Fantasy 100 Days with My Wife: One Women, Two Desires, One Eternal Love

[heygiwriter]

Hey guys, I'm Heygi Writer, Author of 

Mirna – Vikram's Innocent Hotwife [COMPLETED]

The Husband’s Doubt [Completed]






AI Generated image of Anandhi



I'm back again with a new story 

This time, I'm adding a touch of sci-fi (Not Heavy, Very Minimal).

It's basically about a husband who works away from home, coming back to his small town for revenge, to get back at his wife for cheating on him.

But he doesn't come as his old self. The 36-year-old man returns looking like a 19-year-old, same face from his college days, new young body, new identity.

With this fresh look and new perspective, he starts seeing the bigger picture of what's really happening. But it is too late, when he saw the actual picture, he doesn't have time to go back, he is stuck.. he needs to take decisions a real quick one i.e. in 100 days. 



The story explores eternal love, falling in love again, along with raw desires, sacrifices, lust, temptation… and dives into adultery, cheating, seduction, and manipulation.

As usual if the theme doesn't suits you, you can ignore the story.

Story starts Now, Hoping the support as always. 

[heygiwriter]

Character Introductions:


Rahul (32)

Rahul slumped in his Mumbai call center cubicle - 32 years old now, a faded shadow of the tall, charming lover boy similar to what we see in movies, who once swept Anandhi off her feet. His once-fair white complexion had dulled under years of fluorescent lights and endless night shifts. Near-obese, thick untamed beard hiding a double chin, heavy eye bags from too many whiskey-soaked nights. His worn shirt strained over a bloated gut, buttons pulling taut, loose pants sagging around his hips, no trace left of the lean, confident frame from their early days.

In his trembling hand, a faded photo: Anandhi, his college beauty, still radiant in that old snap. Their only mission left — to live together again with their daughter Riya (10) and son Rohan (8). A love marriage had cost them everything: families disowned them, survival ripped them apart. Seven years ago, after Rohan’s birth, Rahul had fled to this soul-crushing city, sending every rupee home. Visits? Barely a handful in a decade. No future, just a charmer’s slow collapse into exhaustion.

Anandhi (31)

Back in the small town, Anandhi — 31, 5.9 ft tall, stood in her classroom like a timeless beauty. She had once been lean and slender in her college days and early marriage, but after giving birth to Rohan — her second child, she earned some soft fat across her body. The extra weight settled in all the right places: fuller, heavier breasts, wider hips, a softer rounded belly, and thicker thighs that gave her a lush, fertile glow. This transformation turned her from pretty to powerfully desirable — a ripe, womanly figure that drew hungry stares from every man who crossed her path, even as she tried to hide it.
Her fair white skin glowed fresh and untouched by time; long black hair cascaded down her back in soft waves. Her 34D bust strained gently against the saree blouse, now even fuller and heavier from motherhood, tucked and dbangd to hint at the curves without screaming for attention — meaty hips swaying with every step, rounded ass filling out the saree folds, womanly and ripe, far from skinny anymore.
A simple bindi dotted her forehead as she pressed a book to her chest, teaching with quiet dedication. To the world and to Rahul, she was loyal, her needs buried deep. 

Angry at his endless absence, yet consoling: “It’s for the family.” Debts loomed like shadows; Riya and Rohan’s needs pressed hard. Looking at her loneliness and now her enhanced, voluptuous body, many lechers circled. She shunned them all. Sarees were her armor. With Rahul always away, she wore modest sarees to protect herself. She even feared wearing chudithars or any modern outfits, not because they might reveal too much, but because she didn’t want to send the wrong idea to anyone. She deflected hungry eyes with a fierce, focused glare, though the way the fabric clung to her fuller curves often betrayed her efforts.


Suriya (34) 

Directly opposite Anandhi's flat on the same 3rd floor — only two homes in their small apartment building — lived Suriya, 34, towering at 6'2". Fair skin gleaming with gym sweat, six-pack visible under tight shirts, thick thighs straining snug shorts.
Former aircraft engineer turned gym owner after a family crisis forced him to quit his high-flying job. Divorced, his child visited once a month. Riya and Rohan often played in his flat, their laughter carrying across the narrow corridor.

For years he had lusted after Anandhi, but fear always held him back. She spotted every obvious lecher instantly, yet never suspected Suriya — because he never made a move. Once a womanizer, now clueless about real seduction. Divorce had stripped his confidence; custody fears kept him leashed. “Lose my kid over this?” He had barely won monthly visitation rights after a brutal court fight. One mistake and he'd never see his child again.


Still, he was a man with needs. Six years post-divorce, Anandhi had been the first to visit and console him in his lowest moment. From then on, his eyes followed her constantly — raw hunger hidden behind friendly smiles. 

But more than lust, it turns out to be her protection, un said and unasked. 

A few years back he installed a veranda CCTV for “building security” after local thefts. Anandhi never questioned it; it made her feel safer with Rahul away. Unknowingly, it protected her: Suriya reviewed the footage and quietly cut off anyone who lingered too long or tried approaching her in the building — a stern word, a warning glare, or a discreet tip-off to scare them away. She remained completely unaware of his silent interventions.


In private, those security clips — her saree swaying as she unlocked her door, the brief outline of her curves under the fabric — fed his fantasies. He stroked to them in secret, guilt and desire warring inside him.  Anandhi stayed blind to his obsession.

[Mukul@99]

Days weren't the same .. boring & uninteresting without your story to read. Welcome back.

[heygiwriter]

Story Prologue:

Somewhere in Mumbai ....

In the rooftop of a Pub 

Rahul sits alone at a corner table near the edge, back to the railing, the skyline a blurred smear of neon behind him. The air smells of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang of impending rain.


His hands tremble as he grips the phone, knuckles white, thumbs hovering over the play button like they're afraid to commit. The video thumbnail stares back — grainy, frozen on a Hotel bedroom door cracked open. His heart hammers so hard it feels like it's bruising his ribs from inside.


He taps play.


The video loads in agonizing slow motion, pixels stuttering into focus. Tinny sound leaks from the speaker: soft, rhythmic moans, bedsprings protesting, a low male voice murmuring words too muffled to catch. Then her face fills the frame.



Anandhi.
His Anandhi.

Flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her body arches — familiar curves he once worshipped — now rising to meet another man’s thrusts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in the way they used to dig into Rahul’s back. Her legs wrap tight around the shadowed figure, pulling him deeper. Intimate. Willing. Lost in it.

Rahul’s breath seizes in his chest. Everything stops, heart, lungs, thought. The world collapses to the tiny glowing screen.

Nausea hits first: hot, sour, surging up his throat like acid. His stomach clenches violently, as if punched from the inside. He swallows hard, but it only makes the burn worse. Then rage crashes in, pure, white-hot, drowning everything else. Hotter than the whiskey still coating his tongue. His vision tunnels; the rooftop lights smear into angry red streaks.


He replays it. Once. Twice. Zooming in on her face, desperate for something — hesitation, coercion, anything to say this isn’t real. Nothing. Just pleasure. Her lips parted in a gasp he knows too well. The way her hips roll up to meet him.


“You bitch…” The words slip out low, cracked, barely audible over the pub’s distant bass. But they taste like blood in his mouth. 

“You’re cheating on me?!” 

Tears sting hot behind his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. Rage won’t let them fall yet. Instead, humiliation floods in next — thick, suffocating. All those years: call-center nights bleeding into dawn, every rupee wired home, every skipped call because he was “too tired,” every fantasy of coming back to her arms. Wasted. She was supposed to be waiting. Loyal. His. Instead, she’s giving herself to someone else while he rots in this city.

He was restless, He could not believe it...  he replayed again just to make sure it was not anandhi

He replays again. Her moan hits him like a slap. His free hand claws at his shirt, as if he can tear the pain out of his chest. Memories collide: her quiet laugh in their old flat, the way she’d press against him after the kids slept, whispering “soon, we’ll be together again.” Lies. Every tender moment now poisoned.


Something inside him snaps — not clean, but jagged. The phone slips from his shaking fingers, clattering face-down. He stares at it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’s run miles. The rage coils tighter, mixing with grief, self-loathing, disbelief.




“You bitch,” he mutters again, voice breaking on the word. 

Louder this time. “You fucking cheated on me.”

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 1: Glorious Past and Drunken Present


Decades ago, the college campus pulsed with triumphant energy under a bright, clear sky. Sunlight poured over the open grounds where rows of chairs faced a makeshift stage adorned with marigold garlands and a banner reading “Convocation – Class of 2016”. Graduates in crisp black gowns and mortarboards milled about, families snapping photos, laughter ringing out as certificates were handed over one by one. The air carried the fresh scent of cut grass, blooming jasmine from nearby hedges, and the faint sweetness of laddoos distributed by proud parents.


Rahul stood tall at 6'5", lean and commanding, his fair skin glowing under the late-morning sun. His black hair was neatly combed, eyes sharp and playful, a natural charm that turned heads without effort. He wore a crisp white kurta that hugged his athletic frame, the kind that made girls whisper and giggle. But today his gaze locked on one girl across the crowd.



Anandhi — 5'9" of radiant, untamed beauty — shimmered in a simple cream cotton saree that caught the light and clung just enough to hint at her curves as she laughed with friends. Her long black hair, braided with fresh jasmine, tumbled in places over her shoulders like spilled ink; her fair skin flushed with excitement, eyes bright with that fierce spark that set her apart. She moved with effortless grace, hips swaying subtly, full breasts rising and falling with each breath, the saree pallu dbangd to tease without revealing.


Families had already discovered their love months earlier — social differences, “unsuitable match,” whispers of disapproval turned to outright opposition. Doors locked, phones monitored, warnings issued. But Rahul and Anandhi refused to let it end. They had chosen each other. Today was the day to run.

As the ceremony wrapped and crowds began to disperse for photos and goodbyes, Rahul slipped away to the edge of campus where his wiry buddy Sam waited with two other close friends — bikes idling quietly behind parked cars. Sam’s gap-toothed grin flashed as he tossed Rahul a helmet. “She coming? Clock’s ticking — families are here.”


Rahul glanced back; Anandhi excused herself from her group, weaving through the crowd with calm purpose. She reached him, breath quick, eyes shining with nerves and determination. He took her hand — warm, slightly trembling — and pulled her onto the bike behind him. Her arms wrapped tight around his waist, saree pallu fluttering as the engines revved low.


They roared out through a side gate, friends flanking them like a small convoy, kicking up light dust on the quiet morning roads. No dramatic chase — just speed, wind whipping past, the thrill of escape making everything feel alive. Anandhi’s cheek pressed to Rahul’s back, her grip fierce, as if holding on to their future itself.

They veered off the main road toward the mango grove behind campus, then continued to a small ancient stone temple beside a sprawling banyan tree. Its modest gopuram bathed in soft light, a single oil lamp burning in the sanctum, camphor smoke curling lazily upward, mingling with the earthy scent of ripening fruit and grove. The caretaker, an old man sweeping the courtyard , looked up, surprised but unperturbed.


No grand rituals, no priest needed for this quiet defiance. Under the dappled shade of the banyan, with friends forming a protective circle, Rahul slipped a simple gold mangalsutra — saved for months — around Anandhi’s neck. His fingers trembled slightly as he tied the knot, three firm loops, sealing their vows in silence: forever, no matter what. Anandhi’s eyes shimmered;  They pressed their foreheads together, breathing in the sacred smoke, hearts syncing in the stillness.

Friends clapped softly, a few tears and quiet cheers — raw joy, no fanfare. The caretaker smiled faintly, lit an extra lamp as blessing, and accepted a small offering.

They didn’t linger. The group sped to the nearest sub-registrar office, a plain government building with whirring fans. Inside the small room, they filled forms, submitted IDs, signed papers under a bored clerk’s eye. Stamps, signatures, and a crisp marriage certificate handed over within the hour.

As they stepped into the sunlight, certificate in hand, Rahul pulled Anandhi close again. Her saree still carried faint camphor, her mangalsutra glinting against her skin. Families would rage soon, calls, slammed doors,but in that moment, with morning sun warm on their faces and friends grinning around them, they had everything: each other, a legal bond, and the reckless fire of their love.

They had eloped. They were married. Families exploded in fury — doors slammed, curses flew — they were cast out, starting life with nothing but a duffel bag, a few rupees, and the fire of their love..


The years clawed them down. Riya arrived fast — a squalling bundle in a one-room tin-roof shack, Rahul's degree stalled under arrears and odd jobs. He stacked crates, hauled sacks, sweat soaking his shirt as he promised Anandhi “a better tomorrow.” Five years later, he scbangd the degree together — useless paper by then — while Anandhi studied teaching, her sarees patched at the hems, dreams folded away in a battered tin box. Rohan came next , loans piled high, interest gnawing like a rat. What was started as a loan to education expenses, then a loan for settling another loan , then loan for kids expenses, then loan to get a job at agency who promised a job in UK, but he was cheated. That was the day, he met his saturation point.. He decided to leave the family and find a job somewhere which would fix all his financial problems. 


Mumbai called with a call-center job promising steady pay. Rahul packed a single bag, kissed her tear-streaked face, and left. His heart stayed behind as Anandhi settled in their small South Indian town — her teacher's salary buying rice and dal, his wired rupees covering the third-floor flat's rent. Debt loomed at 20 lakhs — a mountain he couldn't climb. He yearned for Riya's sticky hugs, Rohan's chatter, Anandhi's laugh, but his youth bled out slowly, charm fading under fluorescent lights.



Twenty visits in ten years. He worked overtime, double shifts, anything to send more money, pay debts, and keep them afloat. Now 32, near-obese, salt-and-pepper beard wild and untamed, eye bags heavy from occasional whiskey binges. His fair skin dulled to a tired pallor, body clumsy in a stretched shirt straining over his bloated gut, baggy pants sagging at the hips — all sacrificed for family.

In his cramped Mumbai paying-guest room, after 14-hour shifts, the loneliness clawed deepest. He’d lie on the thin mattress, phone glowing with an old photo of Anandhi from their honeymoon days — her in that red saree, laughing, breasts full and free under the fabric, hips curving into his hands. The memory flooded him: her gasps under the mango trees, the way she’d arched when he entered her, thighs locked around him. Guilt twisted like a knife — he’d left her untouched for years, her body ripening alone while he chased rupees. Some nights the ache became unbearable; he’d stroke himself in the dark, eyes squeezed shut, imagining her above him, whispering his name as he spilled into his hand. Release brought no peace — only shame and the echo of her voice he hadn’t heard soft in too long.


Back in the town, Anandhi stood in her classroom at 31, a quiet beacon under the flickering tube light. Her fair white skin still shone fresh, black hair pinned in a tight bun for practicality, saree dbangd modestly to hint at her frame without inviting stares. Her 34D bust strained gently against the blouse, full and heavy; meaty hips and rounded ass swayed subtly as she scratched chalk across the board, womanly curves ripened by time and motherhood. 


Offers swarmed like flies: a local politician lingered at the college gates with a greasy smile; a college acquaintance once cornered her in the staff room; a VIP chief guest sent vulgar texts and grainy photos, dangling cash. She sued one silent, voice ice-cold: “Rahul is my only.”


Needs itched under her skin — nights alone, she slipped into the bathroom, vibrator humming softly against her clit as she bit her lip to muffle gasps, thighs trembling with release. Temporary fire-quenching for a hunger she refused to feed elsewhere. Anger at Rahul simmered low, he'd sidelined her, left her untouched for years, yet she consoled herself in the dark: “It’s for the family — we’ll age together soon.” 


Their calls were rare and clipped. Last month’s went like this:


Anandhi: “Riya asked for you again. She drew a picture of us all together. You okay there? You sound tired.”

Rahul: “Sent 25,000 yesterday. Should cover the college fees. Tell her I’ll call next week… work’s piling up.”

Anandhi (soft, hesitant): “I miss… hearing your voice properly. It’s been so long since—”

Rahul (cutting in, voice rough): “I know. Gotta go, night shift starts. Take care.”

Click.


No warmth lingered. Glory had faded to ash.

She had no real friends, town men's glares and mocks kept her walls high. Her only nearby refuge was across the hall, Suriya’s flat — where Riya and Rohan played with his son. To her, it was just a play space — no hi, no bye in a year. Suriya remained a shadow she didn’t judge, eyes fixed on her kids and survival.


The contrast burned: the glorious past — reckless love in their twenties.  secret vows in camphor smoke, bodies pressed in passion — against the drunken present, where Rahul drowned memories in cheap whiskey, and Anandhi buried desire under modest sarees and silent nights.

[Ayush01111]

Nic wife is enjoying let ahe get same medice husband should give no divorce let her give lermission to enjoy bit cut all his income coming make the hell life of all womens and mens who are supporting him and enjoy infrunt of every one but dont tuch him

[Chickfry]

Need something bigger in this weekend

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 2: She is Cheating on Me!! & - the accident!



Rahul hunched over his workstation in the dimly lit call center floor in Andheri East, Mumbai. The night shift had just begun—7:30 PM to 4:30 AM, the usual US process grind. Headset clamped on, he murmured scripted apologies into the phone for the hundredth time that hour, voice mechanical, eyes glazed from the blue glow of the screen. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead; the air smelled of instant coffee and recycled AC.


A notification pinged on his desk phone: Reception – Visitor for Rahul at front desk.


He frowned, removed the headset mid-call (muttering "one moment" to the irate customer), and walked the long corridor to the lobby. He was not sure who had came to visit him, in decades no one asked for him at the reception.. 

Surprise hit him like a slap—Sam stood there, wiry as ever, salt-streaked hair but he was modern and young compared to him.. Silver toothed grin flashing under the harsh lights. The same Sam who’d ridden shotgun on that dusty backroad ten years ago, who’d tossed him the helmet the day they eloped, who’d stood witness under the banyan tree as Rahul tied the mangalsutra around Anandhi’s neck.

“Long time, brother,” Sam said, pulling him into a rough hug. Rahul’s tired face cracked into a genuine smile—the first real one in weeks.

“You came all this way? From the town?” Rahul asked, voice thick with unexpected warmth. “What’s the occasion?”

Sam’s grin faded a little. “Need to talk. Face to face. It’s… important. Can we go somewhere quiet? A pub, maybe? I’ll buy the first round.”

Rahul hesitated, doubt flickering. “Shift ends at 4:30, but… I can take an early break. Manager owes me. Okay.”

They left the office together, he took his bike - the old pulsar which needed a proper maintenance like him. he took him to a nearby rooftop pub in Andheri—Mirage or one like it, with open-air seating overlooking the hazy city lights and a distant glimpse of the sea link glowing in the night. 

The place wasn’t fancy: string lights swaying, low music thumping, air thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic promise of rain.

They claimed a corner table near the edge, back to the railing, the skyline a blurred smear of neon behind him. Beers arrived first—cold Kingfisher bottles sweating on the table. They clinked silently at first, small talk about old friends, the town, Riya and Rohan’s latest antics. Rahul relaxed a fraction, the alcohol loosening the knot in his chest.


Then Sam’s fingers started twitching on the bottle. He stared at the label too long. “I don’t have the guts for this straight,” he finally said, voice low. “That’s why I came all this way. And why we’re here, not your flat.”


Rahul’s smile slipped. “What’s wrong, da? Just say it.”

Sam pulled out his phone, thumb hovering. “Video. Evidence. I… someone sent it to me. From the town. I had to show you myself.”

Rahul leaned in, confused. “Evidence? Of what?”

Sam didn’t answer. He just tapped play and slid the phone across the table. Its about Anandhi, he said and stood up like leaving......

What Anandhi?

What it could be?

Rahul sits alone now—Sam had stepped away to the restroom for a moment, giving him space. His hands tremble as he grips the phone, knuckles white, thumbs hovering over the play button like they're afraid to commit. He could not explain but he felt something really wrong.. 


His hands tremble badly now — not just from the whiskey he’s been knocking back, but from something deeper, something fracturing. The phone rests on the table like a live gren ade. He stares at the thumbnail: grainy, frozen on a hotel bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at disaster. What's about Anandhi.. no way.. 

But he fears the worst, he decided to see whatever it comes? his mind first thinkan affair, then he consoles himself no way,, she wont do that... ..no stop it Rahul, why you are thinking for worse.. may be she is getting some award, or if that is a worse case it could be she is in hospital for treatment.. no way she is in affair or anything..


He taps.

The video loads in agonizing slow motion, pixels stuttering into focus. Tinny sound leaks from the speaker: soft, rhythmic moans, bedsprings protesting, a low male voice murmuring words too muffled to catch. Then her face fills the frame.

Anandhi.
His Anandhi.

Flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Her body arches ,familiar curves he once worshipped ,now rising to meet another man’s thrusts. Her hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in the way they used to dig into Rahul’s back. Her legs wrap tight around the shadowed figure, pulling him deeper. Intimate. Willing. Lost in it.


Rahul’s breath seizes in his chest. Everything stops,heart, lungs, thought. The world collapses to the tiny glowing screen.

Nausea hits first: hot, sour, surging up his throat like acid. His stomach clenches violently, as if punched from the inside. He swallows hard, but it only makes the burn worse. Then rage crashes in — pure, white-hot, drowning everything else. Hotter than the whiskey still coating his tongue. His vision tunnels; the rooftop lights smear into angry red streaks.

He replays it. Once. Twice. Zooming in on her face, desperate for something — hesitation, coercion, anything to say this isn’t real. Nothing. Just pleasure. Her lips parted in a gasp he knows too well. The way her hips roll up to meet him.
“You bitch…” The words slip out low, cracked, barely audible over the pub’s distant bass. But they taste like blood in his mouth. “You’re cheating on me?!”

The shout rips free — raw, guttural, echoing off the railing and into the night. Heads turn from nearby tables; someone mutters “drunk bastard.” He doesn’t care. His fist slams the table — hard enough that the empty glass topples, rolling, shattering somewhere far below on the street.

Tears sting hot behind his eyes, but he blinks them back furiously. Rage won’t let them fall yet. Instead, humiliation floods in next — thick, suffocating. All those years: call-center nights bleeding into dawn, every rupee wired home, every skipped call because he was “too tired,” every fantasy of coming back to her arms. Wasted. She was supposed to be waiting. Loyal. His. Instead, she’s giving herself to someone else while he rots in this city.

He replays again. Her moan hits him like a slap. His free hand claws at his shirt, as if he can tear the pain out of his chest. Memories collide: her quiet laugh in their old flat, the way she’d press against him after the kids slept, whispering “soon, we’ll be together again.” Lies. Every tender moment now poisoned.

Something inside him snaps — not clean, but jagged. The phone slips from his shaking fingers, clattering face-down. He stares at it, breathing ragged, chest heaving like he’s run miles. The rage coils tighter, mixing with grief, self-loathing, disbelief.


He stands abruptly — chair scbanging loud against concrete. The rooftop tilts from the booze, but fury steadies his legs. He pockets the phone like a weapon he’ll need later.
“You bitch,” he mutters again, voice breaking on the word. Louder this time. “You fucking cheated on me.”



The booze from earlier surges back up — bitter, burning. He swallows it down, but it only fuels the fire. His mind races through memories: her smile in that faded photo, the way she used to trace his jaw with her fingers, whispering "we'll get through this." Lies. All of it lies.


"Cheating bitch," he mutters again, louder this time, voice cracking on the last word.

Sam returns just then, sees Rahul standing, face twisted. “Rahul… you okay?”

Rahul’s eyes are wild. “She’s been fucking around. Happily. While I… while I…” Words fail him.

Sam grips his shoulder hard. “Throw her out. Teach her a lesson. She doesn’t deserve you. All these years, you grinding here, sending every rupee, sacrificing your health—while she does this. Don’t let her walk over you anymore.”

Rahul’s mind spun. His entire youth, wasted. The elopement, the fury of families, the tin-roof shack, Riya’s first cry, Rohan’s tiny fists, 20 lakhs of debt, double shifts, lonely nights stroking to old memories of her body. All for loyalty. All for her. And she’d been moaning for others—happily, eagerly—while he rotted.

“I wont leave them, Anandhi and that person who she is having sex.. i will beat them, i need a revenge,” he muttered, voice raw. “Or… end it. Everything.”

Sam’s face tightened. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight. Think. Sleep on it. Call me whenever. You’re not alone, brother. I have a plan and i will tell you what to do.”

Sam left soon after, consoling words trailing, heading to crash at a friend’s place in the city.

Rahul sat alone a while longer, staring at the frozen thumbnail on the phone. The rooftop spun a little from the beers. String lights swayed overhead; broken bottle glass from earlier glinted far below on the street like shattered pieces of trust.

Two hours later—around 11 PM—he couldn’t sit still. The video looped in his head: her moans, her surrender, her pleasure. He pocketed the phone like burning evidence, stood unsteadily, and headed for the stairs.


Outside, the Mumbai night was thick and humid, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite arrived. His old Pulsar waited chained to a rusted pole under a flickering streetlamp, the same battered bike that had carried him through countless double-shift commutes. Fingers—still trembling from whiskey and rage—fumbled the padlock. It clicked open on the fourth try. He swung a leg over, kicked the starter.

The engine caught on the third stubborn kick, roaring to life with a throaty snarl that matched the one tearing through his chest.


He twisted the throttle hard.

Eighty. Ninety. A hundred kmph. Streetlights smeared into glowing, liquid streaks. Sea wind whipped off the Arabian Sea, stinging his eyes, tearing at his open shirt, plastering damp fabric to his bloated gut. He wove drunkenly through late-night traffic—rickshaws honking furiously in protest, a red BEST bus swerving with a blare of its horn, a delivery boy on a scooter shouting Marathi abuse he didn’t register.

Inside his skull the video looped without mercy, relentless, high-definition in memory: Anandhi’s legs spread wide on their own bed, saree bunched cruelly at her waist, hips rising eagerly to meet the shadowed thrust in missionary. Then her head turning, long black hair splayed like spilled ink across the pillow, mouth opening hungrily to take the second man deep, cheeks hollowing as she sucked, eyes fluttering shut in raw pleasure. Moans—sharp, jagged, ecstatic—ringing through the tinny speaker again and again, each one a fresh stab.

Her pleasure. Her betrayal. Her happiness while he decayed in this city.
Tears blurred the road into watercolor streaks. He didn’t wipe them. Didn’t slow down.

The bike hit a slick patch—oil from a leaking truck, or the first spitting rain of the night. Tires lost grip with a sickening screech. Metal howled against asphalt. The world tilted violently sideways.

Rahul flew.

Time stretched thin and cruel. He saw the low concrete retaining wall rushing up, the narrow strip of dirty sand beyond it, the dark water of the creek glittering under sodium lights like broken glass.

But he didn’t clear the wall.

The bike slammed into the barrier at an angle. The front wheel buckled instantly; the frame crumpled like foil. Momentum hurled Rahul forward and upward—body separated from machine in a brutal ejection. He sailed through the air for one endless second, arms flailing uselessly, the night spinning around him.

He crashed down onto the roof of a parked black sedan on the other side of the wall.

The impact was catastrophic.

His chest and head smashed against the curved metal roof with bone-shattering force. The windshield spiderwebbed instantly under the weight of his shoulder. A dull crunch echoed—his ribs giving way, skull ringing like a struck bell. Pain detonated white-hot everywhere at once: ribs, collarbone, the side of his face splitting open against the edge of the roof.

As his body slid sideways and crumpled onto the hood, his eyes—wide, unfocused—filled one last time with the image burned deepest into his mind:
Anandhi, back arched in ecstasy, hands shoving hard against the man’s chest—not to push him away, but to pull him deeper, forcing his cock further inside her with desperate, greedy strength. Her thighs trembled around him, hips grinding in frantic circles, mouth open in a silent scream of release as she took every inch, claiming her pleasure without shame.

The vision held for a fractured heartbeat—her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, utterly lost in it—then shattered.

Rahul rolled off the crumpled hood and hit the wet asphalt hard. Breath punched out of him in a wet gasp. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and thick. The bike lay twisted twenty feet away, front wheel still spinning lazily, engine ticking as it died.

He lay there on his back, staring up at the indifferent Mumbai sky—low clouds, sodium-orange glow, the first real raindrops beginning to fall and mix with the blood on his face. He wanted a revenge, he wanted to teach them lesson, but his body is not moving, his eyes are not moving... A tear came out, is this what i deserve after years of my sincerity love and sacrifice to the family?... How could you Anandhi...  More than physically, the emotional pain pulled him back ...


“This is it,” he thought dimly, the words floating in a sea of pain.

The video image flickered once more, weaker now: Anandhi pushing, taking, moaning—then gone.


Sea wind carried the distant murmur of waves from the creek. Rain pattered softly on the wrecked sedan, on his broken body, on the scattered shards of his old life.


Darkness drap-ed him like a heavy, merciful cloak at last. His eyes closed slowly...


Rahul lay unconscious on the road edge, his eyes closed...

[Ayush01111]

Maae diya second part me hi maar diya pati ko ya memory loss pati ke samne duare mardo ki ash pati ke bank balance me nahi

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 3: Rahul met Madman aka Madhavan - The Body Time Machine


The sea wind howled across the Mumbai beach, whipping sand into stinging spirals around Rahul's crumpled form. Thirty-two, near-obese, salt-and-pepper beard matted with sweat and blood, eye bags swollen from years of whiskey and double shifts—his old Pulsar lay twisted a dozen yards away, front wheel still spinning lazily like a dying heartbeat. Headlights sliced the dusk. Tires crunched gravel as a sleek black Mercedes screeched to a halt.


Rahul falls on the black Sedan is none other than, Dr. Madhavan’s

Dr. Madhavan stepped out—mid-40s, sharp jawline shadowed under a crisp cap, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, lab coat fluttering like a warning flag. He knelt beside the wreck, fingers pressing Rahul's thick wrist. Pulse steady. He sniffed the air—whiskey fumes curling up like accusation—then glanced at his watch. Two days until the honorary professorship ceremony. Enemies in the faculty were already sniffing for scandals; if anything comes out like he made an accident would cause a scene. And he cant leave a drunken person like this, especially at a time when enemies are looking for some scandal on him. He dont want anything this drunken person  tied to his name would end everything.

"Ravi," he barked to the lanky assistant in the driver's seat. "Help me load him."

They heaved Rahul's bulk into the backseat—sand dusting the leather, body sagging like wet cement. The car roared off, city lights smearing into neon streaks.

The secret lab hummed beneath a crumbling Andheri warehouse—neon tubes buzzed overhead, steel walls gleamed cold under fluorescent glare, air thick with chemical tang and ozone. Once, Madhavan had dreamed of curing arthritis, mending shattered bones. Corporate funding had twisted the dream: not healing, but reversal. The corporates never wanted him to do the useful things, it would stop every medicine companies that run behind money.. 


Madhavan released it sooner, before they completely stop him, he himself stopped and concentrated on Skin related cures and findings. Cosmetics. 


He badly wanted the world to recognize him as a terrific scientist and an innovative finder. All he needs is that he really doesn't care about money or real cure the world and health care needs. 


That is when a concept kicks in .. A concept which run behind money, which the corporates will be interested , big shots and corporate lords who wont stop him.. 

A BODY Time Machine. 

Unlike the time machine we see in movies, it won't time travel, but it does for the body, the finding of him, make the body age reverse.. But it is limited to the fully grown boned age. For example if a 50 year old man wanted to reverse his age to 10, it wont, the earliest will be the 20 or 18 when his body bone is fully grown. He can reverse it to age 30 or 40 if needed but not beyond the age of 18 or 20 when his body bones are fully grown. 


A body time machine—chemical vats bubbling, pulsing electromagnetic coils—to rewind flesh to its prime. Cages lined one wall: rats twitched with glossy fur, rabbits hopped with the energy of juveniles. SIX years stripped away in test runs. 


His real vision? Bollywood stars, politicians, billionaires paying crores for lost youth. They have plenty of money, to keep them young, they need a body time machine. It won't be available to the public, only for people with big money, corporations will be interested in him.. For funding, his name will be echoed throughout the world. 


He had not done a testing yet on humans, it is prohibited and he is secretly making it only a few celebrities who wanted this funding him in the shadows. 


Morning broke gray through a narrow slit window. Rahul woke on a narrow cot, head pounding like a forge hammer. Beakers rattled nearby; a motor whirred low. He blinked at the steel-and-glass prison. Am i "Dead?" is this how heaven looks?.. 


He then saw a person spitting in the pathway,  
He said to himself, no way this is earth 
then chuckled hoarsely. "Not yet."


He saw the crowd at a distance, a few men and women, with lab courts chatting,.. 
He saw Madhavan pleading with them.. 

Idiots if i test on myself who will rewrite the code, who will change the formula when something goes wrong.. I can't test outsiders, one of you needs to do.. I can pay 30 laks upfront now itself.. 


Just inject yourself and get into the machine.. 
He looked back and asked Ravi can you come in, prove these idiots


The lab technician said sir, it's still unproven. You need to wait and see rabbits and squirrels and monkeys and rats.. Without seeing a result how can we get in for the test 


Madhavan: Didn't you see how their age reversed. 

Lab technician: But we have not seen what would happen in next 100 days, the time machine allows the body changes intact only for 100 days.. What's after that? Will the body reform or will it stay as it is? Side effects? We never know it 


Madhavan: The vip client is coming next week, I need to show a real example.. 

See you are old fellow, aged 36 you can reverse back join a college and enjoy young womens, 
The lab technician laughed but he didn't agree. 


Rahul heard every word. His wrecked body stared back at him. Maybe his lost youth was why Anandhi cheated. Back in college he was a rockstar—tall, lean, every girl falling. Now? Bloated, broken. He pictured it: young again, women flooding toward him. Anandhi stressed, staring, realizing she aged while he stayed prime. He'd fuck her senseless, whisper "See? You cuckolded the wrong man. You're no fit for me now," then walk away. Live for himself.


Madahvan saw Rahul woke up near the tank and realised , Rahul heard everything, He came towards him, coat pristine, voice smooth as injected silk.

"Twenty lakhs to keep quiet about this place. 
Thirty if you volunteer for the machine."
I hope you heard all what i have been telling them 
Rahul nodded his head as a yes. 

Silence thickened. Helpers in blue scrubs froze mid-task, eyes darting.
Rahul's mind jolted. Lost charm. Anandhi's body under another man—saree hiked, moans echoing, hips rising eagerly. His gut twisted, rage and hunger colliding. Regain it. Fuck her round the clock. Show her—and the world—who's man again.

Rahul was done with the regular life, he had been living all these days, the wife he trusted cheated on him. He wanted his youth back.. he doesnt care, about the experiments even if its for few days or months, he wanted to live the young life again for himself, if something goes wrong, the cash Madhavan gives will help the kids.. after all Kids never had a share in the cruel adult world. 


He surged upright; the cot creaked. "Doctor—I'm in. Thirty lakhs. Lend it?"
Madhavan's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Willing to risk it?"

He thought he will fear, he will say no, he will plead to release him from her. 
But he volunteered to get in for experience. 

Rahul nodded, voice cracking with desperation. "Yes."
A scrawny helper in the shadows shouted, "Don't! 

They call him Madman for a reason—rats disappeared on day ninety-five, squirrels went blind first!" Its risk without properly tested results.

Madhavan waved it off. "Backstabbers. They eat my cash, then spit lies."

Rahul stood—nothing left to lose. Beach or lab, death or chance—no difference. "I trust the setup. Tight security, discipline, uniforms. Can't go wrong. If clicks i can live the life i wanted. if it doesn't click i dont care, he thought"

Madhavan grinned wider. "Real human test subject. Lets get you through some tests. 

After test result came in an hour 

Madhavan roared, sucess its perfect.. your body can be reversed like a 20 year old.


Perfect." He unrolled a tablet with terms like a death warrant. "The process rewinds sixteen years. You'll emerge at twenty. 

Ninety-day window—return by day eighty-nine for the stabilizer shot. Miss it, and your hormones collapse. Organs fail. Painful. Fatal.

Rahul smiled grimly. Ninety days to reclaim everything. "Fine."

He stepped into the chamber—thick glass sealed with a hiss. Siren wailed. Horns blared. Helpers scattered. Madhavan and Ravi lingered outside, monitors flickering.
Eight hours stretched into eternity.

Inside, Rahul burned. Veins ignited—fire racing from toes to skull. Visions assaulted him: Anandhi laughing under the banyan tree, her mangalsutra glinting; then the video—her legs wrapped tight, pulling a stranger deeper, mouth open in ecstasy. Pain twisted into something darker: hunger. He screamed once, voice cracking higher, younger. Muscles tore and rebuilt—fat melting, bones lengthening slightly, skin tightening. Memories flashed faster: her vibrator nights he never knew, her quiet loyalty, the debt that chained them. By the end he was gasping, sweat-slick, reborn.

Night deepened. The lab fell silent.
10 Hours process. 

A final thud. Glass slid open with a pneumatic sigh.
Rahul stepped out.

Twenty again. Lean, sharp—The heroic look once he had in college is now real,  reborn: fair skin glowing under the fluorescents, short wavy black hair damp and tousled, intense dark eyes burning, light stubble framing a chiseled jaw. Shirt stretched tight over defined chest and shoulders, pants snug against narrow hips and powerful thighs. Charm radiated like heat—dangerous, magnetic.

Madhavan's jaw dropped. Ravi gasped. "Not Madman... Miracle Man."
Rahul flexed his hands—strong, steady. No trembling. He met Madhavan's eyes, voice low and clear.

"Where do I start?"

He didn't collapse. He stood tall, sand still clinging to his shoes like a reminder of the wreck he left behind. Youth reclaimed. Ninety days ticking.
But it was just a mental strength. His leg ached and he fell in a minute.. 

Madhavan smiled, expecting it.

[Mukul@99]

The story is definitely going to make your heart palpitate. A work that is going invade your body and mind. Story is definitely immersive. Compelling & riveting.

[Rocky@handsome]

What an absolutely phenomenal start to this new story! The concept is completely unique, and right from these first three updates, it is crystal clear that we are in for an incredibly thrilling journey—just like the unforgettable experiences you gave us in your previous stories!!

What truly sets you apart from other writers, and what I admire most, is your determination, passion, and unparalleled discipline—It is remarkably rare to find an author who can deliver regular, consistent updates without ever compromising on the quality of the writing. Managing to balance that consistency with top-tier storytelling is a massive achievement and truly commendable.

Because of your dedication, the reading momentum never drops, and we are constantly super excited for the next chapter. Your story and its characters play on a continuous loop in our( Readers)minds all day long, leaving us eagerly waiting for what happens next.
Keeping readers in such a constant state of anticipation is a huge testament to your brilliance as an author.

I do have one small request, but only if you feel it naturally fits your vision. If you could delve into a bit more detail during the Intimate / Sex scenes, it would truly add magic to the story. Furthermore, incorporating some bold, dirty dialogues during those ( Sex/ Intimate )moments would be the absolute icing on the cake. It would elevate the eroticism to a whole new level and make the experience sky-high. Of course, this is just a humble request from a reader—you are the creator and you know what's best.

Best wishes,

Regards,
Rocky ❤️

[Givemeextra]

Seriously, do you have any work apart from writing?

How do you manage?

I don't get time to read only.

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 4: Madhavan’s Real-Time Test 


Three days later.


The secret lab thrummed with a low, electric hum as Rahul lay sprawled across a narrow cot, its thin mattress dipping under his newly chiseled frame. Three days had vanished in a blur of chemical fog—a harsh brew of the time machine’s alchemy and the whiskey still curdling in his stomach from that reckless crash. Neon tubes flickered overhead, bathing the steel tables in a cold, bluish glow—vials glinted like frozen tears, wires coiled like sleeping snakes—and a sharp tang of antiseptic mixed with faint ozone bit at the air.

Dr. Madhavan stood nearby, mid-40s, sharp jaw set beneath a cap shadowing salt-and-pepper hair. His pristine lab coat swished faintly as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, eyes flicking between monitors and Rahul’s form. Assistants in blue scrubs moved like silent specters—until Rahul stirred. His head thudded like a hammer against stone. He squinted into the harsh light, muscles tightening—unfamiliar, powerful. Beard trimmed close, gray streaks gone; fair skin glowed crisp and youthful, as if time had peeled back a decade and a half.

Madhavan knelt, pressing a stethoscope’s icy disc to Rahul’s bare chest. The cold jolted him awake. “You’re lucky,” Madhavan said, voice smooth but stern. “Booze and chemicals nearly fried your liver. Took extra stabilizers to pull you through the shock.”
Rahul sat up slowly, cot groaning under lighter weight. Body pulsed with raw life—sculpted to twenty: 6'5" lean strength, broad shoulders to narrow waist, abs etched taut. He flexed fingers—no tremble, no ache. Power felt intoxicating, dangerous—like a weapon he hadn’t earned.

Madhavan leaned closer. “Physically twenty. Mentally still thirty-six. Don’t overdo it—strain could shred tissues, reverse gains overnight. Heart, lungs, recalibrated but fragile.”

He pressed a small amber bottle into Rahul’s hand—pills clinked like pebbles. “One every twelve hours. Stabilizers. Miss a dose, clock accelerates.” Thick envelope landed next—30 lakhs rustled. “Your advance. Use wisely. Here’s a contact—brilliant at new IDs for your… new appearance. Extra cash for clothes, whatever. 


Lets say its a 
Farewell gift from the ‘Madman.’”


Rahul met his eyes—intense dark gaze framed by chiseled jaw, short wavy black hair damp. Stood, legs steady. Shook hand—firm grip made Madhavan’s eyebrow twitch.



“So you mean I’m ready to go out now?” Rahul asked. “Why was I blacked out just a few hours ago?”

Madhavan smiled. “Not hours—three days. Your body panicked after emergence—sudden changes. Needed twenty-four-hour rest; you took seventy-two. Vitals are stable. You’re free to go. Do whatever you want, but remember: return by day 89.”



“Thanks,” Rahul murmured—voice deeper, clearer, youthful timbre laced with old bitterness.


Madhavan nodded. “Shouldn’t let you out. But when you volunteered… I realized it wasn’t just 30 lakhs. Task? Goal? Revenge? Whatever—I won’t ask. Win-win: you get what you want; I get real-time data. This cash is bonus.”


Rahul looked at him, he thought he was just a mad scientist but he analyzed him without saying.. best part he didn't ask what it bothers him that he risked himself with experiement. 

Madhavan looked at him and said. 

“Real-time test,” he added with a grin. “Let’s see what you do with it.”

Ravi got him all the clothes, files he needed, 20 mins later all set for him to leave the lab. he noted all tablets, took and kept in the bag. 

Rahul turned, hugged him impulsively. “Thanks. I won’t forget you.” Madhavan handed a new phone and SIM. “Contact via this.” 


Another hug—then Rahul departed.


Warehouse door clanged shut like a coffin lid. Ravi lingered by dented Mercedes, frowning. “Why send him? Should observe.”


Madhavan adjusted cap, sly grin. “Best data from the wild. Keep him here? Idle—no work, no physical stress. I want real world: fights, junk food, sex.

Day 89—we’ll see side effects is there or not. In case of Failure? If his Body betrays him first. We wont have any tag, he would never have any link with us as his fate would end outside our lab. But if he survives Ninety days. Our experiement and finding will flourish and rule the glam world and elite world”



Rahul walked away, envelope tucked in borrowed jacket. Mumbai dawn hummed—honking autos, chaiw,.'s, distant trains. Eyes followed him—women glancing twice, men sizing the tall stranger. Old body invisible; this one commanded space.

He headed to his old PG room first. He tried to open the door with the key. Hearing the noise, An old neighbor opened, squinted. “Who’re you? This is Rahul’s room—how’d you get the key?”

Rahul froze—new face. “I’m his relative. He gave me the key.”

Doubt flickered. “Rahul’s missing—accident rumor. You a thief pretending?”

Others gathered, murmuring. Rahul backed off—no convincing without risk. He feared if his new mask will be revealed out. Walked away fast.

Hailed auto to cheap Andheri lodge—cash, no questions. Dim bathroom mirror: new hero reborn. Fair skin smooth/radiant, high cheekbones sharp, full lips in natural half-smile. Intense dark eyes burned with rooftop rage, now youth-framed—no bags, no dullness. Short wavy black hair fell right, light stubble edged without aging. Shirt clung to defined pecs/shoulders; pants hugged narrow hips/strong thighs.
Stripped shirtless—abs rippled, V-lines to cock stirring at reflection. Hard, thick, ready. Gripped sink, knuckles white.

“Anandhi,” whispered. “You thought I was done. Watch me now.”

He turned the shower on full blast. Hot water cascaded over skin that felt electrified—every droplet hit like a fingertip, nerves singing louder than before. The new body was hypersensitive: water tracing down his chest made his nipples tighten instantly, the stream running over his abs felt like teasing tongues. His cock surged harder than he’d ever known—thicker, heavier, veins pulsing visibly, head already slick and flushed deep red. It throbbed with a power that bordered on painful, lifting straight up against his stomach without needing a single stroke.

He wrapped his fist around it—skin hotter, smoother, grip tighter than memory. First stroke drew a low groan from his throat. Sensitivity was insane; every ridge of his fingers sent sparks straight to his balls. He closed his eyes and let the fantasies flood.
Started with a Bollywood actress—some curvy item girl from last year’s hit song—imagining her oiled body grinding on him. But within seconds the vision twisted, replaced by the one face he couldn’t escape.

Anandhi.
Not the video version. His version. The one he owned.

He saw her flushed cheeks exactly as in the fake clip, eyes half-lidded in surrender, long black hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. But now she was looking up at him—young him—mouth open in that same gasp he knew too well. Her 34D breasts heaved, nipples dark and stiff, the same heavy curves he used to worship. Saree bunched cruelly at her waist, meaty hips rolling up desperately, thighs trembling as they locked around his new, stronger waist. Nails digging into his shoulders the exact way they once did—except now she was begging the younger, harder man who could fuck her senseless for hours.

He stroked faster. The new cock felt unbreakable—staying rock-hard even after the first edge, recovery instant. Pre-cum leaked in thick strands, mixing with shower water. He imagined her voice—those soft, rhythmic moans turning sharp and broken as he slammed deep: “Rahul… oh no, Rahul… harder…” Her legs pulling him in exactly like the video, but this time for him, her husband, the man she thought she’d lost.

His hips bucked into his fist on their own. Balls drew up tight. The orgasm hit like a freight train—stronger, longer, more violent than anything in his old body. Thick ropes of cum painted the shower wall, pulse after pulse, and still his cock stayed iron-hard, ready for round two in seconds. The sensitivity made every aftershock feel like a mini-climax.

He leaned against the tiles, breathing ragged, water still pouring. No shame. Only sharper hunger.

This body wasn’t just young. It was built for revenge.


After the bath and the release, Rahul’s mind sharpened.


His plan was simple: Go to the town, befriend Anandhi under a new identity, tell her he’s Rahul’s distant relative. When she’s alone and vulnerable, seduce her. A bitch like her will crave new cock—she’ll succumb. Fuck her mercilessly, then reveal the truth: she just fucked her own husband.

Before the shock fades, ridicule her—tell her he’s young and prime again while she’s aged, out of trend, no match for his energy. Then expose her to the town: let them whisper that Anandhi got fucked by a young stranger for a few thousand rupees. She’ll beg them to believe the young man is her husband; he’ll deny it and walk away laughing.

Perfect humiliation.

But the kids… Riya’s drawings, Rohan’s chatter. Dragging them into adult filth would shatter their peace. He felt a stab of guilt—real guilt. So he adjusted: seduce her, fuck her, reveal the truth, humiliate her at least inside four walls. No public spectacle. Not yet.

One thing stayed locked: he would make her come undone for him again. And she would never see it coming.



He dressed—fitted black shirt, slim jeans, sneakers from a street stall. Contacted Madhavan’s guy—voicemail: “Out south for marriage function. Back in a week.”

Roadblock.

Rahul stared at the new phone for three seconds, then opened the booking app.
He booked a flight to Chennai—leaving in four hours. One-way. Cash. The ID contact was somewhere down south anyway; might as well chase him there, get the papers sorted, then disappear into the town as Rahul himself.

Ninety days. Day 4 ticking.

He grabbed his bag, stepped out into the humid afternoon, and didn’t look back.
Revenge time had officially begun.

[heygiwriter]

Seriously, do you have any work apart from writing?

How do you manage?

I don't get time to read only.

I used to write full day in weekends, then 2 hours in the evening.  2 Hours in the morning. if not full writing i will make sure get some draft done quick pointers. Weekly once i can take leave :) More than any thing i have passion for writing, which push me behind all odds, when i feel I'm appreciated with the comments it drives me to do more.  But little hectic to balance passion (writing) and work - the regular life. But when some say they feel good to read my stories, i feel its worth spending the time on it :)

[heygiwriter]

What an absolutely phenomenal start to this new story! The concept is completely unique, and right from these first three updates, it is crystal clear that we are in for an incredibly thrilling journey—just like the unforgettable experiences you gave us in your previous stories!!

What truly sets you apart from other writers, and what I admire most, is your determination, passion, and unparalleled discipline—It is remarkably rare to find an author who can deliver regular, consistent updates without ever compromising on the quality of the writing. Managing to balance that consistency with top-tier storytelling is a massive achievement and truly commendable.

Because of your dedication, the reading momentum never drops, and we are constantly super excited for the next chapter. Your story and its characters play on a continuous loop in our( Readers)minds all day long, leaving us eagerly waiting for what happens next.
Keeping readers in such a constant state of anticipation is a huge testament to your brilliance as an author.

I do have one small request, but only if you feel it naturally fits your vision. If you could delve into a bit more detail during the Intimate / Sex scenes, it would truly add magic to the story. Furthermore, incorporating some bold, dirty dialogues during those ( Sex/ Intimate )moments would be the absolute icing on the cake. It would elevate the eroticism to a whole new level and make the experience sky-high. Of course, this is just a humble request from a reader—you are the creator and you know what's best.

Best wishes,

Regards,
Rocky ❤️

Points are taken :)

[heygiwriter]

What an absolutely phenomenal start to this new story! The concept is completely unique, and right from these first three updates, it is crystal clear that we are in for an incredibly thrilling journey—just like the unforgettable experiences you gave us in your previous stories!!

What truly sets you apart from other writers, and what I admire most, is your determination, passion, and unparalleled discipline—It is remarkably rare to find an author who can deliver regular, consistent updates without ever compromising on the quality of the writing. Managing to balance that consistency with top-tier storytelling is a massive achievement and truly commendable.

Because of your dedication, the reading momentum never drops, and we are constantly super excited for the next chapter. Your story and its characters play on a continuous loop in our( Readers)minds all day long, leaving us eagerly waiting for what happens next.
Keeping readers in such a constant state of anticipation is a huge testament to your brilliance as an author.

I do have one small request, but only if you feel it naturally fits your vision. If you could delve into a bit more detail during the Intimate / Sex scenes, it would truly add magic to the story. Furthermore, incorporating some bold, dirty dialogues during those ( Sex/ Intimate )moments would be the absolute icing on the cake. It would elevate the eroticism to a whole new level and make the experience sky-high. Of course, this is just a humble request from a reader—you are the creator and you know what's best.

Best wishes,

Regards,
Rocky ❤️

Points are taken :)

[heygiwriter]

 A work that is going invade your body and mind. Story is definitely immersive. Compelling & riveting.

Thanks bro :)

[heygiwriter]

Nic wife is enjoying let ahe get same medice husband should give no divorce let her give lermission to enjoy bit cut all his income coming make the hell life of all womens and mens who are supporting him and enjoy infrunt of every one but dont tuch him

Dont predict my story with initial setups :) but i can ensure a nice read hopefully

[heygiwriter]

Chapter 5: Rahul reached the town and a glimpse of truth arrived!

Rahul’s mind roared with plans as the plane touched down in Chennai and he slid into the back of a battered white Innova cab. The driver barely glanced at the tall, lean stranger in the fitted black shirt—another young face in a city full of them. Four hours of dusty roads stretched ahead: swaying palms, rattling bullock carts, the occasional gleaming temple spire flashing past like forgotten promises. Rahul stared at his reflection in the smudged windowpane. White skin sharp and glowing again, beard neatly trimmed, jawline carved like a blade. Pride swelled in his chest, tight and hot, pressing against his ribs until it felt ready to burst.

“She’ll see who the real man is now,” he thought, a wicked grin curving his lips. Visions flooded him, raw and relentless: cornering Anandhi in their cramped flat, pinning her against the peeling wall, one hand fisted in her black hair while the other yanked her saree pallu down. He’d punish her body until her screams echoed off the walls—hard, deep, merciless—then break her mind until every lie she’d ever told shattered like glass. “Not my job to fix her sense,” he muttered under his breath. “Perfect revenge. Inside four walls. She’ll beg, and I’ll laugh.”


The cab rolled deeper into the small town, dust swirling around the tires like a gritty halo. They passed her college—a squat yellow building with faded walls and a creaking iron gate. Rahul’s pulse spiked.


“Slow down,” he told the driver.
There she stood.
Anandhi.


Beneath the merciless noon sun, her soft cream saree swayed gently in the breeze, clinging just enough to hint at the curves he once worshipped. Black hair pinned back in a tight, practical bun, a few rebellious strands kissing her fair neck. White skin caught the light like polished marble. A textbook pressed to her chest as she spoke to a cluster of students, her voice carrying faintly on the wind—calm, patient, the same tone she once used with him after the kids slept.


Rahul lifted his phone, zoomed in. Her 34D breast rose and fell with each breath, the modest blouse straining just enough to remind him exactly how heavy those breasts felt in his palms. The pallu slipped a fraction as she gestured, exposing the soft curve of her waist.

“Bitch,” he breathed, “I’m coming. I’ll teach you a lesson today.”

Outside she guarded herself like a fortress—modest teacher, loyal wife in everyone’s eyes. But behind four walls? She would loosen everything. Her saree. Her will. Her lies. He’d strip it all.


A phone ring sliced through the cab’s stale air.

Sam’s name glowed on the cracked screen.

Rahul froze. His grin faltered mid-curve. He had planned to swing by Sam’s office first—a kilometer up the narrow lane—surprise the old friend with this new face, then hatch the perfect slut-shaming plan together. But Sam had beaten him to it.


Rahul ducked lower in the worn leather seat, pressed thephone to his ear, and dropped his voice to a gravelly murmur. “Hi, Sam.”

He still wanted to continue the surprise of his arrival and looks, he just wanted to test what will be their reaction seeing him young.. So He kept his arrival hidden in the call... just ten more minutes of drive, he will reach sams office, let that remain a sweet surprise. He thought 

Sam’s voice crackled through, urgent and jagged with a strange, almost gleeful edge. “Sent you a video. Watch it. Right now.”

Rahul tapped play.

His heart slammed against his ribs.
There she was again.
Anandhi.

Kneeling on a rumpled hotel bed in a dimly lit room, lips stretched wide around a thick cock. Steady. Deliberate. Hungry. The man was John—their old college mate, tall and wiry, mop of dark hair slick with sweat. His hands gripped her bun, guiding her head deeper, hips rolling lazily as her black hair spilled loose over her shoulders. Wet, obscene sounds leaked from the speaker—sucking, slurping, soft gagging.


Another clip loaded automatically.

John now stroking her breasts. Saree slipped off one shoulder, blouse hooks undone, those heavy 34D curves spilling free—dark nipples stiff and glistening. His palms kneaded them roughly while Anandhi’s head bobbed faster, moans pouring out raw and breathless, exactly the same pitch Rahul remembered from their honeymoon nights.


Rahul’s breath caught. A shiver of pure rage twisted with dark, unwanted lust raced through his veins like wildfire. His new cock stirred instantly—thickening against his thigh, hypersensitive from the morning’s shower test, veins pulsing as if the body itself remembered the betrayal.


He snapped upright. “Driver—go buy biscuits. Now.”

The cab door clicked shut as the man shuffled toward a roadside stall, leaving Rahul alone with the phone pressed hard enough to dig into his palm.

“When?” he demanded, voice hoarse. “How John is there?”

Sam’s reply came fast, sharp as a blade. “Long story. It happend just few minutes, back, they are still invovled in the sex in the room. Longgerald Hotel, thirty kilometers from town. Room boy rigged a spy cam—sent me the visuals. I’m downstairs in the lobby right now, watching.”


Rahul’s eyes flicked back to the collegeyard.
Anandhi was still there.

Saree fluttering as she waved off the last students, laughing softly, radiant under the same sun that now burned his skin. 


Thirty kilometers away? Right now?


The cab idled, engine purring low. Outside, the town bustled: a fruit vendor hawking mangoes in a nasal shout - Mango Mango - 3 Mango for 50 Rupees , a rickshaw horn blaring, a stray dog nosing through dust. 

But Rahul’s world narrowed to the phone screen—Anandhi here, Right before his eyes in the college. 

But Sam says, Anandhi there, still involved in sex, John’s hands on her tits, her moans, the timing that refused to add up.

“Fresh? I mean they are in sex few minutes back?” he repeated, gut twisting.

Sam’s glee rang hollow through the speaker. “Very fresh. You should see her face when she swallows.”

Doubt flickered for the first time—tiny, razor-sharp. Lying? Or how is this…  possible?
Rage roared louder.



Raul mind blanked.  
The driver trudged back, biscuits rustling in a plastic bag.
Rahul barely noticed.
His mind churned like a storm.
What is the truth What is the lie, how could sam say she is in hotel, but she is here.. then what about the video ?

Sam continued -- Rahul are you there.. 

Rahul ear listened.. and a background noise alerted him... 

“Mango, mango! 3 Mango for 50 Rupees”—that vendor’s shout echoed in his memory - 5 minutes ago, crossing this street, Is now audible from Sam's Phone. 

Sam’s office is just a kilometer away .. 


Rahul quickly connected the dots.. Shit - [i]Shit - He’s lying  , he had been lying...[/i]