Me(Sonalika) - How I love my Father in law(3 Videos) - Scene 9 - Gold*

[ashuezy2]

[ashuezy2]

Scene 1

I am Sonalika. A North Indian woman of 25 years old, fair, Voluptuous, 5'6 height, Slim but full.

To the outside world, I look like the lucky wife of Lokesh — the woman he keeps well-presented and away from the world.
To my mother-in-law, Vimla Devi, I’m more of a burden, someone who has to take over the work her weak knees can no longer handle.

But this story isn’t about them.
It’s about the back room.
It’s about Babuji.

He is an old man now, all dry skin and fragile bones. He should be spending his days in prayer, waiting for peace. But instead, something inside him has changed. As his body grows weaker, a different kind of hunger has awakened in him — a craving that follows me everywhere.

The house may stay silent, but his longing does not.
And somehow, I have become the only thing it reaches for.

It was February — that short, beautiful time in Meerut when spring feels soft and gentle, just before summer turns everything scorching. But inside the house, the air felt thick, filled with the smell of old Babuji, dust, and unspoken things.

I stood in the hallway with a silver thali in my hands.
People outside notice my fair skin and full, curvy body. In the market, eyes often follow me.
But inside this house, none of that mattered.
Here, I was just the daughter-in-law.
Or at least, that’s what I believed then.

That day, everything felt different. My mother-in-law, Vimla Devi, was in the living room, holding her swollen knees and groaning softly. She couldn’t walk to the back room anymore. The responsibility had shifted to me.
“Go,” she told me without meeting my eyes. “He needs to eat. Make sure he finishes everything.”
I used my hip to push open the heavy wooden door. 

The room was dim, Babuji lay on the large bed—a thin, tired man of sixty with a frail body.
But his eyes… they didn’t look weak at all.
They were wet, sharp, and fully awake.

He watched me enter. His gaze didn't stay on my face. It travelled down the curve of my neck, over the dbang of my sari, settling on my hips as I walked.

He released a long breath, almost as if relieved.
“I must be very lucky today,” he said. “My daughter-in-law herself has come to feed me.”
I didn’t react. I kept my face steady, calm, unmoving — like stone.
“Vimla Ma-ji is in pain, Babuji,” I said quietly. “So I will take care of you today.”

I set the tray on the bedside table and picked up the spoon. I stood at the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance.
But he immediately lifted his thin hand and patted the mattress right next to his hip.

“Come closer, beti. Look at Babuji properly. How will you feed me from all the way there?”
I paused. What he said made sense — I really couldn’t feed him while standing so far — but something in his tone felt uncomfortable. Still, I sat down.

The mattress sank slightly under my weight, pulling me a little toward him. My knee ended up just a few inches from his leg. I could smell the old scent of his room… and something else, something sudden in the air that made me tense.

===

I reached for the spoon again, but his hand suddenly moved.
It was thin, dry, almost skeletal — yet it closed around my left hand with unexpected strength.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Just hold my hand. It… calms me. The shaking stops when I touch something warm.”
I didn’t pull away. If this was what he needed to eat, I could tolerate it.
I let his bony fingers curl around mine.
He held on tightly, his thumb moving in slow, steady circles against my palm — a small, repeated motion meant to soothe himself.

“Now,” he said with a small, self-satisfied smile, nodding toward the food. “Feed me. Not with the spoon. It feels too cold. Use your hand instead. Food tastes better that way.”

My heartbeat thudded heavily in my chest.
This was a bold request, this was improper, but uncomfortably personal.
I dipped my fingers into the warm dal and rice, shaping a small bite. When I brought it toward him, he leaned forward quickly. His lips closed over the food, brushing against my fingertips as he ate. I felt his tongue, rough and wet all over my soft fingers.

He let out a low sound — not desire, but a kind of greedy satisfaction, like a hungry man finally tasting something he’d missed for too long.

Beti, This dal is tasty, but the taste of your hands is something else entirely.

He didn't let go of my other hand. In fact, he pulled it. He dragged my hand up from my lap and pressed it against his own chest, Then his grip slid to my forearm, pulling me closer until I could feel his breath near my face.
His eyes didn’t hide anything. They wandered lower, stopping on the front of my blouse, where the fabric of my sari was drawn tightly across my chest.

Oh bahu... why does your body feel so hot? I can see everything inside your blouse... look at your big melons, they are inviting me to suck them, come closer!

His words crossed a line direct, inappropriate, stripping away any attempt at respect. He spoke about my body as though it were an object he had a right to comment on.
A hot flush climbed up my neck not out of embarrassment, but from the sheer disbelief at how boldly he spoke.

I didn’t respond.
I simply shaped another bite of rice with my fingers.

He swallowed the second bite, but then his hand moved again.

This time, it slid down to my knee, touching it firmly before resting on my thick thighs over my sari. His thumb pressed into the fabric in slow, deliberate circles. He leaned closer, his voice turning rough and low.

Beti, What does Lokesh do with you all night? Does he press these soft thighs of yours like what I am doing right now?

He kept speaking, watching me carefully, testing how I reacted to every word and every touch.
I tried to remain composed, but my breath still hitched for a moment. He was stepping into a place that belonged only to my husband, crossing boundaries he had no right to cross.
The pressure of his hand on my thigh filled the cool room with an uneasy, confusing warmth.
He noticed I wasn’t pulling away.
My silence seemed to encourage him. His eyes shifted to the pallu resting on my shoulder. His free hand twitched slightly, reaching out as if to brush the edge of the fabric.

“Let me… move this pallu, beti. Let me see you properly,” he murmured, his voice trembling with a strange mix of pleading and insistence. “Just once. Let Babuji… just once.”

The air turned still.
This was the line, the one he should never cross.
He was asking and demanding at the same time, an old man trying to claim a right he did not have.
I looked at him, my hand still inside the rice bowl.
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t argue.

Instead, I lifted the next bite and pressed it firmly into his mouth, cutting his words short with food. His hand remained on my thigh, heavy and uncomfortable, but I didn’t move it. I just kept feeding him, one bite after another, while he watched me with a disturbing, satisfied calm.
When the plate was finally empty, he let go.
He looked strangely energized—more awake than he had seemed in months.

“Come tomorrow too, beti,” he said quietly. “Babuji… needs you now.”

I stood up, my legs slightly unsteady, and walked out.
The spring air outside was fresh and cool, but the memory of his hand still lingered on my skin like a shadow.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 2

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind me, sealing Babuji’s room. I stood in the hallway, leaning my back against the wall.

My chest was rising and falling. I looked down at the empty thali in my hand. It was vibrating slightly—my hands were shaking. Outside, the spring was still pleasant, still innocent. But on my skin, specifically on my right thigh where his hand had rested, I felt a burn. The heat of his palm was still there, imprinted on the silk of my sari, branding me.

I rubbed the spot, trying to wipe the sensation away. It didn't leave.

I thought about telling mother in law. Ma-ji, Babuji touched me. Ma-ji, he asked to see inside my blouse.
But the words died in my throat before they were even born. What would she say? She would look at my tight blouse. She would look at the deep red of my sari. She would say, “Why did you wear that? Why did you provoke him? He is a sick old man, Sonalika. Don't make up stories.”

I thought of Lokesh. My husband. If I told him, the house would explode. He would yell. He might stop talking to his father. Or worse... he might look at me with suspicion. “What did you do to make him think he could touch you?”
I was alone. The realization, this secret was mine to carry.

I walked to the kitchen to wash the plate. I looked at my reflection in the kitchen window. He is 60 years old, I told myself. Look at him. He is a skeleton. He can’t walk to the bathroom without help.

What could he actually do? Nothing. He was harmless. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe the isolation and the sickness had just made him lonely. He was just... having fun. Old men get like that, don't they? They lose their filter.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered to the empty kitchen.
He was just talking. Words are just air. If touching my hand or making a dirty joke made him feel alive for ten minutes, who was I to deny him that? It was harmless flirting from an old man.

I dried the plate and stacked it. The logic settled in my mind, cementing the path forward.
His health was the priority. For weeks, he hadn't eaten properly. Today, because of me—because of my hands, because of my presence—he had finished every grain of rice. That was the victory. That was my job.

If the price of his health was a few heavy glances and a hand on my knee, I would pay it. I was strong enough. I was Sonalika. I could handle an old man’s wandering mind.

I took a deep breath, smoothing the pleats of my sari. I decided then and there. I would go back tomorrow. I would let him talk. I would let him hold my hand. I would get him well, no matter what he asked for.
I didn't know it then, but in that moment of acceptance, I had just unlocked the door for him to walk right in.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 3 - Gold

The next day – lunch time
I had been trembling since morning.
Vimla Devi maa-ji had called me to her room at sunrise, her voice weak from pain:
“Sonalika, from today you will feed Babuji at lunch. I can’t even stand. Don’t let him miss a single bite.”

I had only nodded, my throat dry.
All morning my mind screamed:

What will he say today?
Will he touch me higher than yesterday?
What if he pulls my pallu?
What if he tries to kiss me?
What if I can’t stop him… or don’t want to stop him?

I kept busy in the kitchen so the thoughts wouldn’t swallow me.
Finally I prepared the silver thaali: soft rice, thick dal, two pieces of ghee-soaked roti, a bowl of curd, and a little mango pickle. My hands shook while arranging everything perfectly.

As soon as my payal jingled in the corridor, his voice floated out, low and hungry.

Come, bahu… come. I was waiting only for you. I’m very hungry today… very, very hungry.

I pushed the door open.

Babuji was sitting up properly today, back against the wall, pillows fluffed behind him. He had bathed. His grey hair was neatly combed, beard trimmed short, and he wore a fresh kurta-pajama that made his thin body look almost strong. A faint smile played on his lips, but his eyes—dark, shining, fixed on me—told the truth. That same raw hunger from yesterday, only sharper now.

I walked in slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, closer than yesterday because he patted the mattress right next to his thigh.

Sit close, my jaan. Why so far? Today you have to feed Babuji properly.

I obeyed. My hip touched his leg. The heat from his body seeped through my saree instantly.
He looked at the thaali, then at me, and licked his lower lip slowly.

He placed his hand flat on his chest, then slid it down to his stomach, then lower, letting it rest on his crotch for a second.
(…and lower too.)

My breath caught. I mixed rice and dal quickly and raised the first bite to his mouth.
He opened wide, took it in, but his tongue deliberately curled around my fingers, sucking them clean with a soft wet sound.

Mmm… now I understand… the taste of your fingers is different. Like sucking a rasgulla.
I tried to pull back. He caught my wrist gently but firmly.

Hey… where so fast? Today Babuji wants a reward after every bite.

He guided my hand to his lips again, took the second bite, and this time let his teeth graze my fingertips.
“Reward number one,” he whispered, and leaned in.

His free hand slid under my pallu, cupped my left breast over the blouse, and squeezed once—slow, possessive.
I gasped. My nipple hardened instantly against his palm.

Shhh… quiet. Let me finish food first. Then we’ll see how much milk is in these.

His thumb circled my nipple through the cloth while I kept feeding him, bite after bite. Every time I brought the spoon near, he sucked my fingers longer, louder, eyes locked on mine.

Half the thaali was gone. He shifted, pulled me even closer so my breast pressed fully into his hand.

Blouse is tight today… you can’t breathe properly. Shall I open the hooks?

Before I could answer, his fingers slipped to my back, found the top hook, and flicked it open. Then the second. Then the third.

My blouse parted. Cool air hit my skin. My bra was plain white cotton, but my nipples poked shamelessly through it.
He groaned softly.

Wow… such big rasgullas. Babuji will die today.

I was shaking now, but I didn’t stop feeding. The last bite went in. He chewed slowly, swallowed, then dropped all pretence.
He set the thaali aside, both hands free now.

Food is done. Now the real hunger.

In one smooth move he cupped my face with surprising strength, pulled me forward, and crushed his mouth to mine.
His lips were dry at first, then wet and hungry. His tongue pushed in, tasting of dal and ghee and pure man. He kissed like he was starving—sucking my lower lip, biting gently, licking into my mouth while his hands roamed everywhere: squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples through the bra, sliding down to grip my waist and pull me onto his lap.
I melted. Every wall I had built crumbled in that kiss. I kissed him back, moaning into his mouth, my arms going around his neck on their own.



He broke the kiss only to breathe against my lips.

From today you are mine, Sonalika. You’ll come every day. Feed me every day. Give reward every day. Understood?
I could only nod, breathless, lips swollen, body on fire.

He smiled, wicked and victorious, and kissed me once more—slow, deep, claiming.
Outside, Meerut carried on with its noisy afternoon.

Inside the room, the silver thaali lay forgotten on the floor, and I belonged to Babuji completely.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 4

Night, the same day
The house was dark and under the heavy silence of a Meerut night. 

I stood in the hallway, barefoot. I was wearing my old cotton nightie - thin, transparent in places, clinging to my body. My hair was open, flowing down my back. My heart was beating loud and I was terrified.

The silver thali was washed and put away. Dinner was served. Hitesh, my brother-in-law, was snoring in his corner. Lokesh would reach home tomorrow evening, from the dusty Gurgaon bus, expecting his wife warm and waiting.

I walked five steps one way, five steps back, wringing my hands. I had let Babuji kiss me. No. I had kissed him back. I had opened my mouth, let his tongue inside, moaned into it, pressed my breasts into his hands like I was starving for him. I had let him claim me.

What have I done? The panic clawed at my throat. Tomorrow Lokesh will be here. One look at my face and he’ll know. He will see the guilt stamped on my forehead. If he finds out… he will beat me black and blue. He will throw me out. He will burn this house down.

I am destroying my marriage. I am destroying everything.

I stopped in front of Babuji’s door. A thin line of yellow light glowed underneath. He was awake. I had to stop this. I had to tell him it was a mistake. We had to bury today in the grave of yesterday.
My hand hovered over the latch. I couldn’t knock; Ma-ji’s room was only two doors away. I pushed the door gently. It opened without a sound.

Babuji was sitting on the bed, a small bulb beside him casting long shadows. He was reading an old newspaper. He looked up the moment I slipped inside and pressed the door shut behind me.

His eyes didn't look surprised. They softened first, then turned hot—that same predatory form from the afternoon. He scanned me, his gaze lingering on how the light shone through the thin fabric of my nightie, outlining my legs.

"Arrey… my love, you came. You remembered Babuji even at night?"

He kept his voice low, teasing, dangerous.

I stayed near the door, arms wrapped around myself to hide my body, whispering frantically.
"Babuji… whatever happened today… it was wrong. Very wrong."

I took a shaky breath. "Tomorrow Lokesh will be back. If he finds out… he will kill both of us. He will burn the house down. Please… nothing like this should ever happen again. I will only come to feed you… nothing more."

My voice broke. Tears pricked my eyes. I felt small and terrified.

He put the newspaper away slowly. He didn't look scared. He looked like a man holding a winning hand of cards. He patted the bed right in front of him.

"Come close. Sit. Stop crying." 
I didn't move. He smiled, that soft, sticky smile that had melted my resolve this afternoon.

"Lokesh will come tomorrow, fine. But tonight only we two are here, right? Just sit once… look at Babuji… what will go 
wrong?" 

His voice was warm sliding over my fear. I don’t know how my feet moved, perhaps my body obeyed him before my mind did, but suddenly I was sitting on the edge of the bed, two feet away from him, clutching my nightie at the knees.

He reached out slowly and took my cold hand in his warm, rough hand. He pulled it to his lips, kissing the knuckles.
"Sonalika… listen. Lokesh is my son. I understand him more than you. He is living his life in Gurgaon… busy with work, busy with the world. And you? You are dying alone here."

He squeezed my hand. "What we are doing… it’s not wrong. This is love. A love that has to be hidden. What does the world have to do with it?"

His thumb began to stroke my knuckles in slow, hypnotic circles. "Tomorrow when he comes… you will laugh with him, eat with him, sleep with him. But when he leaves again… you will come to Babuji. Not just to feed… to give everything. Because Babuji is now living only for you."

His words wrapped around my heart. The fear was still there, but it was smaller now, pushed aside by the gravity of his need. He tugged my hand gently. I slid closer without thinking. The mattress dipped, bringing our bodies within inches.

He cupped my cheek, his rough palm scratching pleasantly against my skin. He wiped a stray tear with his thumb and leaned in until his lips brushed my ear.

"Now stop crying, my queen. Give one small kiss… just a goodnight kiss. Then go sleep. Come feed me in the morning." 

I turned my face. It wasn't a choice anymore. Our lips met—soft, slow, lingering. He tasted of sweet paan, sleep, and safety. I didn't pull away. I let the kiss happen. I even kissed back a little, my lips parting slightly to let him taste me.

When we broke apart, he smiled, his eyes twinkling with a naughty satisfaction. "You are very cute. Good night, my love."

I stood up and walked to the door and slipped out without a sound. Back in the dark hallway, the silence felt different. It wasn't heavy anymore; it was conspiratorial.

I pressed my fingers to my lips. Tomorrow Lokesh would be home. Tomorrow night I would lie beside my husband, play the role of the dutiful wife. But the morning after… I already knew whose room I would walk into with the silver thali. And I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that I wouldn't be wearing a bra under my blouse for him.

[Deepika2021]

Great erotic narration

[PELURI]

too good ....best erotica...simple yet maximum effect....don't stop but continue plz...hadn't read such intense erotica in recent times...great ?

[Jeshwanth]

Totally Agree with PELURI, your stories very intense, total wow, best writing with same high in erotica.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 5

Morning came, but the sun didn't bring clarity. It brought a dirty, feverish need.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and realized with a jolt: I didn't want Lokesh to come home. Lokesh. My husband. The planner. The Microsoft Excel guy. The man who lived his life in rows and columns, where every kiss was scheduled and every rupee accounted for. He was safe. And he was boring.

I wanted Babuji. God help me, I wanted the old man. I wanted to be back in that suffocating room. I wanted to crawl under his heavy, musk-smelling blanket. I wanted to strip off my  saree and press my skin against his dry, feverish body. I wanted to go down on him, take his cock—old and dormant or not—into my mouth and suck the life back into it. I wanted to be the reason he breathed. I wanted a manly man, someone who took what he wanted without sending a invite first. Babuji was chaos; Lokesh was just a spreadsheet.

6:00 AM. The sound of a taxi engine cut through the quiet morning. Tires crunched on the gravel outside. I got up, splashing water on my face to hide the flush of my night thoughts. I wrapped my pallu tight—the armor of the dutiful wife—and walked to the main door.
I expected Lokesh standing there with his laptop bag and his dusty face, ready to ask about the electricity bill. I opened the door. Lokesh was there. But he wasn't alone.

A woman stepped out of the taxi behind him. She wasn't from Meerut. She wasn't from my world. She was tall, wearing a pencil skirt that stopped above her knees—something I wouldn't dare wear even in the bedroom. Her hair was cut short, streaked with bold brown highlights, bouncing as she moved. Her lips were painted a sharp, glossy crimson.
Lokesh was smiling. Not his polite, "I am home" smile. But a real smile. A smile I hadn't seen in three years.

"Sonalika," he said, too cheerful, too loud. "Meet Riya. She's my colleague from the Gurgaon office. She’s never seen the real UP, so she decided to tag along for the weekend. She’ll be staying with us."

I stood frozen in the doorway, clutching the doorframe. "Hi, Sonalika!" Riya waved. Her voice was confident, breezy. She touched Lokesh’s arm lightly as she laughed at something the driver said. Touch. It was casual. It was practiced.

I saw it instantly. The chemistry. The invisible wire connecting them. The way he leaned toward her when he picked up her bag. The inside jokes in their eyes. He was enjoying his weekdays with her in the shiny glass offices of Gurgaon, and he was dumping his weekends on me in this dusty house. I wasn't his wife; I was his weekend caretaker.
She was the "Weekday Wife." I was the servant.

Jealousy is a cold poison, but today, it turned hot. I looked at her modern clothes, her confident posture. Then I looked down at my simple saree, my bare feet. I felt small. But then, a darker thought rose up like bile: You have her? Fine. I have something you will never suspect.

I didn't notice Babuji come up behind me. He must have walked quietly, or maybe the noise of my own heart drowned him out. He stood in the shadows of the hallway, leaning on his stick, watching the scene outside through the open door.

He looked at Lokesh laughing with the skirt-wearing woman. He looked at Riya’s legs. Then he looked at me. He saw the hurt on my face. And he smiled. A wicked, knowing smile. He knew. He realized instantly that Lokesh had just handed him the key to the lock.
He took a step closer to me, standing right behind my back, so close his breath hit the nape of my neck. Lokesh was too busy paying the driver to notice.

"Doosri biwi..." (Second wife...) Babuji whispered, his voice low and rasping, just for me. "Looks like my son is busy playing games in Gurgaon. He brought his mistress home to show you."

He chuckled, a dry, dusty sound. "Let him have his fun, Sonalika." He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against my back, hidden from the view of the street by the doorframe. His hand grazed my hip—a fleeting, daring touch.
"You have me now. I will keep you warm and wet."

I didn't pull away. I didn't scold him. I looked at Riya laughing. I looked at my husband ignoring me. And then I leaned back, just a fraction of an inch, into Babuji’s touch.
"Yes," I thought, the anger turning into a dark, twisted arousal. "You bring your mistress, Lokesh. Sleep with her in the guest room for all I care. Because while you are busy with her..."
I glanced back at Babuji over my shoulder. His eyes were burning holes into my blouse. I gave him a tiny, almost invisible nod.

I will have my revenge, I promised myself. And I will have it on your father's bed, screaming his name while you sit in the next room.

"Welcome home, Lokesh," I called out, my voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Come inside."

[ashuezy2]

Scene 6

 I stood at the door, my arms slightly open, ready to receive the warmth of my husband after five days. I waited for his eyes to soften, for him to drop the bags and pull me into a hug, to smell my hair, to whisper that he missed me.

Instead, Lokesh walked right past me like I was a piece of furniture. His eyes were glued to Riya. He was carrying her trolley bag, guiding her over the threshold like she was a delicate flower and the floor of our house was too rough for her heels.

"Sonalika," he barked over his shoulder, not even looking at me. "Prepare the guest room. Riya needs to freshen up. Put fresh sheets. Fast."

The command hit me like a slap. I wasn't the wife; I was the housekeeping staff. I watched him guide her to the living room, offering her water, while I stood there with my empty arms.

I went to the guest room. My hands shook as I spread the white sheets. A minute later, Lokesh brought her luggage in and left us alone. "Make yourself comfortable, Riya," he said, his voice dripping with sugar. Then he left to talk to his parents.

It was just me and her. The silence was loud. She sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly to test the mattress, looking around with a critical eye, like a tourist checking into a budget hotel.

I had to know. "Where are you from, Riya?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She looked at me, kicking off her heels. "Army family. Dad was a Colonel. I’m the only child."
My stomach tightened. "And your parents? Where do they live?"

She shrugged, a casual movement of her shoulder. "They passed away a few years back. Accident."

The timeline clicked into place like a lock snapping shut. A few years back. exactly when Lokesh had suddenly decided to move to Gurgaon permanently. He hadn't moved for a job; he had moved to become her family. He had filled the void left by her parents. I wasn't just careless; I was blind. I had let my husband walk out of this house and straight into another woman’s grief... and her bed.

She stood up and walked to the attached bathroom, peeking inside. She frowned. "There is no bathtub?"
I blinked. "Bathtub? No... we don't have a bathtub. We just got the shower installed a few years ago."

She sighed, a small sound of disappointment. "Oh well. I guess I'll manage." She turned back to me. "I need to change. This skirt is killing me. I hope you don't mind?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't ask me to leave. She just started unbuttoning her shirt.

I stood there, paralyzed. My jaw dropped slightly. She peeled off the shirt. Beneath it, she was wearing a set of deep purple, lacy lingerie. It looked expensive—silk and satin that shimmered in the tubelight. It held her breasts perfectly, pushing them up.

Then she unzipped her skirt and let it drop. The matching purple panties were tiny, barely covering anything. Her body was different from mine. I was soft, curved, voluptuous—a "village beauty" as Babuji called me. She was toned, gym-sculpted, long-legged. She looked like the women in the magazines Lokesh used to hide in his bag.

I felt a sudden, burning need to defend myself. To prove I wasn't just a village girl. "I... I also have lingerie like this," I mumbled, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. My underwear was simple cotton, bought from the local market.

Riya paused. She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my sari, my simple blouse, my bare waist. A small, pitying smile played on her lips. "I hope you do," she said softly.
It wasn't a compliment. It was a mockery. She had exposed my insecurity without even trying. She knew I was the plain rice to her spicy biryani.

She opened her suitcase and pulled out a towel. Then, she reached behind her back and unhooked the purple bra. It fell away.

I couldn't look away. Her breasts were heavy, round, and pale. Her nipples were dark and hardened from the air conditioning, standing erect. She didn't cover them immediately. she walked to the mirror, checking her reflection, adjusting her hair, letting her breasts bounce slightly with her steps.

She grabbed a loose t-shirt and pulled it over her head, covering her chest, but she didn't remove the panties. She just pulled a pair of silk pajama pants over her smooth, waxed legs. She looked comfortable. She looked like she owned the room. She looked like a woman who had nothing to hide because she had already been seen by the only man who mattered here—my husband.

I closed the main door of the guest room to give her privacy, though she clearly didn't need it. I lingered inside, feeling like I should ask if she needed water, or maybe I just wanted to suffer more.

"Let me know if you want anything," I whispered. "I will be in my room."
She looked at me, her face suddenly softening into something that looked like guilt. "You know," she said, her voice dropping. "I know you are Lokesh's wife. And I know you have been taking care of his parents here. Lokesh is very lucky to have you. He talks about you a lot..."

She stopped abruptly, biting her lip. He talks about you. Not "He misses you." Not "He loves you." He talks about me like a project. Like the caretaker of his parents.
I nodded slowly, backing away. "I see."

I walked out. The truth was screaming in my head. Yes. She is fucking him. She wasn't just a colleague. The way she moved, the way she undressed, the way she spoke—it was intimate. She had been in his bed. She had moaned his name. She had probably worn that purple lingerie for him last night in Gurgaon while I was sleeping alone in this cold house.

I walked back to our bedroom—the master bedroom. Lokesh was lying on the bed, shoes off, scrolling on his phone. He didn't look up when I entered.

"Lokesh," I said, my voice weak.
"Sonalika," he cut me off, still looking at the screen. "Make breakfast. Poha and tea. And listen—there is an office guest in our home. Make sure we welcome her properly. Don't embarrass me with your village ways. Make it nice."

He didn't ask how I was. He didn't notice the tears swimming in my eyes. He just gave an order. To serve his mistress.
I turned around and walked out. Rage mixed with the grief in my chest. I wasn't his wife anymore. I was his servant. But I wasn't just a servant.

I looked down the hallway towards the back room. Babuji's room. I wanted to run to him. Lokesh had replaced me with Riya. Fine. But I knew someone who hadn't replaced me. Someone who looked at me like I was a important, not a maid. I was the bahu. I was the prize of this house. And if my husband didn't want to claim me, his father was waiting with open arms... and a hungry mouth.

I wiped my tears. The kitchen could wait. Babuji needed his medicine.

[Deepika2021]

Superb, her way cleared to revenge on her husband.
Father in law is a lucky......
Keep rocking & update

[ashuezy2]

Scene 7

My blood was boiling. Seeing Lokesh with Riya, seeing her fancy clothes and his eager face... it hurt. But then the hurt turned into something else. 

I went to the kitchen. I didn't make breakfast for them. I made tea, only one cup. Just for Babuji. While the water boiled, I looked down at my blouse. I felt wild. My hands moved to the hooks of the blouse. Click. Click. Click. I opened them, leaving just the last one at the bottom holding the fabric together. My cleavage was deep, open, waiting. I adjusted my sari pallu so it barely covered anything. I picked up the cup. I walked towards the back room.

I pushed the door open with my hip. Babuji was lying on the bed, newspaper in hand, waiting. He looked up. His eyes didn't go to the tea. They went straight to the gap in my blouse.

He dropped the newspaper. His eyes got big, hungry, and happy.
"Oh God... what have you brought, bahu?" he whispered, his voice thick. "Did you bring tea... or your soft breasts to feed me? Look... only one button left. Are you saying, 'Babuji, suck it now.'"

I smiled. I put the tea on the small bedside table. I stepped closer, swaying my hips just a little, letting him see the heavy swing of my chest inside the open cloth.

"Tea first, Babuji," I teased. "Medicine later. And... this? This is just for you. My dear babuji."

He laughed, a deep, low sound that vibrated in the room. He patted the empty space on the mattress near his hip. "Come close, babu. Feed me the tea... and open this button too. Or Babuji's heart will beat too fast looking at it. See, down there it is standing up already... because of you." I glanced at his lap. The sheet was tented up. He was hard. For me. I laughed too, soft and fun. I climbed onto the bed, crawling on my knees. I didn't sit beside him; I straddled his legs, sitting lightly on his thighs, hovering over him.

I held the tea cup to his mouth. "Drink," I whispered. He drank slowly, his eyes never leaving my chest. His hand came up. It touched the side of my open blouse, pushing the fabric back. His rough thumb rubbed the top of my creamy breast. It felt warm. My body got hot between my legs instantly.

He finished the tea. A drop stayed on his lip. "Mmm... hot and sweet, just like you," he licked his lip. "Now tell... what happened this morning? That girl outside... Lokesh's new love?"

I put the empty cup down. My hands went to his shoulders, gripping his kurta. I leaned down so the soft flesh of my breasts brushed against his chest. The last button pulled tight, straining.

"Yes, Babuji," I said, my voice shaking with the thrill of it. "She... she got naked in front of me in the guest room. Her breasts... perfect, tight, like movie stars. And me? I am just this village girl to them. But what do you think? Aren't your bahu's big, big boobs... worth sucking?"

His face got serious. The playfulness turned into pure hunger. "You fool..." he growled. "She is plastic. She is nothing. You... you are home milk. Look... so juicy, so full. Let Babuji suck one... just one, promise."

He didn't wait. His hand snapped the last button open. My blouse fell open completely. My bra was already loose. He shoved his hand under the cup and lifted my bare breast out. He squeezed it hard, his thumb flicking my hard nipple.

I moaned. "Babuji..." He pulled my blouse down off my arms. He buried his face in my chest. He inhaled deep, smelling me like a starving animal. "Your smell... intoxicating," he mumbled against my skin. "Now this nipple... already hard from waiting."

His mouth clamped onto my nipple. He sucked hard. Wet, loud, desperate noises filled the room. His tongue swirled around the sensitive skin, teasing, biting gently. I threw my head back, my hands grabbing his grey hair. "Yes... yes..."

I ground my hips down into his lap. I could feel his thick, hard cock pushing against my wet panties through his pajamas. "Babuji... yes... suck harder. Your cock... I can feel it. Can I... take it in my hand?"



He groaned into my breast, the vibration sending shivers down my spine. He moved to the other nipple, attacking it with the same hunger. His free hand went down. He lifted my petticoat. His fingers found the wet patch on my panties. He slipped inside, finding my wetness. "Take it, bahu..." he gasped between sucks. "Hold it and squeeze. Babuji's cock stands only for you... put it inside too, if you want."

My hand went to his pajama string. I pulled it open. His cock sprang out—thick, dark, and fully hard. I grabbed it. It was hot and throbbing in my hand. I pumped it slow, feeling the veins, rubbing the tip with my thumb.

We played like this for what felt like hours—his mouth feasting on my breasts, sucking the milk of my revenge, while my hand pleasured him, owning him. The house made small sounds outside. I heard Riya’s laugh from the living room. Let them laugh. Lokesh and Riya could have their fake fun. I had this. I had the raw, dirty heat of Babuji's mouth and his strong hands. He didn't want plastic; he wanted me.

When we were done, flushed and panting, I kissed his forehead. I hooked my blouse back up, hiding the red marks he left on my skin. I climbed off the bed. My hair was messy, my lips swollen, my sari crushed. I walked back to the kitchen. I was smiling. I felt light. Babuji was mine now, and that was the sweetest secret of all.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 8

I left Babuji's room, but the heat didn't leave me. My body felt charged, buzzing from what we just did. My cheeks were red. I looked down—my blouse was still loose, hooked wrong, so the top of my white bra and the swell of my breasts were peeking out.

I didn't fix it. I liked it. I felt sexy. I felt bad in the best way possible. I felt free. For the first time, I owned my wants.

I walked down the hallway, my thighs slippery with my own wetness rubbing together with every step. It made me shiver with need, a sweet ache between my legs. I didn't want to clean up. I wanted to stay messy. I wanted them to smell the sex on me, see me undone and alive.

I stopped by the table. A plan formed in my hot head. I took my old Nokia phone and called my new touch phone. I accepted the call on the touch phone. I left the touch phone there on the table downstairs, the call running, recording everything. I took the small, active Nokia with me. It was my microphone now.

I heard laughs drifting down from the terrace—Lokesh's deep, relaxed chuckle and Riya's easy, tinkling giggle. I climbed a few stairs and peeked up.

They were standing close by the boundary wall. The morning sun hit Riya’s short hair, making it look like shiny gold. She was wearing that loose t-shirt again, and I knew instantly she had no bra on underneath. Her nipples were hard dots poking right through the fabric, like they were begging for lips. Lokesh's hand was low on her back.

They were drinking chai, talking boring office stuff—deadlines, Gurgaon parties. Riya threw her head back laughing, and her tits bounced freely under the shirt. It stung my gut for a second, that old jealousy. But it wasn't sad anymore. It was hot. It felt like fuel.

I didn't fear her body or his eyes anymore. Fuck their secret game. I was going to play mine, right out loud. I started climbing slowly, making sure my silver anklets jingled loudly—chhan-chhan—like a sexy alarm bell.
I stepped onto the bright terrace with my head held high. I let my pallu slip a little more, showing off the deep curve of my ample cleavage pushed up by the tight bra.
Lokesh looked over, shocked. His hand jumped off Riya’s back like a guilty collegeboy. "Sonalika?" he stammered. "Is... is breakfast ready?"

I skipped his boring question. I locked eyes with him—dark, caught, and guilty. I smiled slow and naughty. I walked right up to him, my hips swaying extra hard. My pussy pulsed with the thrill of it. Riya watched me, her smile dropping, her eyes getting sharp.

"Oh, breakfast can wait, my husband," I said, my voice soft and husky, dropping an octave.
I didn't care she was standing right there. I wanted her to hear. It felt incredibly hot, like freeing my dirty side right out in the sunlight. My pussy got wetter just thinking about the words coming out of my mouth.

I stopped inches from him. I could smell his shaving cream mixed with her flowery perfume. I raised my hand and ran one finger slowly down his chest, right over his shirt buttons.
"I've been thinking about you all morning, Lokesh," I purred. "Thinking about last weekend... remember? When you had me bent over the kitchen table? You were fucking me so hard from behind, slamming into me while babuji and maa-ji were sleeping."

His eyes went wide. His whole face turned bright red, matching mine. Riya froze, her cup halfway to her lips.

I didn't stop. I kept going, my hand sliding low, right down to his belt buckle. "Remember what you said? You grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and called me your 'dirty little wife'... you said my tight pussy gripped your cock so hard, like it never wanted to let go."
I leaned in closer, whispering loudly. "God, I came so hard that night, screaming your name into the table. Want to do that again? Right now? Here on the terrace? I can feel how wet I am just saying it to you."

Lokesh stuttered, looking at Riya like a scared animal trapped in headlights. "S-Sonalika, what the—? Stop it. Not now, with... guests here."

I laughed, light and teasing. I leaned in and bit his earlobe quickly, letting my hot breath hit his neck. "Guests? Oh, Riya doesn't mind, do you, sweetie? She's seen you like this before in Gurgaon, hasn't she? All stiff and ready to go."

I turned to face Riya. I felt bold and mean-fun. My body was buzzing with adrenaline. "Tell him, Riya. Tell my husband how you like it when he talks dirty too. Or wait... should I show him how much I missed him?"

I dropped my voice to a filthy whisper, looking straight at Lokesh's crotch. "Should I drop to my knees right here, Lokesh? Unzip your pants, take your big cock out, and suck it like the good wife I am? I could swallow every single drop right here while she watches. Would you like that?"

Riya's mouth opened, then closed. Her red lips looked shocked, but her eyes flickered dark with something else. A blush climbed her neck. Lokesh pulled away from my hand, mumbling angrily. "Stop it! Sonalika, you're acting crazy!"

But I wasn't crazy. I was burning—hot, wild, the terrace air thick with the smell of sex and their weird, guilty heat. "Crazy? No, my love. Just horny for my man."
I winked at Riya—playful, bad, and knowing. Then I stepped back, fixing my pallu casually like nothing happened. "Fine. Breakfast it is. But don't keep me waiting too long downstairs... or I'll start touching myself without you."

I turned around to leave. As I did, I bent over slowly, deliberately sticking my ass out in their direction. While they stared at my hips, I quickly tucked the active Nokia phone behind the water pipes just inches away from them.

I walked down the stairs, my heart beating fast, feeling my pussy dripping juice onto my inner thigh. I could feel their stares burning my back—Lokesh's mixed horny and lost look, Riya's envy and maybe want. It was hot as hell, spilling our dirty secrets like wet fun right under the morning sun. And now, my little phone was listening to everything they said next.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 9

 I walked down the stairs, my legs shaking, my pussy still throbbing from the show I just put on. I reached the small table in the hallway. There it was—my shiny touch phone. The screen was dark, but the call timer was running.

03:42... 03:43...

It was live. My old Nokia was up there behind the pipes, listening. I picked up the phone and pressed it hard against my ear. I hid in the shadows of the corridor, holding my breath. The sound came through clear, just a little tinny. The wind on the terrace, the rustle of clothes, and then... their voices.

Lokesh spoke first. His voice sounded rough, angry, but thick with lust. "Fuck, Riya... what the hell was that? My wife's gone crazy. Talking about sucking my cock right in front of you? Bending over the table? She's never like that—usually just lays there like a dead fish. Boring missionary, lights off."

Riya laughed. It was a breathy, teasing sound that made my blood boil. "Oh, come on, Lokesh. Admit it—you got hard. I saw the tent in your pants. I felt you twitch when she bit your ear. Your little village wife putting on a show? Kinda hot, in a desperate, sad way. Bet her pussy's dripping right now, thinking about you fucking her while I watch."

Lokesh groaned low, a guttural sound. I heard the fabric rustle—he was touching himself through his pants. "Shit, yeah... okay, maybe. But she's bluffing. Sonalika? Dirty talk? Last time we fucked, she wouldn't even say 'cock'—called it 'thing' like some prude. You, though... fuck, Riya. Last night in that Gurgaon hotel? You on your knees, choking on my dick, begging for more? That's what I need. Not her boring village shit."

My heart stopped. Gurgaon hotel. Last night. He wasn't just working late. He was balls-deep in her throat while I was waiting for his call.

Riya's voice dropped, getting naughty and fun. "Mmm, remember? You grabbed my hair, fucked my throat till I gagged, tears running down my face. Called me your dirty slut. God, I came without even touching my clit."

She paused, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "But hey... if Sonalika wants to play, maybe we give her a show. Tonight, after dinner—me riding you in the guest room, door open. Let her hear me scream your name. Let her hear how you stretch my tight pussy. Let that shy little thing finally see how a real woman fucks."

Lokesh laughed, deep and mean. Then came the sound that broke me. ZZZZZZIP. The sound of a zipper going down. I knew that sound. I hated it, but right now, it burned in my gut.
"You're evil, baby," Lokesh growled. "Fuck yes, your pussy's like velvet, gripping me so tight every time. But yeah... let her hear. Make her jealous. Then tomorrow, when I'm balls-deep in you again, she'll know she's second best."

He gasped. "Shit, I'm throbbing. Suck it quick, Riya. Get me off before your 'she' comes back up."
Riya giggled, a light, cruel sound. Then came the wet noises. Slurp. Lick. Suck. "Mmmph... big boy... tastes like you missed me," she mumbled, her mouth clearly full of him. "Deeper? Yeah, fuck my face... imagine it's my cunt, baby. Cum down my throat—don't waste a drop."

I stood there in the dark hallway, frozen. The sounds filled my ear—Lokesh grunting, the wet, sloppy sounds of her lips on his shaft, Riya gagging slightly as he pushed deep.
"That's it, slut... take it all," Lokesh moaned. "Fuck, you're better than her any day. Oh god..." He groaned loud, a long, shuddering release. Gulp. Riya hummed happily. "Mmm... delicious. See? Easy."

They zipped up. They laughed softly, sharing a secret kiss.

I lowered the phone. The call was still running, but I had heard enough. Tears pricked my eyes, mixing with the sweat on my face. My husband was gone. He was cheating, fucking Riya like his real wife, treating me like trash.

But as I stood there, the sadness turned into something else. It turned into cold, hard anger. I wiped my face. I fixed my blouse, pulling it tight to show off my chest again. You want to leave the door open, Riya? You want me to hear you scream? Fine.

I looked towards the back room. Towards Babuji. Tonight, while they screw in the guest room, I won't be crying in my bed. I'll sneak to Babuji. I will tell him everything. I will let him fuck me slow and deep. I will scream his name louder than she screams yours. I will make Babuji claim me so hard that I forget Lokesh even exists.

Revenge starts tonight. And it starts with Babuji’s cock inside me, making me his forever.

[Deepika2021]

Great , revenge started.
Babuji getting hot fuck tonight with bahu...
You rocking & update

[Chennai Veeran]

Super revenge.