04-02-2026, 06:58 PM
Beedaa didn’t move immediately. He just looked at her — really looked — taking in the flushed face, the slightly parted lips, the way her fingers twisted nervously in the edge of her pallu.
Then, voice low and calm, he asked:
“Tumhari umar kitni hai, bhabhi?”
Divya swallowed. Her voice came out small, almost childlike in its honesty.
“25.”
He nodded slowly, like he was filing the number away. His eyes flicked over her again — not crude, but thorough.
“Aur kaam kahan karti ho?”
“Convent mein…” she whispered. “Part-time… bacchon ko padhaati hoon. English aur Hindi.”
Beedaa’s scarred lips curved the tiniest bit — not a smile, more like quiet approval.
“Padhaane waali… achha.”
A short silence. Then he shifted his weight, one hand rubbing low on his belly.
“Toilet chahiye. Kahan hai bathroom?”
Divya blinked, startled by the sudden, blunt request. Her instinct was to say no, send him away — but the words didn’t come. Instead she pointed vaguely toward the side of the house.
“Peechhe… ghar ke back side mein. Wahan bathroom hai.”
Beedaa gave a single nod. Without another word he walked past her, through the still-open gate, around the narrow side path that led to the back of their small house. The path was shaded, hidden from the main lane by a low wall and some overgrown vines.
Divya stood frozen at the gate for several long seconds. Heart hammering. Mind screaming at her to go inside, lock everything, pretend none of this happened.
But her feet moved anyway.
One minute later — maybe less — she followed the same path. Quiet steps. Saree rustling softly. She told herself she was just checking if he’d left. That’s all.
She reached the small, tiled bathroom at the back — door half-open, no lock. Beedaa was just stepping out, adjusting the front of his lungi with one casual hand. He’d finished. The faint sound of water still dripping inside.
Their eyes met.
For one heartbeat — nothing.
Then he moved.
Fast for a 60-year-old. One thick arm hooked around her waist, the other hand gripping her upper arm. He pulled her inside the tiny bathroom in a single firm tug, kicking the door shut behind them with his boot. It clicked closed — not locked, but closed.
Divya gasped — shocked all over again. Her back hit the cool tiled wall. Hands flew up to his chest, pushing weakly.
“Beedaa ji… nahi… yeh galat hai…!”
But he didn’t speak. Didn’t explain.
He just lowered his head and kissed her again.
Harder this time. Deeper. His stubble scbangd her chin and cheeks, lips parting hers without asking.
One rough hand cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.
The other slid to her lower back, pressing her body flush against his — her soft curves meeting the hard planes of his chest, the faint swell of his arousal unmistakable through the thin lungi.
At first she froze — body rigid, breath trapped, mind reeling with panic and guilt.
Then… slowly… something gave.
Her pushing hands stopped shoving. Fingers curled into the fabric of his vest instead — not pulling him closer, but not pushing anymore either. Her lips — after a long, trembling second — parted wider under his.
Not eager. Not passionate. Just… cooperating. Softening. Letting him lead.
A small, muffled sound escaped her throat — half whimper, half sigh — as his tongue brushed hers for the first time. Tentative.
Testing. She didn’t pull away.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
The bathroom smelled of soap, old tiles, and now the sharp mix of his paan-breath and her jasmine hair oil. The space was so small their bodies had nowhere to go but together. Her pallu had slipped completely again, blouse stretched tight across her breasts, nipples hardening traitorously against the thin cotton as his chest pressed into her.
He kissed her slower now — deeper, more deliberate — like a man teaching a lesson she didn’t know she needed. One hand slid down to grip her hip, thumb digging just enough to feel the give of her flesh.
Divya’s breathing turned ragged. Her cooperation was quiet, shy, conflicted — small movements of her lips matching his rhythm, a tiny tilt of her head to give him better access. No words. No protests anymore. Just the wet, soft sounds of their mouths .
Beedaa didn’t move immediately. He just looked at her — really looked — taking in the flushed face, the slightly parted lips, the way her fingers twisted nervously in the edge of her pallu.
Then, voice low and calm, he asked:
“Tumhari umar kitni hai, bhabhi?”
Divya swallowed. Her voice came out small, almost childlike in its honesty.
“25.”
He nodded slowly, like he was filing the number away. His eyes flicked over her again — not crude, but thorough.
“Aur kaam kahan karti ho?”
“Convent mein…” she whispered. “Part-time… bacchon ko padhaati hoon. English aur Hindi.”
Beedaa’s scarred lips curved the tiniest bit — not a smile, more like quiet approval.
“Padhaane waali… achha.”
A short silence. Then he shifted his weight, one hand rubbing low on his belly.
“Toilet chahiye. Kahan hai bathroom?”
Divya blinked, startled by the sudden, blunt request. Her instinct was to say no, send him away — but the words didn’t come. Instead she pointed vaguely toward the side of the house.
“Peechhe… ghar ke back side mein. Wahan bathroom hai.”
Beedaa gave a single nod. Without another word he walked past her, through the still-open gate, around the narrow side path that led to the back of their small house. The path was shaded, hidden from the main lane by a low wall and some overgrown vines.
Divya stood frozen at the gate for several long seconds. Heart hammering. Mind screaming at her to go inside, lock everything, pretend none of this happened.
But her feet moved anyway.
One minute later — maybe less — she followed the same path. Quiet steps. Saree rustling softly. She told herself she was just checking if he’d left. That’s all.
She reached the small, tiled bathroom at the back — door half-open, no lock. Beedaa was just stepping out, adjusting the front of his lungi with one casual hand. He’d finished. The faint sound of water still dripping inside.
Their eyes met.
For one heartbeat — nothing.
Then he moved.
Fast for a 60-year-old. One thick arm hooked around her waist, the other hand gripping her upper arm. He pulled her inside the tiny bathroom in a single firm tug, kicking the door shut behind them with his boot. It clicked closed — not locked, but closed.
Divya gasped — shocked all over again. Her back hit the cool tiled wall. Hands flew up to his chest, pushing weakly.
“Beedaa ji… nahi… yeh galat hai…!”
But he didn’t speak. Didn’t explain.
He just lowered his head and kissed her again.
Harder this time. Deeper. His stubble scbangd her chin and cheeks, lips parting hers without asking.
One rough hand cupped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.
The other slid to her lower back, pressing her body flush against his — her soft curves meeting the hard planes of his chest, the faint swell of his arousal unmistakable through the thin lungi.
At first she froze — body rigid, breath trapped, mind reeling with panic and guilt.
Then… slowly… something gave.
Her pushing hands stopped shoving. Fingers curled into the fabric of his vest instead — not pulling him closer, but not pushing anymore either. Her lips — after a long, trembling second — parted wider under his.
Not eager. Not passionate. Just… cooperating. Softening. Letting him lead.
A small, muffled sound escaped her throat — half whimper, half sigh — as his tongue brushed hers for the first time. Tentative.
Testing. She didn’t pull away.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
The bathroom smelled of soap, old tiles, and now the sharp mix of his paan-breath and her jasmine hair oil. The space was so small their bodies had nowhere to go but together. Her pallu had slipped completely again, blouse stretched tight across her breasts, nipples hardening traitorously against the thin cotton as his chest pressed into her.
He kissed her slower now — deeper, more deliberate — like a man teaching a lesson she didn’t know she needed. One hand slid down to grip her hip, thumb digging just enough to feel the give of her flesh.
Divya’s breathing turned ragged. Her cooperation was quiet, shy, conflicted — small movements of her lips matching his rhythm, a tiny tilt of her head to give him better access. No words. No protests anymore. Just the wet, soft sounds of their mouths .
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