divya

[కుమార్]

‎ Divya slowly gathered her scattered clothes from the bathroom floor.

‎Her hands shook as she slipped back into her yellow saree.

‎The fabric felt cold and damp against her still-hot skin.

‎She adjusted the pallu carefully, tucked the pleats neatly at her waist, and hooked the blouse with trembling fingers.

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‎ The tight blouse still felt too small now — her breasts tender and swollen from Lalla’s rough hands.

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‎She stepped out of the bathroom quietly.

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‎ Lalla had already left — he slipped off at the last station while the train slowed. She saw him disappear into the crowd on the platform through the door.

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‎Divya stood there for a moment. A strange feeling washed over her.

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‎She felt happy — deeply, shamefully happy — for that rough sex.

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‎ The way Lalla had pinned her, slammed into her without mercy, slapped her ass red, pulled her hair, fucked her like she was nothing but his to use.

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‎ The pain, the stretch, the brutal thrusts that made her scream and come again and again.

‎Her body still tingled — sore nipples, bruised hips.

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‎But at the same time, guilt crushed her chest like a stone.

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‎Her father — the respected astrology pandit in the village. Everyone bowed to him.

‎ He taught her: “Ladki ki izzat sabse badi hoti hai.”

‎Her mother’s soft voice repeating: “Pativrata stri apne pati ke alawa kisi ko nahi dekhti.”

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‎They would die of shame if they knew. They would never look at her again.

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‎And Ranjith… her husband who loved her quietly, who never raised his voice even after suspecting everything.

‎Who said “If you love someone, go with him” without anger.

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‎Divya walked to the sink . Washed her face with cold water — scrubbed hard, as if she could scrub away the taste of Lalla’s mouth, the feel of his rough beard.

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‎She opened her small sindoor box. Dipped her finger. Applied fresh red sindoor on her forehead carefully — the mark of her marriage.

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‎She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Beautiful. Traditional.

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‎NOw

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‎She completed her bath properly now — showered again, soaped every inch, tried to wash him off her skin.

‎The hot water stung the red marks on her ass and breasts.

‎ She came out. Wore fresh white salwar kameez — simple, elegant, pure.

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‎Dupatta dbangd modestly. Hair in neat braid. Bindi perfect.

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‎Then she went to the marriage hall.

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‎The hall was decorated — marigold garlands, lights, music.

‎Relatives and friends everywhere. When Divya entered, heads turned.

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‎Everyone saw her like an angel.

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‎Women whispered: “Arre wah… kitni sundar lag rahi hai Divya. Bilkul devi jaisi.”

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‎Men looked respectfully — then away quickly. Elders smiled. “Pandit ji ki beti hai na… sanskar wali.”

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‎She smiled back. Folded hands. Greeted everyone.

‎Sat beside Ranjith and Monu.

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‎Outside she looked perfect — glowing bride-like, traditional, innocent.

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‎Inside — storm. Guilt. Shame. And small, dark memory of Lalla’s rough thrusts, his dirty hands, his thick cock filling her completely.

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‎Everyone liked Divya's polite behaviour at the marriage hall.

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‎She talked softly with elders, smiled sweetly at aunties, helped serve food to kids, and folded hands respectfully to everyone.

‎ Relatives whispered: “Pandit ji ki beti kitni sanskari hai… bahut achhi bahu banegi.”

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‎At dinner time, one friend of Ranjith sat near them. He asked Ranjith casually while eating.

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‎“Ranjith bhai, how was your train journey? It is boring for me always.”

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‎Ranjith took a bite of food. Said normal voice.

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‎“I ate samosa and slept.”

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‎Divya was sitting beside him.

‎She looked at her husband with naughty smile — small, secret smile only he saw.

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‎Her cheeks became little pink. Eyes sparkled.

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‎The friend turned to Divya.

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‎“What about you, bhabhi ji?”

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‎Divya looked down shyly. Then said slowly with smile.

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‎“My husband ate samosa and slept. But I got bored. There were no co-passengers to talk.”

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‎Ranjith looked at her.

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‎ He understood the hidden meaning. But he asked calm.

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‎“Did you talk with samosa seller?”

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‎Divya face became more red. She looked at her plate. Voice soft, shy.

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‎“Haan… he wanted to talk with me. I cooperated with him.”

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‎Ranjith looked at her.

‎He did not understand fully why his wife felt so shy.

‎Why her voice trembled little. Why she did not meet his eyes.

‎ But he said nothing.

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‎Friend laughed. “Achha bhabhi ji… samosa seller se baat? Interesting.”

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‎Divya smiled only. Said nothing more.

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‎Next day they went back to their town in bus.

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‎Bus was not crowded. Ranjith sat near window. Monu slept on his lap. Divya sat beside him.

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‎After some time Divya looked at Ranjith. Teasing smile came on her lips.

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‎“If we came in train… maybe you ate same samosa.”

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‎She said it low, naughty way. Eyes sparkling.

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‎Ranjith looked at her. Understood double meaning. He smiled small. Said nothing.

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‎One week turned fast.

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‎Divya and Ranjith back in daily routine.

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‎Morning tea. Breakfast. Monu scho.ol. Divya convent. Ranjith duty. Evening dinner.

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‎Everything looked normal.

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‎But inside Divya — small storm still there.

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‎Sometimes she remembered Lalla rough hands.

‎ His beard scratch. His thick penis.

‎How she moaned in train bathroom.

‎ How she cooperated.

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‎Shame came. Guilt came.

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‎But also little heat.

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‎She controlled.

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‎Divya sometimes looked at husband while cooking or sleeping.

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‎Thought: “He knows. But he still loves me.”

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