[కుమార్]

Beedaa didn’t listen.

‎
‎The moment Divya whispered “no… don’t do that,” her voice small and cracking, he simply exhaled through his nose — a low, patient sound — and kept going.
‎
‎His thick fingers didn’t stop at the pallu this time. They moved with steady, practiced purpose: tugging the saree free from her waist petticoat knot, letting the heavy maroon fabric slide down her hips in a slow cascade.
‎The pleats unraveled completely, pooling at her feet like spilled blood on the tiled floor. Divya’s hands flew to his wrists again — weaker now, more trembling than forceful — but he caught both her wrists in one large palm, pinning them gently but firmly above her head against the cool wall.
‎
‎“Shhh,” he murmured against her ear, voice gravel-rough and low. “Bas thodi der… mat roko.”
‎
‎She shook her head — tears slipping silently — but her body didn’t fight as hard.
‎
‎Beedaa released her wrists only to slide both hands down her sides — rough palms scbanging over blouse, over bare midriff, hooking into the petticoat drawstring. One sharp tug and it loosened. The white cotton fell away, joining the saree in a crumpled heap just inside the door.
‎
‎Divya gasped — half sob, half something else — as cool air hit her skin. She stood there in only her black bra and panties, arms instinctively crossing over her chest, cheeks flaming, eyes squeezed shut.
‎
‎Beedaa stepped back half a pace — just enough to look at her fully in the dim bathroom light filtering through the small frosted window. His dark gaze traveled slow: from her tear-streaked face, down the swell of her breasts straining the thin bra cups, over the soft curve of her belly, the flare of her hips, the trembling of her thighs.
‎
‎Then he moved again.
‎
‎He pulled his faded black vest over his head in one motion — broad, hairy chest exposed, old green tattoos faded but stark against weathered skin, scars crisscrossing like a map of a hard life. The lungi followed — untied with a casual flick of his fingers, dropping to the floor beside her clothes. He wore nothing underneath. His cock hung heavy, already half-hard from the kisses and the sight of her, thick veins standing out against dark skin.
‎
‎Two minutes.
‎
‎That’s all it took.
‎
‎Now their clothes lay in a tangled pile just outside the bathroom door — saree, petticoat, blouse hooks half-undone, bra strap dangling loose from where he’d unclasped it in one smooth pull, his vest and lungi thrown carelessly on top.
‎
‎
‎Inside, Divya’s back was pressed to the wall again. Beedaa’s body caged hers — one thick forearm braced above her head, the other hand cupping her jaw, thumb stroking her lower lip.
‎
‎He didn’t speak anymore. Just looked into her glassy eyes, waiting for the last thread of her no to snap.
‎
‎Divya’s breathing was ragged. Her crossed arms had fallen slowly to her sides. Nipples tight and dark against the black lace bra cups. A faint sheen of sweat glistened between her breasts. Between her thighs — warm, slick betrayal.
‎
‎She didn’t say no again.
‎
‎She didn’t say anything.
‎
‎Just stared up at him — 60 years old, scarred, rough, everything her traditional world had taught her to fear — and let her head tip back against the tiles in silent, trembling surrender.
‎
‎Beedaa leaned in. Kissed her once more — slow this time, almost gentle. His free hand slid down her body: over collarbone, between breasts, across belly, lower… fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties.
‎
‎He paused there — giving her one last chance to stop him.
‎
‎She didn’t.
‎
‎The fabric slid down her thighs.

[కుమార్]

Divya’s panties joined the pile outside the bathroom door — the last piece of her clothing, black lace tangled with maroon saree folds, his lungi, vest, all in a careless heap just beyond the threshold.

‎
‎The door itself stood half-open now — not wide, but enough.
‎A thin slice of the back hallway visible: the edge of the kitchen counter, a glimpse of the hall where Monu’s toys still lay scattered on the sofa. Sunlight from the house windows cut across the tiles in bright bars.
‎
‎Beedaa stood naked before her — 60 years old, body marked by time and hard living: thick chest hair streaked gray, old tattoos blurred on his arms, belly slightly rounded but solid, scars crisscrossing like stories she’d never ask about. And between his legs, his cock — thick, dark, veined, already fully hard now.
‎ Heavier than Ranjith’s, longer, the head flushed dark purple, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the slit.
‎
‎Divya’s eyes dropped there involuntarily.
‎
‎First time.
‎
‎Not Ranjith’s familiar shape, not the gentle, loving cock she’d known only in the dark of their bedroom after marriage. This was different — raw, intimidating, pulsing with a hunger she could almost feel in the air between them.
‎
‎Her breath caught audibly. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped her lips. She stared — wide-eyed, frozen — cheeks burning so hot she thought she might faint. Her arms stayed crossed over her bare breasts at first, trying to cover, but slowly… slowly they fell to her sides. Exposing herself completely. Nipples dark and tight, belly quivering, thighs pressed together against the sudden slick ache between them.
‎
‎She tore her gaze away — once — toward the half-open door.
‎
‎Toward her house.
‎
‎The normal world just steps away: .
‎
‎Then her eyes flicked back to Beedaa.
‎
‎He stepped closer again. No words this time.
‎
‎His rough hands found her body — one sliding up to cup her breast fully, thumb circling the nipple until it hardened further under his calloused touch. The other hand gripped her hip, pulling her flush against him. His cock pressed hot and heavy against her lower belly — skin on skin, the hard length sliding slightly with every breath she took.
‎
‎He kissed her again — deep, claiming. Tongue pushing past her lips, tasting her fully now. His stubble scbangd her chin, her cheeks, her neck as he moved down — biting softly at the curve of her shoulder, sucking a mark just below her collarbone where the saree would hide it later.
‎
‎His hands roamed everywhere.
‎
‎Over her breasts — squeezing, kneading, pinching nipples until she arched.
‎
‎Down her sides — tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
‎
‎Between her thighs — fingers parting her folds, finding her already soaked, swollen clit.
‎He rubbed slow circles there, rough pad of his thumb pressing just right.
‎
‎Divya’s head fell back against the tiles with a soft thud.
‎
‎A moan escaped her — low, broken, dripping with lust she couldn’t hide anymore.
‎
‎“Ahhh… Beedaa ji…”
‎
‎The sound was small at first, almost ashamed. But as his fingers kept working — sliding inside her now, two thick digits stretching her gently while his thumb stayed on her clit — the moans grew.
‎
‎Deeper. Needier.
‎
‎Her hips rocked forward instinctively — chasing the pressure, grinding against his hand. Her hands came up — not to push him away — but to clutch his shoulders, nails digging into weathered skin.
‎
‎Another moan — louder this time, trembling.
‎
‎“Mmmhh… haan…”
‎
‎She was lost in it. The forbidden heat. The roughness of his touch after years of only gentle caresses. The way his cock throbbed against her belly, promising more. The half-open door letting in slivers of her normal life while this raw, secret moment consumed her.
‎
‎Beedaa growled low in his throat — satisfied, hungry. He lifted her slightly, one arm under her thigh, spreading her wider against the wall. His cock slid lower, the thick head nudging her slick entrance — not entering yet, just teasing, coating himself in her wetness.
‎
‎Divya’s eyes fluttered open — glassy, dark with need. She looked at him — really looked — then glanced once more at the half-open door.
‎
‎No sound of a bike yet.
‎
‎No call from Monu.
‎
‎Just her own ragged breathing… and the wet sounds of his fingers still moving inside her.
‎
‎She moaned again — louder, shameless now — hips rolling to take him deeper.
‎

[కుమార్]

‎ Beedaa’s gaze dropped lower as he held Divya pinned gently against the tiled wall — his thick fingers still buried inside her, thumb circling her swollen clit in slow, relentless strokes.

‎ Her black bra had been pushed down under her breasts, the cups bunched beneath the soft, heavy swells. Her full breasts were fully exposed now: fair skin flushed pink with arousal, dark nipples erect and glistening from where he’d sucked them moments earlier.
‎
‎His eyes lingered there — drinking in the sight of her mangalsutra resting between the deep valley of her cleavage. The gold chain and black beads gleamed against her sweat-slicked skin, rising and falling with every ragged breath she took.
‎ The sacred symbol of her marriage to Ranjith — dangling there like a silent accusation while another man’s rough hands claimed what it was meant to protect.
‎
‎Beedaa’s cock twitched hard against her thigh at the contrast. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear as he growled softly:
‎
‎“Bahut sundar hain… yeh dono… aur yeh mangalsutra… saab ki nishani.”
‎
‎Divya’s eyes fluttered open — glassy, dazed with lust and fear. She looked down between their bodies: his thick, veined cock pressed hot against her belly, dark and throbbing, the head leaking steadily now.
‎Then back to his face.
‎
‎Her voice came out small, trembling, laced with genuine fear and unwilling fascination:
‎
‎“Aapka… bahut bada hai…”
‎
‎The words slipped out before she could stop them — half whisper, half confession.
‎ Fear because it was bigger than Ranjith’s, thicker, more intimidating. Fear because saying it out loud made the reality sharper.
‎Fear because part of her body clenched around his fingers at the thought of it stretching her.
‎
‎Beedaa let out a low, satisfied rumble — almost a chuckle — and pressed his forehead to hers.
‎
‎“Dar mat, bhabhi… dheere se lunga… jab tu khud maangegi.”
‎
‎His fingers curled inside her again, hitting that spot that made her hips jerk forward involuntarily. Another soft moan escaped her lips — “Ahh… Beedaa ji…”
‎
‎But then — from the front of the house — the unmistakable sound of a bike engine cutting off. Footsteps on the porch. The latch of the front door turning.
‎
‎Ranjith.
‎
‎
‎Beedaa didn’t flinch. He just stilled his hand — fingers still deep inside her — and tilted his head toward the half-open bathroom door.
‎
‎
‎In the hall: Ranjith stepped inside, cake box in one hand, helmet tucked under his arm. He called out cheerfully:
‎
‎“Divya! Main aa gaya! Cake le aaya — extra cream wala!”
‎
‎ Ranjith’s phone rang — shrill, insistent.
‎
‎He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, answered on speaker without thinking.
‎
‎“Sir? Haan boliye.”
‎
‎A tense voice from the other end — one of his gards:
‎
‎“Sir, yahan ek theft ho gaya hai. Market ke paas jewelry shop mein. Chor abhi bhaaga hai. Aapko aana padega jaldi.”
‎
‎Ranjith’s face changed instantly — birthday cheer gone, replaced by the hard lines of duty.
‎
‎“Theek hai. Main abhi aa raha hoon. Location bhej do. Team ready rakhna.”
‎
‎
‎Divya — still pressed naked against the wall, Beedaa’s fingers buried inside her, breasts heaving, mangalsutra swaying —
‎
‎
‎
‎

[కుమార్]

 Ranjith snapped the phone shut after the quick call, face already set in duty mode. Birthday forgotten.
‎ Theft case waiting. He pocketed the device, walked straight to the kitchen to grab a quick glass of water before rushing out — habit from years of long shifts.
‎
‎He paused at the sink, glass half-filled, eyes drifting out the kitchen door that overlooked the back side of house.
‎
‎The bathroom door — half-open as always when someone was inside — caught his attention first.
‎
‎Then the pile.
‎
‎Just outside the door, in a careless heap on the shaded tiles:
‎
‎Divya’s maroon saree, gold border tangled with itself.  
‎Her white petticoat, drawstring loose.  
‎Blouse — hooks undone, sleeves inside-out.  
‎Black bra dangling from one strap like it had been yanked off in a hurry.
‎
‎All of it lying there, exposed to the open air.
‎
‎Ranjith’s brow furrowed. 
‎“She’s bathing,” he thought automatically.  bath wasn’t unusual — especially after pooja and cooking in this heat. But the clothes… scattered like that? Not folded neatly on the hook inside like she always did. And the door half-open?
‎
‎A small frown creased his forehead.
‎
‎Then it came.
‎
‎From inside the bathroom — low at first, then rising sharp and unmistakable.
‎
‎“Aah… aahh… slow… aah…”
‎
‎Divya’s voice.
‎
‎ pain.  fear.
‎
‎Lust. Raw, broken, needy.
‎
‎“Mmm… abbaahh…”
‎
‎Ranjith froze. The water glass slipped from his fingers, clattering into the sink. His heart slammed once — hard — against his ribs.
‎
‎He moved without thinking. Quiet steps. Polic.e training kicking in: silent approach, no noise. He slipped out the kitchen back door, down the three concrete steps, along the  path shaded by the vine-covered wall.
‎
‎Ten feet from the bathroom now.
‎
‎Close enough to hear everything clearly.
‎
‎Divya’s moans filled the small space — wet, rhythmic, desperate.
‎
‎“Ahh… abbahh ji… dheere… ohhh…noo..please.. mmm…”
‎
‎Her voice with pain.
‎
‎Ranjith’s blood turned to ice.
‎
‎He edged closer — one careful step, then another — staying low, hugging the wall. The half-open door gave him a narrow vertical slice of the inside: day light.
‎
‎He saw her leg first.
‎
‎Divya’s leg — smooth, fair, trembling — hooked high around a thick, dark waist. Toes curled tight in pleasure. Calf muscle flexing with every thrust.
‎
‎Then the man.
‎
‎Rough. Broad. Back to the door. Gray-streaked hair cropped short. Tattooed shoulders flexing.
‎ One large, scarred hand gripping her thigh, holding her open against the wall. The other braced above her head.
‎
‎His face wasn’t visible — turned toward her, buried against her neck, lips moving as he murmured something low and filthy in her ear.
‎
‎"madam,only half cock inside you"
‎
‎ divya say"please..aah"
‎ 
‎
‎Beedaa shifted his hips forward one final, deliberate inch — and he was fully inside her.
‎
‎The thick stretch burned at first — sharp, unrelenting — her walls clenching around him like they were trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. Divya’s eyes filled instantly with tears; not just from the pain, but from the overwhelming rush of everything: shame, guilt, forbidden pleasure, the sheer wrongness of it all. Water gathered at the corners of her lashes, one drop slipping free to trace a slow path down her flushed cheek.
‎
‎She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to swallow the whimper that wanted to escape.
‎
‎Beedaa stayed still for a long moment — buried to the hilt, letting her adjust.
‎ His scarred hands gripped her thighs, holding her open and up against the wall, her legs wrapped loosely around his waist.
‎ His broad chest pressed to her breasts, mangalsutra trapped between them, the gold chain digging into her skin with every shared breath.
‎
‎Then — slowly — he felt her body soften around him.
‎ The tight, resistant clench eased into something warmer, slicker. 
‎ Divya felt it too: the coarse, wiry brush of his pubic hair against her smooth, bare mound. Every tiny shift of his hips made those rough curls drag over her swollen clit.
‎
‎Her breath hitched.
‎
‎She looked down between their bodies — where they were joined so completely — and saw the dark nest of his hair pressed flush to her skin. No space left. Nothing separating them anymore.
‎
‎Her eyes lifted to his face.
‎
‎Beedaa was watching her.
‎
‎A slow, victorious smile spread across his scarred lips — not cruel, not mocking.
‎ Just quiet, deep satisfaction.
‎ The look of a man who’d waited, watched, and finally claimed what he’d known was his the moment he first saw her in that damp saree by the water tanker. 
‎His dark eyes gleamed with it: triumph, possession, something almost tender in its intensity.
‎
‎Divya’s cheeks burned hotter than ever.
‎
‎She felt suddenly, impossibly shy — like a virgin on her wedding night, not a married woman of years. 
‎The way her body trembled under his gaze, the way her nipples tightened painfully against his chest, the way her inner walls fluttered involuntarily around his thickness… it all made her want to hide her face. She ducked her head against his shoulder, burying it in the crook of his neck, inhaling the sharp scent of paan, smoke, and raw man.

[కుమార్]

Beedaa saw it clearly — the shy, virginal flush spreading across Divya’s cheeks, the way her eyes darted away from his victorious smile, the tiny tremble in her lower lip as she tried to hide her face against his shoulder again.

‎ That innocent embarrassment only fueled him more.

‎

‎His grip on her thigh tightened — fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave faint red marks.

‎He pulled back almost fully, the thick head of his cock dragging slowly along her inner walls, pubic hair brushing her clit one last teasing time…

‎

‎Then he slammed back in — deep, rough, no mercy.

‎

‎Divya’s entire body jerked against the tiles.

‎

‎“AHHH!”

‎

‎The shout tore out of her — loud, raw, echoing off the  bathroom walls.

‎Not a moan anymore. A full, desperate cry.

‎

‎He didn’t stop.

‎

‎He started stroking her in earnest now — hard, punishing thrusts. Each one bottomed out completely, his heavy balls slapping wetly against her.

‎pubic bone grinding against her mound.

‎

‎ The coarse hair there scbangd her oversensitive clit with every brutal plunge.

‎

‎Divya couldn’t bear it.

‎

‎The stretch was too much, the depth too deep, the pace too relentless.

‎ Pain and pleasure twisted together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

‎ Her walls fluttered wildly around him, trying to adjust, but every stroke forced a fresh wave of sensation through her.

‎

‎“AHH… Beedaa ji… slow… please… AHHH!”

‎

‎She shouted again — voice cracking, high-pitched, breaking on every thrust.

‎

‎Her nails raked down his back, leaving angry red lines across his tattooed skin, but she didn’t push him away. Her leg stayed locked around his waist — trembling, squeezing — as if her body had already decided even if her mind hadn’t.

‎

‎“Too… too deep… oh god… AHHH… mmm… nahi… haan… AHH!”

‎

‎The words tumbled out incoherently — begging him to slow, begging him not to stop, all at once.

‎Her breasts bounced wildly with each impact, mangalsutra swinging like a pendulum between them, the gold chain slapping against her damp skin.

‎

‎Beedaa’s scarred face hovered inches from hers — watching every expression: the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tears, the shy flush that refused to fade even as she shouted in overwhelmed ecstasy.

‎

‎He growled low in his throat — animal satisfaction — and angled his hips slightly, hitting that spot inside her over and over with merciless precision.

‎

‎Divya’s shouts turned into broken, continuous cries.

‎

‎“AHH… AHH… Beedaa ji… bas… bas karo… ohhh… mmm… AHHH!”

‎

‎Her body betrayed her completely — hips bucking back to meet him despite the pleas, inner walls clamping down like a vice around his thickness. She was close. Dangerously close. The shy virgin-like embarrassment only made the building orgasm feel dirtier, more forbidden.

‎

‎Outside the half-open door, the pile of clothes still lay forgotten.

[కుమార్]

Ranjith stood frozen ten feet from the half-open bathroom door.

‎
‎Divya’s moans filled the  path — raw, broken, rising in pitch with each deep thrust.
‎
‎“Ahh… AHH… Beedaa ji… haan… ohhh… dheere nahi… AHHH!”
‎
‎Her voice cracked on every word, desperate and overwhelmed.
‎ But worse — far worse — was the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of her glass bangles.
‎The same red and gold choodas she wore every day, the ones that chimed softly when she cooked or hugged Monu or adjusted her pallu during pooja.
‎Now they were slamming against the tiled wall in perfect time with the wet slap of skin on skin.
‎
‎Clink. Clink. Clink-clink-clink.
‎
‎Faster. Harder.
‎
‎Each chime marked another brutal stroke driving into his wife.
‎
‎Ranjith’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
‎
‎He couldn’t see the man’s face clearly from this angle — just the broad, scarred back, gray-streaked hair, thick shoulders flexing as he pinned Divya higher against the wall.
‎The lungi on the floor outside confirmed what his gut already knew, but the angle hid the identity just enough to let doubt linger like poison.
‎
‎“Who…?” he thought, even as his mind screamed the name he refused to accept.
‎
‎The moans grew louder, more frantic.
‎
‎“AHH… bas… bas karo… mmm… nahi… AHHH… aur… aur deep…!”
‎
‎Her bangles rang out wildly now — chaotic, almost musical in their frenzy — as her arms wrapped tighter around the man’s neck, nails digging in, leg squeezing his waist.
‎
‎Ranjith’s chest burned.
‎
‎He took one step back. Then another. Silent. Trained. Invisible.
‎
‎He slipped around the side of the house, past the kitchen , through the front door he’d left unlocked in his hurry. Monu was still in the living room, humming and crashing toy cars together — completely unaware.
‎
‎Ranjith paused for half a second in the hall. Looked toward the back.
‎
‎Then he walked out the front door.
‎
‎Closed it softly behind him.
‎
‎Started his bike.
‎
‎The engine roared to life, drowning out everything.
‎
‎He rode away — fast — toward the theft scene in the market. Toward constables waiting, toward paperwork and statements and normal security officer work.
‎
‎His mind stayed behind.
‎
‎In that bathroom.
‎
‎With the bangles clinking.
‎
‎With his wife moaning a name he still pretended not to recognize.
‎
‎Divya never knew.
‎
‎She never heard the bike leave. Never felt eyes on her from the shadows.
‎
‎All she knew was the thick cock filling her completely, stretching her to the limit, pubic hair grinding against her clit with every savage thrust. All she knew was the rough hands gripping her thigh, the scarred chest pressed to her breasts, the victorious smile she’d glimpsed earlier now buried against her neck as he growled filthy praise in her ear.
‎
‎“Chodo… chodo zor se… meri bhabhi… meri randi ban gayi na…”
‎
‎Her shouts turned into continuous, broken wails — shame, lust, surrender all tangled together.
‎
‎“Ahhh… haan… Beedaa ji… AHHH… main… main aa rahi hoon… AHHH!”
‎
‎Her body convulsed — walls clamping down like a vice around him as the orgasm ripped through her, hard and violent. Tears streamed. Bangles clashed one final chaotic symphony .
‎Her legs shook, toes curling, nails drawing blood on his back.
‎
‎Beedaa didn’t stop. He kept stroking — deep, relentless — chasing his own release while she trembled through the aftershocks, shy and spent and utterly claimed.
‎
‎The bathroom door stayed half-open.
‎
‎The clothes stayed scattered outside.

[కుమార్]

Divya’s body was still trembling from the first brutal orgasm — walls fluttering weakly around Beedaa’s thick length — when he started moving again.
‎
‎He didn’t give her time to catch her breath.
‎
‎His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, each stroke now long and punishing, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in to the hilt. 
‎The wet, obscene sound of their bodies colliding filled the bathroom, louder than her ragged breathing.
‎
‎She felt it all at once — the sheer cock size of him stretching her wider than she’d ever been stretched.
‎ Ranjith was gentle, familiar, average in every loving way. But 
‎Beedaa… Beedaa penis is massive, unyielding, filling every inch inside her until there was no empty space left.
‎
‎ The thick head dragged along her sensitive walls with every withdrawal, the veined shaft forcing her open wider with every thrust back in.
‎ She could feel the ridge of his corona catching just inside her entrance before plunging deep again, hitting places she didn’t even know existed.
‎
‎Her eyes went wide in pure surprise.
‎
‎“Aah… Beedaa ji… itna… itna bada… oh god…”
‎
‎The words tumbled out between gasps — shocked, almost childlike wonder mixed with overwhelming sensation.
‎
‎ She looked down between their bodies again, mesmerized and terrified by the sight: his dark, glistening cock disappearing completely into her fair, slick folds, stretching her pink lips taut around his girth. 
‎Pubic hair matted with her wetness, grinding against her clit every time he bottomed out.
‎
‎She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t imagined a 60-year-old rowdy could feel like this — like he was reshaping her from the inside.
‎
‎Her surprise only made her body react more intensely.
‎ Inner walls clenched involuntarily around him — trying to accommodate, failing beautifully — sending fresh sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through her core.
‎
‎Beedaa felt the flutter. His victorious smile deepened into something darker, hungrier. He leaned in, scarred lips brushing her ear.
‎
‎“laaVaadaa pasand aaya na, bhabhi? Abhi toh shuruaat hai…”
‎
‎He angled his hips slightly — just enough — and drove in deeper, hitting that spot again and again with ruthless precision.
‎
‎Divya’s head snapped back against the tiles.
‎
‎“AHHH! Nahi… nahi… itna deep… AHHH… Beedaa ji… please…!”
‎
‎Her shouts returned — louder, more desperate. 
‎The pain from his size mixed with unbearable pleasure, turning every stroke into a shockwave. 
‎Her thigh shook around his waist, toes curling so hard they cramped. Bangles clashed wildly again — clink-clink-clink-clink — faster now, frantic.
‎
‎She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t think. Could only feel: the massive stretch, the deep grind, the way his pubic hair scbangd her oversensitive clit raw with every thrust.
‎
‎“AHH… slow… slow karo… mmm… ohhh…laa.. vaadaa… itna bada… AHHH!”
‎
‎But her hips betrayed her completely — rolling up to meet him, chasing the brutal fullness even as tears streamed down her cheeks.
‎ Her nails dug deeper into his shoulders.
‎ Her breasts bounced with every impact, mangalsutra swinging and slapping against her sweat-slicked skin.
‎
‎Beedaa growled low — animal satisfaction — and picked up the pace even more. Rough, relentless strokes that made her whole body jolt against the wall.
‎
‎“Chillati reh, bhabhi… teri cheekhein sunke aur maza aa raha hai…”
‎
‎Divya’s shouts turned into continuous, broken wails — overwhelmed, surprised, lost in the sheer size and power of him claiming her so completely.
‎
‎“AHHH… haan… aur… aur zor se… mmm… beedaa ji… AHHH!”
‎
‎She was gone — mind blank, body on fire, every stroke pushing her toward another shattering climax she wasn’t sure she could survive.
‎

[కుమార్]

Beedaa suddenly stopped.
‎
‎Mid-thrust — buried so deep his pubic bone was crushed against her mound, cock throbbing thick and hot inside her stretched walls — he went completely still.
‎
‎Divya’s body jerked once from the abrupt halt. Her breath came in short, desperate pants. She was right on the edge again — second climax building like a storm — walls fluttering wildly around him, clit throbbing from the constant grind of his coarse hair.
‎
‎Her glassy eyes flew open. She looked up at him — confused, needy, lips parted on an unfinished moan.
‎
‎Beedaa’s scarred face hovered inches above hers. Sweat beaded on his brow. His dark eyes locked on her tear-streaked one.
‎
‎Then — low, gravel-rough — he murmured:
‎
‎“Bahut tight hai tu… ab andar hi nikalunga.”
‎
‎Divya’s eyes widened in sudden panic.
‎
‎She shook her head frantically — small, urgent movements — voice cracking with leftover lust and fresh fear.
‎
‎“Nahi… Beedaa ji… bahar… please… bahar nikaalo…”
‎
‎The words tumbled out in a breathless rush — shy, pleading, traditional wife instinct kicking back in even as her body clenched greedily around him. 
‎She tried to push at his chest weakly, thigh trembling around his waist, but he didn’t budge.
‎
‎Beedaa just smiled — that same slow, victorious curve of his lips.
‎
‎One hand came up to cup her jaw — thumb stroking her lower lip — while the other gripped her hip hard, pinning her exactly where he wanted.
‎
‎And then he moved once more.
‎
‎Not thrusting. Just a deep, rolling grind — hips circling, cock stirring inside her like he was stirring her very core.
‎
‎Divya gasped — “Ahh… nahi… please…”
‎
‎But it was too late.
‎
‎His cock swelled even thicker — veins pulsing against her walls — and he came.
‎
‎Hot, thick spurts flooded her.
‎ Deep. Relentless. Pulse after pulse, filling her completely until she could feel the warmth spreading, overflowing, trickling down her inner thighs where their bodies joined.
‎
‎Beedaa groaned low in his throat — animal satisfaction — forehead pressed to hers as he emptied himself inside her.
‎
‎Divya froze.
‎
‎Her body — still trembling on the brink — clenched hard around him one last time, milking him involuntarily. A broken, shuddering moan escaped her lips despite herself.
‎
‎But when the pulses finally slowed… when he stayed buried deep, softening only slightly inside her flooded heat…
‎
‎She looked up at him.
‎
‎Little anger flickered in her glassy eyes — mixed with shame, confusion, lingering lust, and something almost like betrayal.
‎
‎Her voice came out small, trembling, edged with that quiet fury only a woman who’d just been claimed so completely could muster:
‎
‎“Aapne… andar hi… kyun?”
‎
‎Tears welled fresh. One slipped down her cheek. Her mangalsutra — still trapped between their sweat-slicked chests — felt heavier than ever.
‎
‎Beedaa didn’t pull out yet. He just looked back at her — calm, unapologetic — thumb brushing away the tear on her cheek.
‎
‎“Kyuki tu meri hai ab, bhabhi. Bahar nahi… andar hi sahi jagah hai.”
‎
‎He leaned in — pressed one slow, possessive kiss to her swollen lips.
‎
‎Divya didn’t kiss back this time. She just stared at him — anger simmering under the haze of afterglow — body still trembling, full of him, marked in the deepest way possible.

[కుమార్]

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.

[కుమార్]

Divya stepped back into the hall, her bare feet soft on the cool tiles. The house felt strangely quiet now — only Monu’s toy cars making faint vroom sounds from the corner where he sat cross-legged, surrounded by plastic tracks.
‎
‎On the dining table sat the birthday cake — chocolate with extra cream, still in its box, untouched. The candles waited in a neat row beside it. Ranjith’s helmet was gone from the hook near the door. His security officer bag, usually slung over the chair, was missing too.
‎
‎Divya’s stomach twisted — a small, cold knot.
‎
‎She smoothed her pallu one more time (even though it was already perfect), then walked over to Monu and crouched down beside him, forcing her voice light and normal.
‎
‎“Beta… Papa ghar aaye the kya?”
‎
‎Monu looked up, eyes bright, nodding enthusiastically.
‎
‎“Haan Mummy! Papa aaye the. Cake laaye the! Par phone aaya aur woh jaldi se chale gaye. Bola emergency hai.”
‎
‎Divya’s smile stayed fixed on her face — the practiced one she used when Monu scbangd his knee or when guests asked too many questions.
‎
‎“Oh… achha. Kab gaye?”
‎
‎“Thodi der pehle hi. Bike ki awaaz aayi thi.”
‎
‎She nodded slowly, patting his head.
‎
‎“Theek hai beta. Ab cake rakhte hain fridge mein, Papa ke liye. Raat ko saath mein khaayenge.”
‎
‎Monu pouted for a second but went back to his cars.
‎
‎Divya stood up. Walked to the kitchen doorway. Her eyes drifted — almost against her will — toward the back path visible through the small window. The bathroom door was now closed. The pile of clothes was gone (she’d gathered them hastily after her bath). Nothing looked out of place.
‎
‎But the knot in her stomach tightened.
‎
‎*Did he see?*
‎
‎The question bloomed in her mind like ink in water.
‎
‎Did Ranjith come to the kitchen for water like he always did? Did he glance out the window? Did he walk down the back path? Did he hear… anything?
‎
‎Her bangles had clinked so loudly. Her shouts — God, her shouts — had echoed off the tiles. And Beedaa… he hadn’t been quiet either. The wet sounds. The low growls. The final groan when he…
‎
‎She pressed a hand to her lower belly unconsciously — still feeling the faint warmth, the slight ache, the slick reminder that hadn’t fully washed away even after the cold shower.
‎
‎Confusion swirled.
‎
‎*If he heard… why didn’t he come in? Why didn’t he shout? Why did he just… leave?*
‎
‎Part of her felt relief — sharp, guilty relief.  
‎Part of her felt terror — what if he knew? 
‎
‎She shook her head hard, as if to dislodge the thought.
‎
‎*No. He didn’t see. He couldn’t have. He was in a hurry. Emergency. That’s all.*
‎
‎She turned back to the stove. The dal was still warm. Rotis were ready under the cover. Sabzi waited in the pan. She switched on the gas, stirred mechanically, added a pinch of salt she didn’t need — anything to keep her hands busy, her mind occupied.
‎
‎Monu ran in after a while, hugging her leg.
‎
‎“Mummy, cake abhi khaayenge?”
‎
‎She bent, kissed his forehead — the normal mother gesture that grounded her.
‎
‎“Haan beta. Thoda wait karo. Papa ke liye bhi rakha hai.”
‎
‎She served him a small plate — roti, dal, sabzi — and watched him eat happily, chattering about scho.ol.

[కుమార్]

Beedaa slipped into the narrow gali of the slum like he belonged there — which he did. The  air was thick with the smell of frying onions, diesel from passing autos, and the faint tang of open drains.

‎A group of his usual crew lounged outside a tea stall: three younger rowdies in vests and lungis, chewing paan, playing cards on an upturned crate.
‎
‎One of them — a skinny guy named Chhotu — spotted him first and waved him over.
‎
‎“Beedaa bhai! Suno zara… aaj market mein badi dhoom machi hai. Jewelry shop loot li gayi thi dopahar mein. security officer ne teen-four bande pakad liye hain. Sabko thok rahe hain station pe.”
‎
‎Beedaa paused mid-step. His scarred face didn’t change — no surprise, no worry. He just listened, eyes half-lidded, chewing slowly on the last bit of paan in his mouth.
‎
‎“Kaun pakda gaya?” he asked quietly.
‎
‎“Woh Aslam aur uske do yaar. Bol rahe hain Aslam ne hi plan banaya tha.  saab khud lead kar rahe the raid.”
‎
‎Beedaa’s jaw tightened for half a second — the name “saab” hit like a dull blade. Ranjith.
‎ The same man whose wife he’d spent .
‎
‎He spat red paan juice into the gutter.
‎
‎Then, without a word, he turned toward his tin-roofed shack at the end of the gali. Inside, he grabbed a small canvas bag — old, patched, containing a few clothes, some cash rolled tight with a rubber band, a spare beedi packet, and a rusted knife wrapped in cloth.
‎
‎Chhotu followed him to the door.
‎
‎“Bhai, kahan ja rahe ho? security officer aa rahi hai kya?”
‎
‎Beedaa slung the bag over his shoulder.
‎
‎“Nahi. Bas thoda door ja raha hoon. Gaon ke paas. Kuch din rukunga. Yahan garmi zyada ho gayi hai.”
‎
‎He didn’t explain more. Didn’t need to. The crew knew better than to ask twice.
‎
‎Beedaa walked out of the slum without looking back — past the tea stall, past the flickering tube-lights, past the narrow path that led to the middle-class colony .
‎
‎ He headed toward the main road, caught a shared auto toward the nearest village outskirts, disappearing into the evening haze.
‎
‎Meanwhile, back in the house…
‎
‎Ranjith returned home around 7:30 PM. The theft case had wrapped up faster than expected — suspects in custody, statements recorded, paperwork pending. He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and stepped inside quietly.
‎
‎The house smelled of reheated dal and fresh rotis. Monu was on the floor with his coloring book. Divya was in the kitchen, back to him, stirring something unnecessary on the stove.
‎
‎He didn’t say anything about morning. Didn’t mention the back path. Didn’t ask why the bathroom door had been half-open. Didn’t ask why her cheeks flushed every time their eyes met for more than two seconds.
‎
‎He just said, normal voice:
‎
‎“Main aa gaya.”
‎
‎Divya froze for half a heartbeat. Her fingers tightened on the ladle. She turned slowly, forced a small smile — the same one she’d worn all afternoon.
‎
‎“Haan… dinner taiyaar hai. Aap fresh ho jao.”
‎
‎She couldn’t look him in the eyes for longer than a glance.
‎Every time she did, shame flooded her: the memory of Beedaa’s thick size stretching her, his victorious smile, the hot flood inside her, the slap on her back at the gate.
‎ She felt exposed — even in her fully dbangd saree, even with the mangalsutra sitting perfectly straight.
‎
‎Ranjith nodded. Took off his  shirt, hung it on the hook, went to wash up. No questions. No tension in his voice. Just quiet.
‎
‎Dinner passed in near silence — Monu chattering about scho.ol, Ranjith answering in short sentences, Divya serving extra rotis to both of them without meeting anyone’s gaze.
‎
‎After plates were cleared, Monu tugged at Ranjith’s sleeve.
‎
‎“Papa! Movie dekhne chalte hain? Aaj new cartoon aa raha hai theatre mein!”
‎
‎Ranjith looked at Divya.
‎
‎“Chaloge?”
‎
‎Divya shook her head quickly — too quickly.
‎
‎“Nahi… thak gayi hoon. Tum dono jao. Main ghar pe hi hoon.”
‎
‎Ranjith studied her face for a long second — nothing readable in his eyes.
‎
‎“Theek hai. Hum dono jaate hain. Jaldi aa jayenge.”
‎
‎He took Monu’s hand. They left — bike engine fading down the lane.
‎
‎The house fell silent.
‎
‎Divya stood in the hall for a full minute after they left. Then she exhaled — long, shaky — like she’d been holding her breath since lunchtime.
‎
‎--He doesn’t know. He can’t know. If he knew… he would have said something. Done something.---
‎
‎Relief washed over her — guilty, sweet relief.
‎She felt free for the first time all day. No eyes watching her every move. No questions she couldn’t answer.
‎
‎She went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time. Took another bath: hot water this time, scrubbing until her skin turned pink, trying to wash away the afternoon. She stepped out, dried herself, slipped into a simple cotton nighty — light blue, knee-length, modest. No bra underneath. Hair loose, still damp.
‎
‎She lay down on the sofa in the hall — lights dim, TV off. Exhaustion hit her all at once. The ache between her legs had dulled to a faint throb. Her mind replayed flashes: Beedaa’s size, his strokes, his release inside her, his slap at the gate, his words — “saab bahut lucky hai.”
‎
‎She pulled a thin blanket over herself. Closed her eyes.
‎
‎Sleep came fast.
‎
‎When Ranjith and Monu returned around 10 PM — movie over, Monu half-asleep on his father’s shoulder — they found her curled on the sofa.
‎

[కుమార్]

Two, three days passed in a fragile, practiced normalcy.

‎
‎Ranjith came home each evening at the usual time — uniform dusty from the streets, helmet under his arm, a quiet “Main aa gaya” that never carried questions.
‎ He ate the food Divya served, helped Monu with homework, kissed her forehead goodnight like always.
‎No mention of the back bathroom.. No sudden anger. No sudden silence that felt like accusation.
‎
‎He simply… didn’t ask.
‎
‎Divya woke each morning, made breakfast, packed Monu’s tiffin, wore her simple cotton saree to the convent , taught the children English rhymes and Hindi stories with the same gentle smile she’d always had.
‎At home she swept, cooked, prayed at the small altar — longer prayers now, eyes squeezed tight, whispering apologies to gods she feared had stopped listening.
‎
‎But the shame crept in slowly, like damp spreading through cotton.
‎
‎It started small: a flush when she passed the bathroom door, a quick look away when she caught her reflection in the steel plate on the kitchen counter. Then deeper. At night, when Ranjith was asleep beside her, she lay awake staring at the ceiling fan, replaying every moment with Beedaa — the rough hands, the massive stretch, the hot flood inside her.
‎
‎She felt dirty. Not just physically — she’d scrubbed until her skin was raw — but in her soul.
‎She was a traditional family lady.
‎ Raised to keep her pallu pinned tight, eyes down in front of elders, mangalsutra shining like a promise.
‎Her father had taught her: “Ladki ka sabse bada dhan uski izzat hoti hai.” Her mother had repeated it while braiding her hair before marriage: “Pativrata stri kabhi apne pati ke alawa kisi ko nahi dekhti.”
‎
‎And she had broken that.
‎
‎Completely.
‎
‎When she spoke to her parents on the phone — Sunday evening call, like always — the shame burned hottest.
‎
‎Her mother’s voice crackled through the speaker: “Beta, sab theek? Monu ki tabiyat? Ranjith ki duty?”
‎
‎“Haan Maa… sab theek hai,” Divya answered, voice soft, normal.
‎She stood in the kitchen, back to the hall so Ranjith wouldn’t see her face if he walked in.
‎
‎Her father came on the line next: “Divya, tu khush toh hai na? Koi pareshani nahi?”
‎
‎She swallowed. “Nahi Papa… bilkul nahi.”
‎
‎But inside her head, a single thought looped like a mantra:
‎
‎""""if they knew about Beedaa… if they knew what I did… what he did… they would kill me."""""
‎
‎Not metaphorically. Her father — strict, proud, old-college — had once said about a neighbor’s daughter who eloped: “Aisi ladkiyon ko ghar mein jagah nahi milni chahiye. Beizzati hai poori family ki.” Her mother would cry, but she’d agree. They’d disown her. Or worse — in the old village way — they might even think death was better than living with such shame.
‎
‎Divya ended the call with “Jai Mata Di” and “Love you both,” voice steady.
‎
‎Then she sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands, for a long minute.
‎
‎No tears. Just quiet, crushing weight.
‎
‎She was still the same Divya on the outside — dutiful wife, loving mother, convent teach.er in neat sarees and bindi. But inside, a crack had formed. Every time she looked at Ranjith’s empty chair at dinner, every time she tucked Monu in and kissed his forehead, every time she lit the diya at the altar… the crack widened.
‎
‎She wondered if Beedaa was still watching from the slum edge. (He wasn’t — he’d left for the village — but she didn’t know that yet.)

[కుమార్]

Two days after Ranjith left for his parents’ village — a sudden, short trip he’d mentioned only the night before, something about his mother’s health check-up and “just three-four days” — the house felt emptier than usual.

‎
‎Ranjith had kissed Divya’s forehead before leaving at dawn, told Monu to be good for Mummy, and ridden off on his bike without any extra words. No lingering look. No unspoken question hanging in the air. Just gone.
‎
‎Divya spent the first day and a half in the same careful rhythm: convent in the morning, Monu’s college drop-off and pickup, cooking simple meals, folding laundry with mechanical precision. The shame still sat heavy in her chest — quieter now, but never gone — like a stone she carried everywhere.
‎
‎By the second night — around 8 PM — Monu had eaten his dinner (roti-sabzi, extra ghee on his roti the way he liked), brushed his teeth, said goodnight to Papa’s photo on the wall, and fallen asleep in his small bed with his favorite stuffed tiger tucked under his arm.
‎
‎The house was silent except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant bark of a street dog.
‎
‎Divya went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time without thinking. She took a long bath: hot water poured slowly over her shoulders, steam clouding the small mirror. 
She scrubbed gently, almost tenderly, as if trying to forgive her own skin.
 When she stepped out, she dried herself and slipped into a tight white nighty she rarely wore — thin cotton, sleeveless, knee-length but clinging to every curve from the dampness of her skin.

 The fabric was semi-sheer in the right light; her dark nipples showed faintly through it, the outline of her breasts clear, no bra underneath. 

She didn’t notice — or told herself she didn’t — how the nighty rode up slightly when she moved.
‎
‎She came into the hall, switched on the single tube light above the dining table, and sat down with the stack of question papers from her convent class.
 Red pen in hand, she began correcting — circling mistakes, writing short remarks in neat Hindi and English.
‎
‎“Very good effort.” 
‎“Try to write full sentences.” 
‎“Neat handwriting, keep it up.”
‎
‎Her hair was still damp, loose over one shoulder, a few strands sticking to her neck. The nighty’s neckline dipped low when she leaned forward to read the next answer.

 Her mangalsutra rested between her breasts, gold chain catching the tube light.

[కుమార్]

[కుమార్]

Divya sat at the dining table under the single tube light, red pen hovering over the last question paper.

‎
‎ The nighty felt tighter than she remembered — the thin white cotton clinging to her damp skin, neckline dipping low every time she leaned forward.
‎ She tried to focus on the child’s answers, but her mind kept drifting: to the empty bedroom, to Ranjith miles away at his parents’ house, to Monu’s soft breathing from the next room.
‎
‎Then she heard it.
‎
‎A hoarse, familiar shout drifting up the lane from the main road:
‎
‎“Roti do… bhagwan ke naam pe roti do… maa-baap ki dua lenge…”
‎
‎The old beggar.
‎He came every week — same cracked voice, same tattered kurta, same stooped walk with a crooked stick.
‎ Usually she ignored him from inside the house, or sent Monu with a piece of bread if he was awake.
‎But tonight the house felt too quiet, too full of her own thoughts.
‎
‎She stood up. The nighty shifted, riding up slightly on her thighs. She tugged it down absentmindedly, went to the kitchen, tore two warm rotis from the stack still covered with a cloth, folded them in half, and walked to the front door.
‎
‎She opened it quietly.
‎Stepped onto the small porch. The gate was only a few feet away.
‎
‎The beggar had already turned into their street — slow, shuffling steps.
‎When he saw her standing there in the dim porch light, he stopped.
‎
‎His rheumy eyes lifted.
‎
‎Divya hesitated for half a second.
‎Then she pushed the gate open and stepped onto the road — barefoot, nighty swaying gently with each step.
‎The street was empty except for a distant street lamp flickering and a stray dog watching from the shadows.
‎
‎She walked the short distance to him, holding out the folded rotis.
‎
‎“Here, baba… le lo.”
‎
‎The old man stared.
‎
‎Not at the rotis.
‎
‎At her.
‎
‎The tight white nighty — damp from the bath, semi-sheer in the yellow streetlight — outlined every curve.
‎
‎Her full breasts moved freely beneath the thin fabric as she walked: soft, natural bounce with each step, nipples faintly visible as dark shadows pressing against cotton. 

The neckline dipped low enough that the upper swells were clearly on display, mangalsutra nestled deep in the cleavage, swaying gently.
‎
‎He didn’t move to take the rotis at first.
‎
‎Just stared — stunned, mouth slightly open, stick forgotten in his gnarled hand.
‎
‎Divya felt the weight of his gaze instantly.
‎
‎ She suddenly became aware of everything: the cool night air making the fabric cling even tighter, the way her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the faint outline of her body that the nighty did nothing to hide.
‎
‎She thrust the rotis forward again — a little more urgently.
‎
‎“Le lo, baba… thanda ho jayega.”
‎
‎The beggar finally blinked. His trembling hand reached out, took the rotis slowly. His fingers brushed hers — rough, calloused, cold.
‎
‎“Shukriya… beti…” he rasped, voice cracking.
‎
‎But his eyes never left her chest.

[కుమార్]

Divya turned quickly toward the gate, cheeks burning from the beggar’s open stare, the two rotis now in his trembling hands.

‎She wanted to disappear back inside — fast, before the shame could sink any deeper.

‎

‎But as she pivoted, the old man moved faster than she expected.

‎

‎His free hand — gnarled, dirt-blackened, calloused from years on the road — shot out and landed a firm, deliberate slap on her ass.

‎

‎The sound cracked softly in the quiet night — palm against thin cotton nighty, the fabric doing nothing to cushion the sting.

‎ Her body jolted forward half a step, breasts bouncing visibly under the tight white material.

‎

‎Divya froze. Shocked. Breath knocked out of her in a sharp gasp.

‎

‎She spun back to face him, eyes wide, one hand instinctively flying to cover her backside as if she could erase the contact.

‎

‎The beggar didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just stood there under the flickering street lamp, rheumy eyes still locked on her body.

‎

‎His cracked voice rasped out, low and matter-of-fact:

‎

‎“Roz bus stop pe dekhta hoon tujhe, beti. Tu kabhi nahi dekhti mujhe. Aaj pehli baar… nazar mili.”

‎

‎Divya stared at him.

‎

‎Really looked.

‎

‎His tattered kurta hung .

‎Gray hair matted with dust and grease. Skin cracked and blackened from sun and exposure. Bare feet caked in road grime. The same crooked stick in one hand, the two rotis clutched in the other like treasures.

‎

‎He was old — older than Beedaa.

‎Yet the slap had been bold. Possessive. The same kind of boldness she’d felt from Beedaa days ago.

‎

‎Her stomach twisted — a sick mix of shock, humiliation, and that same traitorous heat she hated herself for feeling.

‎

‎She didn’t shout. Didn’t slap him back. Didn’t call for help.

‎

‎She just looked at his dirty body one long second longer — the filth, the poverty, the hunger in his eyes that wasn’t only for food — then turned without a word.

‎

‎She hurried back through the gate.

‎. The iron bars clanged shut behind her. She bolted the front door, leaned against it, breathing hard.

‎

‎Her ass still stung — a warm, tingling imprint of his rough palm.

‎

‎

‎

‎---He sees me every day at the bus stop---

‎

‎The thought made her skin crawl. All those mornings — saree neatly dbangd, pallu pinned, walking to catch the bus to the convent — she’d never noticed him.

‎

‎ Never looked at the old beggar sitting on the pavement corner, stick across his lap. But he’d noticed her. Watched her. Every day.

‎

‎And tonight… he touched her.

[కుమార్]

Five minutes passed in heavy silence.

‎
‎
‎Then shouts erupted from down the lane.
‎
‎Sharp. Angry. Male.
‎
‎She lifted her head.
‎
‎The voices carried clearly in the quiet night:
‎
‎“Arre bewakoof! Maine bola na paisa mat maang!”
‎
‎A dull thud — flesh hitting flesh.
‎
‎Another shout, louder:
‎
‎“Idiot! Chal yahan se bhag!”
‎
‎Divya stood up slowly.
‎Her nighty felt even thinner now, the fabric sticking to her skin.
‎
‎She went to gate.
‎
‎Two houses down, under the same flickering streetlamp, the scene unfolded.
‎
‎The owner of the house — a middle-aged man in a vest and lungi, pot-bellied, furious — had the old beggar by the collar of his tattered kurta.
‎He slapped him hard across the face — open palm, no hesitation.
‎
‎The beggar staggered but didn’t fall.
‎
‎His body — though filthy, thin, bent with age — was surprisingly solid.
‎ Years on the road had hardened muscle under the dirt and rags.
‎ He straightened slowly.
‎
‎The owner shoved him again.
‎
‎“Chal nikal yahan se! Roz aa ke tang karta hai! Poli.ce ko bulaunga!”
‎
‎The beggar didn’t reply. Didn’t beg. Just stared at the man with those rheumy eyes — no fear, no anger, just blank endurance. Then he turned, shuffled away down the lane.
‎Divya watched.
‎
‎She should have closed the curtain. Gone back to the table. Pretended nothing happened.
‎
‎But she didn’t.
‎
‎
‎
‎The beggar kept walking.
‎
‎Then — halfway between the two houses — he stopped.
‎
‎Turned.
‎
‎Looked straight at her house.
‎
‎At her.
‎
‎He shuffled back — slow, deliberate steps — until he reached her gate.
‎
‎Divya’s breath caught.

[కుమార్]

[కుమార్]

He spoke , voice low and cracked like dry leaves.

‎
‎“Mera damaad ne usko das hazaar rupaye diye the… . Lekin ab woh paise nahi lauta raha. Aur jab maangta hoon toh maar bhi maarta hai.”
‎
‎He lifted his free hand, touched the fresh red mark on his cheek from the neighbor’s slap.
‎
‎Divya stood frozen on the porch, arms crossed loosely over her chest — trying to hide how the thin cotton made her nipples press visibly against it.
‎Her voice came out soft, almost automatic.
‎
‎“Oh… I see.”
‎
‎She didn’t know what else to say.
‎ The shame from his earlier slap still burned on her skin; now this — an old beggar standing at her gate at night, sharing his sad story like she was supposed to care.
‎
‎The beggar’s gaze dropped lower — to her bare thighs where the nighty thin, then back up to her face.
‎
‎He licked cracked lips.
‎
‎“Roti kha loon… aur thodi der andar baith jaaun? Bahar thand lag rahi hai.”
‎
‎Divya’s heart thudded.
‎ Every sensible part of her screamed to shut the door, bolt it, pretend this wasn’t happening.
‎
‎But the house was empty except for sleeping Monu. Ranjith was gone.
‎
‎She swallowed.
‎
‎“…Theek hai. Aaiye.”
‎
‎She unlatched the gate. Let it swing open.
‎
‎The beggar shuffled inside —  rotis still clutched like treasures.
‎ He smelled of dust, old sweat, and the faint sourness of unwashed clothes.
‎ He didn’t look around the small compound; his eyes stayed on her — on the sway of her breasts as she walked ahead, on the way the nighty shifted over her ass with each step.
‎
‎When they reached the porch he stopped.
‎
‎“Chhat pe kha loon? Wahaan thandi hawa chalti hai.”
‎
‎Divya hesitated.
‎The roof was dark, open to the sky, only a low pabangt wall.
‎But Monu was asleep inside. And the beggar was old. Weak-looking. Harmless… maybe.
‎
‎She nodded once.
‎
‎“Chaliye.”
‎
‎She led him around the side to the narrow external staircase — concrete steps leading up. He followed slowly, , breathing heavier now.
‎
‎When he reached the roof he disappeared into the darkness. Divya heard his stick scbang against the cement, then silence.
‎
‎She stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long minute.
‎
‎Then she went to the kitchen, filled a steel glass with water from the filter, and climbed the steps herself.
‎
‎The roof was pitch dark — no bulb, only faint moonlight filtering through thin clouds. The water tank loomed in one corner.
‎
‎She saw him there.
‎
‎
‎He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
‎
‎Divya stopped a few feet away, holding the glass out like an offering.
‎
‎“Paani…”
‎
‎He didn’t move to take it immediately.
‎
‎His eyes — sharper now in the moonlight — traveled over her again: the white nighty glowing faintly, damp hair loose over her shoulders, bare arms, the deep neckline that dipped with every breath she took.
‎
‎He patted the cement beside him — slow, deliberate.
‎
‎“Baith ja, beti. Thodi der baat kar lete hain.”
‎
‎Divya’s fingers tightened around the glass.

[కుమార్]

Divya set the steel glass of water down on the low concrete bench near the water tank — careful not to spill, the clink of metal on cement loud in the dark rooftop silence.

‎
‎She straightened, tugging the hem of her tight white nighty down again.
‎ Her voice came out firm but quiet, the same tone she used with Monu when bedtime was non-negotiable.
‎
‎“Roti kha li… ab jaaiye.”
‎
‎She turned to leave — back toward the staircase, toward the safety of the lit house below.
‎
‎But before she could take two steps—
‎
‎The beggar moved.
‎
‎Fast. Stronger than his  frame .
‎
‎His arms wrapped around her from behind — one filthy forearm locking across her waist..
‎He pulled her back hard against his body. Divya’s breath punched out in a sharp gasp.
‎
‎She froze. Shocked. Body rigid.
‎
‎His stink hit her instantly — road dust, old sweat, sour breath against her neck. His tattered kurta rasped against the thin cotton of her nighty.
‎ then she felt it — unmistakable — his cock, hard and pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass through the layers of rag and fabric.
‎Thick enough to feel even through his dirty lungi. Hot. Throbbing.
‎
‎Divya’s heart slammed against her ribs.
‎
‎“N-nahi… chhodiye…!”
‎
‎Her voice cracked — small, panicked.
‎
‎But he didn’t let go.
‎
‎Instead his rough hands moved.
‎
‎The arm around her waist slid higher — calloused palm cupping one breast fully through the nighty. Fingers squeezed — not gentle, not tentative — possessive.
‎
‎ The other hand joined the first, both now kneading her soft mounds, thumbs brushing over her nipples that had already hardened from the cool night air and the shock.
‎
‎Divya’s body jerked.
‎
‎“Ahh…!”
‎
‎A small, involuntary sound escaped her. Her hands flew up to his wrists — trying to pull them away — but his grip was too strong, arms like twisted ropes from years of carrying loads and surviving streets.
‎
‎He pressed his face into the crook of her neck — stubble scbanging her skin, breath hot and ragged.
‎
‎“Beti… roz dekhta hoon tujhe… aaj haath lagaaya… ab poora haath laga raha hoon…”
‎
‎His hips rocked forward once — grinding his hardness against her ass — slow, deliberate.