divya

[కుమార్]

Asdf 1234

[కుమార్]

Asdgg 1234

[కుమార్]

12344

[bobby]

Nice plot

[kamdev99008]

interesting buildup.................
political drama

go on

[కుమార్]

Ranjith — the tough Sub-Inspector of security officer in the city, uniform always crisp, gun on his hip, respected (and a little feared) by the locals. But at home? Completely different story.  

He fell hard for Divya back in the day. She was that classic middle-class beauty — long dark hair, simple sarees that hugged her curves just right, soft-spoken, raised in a strict traditional family where girls didn't even look boys in the eye before marriage. Ranjith didn't play games. No secret affair, no sneaking around. One day he walked straight to her father, looked the old man in the eyes, and said:  

"I love your daughter. I want to marry her. I'll take care of her for life."  

Her father was stunned — a security officer guy proposing directly like that? But Ranjith's sincerity (and probably his job status) won out. They got married in a simple ceremony. Love marriage, pure and bold.  

Now years later: Divya still has that innocent glow, even after being a wife and mother. She works a small job — maybe a clerk in a government office or teaching part-time — nothing flashy, just enough to feel independent. Their son Monu is probably 5 years old, naughty, always running around calling "Papa!" whenever Ranjith comes home after a long shift.  

[కుమార్]

Divya has always been the picture of loyalty — devoted wife, caring mother, the kind of woman who still blushes when Ranjith compliments her after all these years. She wears her simple cotton sarees with pride, pallu tucked neatly, mangalsutra shining against her fair skin, bindi perfectly round. Her world revolves around Ranjith's long shifts, Monu's college stories, and keeping their small home spotless.
‎
‎But the new house changed everything slowly, insidiously.
‎
‎They shifted to this modest middle-class colony because it was affordable after Ranjith's promotion didn't come through as expected. The area is clean enough on their street — painted row houses, kids playing cricket in the lane — but just 200 meters away starts the sprawling slum. Narrow galiyan, tin roofs, open drains, men in lungis lounging on charpoys, women in bright sarees carrying water pots on hips, the constant hum of life spilling out onto the streets. The boundary is thin; voices carry, smells of frying pakoras mix with their dinner, and eyes watch.
‎
‎few incidents that started cracking Divya's innocent shell.

[కుమార్]

The municipal supply is erratic, so everyone depends on private tankers weekly two times.

One day morning, the tanker arrives late. Divya, in a light blue saree , goes out with her bucket like the other women.
 The driver — a rough, muscular guy from the slum side, shirtless, tattoo on his arm, sweat glistening — parks crookedly, blocking half the lane. As she waits in line, he teases the women openly: "Arre bhabhi, itni sundar ho, paani khud baant do na..." The others laugh, but his eyes linger on Divya longer than necessary.
 When it's her turn, he "accidentally" splashes water on her saree, soaking the front. The thin fabric clings to her curves, bra outline visible. She gasps, covers herself with the pallu, cheeks burning, but he just smirks: "Sorry bhabhi, haath phisal gaya." She hurries home, heart pounding — just from embarrassment.

[కుమార్]

‎

‎Divya never breathed a word about the water tanker incident to Ranjith. 
‎
‎How could she? The way the driver's rough hand had "accidentally" brushed her wet waist while handing back the bucket, the smirk on his face as her soaked saree clung like a second skin, outlining every curve she usually kept hidden under modest pallus... it replayed in her mind at the worst times. In the shower, while cooking, even when Ranjith was making love to her gently like always. She pushed it down, told herself it was nothing, just embarrassment. But the heat it stirred refused to fade. She stayed quieter those days, more dutiful — extra attentive to Ranjith when he came home exhausted, hoping guilt would drown the memory.
‎
‎ one day Ranjith arrested a rowdy.
‎
‎His name was beedaa — a notorious small-time thief from the nearby slum, known for snatching chains, breaking into parked scooters, and roughing up anyone who resisted. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar across his cheek, , always in a dirty vest and lungi, chewing paan like he owned the streets. The locals feared him more than they respected the security officer sometimes.
‎
‎Ranjith got the tip early morning — beedaa had hit an elderly couple's house the night before, stolen gold bangles and cash.
‎ Ranjith, with two constables, raided the slum gali where beedaa hid. It was quick and brutal: he tried to run, jumped over a wall, but Ranjith tackled him hard into the muddy lane. Punches flew — beedaa landed a few wild ones, but Ranjith's training won out.
‎He cuffed him roughly, knee on his back, reading rights while the slum crowd gathered, murmuring. "Chor pakda gaya... SI saab ne mar diya isko."
‎
‎
‎Ranjith just tightened the cuffs, hauled him up, and shoved him into the jeep. Back at the station, he personally interrogated beedaa — no mercy, slapping him when he lied, extracting confession and recovery of the stolen items.
‎ By evening, Karim was in lockup, case filed, and Ranjith came home late, knuckles bruised, uniform dusty, but satisfied. "Ek aur gunda andar," he told Divya proudly over dinner, ruffling Monu's hair. "Ab yeh area thoda safe rahega."
‎
‎Divya listened, nodding, serving him extra rotis, her eyes downcast. She felt a strange mix — pride in her husband's bravery, yes... but also something darker twisting inside. beedaa. She had seen him before, lounging near the water tap, eyes following women openly. Once or twice their gazes had locked when she passed the slum edge — bold, hungry stares that made her quicken her step. Now he was locked up because of Ranjith. The man who protected her world had caged the man who represented everything forbidden and raw on the other side.
‎
‎

[కుమార్]

Turns out Ranjith had the wrong man.
‎
‎beedaa wasn't the thief. 
‎The real culprit was another rowdy from the same slum — a sly, wiry guy named Aslam, known for quick hands and even quicker escapes.
‎ He had framed Karim by planting a stolen bangle in his shack, tipping off the security officer anonymously to settle an old score.
‎
‎ beedaa had been roughed up, cuffed, and thrown in the lockup for nothing. The truth came out two days later when Aslam slipped up — tried to pawn the gold at a shop where the owner recognized the items from the FIR. Ranjith's team raided again, caught Aslam red-handed, and the confession poured out. 
‎ beedaa was released with a grudging apology (more like a nod from the inspector), but the damage was done.
‎
‎ beedaa walked out of the station bruised, ego shattered, eyes burning with fresh rage. 
‎Not just at Aslam... but at Ranjith.
‎ The SI who had slammed him face-first into the dirt, knee in his back, while the whole slum watched.
‎
‎
‎
‎Divya heard the news from the neighborhood women while fetching water that evening. "Arre, woh beedaa toh bechara nahi tha... asli chor toh Aslam nikla. SI saab ne galti kar di." 
‎She froze mid-step, bucket heavy in her hands. 
‎Her mind flashed to the arrest scene she'd overheard Ranjith describe — the tackle, the punches, beedaa's bloodied lip. And now... he was free. Innocent in that crime, at least.
‎
‎That night, Ranjith came home quieter than usual. He knew the mistake reflected poorly on him — higher-ups had pulled him up for hasty action. 
‎He ate in silence, kissed Monu goodnight, then pulled Divya close in bed. "Kuch tension hai office ka," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. 
‎She let him take her gently, as always — his hands familiar, loving, safe. 

[కుమార్]

‎ It was Ranjith's birthday — a quiet milestone, nothing extravagant. He turned 30 that day, still fit from security officer drills, still the same man who proposed to Divya with raw honesty years ago.
‎ Divya woke early, as always, to prepare. She bathed, wore her favorite maroon saree with gold border — the one Ranjith loved because it made her look like a goddess — tied her hair in a neat bun, applied sindoor carefully, and slipped on her mangalsutra.
‎ In the small puja room, she lit the diya, rang the bell softly, offered flowers and prasad to the family deities. Monu, sleepy-eyed but excited, helped her arrange the thali. "Papa ko surprise denge!" he whispered.
‎
‎Ranjith came out in his crisp uniform (duty called even on his birthday), but Divya stopped him. She did aarti for him right there — circling the flame around his face, applying tilak on his forehead, feeding him a sweet. He smiled that rare, boyish smile, pulled her close for a quick kiss on the forehead while Monu giggled. "Aaj sirf family time," she said softly. "Mandir chalte hain sab saath."
‎
‎They walked to the nearby temple — a modest one, crowded on weekends but peaceful that morning. Ranjith held Monu's hand on one side, Divya on the other, her pallu dbangd modestly. She prayed extra long at the deity's feet — for Ranjith's safety, for their happiness, for strength to keep her thoughts pure. The priest blessed them, tied a kalava on Ranjith's wrist, gave prasad. On the way back, they bought pedas from the vendor outside — Ranjith's favorite. Everything felt perfect, normal, loving.
‎

[కుమార్]

‎ As they stepped out of the mandir gates, prasad packets in hand and Monu munching on a peda, Ranjith suddenly paused.
‎ His eyes narrowed across the road — there, leaning against a parked auto-rickshaw, was beedaa.
‎ The 60-year-old slum veteran looked rougher up close in daylight: silver-streaked hair unkempt, faded vest clinging to his still-broad chest, old scars catching the sun, arms crossed with those faded tattoos peeking out.
‎ A fresh paan stain darkened his lower lip, and the faint smell of beedi smoke and sweat drifted even from a distance. He wasn't begging or causing trouble — just standing there, watching the temple crowd with that same unreadable intensity.
‎
‎Ranjith, ever the cop with a sense of duty (and perhaps a twinge of guilt over the false arrest), straightened up. "Ek minute," he told Divya and Monu, then walked over briskly.
‎
‎"beedaa" Ranjith called out, voice firm but not hostile. 
‎beedaa turned slowly, eyes flicking from Ranjith to Divya behind him. "Aaj mera birthday hai. Ghar aao, khana kha lo saath mein. Galti ho gayi thi us din — ab bitterness nahi rakhna chahiye. Chalo."
‎
‎ beeda's gaze lingered on Divya for a beat too long — taking in her elegant maroon saree with the gold border hugging her figure, the way the pallu dbangd modestly yet couldn't hide the soft swell of her breasts, the sindoor bright against her forehead, mangalsutra gleaming.
‎ Then he met Ranjith's eyes again, a slow nod. "Theek hai, saab. Birthday hai toh aata hoon." His voice was gravelly, low, carrying years of street life.
‎
‎Divya's stomach twisted. She forced a polite smile, but inside she recoiled. Beeda's body looked dirty to her — sweat-streaked skin, grime under his nails, the musky, unwashed scent that hit her even from afar. 
‎The contrast was stark: Ranjith clean-shaven, uniform crisp even off-duty today; beedaa raw, aged, unpolished. She didn't want him in their home, near their things, near Monu. 
‎But Ranjith had already invited him — hospitality, pride, whatever it was — and she couldn't protest without explanation.

[కుమార్]

 beeda stared back, surprised, chewing slowly on his paan. After a long pause, he nodded once. "Theek hai, saab. 10 baje pahunch jaunga."
‎
‎ after going home ,
‎ Ranjith kissed her forehead, grabbed his wallet, and left at 9:45 sharp for the market to pick up the cake and some sweets — "Special wala chocolate cake, jaise tu pasand karti hai."
‎
‎The clock hit 10 AM. Divya had finished her morning chores, still in the same maroon saree from the temple visit earlier — gold border shimmering, pallu dbangd modestly over her shoulder, mangalsutra resting between her full breasts, fresh sindoor bright on her forehead. The house smelled of aloo sabzi, dal, fresh rotis, and the faint incense from pooja. Monu was in the living room, playing with his toys, excited about "cake time."
‎
‎A firm knock at the door. Divya's hand froze on the kitchen counter. She smoothed her saree nervously, took a deep breath, and opened it.
‎
‎There stood beedaa — 60 years old but carrying himself like a man half that age in raw strength. Faded black vest stretched tight over his broad, hairy chest, old lungi tied low on narrow hips, arms crossed showing the faded green tattoos snaking from wrists to shoulders. Gray stubble rough, scar on his cheek catching the light, eyes dark and unreadable.
‎ He smelled of paan, beedi smoke, and the faint musk of a man who lived hard outdoors.
‎
‎"Namaste, bhabhi," he said, voice low and gravelly, stepping inside without waiting for full invitation.
‎ His eyes swept the small, neat home — then locked on her. Slow. Deliberate. From her face... down the curve of her neck... to where the saree clung to her waist... lower still.
‎
‎Divya stepped back instinctively, clutching the edge of her pallu. "Aaiye... baithiye. Ranjith ji market gaye hain cake ke liye. Jaldi aayenge."
‎ Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Monu peeked from the sofa, curious but shy.
‎
‎ beedaa nodded at the boy politely — "Beta, kaisa hai?" — then turned back to Divya.
‎ He walked further in, , and sat heavily on the sofa like he belonged there. Legs spread wide, arms resting on the backrest, taking up space. "Achha khushboo aa rahi hai. Aapki haath ki khichdi?"
‎
‎Divya forced a smile, hurrying to the kitchen to get water. "Haan... aapke liye banaya hai. Ranjith ji ne kaha tha aap aayenge." She poured a glass with trembling hands, the water rippling slightly. When she brought it to him, he took it slowly — fingers brushing hers deliberately as he accepted. Rough, calloused skin against her soft palm. He held the touch a second longer than necessary, eyes never leaving hers.
‎
‎"Shukriya, bhabhi. Aap bahut achhi ho. saab ko bahut pyaar karti ho na?" His tone was casual, but the words carried weight. He sipped the water, throat working visibly, then set the glass down. Leaned forward slightly.
‎ "Lekin kabhi kabhi... dil mein kuch aur bhi hota hai. Jo dikhta nahi."
‎
‎ She turned away quickly, pretending to adjust something on the dining table. But she felt his gaze on her back — heavy, hot, tracing the outline of her blouse, the dip of her waist, the sway as she moved. Monu was distracted by his toys now, humming to himself.
‎
‎ beedaa stood up quietly, walked to the kitchen doorway. Leaned against the frame, arms crossed again. Close enough she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Mandir gayi thi aaj subah? Meri taraf dekha tha jab wapas aa rahi thi?" His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "Ya sirf mera khayal aa raha tha pooja karte waqt?"
‎
‎Divya froze, back to him, gripping the counter. Her breath came faster. The house was silent except for Monu's soft play sounds and the distant street noise. Ranjith would be back any minute...

[PELURI]

Kumar Bro ! what a begining....slow tantalising and seductive....sure you are creating a scorcher...a master piece...good luck!

[కుమార్]

Beedaa leaned in a fraction closer in the narrow kitchen doorway, his broad frame blocking most of the light from the living room.

‎The air between them felt thicker now, charged.
‎ Monu’s soft toy sounds drifted in from the other room like background static — innocent, oblivious.
‎
‎His gravel voice dropped even lower, almost intimate, the kind of whisper meant only for her ears.
‎
‎“Bhabhi… aap itni sundar ho, itni seedhi-saadi dikhti ho… lekin college ke dino mein toh zaroor kuch ladke line maarte honge na? Koi special friend tha kya? Jo raat ko phone pe baatein karta tha… ya kabhi haath pakad ke chhup kar milta tha?”
‎
‎He paused, letting the question hang. His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up, searching for any flicker of guilt or memory.
‎
‎Divya’s fingers tightened on the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.
‎ Her face flushed hot — not just embarrassment, but a deeper shame mixed with something electric. She kept her back to him, staring at the gas stove like it held the answer.
‎
‎She swallowed hard, voice coming out small but steady.
‎
‎“Nahi… aisa kuch nahi tha.”
‎
‎Beedaa let out a low, knowing chuckle — not mocking, but amused, like he’d expected exactly that answer.
‎
‎“Sachchi? College ki ladkiyan… sabki koi na koi kahani hoti hai. Kabhi boyfriend, kabhi secret crush, kabhi woh ‘sirf dost’ wala jo haath pakad leta tha library ke peeche. Aap bilkul alag thi kya? Koi bhi nahi?”
‎
‎Divya turned her head just enough so he could see half her profile — cheek burning red, eyes downcast, lashes trembling.
‎
‎“Main… traditional family se hoon. Papa bahut strict the. College mein bhi sirf padhai, ghar, aur mandir. Koi boyfriend nahi. Koi… aisa rishta nahi. Kabhi haath bhi nahi pakda kisi ne college days mein.”
‎
‎Her voice cracked the tiniest bit on the last words.
‎It was the truth — painfully pure. She had been the good girl, the one who blushed at even a boy’s casual “hi,” who walked home with her dupatta pinned tight, who dreamed only of the day a decent man like Ranjith would come ask her father for her hand.
‎
‎But saying it out loud now, with this 60-year-old rowdy standing inches behind her, felt different.
‎ Vulnerable. Like she was confessing something far dirtier than any made-up college fling.
‎
‎Beedaa stayed silent for a long beat. Then he shifted — took half a step nearer. His chest almost brushed her back. She could feel the rough fabric of his vest against her saree-covered shoulder blade.
‎
‎“Toh… pehli baar kisi ne haath pakda toh Ranjith ne hi pakda hoga?” His tone was soft now, almost gentle — but the question carried teeth. “Pehli baar kisi ne chhua… pehli baar kisi ne chuma… sab kuch pehli baar usi ke saath?”
‎
‎Divya’s breath hitched audibly. She nodded once — barely perceptible.
‎
‎“Haan… sab kuch pehli baar… sirf unke saath.”
‎
‎Beedaa exhaled slowly through his nose, like a man savoring a victory he hadn’t even fought for yet.
‎
‎“Bahut achha, bhabhi. Bahut pavitra. Bilkul… naya saaman.”
‎
‎His rough hand finally moved — not grabbing, not forcing — just settling lightly on her hip from behind. Palm wide, fingers splayed over the soft curve where saree met skin. The calluses scbangd gently through the thin fabric. He didn’t squeeze. Just rested there. Claiming space.

[కుమార్]

Beedaa’s rough palm finally settled on Divya’s hip — warm, heavy, possessive. The calluses scbangd lightly against the thin fabric of her saree, fingers splaying just enough to feel the soft give of her flesh beneath.

‎
‎For one suspended heartbeat, the kitchen seemed to shrink to nothing but the heat of his body behind her, the faint musk of paan and smoke wrapping around her like smoke.
‎
‎Then Divya snapped.
‎
‎Her body went rigid. The flush of shame and unwanted heat on her cheeks twisted into something sharper — anger, pure and protective.
‎She spun around fast, saree pallu whipping against his arm, eyes blazing up at him.
‎
‎“Hat jaiye!” she hissed, voice low but fierce, so Monu in the next room wouldn’t hear. Her hand shot up and shoved his wrist away hard — not strong enough to hurt a man like him, but enough to make her meaning crystal clear. “Yeh kya kar rahe ho? Ghar mein… mere pati ke ghar mein!”
‎
‎Beedaa didn’t flinch. He simply let his hand fall back to his side, eyebrows lifting slightly in mild surprise — like a predator who’d expected a rabbit to bolt, not bare teeth.
‎But he didn’t step closer. He just stood there, arms loose now, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
‎
‎Divya’s chest heaved. Her voice trembled with rage and the effort to keep it controlled.
‎
‎“Aap yahan sirf khana khane aaye the. Ranjith ji ne bulaaya tha… izzat se. Aur aap… aap yeh sab? Main koi… koi aisi aurat nahi hoon jo aapke saamne jhuk jaaye. College mein bhi nahi, kabhi nahi. Aur ab bhi nahi.”
‎
‎She pointed toward the front door, finger shaking but steady in direction.
‎
‎“Bahariye. Abhi. Ranjith ji aate hi honge. Agar unhone aapko yahan dekha… aur yeh sab suna… toh aapki jaan bhi mushkil se bachegi. Jaaiye!”
‎
‎Beedaa studied her for a long moment — the fire in her eyes, the way her mangalsutra rose and fell with each angry breath, the sindoor still perfect on her forehead like a mark of everything she refused to let him touch. Slowly, a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth. Not mocking. Almost… respectful. Or amused by her defiance.
‎
‎“Theek hai, bhabhi,” he said quietly, voice gravel-soft. “Gussa mat karo. Main ja raha hoon.”
‎
‎He turned without another word. Walked through the living room — nodded once at Monu, who looked up wide-eyed but said nothing — and stepped out the front door. It clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.
‎
‎Divya stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for several seconds, breathing hard. Her hand came up to press against her hip — right where his touch had been. The skin still tingled, warm from the brief contact. She hated it. Hated that part of her body remembered the roughness even now.
‎
‎She hurried to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, wiped it roughly with the end of her pallu. Then she straightened her saree, smoothed her hair, forced her expression calm. Monu called from the living room, “Mummy, uncle chale gaye?”
‎
‎“Haan beta… uncle ko jaldi kaam tha,” she answered, voice steadier than she felt.
‎

[కుమార్]

Monu suddenly piped up from the sofa, holding up a small, worn metal key ring shaped like a tiny motorcycle. “Mummy! Uncle Beedaa ka cycle ka chabi yahan pada hai sofa pe!”

‎
‎Divya turned sharply. The key lay innocently on the cushion where Beedaa had been sitting — heavy, rusted at the edges, attached to a faded plastic tag. Her first instinct was to ignore it, let him come back for it later (or never), keep the door locked and the boundary firm.
‎
‎But something twisted in her chest. Maybe it was the leftover fury making her reckless. Maybe it was the way his hand had felt on her hip — not violent, just boldly present — and how she’d shoved it away so fast she hadn’t even processed the texture fully. Or maybe it was simpler: she didn’t want Ranjith coming home to find a slum rowdy’s key in their house, giving him any excuse to ask questions.
‎
‎She wiped her hands on her pallu, took the key from Monu (“Beta, andar khelte raho”), and walked quickly to the front gate.
‎
‎The lane outside was quiet in the late-morning .
‎Beedaa hadn’t gone far — just twenty feet down the narrow path toward the slum edge, his broad back to her, lungi swaying with each slow step. He was in no hurry, like a man who knew time bent for him.
‎
‎Divya hesitated at the threshold, one hand on the gate latch. Then she raised her voice — not shouting, but clear enough to carry.
‎
‎“Beedaa ji!”
‎
‎He stopped instantly. Turned. Those dark eyes found her again across the short distance. No surprise on his face — almost like he’d been waiting for exactly this.
‎
‎Divya held up the key ring, arm extended stiffly. “Aapka chabi… sofa pe reh gaya.”
‎
‎Beedaa didn’t move at first. Just looked at her — at the maroon saree still perfectly dbangd despite everything, at the sindoor that hadn’t smudged, at the way her fingers gripped the key like it burned. Then he started walking back toward her, slow deliberate steps, boots scuffing the dirt.
‎
‎When he reached the gate — close enough she could see the fresh scar tissue on his knuckles from the old arrest, close enough to catch that familiar paan-smoke scent again — he stopped just outside the boundary line.
‎
‎He extended his hand, palm up.
‎
‎Divya dropped the key into it without letting their fingers touch this time. Quick. Final.
‎
‎But as the metal left her palm, she didn’t step back immediately. She stayed there, gate half-open, eyes locked on his.
‎
‎“Bas itna hi,” she said, voice low and tight. “Aap ab jaaiye. Aur dobara yahan mat aaiye. Na khane ke liye, na kisi aur wajah se.”
‎
‎Beedaa closed his thick fingers around the key. He didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. Just nodded once — slow, almost thoughtful.
‎
‎“Theek hai, bhabhi,” he murmured. “Main ja raha hoon. Lekin yaad rakhna… maine kabhi zabardasti nahi ki. Aapne khud bulaya tha aaj.”

[కుమార్]

Divya let the gate clang shut behind her one final time, the sound sharp in the quiet lane. She turned away quickly, not looking back, her maroon saree swishing with each hurried step toward the house. The pallu was still clutched tight in one fist, knuckles white, as if holding it could keep everything else in place — her anger, her loyalty, the unwanted flutter that refused to die completely.

‎
‎She didn’t see Beeda.
‎
‎But he did stop.
‎
‎His dark eyes followed her — not her face this time, but lower. The way her hips moved under the saree as she walked, the soft, natural sway that years of carrying water pots and chasing Monu had only made more pronounced. The fabric clung slightly from the morning’s heat and tension, outlining the full, rounded curve of her buttocks with every step. Modest, traditional, yet undeniably feminine.
‎The kind of body a man like him had stared at from across galiyan for years, never close enough to touch… until minutes ago in that kitchen.
‎
‎Beedaa’s scarred lips parted slightly. He pulled a fresh beedi from the pocket of his vest, lit it with a match struck against the rough wall beside him. The first deep drag filled his lungs, smoke curling out slow and thick through his nostrils like a dragon exhaling. His chest rose and fell heavily. Eyes never left her retreating form.
‎
‎He watched the way the saree pleats shifted, the faint jiggle with each stride, the way her waist dipped in before flaring out again. Lust — raw, unfiltered, decades-old — coiled low in his gut. At 60, he’d seen plenty, taken plenty, but there was something about this one: the good wife, the loyal one, the one who’d shoved his hand away with fire in her eyes and still called him back for a damn key. That mix of defiance and untouched purity made it burn hotter.
‎
‎He took another long pull on the beedi, the red tip glowing bright.

[కుమార్]

She stepped into the hall where Monu sat cross-legged on the sofa, surrounded by his scattered toy cars and action figures. He looked up with a bright grin.
‎
‎"Mummy, cake kab khaayenge? Papa late ho rahe hain na?"
‎
‎Divya forced a soft smile, the one she always wore for him. "Jaldi aayenge beta. Abhi thoda wait karo. Mummy tumse baat karna chahti hai."
‎
‎She bent forward to speak to him at eye level — one hand resting on the sofa arm for balance, the other gently ruffling his hair. Her voice was gentle, soothing, the way only a mother's can be: "Tumne uncle ko dekha? Woh chale gaye na? Ab hum log birthday celebrate karenge, theek hai?"
‎
‎As she leaned in, the pallu of her maroon saree — already slightly loosened from the quick walk to the gate and the tension of the morning — slipped further. 
‎It slid off her left shoulder in one slow, careless motion, the gold border catching the light as it pooled around her elbow. The deep neckline of her matching blouse dipped low with the bend of her body. The upper swells of her breasts came into view — full, fair, pushed up slightly by the way she leaned forward. 
‎The edge of her bra peeked just visible, black lace against skin, the soft cleavage rising and falling with each normal breath. 
‎Nothing vulgar, nothing intentional — just the natural, unguarded exposure of a woman who never expected eyes on her in her own home.
‎
‎But there were eyes.
‎
‎Beedaa hadn't gone far.
‎
‎After flicking the half-smoked beedi to the ground and crushing it under his boot, he'd doubled back silently — not rushing, not obvious.
‎ Just a slow circle through the narrow side lane that ran parallel to their row of houses. He reached the main door again, but didn't knock. Instead he stood just outside, slightly to the side, where the half-open window beside the door gave a clear, angled view straight into the hall.
‎
‎He saw it all.
‎
‎Divya bent over talking to Monu, unaware. The saree pallu dangling loose. The blouse stretched taut across her chest. The creamy upper curves spilling just enough to make a man's mouth go dry. Beedaa's scarred lips parted slightly. His breathing deepened — slow, deliberate inhales through his nose like he was tasting the air itself. One thick hand came up to rub slowly along his jaw, gray stubble rasping under calloused fingers. His dark eyes fixed on that accidental display: the gentle sway as she spoke, the way the fabric clung and released with each small movement, the faint shadow between her breasts that disappeared into darkness.
‎
‎He didn't leer openly like a street thug. No crude whistle, no shout. Just quiet, intense enjoyment — the kind a 60-year-old man who's waited decades for moments like this savors without hurry. His tongue traced the inside of his lower lip once, tasting the lingering paan. A low, almost inaudible rumble came from his throat — not quite a growl, more like satisfaction.

[కుమార్]

Beedaa didn’t knock this time.
‎
‎The front door — still unlocked from when Divya had stepped out to return the key — creaked open just enough for his broad frame to slip through. He moved quietly for a man his size and age, The hall was dimmer now, sunlight slanting through half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the sofa where Monu had been playing.
‎
‎Divya had just straightened from talking to Monu and turned toward the kitchen when she caught the movement from the corner of her eye.
‎
‎She froze.
‎
‎Beedaa stood in the doorway of the hall — no longer outside, no longer twenty feet away. Inside. In her home. Again.
‎
‎
‎
‎“Kya kar rahe ho? Kyun andar aa rahe ho? Maine kaha tha na bahar jaao!”
‎
‎Beedaa raised one thick hand in a calm-down gesture, the other still holding the key ring loosely between his fingers like an excuse.
‎
‎“Bas ek cheez bhool gaya tha, bhabhi,” he said, voice gravel-soft, almost gentle. “Wohi chabi… lekin abhi yaad aaya… kuch aur bhi bhool gaya tha.”
‎
‎Before she could process the words, before she could step back or shout — he closed the distance in two long strides.
‎
‎His rough hand shot up, fingers tangling firmly but not painfully in the hair at the back of her head. He pulled her forward — not violent, but decisive, like a man who’d waited long enough.
‎
‎His scarred lips crashed against hers.
‎
‎The kiss was hard at first — hungry, demanding, tasting of paan and beedi smoke and decades of restrained want. His stubble scbangd her soft chin, his grip on her hair tilting her face exactly where he wanted it. Divya’s eyes flew wide in pure shock. A muffled sound escaped her throat — half gasp, half protest.
‎
‎Her hands flew up instinctively, palms pressing flat against his broad chest, pushing. Hard. The faded vest under her fingers felt rough, warm, solid. She twisted, tried to turn her head away, tried to break free.
‎
‎“Mmmph—!”
‎
‎But he didn’t let go. He didn’t force deeper either. Just held her there — lips sealed over hers, unmoving for a few heartbeats, letting her feel the full weight of what was happening.
‎
‎And then… something shifted.
‎
‎Not surrender. Not desire — not yet. But the frantic resistance in her body began to slow. Her pushing hands stilled against his chest instead of shoving. Her muffled protests faded into shallow, uneven breaths through her nose. Her eyelids fluttered, then drifted half-closed.
‎
‎She went calm.
‎
‎Not limp. Not willing. Just… still.
‎
‎Her body stopped fighting the hold on her hair. Her lips — still pressed to his — parted the tiniest fraction, not kissing back, but no longer clamped shut in refusal. A single tremor ran through her — from shock, from confusion, from the raw heat of a man’s mouth on hers after so many years of only Ranjith’s gentle, familiar kisses.
‎
‎Beedaa felt it. The change. The moment her resistance cracked into something quieter.
‎
‎He didn’t push further. Didn’t deepen the kiss into something obscene. Just lingered there another second — tasting her stillness, her warmth, the faint floral scent of her hair oil mixed with the sindoor on her forehead.
‎
‎Then he pulled back slowly.
‎
‎His hand slid from her hair to cup the side of her face for one last beat — thumb brushing the corner of her lower lip where it glistened faintly now.
‎
‎Divya stood there, chest rising and falling fast, eyes glassy and wide, lips swollen and red from the brief pressure. She didn’t speak. Didn’t slap him. Didn’t run. Just stared up at him — stunned,