Adultery Sakshi's Universe
#1
Main Characters:
Sakshi (~25 years old) – A young wife and mother rediscovering her sensuality and inner fire. Complex, intelligent, and fiercely aware of her own desires. The story centers on her journey of awakening.

Ramu (~65 years old) – An older widower and father of the landlord. Quiet, watchful, and haunted by memories of his late wife, also named Sakshi. His growing attraction to Sakshi sets off an intimate, taboo connection.

Murugan (~27 years old) – Sakshi’s husband. Traditional, emotionally distant, and often unaware of Sakshi’s emotional and physical needs.

Meena (~25 years old) – Sakshi’s closest friend and confidante. Witty, bold, and unfiltered. Meena serves as the emotional and comic relief, often acting as Sakshi’s mirror and cheerleader.

Janani & Arun – The landlords. Janani is Arun’s wife and Ramu’s daughter-in-law. She notices the chemistry between Sakshi and Ramu but frames it with teasing and subtle remarks.

Ramu’s Late Wife (Sakshi) – Though deceased, her memory casts a long shadow over Ramu’s affections. She shared the same name as Sakshi, creating layered emotional echoes throughout the story.

Sakshi’s Son – whose presence grounds Sakshi in domestic reality but also amplifies the tension between her roles as mother, wife, and woman.

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[Image: 1.png]
The thick smell of paint and old wood still lingered in the stairwell as Sakshi carried her two-year-old son up to the first floor of their new rental. The iron gate creaked open, revealing the narrow corridor leading to their portion. Her husband, Murugan, followed with a rolled-up mat under one arm and a bag of kitchen utensils in the other.

"Careful with that, kanna," Sakshi called out, glancing back at her son toddling across the chipped tiles. "Don’t touch the wall, it's still wet!"

Murugan exhaled sharply, sweat lining his forehead. "Phew! This house smells like it's been locked up for years. But at least it's spacious."

"You just like it because the kitchen is far from the bedroom. No more sambar smell waking you up," she teased, placing a hand on her hip.

"No, no," Murugan grinned, "I like it because now I can chase you around that hallway without your amma hearing us."

"Aiyo! Behave, husband! Our son’s watching," she whispered with mock scandal, though the blush on her cheeks was real.

He leaned in, whispering, "Let him watch. He should know how much his appa loves his amma."

She rolled her eyes. "Romantic fool. You’re more tired than loving right now. You’ve been sweating like you ran the marathon."

"For you, I'd run two," Murugan said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. Inside, he was thinking: Damn, she still looks fine even in that crumpled old nightie. How do I focus on work with this woman parading around the house?

Sakshi caught his lingering stare and smirked. He thinks I don’t know. I can still make him trip over his tongue. Good.

The first floor was quiet, the corridor half-lit by the dying afternoon sun. Sakshi noticed a closed wooden door at the far end with a rusted nameplate that simply read: Ramu. A muted hum came from behind it—TV perhaps, or some old devotional song on loop.

She didn't dwell long. The first few days passed in a blur. Mornings were the same: she woke at dawn, cooked idlis and sambar, packed lunch for Murugan who left sharply at 8:30am to catch his local train to the port. Then she bathed her son, played with him, sometimes video-called her sister, folded laundry, browsed random reels, cleaned corners already clean. The rhythm of her life had changed, but the notes felt strangely familiar.

Yet, something shifted.

There was a presence—unspoken, but real.

She began to sense it on the third day.

A feeling.

Eyes.

Not heavy or perverse. Curious. Constant.

She’d stand near the balcony folding clothes and suddenly feel heat on her back, a tingle on the nape of her neck. When she turned, no one. But a curtain might sway from the room at the end. Once, a cough broke the silence, too intentional to be random. Her heart skipped.

That night, after putting her son to bed, she entered the bedroom where Murugan was lying shirtless, his phone lighting up his face. He scrolled absently.

"There’s an old man in the next room. The owner's father. Seems quiet. But I think he watches me sometimes," she said, adjusting her bun in front of the dresser.

Murugan chuckled. "Of course he does. If I was an old man stuck in one room and saw you walking around in your low-waist nightie... I’d stare too."

She smacked his arm with a cushion. "Dei! Stupid. I’m serious."

He grabbed the pillow and grinned, tugging her onto the bed. "Okay, okay. But maybe he’s just lonely. Watching people is a way to feel less dead inside."

"Hmm," she murmured, snuggling beside him. Or maybe he’s watching me for more than loneliness. And why does that idea stir something in me?

Her breath slowed. But the pulse between her legs didn’t.

The next morning, as she adjusted her saree in front of the mirror, the doorbell rang. Her son ran to open it.

"Vanakkam, ma," said a woman in her late thirties, holding a tiffin box. "I’m Janani. We stay downstairs—my husband owns the house. Just thought I’d come welcome you."

"Oh! Thank you akka, very kind of you." Sakshi smiled, letting her in.

They sat down on the floor mat. Her son climbed into her lap.

"And that room at the end... someone stays there? I noticed it's always closed," Sakshi asked casually, watching Janani's eyes.

Janani’s smile shifted slightly. "That’s Appa’s room. Ramu. My father-in-law. He doesn’t go out much, health and all... mostly keeps to himself."

"He watches a lot of TV, huh?" Sakshi asked with a teasing smile.

Janani chuckled, but it felt restrained. "He’s old, lonely. He may come up to talk sometime. Don’t mind him."

Sakshi’s eyes lingered on the shut door. Lonely men can be strange. But maybe he’s just... human. Just looking. Maybe I’m imagining things.

That evening, while chopping onions, Murugan came from behind and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Mmm... you smell like tamarind and coconut. Sexy combo."

"Yuck! You’re such a kitchen pervert," she laughed, trying to shake him off.

"I like all your flavors. Even sambhar sweat."

She smirked. "Go take a shower before I throw rasam at you."

He leaned in and whispered, "Just promise me one thing. Don’t let that old man out-stare me."

"Jealous, are we?"

"Damn right. I earned the right to look."

She winked. "Earn it again tonight."

But even as they laughed, her eyes flicked toward the corridor.

The curtain moved.

And the next morning, when she walked to the terrace to shake the dust from her bedsheet, she saw it again. The window. That slight parting.

Ramu.

He didn’t look away.

And Sakshi, heart beating wild, didn’t either.

She folded the bedsheet slower than usual, back arched slightly, her saree inching up as she reached for the rail.

A quiet thrill danced along her skin.

Eyes.

Yes.

She knew they were there now.

And part of her... was starting to enjoy it.

Ramu hadn’t left his room for more than twenty minutes at a time in nearly five years. Not since his wife passed. The small, upper-room apartment had become his whole world. A single bed with faded blue sheets. A wooden table cluttered with pill bottles, a steel tumbler, old magazines. The air was always a little musty, the scent of old sandalwood mingled with camphor and body heat. The window faced the common corridor, and that was enough. It gave him a glimpse of the world without needing to step into it.

He sat most mornings in his easy chair, lungi pulled up to his knees, watching the corridor like a sentry. His hearing had dulled, but his eyes had grown sharper—trained by solitude, focused by years of silence. He'd watch ants crawl across the tiles, birds dance on the railings, spiders building futures in ceiling corners. His muscles ached from lack of use, but his eyes drank in every inch of movement that passed outside his door.

And now, something else had entered his line of sight.

A woman.

Sakshi.

Her presence was a ripple in his stagnant pond.

He had first seen her silhouette through the frosted glass of her kitchen window, moving like steam from boiling rice. She laughed easily. Walked barefoot. Her hips swayed like a lullaby meant to hush the ache in his loins. The first time he truly saw her—standing in her doorway, backlit by morning sun, hair dripping from a recent bath—he thought he was dreaming.

She was not like the others who came and went. She wore cotton sarees that clung in the breeze. Nighties that were cut just an inch too low. And her voice... even when scolding her child, there was honey coating every word.

Ramu had seen beauty before. He had taken a wife, made children, known the sound of moans in dark rooms. He had lived in another time where his body had purpose, where his hands were strong and his nights full. But this was different. This was cruelly alive. Temptation wrapped in mundane domesticity. He didn’t want to fuck her at first—he wanted to understand her. Until understanding became obsession.

And so he watched.

When she stepped onto the terrace with her laundry basket, his curtain swayed. When she bent to pick up her son’s toy, his lungs held air like it was sacred. When she laughed on the phone, he closed his eyes just to picture the curve of her lips. He began to notice the way she tied her saree, the tug at the waist knot, the dip in the blouse neckline, how her back flexed when she stretched while drying clothes.
[Image: 11.png]
He never meant to linger.

But each day, his eyes betrayed him.

He began to memorize her routine like prayer:
8:00 am – she swept the front door with one hand while holding her son in the other.
9:15 – she washed clothes, kneeling near the tap, sleeves wet and clinging.
12:30 – she napped on the floor mat near the window, her saree hiked slightly above the knee.

Ramu sat in the shadows, time flowing around him, untouched.

His son, Selvam, rarely visited the room. Janani sometimes brought food, left without asking questions. Ramu preferred it that way. People had stopped trying to fix him years ago. But this woman... she stirred something that had long calcified.

Desire. Curiosity. Hunger.

And perhaps—madness.

He once stepped close enough to the curtain that her scent caught him—turmeric, coconut oil, a hint of sweat. His cock twitched, thick and slow, as if remembering a life it had nearly forgotten. He felt ashamed. But not enough to stop. He stood behind the curtain, barely breathing, letting her scent flood his sinuses.

He whispered her name the first time alone.

"Sakshi."

It sat on his tongue like a forgotten spice.

What are you doing to me, girl? You're just a tenant. Just another woman passing through. But why do I feel like the walls shake when you walk?

I should look away. I should shut the window, pull the curtain. But then I hear your anklets. I see the wet fabric of your saree hugging you after washing. I see that curve—divine, obscene, so full of life it makes my bones hurt.

I thought I was dead below the waist. Thought I'd buried all that with my Sakshi. But now... now I wake up in the night, aching. Remembering how it felt to press my mouth to soft skin. To feel a woman squirm beneath me. Your name slips into my dreams like a thief.

He began to fantasize. Her in his room. Her sitting on his bed. Her voice calling his name, softer this time. He'd imagine her standing by the window, lifting her arms, baring her underarms to him—smooth and scented. He'd imagine bending and kissing her there, letting her sweat mingle with his breath.

He’d stroke himself slowly some nights, not even needing to touch. Just the memory of her walking past his door, just the scent left lingering in the corridor after she passed, was enough.

She had not looked at him yet. Not directly. But he knew she felt him. Saw her back stiffen, her fingers pause, her saree adjusted with care when she thought no one watched.

You know, don’t you? You're teasing me. You lift your arms slowly when you tie your hair. You stand in that patch of sunlight by the balcony a little too long. You want me to burn.

And I do, Sakshi. I burn. Every day I sit here and rot, but now you've poured kerosene over my ash and struck a match. I hate you for it. I thank you for it.

Ramu’s hands weren’t what they used to be. They trembled when he held a spoon. But his cock still remembered. His breath still shortened at the right images. He thought about inviting her in, leaving the door half-open one day, seeing if curiosity would push her past the threshold.

He never would. Not yet. But he played the scenario in his mind over and over.

And so, Ramu sat.

Watching.

Waiting.

Breathing.

Alive, once more.

It was a Sunday morning, two weeks after the family had moved in. The sun poured like gold through the hallway windows, catching dust motes mid-flight. The smell of dosa batter sizzling on the pan drifted through the air. Birds chattered from the neem tree that leaned into the balcony. ???

Sakshi was at the stove, flipping dosas while Murugan sat on the floor mat in the living room with their son, stacking plastic cups into a tower. ?‍???

There was a knock on the door. ???

Three slow, deliberate raps. ???

"Must be Janani akka," Sakshi said, wiping her hands on her saree. She walked over and opened the door. ?‍♀️??

But it wasn’t Janani. ???

Ramu stood there, in a freshly pressed white shirt and lungi, his hair combed back, cheeks shaved. He held a small steel bowl in both hands, its contents covered with a lid. ???

"Vanakkam," he said in a gravelly voice that still carried strength beneath the years. "Thought I’d bring some pongal. Made extra today." ?️?✨
[Image: 9x.png]

Sakshi blinked, a little surprised. It was the first time she’d seen him this close. Up close, his presence was different—not frail, but weighty. His eyes didn’t dart; they lingered. ?️??

"Ayyo, thank you, uncle! So kind of you. Please, come in," she said, stepping aside. ???

Murugan looked up and rose to his feet quickly. "Oh! Vanakkam, sir. You must be... uncle from next door? Janani madam mentioned you." ?‍♂️???️

"Yes, yes. Ramu," the old man said, handing the bowl to Sakshi. "I stay just there. The room at the end. Been meaning to come say hello, but old bones take time." ?️??

"You came at the perfect time," Sakshi said, smiling. "Breakfast is ready. Won’t you join us?" ??️?

Ramu looked hesitant. "No no, I don’t want to intrude. Just wanted to greet you properly." ?‍♂️??

"Nonsense," Murugan said. "You’re not intruding at all. We’re new here. It’s an honour to meet the man of the house. Please, have a seat." ???‍?‍?

Ramu’s eyes briefly flicked to Sakshi again—her oiled hair tied in a thick braid, her blouse clinging ever so slightly under the ceiling fan’s breeze. ?️??


"Well... maybe just a little while," he said. ⏳??

They all sat cross-legged on the dining table, and Sakshi brought plates over. She served him first. ?️??

[Image: 10.png]

"Sambhar or chutney, uncle?" ❓??

"Both, if you don’t mind," he said, watching her hands closely as she poured. "You’re very graceful in the kitchen. Reminds me of my wife." ??‍??️

Murugan smiled. "She’s the best cook in her whole family. I got lucky." ???

Ramu’s laugh was low. "You surely did." ????

Their son crawled into Sakshi’s lap and stared at the old man with wide eyes. ???

"Who this, Amma?" ??️?

"This is Ramu thatha," she said, brushing his hair back. "He lives just down the hall. Say hi." ???

"Hi, thatha!" ????

Ramu smiled, eyes softening. "Hello, kanna. You’re a strong boy. You eat well, huh?" ??️?

"He eats only if I dance first," Sakshi said with mock exasperation. ???

Everyone laughed. Ramu’s gaze lingered again. The sound of her laugh. The way her nose crinkled. He swallowed a lump in his throat that wasn’t from dosa. ???

After a while, he rose slowly. "I should leave you to your morning. Thank you for the company." ⌛?‍♂️?️

"No uncle, thank you for coming," Murugan said. ???

"Come any time, thatha," Sakshi added. ???

Ramu turned at the door and gave her a look—one that wasn’t inappropriate, but full of a quiet hunger. ???

"I just might," he said. Then walked back into the corridor, steps slow, but heart beating loud. ?‍♂️??️
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Do not mention / post any under age /rape content. If found Please use REPORT button.
#2
Great start. Wish her second child is from Ramu.
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#3
Nice update more
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#4
Nice start
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#5
Lovely beginning
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#6
Very nice starting
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#7
Now this is the story I wanted to read all along, exactly fits my kink ;)

Keep it going author! all the best!
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#8
why author is banned
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#9
Next part comming soon ...
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#10
why I am getting banned ? I cannot post new story, I might create new account , probably post in hindi
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#11
please update
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#12
(11-04-2025, 01:48 PM)yodam69420 Wrote: why I am getting banned ? I cannot post new story, I might create new account , probably post in hindi

not banned anymore, you can post
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#13
It began with the feeling of heat.
Not from the stove. Not from the noon sun baking the floor tiles.
It was the heat of a gaze. Lingering, silent, heavy. ?️?️?
Sakshi felt it the day she wore her lavender nightie—the one that clung too tightly to her thighs when the fan was off. The one Murugan had jokingly called her "danger dress." She had bent down to retrieve her son’s plastic ball from under the cot, her back arched, the hem riding up just enough. As she rose, she felt it.
Like a shadow on her skin. A hush, a hum, like something sacred and forbidden had just passed through her. Her stomach fluttered.
She turned toward the hallway.
Nothing. Just the sway of the curtain near Ramu’s room. ??️?
But something shifted that day. Some layer peeled back. The quiet weight of attention followed her like perfume.
Is this what it feels like to be seen again? To be noticed—not as a mother, not as a wife—but as a woman? As a body?
That night, as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, she murmured aloud to her reflection, "He’s watching me. I can feel it."
Murugan was in the bathroom, singing an off-key tune and splashing water. Their son was asleep, arms and legs sprawled in starfish formation, breathing slow and loud. ???
She bit her lower lip. A memory sparked.
SS... Soothu Sakshi.
It echoed like a chant in her skull. College days. Whispered behind notebooks, scribbled in crude handwriting on library desks and bathroom walls. The name had followed her like a rumor and a blessing—obscene, sticky, impossible to ignore. Boys used to watch her walk to class just to catch the sway of her hips, the bounce of her chest.
The name wasn’t cruel. It was... accurate. ???
She’d hated it at first. Flushed with shame every time it echoed from behind. Then, slowly, she grew into it. Owned it. Wore it like a challenge. Like scent. Like armor.
I used to love that attention. Used to crave the heat of eyes on me. It made me feel alive. Desired. Dangerous.
That girl, the one who’d flash a smile at the boy who stared too long—she was buried deep beneath the layers of wife, mother, cook, cleaner, caregiver.
But Ramu’s gaze... it dug her out.
How long has it been since I felt that spark? That pulse between my thighs, not because of duty or routine, but because I’m wanted? Really wanted.
The next morning, she wore a low-neck cotton blouse, faded peach. Nothing dramatic. But it clung softly around her waist and loosened at the neck just enough to slip and tease when she leaned forward. When she swept the corridor, she slowed down near his door. ???
She didn’t need to look. She felt him. On the other side of the curtain.
[Image: 2.png]
Watching.
Judging.
Worshipping.
And she—she was beginning to offer herself as an altar.
If he’s watching, let him. Let him see what Murugan takes for granted. Let him remember what it feels like to ache for something just out of reach.
That afternoon, when she dried clothes, she hung her petticoat and blouse facing his window. A breeze picked up, fluttering the fabric like a tease. It clung to the wire before lifting gently, exposing lace and curve. ???
Her phone buzzed. A message from her old college group.
Remember Soothu Sakshi? someone had posted, along with a laughing emoji.
She smirked. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
"She’s back," she whispered instead.
The old girl with the wicked grin. The one who liked to be seen. The one who turned the gaze of others into her personal spotlight.
Maybe I needed a reason to wake her up. Maybe Ramu’s stare is just that—a mirror. A mirror that says, yes, you’re still that girl. Still that fire.
That evening, she passed his door again.
This time, she paused.
She adjusted her saree pleats slowly, deliberately. Tugged the fabric over her hip, then tucked it tighter than necessary. The movement was casual—if someone was watching casually.
But to Ramu, it would be a prayer. A permission. An invitation. ???
The curtain twitched. Just slightly. Just enough.
Her heart fluttered. Not with fear. With power.
And her smile—feral, knowing, hungry—returned. It curled at the corners of her mouth like flame.
I could destroy him with a look. I could bring him to his knees. And the best part? He wants it.
She didn’t say a word. But in her head, the name pulsed.
Soothu Sakshi.
She was back. And she had an audience. ????
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#14
Well written friend
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#15
Good one pls continue.....
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#16
Just testing if i am banned again ??
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#17
The rain came without warning.
A loud crack of thunder rolled over the house, followed by a downpour so heavy it seemed the sky had broken. Sakshi jumped from the floor where she was lying, half-dozing with her son. Her skin prickled as the temperature shifted; her body woke up before her mind did. She rushed to the balcony, heart skipping.
"My clothes!" she muttered, yanking the door open. 
The wind slapped her face with cold mist. Her saree clung to her legs as she stepped onto the balcony barefoot, scanning the clothesline. Empty.
All her sarees, blouses, petticoats, bras, and panties—gone.
Her eyes narrowed. She knew that line was full just two hours ago. The clothespins still hung there, swinging like little guilty witnesses.
She stood there for a moment, the cold cutting through her blouse, the silence broken only by the drumming rain. And then the awareness crept in.
They’re not just gone. They’ve been taken.
She turned toward the far end of the corridor.
Ramu’s door was closed.
But something—some wicked intuition, born in the pit of her belly—pulled her feet toward it. 
Her body moved before her mind could protest. The wet concrete chilled her soles as she walked. She knocked. Once. Then twice. No response.
Her fingers lingered on the doorknob. She glanced around. The rain drowned everything else out. Everyone was inside. No one saw her hand curl around the knob and twist.
The door creaked open.
The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a muted TV screen. Ramu lay on his cot, half-covered by his lungi, chest bare, rising and falling in slow, deep rhythm. A light snore escaped his nose. His mouth hung slightly open, lips cracked, breathing heavy and still.
But Sakshi didn’t look at his face.
Her eyes were caught by the fabric on the edge of his bed. Her lavender bra. Her pale green panty. Folded... no, not folded. Crumpled. Used. ???
There was something sacred about the stillness. Something indecent in how reverent it felt.
She stepped closer, her breath shallow. His cock peeked from beneath the lungi, fat and heavy, half-hard in his sleep. A dark, slick smear glistened on the inner thigh of the lungi, and her panties bore a faint damp patch that hadn’t come from the rain.
She didn’t need to touch them to know. She could smell it—raw, masculine, unmistakable. Her scent lingered in them too, twisted with his.
He used them.
A jolt shot through her body.
Her first instinct was to be angry. Outraged. How dare he? How could he?
But her second...
...made her thighs clench.
She stared at the bulge of his cock again. Remembered the thick vein running across it. The way his stomach gently rose and fell. His age melted away in that moment—what she saw was a man. A hungry one.
[Image: 6.png]
He was thinking about me when he did it. Holding my clothes. Breathing me in. Imagining my pussy wrapped around him. I was in his fist. In his mind.
The thought made her dizzy. Her nipples stiffened beneath her soaked blouse. She could feel the wetness spreading between her legs, a slow burn licking its way up.
She reached out, trembling, and snatched the garments back. Silent, delicate. Like stealing something sacred.
She slipped out of the room like a ghost, door closing with the softest click behind her.
Back inside her home, she locked the door and leaned against it, breath coming hard. Her nipples pressed tight against the nightie. She dropped the damp garments on the bed and just stared at them.
A minute passed.
Two.
Her hand reached for the panty first.
Still warm.
Still wet.
She lifted it to her nose.
The scent was musky. Tangled. Male. Her hand slipped between her thighs before she even realized it. Two fingers slid past the fabric. Her body arched. Her breath hitched.
She sat on the bed, legs spread, the panty still pressed to her face, fingers swirling wet and slow between her folds.
[Image: 588751881_7.png]
You filthy old bastard... what have you done to me? 
She lay back, the scent of his cum on her fingers and the taste of her own need thick on her tongue. Her hips moved with their own rhythm now, chasing something filthy and bright.
And outside, the rain poured harder. Thunder cracked. Lightning flashed against the closed curtain.
But inside—Sakshi burned.
And in her mind, all she saw was his cock—throbbing, pulsing, waiting.
He’s tasted me now, she thought. And I’ve tasted him.
There was no going back.
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#18
Good update bro…
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#19
The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle by evening. Sakshi sat cross-legged on the bed, her phone cradled in her palm, thumb hovering over Meena’s contact. The dim orange of the table lamp bathed the room in a soft glow, casting long shadows on the walls. Her son was asleep on the corner mat, drooling onto a teddy bear. The house smelled of wet earth and leftover sambar.
She hesitated.
Then tapped.
The call rang twice before Meena’s voice burst through—bright and familiar, like sunlight on a monsoon morning.
"Sakshiaa! Finally remembered I exist? Thought you ran away with your milkman or something."
Sakshi laughed, leaning back on the pillow.
"Aiyo, Meenu, don’t start. You know how it is here. This baby boy sucks my soul dry. I’m one step away from turning into an ayah."
"And what about that hubby of yours, huh? Still working those long shifts? Or is he home enough to give you some proper night workouts?"
"Stop, dirty girl," Sakshi giggled, lowering her voice and glancing at the door. "He’s fine. Still the same. Still thinks a ten-minute quickie counts as romance. Doesn’t even touch the sides, Meenu."
Meena snorted.
"God. That’s why I keep telling you—get a vibrator. It listens better than men and never finishes early."
"If I even order one, the delivery guy will tell my mother-in-law. These walls have ears."
They both laughed. The sound felt like warm tea.
"Also," Sakshi added, sitting up straighter, "I moved."
"Wait, what? You shifted? Since when?"
"Two days ago. It all happened suddenly. Murugan’s friend knew someone... long story. New place now."
"And you didn’t tell me? I should unfriend you on moral grounds. Where is it?"
"Old colony. Kinda crumbling but charming. Feels like the walls know secrets. The window moans at night and the staircase smells like Vicks."
"Sexy," Meena deadpanned. "So what’s the neighborhood like? Aunties with binoculars or uncles with binoculars?"
Sakshi paused just half a beat.
"Actually… something happened today."
"Oho? What kind of something? That’s your guilty whisper. Spit it."
"Promise you won’t scream."
"I’m already sitting. In my nightie. Legs open like Buddha. I physically cannot scream. Talk."
Sakshi took a breath.
"There’s this man. Old man. He lives in the house. He’s the owner’s father. His name’s Ramu."
"Okay. So like, uncle-type?"
"More like... ancient relic. Sixty-five maybe. Balding, thin hair on the sides, glasses, always in a white banyan. Serious face. He moves like he’s allergic to sudden motion."
"So, human tortoise."
"Yeah. But the way he looks at me, Meenu... Like I’m a mango in May. Fully ripe. From day one. Doesn't even pretend to hide it."
"So your new rent package comes with complimentary perv chacha. Neat."
"Today it rained. I had my clothes drying on the line. I went to get them—and my bra, my silk panties, the good stuff—gone."
"...No."
"I checked everywhere. I don’t even know why, but I looked into his room. The door was a little open. He was asleep. And Meenu... they were there. On the floor. Right next to him."
"You’re kidding."
"Used."
Her voice cracked.
"I could see it. The stains. Smell it. The fabric was damp—but not from rain."
Silence.
"Sakshiiiiii...!!!!" Then Meena let out a slow, stunned whistle. she breathed, voice suddenly low and serious.
"Are you okay? Did you yell? Did you wake him? Did you call Murugan? What now, huh? You gonna avoid him? Tell your husband? Burn your underwear like it’s cursed?"
"No. That’s the part that scares me. I just... stood there. And then I left. I didn’t even take the clothes back."
"...Wait. Are you saying... you liked it?"
Sakshi sank back into her pillow, eyes locked on the ceiling fan.
"It turned me on so bad, Meenu. I can't explain it. The way he handled them... it was like he was holding me. Like I was still in them."
"Jesus. This isn’t some daily soap. This is 3 a.m. secret browser tab content."
"I know. I feel disgusting. And confused. And... wet."
"You’re not disgusting. You’re just awake for the first time in months. He made you feel wanted. Desired. Like you're not invisible in your own goddamn life."
Sakshi didn’t respond. She turned to look at the side table. The panty was still there. Folded.
She hadn't thrown it.
She couldn’t.
"He used my scent, Meenu. He wanted me. Not just any woman. Me."
Meena’s voice lowered.
"And for once, someone didn’t just take you for granted. He wanted you in that desperate, dirty, unapologetic way. That shakes something in us."
"After my son slept, I took the panty. Held it to my face. And touched myself. I came so fast I scared myself."
Another long silence.
"So now what?" Meena asked. "Tell your husband? Or... leave out another bra?"
Sakshi's throat tightened.
"I want to test it. Leave something out. Not by mistake. On purpose. I want to see if he’ll do it again."
Meena let out a dry chuckle.
"And that’s why I love you, you psycho. You’re basically the horny Tamil version of Chandramukhi."
Sakshi smiled.
She felt less alone. Still burning—but now, burning with someone who understood.
And outside, the rain had stopped.
But inside her, the storm had only just begun.
[Image: 8.png]
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#20
Superb update
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