beautiful waist and deep navel on display. We will see how much you really want him alive, Meena.”
Dhamu swallowed hard beside me, his own cock bulge throbbing in his lungi, eyes still locked on my navel, shame and lust warring on his face. I stood firm, pussy clenching nervously under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, emotional fool heart breaking for my husband, ignoring the filth around me, focused only on the plea that might bring him home safe. “Please, sir. Do not let my children become orphans. Save him. I will do whatever you ask, but save my husband from the cops.”
Govindan stepped even closer, his white dhoti bulge massive and obscene now, the thick cock outline straining hard against the white dhoti front. His eyes dropped shamelessly to my boobs, locked on the heavy mounds squeezed together under the yellow blouse, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging deep in my cleavage with every scared breath.
He licked his lips slowly, voice low and bold. “And these boobs, Meena. So full, so heavy, pushing against that tight yellow blouse like they want to burst free. Look how they rise and fall when you beg, how the nipples poke hard over the yellow blouse, begging to be pinched, sucked. Perfect round boobs, perfect for grabbing, squeezing, burying my face between them. A woman with boobs like these should never beg alone, she should be on her knees offering them.”
Dhamu, who had treated me like an elder sister for years, now stood rigid beside me, his own cock bulge throbbing visibly in his lungi, eyes glued to my boobs under the yellow blouse, lust overtaking years of respect. His breathing grew heavier, hands twitching at his sides, unable to look away from my heaving boobs and the mangalsutra nestled between them.
I ignored every filthy word, every hungry stare, every cock bulge in the room. My pussy clenched tight under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, fear and loyalty warring inside me. Tears spilled down my cheeks but my voice stayed strong, pleading. “Sir, please. My husband does not deserve to die like this. The cops will shoot him in an encounter. Our three sons will lose their father forever. Please talk to the MLA. Cancel the order. Remove the cases. Save my husband’s life. I am on my knees begging you, sir. Do not let my children become fatherless.”
Govindan chuckled darkly, eyes still devouring my boobs, the way they bounced slightly with my sobs, nipples hard and prominent over the yellow blouse. “Such devotion. Those boobs heaving while you cry for him. We will see how much you are willing to do for your rowdy husband, Meena.”
I wiped my tears with the yellow saree pallu end, mangalsutra trembling between my boobs, emotional fool heart breaking but refusing to waver. “Anything, sir. Just save him. Please. Let him come home to us. Do not let the cops take him away.” My pussy ached with worry under the layers, clit throbbing from the tension, but my mind stayed fixed only on my husband, loyal and desperate, ignoring the lust filling the room as I begged this ugly powerful man to spare the life of the rowdy who owned me completely.
Govindan circled slowly around me, white dhoti still tented with his massive cock bulge, eyes dropping to my ass cheeks under the yellow saree. He stopped behind me, close enough that I felt his hot breath on my neck, staring down at the way the yellow saree dbangd over my round ass cheeks, the panty line visible over my ass cheeks over the yellow saree where the maroon panties wedged tight between them.
He spoke low, voice thick with lust. “And this ass, Meena. So round, so full, jiggling under that yellow saree every time you shift. Look at that perfect shape, those plump ass cheeks begging to be grabbed, slapped, spread. The panty line visible over your ass cheeks over the saree, showing exactly how tight those panties hug your asshole and pussy lips. A man could bury his face between those ass cheeks for hours, or bend you over and fuck you from behind while watching them bounce.”
Dhamu, standing to my right, could not stop staring at my boobs under the yellow blouse. His eyes stayed locked on my heaving boobs, nipples poking hard over the yellow blouse, the mangalsutra swinging in my cleavage. His cock bulge throbbed visibly in his lungi, harder now, years of treating me like an elder sister shattered by raw lust as he watched my boobs rise and fall with my quick, scared breaths.
I ignored every word, every stare, every cock bulge straining in the room. My pussy clenched tight under the maroon panties, yellow petticoat, and yellow saree, fear for my husband drowning out the humiliation and the unwanted heat pooling in my clit. Tears streamed down my cheeks but I kept pleading, voice cracking with desperation. “Sir, please. My husband will be killed in an encounter. Our three sons will have no father. They are small, innocent. Please talk to the MLA. Cancel the order. Remove the cases. Save my husband’s life. I am begging you on my knees, sir. Do not let my children lose him.”
Govindan moved back in front of me, cock bulge still huge in his white dhoti, eyes flicking from my ass cheeks to my boobs then back to my tear-streaked face. “Such a loyal wife. Begging so hard for a rowdy. Those ass cheeks trembling under your saree, those boobs heaving while you cry. We will see how far that loyalty goes, Meena.”
I wiped my tears with the yellow saree pallu end, mangalsutra trembling between my boobs, emotional fool heart shattering but refusing to break. “Anything, sir. Just save him. Please. Let him come home to us. Do not let the cops take him away from his sons, from me.” My pussy lips throbbed with worry under the layers, clit pulsing from tension, loyal to my husband yet standing here, ass cheeks ogled, boobs lusted after, begging this ugly powerful man to spare the rowdy who owned my entire life.
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