Fantasy Days With Love or Lust

[me.you]

Pre Ample.

I've been an avid reader here since the early days of Exbii. I've followed both the Tamil and English sections continuously over the years.

Among my all-time favorite stories are "Den of Debauchery" and "Night of Error" — stories where, at least occasionally, women are shown having real power, agency, and control.

Unfortunately, in about 99% of the stories we see here, women are almost always portrayed as sluts, whores, or bitches. Nearly every female character is obsessed with big penises, and that's presented as the ultimate truth. But real life doesn't work that way.

Size does not matter nearly as much as people claim.  
What truly matters to most women after sex is love, care, tenderness, and emotional connection.  
Falling asleep on a man's chest, feeling safe and cherished...  
Being called "my queen" with genuine affection...  
These are the things that stay with us long after the physical moment is over.

So many stories start with a "good wife" who only gives in or gets "trapped" because it fulfills her husband's fantasies, not because of her own desires, strength, or choices.

That's exactly why I've decided to write something different.

I'm planning to write a story told completely from the female perspective, with strong female dominance. Not as some extreme feminist statement, but as a way to show respect, power, and celebration of women in their full complexity.

almost all humans have sexual fantasies, male or female. Most of us just imagine them and never want to actually do them in real life. But when a couple starts talking about their fantasies with each other, some sick, villain-type people come and interfere and try to manipulate them. 

I really can't accept that crap. Why can't they just have their privacy?
When they’re with their partner, they should be able to talk about whatever the hell they want; it’s no one else’s business.

So in this female POV story, everything will stay in that borderline zone.
More and more teasing, slow burning, and no direct bang coming quick.
Spoiler alert: this is going to be a slow poison kind of story… not cyanide.

slow. torturing. delicious.that’s the vibe i want.

the kind that keeps building until you’re begging for it even though it’s killing you softly. I want to make Female Charactors more powerful in this story.

This story will have slight line of incest and BDSM and FemDom. 

As a doctor working in the labor ward, every single day I witness women at their most vulnerable and most powerful: facing life, facing death, and bringing new life into the world. I see their courage, their pain, and their resilience.  
This story is my small way of honoring and celebrating that strength.

I'll update whenever I find time. Sometimes just a few lines, sometimes longer paragraphs.  
The pace will be slow, but I'll keep coming back.

Negative comments are completely welcome.  
If you disagree, if something feels off, or if you think I got it wrong, please say it.  
Healthy discussion is good. I'm open to it.

One last thing:
If anyone has ideas, suggestions, constructive input, or even criticism, feel free to message me.

Thank you for reading.  
Let's see where this journey takes us.

"I can speak and write English fairly well, but my grammar isn't great. Please be patient with me."

[me.you]

Chapter 1 ( Some Names are changed)
The late afternoon sun filtered through the sheer white curtains of the living room, casting soft golden patterns on the cream colored sofa where Kavya sat.

She leaned back, eyes gently closed, her long lashes resting against the smooth curve of her cheeks. For a few precious moments, the world outside her home ceased to exist. No hospital corridors, no beeping monitors, no urgent calls. Just the quiet rhythm of her own breathing and the faint ticking of the wall clock.

Kavya was thirty eight, yet time had been unusually kind to her. She possessed the kind of timeless beauty that didn’t shout for attention but drew it quietly, inevitably. Her skin was fair and luminous, with a natural glow that no amount of hospital fluorescent lights could dull. High cheekbones framed a face that was soft yet strikingly elegant: full lips the colour of ripe cherries, a small straight nose, and large expressive almond shaped eyes the shade of warm honey. Even now, with her eyes closed, those eyes seemed to hold a quiet depth, as though they had seen both the miracle of life and the fragility of it.

Her figure was the envy of many younger women. At five feet six inches, Kavya had maintained the graceful curves that had once turned heads in her college days. Her waist was still slim and defined, flaring gently into rounded hips that swayed with a natural, unhurried elegance when she walked. Her breasts were full and firm, sitting high on her chest even after years of motherhood and long hospital shifts. She had the kind of body that filled out a simple cotton saree beautifully soft, womanly, inviting, yet carrying the quiet dignity of someone who had earned every line and curve through love and labour.

Today she wore a simple sky blue cotton saree with a thin silver border. The pallu was dbangd loosely over one shoulder, revealing the smooth fair skin of her collarbones and the delicate gold chain that rested there. A small red bindi adorned her forehead, and tiny gold jhumkas danced lightly against her earlobes whenever she moved her head. Her thick jet-black hair, lightly streaked with a few silver threads that she wore with quiet pride, was gathered into a loose low bun at the nape of her neck. A few rebellious strands had escaped and curled softly against her temples.

She was, in every sense, a woman who had bloomed fully. Beautiful not because she tried to be, but because she simply was.

Kavya opened her eyes slowly and let out a long, contented sigh. In the next room she could hear the muffled sounds of her son and her younger brother laughing over some video game. Her son, Ashwin, was eighteen: tall, lanky, and already showing signs of the handsome man he would become. Her younger brother, Arjun, only two years older than Ashwin, was twenty and still studying in the same college Ashwin goes to. The three of them together were her entire world. A small smile curved her lips as she thought of them.

She was a doctor, a respected obstetrician who brought new lives into the world almost every day. Yet nothing compared to coming home to the two boys who had grown up under the same roof, arguing, teasing, and loving each other like true brothers despite the generation gap.

Kavya rose from the sofa, the soft rustle of her saree the only sound in the peaceful room. She walked towards the kitchen, already planning what to cook for dinner, her mind automatically shifting into the role she loved most: wife, mother, sister, and the quiet anchor of this little family. Little did she know that the coming days would test every ounce of strength, love, and beauty she carried within her.

Kavya’s husband, a chartered accountant whose long hours left faint shadows beneath his eyes, was sixteen months her junior. She was the elder, and that small, delicious inversion had always carried its own secret charge, a quiet reversal of roles that made every glance, every brush of fingers, feel faintly illicit even after all these years.

Their marriage had been, until now, a slow-burning happiness: rooted in tender understanding, yes, but also in an intimacy that had deepened with time rather than dimmed. When he came home late, loosening his tie, the way his gaze lingered on the curve of her neck above the saree’s border still sent a soft heat curling through her. His touch, deliberate and unhurried, traced familiar paths across her skin with the same quiet hunger it had held on their first night together. In the dim bedroom light, age meant nothing; there was only the warm press of bodies, the low catch of breath, and the unspoken promise that neither had ever tired of making the other tremble. 

In the quiet hours after the house settled, when Ashwin’s music had faded, Arjun’s laughter had softened into sleep, and the last light in the kitchen was extinguished, Kavya sometimes lingered in the dim glow of the bedroom lamp, letting her mind wander where daylight never allowed.

She was content, truly. The life she had built was rich: the steady devotion of her husband, the bright chaos of the two boys she loved as fiercely as any mother and sister could, and the quiet respect she earned each day delivering life into trembling hands. Yet beneath that well-tended surface, a private current still moved.

She thought, sometimes, of the way her husband’s gaze would darken when he came to her after a long day, how his fingers would find the small of her back beneath the saree, pressing just firmly enough to remind her body it was still capable of wanting more than tenderness. She remembered the first time she had taken the lead, years ago, straddling him in the half-light, guiding his hands where she needed them most, and the raw, surprised sound he made when she moved above him with slow, deliberate hunger. That memory still sent a low, secret warmth pooling deep within her.

There were other desires, softer and more forbidden, that she rarely let herself name. The fleeting fantasy of being seen, not just loved, but truly seen, by eyes that knew every curve and scar and still burned for her. The idle thought of a stranger’s appreciative glance lingering a second too long on the sway of her hips in a crowded hospital corridor, stirring something reckless and alive she had not felt since youth. The quiet ache to be touched with a roughness that bordered on worship, to feel control slip just enough to remind her she was still a woman who could unravel.

She never spoke these things aloud. They were hers alone, small bright embers she carried within the steady flame of her marriage. And yet they kept her awake sometimes, breath shallow, fingertips tracing absent patterns across her own skin, wondering how much deeper she might burn if she ever let them flare into something more.

She was thirty eight. She was a mother, a sister, a healer, and a wife.  And she was still, quietly, dangerously alive.

[gvsubu1995]

Good start bro.I think new concept. All the best

[Suresh@123]

Best of Luck for new story.

[me.you]

Kavya’s grew up in a small coastal town in Tamil Nadu, in a house that leaned ever so slightly toward the sea, as though listening for it. During the monsoons the wooden beams groaned and sighed, and at night she would lie awake, feeling the house breathe around her.

Her mother filled those evenings with stories. A collegeteacher with a voice that wrapped itself gently around words, she spoke of goddesses who fought and endured, of women who reshaped their lives with quiet determination, and of love that did not fade but learned patience. Kavya listened with her chin resting on her palms, absorbing those tales without quite knowing why they mattered so much. Only later would she understand how deeply they settled into her, how they taught her that strength did not always raise its voice.

Her father moved through her childhood more softly. A government clerk, he came home each evening smelling of ink and old paper, his presence steady rather than demanding. During power cuts he would light a single oil lamp and sit beside her, guiding her finger across the page while the flame trembled. He spoke little, but what he gave her stayed. Knowledge, he told her, was something the world could not strip away. From him she learned stillness, discipline, and the comfort of meeting uncertainty without fear.

Her grandmother left the deepest mark. Widowed early, she carried herself with a composed grace that never asked for sympathy. Her sarees were always neatly folded, her eyes alert and alive. She cooked generously, sang old songs under her breath, and sometimes, when the evening softened and she thought herself alone, she would move across the courtyard in a slow, private dance. Kavya watched from a distance, heart pounding, struck by the sight of joy claimed without permission. It was the first time she understood that loss did not have to mean disappearance.

One humid evening, when Kavya was twelve, her grandmother noticed her watching. Instead of turning away, she drew the girl close and placed a jasmine flower in her palm. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Never be ashamed of wanting,” she said. “The body remembers what the heart is afraid to say.” Kavya felt the weight of those words without fully grasping them, like something precious slipped quietly into her pocket.

Those influences lived on in her, woven so tightly into her that she sometimes forgot they were not her own. They gave her the steadiness to stand beside women in pain and transformation, the endurance to carry long days and longer nights, and a private flame that warmed her even in solitude. They taught her that she did not have to choose between roles, that she could hold tenderness and strength, devotion and desire, and stillness and hunger, all at once. She learned early that being alive was not something that ended with responsibility. It simply learned how to wait and how to listen.

Kavya’s adolescence swept in like the first fierce monsoon sudden drenching relentless. At thirteen she lingered still the quiet girl beneath the mango tree book in hand. By fourteen her body turned traitor in ways both exquisite and terrifying breasts swelling against college blouses hips curving until skirts rode high skin blooming hot and restless beneath the heavy Kerala air. Boys’ eyes found her now furtive hungry glances that slid away when she looked back each one sparking fear shame and a dark electric thrill that coiled deep between her thighs.

The convent stood as fortress of strictness knees covered voices hushed thoughts guarded. Desire they never named yet named it in every rule. Repression only fed the flame. In stifling afternoon classrooms she shifted at her desk thighs clenched tight against the slow maddening pulse that rose with every graze of fabric on tender skin. After PT in the dim changing room thick with sweat and talcum she stole glances at other girls slender arms budding breasts the shadowed softness beneath cotton panties envy curling into curiosity curiosity melting into something hotter wetter a rhythm beating in her fingertips her throat her very core
.
Then Siddharth arrived sixteen years old Krishna to her Radha in the college play. The yellow saree clung damp to her skin through rehearsals. When he lifted her chin in the scene of divine longing his fingers trembled against her jaw breath catching sharp and audible. That touch scorched her. That night behind a locked door heart pounding fierce enough to bruise ribs she relived it obsessively the rough pad of his thumb the wide dark pupils the current that raced straight to the slick aching place between her legs.  She had never allowed herself this before.

The room was too quiet, the air too warm against her flushed skin. The sheets already clung to the small of her back. Her heart hammered so violently she could feel it in her throat, in her fingertips, in the soft hollow between her legs that had begun to ache with an insistence she could no longer pretend away.

Tentative at first, almost polite, her hand slipped beneath the waistband of her cotton underwear. The contact made her gasp: the surprising heat, the startling slickness that had gathered there without permission. Her fingers hesitated, hovering, as though touching herself might break some unspoken rule of the universe. 

Her touch turned clumsy, frantic, greedy. Two fingers slid through her indus valley, finding that swollen, pulsing knot of nerves almost by accident. The first real stroke made her hips jerk upward involuntarily, a startled, helpless sound escaping her throat. She tried to find a rhythm and failed beautifully, too fast, too rough, then too slow, then desperate again. Her breath came in ragged little sobs she couldn’t stifle.

Everything narrowed to that one frantic point of contact. The pressure built like a storm rolling in too quickly, relentless, inevitable. Her free hand clawed at the sheet beside her head; the other pressed harder, circled faster, slippery now, obscene in its wetness. Her thighs trembled, muscles locking. Her back arched off the mattress in a taut, shaking bow, heels digging into the bed, every line of her body straining toward something she didn’t fully understand and couldn’t stop chasing. When it broke, it broke violently.

The orgasm ripped through her like a sudden, blinding wave, silent because she had no air left to scream with. Her inner walls clenched hard around nothing, fluttering wildly, greedy aftershocks pulsing through her core again and again. Her vision whited out at the edges. Heat flooded her chest, her throat, the backs of her eyes. Tears slipped hot and fast down her temples into her hair, not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming force of feeling so much at once, too much, too bright, too raw.

For long seconds she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe properly. Just trembled, open-mouthed, thighs still quivering, fingers still pressed against the fluttering aftermath, feeling the last helpless little contractions against her palm.
Then, almost immediately, the guilt arrived.

It came heavy and suffocating, thick as smoke. It crawled into her lungs, pressed against her ribs, tasted like metal and shame. She had done something sacred and profane at the same time. She had touched the holiest part of herself and found it wanting, messy, animal. She had shattered something inside her chest, some fragile, porcelain idea of who she was supposed to be, and the pieces were too sharp to gather back together.

Her hand stayed between her legs a moment longer, not in pleasure now, but in stunned witness to the evidence of what she’d done: the swollen, sensitive flesh, the slippery proof of abandon still coating her fingers. Then, slowly, she drew her hand away. She curled onto her side, knees pulled tight to her chest, and let the tears come in earnest, quiet, burning, ashamed, and still, somewhere beneath it all, secretly, wondrously alive.

Amma found her the next evening curled on the verandah face flushed gaze far away. She sat close took her hand and spoke soft as evening: “The body wakes screaming sometimes child. It asks no permission. It only asks to be felt.” Those words did not banish shame they gave it room to breathe beside the hunger.
From that moment Kavya carried her awakening like live coal in her chest burning dangerous beautiful. She learned deliberate grace in her walk spine straight while every nerve sang locked doors and exploring fingers discovering the secrets her body whispered. She remained the good daughter the brilliant student the girl kneeling at dawn before the family altar. Yet inside adolescence had ripped her open revealing the truth: desire was no sin to be prayed into silence. It was force raw relentless hers.

She was no longer innocent. She was awake.

And the fire kindled in those trembling years would never again lie fully banked.
Kavya’s heart did not open easily after adolescence. Medical college in Mangalore demanded everything: long nights bent over textbooks, endless ward rounds, the sharp scent of antiseptic and the heavier weight of lives held in trembling hands. Romance felt like a luxury she could not afford, yet it found her anyway in small insistent ways.

First came Ravi in her second year. A fellow student with gentle hands and a laugh that filled the common room. They studied together under the fluorescent lights of the library, shared stolen coffee in the canteen, talked of dreams that stretched beyond stethoscopes. Their first kiss happened behind the old anatomy block, rain drumming on tin roofs, his lips soft, hesitant then sure.

For six months he was her secret warmth, fingers laced under tables, bodies meeting in borrowed rooms when the hostel lights dimmed. They explored each other with tender curiosity: teasing touches over clothes, slow kisses that deepened into breathless exploration, her hand guiding his to the places that made her sigh, his fingers learning the rhythm that left her trembling against him. She discovered the slow art of giving and receiving pleasure, the way a man’s breath could quicken at the lightest graze of her nails down his back, the thrill of mutual discovery without crossing that final boundary. Yet when internship loomed and hospitals pulled them in different directions, the relationship faded quietly, no dramatic parting, just the gentle drift of two lives moving apart. She mourned him briefly then let the memory settle like a soft scar.

Later in her early twenties came Kathir, the senior resident who taught her confidence in the operating theatre and in stolen moments away from the wards. He was older, bolder, more demanding. Their encounters were urgent and hungry: he liked to pin her wrists gently against walls, kiss her with fierce possession, press his body to hers until she gasped and arched under the heat of his touch. She surrendered to the play of power willingly, thrilled by the edge of control, the way he could unravel her with insistent hands and whispered commands, leaving her flushed and aching yet always stopping short of full consummation. She teased him back, her fingers tracing bold paths, her mouth exploring him until he groaned her name, both of them riding the wave of desire without ever fully giving in. Yet beneath the heat lay a quiet mismatch: Kathir wanted possession, she wanted partnership. When he spoke of marriage as ownership rather than union, she walked away calm and resolute, leaving him stunned and the door closed behind her.

Then at twenty seven came Guna, her husband. He entered her life not as storm but as steady breeze. A wind which can make you happy and relax.  A chartered accountant met through family friends, he listened when she spoke of difficult deliveries, never once asked her to soften her ambition. Their courtship unfolded slowly. dinners, long walks, evenings where conversation turned to touch without rush. The first time they made love it was in his quiet flat, rain tapping the windows, his hands reverent, tracing every curve as though memorizing her. He was the one to whom she gave herself completely for the first time, losing her virginity in tenderness and trust, their bodies joining with patience and wonder. He learned her body with care, asked what she wanted, gave her space to lead when she needed. In him she found the rare balance: tenderness that could turn fierce, intimacy that deepened rather than consumed. They married a year later and for the next decade their bed remained a place of discovery, laughter, whispered secrets, skin against skin that still felt new.

End Update of today.