Adultery Like, Comment, Share

[Sengolan]

This is the third attempt. This is going to be a really quick and short one. The story has just 3 parts. Hope ou like this and follow the story's title. 

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The photograph stuck to the refrigerator with a sunflower magnet was nineteen years old. Sudha knew this because the silk saree she wore in it—a deep emerald green with gold zari—had frayed at the edges by now, retired to the back of her closet. In the picture, she stood on a makeshift stage at her college’s fashion show, one hand on her hip, the other lifted in a graceful mudra. The judges had called her *"the girl with the dancer’s poise."* That was the last time anyone had paid her that kind of attention.


"You should post this," Ravi said, leaning against the kitchen counter while she chopped onions for dinner. He’d come over to borrow cumin seeds again—the third time this week—and lingered, as he always did, flipping through the loose albums on her shelf. "Seriously, *aunty*, you were a knockout. People would go crazy for a throwback like this."


Sudha wiped her hands on her apron, laughing. "Don’t be silly. That was a lifetime ago." But she didn’t stop him when he took out his phone and snapped a picture of the photograph.


Her cooking videos had been Ravi’s idea too. *"Just prop your phone up near the stove,"* he’d said, *"everyone loves food content."* She’d done it reluctantly, filming herself making tamarind rice or peeling mangoes with quick, practiced fingers. The views were pitiful—twenty-seven, mostly from bots—but Ravi kept insisting she needed better lighting, better angles. *"Your hands are gorgeous,* aunty,* but no one cares about the* sabzi *unless they can see your face."*


Sudha didn’t realize Ravi had posted the old modeling photo until her phone buzzed with a notification late that night. *47 likes.* Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t seen numbers like that since college. The comments were worse—*Who is this goddess?* and *More please!*—each one making her fingers tremble as she scrolled. She almost deleted it. Almost. But then Ravi’s text popped up: *Told you. Now imagine if we took new ones.*


The next morning, she found him waiting by her hibiscus plants, camera slung around his neck. "Wear something nice today," he said, grinning. "The light’s perfect." She pretended to hesitate, but an hour later, she was standing in her living room in a peach chiffon saree, the pallu dbangd carefully over her shoulder. Ravi’s fingers brushed her wrist as he adjusted her stance. "Relax your shoulders," he murmured. "Think of it like dancing."


The photos were stunning. Sudha barely recognized herself—the way the silk clung to her hips, the sunlight catching the curve of her neck. Ravi uploaded them to her account with a coy caption: *Old habits…* Within minutes, her follower count ticked upward. By evening, a boutique in Bangalore had messaged her: *We’d love to collaborate.* Her husband snorted when she told him over dinner. "What’s next, endorsing pan masala?" he said, reaching for the remote.


The rejection stung, but Ravi was already plotting their next move. "Sarees are classic," he said, sprawled on her couch while she folded laundry, "but modern looks get more engagement." He showed her accounts of women in fitted anarkalis, their midriffs bare, their dupattas sheer. Sudha’s face burned. "I’m not twenty anymore," she said. Ravi’s laugh was warm. "You’re better. You’re real."


The boutique sent three packages the following week—silver-threaded anarkalis with plunging necklines, chiffon dupattas that floated like smoke, and a pair of palazzo pants so tight Sudha had to lie down to zip them up. "They’re *sample sizes*," Ravi said, shaking his head when she struggled, but his fingers lingered a beat too long on the small of her back as he helped her stand. The mirror didn’t lie: the fabric hugged her waist, the deep vee of the neckline drawing the eye downward. She looked like a woman who knew things.


Ravi’s camera shutter clicked relentlessly that afternoon—Sudha twirling in the courtyard, the dupatta slipping off one shoulder; Sudha leaning against the neem tree, sunlight dappling her bare midriff. He didn’t mention the way her breath hitched when his palm brushed her hip to adjust the dbang, or how she caught him staring at the shadow between her breasts when she bent to pick up a fallen hairpin. The photos went up with a hashtag: *#MidlifeMuse.* By midnight, her DMs were flooded.


Her husband noticed the packages. "More *costumes*?" he asked, toeing a discarded garment bag. Sudha folded the delicate tissue paper back over a sequined blouse. "It’s for the boutique," she said, too quickly. He grunted, scrolling through cricket scores. "Just don’t embarrass me." The words prickled, but Ravi’s text vibrated in her pocket: *Wait till you see the edits. You’re viral.*


The next shoot was bolder. Ravi arrived with a garment box tied with black ribbon. Inside: a translucent georgette saree, the blouse nothing but two triangles of fabric and strings. "It’s *art*," he insisted, tracing the outline of a Raja Ravi Varma print on his phone—a devadasi with bare shoulders, her sari slung low on her hips. Sudha’s fingers trembled on the silk. "I can’t—" Ravi pressed closer. "No face. Just your back. Like a classical painting." The lie came easily: "I’m helping Ravi with a college project," she told her husband, clutching the box to her chest.




Sudha stood in front of her bedroom mirror, the georgette saree pooled at her feet like liquid moonlight. The blouse—if it could even be called that—was two flimsy triangles of fabric held together by strings so thin they bit into her skin. She exhaled sharply when Ravi’s fingers brushed her spine to tie the final knot. "Relax," he murmured, his breath warm against her nape. "It’s just us." The lie tasted sweet.


They shot in her garden at dusk, the fading light turning her skin to gold. Ravi positioned her beneath the frangipani tree, its fallen blossoms sticking to her bare feet. "Arch your back," he directed, adjusting the sari’s pallu so it slipped precariously off one shoulder. The fabric was sheer enough that every time she moved, the outline of her hips shimmered through. Sudha’s pulse hammered as the shutter clicked—each flash feeling less like photography and more like surrender.


The edits Ravi showed her that night were obscene in their artistry. Her back, glistening with sweat where the sari dipped low; the curve of her waist accentuated by shadows; the hint of her bare thighs where the dbang parted. He’d filtered them in sepia tones, making her look like a relic from some erotic temple frieze. "See?" Ravi zoomed in on a close-up of her shoulder blades, the strings of the blouse cutting into her flesh. "No face. Just *art*." Sudha’s throat went dry when he uploaded them to the new, secret account. Within minutes, the notifications exploded.


Her husband was away on business when Ravi proposed the waterfall shoot. "Natural lighting," he said, tracing the route on his phone with a fingertip. "And no one goes there on weekdays." Sudha packed the translucent saree and a towel, her stomach twisting with something between dread and anticipation. She didn’t ask why two of Ravi’s college friends—a lanky boy with a video camera and a bearded guy carrying reflectors—joined them in the car.


The waterfall was louder than Sudha expected—a thunderous rush that drowned out her nervous laughter as Ravi’s friends scrambled over rocks to set up their equipment. The lanky one, Arjun, kept adjusting his tripod with jittery fingers, while the bearded guy, Vikram, unfurled a silver reflector with the ease of someone who’d done this before. "Relax, *aunty*," Ravi whispered, pressing a bottle of water into her clammy hands. "It’s just like the garden. Only wetter." His grin was too bright, too knowing.

[Sengolan]

bumping up for attention

[Supercunt]

Fantastic narration waiting for the other parts. Unfortunately a lot of people here might not follow the level of English being used here. But I am thoroughly enjoying every line of it.
Please go on and write more and more stories like this.

[Sengolan]

She changed behind a cluster of ferns, the translucent saree clinging to her skin before she’d even stepped into the spray. The blouse—if it could still be called that—was reduced to a few strategic knots, leaving her midriff bare and her back completely exposed. Sudha caught her reflection in a still pool and nearly turned back. But then Ravi called her name, his voice cutting through the roar of water, and something in her spine straightened.



The first few shots were tame—Sudha perched on a mossy rock, the saree dbangd demurely over one shoulder. But then Vikram murmured something about "authentic tribalism," and Ravi’s eyes lit up. "Yes! Like *this*," he said, demonstrating how to hitch the fabric higher on her thighs. Sudha’s face burned, but the camera shutter was already clicking, capturing the way the wet silk plastered itself to her curves. Arjun’s video camera whirred softly from a nearby ledge, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he zoomed in.


It was Vikram who suggested removing the pallu entirely. "For the *aesthetic*," he said, tapping his phone to show her a black-and-white reference—some tribal portrait from the 1920s. Sudha hesitated, her fingers tightening on the slippery fabric. Ravi leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe. "No face," he reminded her. "Just lines. Just *art*." The lie was flimsier now, but the way his friends stared—like she was something rare, something *hungered for*—made her exhale sharply and let the pallu drop.


The pallu slithered down Sudha’s arms like a living thing, pooling at her feet in the shallow water. The sudden exposure made her skin prickle, but the way Vikram’s breath hitched and Arjun’s grip tightened on his camera steadied her. Ravi didn’t speak—just circled her slowly, his lens capturing every tremor of her bare shoulders, the way her nipples peaked under the wet, translucent fabric. "Turn," he murmured, and she obeyed, the saree now clinging to her hips like a second skin, the dip of her lower back fully visible.


Vikram stepped closer with the reflector, angling the light so it traced the curve of her spine. "Arch again," he said, his voice rough. "Like you’re offering yourself to the waterfall." Sudha’s laugh came out shaky, but she bent forward, the saree gaping at her chest. The camera shutters clicked faster. She could feel their eyes on her—not just admiring, but *consuming*. Arjun’s video camera zoomed in on the droplets rolling down her collarbone; Vikram’s fingers twitched like he wanted to brush them away himself.


Ravi’s hand settled on her waist, warm against her chilled skin. "One more," he said, his thumb stroking the sensitive dip above her hipbone. "Let the saree go." Sudha’s breath caught. The fabric was all that remained between her and complete nakedness. But the hunger in their stares was intoxicating. She loosened her grip, letting the waterfall’s pull do the rest. The silk whispered away, swirling in the current around her ankles. For a heartbeat, she stood there—bare, trembling, *seen*—before the cameras erupted.


The ride back was quieter. Sudha sat wrapped in a towel, the adrenaline ebbing into a dull throb between her thighs. Arjun kept sneaking glances at her in the rearview mirror, while Vikram fiddled with his phone, presumably editing the raw footage. Ravi’s knee pressed against hers, deliberate. "You were incredible," he said, low enough that only she could hear. The promise in his voice was unmistakable.


The edits from the waterfall shoot arrived in a password-protected folder titled "*Art_Ref_DoNotShare*"—a joke that made Sudha's stomach flutter when Ravi winked while typing it in. She'd expected grainy stills, but what filled the screen took her breath away: her body transformed into something mythic. The water cascading over her shoulders looked like liquid silver; the sheer saree clinging to her thighs resembled molten glass. Vikram had added a grainy filter that made her skin glow like polished sandstone, and Arjun's video cuts were interwoven with close-ups of her fingers gripping rocks, her lips parting in surprise when the cold spray hit her bare back.


Ravi watched her reaction from the edge of her bed, his knee bouncing. "Wait for the last one," he murmured. The final image loaded slowly—a wide shot of Sudha standing waist-deep in the pool, the saree dissolved into the current, her back arched and arms outstretched like a temple carving come to life. The caption beneath it read: *Devadasi Series No. 3 - Offerings.* Her throat went dry. "This is..." Ravi's fingers brushed her wrist. "The most beautiful thing I've ever shot."


They didn't discuss the way his hand lingered when he passed her the wineglass later, or how her toes curled when he described the DMs flooding their secret account—*$500 for a custom clip, a boutique in Dubai asking for a collab, a filmmaker from Mumbai requesting a "test shoot."* Sudha sipped her chardonnay, the crispness doing nothing to cool the heat pooling low in her belly. "And... the others?" she asked. Ravi's grin was all teeth. "Vikram wants to try a beach set. Says the saltwater will make your skin *glow.*"


The beach was a three-hour drive, far enough that Sudha packed an overnight bag with trembling hands. She told her husband she was visiting a cousin—a lie that came easier now, lubricated by the thrill of the last shoot. Ravi picked her up at dawn, his car already crowded with equipment and the scent of sunscreen. Arjun fiddled with a drone in the backseat, while Vikram passed her a coconut water bottle laced with something that tasted faintly of gin. "For the nerves," he said, his beard scratching her cheek when he leaned in. The buzz settled in her fingertips by the time they reached the shoreline.


The beach was deserted except for a lone fisherman dragging his net along the tide line, his silhouette shrinking as the sun climbed higher. Vikram led them to a crescent-shaped cove shielded by jagged black rocks, already unfurling a large muslin cloth over the sand. "Natural backdrop," he announced, kicking off his sandals. Arjun launched the drone with a whirring buzz, its camera lens glinting like a predatory insect. Sudha clutched her bag tighter, the coconut water’s warmth now a slow pulse in her veins.


Ravi handed her a gauzy, sea-green saree with no blouse—just a single string of pearls meant to loop around her neck and dbang between her breasts. "Tribal fisherwoman concept," he explained, his fingers brushing hers as he passed the fabric. "Think *raw*, think *elemental*." Sudha’s laugh came out breathless. The last time she’d been topless in daylight was nursing her son nineteen years ago. But the drone’s shadow circled overhead, and Vikram was already adjusting his lens with a focus that made her skin prickle.


She changed behind a wind-whipped palm frond, the pearls cool against her collarbones. The saree slithered through her fingers like living seaweed, barely covering her hips when she stepped onto the hot sand. Ravi inhaled sharply. "*Perfect*," he breathed, circling her with his phone already snapping test shots. The wind tugged at the loose end of the saree, threatening to unravel her completely. Sudha clutched at it instinctively, but Vikram shook his head. "Let it go. The movement is the story."


Arjun’s drone dipped lower, capturing the moment the wind won—the fabric billowing away like a departing ghost, leaving Sudha standing in nothing but pearls and the salt-sting of the surf. Her arms flew up to cover herself, but Ravi caught her wrists. "Don’t," he murmured, his thumbs stroking her pulse points. "This is what they want. What *you* want." The truth of it shuddered through her as the cameras closed in.


The first shots were almost clinical—Sudha standing ankle-deep in the surf, the pearls glistening against her sun-warmed skin, the wind teasing strands of hair across her face. Vikram directed her with quiet precision: "Turn your hips toward the light," and "Let the waves hit your thighs—yes, just there." But when Arjun landed the drone for a battery change, Ravi waded into the water beside her, his fingers trailing down her spine to adjust the pearl strand. "They're losing their minds in the DMs already," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. The camera shutter clicked, capturing her sharp intake of breath.


By noon, the gauzy saree was abandoned on a rock, salt-crusted and forgotten. Sudha knelt in the wet sand at Vikram's suggestion, her thighs pressing into the cool grains as he framed her against the horizon. "Arch back," he instructed, his voice rougher now. "Like you're reaching for the tide." The pearls dragged between her breasts as she obeyed, the drone's shadow circling like a hungry gull overhead. Arjun's breath hitched audibly when the first wave splashed up her bare stomach, soaking the pearls until they clung to her like a second skin.


Ravi was the one who untied them. "For the finale," he said, his fingers lingering at the nape of her neck where the clasp dug in. The pearls slithered off with a quiet plop into the surf, leaving Sudha bare under the white-hot sun. For a heartbeat, no one moved—then Vikram's reflector angled to catch the light along her dripping collarbones, and the spell broke. Sudha had never felt more exposed, yet the way their lenses devoured her made her thighs press together instinctively. Not from shame, but from the liquid heat pooling low in her belly.

The sun dipped low, painting the beach in molten gold as Vikram adjusted his tripod with deliberate slowness. "Last set," he announced, though his eyes never left the way Sudha's fingers trembled around her drink. Ravi's hand slid higher up her thigh beneath the umbrella's striped shadow, his thumb circling the sensitive skin just above her knee. "They want to see you at sunset," he murmured, lips grazing her earlobe. "Wet. Golden." Sudha's breath hitched when Arjun's drone whirred to life again, its camera lens reflecting her flushed cheeks.



She stood without speaking, the sarong they'd given her slipping the moment the sea breeze caught it. This time, she didn't reach to cover herself. The salt air prickled against her bare skin as she waded into the shallows, the waves foaming around her ankles like eager mouths. Behind her, three shutters clicked in unison. Sudha closed her eyes, letting the water lick higher—knees, thighs, the curve of her hips—until the cold shock of it against her overheated skin made her gasp. The sound was lost under Vikram's gruff "Perfect. Just like that."


Ravi joined her in the water, his cargo shorts darkening with seawater as he positioned himself behind her. "Lean back," he instructed, hands spanning her waist. Sudha arched instinctively, her shoulder blades meeting his chest as he guided her into the sinking sun. The cameras went wild. She could feel him hardening against the small of her back, his breath ragged in her ear. Neither acknowledged it aloud, but when Vikram called for a close-up, Ravi's fingers dug into her hips just enough to leave moon-shaped marks.


Dinner was a blur of grilled fish and too much wine. Sudha counted three empty bottles before realizing she'd lost track of who kept refilling her glass. The beachside shack's lanterns cast swinging shadows across their faces—Arjun's nervous laughter, Vikram's heavy-lidded stare, Ravi's knowing smirk as his foot traced her calf beneath the table. "We got a villa," he said casually, spinning his phone to show her the booking confirmation. "For the morning shoot." The photo showed a private infinity pool overlooking the sea, its deck strewn with what looked like silk cushions and tripods. Sudha's pulse throbbed in her wrists.


The villa was cooler than Sudha expected, marble floors whispering underfoot as she trailed Ravi through the arched doorway. Vikram had already set up reflectors near the pool, their silver surfaces catching the dawn light like discarded mirrors. Arjun fumbled with his drone charger near the lounge chairs, his ears pink when Sudha’s borrowed sarong—a flimsy thing Ravi had produced from his backpack—slipped slightly with each step. "Sleep well?" Ravi asked, his fingers brushing the small of her back as he guided her toward the infinity pool. The lie came easily: "Like a baby."


The morning shoot began with Sudha waist-deep in the pool, the water so clear her bare legs shimmered like pale coral beneath the surface. Vikram directed her with quiet intensity—"Tilt your chin up," and "Let the water kiss your collarbones"—while Arjun’s drone circled overhead like a curious insect. Ravi waded in beside her, his cargo shorts clinging to his thighs as he adjusted a floating silk dbang around her hips. "This’ll look like sea foam in the shots," he murmured, his knuckles grazing the inside of her thigh as he arranged the fabric. Sudha’s breath hitched, but the cameras were already clicking.


By noon, the silk dbang had drifted away, forgotten near the pool’s edge. Sudha reclined on the submerged ledge, the water lapping at her bare breasts as Vikram crouched at the poolside for a low-angle shot. "Arch your back," he instructed, his voice rougher than usual. She obeyed, the sun warming her nipples just as Ravi’s hand slid beneath the water to cradle the dip of her spine. "Gorgeous," he breathed, his thumb stroking the sensitive hollow above her tailbone. The drone buzzed closer, capturing the way her toes curled against the tiles.


Lunch was served on the villa’s terrace—fresh fruit, chilled wine, and a platter of grilled prawns that no one touched. Arjun scrolled through the morning’s footage on his laptop, his Adam’s apple bobbing when Sudha reached for a gbang and the sarong gaped open. Vikram poured her a third glass of wine, his calloused fingers lingering on her wrist. "The light’s better after siesta," he said, though his eyes never left the way the wine stained her lips. Ravi’s knee pressed against hers under the table, warm and insistent.


The sarong came off entirely after the third glass of wine, slipping from Sudha's shoulders when she leaned forward to examine Arjun's laptop screen. The footage made her breath catch—her own body moving like liquid under the drone's gaze, the water cascading off her hips in slow motion. Ravi's hand settled on her bare thigh beneath the table, his fingers tracing idle circles. "Told you," he murmured against her temple. "You're *art*."


Vikram cleared his throat, adjusting the reflector angled toward the pool. "We should try the underwater shots before sunset." His voice was steady, but his gaze lingered on the wine dribbling down Sudha's chin before she wiped it away. Arjun fumbled with his camera settings, the lens cap clattering to the tiles. Ravi's grin was a slow, wicked thing as he stood, pulling Sudha up with him. "Let's make it *immersive*," he said, his thumb brushing the crest of her hipbone.


The pool steps were cool underfoot as Sudha descended, the water rising to her waist, then her ribs, each inch of exposure met with the hungry click of shutters. Vikram positioned himself at the edge, his camera trained on the way her nipples peaked in the breeze. "Dunk under," he directed, his voice hoarse. "Let the water take you." Sudha inhaled sharply and obeyed, sinking until the world above dissolved into wavering sunlight. When she surfaced, gasping, Ravi was in the water with her, his cargo shorts abandoned on the deck. His hands found her waist, turning her toward the cameras. "Again," he whispered, his erection pressing against the small of her back. "For the shot."


They lost count of how many times she submerged—each resurfacing met with Vikram's growl of "Again," or Arjun's frantic zoom adjustments. By the fifth take, Sudha's fingers were pruned, her pulse thrumming in her throat. Ravi's hands never left her skin, guiding her into deeper water where his touch grew bolder—fingers skating up her inner thighs, palms cupping the weight of her breasts as she arched for the cameras. "Perfect," Vikram breathed, his lens capturing the moment Ravi's teeth grazed her shoulder. Sudha's moan was lost in the splash.


The underwater shots blurred into dusk, the pool’s lights casting an eerie glow as Sudha surfaced for what felt like the hundredth time, her muscles trembling with exhaustion and something darker, more insistent. Ravi’s hands lingered at her hips, his breath hot against her neck as Vikram reviewed the footage on his camera screen. "One more," Vikram muttered, his voice rough. "The lighting’s perfect now." Arjun hovered near the edge, his drone forgotten on a lounge chair, his gaze fixed on the way Sudha’s wet hair clung to her shoulders like ink.





The beach picnic was supposed to be for lunch, but the moment the umbrella went up, Ravi's hand found the inside of her knee under the pretense of passing her a sandwich. Arjun pretended to fiddle with his drone battery while watching her toes curl into the towel. Vikram, ever the artist, simply said, "The light's better after sunset," and poured her another drink—something fruity that burned going down. Sudha sipped it slowly, hyperaware of three pairs of eyes tracing the sweat trickling between her breasts.

[opendoor]

Sudha