Misc. Erotica YAMUNA RANI

[wepew]

 
Hi friends, it's been a long time since I've visited this site. I'm about to post a story that many of you might not like. The reason is that there are no sex scenes in it. This is an erotic story that I actually wrote during the Covid pandemic. It's a completed story, so I'll be posting the entire thing. Depending on the audience's response here, please only read this story if you're interested in fetish sex; otherwise, you won't like it. This is just a humble attempt.


Before you read this, please note that this is a fictional story set in a fictional village in Kerala's Malappuram district in the late 1980s. This story was not written to hurt anyone. If anyone finds anything in it offensive, my apologies.

[Pvzro]

Yes plz start congratulations for new start

[behka]

waiting

[wepew]

The reason I wrote this story is that I happened to read a fetish story called "Shaily Singh" during Covid. It was a story that I really liked, but it wasn't complete. The writer stopped in the middle, and that story inspired me to write this one.

[wepew]

Chapter 1: The Goddess of Block C

Yamuna stood on the narrow balcony of their two-bedroom flat in Block C, tying her wet hair into a bun. The cotton saree clung to her hips, soaked from her shower. Below, two collegeboys on bicycles pretended to check their tires while their eyes were fixed on the sway of her waist through the grill. Yamuna smiled faintly. She didn’t mind.

Inside, Aneesh was ironing his office shirt, sweat already forming on his back even though it was only 8:30 in the morning. He glanced at her from the living room mirror. The curve of her back under that thin blouse, the way the saree hugged her — he saw her like a goddess sculpted in flesh.

"Tea," she said without looking.

He rushed to make it. She liked it strong, with extra sugar. Yamuna never made her own tea. She didn’t need to. She had trained Aneesh perfectly. He brought it to her with both hands, crouching down slightly so she could take it without turning.

She sipped and sighed. “Not hot enough,” she said.

Aneesh didn’t argue. He just looked at her bare midriff, the little mole near her navel, the slight sweat already forming near her chest. The blouse was sleeveless today — emerald green, low-cut, almost scandalous. But that was normal for her.

She noticed his stare and didn’t stop it. She even adjusted the pallu just enough to make the cleavage line deeper. Aneesh gulped and bent to pick up her slippers.

“Wipe them,” she said, stretching her toes out.

He did, using the end of his own towel. Her feet were small and creamy, and the red nail polish was still fresh. As he cleaned them, the scent of her body floated toward him — talcum, hair oil, and under it all, that musky, natural smell he secretly worshipped.

“Wear that new sari tonight,” he said quietly, still crouching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Who's coming?”

He didn’t answer.

She smirked. “You want them to stare at me again?”

He didn’t speak. He just nodded.

Yamuna laughed — not with joy, but with the knowledge of her own power. That laugh made Aneesh shiver.

The evening came with a thunderstorm. But Yamuna still stepped out for groceries — not because she needed anything, but because she loved to walk during rains. The red sari clung to her in the drizzle. The blouse barely held her in. She didn’t use an umbrella. The streets were quiet, but the few who were out — a young mechanic, the old shopkeeper, the tea stall boy — all stared in silence as she walked by, water dripping down her arms and chest.

She bought only a handful of things. Some milk, some biscuits. She stood too close to the boy at the counter, her chest brushing the ledge as she leaned forward.

On the walk back, two '. aunties passed her. They scowled.

“Shameless,” one of them muttered.

Yamuna smiled inside. She loved that look. Hatred from women meant desire from men.

She got home dripping wet. Aneesh opened the door and froze.

The red saree was practically transparent now. Her blouse stuck to her like a second skin. Her hair was soaked, sticking to her neck and back. The scent of rain, sweat, and her own skin filled the room.

“Dry me,” she said simply, tossing the saree to the floor.

Aneesh followed her into the bedroom without a word.

He knelt beside the bed and began with her feet, patting them with an old cotton towel. She stood still, arms crossed. He moved upward slowly — calves, knees, thighs. The wetness there made his hand tremble, but he dared not touch her without permission.

She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.

"You're smelling me, aren't you?" she said, lips curling.

Aneesh nodded silently.

“You’re not a man,” she whispered.

He looked up.

"You’re a dog. My dog."

She spread her arms slightly, letting him see all of her.

“Now lick the floor where I stood.”

He obeyed. The scent of her wet footprints was more intoxicating than any perfume.

She laughed again — soft, cruel, pleased.

The goddess of Block C was home.

[wepew]

Chapter 2: The Smell of Power

Yamuna didn’t sleep that night. She didn’t need to. Knowing that every man within a hundred-meter radius had dreamt of her that evening — that was enough rest for her pride.

She stood before the mirror at midnight, brushing her thick hair, still damp from the rain. The red blouse had dried on the balcony, hanging beside a row of socks and undergarments. Aneesh had carefully washed it by hand, scrubbing even the inside stains near the armpits. He had smelled it while doing so. She knew that. She always knew.

In the mirror, she admired her skin — so pale and glowing it made her doubt she came from that tea-stall bloodline. Her father was dark and hunched, always smelling of cardamom and sweat. Her mother — that sly, busty woman — had passed down her techniques but not her complexion.

“Maybe I am someone else's daughter,” Yamuna whispered with a grin.

Behind her, Aneesh entered, quietly folding her petticoat. His eyes were low, like always.

"Come here," she said, not turning.

He stepped closer.

"Tell me again what you like about me."

He cleared his throat, his hands shaking slightly. “Your skin. Your...smell. Your breasts. Your sweat. Your—”

She turned then, placing a single finger on his lips. “Not breasts,” she said sharply. “Say it properly.”

He swallowed. “Your...cleavage. That deep, creamy line. It makes me dizzy.”

She smiled.

“Good dog.”

She pulled his face into the space between her breasts, holding him there, suffocating him in her scent. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. His hands stayed behind his back, trembling.

She remembered her mother doing this. Leaning over the tea counter, letting her chest do the talking while the old bank manager dropped a ₹100 note into her blouse. That blouse would reek by evening, but her father never complained. He would wash it gently, even caress it while hanging it to dry.

Yamuna tilted Aneesh's chin up.

"Would you wash my smelly underwear?"

"Yes," he said instantly.

"Even if it stinks of sweat and something more?"

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

She bent closer. “That’s why I chose you. You’re like him. My father. You don't question. You just serve.”

She pushed him gently to his knees.

Next morning, the entire colony buzzed with fresh gossip. That Yamuna had walked in the rain. That her red blouse had almost burst open. That a man on a scooter had crashed into a pole watching her. That one old uncle claimed he got a heart attack seeing her from behind.

Yamuna heard it all as she stepped into the neighborhood temple with flowers in her hair and a blouse so tight the priest looked away mid-prayer.

The '. women near the market turned their backs when they saw her. One of them, in a burqa, muttered something under her breath.

Yamuna smiled sweetly and kept walking, letting her hips swing a little more.

They hate me, she thought. Because their husbands would fall at my feet in one second.

Her thoughts flickered back to college — that day with Fathima. The gang of girls who slapped her, kicked her, tore her pride from her body. The loud fart. The smell. The laughter. She had clung to Fathima’s legs, begged. The humiliation was tattooed in her bones.

But now?

Now she ruled. No one could touch her. Not here. Not anymore.

That evening, she wore a purple chiffon saree with a gold-bordered blouse — sleeveless, of course. Aneesh stayed home, polishing his fake gold wristwatch, planning tomorrow’s bribes. He had a visit from a man begging for a transfer letter.

“Did you bring the envelope?” Aneesh asked, smirking.

“Sir, please, I don’t have much. My wife is sick—”

Aneesh raised a hand. “Then no letter.”

The man handed him ₹2000 reluctantly. Aneesh stuffed it into his drawer.

“Wait outside. I’ll ‘process’ it.”

The man left. Aneesh turned to Yamuna.

“That fellow touched your feet once in a temple,” he said with a laugh.

Yamuna’s lip curled. “They all want to touch me. Some want to lick.”

She walked past him, the scent of jasmine from her hair mixing with the sweat under her arms.

Aneesh whispered, “I want to do both.”

She didn’t stop him that night.

He worshipped her body like a temple. He started with her armpits, burying his face there, inhaling deeply. She watched him with cold eyes, like a queen watching a loyal subject.

“Is this sacred too?” he asked, kissing her feet.

She nodded. “Especially when it smells.”

She let him clean her with his tongue.

The smell of sweat, of cloth worn too long, of female scent unwashed — it made him tremble.

She pressed his face into her waist, guiding him lower. His breath was shallow. His nose rubbed against skin soaked in long hours of walking and sitting and ruling over the colony's fantasy.

And she whispered, “Say you belong to me.”

“I do,” he gasped.

“You serve me, not because I’m your wife. But because I am Yamuna Nair.”

He nodded again and again, lost in her.

She laughed that laugh again. Sharp. Victorious. Cruel.