05-02-2026, 01:02 PM
Beedaa slowly pulled out of her — inch by thick inch — until he slipped free with a wet, obscene sound.
Divya gasped softly at the sudden emptiness, her walls fluttering around nothing, a trickle of his thick release already leaking down her inner thigh.
She slid down the wall until her bare feet touched the cool tiles, legs shaky, body still humming from the overstimulation.
Beedaa didn’t speak.
He just stepped back, bent down, and gathered his clothes from the pile outside the door: faded vest, lungi.
He dressed quickly — no hurry, no shame — while she stood there naked, arms crossed over her breasts, mangalsutra dangling between them like a heavy reminder.
He gave her one last long look — eyes tracing her flushed skin, lips, the mess between her legs — then walked out the half-open bathroom door without a word.
Divya stayed inside a minute longer.
She turned on the tap, let cold water run over her trembling body.
Washed away the sweat, the scent of paan and smoke, the evidence of him leaking out of her.
Then she stepped out, picked up her scattered saree, petticoat, blouse, bra — re-dressed with shaking fingers.
The maroon fabric clung damply to her skin as she re-tucked the pleats, pinned the pallu firmly at her waist, adjusted the mangalsutra so it sat straight again.
She smoothed her hair, wiped her face, forced her breathing even.
When she finally stepped back into the house proper — through the kitchen, into the hall — Monu was still playing happily with his toys, oblivious.
Beedaa was standing at the front gate. Not inside the compound. Just outside, leaning against the iron bars, arms crossed, watching the lane like he owned it.
Divya walked to the door, hesitated, then stepped onto the small porch.
She spoke first — voice soft, steady despite everything.
“Wait twenty minutes. I will cook food for you.”
Beedaa turned his head slowly.
Looked her up and down — saree back in place, sindoor still perfect, but her cheeks still flushed.
He shook his head once.
“Nahi, bhabhi. Bahut der ho gayi. Ab jaana hai.”
He paused, then added — low, almost gentle:
“Bahut saari auraton ke saath maza kiya hai zindagi mein… lekin tu… tu alag hai. Bahut sundar hai. Bahut… pavitra dikhti hai, lekin andar se… aag hai.”
Divya’s eyes dropped to the ground. Her fingers twisted in the edge of her pallu.
She whispered — barely audible:
“Mujhe… aap father jaise lagte ho.”
Beedaa stepped closer — just one step across the gate threshold. His large hand came up slowly. Not to her face. To her back.
He gave her one firm, possessive slap on her ass.
The sound echoed softly in the quiet lane.
“saab bahut lucky hai,” he murmured, voice rough with something like amusement and something darker. “Itni sundar, itni loyal… aur itni garam biwi mili hai usko.”
Divya’s cheeks burned crimson.
She felt that same shy, virginal heat flood her face again — the same embarrassment she’d felt when he first entered her, when she first saw his size. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Just stared at the ground, toes curling against the porch tiles.
Beedaa watched her for one more long second — satisfied with the flush, the shyness, the way her body still trembled faintly from what they’d done.
Then he turned.
Walked away down the lane toward the slum gali — broad back, slow stride, like a man who’d already won.
Divya gasped softly at the sudden emptiness, her walls fluttering around nothing, a trickle of his thick release already leaking down her inner thigh.
She slid down the wall until her bare feet touched the cool tiles, legs shaky, body still humming from the overstimulation.
Beedaa didn’t speak.
He just stepped back, bent down, and gathered his clothes from the pile outside the door: faded vest, lungi.
He dressed quickly — no hurry, no shame — while she stood there naked, arms crossed over her breasts, mangalsutra dangling between them like a heavy reminder.
He gave her one last long look — eyes tracing her flushed skin, lips, the mess between her legs — then walked out the half-open bathroom door without a word.
Divya stayed inside a minute longer.
She turned on the tap, let cold water run over her trembling body.
Washed away the sweat, the scent of paan and smoke, the evidence of him leaking out of her.
Then she stepped out, picked up her scattered saree, petticoat, blouse, bra — re-dressed with shaking fingers.
The maroon fabric clung damply to her skin as she re-tucked the pleats, pinned the pallu firmly at her waist, adjusted the mangalsutra so it sat straight again.
She smoothed her hair, wiped her face, forced her breathing even.
When she finally stepped back into the house proper — through the kitchen, into the hall — Monu was still playing happily with his toys, oblivious.
Beedaa was standing at the front gate. Not inside the compound. Just outside, leaning against the iron bars, arms crossed, watching the lane like he owned it.
Divya walked to the door, hesitated, then stepped onto the small porch.
She spoke first — voice soft, steady despite everything.
“Wait twenty minutes. I will cook food for you.”
Beedaa turned his head slowly.
Looked her up and down — saree back in place, sindoor still perfect, but her cheeks still flushed.
He shook his head once.
“Nahi, bhabhi. Bahut der ho gayi. Ab jaana hai.”
He paused, then added — low, almost gentle:
“Bahut saari auraton ke saath maza kiya hai zindagi mein… lekin tu… tu alag hai. Bahut sundar hai. Bahut… pavitra dikhti hai, lekin andar se… aag hai.”
Divya’s eyes dropped to the ground. Her fingers twisted in the edge of her pallu.
She whispered — barely audible:
“Mujhe… aap father jaise lagte ho.”
Beedaa stepped closer — just one step across the gate threshold. His large hand came up slowly. Not to her face. To her back.
He gave her one firm, possessive slap on her ass.
The sound echoed softly in the quiet lane.
“saab bahut lucky hai,” he murmured, voice rough with something like amusement and something darker. “Itni sundar, itni loyal… aur itni garam biwi mili hai usko.”
Divya’s cheeks burned crimson.
She felt that same shy, virginal heat flood her face again — the same embarrassment she’d felt when he first entered her, when she first saw his size. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Just stared at the ground, toes curling against the porch tiles.
Beedaa watched her for one more long second — satisfied with the flush, the shyness, the way her body still trembled faintly from what they’d done.
Then he turned.
Walked away down the lane toward the slum gali — broad back, slow stride, like a man who’d already won.
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