Traditional Wife Broken by Gangster's Obsession

[Umavictor32]

Chapter 9: Chithra- Real Parasite

The door clicked shut behind her.

Chithra stood in the living room of her Porur flat, the morning light slanting through the windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air. The silence pressed against her ears—no Aaryan's chatter, no Vijay's keyboard clatter, no TV murmur. Just the ceiling fan's creak, krr, krr, counting out the seconds of her aloneness.

Her right palm still stung. Phantom heat from Vijay's cheek, four times over.

She stared at her hand. The lines of her palm. The faint red imprint of impact.

What have I done?

The thought arrived without weight. Hollow. She'd slapped her husband senseless. Spat on his face like he was garbage on the street. And somewhere beneath the horror of it, beneath the shame that should have flooded her—nothing.

">

Just quiet.

"Chithra."

The voice came from the kitchen doorway.

Saroja stood there, arms crossed, whistle resting against her faded green saree. Her leathery face held no judgment. No surprise. Just the flat assessment of a woman who'd seen everything and expected less.

"You saw," Chithra said. Not a question.

"I saw." Saroja pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. "The whole street saw. Half of Porur will know by evening."

Chithra's throat tightened. "Vijay—"

"Gone. The cab left five minutes ago. Aaryan was waving out the back window." Saroja stopped a foot away. Her sharp eyes traveled Chithra's face—the tear tracks she hadn't bothered to wipe, the hollow look, the trembling hands. "You want to sit?"

"No."

"Then stand." Saroja shrugged. "Today's the day."

The words landed like stones in still water.

Friday.

Chithra's stomach lurched. She'd known—of course she'd known; she'd counted every hour since the deal—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real. Tangible. Inescapable.

"I know," she whispered.

"Do you?" Saroja tilted her head. "Because you've got that look. The one women get when they think they might still escape. There's no escape, Chithra. The husband's gone. The boy's gone. The debts are real, the house is mortgaged, and Muthu Pandi is waiting."

"I said I know."

"Good." Saroja turned. Walked to the sofa. Sat. "Come here."

Chithra didn't move.

"Chithra."

"I heard you."

"Then come." Saroja's voice was patient. Almost kind. "I need to ask you something."

The woman's tone—friendly, not commanding—pulled at something in Chithra. She walked forward on wooden legs and stood before the sofa like a collegegirl called to the headmistress.

"Sit."

"I'll stand."

"Fine." Saroja leaned back. Studied her. "Tell me something. Down there." She gestured vaguely toward Chithra's lap. "You have hair?"

The question hit like a slap.

"What?"

"Hair. On your pussy. Do you have it?"

Chithra's face burned. "Chi! How can you ask such nasty questions?"

The Tamil exclamation—that sharp, visceral sound of disgust—shot from her mouth before she could stop it. Her hands flew to her hips, a defensive gesture she hadn't used since childhood.

Saroja didn't flinch. "I'm asking because I need to know. Do you have hair on your pussy?"

"Why do you need to—" Chithra's voice cracked. "That's private. That's—you can't just—"

"I can ask whatever I want." Saroja's tone remained conversational. "You're going to Muthu Pandi tonight. There are things he likes. Things he doesn't. My job is to make sure you're ready. So—" She waited. "Hair. Yes or no?"

Chithra's chest heaved. The intimacy of the question—the sheer vulgarity of it—made her want to run. But where would she run? The door led to the stairs, the stairs to the street, the street to—

She had nowhere.

"Yes," she said finally. "I have hair."

"Good. That's all I needed to know." Saroja reached into the bag at her feet. A black case, zippered, unremarkable. She unzipped it—zzzzip—and pulled out a trimmer. Pink plastic body, silver blade, small enough to fit in a palm.

Chithra stared at it. "What is that?"

"Trimmer." Saroja held it up. "Muthu Pandi doesn't like hairy pussy. Says it smells bad, holds sweat, looks unkempt. He wants his women smooth. Bare. No hiding anything."

"No."

"Chithra—"

"No." Chithra stepped back. Her hands rose, palms out, as if fending off a blow. "I'm not—you're not—no."

Saroja set the trimmer on the sofa cushion. Her voice stayed level. "You think I'm going to force you? Hold you down? I'm sixty-three years old, girl. I don't have the strength, and even if I did, that's not how this works."

"Then why—"

"Because tonight, when Muthu Pandi sees you, he'll check. He always checks. And if he finds hair—" She let the sentence hang. "He'll remove it himself. With his hands. Or his knife. Or whatever he decides. You want that?"

Chithra's blood went cold.

"I'll do it myself," she whispered.

"You know how to use a trimmer?"

"No."

"Then let me—"

"I said I'll do it myself." Chithra's voice shook but held. "I'll figure it out."

Saroja picked up the trimmer. Turned it over in her gnarled hands. Then she laughed—a short, humorless sound.

"You can't even hold it right. Your hands shake. You'll nick yourself, bleed all over, show up tonight looking like you fought a cat." She set the trimmer down again. "Let me help you. There's nothing to be shy about. I've seen everything. I've done everything. You think your pussy is special?"

"It's not—I'm not—" Chithra's tears came then. Not sobs. Just a slow leak down cheeks already raw from crying. "I've never—no one's ever—Vijay's never even—"

Saroja's eyes narrowed. "Your husband's never seen you? Never touched your pussy with the lights on? Never—"

"Twice," Chithra choked. "Maybe twice. In five years. And always in the dark. Always under the sheet. He never—I never let him—"

"Ah." Saroja's expression shifted. Something like understanding. Something like pity. "So it's true."

"What?"

"Your husband. He told Saroja—no, he told Muthu—that you're cold. Bent. That you don't like men, don't like touch, don't like anything. They thought it was the rumors. They thought he was making excuses." She paused. "It's not excuses."

Chithra's face crumpled. "I'm not broken."

"I didn't say you were."

"I had reasons. I had—my mother—and Vijay, he was—we never had time, we never had—"

"Shh." Saroja rose. Stepped close. Her hand came up and—gently, unexpectedly—cupped Chithra's cheek. "I'm not judging. I'm preparing. And preparation means knowing what we're working with. So." She pulled back. "Strip."

"What?"

"Your bottom. The salwar. Pull it down."

Chithra's hands clutched the waistband of her salwar. "No."

"Chithra—"

"I said no." Her voice broke into a shout. "You can't just—this is my body—you have no right—"

"I have every right." Saroja's tone didn't change. "Muthu Pandi owns you now. And by extension, I work for him. That means your body, your pussy, your virtue—all of it belongs to him. So when I tell you to strip, you strip. Or I'll call him. Right now. And he'll come here himself."

Chithra froze.

Saroja pulled out her phone. Held it up. "One call. He'll be here in twenty minutes. You want that? You want him to see you fighting? To see you crying? To do this himself?"

The phone screen glowed. The contact name—Muthu—was just a word.

"No," Chithra breathed. "Please."

"Then strip."

The fan creaked. Krr, krr.

Chithra's fingers moved to the drawstring of her salwar. Slow. Trembling. The knot loosened—fft—and the fabric sagged.

She looked at Saroja. The woman watched without blinking.

"Go on."

Chithra pushed the salwar down. It pooled around her ankles, a puddle of cheap cotton. Her kameez still hung to her thighs, covering everything.

"Kameez too."

"No." Chithra's voice was small. "Please. Just—the panty. I'll keep the kameez."

Saroja considered. Then shrugged. "Fine. But when we get to the panty, I'm taking it off. No negotiation."

Chithra nodded. Her throat worked.

Saroja knelt. It took effort—her knees popped, tk, tk—but she managed, settling onto the floor with a grunt. From this angle, Chithra's body was close, her thighs bare, her skin golden in the morning light.

"Panty," Saroja said.

Chithra closed her eyes. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. They were plain. White cotton. Faded. She pulled them down—one inch, two—and the fabric slid past her hips, past her thighs, past her knees.

Ffwp. The panty fell to join the salwar.

She stood in just her kameez now, her lower half bare, the hem brushing her upper thighs.

And then—

Sniff.

Saroja's nostrils flared. Her head tilted. She inhaled again, deliberate, audibly.

Sniff. Snnnif.

The smell hit her—sharp, organic, the unmistakable pungency of stale urine. It rose from the space between Chithra's thighs, where the hair was coarse and tangled and matted with something that had dried hours ago.

"Mmh." Saroja made a low sound. Not disgust. Something else. "There it is."

Chithra's eyes flew open. "What?"

"Your smell." Saroja didn't look up. Her eyes were fixed on the triangle of dark hair. "You don't wash down there, do you?"

"I—"

"Don't lie." Saroja's voice was almost thoughtful. "I've smelled this before. This is the smell of a woman who pees and doesn't wipe. Who lets it sit. Who wants the stink to keep people away."

Chithra's face went crimson. "That's—I don't—"

"It's smart." Saroja reached into her bag again. Pulled out a small bottle of water, a cloth, shaving cream, a fresh razor. "Stupid, but smart. Keep the husband away. Keep the sex away. Keep everything away." She uncapped the water bottle. "But here's the problem, Chithra."

"What?"

"I like it."

The words hung in the air.

Chithra's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "What?"

"Your urine smell." Saroja poured water onto the cloth. "It's nasty. It's disgusting. It's the smell of a woman who's given up." She wrung the cloth—splsh—and the droplets scattered. "But it's also honest. Real. Not perfumed. Not fake. Just a woman who's stopped pretending."

She reached up. The wet cloth pressed against Chithra's mound, and Chithra jerked back—gasp—but Saroja's other hand caught her hip.

"Hold still."

The cloth was cold. The friction of it against her skin was alien—no one had touched her down there in years. Chithra's legs trembled.

"Please—"

"Sit."

Chithra sank onto the sofa. Saroja settled between her knees, the trimmer now in her right hand.

"I know why you did it," Saroja said. The trimmer clicked on—shrrrrr—and the blade buzzed against Chithra's thigh. "You didn't want Vijay to touch you. So you made yourself disgusting. Made yourself smell. Made it so that every time he came close, he'd flinch and turn away."

The trimmer moved. Hair fell—tk, tk, tk—little dark curls landing on the floor.

"That's why you never loved him," Saroja continued. "Not because you're cold. Not because you're broken. Because you're a parasite."

Chithra's head snapped up. "What did you call me?"

"Parasite." Saroja didn't pause. The trimmer hummed, carving neat paths across Chithra's mount. "You took everything from that man. His money. His house. His son. His life. But you never gave anything back."

Chithra's eyes flashed. "How dare you?"

The words came out sharp, hot—a sudden fire in her chest.

"How dare you call me a parasite?" Her voice rose, cracking at the edges. "I cooked for him. I cleaned for him. I raised his son. I did everything a wife is supposed to do. Every single duty. Every single day. Alone. While he was in Delhi. While he was at office. While he was—"

She stopped. Her chest heaved.

Saroja's hands never paused. The trimmer buzzed, relentless, stripping away hair in neat strips.

"A servant can cook," she said quietly.

Chithra's mouth opened.

"A maid can clean," Saroja continued. The razor replaced the trimmer now. Shhhk. Shhhk. Slow, deliberate strokes. "And Aaryan?" She tilted her head. "You raised him alone because you wanted it that way. You didn't want Vijay involved. You wanted the boy to yourself. Something that was yours. Something the husband couldn't touch."

"That's not—"

"Then what did you give him?" Saroja's voice was calm. Patient. "What did you give Vijay that a servant couldn't? A warm bed? You wouldn't share it. A touch? You flinched away. Sex?" She laughed—that short, humorless sound. "Four times in five years. Four. And each one in the dark. Under a sheet. Like it was a punishment."

Chithra's tears came faster now. Hot. Silent.

"So what Vijay did," Saroja said, "was justified."

The words hit like a physical blow.

"What?"

"Parasite," Saroja repeated. "You took his money. His house. His life. And you gave him nothing back. Not love. Not pleasure. Not even a clean pussy to come home to." The razor moved. Shhhk. "So when Muthu Pandi offered him a way out—when he offered to clear the debts, pay the house, in exchange for one weekend—Vijay did what any man would do. He traded a parasite for his freedom."

Chithra's hand shot out. She grabbed Saroja's wrist—hard—and the razor clattered to the floor.

"Stop," she hissed. "Stop saying that."

Saroja looked at the hand on her wrist. Then at Chithra's face—the tears, the fury, the cracks in her composure.

"I'm not saying it to hurt you," she said. "I'm saying it because it's true. And because tonight, Muthu Pandi will prove it."

"Prove what?"

"That you're not cold." Saroja pried Chithra's fingers off her wrist, one by one. "That you're not broken. That you're just a woman who's been hiding. Hiding behind your virtue. Hiding behind your mother's divorce. Hiding behind your son. But tonight—" She picked up the razor. "Tonight, you'll stop hiding."

The razor resumed its work. Shhhk. Shhhk.


"After Muthu Pandi fucks you," Saroja said, "you won't keep your pussy smelly anymore. You won't not-wash. Because for the first time in your life, you'll want someone to touch it. You'll want him inside you. You'll crave it. The smell that kept Vijay away? It'll become the smell that drives you crazy. The smell of your own need."

">




Chithra's thighs trembled. The razor moved lower, along her labia.

"Ahhhh—" The sound escaped before she could stop it. A gasp. A whimper.

"Ufffff," Saroja echoed, mocking, gentle. "You feel that? That's your body waking up. That's your pussy remembering what it's for."

"Stop—"

">



"And after Monday—" Saroja's voice dropped. "After Monday, everyone will know. The neighbors. The shopkeepers. The women at the temple. They'll look at you and they'll know. Not because you're dirty—because you're hungry. Because you're a woman who finally learned what her body is for."

She set the razor down. Wiped her hands on the cloth.

"Done."




Chithra didn't move. Her legs were shaking. Her pussy was bare—smooth, exposed, the soft brown lips visible for the first time in years.

And then Saroja leaned forward.

Her lips pressed against Chithra's pussy.

MMMH.

The kiss was deliberate. Wet. Her tongue extended, tracing the slit—




"CHIII!" Chithra screamed.

Her hand shot down. Fingers tangled in Saroja's hair. Yanked—hard—and Saroja's face was wrenched away.

"What are you doing?"

Chithra scrambled backward on the sofa. Her legs clamped together. Her eyes were wild.

Saroja wiped her mouth. Her expression was calm.

"It happens," she said.

"It does not happen!"

"You think you're the first?" Saroja rose. "I've done this fifty times. Women like you—soft, sweet, desperate—they get to me. I can't help it."

"Then stop."

"I will." Saroja picked up her bag. Zipped it—zzzzip. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

She turned. Walked toward the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Chithra's voice cracked.

"To make a call. You take your bath. You'll want to be clean for tonight."

The bedroom door clicked shut.

---

Chithra sat on the sofa for a long time.

Her hand was pressed over her pussy—as if covering it could undo what had happened. The skin was smooth. Bare. The air touched parts of her that had never felt air, and the sensation was strange.

And beneath the shock—beneath the horror—something else stirred.

The kiss.

She could still feel the wet pressure of Saroja's mouth. The tickle of her tongue.

No.

She stood. Grabbed her clothes. Walked to the bathroom.

The water was cold when she turned it on. She stepped under the spray—shhhh—and let it run over her body.

Parasite, the water seemed to whisper.

Parasite. Parasite. Parasite.

---

In the kitchen, Saroja held her phone to her ear.

"He's in Ooty," she said. "Nirmala took him. The boy was asleep."

Muthu's voice crackled through. "Good."

"Chithra's preparing. I shaved her. She fought at first, but she came around."

"She'll do more than come around." A pause. "Anything else?"

Saroja hesitated. Then: "I kissed her."

Silence.

"I know you said not to touch," Saroja continued. "But she was—the way she looked. The shaved pussy. The smell. I couldn't stop myself."

Still silence.

"Someday," Saroja said quietly, "I want that slut on my bed. I want to eat her out for hours. Make her come on my face."

She waited.

Instead—

"PARASITE."

The word cut through the line.

"Sir?"

"That's a nice word to trigger Chithu." Muthu's voice was soft. Almost amused. "Keep using it. Remind her what she is. A parasite. A woman who takes and never gives. By the time I'm done with her, she'll beg to give. She'll crawl to give. And when she does—" A pause. "Then we'll talk about your bed."

The line went dead.

Saroja lowered the phone. Stared at the screen.

Then she smiled.

---

In the bathroom, Chithra stood under the water, her hand pressed against the wall.

Parasite.

The word echoed in her skull.

She closed her eyes.

And somewhere deep inside her—somewhere she'd never looked—something cracked open