13-06-2025, 09:18 PM
(This post was last modified: 14-06-2025, 09:47 AM by novelistcasanova. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Date: 02 .05. 2025
Title: Lockdown: A Wife’s Sacrifice for Her Husband and Sons
Word Count: 9,698
Author: Novelist Casanova
Chapter 1 – The Beginning of the Bargain
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-ceobc5ceobc5ceob.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/GpdwLxZm/Gemini-Generated-Image-ceobc5ceobc5ceob.png)
It was past 10 PM. The streets of Bangalore were silent under the curfew. Even the dogs had stopped barking, as though the city was holding its breath with me.
I stood outside a modest two-story house, my hands trembling, palms sweaty. My breath fogged the thin silk of my yellow chiffon saree. I hadn’t worn this one in years—it was Arun’s favorite. He always said yellow made me glow. But tonight, I felt anything but glowing.
The yellow blouse clung to my skin, sticky with sweat and nerves. I adjusted the pallu across my chest, making sure it covered as much as it could. As a result of running almost a hundred meters to get into the Auto before the cops could question me or lathicharge me and send home, the the Brown Colour Panties I was wearing underneath my Yellow Saree and Yellow Petticoat, had bunched up and had got caught between my Ass Crack, itching my Asshole. The saree sat low on my waist, as it always did, but tonight it felt more like a noose than fabric.
The iron gate creaked. I turned.
Mahesh stood there.
The ward councillor. The man who'd always undressed me with his eyes during temple festivals. Who lingered too close at the ration shop. Who made my skin crawl even when he smiled.
He was wearing a loose white shirt and lungi, and chewing something—probably betel leaves, as always. His eyes scanned me, slowly, shamelessly, lingering on the blouse, the pallu, my bare midriff.
“You wore yellow,” he said, a half-smile creeping on his face. “Good girl.”
I didn’t respond.
“Come in, Sudha,” he said, pushing the gate open. “No one’s watching. It’s lockdown, remember? The world’s asleep.”
I took a step inside. My slippers echoed on the stone tiles. He led me in through the hall. A dim lamp flickered above.
“You could have come yesterday,” he said casually, walking ahead, “but I knew you’d call back. You need me more than your pride, Sudha.”
I clenched my fists, swallowing the rising bile.
We reached the bedroom. The curtains were drawn. There was a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table.
Mahesh turned toward me, stepping closer.
“Beautiful, as always,” he muttered. “Tell me, Sudha… how does a simple maths teacher afford such a beautiful wife?” He chuckled.
I stood still, not replying.
His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. In fact... you might even enjoy tonight.”
I flinched.
He leaned forward, and before I could step back, he kissed my cheek. Then another—this time, closer to my lips.
I jerked my face away.
“That’s enough,” I said, my voice a whisper. “I didn’t come for this.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t come for pleasure. You came for a hospital bed. I’m just giving you the cost.”
My breath caught.
He reached again. I stepped back.
But when he grabbed my waist and pulled me against him and began kissing my lips nicely.
“No,” I said firmly. “Not tonight.”
I turned, wiping his saliva off my lips and walked toward the door. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it echo in my ears.
“I’ll wait,” he called after me, calmly. “The virus won’t wait, Sudha. But I will. You’ll be back. When you’re ready to do what it takes to keep him breathing.”
I walked out into the cold Bangalore night. The street was empty. The world was still.
But inside me, everything was breaking.
The auto dropped me a street away from our home. I didn’t want the neighbors asking questions, even if it was lockdown and no one dared step outside. I wrapped my yellow chiffon saree tighter around me, trying to hide the shame I carried back from Mahesh’s doorstep.
The street was dimly lit. A dog barked from somewhere far off, and the distant sound of an ambulance siren echoed in the silence—a haunting lullaby we had gotten used to.
I walked slowly, dreading what I might see when I opened the door. My body was numb, but my mind was screaming.
Inside our house, the faint glow from the night lamp in the hall lit the path toward our bedroom. My heart ached as I tiptoed past my sons’ room. Through the half-open door, I saw all three of them huddled together on the floor—Nakul, Arjun, and little Varun. They had fallen asleep on a single mattress laid out in the living room, too scared to sleep alone while Appa was sick.
Their faces were calm. They trusted me. They believed in me.
And I… I had nothing left to give them. Except this fight.
I pushed open the bedroom door gently.
He was coughing. Again.
Arun lay on the bed, his chest heaving like he had just run miles. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The pulse oximeter blinked red—78.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-x13c46x13c46x13c.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/q7jYkVs1/Gemini-Generated-Image-x13c46x13c46x13c.png)
I rushed to his side, sat next to him, and gently lifted his head.
“Arun… can you hear me?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
His eyes fluttered open. He looked at me, dazed.
“Su… Sudha,” he rasped. “You’re back. You said you were going to the pharmacy…”
I nodded, lying. “Yes. I just went to check… for another oxygen canister. They didn’t have one.”
He tried to sit up, but his arms gave way.
“I’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Don’t worry the boys. I’ll fight this.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I forced a smile.
“You’ll be okay,” I said softly, placing a damp cloth on his forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I sat by his side for hours, holding his hand, listening to his strained breathing. Each second felt like a war.
I stared at the wall, thinking of Mahesh’s smirk, his touch, his disgusting confidence that I’d return.
And worst of all—he was right.
I looked at Arun’s pale face.
He had built everything. He taught me how to use an ATM card. He carried our children to college when they were babies. He told bedtime stories every night—even when he was exhausted. He kissed me gently every morning before leaving for college.
He was my husband.
He was a father.
And he was dying.
The hospital had rejected us again this morning. No beds. No oxygen. No hope.
And Mahesh… he held the key.
All he wanted was one night. One woman.
And in exchange… I’d get my whole family back.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer.
The next morning came, but there was no light in my heart.
Arun had barely made it through the night. His coughing had worsened. His body burned with fever. And his oxygen levels had dropped to 74.
I had tried every hospital again—called numbers saved in the corners of old notebooks, messaged distant relatives, even begged a family we knew from our temple WhatsApp group.
Everyone said the same thing.
“We’re sorry, Akka… there’s no bed available. Even my uncle is waiting.”
“I wish I could help, Sudha… but they’re saying only politicians can pull strings now.”
“Try the ward councillor. Maybe he can…”
I sat in the kitchen, hands folded on the table, the yellow saree still clinging to me from last night. I hadn’t changed. I hadn’t bathed. What was the point?
The pressure cooker hissed on the stove. The boys were watching cartoons with the volume low, too scared to ask questions about Appa. Little Varun kept whispering, “When will Appa get up?”
I buried my face in my palms and finally cried.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I broke down—quietly, like a woman who knew she had no right to scream. I let the tears flow, silent and endless. No one heard me in the kitchen.
I looked at the small Ganesh idol near the fridge.
And I whispered, “Please forgive me.”
I wiped my tears, stood up slowly, and walked into the bedroom.
Arun was still breathing—barely.
I bent down, touched his feet gently, and looked at him.
“Just hold on,” I said. “I’ll fix this. I promise.”
Then I stepped out onto the balcony.
My hands shook as I unlocked my phone. My thumb hovered over Mahesh’s number for a long time. I looked up at the grey sky. The city was silent, helpless, defeated.
And I pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then he picked up.
Mahesh (casual, smirking): “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
Me (quietly): “I’m ready. Just arrange the bed. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
There was a pause.
Then I heard him exhale sharply.
Mahesh: “Tonight. 8 PM. Same place.”
He hung up.
I stared at the blank screen, my reflection visible in the dark glass. My face looked unfamiliar—eyes sunken, lips cracked, saree dull. But somewhere beneath it all was a mother. A wife. A woman who had chosen to protect her family… at a cost no one would ever know.
I turned back to the kitchen.
The pressure cooker had stopped hissing. The house was quiet again.
And I had already crossed the point of no return.
Chapter 2 – The Night of Sacrifice
The clock struck 7:15 PM.
After taking my shower and wrapping a white Towel around me, I stood in front of the mirror in our dim bedroom. The light flickered—just like my heart. My hands moved like someone else's as I tied my hair into a loose bun. The jasmine flowers Arun had bought me two days before he fell ill still hung, dried and lifeless, on the nail near the dresser.
I picked up my White Panties and began wearing is over my clean shaved Pussy, and wore my White Bra over my Boobs.
I picked out the yellow chiffon saree again. I didn’t know why.
Maybe because Mahesh had noticed it. Maybe because Arun had loved it. Maybe because… it was the last piece of who I used to be before tonight.
I wrapped it carefully, hands trembling. The saree sat well below my navel, as usual—but tonight, it didn’t feel romantic. It felt exposed. I wore the same yellow blouse. Tight. Modest. Familiar.
I looked at myself for a long time.
A wife. A mother. A woman about to walk into a room she never wanted to be in.
I stepped out quietly. My sons were asleep—exhausted from worry and fear. I bent down and kissed each of their foreheads.
Then I went to Arun.
He was asleep too—breathing heavily, labored and slow. I sat beside him one last time, touched his cheek gently.
“I’ll be back soon,” I whispered. “Stay. Please stay.”
And I left.
The streets were even quieter tonight. Bangalore was under full lockdown. Not a soul in sight. The auto I had arranged through a friend picked me up a street away. The driver didn’t ask questions.
At 7:50 PM, I stood once again in front of Mahesh’s iron gate.
It was open.
I walked in.
Mahesh’s door creaked open. He stood there, smirking faintly, his white Banian and Lungi, as though he’d been expecting this moment for days.
I had worn my yellow saree — the one Arun always said brought out the glow in my skin. I don’t know why I wore it. Maybe it was the last trace of control I had over my dignity.
As I stepped into the room, the weight of what I was about to do sank in like cold metal against my chest. My hands trembled slightly as I clutched the pallu tighter around me.
Mahesh closed the door behind me.
He didn’t speak at first. He walked toward me slowly, like a man confident of the outcome.
“I knew you’d come,” he said softly. “You’re doing the right thing, Sudha. After tonight, your husband will live. Your boys… they’ll grow up with a father.”
His words felt like knives wrapped in honey.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, voice cold. I looked away.
He stepped closer, raising his hand toward my cheek.
And suddenly, I froze.
My mind flooded with images:
Arun coughing in his sleep.
My boys laughing over collegework.
The promise I had made to myself when I was 19 — that I’d never let the world buy pieces of me.
My heart pounded. Something inside me screamed.
“Stop,” I said.
Mahesh paused. Surprised.
“What?”
“I can’t do this.” I stepped back, clutching my saree tightly. “I thought I could. I convinced myself this was strength. That this was sacrifice. But this… this is not who I am.”
His expression darkened. His voice shifted.
“Sudha, don’t act like a saint now. You came here knowing the deal.”
“I came here to save my family. But not like this. I won’t sell my soul for a hospital bed.” My voice was rising now. I didn’t care.
“You think you’ll find another way?” he snapped. **“There are no beds. No one will help you. And your husband—”
“If he dies, I’ll live with that. But I won’t let you touch me and pretend I did something noble.”
There was silence. Thick and electric.
Mahesh backed away, the smugness gone from his face.
“Get out,” he muttered.
“Gladly.”
I turned and walked out, my head held higher than when I’d entered.
Outside, the night air hit me like a second breath.
I had nothing — no money, no hope, and no idea how I’d save Arun.
But I had myself.
And in that moment, that was enough.
As I got into the Auto and went to another hospital.
The hospital turned me away again.
"No beds, Ma'am. Not even in the corridors."
Those words had become a chorus. Repeated at every reception counter. Every phone call. Every desperate knock on every doctor’s door.
That night, I sat on the bench outside St. Mary’s Hospital. It was 3 AM. My phone battery was dead. Arun was home, unconscious, slipping further away. And I had nothing left — not even a plan.
I thought of going back to Mahesh.
Yes, I thought about it.
Not for myself.
For Arun. For my boys. For the life we had built.
But as the thought grew louder, something inside me wanted to go back to Mahesh and surrender to him and save my husband’s life and my family. I had no other choice now.
As I went back to Mahesh house, he was waiting in the same white Banian and Lungi. The same betel-stained smile. But this time, he didn’t speak right away. He just watched me walk in, slowly closing the door behind me.
I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the thin yellow chiffon saree over my shoulder for the third time, not because it was slipping… but because I needed something to do with my hands. The air in the bedroom was thick—not with heat, but with his silence. The ceiling fan whirred above lazily, matching the pace of my breath. Slow. Heavy. Restless. Since I had made up my mind to sleep with Mahesh, I was feeling horny.
Mahesh hadn’t spoken to me since that petty fight we had a couple of hours ago.
I glanced at him through the mirror.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs slightly spread in that careless way, wearing nothing but his white banian and that dark blue checkered lungi, creased and riding high on his thighs.
I turned to him, arms folded across my chest. The saree’s soft fabric clung to my waist, and I was suddenly aware of how the chiffon revealed the outline of my navel, the yellow blouse hugging me tight.
“You’re not going to say anything?” I asked sharply, breaking the silence. My voice came out firmer than I felt.
He didn’t respond. Just kept looking down at his phone, not scrolling, not typing—just staring. As if not talking was going to teach me a lesson.
I stepped closer, he finally looked up, his voice dry. “You made your choice,”
My lips parted, breath quick. “Don’t twist it, Mahesh. I am here for you,” I said.
He stood up slowly.
Suddenly the room felt smaller. My back touched the wall. My chest was heaving, but I couldn’t tell if it was from rage or desire.
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers traced down the curve of my jaw, to the corner of my lips.
“But I loved how you looked when you’re angry in this saree.”
The heat between us shifted. I felt my cheeks flush. “Don’t try to distract me,” I said, though my voice trembled.
His thumb lightly touched my lower lip. “Who’s distracting whom?”
And then—without warning—his lips captured mine.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was hungry. Desperate. Like we were both aching to be understood in a language only our bodies spoke fluently.
My hands found his shoulders. His banian was warm, damp with the day's heat. I could feel the strength of him beneath the fabric. He pushed me gently against the wall, his palm resting on my waist, slowly sliding over the softness of my saree-covered stomach.
I let out a small moan. “Mahesh…”
He pulled away for just a moment, forehead resting against mine. “Say you are my, Whore,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
I smiled faintly, breathless. “Only if you kiss me like that again.”
He grinned.
His hands were no longer hesitant.
They slid down my back, tracing the delicate fabric of my yellow chiffon saree. The same saree I had dbangd to feel strong… was now surrendering, fold by fold, under his touch.
My breath caught as he gently pulled the pallu away from my shoulder, letting it fall to the floor. The air brushed across my skin, and so did his lips. Soft. Searching. The anger, the silence, the pride—they all melted like ghee on a hot pan.
“Mahesh…” I whispered, clutching his banian, my fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping me from falling. But I wasn’t falling—I was floating. Sinking into him.
He kissed my collarbone, then lower. “I’m still angry, you know…” he murmured against my skin.
I giggled, breathless. “Then punish me gently…”
He looked up, eyes dark and playful. “Oh, I will.”
His hands moved to my waist, pulling me close, pressing me against him. I could feel every breath he took, every inch of him, through the thin fabric of my blouse and petticoat. I wasn’t shy—no, not anymore. There was fire beneath the forgiveness. Longing buried in the quarrel.
He untied the knot of my petticoat slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
“You wore this saree to make me weak, didn’t you?”
I smirked. “Maybe…”
His laugh was soft, low, masculine. “Whore.”
“Yours.”
The petticoat loosened, sliding over my hips, falling to the floor with a whisper. I stood in my yellow blouse, white bra, and white panties, flushed, exposed, yet completely unashamed.
He ran his fingers down my spine, one by one, like tracing a secret. “You’re mine,” he said.
“Always,” I whispered, pulling his banian upward. He raised his arms, letting me lift it off. His chest was warm, his skin kissed by the day’s heat. I leaned in, pressing my lips to his shoulder, then down to his chest.
I could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Deep. Alive.
Then, his lungi loosened under my fingers. I hesitated. He kissed my forehead.
“Take it off.”
And I did.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-73p0r273p0r273p0.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/ZRQMd8D3/Gemini-Generated-Image-73p0r273p0r273p0.png)
We moved to the bed—no words now. Just sighs. Just gasps. The sheets tangled around our limbs as we rediscovered the map of each other’s bodies. Every touch was an apology. Every kiss, a confession. He explored me like I was new, even though he knew every curve, every scar, every soft place he’d kissed a hundred times before.
“Say you love me… Say it,” he whispered against my ear, as he hovered above me, his body pressed into mine like the hours of silence before had never existed. My skin responded to his touch as if it had waited all day—waited for him to pull me out of my pride and into his arms.
The soft yellow blouse clung damply to my back. Mahesh’s palm slid beneath it, fingertips grazing the clasp of my white bra. His breath was warm on my neck as he whispered, “Shall I take this off too?”
I tilted my head, exposing my throat to him.
He chuckled—low, intimate—and in a single motion, the clasp opened. I shivered as the bra slipped away and his fingers gently traced the curve of my bare back. “You feel great,” he said, “like fire under silk.”
I touched his face. “I was angry… now I’m only burning.”
My blouse soon joined the pile of clothing on the floor. I lay beneath him now in nothing but my white cotton panties. My hair spread over the pillow like a dark curtain. He looked at me—really looked at me. And not with lust. With something deeper. As if he could see all the parts of me I never showed anyone else.
He trailed kisses down my chest, slow and reverent, taking time to explore me like a familiar song he hadn’t sung in a while.
When his lips closed over my nipple, I gasped—sharp and needy. My hands gripped his hair, urging him closer. He responded with soft groans, circling me with his tongue, one breast, then the other, until I was writhing beneath him.
“You like when I kiss you here?” he murmured, eyes locking with mine.
I nodded, breathless. “Don’t stop…”
He didn’t.
His kisses traveled down my stomach, pausing at the waistband of my panties. He looked up again, waiting. Asking.
I bit my lower lip and whispered, “Take me. I’m yours.”
His fingers slid the last barrier down my thighs, and I felt the cool air kiss every inch of newly exposed skin. My thighs parted instinctively as he lowered himself between them.
He kissed me there.
Softly at first—like worship. Then slowly, deliberately, tasting me like he wanted to remember this moment forever. I moaned—long and low—and arched against him. His tongue worked magic. Gentle licks turned into firm strokes, as he held my hips still, refusing to let me escape the pleasure building inside me.
“Mahesh… oh god… I—”
He didn’t stop until I shattered beneath him. My body trembled. My fingers clenched the bedsheet. I cried out his name like a prayer whispered in the dark.
And when I collapsed, breathless, he came up, smiling—his face soft, eyes warm.
I pulled him to me, kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips. The fire wasn’t out—it was just beginning.
I wrapped my legs around him. “Make love to me,” as I whispered, he slid his erect cock inside my Pussy with ease, with depth, with love. Our rhythm was unhurried, our moans low, our bodies swaying together like the wind and the ocean. I clung to him, kissed his shoulder, whispered how much I needed this… needed him.
Each movement built the pressure between us and the moment he inserted his cock deep inside my Pussy, I could not hold it any more, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” I moaned and the moment he shot is cum deep inside my pussy, I came all over his cock. We cried out, limbs tangled, hearts pounding. His name on my lips. Mine in his breath.
And when it was over, when the silence returned—it was no longer cold.
It was warm. Intimate. Healing.
He held me close, chest against mine, fingers stroking my hair.
“Do we still have to talk about the fight?” I asked drowsily.
He kissed my forehead. “No. You already punished me enough... by wearing that yellow saree.”
I smiled into his chest, drifting off, wrapped in his arms.
As we both fell asleep, when I woke up the ceiling fan hummed lazily above, and our sweat-slicked skin clung to the sheets beneath us. My legs were still tangled around Mahesh’s. His chest rose and fell slowly, his arm dbangd possessively across my waist.
But as my body cooled and the room grew quiet again, I turned my face into his neck and whispered, “Come with me.”
He blinked, half-asleep. “Hmm?”
I kissed his collarbone. “Let’s shower… together.”
That woke him.
He looked down at me with a smile, his fingers already tracing circles on my bare hip. “You sure you’ll behave in there?”
I grinned, sliding my hand down his torso. “I make no promises.”
We rose together, our naked bodies brushing, still warm from lovemaking. The bathroom light flickered to life. Steam began to swirl in the air as I twisted the tap of the overhead shower.
The first drops hit my skin like a soft sigh. Cool at first. Then warm. Comforting.
Mahesh stepped in behind me, his arms immediately wrapping around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.
The water rained over us—washing away the sweat, the salt, the traces of the fight, and the proof of our passion. My wet hair clung to my neck. His lips kissed it away, one drop at a time.
“You smell like sandalwood and sin,” he whispered against my ear.
I laughed softly. “And you smell like soap and trouble.”
His hands roamed lower, slick with water. My body arched into him, my breasts rising, nipples hardening as the spray danced over them. His hands found them, cupping them from behind, fingers teasing, kneading slowly, as if relearning their shape.
I turned to face him, water cascading between us. Droplets trailed down his chest. I bent slightly, pressing my lips to his skin, following the trail down his torso.
He groaned, low and deep. “Sudha…”
I looked up, licking the water from my lips. “You started it.”
Our mouths met again—this time wetter, more primal. Our bodies pressed into each other as the water rushed around us. The slick heat of our skin, the steam fogging the mirrors, the thrill of touching again in this different rhythm—it was intoxicating.
He lifted me, strong arms under my thighs, pressing me against the cold tile. I gasped as he entered me again—slowly, deeply. The contrast of heat and cold sent sparks through my spine.
We moved together under the shower—breathing, panting, whispering each other’s names. The water muffled our moans but couldn’t hide our hunger. My arms around his neck. His lips on my shoulder. The world beyond the bathroom disappeared.
When we finally collapsed into each other’s arms, he set me down gently. I leaned into his chest, both of us soaked, trembling.
He stroked my wet hair. “No more fighting?”
I kissed his heart. “Only if it ends like this every time.”
He laughed. “Dangerous woman.”
I smiled, pressing closer. “Your woman.”
The water slowed to a trickle.
Wrapped in a towel and in his arms, we stepped out—cleaner, calmer, closer. Our fight was long forgotten. All that remained was skin, steam, and love.
The shower had washed away everything—anger, sweat, even the silence that had sat heavy between us all evening. And now, the bathroom was filled with nothing but the quiet drip of water and his breath against my neck.
Wrapped in a soft towel, I stepped out into the bedroom, water still glistening on my skin. Mahesh followed, his towel hanging low on his waist, his eyes on me—not with hunger this time, but with care.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he murmured, rubbing my shoulders with another towel. His fingers were gentle, slow.
I smiled. “Are you dressing me now?”
He smirked. “Maybe I am.”
He picked up my white cotton bra, matching white panties, the soft yellow petticoat, the snug yellow blouse, and finally, the delicate chiffon saree—still smelling faintly of jasmine from the folds.
I sat on the edge of the bed as he knelt before me.
He held the panties out. “Lift one leg.”
I did. Then the other. He slid them up slowly, his fingers grazing my thighs, sending little shivers up my spine. When the fabric settled on my hips, he looked up with a raised brow.
“Perfect fit,” he said, teasing.
Next came the bra. He stood behind me, holding it open. I slipped my arms through the straps. His fingers expertly clipped the back, brushing down my spine afterward.
“Too tight?” he asked, his voice warm against my ear.
I shook my head, leaning into him. “Just right.”
He helped me into the yellow petticoat, tying the string with a playful tug. Then came the yellow blouse, which he fastened slowly, his fingers deliberately brushing the curve of my breasts with every hook.
When I reached for the saree, he stopped me. “Let me.”
I stood still as he took the chiffon fabric in his hands, gathering as if he’d done a dozen times to me—he was slow, focused.
He tucked the pleats into my waist, adjusted the fall over my shoulder, and stepped back to admire me.
“You look…” he paused, smiling faintly, “...like my heart wrapped in sunlight.”
I blushed, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You and your lines.”
“They’re always true.”
Just then, a honk echoed from outside.
“Auto’s here,” he said, peeking through the curtain.
I sighed.
That’s when I realized I was married to Arun, I have three sons, and all the things. That sound of the Auto sort of woke me up completely and brought me back to reality.
To Be Continued....
Title: Lockdown: A Wife’s Sacrifice for Her Husband and Sons
Word Count: 9,698
Author: Novelist Casanova
Lockdown: A Wife’s Sacrifice for Her Husband and Sons
Chapter 1 – The Beginning of the Bargain
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-ceobc5ceobc5ceob.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/GpdwLxZm/Gemini-Generated-Image-ceobc5ceobc5ceob.png)
It was past 10 PM. The streets of Bangalore were silent under the curfew. Even the dogs had stopped barking, as though the city was holding its breath with me.
I stood outside a modest two-story house, my hands trembling, palms sweaty. My breath fogged the thin silk of my yellow chiffon saree. I hadn’t worn this one in years—it was Arun’s favorite. He always said yellow made me glow. But tonight, I felt anything but glowing.
The yellow blouse clung to my skin, sticky with sweat and nerves. I adjusted the pallu across my chest, making sure it covered as much as it could. As a result of running almost a hundred meters to get into the Auto before the cops could question me or lathicharge me and send home, the the Brown Colour Panties I was wearing underneath my Yellow Saree and Yellow Petticoat, had bunched up and had got caught between my Ass Crack, itching my Asshole. The saree sat low on my waist, as it always did, but tonight it felt more like a noose than fabric.
The iron gate creaked. I turned.
Mahesh stood there.
The ward councillor. The man who'd always undressed me with his eyes during temple festivals. Who lingered too close at the ration shop. Who made my skin crawl even when he smiled.
He was wearing a loose white shirt and lungi, and chewing something—probably betel leaves, as always. His eyes scanned me, slowly, shamelessly, lingering on the blouse, the pallu, my bare midriff.
“You wore yellow,” he said, a half-smile creeping on his face. “Good girl.”
I didn’t respond.
“Come in, Sudha,” he said, pushing the gate open. “No one’s watching. It’s lockdown, remember? The world’s asleep.”
I took a step inside. My slippers echoed on the stone tiles. He led me in through the hall. A dim lamp flickered above.
“You could have come yesterday,” he said casually, walking ahead, “but I knew you’d call back. You need me more than your pride, Sudha.”
I clenched my fists, swallowing the rising bile.
We reached the bedroom. The curtains were drawn. There was a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table.
Mahesh turned toward me, stepping closer.
“Beautiful, as always,” he muttered. “Tell me, Sudha… how does a simple maths teacher afford such a beautiful wife?” He chuckled.
I stood still, not replying.
His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. In fact... you might even enjoy tonight.”
I flinched.
He leaned forward, and before I could step back, he kissed my cheek. Then another—this time, closer to my lips.
I jerked my face away.
“That’s enough,” I said, my voice a whisper. “I didn’t come for this.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t come for pleasure. You came for a hospital bed. I’m just giving you the cost.”
My breath caught.
He reached again. I stepped back.
But when he grabbed my waist and pulled me against him and began kissing my lips nicely.
“No,” I said firmly. “Not tonight.”
I turned, wiping his saliva off my lips and walked toward the door. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it echo in my ears.
“I’ll wait,” he called after me, calmly. “The virus won’t wait, Sudha. But I will. You’ll be back. When you’re ready to do what it takes to keep him breathing.”
I walked out into the cold Bangalore night. The street was empty. The world was still.
But inside me, everything was breaking.
The auto dropped me a street away from our home. I didn’t want the neighbors asking questions, even if it was lockdown and no one dared step outside. I wrapped my yellow chiffon saree tighter around me, trying to hide the shame I carried back from Mahesh’s doorstep.
The street was dimly lit. A dog barked from somewhere far off, and the distant sound of an ambulance siren echoed in the silence—a haunting lullaby we had gotten used to.
I walked slowly, dreading what I might see when I opened the door. My body was numb, but my mind was screaming.
Inside our house, the faint glow from the night lamp in the hall lit the path toward our bedroom. My heart ached as I tiptoed past my sons’ room. Through the half-open door, I saw all three of them huddled together on the floor—Nakul, Arjun, and little Varun. They had fallen asleep on a single mattress laid out in the living room, too scared to sleep alone while Appa was sick.
Their faces were calm. They trusted me. They believed in me.
And I… I had nothing left to give them. Except this fight.
I pushed open the bedroom door gently.
He was coughing. Again.
Arun lay on the bed, his chest heaving like he had just run miles. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The pulse oximeter blinked red—78.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-x13c46x13c46x13c.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/q7jYkVs1/Gemini-Generated-Image-x13c46x13c46x13c.png)
I rushed to his side, sat next to him, and gently lifted his head.
“Arun… can you hear me?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
His eyes fluttered open. He looked at me, dazed.
“Su… Sudha,” he rasped. “You’re back. You said you were going to the pharmacy…”
I nodded, lying. “Yes. I just went to check… for another oxygen canister. They didn’t have one.”
He tried to sit up, but his arms gave way.
“I’ll be fine,” he whispered. “Don’t worry the boys. I’ll fight this.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I forced a smile.
“You’ll be okay,” I said softly, placing a damp cloth on his forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I sat by his side for hours, holding his hand, listening to his strained breathing. Each second felt like a war.
I stared at the wall, thinking of Mahesh’s smirk, his touch, his disgusting confidence that I’d return.
And worst of all—he was right.
I looked at Arun’s pale face.
He had built everything. He taught me how to use an ATM card. He carried our children to college when they were babies. He told bedtime stories every night—even when he was exhausted. He kissed me gently every morning before leaving for college.
He was my husband.
He was a father.
And he was dying.
The hospital had rejected us again this morning. No beds. No oxygen. No hope.
And Mahesh… he held the key.
All he wanted was one night. One woman.
And in exchange… I’d get my whole family back.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer.
The next morning came, but there was no light in my heart.
Arun had barely made it through the night. His coughing had worsened. His body burned with fever. And his oxygen levels had dropped to 74.
I had tried every hospital again—called numbers saved in the corners of old notebooks, messaged distant relatives, even begged a family we knew from our temple WhatsApp group.
Everyone said the same thing.
“We’re sorry, Akka… there’s no bed available. Even my uncle is waiting.”
“I wish I could help, Sudha… but they’re saying only politicians can pull strings now.”
“Try the ward councillor. Maybe he can…”
I sat in the kitchen, hands folded on the table, the yellow saree still clinging to me from last night. I hadn’t changed. I hadn’t bathed. What was the point?
The pressure cooker hissed on the stove. The boys were watching cartoons with the volume low, too scared to ask questions about Appa. Little Varun kept whispering, “When will Appa get up?”
I buried my face in my palms and finally cried.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I broke down—quietly, like a woman who knew she had no right to scream. I let the tears flow, silent and endless. No one heard me in the kitchen.
I looked at the small Ganesh idol near the fridge.
And I whispered, “Please forgive me.”
I wiped my tears, stood up slowly, and walked into the bedroom.
Arun was still breathing—barely.
I bent down, touched his feet gently, and looked at him.
“Just hold on,” I said. “I’ll fix this. I promise.”
Then I stepped out onto the balcony.
My hands shook as I unlocked my phone. My thumb hovered over Mahesh’s number for a long time. I looked up at the grey sky. The city was silent, helpless, defeated.
And I pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then he picked up.
Mahesh (casual, smirking): “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
Me (quietly): “I’m ready. Just arrange the bed. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
There was a pause.
Then I heard him exhale sharply.
Mahesh: “Tonight. 8 PM. Same place.”
He hung up.
I stared at the blank screen, my reflection visible in the dark glass. My face looked unfamiliar—eyes sunken, lips cracked, saree dull. But somewhere beneath it all was a mother. A wife. A woman who had chosen to protect her family… at a cost no one would ever know.
I turned back to the kitchen.
The pressure cooker had stopped hissing. The house was quiet again.
And I had already crossed the point of no return.
Chapter 2 – The Night of Sacrifice
The clock struck 7:15 PM.
After taking my shower and wrapping a white Towel around me, I stood in front of the mirror in our dim bedroom. The light flickered—just like my heart. My hands moved like someone else's as I tied my hair into a loose bun. The jasmine flowers Arun had bought me two days before he fell ill still hung, dried and lifeless, on the nail near the dresser.
I picked up my White Panties and began wearing is over my clean shaved Pussy, and wore my White Bra over my Boobs.
I picked out the yellow chiffon saree again. I didn’t know why.
Maybe because Mahesh had noticed it. Maybe because Arun had loved it. Maybe because… it was the last piece of who I used to be before tonight.
I wrapped it carefully, hands trembling. The saree sat well below my navel, as usual—but tonight, it didn’t feel romantic. It felt exposed. I wore the same yellow blouse. Tight. Modest. Familiar.
I looked at myself for a long time.
A wife. A mother. A woman about to walk into a room she never wanted to be in.
I stepped out quietly. My sons were asleep—exhausted from worry and fear. I bent down and kissed each of their foreheads.
Then I went to Arun.
He was asleep too—breathing heavily, labored and slow. I sat beside him one last time, touched his cheek gently.
“I’ll be back soon,” I whispered. “Stay. Please stay.”
And I left.
The streets were even quieter tonight. Bangalore was under full lockdown. Not a soul in sight. The auto I had arranged through a friend picked me up a street away. The driver didn’t ask questions.
At 7:50 PM, I stood once again in front of Mahesh’s iron gate.
It was open.
I walked in.
Mahesh’s door creaked open. He stood there, smirking faintly, his white Banian and Lungi, as though he’d been expecting this moment for days.
I had worn my yellow saree — the one Arun always said brought out the glow in my skin. I don’t know why I wore it. Maybe it was the last trace of control I had over my dignity.
As I stepped into the room, the weight of what I was about to do sank in like cold metal against my chest. My hands trembled slightly as I clutched the pallu tighter around me.
Mahesh closed the door behind me.
He didn’t speak at first. He walked toward me slowly, like a man confident of the outcome.
“I knew you’d come,” he said softly. “You’re doing the right thing, Sudha. After tonight, your husband will live. Your boys… they’ll grow up with a father.”
His words felt like knives wrapped in honey.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, voice cold. I looked away.
He stepped closer, raising his hand toward my cheek.
And suddenly, I froze.
My mind flooded with images:
Arun coughing in his sleep.
My boys laughing over collegework.
The promise I had made to myself when I was 19 — that I’d never let the world buy pieces of me.
My heart pounded. Something inside me screamed.
“Stop,” I said.
Mahesh paused. Surprised.
“What?”
“I can’t do this.” I stepped back, clutching my saree tightly. “I thought I could. I convinced myself this was strength. That this was sacrifice. But this… this is not who I am.”
His expression darkened. His voice shifted.
“Sudha, don’t act like a saint now. You came here knowing the deal.”
“I came here to save my family. But not like this. I won’t sell my soul for a hospital bed.” My voice was rising now. I didn’t care.
“You think you’ll find another way?” he snapped. **“There are no beds. No one will help you. And your husband—”
“If he dies, I’ll live with that. But I won’t let you touch me and pretend I did something noble.”
There was silence. Thick and electric.
Mahesh backed away, the smugness gone from his face.
“Get out,” he muttered.
“Gladly.”
I turned and walked out, my head held higher than when I’d entered.
Outside, the night air hit me like a second breath.
I had nothing — no money, no hope, and no idea how I’d save Arun.
But I had myself.
And in that moment, that was enough.
As I got into the Auto and went to another hospital.
The hospital turned me away again.
"No beds, Ma'am. Not even in the corridors."
Those words had become a chorus. Repeated at every reception counter. Every phone call. Every desperate knock on every doctor’s door.
That night, I sat on the bench outside St. Mary’s Hospital. It was 3 AM. My phone battery was dead. Arun was home, unconscious, slipping further away. And I had nothing left — not even a plan.
I thought of going back to Mahesh.
Yes, I thought about it.
Not for myself.
For Arun. For my boys. For the life we had built.
But as the thought grew louder, something inside me wanted to go back to Mahesh and surrender to him and save my husband’s life and my family. I had no other choice now.
As I went back to Mahesh house, he was waiting in the same white Banian and Lungi. The same betel-stained smile. But this time, he didn’t speak right away. He just watched me walk in, slowly closing the door behind me.
I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the thin yellow chiffon saree over my shoulder for the third time, not because it was slipping… but because I needed something to do with my hands. The air in the bedroom was thick—not with heat, but with his silence. The ceiling fan whirred above lazily, matching the pace of my breath. Slow. Heavy. Restless. Since I had made up my mind to sleep with Mahesh, I was feeling horny.
Mahesh hadn’t spoken to me since that petty fight we had a couple of hours ago.
I glanced at him through the mirror.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs slightly spread in that careless way, wearing nothing but his white banian and that dark blue checkered lungi, creased and riding high on his thighs.
I turned to him, arms folded across my chest. The saree’s soft fabric clung to my waist, and I was suddenly aware of how the chiffon revealed the outline of my navel, the yellow blouse hugging me tight.
“You’re not going to say anything?” I asked sharply, breaking the silence. My voice came out firmer than I felt.
He didn’t respond. Just kept looking down at his phone, not scrolling, not typing—just staring. As if not talking was going to teach me a lesson.
I stepped closer, he finally looked up, his voice dry. “You made your choice,”
My lips parted, breath quick. “Don’t twist it, Mahesh. I am here for you,” I said.
He stood up slowly.
Suddenly the room felt smaller. My back touched the wall. My chest was heaving, but I couldn’t tell if it was from rage or desire.
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers traced down the curve of my jaw, to the corner of my lips.
“But I loved how you looked when you’re angry in this saree.”
The heat between us shifted. I felt my cheeks flush. “Don’t try to distract me,” I said, though my voice trembled.
His thumb lightly touched my lower lip. “Who’s distracting whom?”
And then—without warning—his lips captured mine.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was hungry. Desperate. Like we were both aching to be understood in a language only our bodies spoke fluently.
My hands found his shoulders. His banian was warm, damp with the day's heat. I could feel the strength of him beneath the fabric. He pushed me gently against the wall, his palm resting on my waist, slowly sliding over the softness of my saree-covered stomach.
I let out a small moan. “Mahesh…”
He pulled away for just a moment, forehead resting against mine. “Say you are my, Whore,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
I smiled faintly, breathless. “Only if you kiss me like that again.”
He grinned.
His hands were no longer hesitant.
They slid down my back, tracing the delicate fabric of my yellow chiffon saree. The same saree I had dbangd to feel strong… was now surrendering, fold by fold, under his touch.
My breath caught as he gently pulled the pallu away from my shoulder, letting it fall to the floor. The air brushed across my skin, and so did his lips. Soft. Searching. The anger, the silence, the pride—they all melted like ghee on a hot pan.
“Mahesh…” I whispered, clutching his banian, my fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping me from falling. But I wasn’t falling—I was floating. Sinking into him.
He kissed my collarbone, then lower. “I’m still angry, you know…” he murmured against my skin.
I giggled, breathless. “Then punish me gently…”
He looked up, eyes dark and playful. “Oh, I will.”
His hands moved to my waist, pulling me close, pressing me against him. I could feel every breath he took, every inch of him, through the thin fabric of my blouse and petticoat. I wasn’t shy—no, not anymore. There was fire beneath the forgiveness. Longing buried in the quarrel.
He untied the knot of my petticoat slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
“You wore this saree to make me weak, didn’t you?”
I smirked. “Maybe…”
His laugh was soft, low, masculine. “Whore.”
“Yours.”
The petticoat loosened, sliding over my hips, falling to the floor with a whisper. I stood in my yellow blouse, white bra, and white panties, flushed, exposed, yet completely unashamed.
He ran his fingers down my spine, one by one, like tracing a secret. “You’re mine,” he said.
“Always,” I whispered, pulling his banian upward. He raised his arms, letting me lift it off. His chest was warm, his skin kissed by the day’s heat. I leaned in, pressing my lips to his shoulder, then down to his chest.
I could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Deep. Alive.
Then, his lungi loosened under my fingers. I hesitated. He kissed my forehead.
“Take it off.”
And I did.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-73p0r273p0r273p0.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/ZRQMd8D3/Gemini-Generated-Image-73p0r273p0r273p0.png)
We moved to the bed—no words now. Just sighs. Just gasps. The sheets tangled around our limbs as we rediscovered the map of each other’s bodies. Every touch was an apology. Every kiss, a confession. He explored me like I was new, even though he knew every curve, every scar, every soft place he’d kissed a hundred times before.
“Say you love me… Say it,” he whispered against my ear, as he hovered above me, his body pressed into mine like the hours of silence before had never existed. My skin responded to his touch as if it had waited all day—waited for him to pull me out of my pride and into his arms.
The soft yellow blouse clung damply to my back. Mahesh’s palm slid beneath it, fingertips grazing the clasp of my white bra. His breath was warm on my neck as he whispered, “Shall I take this off too?”
I tilted my head, exposing my throat to him.
He chuckled—low, intimate—and in a single motion, the clasp opened. I shivered as the bra slipped away and his fingers gently traced the curve of my bare back. “You feel great,” he said, “like fire under silk.”
I touched his face. “I was angry… now I’m only burning.”
My blouse soon joined the pile of clothing on the floor. I lay beneath him now in nothing but my white cotton panties. My hair spread over the pillow like a dark curtain. He looked at me—really looked at me. And not with lust. With something deeper. As if he could see all the parts of me I never showed anyone else.
He trailed kisses down my chest, slow and reverent, taking time to explore me like a familiar song he hadn’t sung in a while.
When his lips closed over my nipple, I gasped—sharp and needy. My hands gripped his hair, urging him closer. He responded with soft groans, circling me with his tongue, one breast, then the other, until I was writhing beneath him.
“You like when I kiss you here?” he murmured, eyes locking with mine.
I nodded, breathless. “Don’t stop…”
He didn’t.
His kisses traveled down my stomach, pausing at the waistband of my panties. He looked up again, waiting. Asking.
I bit my lower lip and whispered, “Take me. I’m yours.”
His fingers slid the last barrier down my thighs, and I felt the cool air kiss every inch of newly exposed skin. My thighs parted instinctively as he lowered himself between them.
He kissed me there.
Softly at first—like worship. Then slowly, deliberately, tasting me like he wanted to remember this moment forever. I moaned—long and low—and arched against him. His tongue worked magic. Gentle licks turned into firm strokes, as he held my hips still, refusing to let me escape the pleasure building inside me.
“Mahesh… oh god… I—”
He didn’t stop until I shattered beneath him. My body trembled. My fingers clenched the bedsheet. I cried out his name like a prayer whispered in the dark.
And when I collapsed, breathless, he came up, smiling—his face soft, eyes warm.
I pulled him to me, kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips. The fire wasn’t out—it was just beginning.
I wrapped my legs around him. “Make love to me,” as I whispered, he slid his erect cock inside my Pussy with ease, with depth, with love. Our rhythm was unhurried, our moans low, our bodies swaying together like the wind and the ocean. I clung to him, kissed his shoulder, whispered how much I needed this… needed him.
Each movement built the pressure between us and the moment he inserted his cock deep inside my Pussy, I could not hold it any more, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” I moaned and the moment he shot is cum deep inside my pussy, I came all over his cock. We cried out, limbs tangled, hearts pounding. His name on my lips. Mine in his breath.
And when it was over, when the silence returned—it was no longer cold.
It was warm. Intimate. Healing.
He held me close, chest against mine, fingers stroking my hair.
“Do we still have to talk about the fight?” I asked drowsily.
He kissed my forehead. “No. You already punished me enough... by wearing that yellow saree.”
I smiled into his chest, drifting off, wrapped in his arms.
As we both fell asleep, when I woke up the ceiling fan hummed lazily above, and our sweat-slicked skin clung to the sheets beneath us. My legs were still tangled around Mahesh’s. His chest rose and fell slowly, his arm dbangd possessively across my waist.
But as my body cooled and the room grew quiet again, I turned my face into his neck and whispered, “Come with me.”
He blinked, half-asleep. “Hmm?”
I kissed his collarbone. “Let’s shower… together.”
That woke him.
He looked down at me with a smile, his fingers already tracing circles on my bare hip. “You sure you’ll behave in there?”
I grinned, sliding my hand down his torso. “I make no promises.”
We rose together, our naked bodies brushing, still warm from lovemaking. The bathroom light flickered to life. Steam began to swirl in the air as I twisted the tap of the overhead shower.
The first drops hit my skin like a soft sigh. Cool at first. Then warm. Comforting.
Mahesh stepped in behind me, his arms immediately wrapping around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.
The water rained over us—washing away the sweat, the salt, the traces of the fight, and the proof of our passion. My wet hair clung to my neck. His lips kissed it away, one drop at a time.
“You smell like sandalwood and sin,” he whispered against my ear.
I laughed softly. “And you smell like soap and trouble.”
His hands roamed lower, slick with water. My body arched into him, my breasts rising, nipples hardening as the spray danced over them. His hands found them, cupping them from behind, fingers teasing, kneading slowly, as if relearning their shape.
I turned to face him, water cascading between us. Droplets trailed down his chest. I bent slightly, pressing my lips to his skin, following the trail down his torso.
He groaned, low and deep. “Sudha…”
I looked up, licking the water from my lips. “You started it.”
Our mouths met again—this time wetter, more primal. Our bodies pressed into each other as the water rushed around us. The slick heat of our skin, the steam fogging the mirrors, the thrill of touching again in this different rhythm—it was intoxicating.
He lifted me, strong arms under my thighs, pressing me against the cold tile. I gasped as he entered me again—slowly, deeply. The contrast of heat and cold sent sparks through my spine.
We moved together under the shower—breathing, panting, whispering each other’s names. The water muffled our moans but couldn’t hide our hunger. My arms around his neck. His lips on my shoulder. The world beyond the bathroom disappeared.
When we finally collapsed into each other’s arms, he set me down gently. I leaned into his chest, both of us soaked, trembling.
He stroked my wet hair. “No more fighting?”
I kissed his heart. “Only if it ends like this every time.”
He laughed. “Dangerous woman.”
I smiled, pressing closer. “Your woman.”
The water slowed to a trickle.
Wrapped in a towel and in his arms, we stepped out—cleaner, calmer, closer. Our fight was long forgotten. All that remained was skin, steam, and love.
The shower had washed away everything—anger, sweat, even the silence that had sat heavy between us all evening. And now, the bathroom was filled with nothing but the quiet drip of water and his breath against my neck.
Wrapped in a soft towel, I stepped out into the bedroom, water still glistening on my skin. Mahesh followed, his towel hanging low on his waist, his eyes on me—not with hunger this time, but with care.
“You’ll catch a cold,” he murmured, rubbing my shoulders with another towel. His fingers were gentle, slow.
I smiled. “Are you dressing me now?”
He smirked. “Maybe I am.”
He picked up my white cotton bra, matching white panties, the soft yellow petticoat, the snug yellow blouse, and finally, the delicate chiffon saree—still smelling faintly of jasmine from the folds.
I sat on the edge of the bed as he knelt before me.
He held the panties out. “Lift one leg.”
I did. Then the other. He slid them up slowly, his fingers grazing my thighs, sending little shivers up my spine. When the fabric settled on my hips, he looked up with a raised brow.
“Perfect fit,” he said, teasing.
Next came the bra. He stood behind me, holding it open. I slipped my arms through the straps. His fingers expertly clipped the back, brushing down my spine afterward.
“Too tight?” he asked, his voice warm against my ear.
I shook my head, leaning into him. “Just right.”
He helped me into the yellow petticoat, tying the string with a playful tug. Then came the yellow blouse, which he fastened slowly, his fingers deliberately brushing the curve of my breasts with every hook.
When I reached for the saree, he stopped me. “Let me.”
I stood still as he took the chiffon fabric in his hands, gathering as if he’d done a dozen times to me—he was slow, focused.
He tucked the pleats into my waist, adjusted the fall over my shoulder, and stepped back to admire me.
“You look…” he paused, smiling faintly, “...like my heart wrapped in sunlight.”
I blushed, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You and your lines.”
“They’re always true.”
Just then, a honk echoed from outside.
“Auto’s here,” he said, peeking through the curtain.
I sighed.
That’s when I realized I was married to Arun, I have three sons, and all the things. That sound of the Auto sort of woke me up completely and brought me back to reality.
To Be Continued....