Misc. Erotica Santhosh’s Funeral

[novelistcasanova]

Santhosh’s Funeral

I still remember those ordinary days clearly.


Our house stood in a quiet, well-planned layout off Outer Ring Road. Not flashy, but solid—the kind of independent house that told people I had arrived. A small garden in front, polished wooden flooring inside that stayed cool underfoot even in the Bangalore heat, a large sit-out that caught the evening breeze, and a bedroom upstairs where the air-conditioner hummed softly every night. The living room had a heavy wooden sofa set, a large television, and a glass showcase filled with the usual things—framed photographs, a few silver articles, and the small brass lamp my wife lit every evening. Everything was neat, well-kept, upper-middle-class comfort without unnecessary show.
I came home most evenings in a sharp suit, gold chain resting against my chest, the weight of court cases still on my shoulders. Clients waited outside my chamber. Inspectors nodded when they saw me. Money moved when I spoke. At thirty-six I had built a name as a criminal advocate who could handle difficult matters, and the house reflected that quiet success.
And then there was my wife.
My wife of eight years. Tamil, soft-spoken, the kind of woman who still touched my feet on festival mornings and kept a small lamp lit near the tulsi plant near the sit-out. She moved through the house with a quiet grace that never failed to catch my eye. Fair complexion that glowed under the tube light. A face that looked almost sculpted—high cheekbones, large dark eyes that lowered whenever I stared too long, full lips that parted slightly when she concentrated. Her long black hair, always oiled and plaited thick, rested heavily down her back. When she walked, the weight of it swayed with her hips.
Her body was the real trouble.
Heavy, full breasts that strained against every blouse she wore. A narrow waist that flared into wide, soft hips and a round, heavy backside that filled her saree perfectly. Thick thighs that brushed against each other when she moved. Even in the simplest cotton saree she looked ripe, almost too much for the quiet life we lived. The mangalsutra sat nestled in the soft valley between her breasts, the gold chain rising and falling with every breath. I used to watch her from the sofa while she made filter coffee in the morning—blouse stretched tight across those heavy breasts, petticoat tied low below her navel the way her mother had taught her, the soft roll of her stomach visible for a second whenever she reached up.
“Coffee ready,” she would call softly from the kitchen, her voice carrying that familiar shyness.
I would walk in, stand behind her for a moment, and rest my hands on her waist. She always tensed a little, then relaxed.
“You’re late again today,” she would say, not looking at me, focusing on the filter.
“Court went long. Come here.”
She would turn, eyes lowered, and let me pull her close. Those heavy breasts pressed against my chest through the blouse. I could feel the warmth of her body, the soft give of her stomach, the way her hips filled my hands. She would blush deeply, the way she always did.
“Rajesh… the milk will boil over,” she would whisper, but she never pushed me away.
At night she would lie beside me in a simple nightie, hair loose across the pillow, and let me take her slowly under the ceiling fan. Soft moans. Soft hands on my back. The kind of married sex that felt safe and familiar.
“Slowly…” she would breathe against my neck when I pushed deeper.
“You feel so good,” I would tell her, and she would hide her face in my shoulder, embarrassed even after eight years.
I thought that was enough.
I thought I knew every quiet corner of our life.
I hated the way men looked at her.
It happened everywhere.
At the vegetable market near our house, when my wife walked ahead of me in a simple cotton saree, the vendor’s eyes would drop straight to her heavy breasts and stay there a second too long. The way the blouse stretched across them, the deep line of her cleavage where the mangalsutra rested, the soft bounce with every step—nothing was hidden if a man wanted to look. I would clear my throat loudly, place my hand on her waist, and pull her closer. The vendor would quickly look away, but I had already seen it.
“Why do you stare like that?” I once snapped at a young man near the temple steps.
He muttered an apology and hurried off. My wife touched my arm gently.
“Leave it, Rajesh. He didn’t mean anything,” she said in that soft voice.
But I had seen the way his eyes moved over her wide hips and the round shape of her backside under the tightly dbangd saree. I knew exactly what he meant.
Even in our own relative’s houses it happened. During some function, when she bent slightly to adjust her pallu or to serve something, the men sitting nearby would glance—some quickly, some not quickly enough. Her thick thighs would press together under the saree, the soft curve of her stomach visible for a moment when the blouse rode up, and those full breasts would shift heavily with the movement. I would feel my jaw tighten.
One evening we went to a small restaurant in Indiranagar. My wife wore a dark blue saree with a matching blouse that fit her too well. As we walked to our table, two men at the next table openly watched her. One of them smirked and said something to the other. I heard the word “figure.”
I stopped walking.
“What did you say?” I asked, voice low and hard.
Both men looked away immediately. My wife caught my wrist.
“Please… don’t create a scene,” she whispered, eyes lowered. “People are watching.”
I sat down, still burning. Throughout the meal I kept noticing how the waiter’s eyes kept returning to her chest whenever he came to the table. Every time she leaned forward slightly to take something, those heavy breasts pushed against the blouse, and I wanted to stand up and drag her out of there.
In the car on the way home I finally spoke.
“You don’t see how they look at you?”
She kept her face turned toward the window.
“I notice… sometimes. But what can I do, Rajesh? I dress properly.”
“Properly is not enough when your body is like this,” I said, my hand resting on her thigh over the saree. I could feel the soft warmth of her thick leg under the saree. “Every man wants to stare. I hate it.”
She didn’t reply. Only after a long silence she said quietly,
“I only dress for you.”
That night, after we reached home, I took her upstairs without waiting. I pushed the nightie up, unhooked her bra roughly, and buried my face between those heavy breasts while she held my head. I fucked her harder than usual, almost angry, as if I could erase every other man’s eyes from her body.
She came with a soft, surprised cry, arms tight around me.
Afterwards she lay against my chest, fingers tracing the gold chain on my neck.
“You get so angry when others look,” she whispered. “I like that you get angry.”
I didn’t tell her the full truth.
I hated their eyes on her.
But a small, dirty part of me had started noticing how her body looked under those stares… and that disturbed me more than the staring itself.
My wife almost always wore sarees.
At home, outside, for temple, for market, for relative visits—saree was her default. Simple cotton sarees for daily use, silk sarees for functions. She never complained. She said she felt comfortable in them, that her mother had raised her that way. I never forced it, but I also never asked her to change. The truth was I liked it. The way a well-dbangd saree clung to her heavy breasts and wide hips, the way the pallu sometimes slipped and needed adjusting, the soft outline of her stomach when the blouse rode up slightly—everything about it suited her body too well.
In the mornings I would watch her from the bed as she got ready. She would stand in front of the mirror in just her petticoat and the Layered Coverage bra—seamed, panelled, double-layered, full coverage, non-wired, non-padded, 100% cotton—adjusting the straps over her shoulders. Those heavy breasts filled the cups completely, the soft flesh rising with every breath. Then she would take the saree, tuck it firmly at the waist below her navel, and start pleating. By the time she finished, the saree would be stretched smooth across her round backside and thick thighs. She looked proper. Respectable. And still somehow too much for ordinary eyes.
Outside the house it was the same. Whether we went to the temple or to a relative’s function, she stepped out only in a saree. I liked walking beside her knowing every man who looked would see a properly dressed Tamil wife… and still not be able to stop staring at the shape under the saree.
At night it was different.
The moment the outer door was locked, the saree came off. She would change into a simple nightie—usually soft cotton nightie, sometimes a little loose at the neck—and underneath she wore only panties. No bra. Her heavy breasts hung freely under the nightie, the dark outlines of her nipples visible if the light hit her a certain way. When she walked to the bathroom or came to bed, they swayed with every step. I used to lie there and watch, already hard, waiting for her to climb in beside me.
“Come here,” I would say.
She would climb onto the bed, nightie riding up her thick thighs, and settle against me. My hand would immediately slide under the nightie and cup one full breast, feeling the soft weight with nothing between my palm and her breast.
“Rajesh…” she would whisper, half shy, half already melting.
Only in the last few months had she started wearing something else.
One afternoon she came out of the bedroom in a long kurti and black leggings. The kurti was modest, but it still followed the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft roundness of her stomach. The leggings clung tightly to her wide hips and thick thighs, showing the full shape of her backside in a way the saree never did so openly.
I stopped what I was doing and stared.
“What is this?” I asked.
She looked down at herself, a little unsure.
“I saw other women wearing this… for going to the market. It’s easier. Shall I change?”
“No,” I said after a moment. “Wear it.”
She wore the kurti and leggings a few more times after that—only for quick market trips or when she had to go down to the society office. But at home and for any proper outing, the saree returned. And at night, it was always the same: nightie, no bra, only panties, those heavy breasts free and soft under the nightie, waiting for my hands.
I told myself I preferred the saree.
I told myself the nightie was only for me.
I didn’t yet understand how much those small changes, and the way men looked at her in every type of clothing, were already starting to work on something inside me.


One afternoon the call came.
I was sitting in the living room, still in my shirt from court, when my phone rang. It was my cousin from the Ulsoor side. His voice was flat.
“Rajesh… Santhosh is gone. Accident on Hosur road. Kasiammal and Chellappan also. All three.”
I didn’t speak for a few seconds.
Santhosh. My uncle’s only son. The same Santhosh who had openly disrespected me two years ago at a family function—raising his voice, questioning my decisions in front of others, acting as if my position as an advocate meant nothing. I had not forgotten. I had only waited.
Now he was dead. Along with his mother Kasiammal and father Chellappan. Brutal car accident. No survivors.
I felt nothing at first. Then a slow, quiet satisfaction settled in my chest.
My wife came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree. She saw my face and stopped.
“What happened?” she asked.
I told her.
Her eyes immediately filled. She sat down on the sofa, one hand covering her mouth.
“Aiyyo… all three? Santhosh also? He was so young…”
She meant it. I could see it. Real sorrow. The kind only she seemed capable of feeling in this family.
I called a few relatives. The reactions were different.
My other uncle said, “What to do, Rajesh. These things happen. We have to go.” His tone was empty. Duty only.
Another cousin muttered, “Karma. Santhosh never respected elders. See what happened.”
Someone else said the same thing almost word for word. “It is karma only. The way he spoke to people… this is the result.”
No one cried on the phone. No one sounded broken. They were already discussing who would arrange the hall, who would inform the others, who would handle the body. Attendance for name’s sake. That was all.
My wife sat quietly, still processing.
“We should go, no?” she said softly. “They are family.”
“We will go,” I replied.
I didn’t tell her the truth.
I was glad Santhosh was dead.
The boy who had raised his voice at me in front of the entire family, who had smirked when I spoke, who had treated my hard-earned position like nothing—now he was gone. Burnt or broken on the Hosur road along with his parents. I felt no grief. Only a cold, private relief.
That night my wife barely ate. She kept repeating how young Santhosh was, how sudden it was, how Kasiammal used to speak to her kindly during previous visits. I listened, nodded, and said the right things.
Inside, I felt nothing for them.
Only the quiet knowledge that one man who had disrespected me was no longer in this world.
The next morning my wife came out of the bedroom wearing a white kurti top and white leggings. The kurti was plain and modest, but it still followed the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft roundness of her stomach. The white leggings clung tightly to her wide hips and thick thighs. She had left her long black hair loose for once, and the mangalsutra rested clearly against the front of the kurti.
“This is okay, no?” she asked, looking at me. “White is proper for this.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Come. We should leave.”
We drove to Santhosh’s house in Ulsoor. The place was already filling with people. Relatives stood in small groups, talking in low voices. Some women were crying loudly for show. Most of the men looked bored, already checking their phones. Name-sake attendance, exactly as I had expected.
My wife walked ahead of me into the house. I followed.
That was when I noticed him.
A dark-skinned, ugly stranger standing near the entrance. Broad shoulders, rough face, the kind of man who looked out of place among the family. His eyes were fixed on my wife. Not a quick glance. A slow, open stare that moved from her face down to her heavy breasts under the white kurti top, then lower to the tight white leggings stretched across her wide hips and thick thighs. He didn’t even try to hide it.
I felt the usual irritation rise… but I said nothing yet.
My wife went inside to where the bodies were kept. Santhosh, Kasiammal and Chellappan lay side by side. She stood there for a long time, eyes filling, one hand covering her mouth. She looked genuinely broken. After a few minutes she moved away from the others and stood alone near a corner of the hall, wiping her eyes, head slightly bowed.
The ugly stranger followed her.
I watched from a short distance as he approached. He said something soft. My wife looked up, nodded once, and then—without resistance—he pulled her into a full embrace.
Both his arms went around her completely.
One hand pressed against her upper back. The other settled lower, firm on the soft curve of her waist just above her hip. Her heavy breasts crushed against his chest through the white kurti top. Her face turned into his shoulder. And instead of pulling away, my wife raised her own arms and hugged him back.
They stayed like that.
Longer than any consolation required.
I should have felt anger. I should have walked over and pulled her away. That was what I had always done when other men looked at her too long.
But something else happened.
A slow, unexpected heat moved through my stomach and settled lower. My cock began to thicken inside my trousers as I watched the ugly stranger hold my wife’s body against his. The way her wide hips pressed forward, the way her arms stayed around him, the way her heavy breasts were flattened against his chest—I could not look away.
The irritation I expected never came.
Instead, something darker and hungrier stirred inside me.
The ugly stranger did not stop at a normal hug.
While still holding my wife, he slowly guided both her arms upward and wrapped them around his neck. Her hands rested against the back of his head. Then he pulled her even tighter into his complete embrace, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. From where I stood it looked like deep mourning—his face lowered near her hair, body slightly curved over hers—but I could see the truth in the way he held her.
He was enjoying it.
One of his hands slid down from her waist and openly grabbed her ass over the white kurti. His fingers sank into the soft, heavy flesh, squeezing once, then again. My wife did not pull away. She stayed pressed against him, her face still hidden against his shoulder, hugging him back with the same naïve, innocent softness she always showed when someone was in pain.
The hand on her ass moved again.
This time it slipped slowly under the white kurti from below. I watched the kurti rise a little at the back as his palm went underneath and settled directly on her ass over the white leggings. His fingers spread wide, pressing and feeling the full round shape. Then, still under the kurti, they began tracing slowly along the clear lines of her panties through the tight white leggings—following the edges, pressing into the soft flesh on either side, mapping the shape of her panties without rushing.
My cock was fully hard now.
The sight of that dark, ugly hand under my wife’s white kurti, openly feeling the panty lines on her ass while she hugged him back so innocently, sent a thick heat straight through me. I should have been furious. Instead I stood frozen, breathing harder, watching every small movement of his fingers.
Someone from the family called out.
“Sudha… come here a minute.”
My wife immediately stepped back. The stranger’s hand slipped out from under the kurti. She quickly adjusted the white kurti, pulling it down properly over her hips and backside, smoothing the front with both hands as if nothing had happened. Her face was still wet with tears, expression soft and genuine.
She walked toward the relatives who had called her, leaving the ugly stranger standing alone near the corner.
I remained where I was, trousers tight, pulse heavy in my throat, the image of his hand under her white kurti burned into my mind.
I waited until my wife had moved further away with the relatives. Then I walked straight toward the dark-skinned stranger.
He was still standing near the corner, eyes following her as she walked. When I came close he finally looked at me.
“I’m Rajesh,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Advocate. Santhosh was my uncle’s son.”
He nodded once and offered his hand.
“Arjun.”
I shook it. His grip was firm, rough.
“How are you connected to the family?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Arjun’s eyes flicked past my shoulder for a second, finding my wife again before returning to me.
“I was the one who saw the accident,” he said. “I was driving behind them on the Hosur road. The car lost control, hit the divider, then another vehicle. I stopped and called the ambulance. By the time help came… Santhosh was already gone. The way his body was trapped… it was brutal. Kasiammal and Chellappan also. I stayed till the security officer came. Later someone from the family asked me to come today.”
He spoke smoothly, with just enough detail to sound genuine. A neat, ready story. I listened without interrupting, watching his face. He didn’t look nervous. He looked comfortable.
While he spoke, his eyes kept drifting back to my wife. She was standing with a group of women now, still in the white kurti top and white leggings, wiping her eyes occasionally. Arjun’s gaze moved openly over her heavy breasts, then down to the tight white leggings stretched across her wide hips and thick thighs.
I felt the same thick heat return to my stomach.
After a moment I lowered my voice and asked, almost casually,
“The woman in the white kurti… you were speaking to her earlier.”
Arjun’s mouth curved slightly.
“Yes.”
I kept my tone light, almost naughty, without revealing anything.
“What do you think of her?”
He glanced at her once more, then leaned a little closer and whispered,
“Very hot. Body like that… heavy breasts, thick ass, those legs in white leggings. Looks soft and full everywhere. The way she hugged back… innocent face but the body is pure sex.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
My cock twitched inside my trousers. Hearing this ugly stranger describe my wife’s body so openly, so crudely, while she stood only a few feet away still wiping her tears, sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I should have felt insulted. Instead I only felt harder.
I didn’t correct him.
I didn’t tell him she was my wife.
I simply stood there, nodding once, letting the dirty words settle inside me while Arjun’s eyes returned to her again.
My wife shifted her weight from one leg to the other while talking to the women. The movement made her heavy backside roll slowly under the white kurti. The tight white leggings stretched and eased with every small step she took.
Arjun’s eyes followed the movement without shame.
He leaned closer again, voice low.
“Look at that ass when she moves… full and heavy. The way it shifts inside those white leggings. Soft. Thick. The kind of ass that fills both hands.”
I felt my throat go dry.
Instead of stopping him, I kept my voice quiet and asked,
“How does it look from here?”
Arjun’s mouth curved.
“Round. Heavy at the bottom. When she walked earlier the cheeks moved separately under the leggings. You can see the shape of her panties clearly when the kurti lifts even a little. Deep line between them. Soft flesh on both sides. Looks like it would bounce if someone slapped it.”
My cock pulsed hard inside my trousers.
I should have shut him up. Instead I pushed a little more.
“And when you held her…?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“When I put my hand under the kurti, the ass was even softer than it looks. Full. Warm. My fingers sank in. I followed the panty lines with my hand… the edges were sitting deep in the soft flesh. She didn’t even notice. Just kept hugging me like a proper innocent wife while I felt her ass properly.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose, eyes fixed on my wife’s backside as she turned slightly to speak to another relative. The white leggings clung to every curve. Arjun’s crude words kept painting the picture sharper in my head—the weight of her ass in his hand, the way the panty lines sat against her soft flesh, the fact that she had hugged him back without knowing what he was doing.
A thick, dirty pleasure settled low in my stomach.
I stood there beside this ugly stranger and let him keep talking about my wife’s ass, asking small questions whenever he paused, drinking in every detail while she remained only a few steps away, still wiping her eyes, completely unaware.
Arjun watched my wife for another moment, then turned his head slightly toward me.
“I’m going to get one more hug,” he said quietly, almost casually. “Before she goes further inside.”
I didn’t stop him.
He walked across the hall with a serious, mourning expression on his rough face. My wife had just finished speaking to the group of women and was turning toward the kitchen doorway. Arjun reached her just as she was about to step inside.
He placed a hand on her shoulder from behind.
She turned, eyes still wet. He said something soft—I couldn’t hear the words—but his face looked properly sad. My wife nodded once, lips trembling, and then he pulled her into another full embrace.
This time he did it more openly.
Both arms wrapped tightly around her. One hand pressed high on her back while the other went straight down and settled firmly on her ass over the white kurti. He pulled her hips against him, crushing her heavy breasts into his chest. Then, while still holding the mourning expression for anyone watching, his lower hand slipped under the white kurti again and began feeling her ass properly over the white leggings—squeezing, lifting slightly, fingers spreading across both cheeks and pressing into the soft flesh.
My wife’s arms went around him again, naïve and gentle. She rested her face against his shoulder the same way she had earlier, completely unaware of what his hand was doing under the kurti.
I stood a few feet away and watched every second of it.
The way his dark fingers moved under the white kurti. The way her thick ass filled his hand. The way her body stayed soft and yielding against him while he openly felt her up in the middle of the funeral hall.
My cock was painfully hard now.
A thick, throbbing heat ran through me as I stared at the scene—my innocent wife hugging this ugly stranger back while he groped her ass under her kurti, right in front of me. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just stood there, breathing heavier, and let the dirty pleasure of watching fill me completely.
My wife finally broke the hug.
She said something soft to Arjun—I couldn’t catch the exact words—then stepped back, quickly adjusted the white kurti over her hips, and walked into the kitchen.
I went straight to him.
He was still watching the doorway she had entered. When I stopped in front of him I kept my voice low and clear.
“That woman you just hugged… is my wife.”

To Be Continued ..!