Misc. Erotica First Night at the Pub (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

First Night at the Pub

By Novelist Casanova 

My name is Rajesh. I am an oil merchant in Bangalore. The shop sits on a busy road near the wholesale market, the smell of groundnut and coconut oil thick in the air from morning till the shutters come down. I started with one small press my father left me and slowly added three more, then the packing unit at the back. Trucks come at night, unload the seeds, leave with tins stacked to the roof. The money comes steady if you watch the rates and do not trust anyone fully.
For years the money went into one thing only. A piece of land I bought outside the city, empty then, with thorn bushes and a half-broken compound wall. I wanted an apartment building of my own. Not a big one, just three floors, six flats, something I could point to and say this is mine. The papers took two years. The approvals took another. Every office had someone who wanted a share. One week the file moved, the next week it disappeared. I sat outside those rooms with the same plastic folder, the same smile, the same envelope ready under the papers.
Santosh and Lydia made it worse. Santosh is my cousin from my mother’s side. He came to Bangalore after his own business failed in the village. I gave him work at the oil shop, a room in the old house, and later a small advance when he said he wanted to start something. Lydia sat in that room and counted every rupee that left my hand. When the apartment work began she started talking. She told relatives I was spending money that should have stayed in the family. She told the neighbours the building would never finish because I had taken loans I could not pay. Santosh would come to the site, stand with his hands on his hips, and point at the pillars.
“This cement is weak,” he would say, loud enough for the workers to hear. “You are wasting everything.”
I cursed them one evening after they left the site. The sky was dark, the workers had gone, and the half-built walls stood around me. I stood alone on the first-floor slab, the dust still on my clothes, and spoke their names. I said the money they took would never stay with them. I said the road they drove on would not keep them. I said it quietly, then louder, until my throat hurt. After that I stopped answering their calls.
They had planned a trip to Vellankanni. Lydia wanted to go for the church festival. Santosh told everyone at the shop he was taking her, that they would stay two nights and return. I did not go. I stayed at the site. Three days later the call came from a security officer station on the highway. They were returning from Vellankanni when a lorry hit their car. Santosh and Lydia both died before the ambulance reached. The relatives who had listened to Lydia’s words now came to the shop and spoke softly. I paid for the last rites from a distance. I did not go.

The construction moved faster after that. I hired a new contractor who did not know Santosh’s name. The pillars went up straight. The slabs were poured on time. I stood on the top floor the day the last roof was finished, the city spread out below, the wind strong enough to move my shirt. The workers asked for a small celebration. I bought chicken and rice and a crate of beer. We ate on the unfinished terrace, legs hanging over the edge. One of the masons said,
“Saar, this building will stand.”
I nodded. My hands were rough from checking the mix myself. My back ached. I was proud.
The flats were ready by the end of the next month. White walls, tiled floors, balconies with simple railings. I kept one flat for myself. The others I locked and waited. On the day I got the occupancy certificate I walked through every room alone, touching the switches, opening the windows, listening to the quiet. Outside, the compound wall was painted, the gate fixed, the name board ready but not yet hung. I stood in the empty hall of my own flat and felt the years of waiting settle. The hurdles were finished. The building was mine.

That night, after the workers left and the building was locked, I sat on the same terrace where we had eaten the chicken. The city noise came up in pieces. I thought of the empty flats, the money still to come, and the clear space left after Santosh and Lydia died. The pride stayed in my chest, solid, like the pillars under my feet.


We stayed in our house across the road while the apartment was still being built. The house was large, two floors with a wide veranda and a separate room for the oil accounts, the same place we had lived since we married. I am an oil merchant. The business has grown. From the upper veranda I could see the construction site every morning. My wife Sudha would come with me most days. She comes from a small village near Madurai. She has lived there all her life until she married me. She is the mother of my three sons. The boys stay with her mother for now. She said she wanted to watch the building rise so she would know every wall before we shifted.
My wife wears a saree every day. Cotton at home, a better silk one when she crosses the road to the site. The petticoat sits low, well below her navel, the way she has always tied it. The pallu stays across her chest or over one shoulder. She does not wear modern clothes. Even in Bangalore she keeps the same style. The gold chain at her neck is thick. The mangalsutra rests between her breasts. Anklets sound on the tiles when she walks through the house and on the concrete when she moves around the pillars.
Her body is full and heavy in the places a man notices. Her breasts are large and soft, the weight of them clear under the blouse even when she stands straight. The blouse is always modest, sleeves to the elbow, but the fabric stretches tight across the upper curve. Her waist is solid, the kind that comes from carrying children and working in a village kitchen. Below that her hips are wide and round. When she turns on the unfinished slab the saree cloth pulls across the full shape of her backside. Her thighs are thick. When she climbs the temporary steps the saree rides a little and the skin above the knee shows, smooth and a little darker than her face. Her hair is long and black, usually tied in a single braid that falls down her back.
She is innocent and naive. She does not understand the way men look. The construction workers would stop their work when she walked past. Their eyes would follow the sway of her hips under the saree, the heavy movement of her breasts when she bent to check a wall, the open line of skin above the low petticoat. They would stare at the place where the blouse pressed tight and at the thick shape of her thighs when the cloth shifted. She never suspected them. She thought they were only watching the work. She would smile a little if one of them nodded, then turn back to the plaster or the pillar lines, her face calm, her eyes clear. She kept her pallu in place the way her mother had taught her and believed that was enough.
She is conservative. She does not speak much to the workers. She keeps her eyes down when strangers look, not because she knows why they look, but because that is how she was raised. In the village she never went to any place after dark except the temple. Bangalore is different for her. She watches the women who pass the site in fitted clothes. She sees the lights of the finished buildings farther down the road. She has an image in her mind of Bangalore high-fi life, the kind she has only seen in film songs. She thinks those places have soft music and people who drink and dance without shame. She has never entered one. She only looks, curious and unaware.
Every morning she would cross the road with me. She would stand near the pillars and check the lines with her eyes while the workers paused behind her. One day she touched a fresh wall and said,
“Rajesh, the plaster is not even here.”
The contractor looked at her, then at me. I told him to redo it. She walked the length of the first floor, the saree clinging to the wide line of her hips, the anklets quiet on the dust. The men watched the full movement of her backside and the way the blouse strained when she raised her arm. She did not notice. She stopped at the open edge where the balcony would come and looked across at our house.
“From here I can see our veranda,” she said.
“Soon we will see it from the other side,” I answered.
She nodded. Her fingers touched the edge of the blouse where it pressed against her breast. She stayed until the workers stopped for tea, still not seeing how their eyes stayed on her. Then she walked back across the road, the pallu held tight, the full shape of her body moving under the silk. She came every day like that until the last slab was poured.


After the main slabs were done I told the contractor to build one more small room on the terrace. It was not in the original plan. The room was simple, four walls, one door, a small window facing away from the road, and a thick mattress on the floor. I said it was for storage. The workers finished it in four days. From the outside it looked like nothing. Inside it was only for us.
My wife was good in bed. Even after three sons her body answered quickly. At night in the old house she would lie on her back, the cotton saree loosened at the waist, the petticoat string already open. Her breasts would spill to the sides, heavy and soft, the nipples dark and tight when I touched them. Her hips would rise on their own once I was inside her. She made small sounds, almost shy, but her thighs would open wide and stay open. She never asked for anything. She only held my shoulders and let me move. After, she would pull the pallu of the saree over her chest again and sleep with her face turned to the wall, breathing slow. I wanted a place where we did not have to be quiet because of the children or the neighbours. The terrace room was for that.
One evening, after the workers left, I took her up. The sun was going down. She walked ahead of me on the unfinished terrace, the dark blue silk saree moving with her wide hips, the anklets soft on the concrete. She stopped at the new door and looked at me.
“What is this room for?” she asked.
“For us,” I said. “Come inside.”
She stepped in. The mattress was already there. She stood in the middle, hands holding the edge of her pallu, looking at the bare walls. Her blouse was tight across her breasts. The low petticoat showed the soft line of her stomach above the waist string. She turned once, the full shape of her backside clear under the silk saree, then looked at me again.
“Here?” she said. Her voice was small. “Someone can see from the other buildings.”
“The window faces the other way,” I answered. “No one will come up.”
She nodded, still holding the pallu. I closed the door. The light from the window fell across her face and the upper curve of her breasts. She did not move until I reached for the pin of her saree. Her fingers loosened on the pallu. She let me unwrap the dark blue silk saree. The saree fell to the floor. Underneath she wore only the blouse and the low petticoat. Her skin was warm. When I opened the blouse hooks her breasts came free, heavy in my hands, the weight of them familiar. She made the same small sound she always made. Her eyes stayed on my face, innocent, waiting. I pushed the petticoat down past her hips. She stepped out of the petticoat and stood naked except for the mangalsutra and the anklets. Her hips were wide. The hair between her thighs was thick and dark. She looked at the mattress, then at me.
“Lie down,” I said.
She lay on her back the way she always did. Her breasts settled to the sides. Her thighs opened without being asked. I knelt between them. She watched me, breathing a little faster, one hand resting on her own stomach. When I entered her she closed her eyes. Her hips rose once, slow, the way they always did. The room was quiet except for the sound of our bodies and the faint noise of the city below. She held my arms and let me move. After, she pulled the fallen dark blue silk saree over herself and lay still, the mangalsutra crooked on her chest, her face calm again. She did not speak. She only looked at the bare ceiling as if she was still learning the room.


The apartment was finished. The last coat of paint dried, the railings were fixed, the name board went up on the gate. I called the priest for the housewarming. We fixed the date for a Sunday. My wife helped with the arrangements from the old house across the road. She folded banana leaves, counted the coconuts, and checked the sweets the cook had made. She wore a deep red silk saree that day, the pallu pinned neatly over her left shoulder, the blouse fitting close across her heavy breasts, the petticoat tied low so the soft line of her stomach showed when she bent. The mangalsutra rested between her breasts. Her anklets sounded on the tiles every time she walked from the kitchen to the veranda.
Guests started arriving by ten. Relatives from my side, a few oil-market people, the contractor and two of his men, neighbours from both sides of the road. The women sat in the hall of the new flat on the plastic chairs we had rented. The men stood on the balcony and near the gate. My wife moved among them with a steel tray, offering turmeric and kumkum, then later the payasam in small steel tumblers. She kept her eyes mostly down. When someone spoke to her she answered softly and moved on. The workers who had built the place looked at her when she passed. Their eyes stayed on the way the red silk saree pulled across her wide hips and on the tight stretch of the blouse. She did not notice. She thought they were only looking at the new walls.
The priest finished the pooja by noon. We broke the coconut at the entrance. Everyone clapped. I stood beside my wife at the door while people came one by one to bless us. She held the edge of her pallu with both hands. Her face was calm. When the last guest left she turned to me on the empty terrace.
“It is really ours now,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered.
She looked at the finished floors, the painted railings, the open sky above the small room we had built. A small smile came on her face. She touched the mangalsutra once, then let her hand fall. The red silk saree moved with her when she walked back inside. The anklets were quiet. We were happy. The hurdles were over. The building stood complete, and she was beside me in it.


We started renting the flats the week after the housewarming. The first tenant was a software couple. They paid three months in advance. The second flat went to a doctor and his family. By the end of the month four flats were occupied. The money came into the account on the fifth of every month, steady. I told my wife the figures one evening. She listened, hands on her lap.
“It is good,” she said. “The building is giving back.”
We were happy. At night the new flat was quiet.
One night she changed into a loose white cotton nighty before bed. The nighty had short sleeves and fell to her knees. She lay down next to me on her side, facing the wall at first, then turned toward me. The light was off. The fan turned slowly. I was already feeling naughty. My hand moved under the nighty and rested on her bare thigh.
“Rajesh,” she said softly, “what are you doing?”
“Just touching,” I answered.
I lifted the white cotton nighty higher, past her hips. She was not wearing anything underneath. Her skin was warm. I slid my fingers along her inner thigh, slow, feeling the soft flesh there. She stayed still. Her breathing changed a little.
“Your inner thigh is soft,” I said. “Warm.”
My fingers moved higher. I touched the outer lips of her pussy, then parted them gently. She was a little wet already. I ran one finger along the slit, then pressed lightly at the entrance.
“Here,” I said. “Your pussy is open a little. Soft inside.”
She made a small sound. Her hand came to my wrist but did not push me away.
“Rajesh… someone will hear,” she whispered.
“No one is here,” I said.
I moved my finger lower, past her pussy, and touched the tight ring of her asshole. She tensed. I circled it slowly with the tip of my finger, not pushing in, just feeling the heat and the small wrinkles of skin.
“And here,” I said. “Your asshole. Tight. You never let me touch it before.”
“It feels strange,” she said. Her voice was shy. “Don’t put inside.”
“I am only touching,” I answered. “Tell me how it feels.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her thighs had opened a little more without her noticing.
“It feels… hot,” she said. “And wrong. But I am not stopping you.”
I kept my finger there, circling, while my other hand stayed on her inner thigh. The white cotton nighty was bunched at her waist. She lay next to me, breathing faster, innocent face turned toward the dark, letting me explore. Outside the window the road was quiet. She did not pull the nighty down.


She turned toward me in the dark. Her hand came up and began brushing my hair, slow strokes from the forehead back. The cotton nighty had stayed bunched at her waist from earlier. Her bare thigh still rested against mine.
“Rajesh,” she said, “I keep thinking about those pubs. I have only seen them in movies. How do they really work? What happens inside?”
“People come in the evening,” I answered. “There is a bar. They order drinks. Music plays loud. Some sit at tables. Some stand. There is a small floor where people dance if they want. The lights stay low so faces are not clear.”
Her fingers kept moving in my hair. She was quiet for a moment, then asked again.
“Do women also go inside?” she said. “What do they do there? I have only seen the songs in movies. Is it the same?”
“Women go,” I said. “They sit with whoever they came with. They drink if they like. They can dance on that floor. No one forces them. They just watch and decide.”
She wanted to know more. Her voice stayed soft but the questions kept coming.
“Is the music very fast? Do people stand very close when they dance? In the movies it looks different. I want to understand how it really is.”
I reached for the hem of the cotton nighty and pulled it upward. She lifted her arms without speaking. I took the nighty off completely and dropped it beside the bed. She was naked now. The mangalsutra lay between her heavy breasts. Her skin was warm. Her wide hips and thick thighs were bare. The hair between her legs was dark.
“You removed it,” she said.
“I want to see you,” I answered.
I lowered my head to her chest. I took one breast in my hand, feeling the full weight, and closed my mouth over the nipple. It was already tight. I sucked slowly, then licked around the dark circle. She made a small sound. Her hand stayed in my hair, still brushing, but slower now.
“Your breasts are heavy,” I said against her skin. “Soft.”
I moved to the other breast and tasted it the same way. She looked down at me, eyes wide.
“It feels good,” she whispered. Then she asked again, still curious. “When people dance, do they hold each other? I have only seen that in movies. Tell me more. I want to know how everything works there.”
She lay naked beside me, breasts wet from my mouth, still asking small questions about the lights and the floor and the way people moved, wanting to understand the place she had only watched in songs. The cotton nighty stayed on the floor. She did not reach for it.
She lay naked beside me, my mouth still on her breast. Her hand had stopped brushing my hair. She was quiet for a moment, then asked again.
“Rajesh,” she said, “how are the women there? What do they look like? Do they sit separate or with men?”
I lifted my head. Her nipple was wet. I kept one hand on the heavy weight of her breast.
“They look like any women,” I answered. “Some wear sarees. Some wear other dresses. There is freedom there. No one tells them where to sit. The mood is romantic. Couples love to hang out. They sit close, talk, hold hands under the table. Lovers go there to romance. They dance slow, bodies touching.”
She listened, eyes on my face. Her thighs were still a little open from earlier.
“Only couples?” she asked. “Only husband and wife?”
“Not only,” I said. “Even just friends. A man and a woman who are not married can hang out there. They talk. They dance. Sometimes they romance also. It happens.”
Her body went still. She pulled the sheet a little higher over her naked hips, though her breasts stayed bare.
“That is wrong,” she said. Her voice was firm. “Friends should not romance. A woman should not let another man touch her like that. It is not correct.”
I moved my hand down her stomach, slow, feeling the soft skin above her navel.
“It is not wrong there,” I said. “In that place the rules are different. People go to feel free. If two friends want to dance close or kiss, no one stops them. The woman decides. If she likes the feeling she stays. If she does not she walks away. No one forces. That is how it works.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her innocent face was serious now.
“But if she is married?” she asked. “Still?”
“Still,” I answered. “Some married women go with friends. Some go with their husbands and still dance with others. The place allows it. The mood is like that. Romantic. Free.”
She was silent. Her fingers touched the mangalsutra on her chest. She did not agree, but she did not argue again. She only lay there, naked, thinking about the women who sat in those low lights and let men who were not their husbands stand close to them. Her curiosity had not gone. It had only become quieter.
I kept my hand on her stomach. She was still naked under the sheet. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with her breathing. She had not covered them again.
“Some women go there because they like the thrill,” I said. “The feeling of another man looking at them. Standing close. Touching their waist while dancing. They enjoy that it is not their husband. The excitement is different.”
Her eyes stayed on me. She was curious. Her fingers moved on the mangalsutra.
“They like it?” she asked. “With other men? Even if they are married?”
“Yes,” I answered. “They say the heart beats faster. The body feels more alive. A stranger’s hand on the hip or the back feels new. They do not have to do more if they do not want. Just the thrill of being wanted by someone else.”
She shook her head slowly.
“That is bad,” she said. “A married woman should not feel thrill from other men. It is wrong. Her body is only for her husband.”
I slid my hand lower, over the soft hair between her thighs, not entering, only resting there.
“It is not bad in that place,” I said. “The women who go know what they are doing. They choose it. Some only dance and come home. Some let the man touch more. They still love their husbands. The thrill is only for those hours. After that they return to normal life. No one calls it bad inside the pub. It is allowed.”
She looked down at my hand on her. Her thighs had not closed.
“But how can they not feel shame?” she asked. “I would feel shame. Even thinking about another man looking at me like that feels wrong.”
“You have only seen it in movies,” I said. “When you are inside you will understand. The lights, the music, the way people move. The shame becomes smaller. The curiosity becomes bigger. Many women feel the same way you feel now before they go. After one visit they want to know more.”
She was quiet. Her innocent face showed she still thought it was bad, but the questions had not stopped. She wanted to hear more about those women and the thrill they felt when a man who was not their husband put his hand on them in the low light. She lay naked beside me, listening, her body warm under my palm.


I moved my hand between her thighs again, feeling the warmth there. She was still naked. The sheet had slipped lower.
“Some women drink a little,” I said. “The alcohol makes the body loose. But even without drinking, the pub itself does it. The low lights. The loud music that vibrates in the chest. Men standing close, eyes on the body. The air is thick with perfume and sweat. All of that makes women horny. Their skin becomes sensitive. They start wanting to be touched.”
Her breathing changed. She looked at me, eyes wider. The innocent curiosity was still there, but under it something else had started. Her nipples were tight again. She did not cover her heavy breasts.
“They become horny just from being there?” she asked. Her voice was softer.
“Yes,” I answered. “The setup does it. Even a woman who came only to see will feel heat between her legs after some time. The body reacts before the mind decides.”
She was quiet. Her thighs opened a little more under my hand. I could feel she was wet now. The talk had excited her.
I sat up and removed my own clothes. I pulled off the vest I had been wearing and dropped it on the floor. Then I pushed down the lungi and stepped out of it. I was naked. My cock was already hard from watching her and from the words we had spoken. I knelt on the bed between her open legs. She looked at my body, then at my face.
“You are ready,” she said.
“I want to fuck you now,” I answered. “While you are thinking about those women.”
She nodded once. Her hands came to my arms. She lay back, naked, heavy breasts spread to the sides, wide hips open for me. The excitement from the pub talk was still on her face. She waited, breathing faster, as I moved closer to enter her.


I pushed into her slowly. She was wet from the talk. Her pussy opened around me, warm and gripping. A soft moan left her mouth the moment I was fully inside.
“Ahhh… Rajesh…”
Her eyes half-closed. Her lips parted. She hugged my arms tighter, fingers pressing into the muscle. Her heavy breasts rose and shifted with the first thrusts. I fucked her steady, watching her face. The innocent look was still there, but her cheeks had flushed. Each time I pushed deep she made a small broken sound.
“Mmmhh… it feels… full…”
Her wide hips began to rise on their own, meeting me. Her thighs trembled and stayed open. The wet sound of our bodies grew louder. I lowered my head and sucked one nipple hard. She gasped, back arching, one hand flying to the back of my head.
“Ahh— yes… there…”
Her voice was shaky. Emotion showed on her face—surprise mixed with the heat the pub talk had started. Sweat formed on her neck. The mangalsutra stuck to the skin between her breasts. I fucked her harder. Her breasts bounced. She moaned openly now, no longer trying to stay quiet.
“Ahhh… ahhh… Rajesh… I can feel you… so deep…”
Her pussy clenched around me in quick pulses. Her whole body reacted—stomach tightening, toes curling, nails dragging down my back. She was close. Her expression turned helpless, mouth open, eyes wet at the corners.
“I am going to cum inside you,” I said against her ear.
“Do it… ahhh… cum inside me… please…”
Her voice cracked. She hugged me closer with her arms and pulled me deeper with her legs. I thrust hard and stayed buried. My cock pulsed. I came inside her, thick and hot. She cried out, body shaking under me, pussy squeezing and milking every spurt.
“Ahhh— I feel it… so warm… inside…”
She hugged me tight, trembling, face pressed to my neck, breathing in short gasps. Emotion and pleasure mixed on her face. My cum leaked out around my cock onto the sheet. She did not let go. She only hugged me closer, naked, still moaning softly, body open and spent, the excitement from everything we had spoken still moving through her.
We stayed joined, neither of us moving. I softened slowly inside her. She hugged me with both arms, drawing me closer until her cheek rested fully against my neck. Her breathing grew longer, softer. The sweat between us cooled. My cum continued to slip from her in a warm trickle onto the sheet, yet she did not shift away. Her heavy breasts pressed full and quiet against my chest. The mangalsutra lay warm where our skin met.
After a while I lifted my head. She looked up at me, eyes gentle, the flush still soft on her cheeks. The innocent expression had returned, now mixed with something tender and open.
“Tomorrow night,” I said quietly, “I am taking you to the pub.”
She was silent. Her fingers traced a slow, careful line down my back. She hugged me tighter for a moment, as if holding the feeling between us, then spoke, her voice small and shy.
“I feel shy,” she said. “I have never gone to a place like that. I have only seen it in movies. What if people look at me? What if I do not know how to be there?”
“They may look,” I answered, brushing her hair back from her face. “But you will be with me. We will sit together. If your heart feels uneasy, we will leave at once. I want to take you tomorrow. I want you to see it with me.”
She turned her face into my neck. I felt the warmth of her breath and the slight tremble in her arms as she hugged me. Then she nodded against my skin, still holding me close.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow. But stay near me. Do not leave my side.”
“I will not leave you.”
She hugged me again, longer this time, her body softening fully against mine. The shyness remained, yet beneath it there was a quiet trust. Outside the window the road stayed still. She lay naked beneath me, my cum warm inside her, her heart already moving carefully toward the place she had only watched in songs. The excitement was new and delicate, but she had said yes, and she held me as if the promise itself was something precious.


The next day was Saturday. In the afternoon my mother came as she always did. She loved the boys and took them to her house for the weekend. The house grew quiet once they left. It was only me and my wife.
She moved through the rooms with a restless energy I had not seen before. The cotton saree she wore at home was neatly pinned, the pallu resting over her shoulder, the blouse modest, the petticoat tied low in her usual way. Yet her eyes kept returning to me. When I sat on the sofa she came and stood in front of me, fingers lightly holding the edge of her pallu.
“Rajesh,” she said, “for the pub tonight… can I wear a saree? I have never seen the girls in the movies wear saree there. They wear other clothes. Will it look wrong if I go in saree?”
I looked at her. The excitement was clear on her face, mixed with the old shyness.
“We can go shopping now,” I said. “Buy a modern dress if you want. Something you saw in the movies.”
She shook her head at once. Her hand tightened on the pallu.
“No,” she said. “I would feel uncomfortable. I have never worn those clothes. My body will not know how to sit in them. People will look more.”
I reached for her hand and drew her closer. She let me. I spoke gently.
“Then wear the saree of your choice. Any one you like. You will still look like yourself. No one will stop you. I will be beside you the whole time.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then a small smile came to her face. She nodded, the shyness softening.
“Okay,” she said. “I will choose one. You will stay near me.”
“I will.”
She hugged me briefly, arms light around my shoulders, then stepped back. The smile remained. Already her mind had turned to the sarees folded in the almirah, choosing which one she would wear for the first time she stepped into a place she had only seen in songs. The afternoon light fell across the low line of her petticoat and the quiet curve of her smile.


It was already six in the evening. I had showered earlier. Now I stood in front of the mirror and buttoned my white shirt, then pulled on the black pants and fixed the belt. The house was quiet. From the bedroom I could hear movement.
My wife had opened the almirah. She took out the clothes one by one and laid them carefully on the bed: a yellow chiffon saree, light and soft, a matching yellow blouse with modest sleeves, a plain white petticoat, a white bra, and maroon panties. My wife smoothed the chiffon with her palm, then picked up a towel from the rack. She looked at me once, a small nervous smile on her face, and went into the bathroom. The door closed. Water began to run.
I sat on the edge of the bed beside the clothes she had chosen. The yellow chiffon caught the light. I took my phone and called the pub. The man who answered knew my voice. I told him we would arrive around eight, asked for a corner table away from the speakers, and confirmed they would keep it. He said the music would start by then and the place would not be too crowded yet. I thanked him and ended the call.
Inside the bathroom the water continued. I looked at the maroon panties and the white bra lying on the yellow chiffon. My wife had never worn these things outside the house for a place like this. She was showering now, preparing herself for the first time she would step into a pub, still choosing the saree she trusted, still shy, yet already moving toward the evening we had spoken about in the dark. I waited, the white shirt cool against my skin, listening to the water and thinking of the low lights that would soon fall on her.


I went down to the living room and waited. The big television was on. I put a video on YouTube, something light, the sound low, and sat on the sofa. The house stayed quiet except for the faint noise from the screen. Upstairs the bathroom door had opened and closed. I could hear my wife moving in the bedroom, the soft sounds of the yellow chiffon saree and the small click of her bangles.
After a while she came down the stairs. My wife wore the yellow chiffon saree. The matching yellow blouse fit close across her heavy breasts, sleeves modest. The white petticoat sat low beneath the yellow chiffon saree, the usual line of her stomach just visible when she stepped. The pallu rested over her left shoulder. She had left her hair loose, dark and long over one side. The maroon panties and white bra were hidden underneath. She looked stunning. The yellow chiffon saree caught the light as she walked. Her wide hips shifted under the saree. The anklets sounded softly on the steps.
She stopped at the bottom and looked at me. A shy smile touched her face. Her hands held the edge of the pallu.
“Is this okay?” she asked. “For the pub?”
“You look beautiful,” I said. “Perfect.”
She nodded, the smile growing a little. She came closer and stood in front of me. I stood up. For a moment we only looked at each other. Then she hugged me lightly, arms around my waist, cheek against my white shirt.
“I feel nervous,” she said.
“I am with you,” I answered.
She stepped back, still smiling, and picked up her small handbag from the side table. We were ready. The yellow chiffon saree moved as she turned toward the door. Outside the evening had grown darker. We walked out together, her first time stepping toward a place she had only seen in movies, the yellow chiffon saree soft against her body, the excitement and the shyness both clear on her face.


We reached the pub just after eight. The building was on a side road off Brigade Road. I parked the car and we walked up the stairs together. My wife held the edge of her pallu with one hand. The yellow chiffon saree moved lightly around her legs. The white petticoat showed a little at the ankle when she climbed. Her anklets made a small sound on each step. She stayed close to my side.
Inside, the lights were low and red. Music played, not too loud yet. A few people sat at tables. Some stood near the small dance floor. The air smelled of perfume and alcohol. My wife looked around once, eyes wide, then lowered them. She had never been inside a place like this. Everything she knew came from movies.
A waiter showed us to the corner table I had asked for. We sat. I ordered a drink for myself and a soft drink for her. She kept the pallu across her chest. The yellow blouse was modest, yet the weight of her heavy breasts was clear beneath it. Her wide hips filled the chair. She looked beautiful and out of place at the same time.
A man walked over from the bar. He was in his thirties, shirt open at the collar, a glass in his hand. He stopped at our table and smiled at my wife.
“Hello,” he said. “You are new here.” His eyes moved over the yellow chiffon saree, then to her face. “Is she with you, or is she single?”
My wife’s cheeks darkened. She looked at me, then at him. Her fingers tightened on the pallu.
“I am married,” she said softly. “This is my husband.”
The man did not look embarrassed. He smiled wider.
“I thought she was single. The way she is sitting. Married women do not usually come to places like this.” He turned to me. “May I ask her for one dance? Just one song.”
I felt heat start low in my stomach. The way he looked at the curve of her waist under the yellow chiffon saree, at the place where the blouse pressed against her breasts, made my mouth dry. My wife’s hand found my arm under the table. I could feel her pulse.
“Go,” I said. “One dance.”
She hesitated. Her eyes searched mine. When she saw I was not angry, she stood. The yellow chiffon saree shifted around her wide hips. She let the pallu slip a little and stepped onto the small floor with him. The music changed. He placed one hand on her waist. She glanced back at me once, shy and uncertain, as the song began.


To Be Continued..! 

[novelistcasanova]

Naresh led her onto the small floor. The music was slow. He stood in front of her and showed her the steps with his hands, moving his feet once, then again, so she could follow. My wife watched his feet, then tried. She moved carefully, the yellow chiffon saree shifting around her legs. The white petticoat flashed at her ankle. Her cheeks were already dark with blush. She kept her eyes down.

“Like this,” he said. “Small steps. Do not think too much.”
She nodded, shy. Her hands stayed near her waist at first. When he reached for one of them she let him take it. He placed her palm lightly on his shoulder. She blushed harder. Her other hand held the edge of the pallu tight against her chest. The yellow blouse stretched a little when she moved. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with her nervous breathing.
They turned slowly. She danced shyly, steps small, body stiff. Every time his hand rested on her waist she glanced toward me. I stayed at the table and gave her a small smile. She saw it. Her shoulders loosened a fraction. Naresh spoke near her ear, voice low, telling her she was doing well, that no one was watching her feet. She listened. The stiffness in her arms eased. She let the pallu slip a little lower on her shoulder.
He guided her through another turn. This time his palm stayed longer on the curve of her waist, just above the low line of the white petticoat. She did not pull away. Her wide hips began to follow his rhythm instead of fighting it. The yellow chiffon saree clung and released with each step. A small smile touched her mouth, still shy, but no longer frozen. He was making her comfortable, speaking softly, moving with her instead of pulling her. Her blush remained, yet her body had started to answer the music. She looked at me again. I smiled. She stayed in his arms and kept dancing.


Naresh grew bolder. His hand slid from her waist to the side of her hip, fingers pressing into the yellow chiffon saree. He drew her closer. My wife’s breath caught. The yellow blouse tightened across her heavy breasts as her chest rose. A flush spread down her neck.
“You are shaking,” he said near her ear. “Relax. Just follow me.”
“I… I am not used to this,” she answered, voice small. She was feeling the heat low in her body now and struggled to control it. Her steps faltered. She bit her lower lip.
I watched from the table. The way his palm moved over the curve of her backside under the yellow chiffon saree, the way her wide hips answered without her permission, made me hard. My cock pressed against the black pants.
Naresh gestured for a hug, arms opening.
“Come closer,” he said. “Like this. Trust me.”
She hesitated. Her eyes found mine across the floor. She stood still, the pallu clutched tight.
“My husband is watching,” she whispered.
I lifted my chin once and nodded. She saw it. Her shoulders dropped. She stepped into him.
“He is not angry,” Naresh said, smiling. “See?”
I picked up my phone, stood, and moved to the high chair at the end of the bar. I sat where I could see them clearly and started recording. Naresh noticed me. He saw I was not angry. He grew bolder still. He pulled her into a complete embrace, arms wrapping fully around her waist, chest pressed to her breasts, one hand low on her backside.
“Feel this,” he murmured. “Your body wants it.”
She felt all of it. A soft sound left her mouth. Her body melted against him for a second before guilt flashed across her face. She glanced toward me.
“Rajesh…” she said, torn.
I met her look and gestured again, open palm, telling her to feel free. The guilt eased.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her arms came up. She hugged him back, cheek near his shoulder, the yellow chiffon saree crushed between them. Her hips shifted once, seeking.
“Good,” Naresh said against her hair. “Just like that.”
The struggle left her body. She let herself feel it, horny and open now, while I sat at the bar with the phone raised, recording every place his hands moved on her.


I walked closer, phone still in my hand, and stopped near them. Naresh kept one arm around her waist. My wife looked at me, cheeks flushed, the yellow chiffon saree pressed against his body.
“This is her first time in a pub,” I said. “She has only seen these places in movies. She is shy. Give her the best first experience. Make her comfortable. Let her feel everything properly.”
Naresh smiled and nodded, his hand steady on her back.
“Sure, sir,” he said. “I could already feel it. Her body is warm. She is nervous, but she is not pulling away. Do not worry. I know how to make her comfortable. I will go slow.”
My wife’s eyes widened a little. She looked between us.
“Rajesh…” she said softly.
“It is okay,” I answered. “Listen to him. Enjoy.”
Naresh turned back to her and pulled her fully into his embrace. She hugged him without pulling away this time, arms resting on his shoulders. The yellow blouse crushed softly against his chest. He bent his head and kissed her cheek, slow and warm, just beside her ear.
“Feel free,” he told her. “Enjoy yourself. No one will judge you here. Your husband wants you to have this.”
“I… I do not know how,” she whispered. Her voice shook.
“You do not have to know,” Naresh said, kissing her cheek again. “Just stay like this. Feel my hands. Breathe. That is enough for now.”
She closed her eyes for a second. A small shiver moved through her. When she opened them she looked at me again. I stayed where I was and gave her a quiet nod. Her body loosened further in his arms. The pallu slipped a little lower on her shoulder.
“Like this?” she asked, almost to herself.
“Yes,” Naresh murmured. “Exactly like this. You are doing well.”
She hugged him closer, the yellow chiffon saree shifting around her wide hips as she let herself stay there, shy still, yet no longer holding back. Naresh kept her against him, one hand moving slowly on her back, speaking low so only she could hear, while I stood on his side and watched every small change in her face.


Naresh looked at me while he held her. His hand rested low on her back, over the yellow chiffon saree.
“Your wife is beautiful, sir,” he said. “Really beautiful. The way she moves, the way she blushes. You are lucky.”
“Thank you,” I answered, keeping my voice even, as if we were only talking about the music.
He turned to her and began kissing her cheeks, soft presses, one side then the other. Then his mouth moved to her neck, just below the ear, slow and warm. My wife’s breath stopped. She tried hard to control herself. Her hands tightened on his shoulders. A small tremor ran through her body. The yellow blouse rose and fell quickly. She closed her eyes, lips pressed together, fighting the feeling that was spreading under her skin.
“Naresh…” she whispered, voice unsteady. “People are here.”
“No one is watching us closely,” he murmured against her neck. “Your husband is right here. He does not mind. Relax. Let yourself feel it.”
She hugged him tighter for a moment, then tried to ease back, but her body did not fully obey. The pallu had slipped lower. Her wide hips stayed pressed to him. I stood close, phone lowered now, watching. My cock was hard inside the black pants. Every kiss he placed on her neck, every small sound she tried to swallow, made the heat worse. Yet I kept my face calm. I shifted my weight, looked around the pub once, then back at them, pretending this was ordinary.
“She is still shy,” I said, tone casual. “Go slow with her.”
“I am,” Naresh answered, kissing the side of her throat again. “She is doing well.”
My wife opened her eyes and looked at me. Guilt and want fought on her face. I met her gaze and gave a small, easy nod, as if nothing unusual was happening. She saw it. Her resistance softened another fraction. She stayed in his arms, still trying to control the trembling in her legs, while he continued to tempt her with his mouth on her skin and I stood on her side, hard and quiet, letting it happen.


Naresh hugged her closer, both arms firm around her waist. The yellow chiffon saree bunched between them. He kissed her cheek again, then the corner of her mouth, light and testing. My wife made a small sound and turned her face a fraction, not away, only unsure. He followed, kissing along her jaw, then lower, open-mouthed presses down the side of her neck. Each kiss was slower than the last.
“Your skin is warm,” he said against her throat. “You are trying so hard not to feel this. Stop fighting.”
“I… I should not,” she whispered. Her voice shook. She hugged him back without meaning to, arms tightening around his neck. The yellow blouse pressed fully to his chest. Her heavy breasts flattened against him. A tremor ran through her wide hips.
He kissed the hollow of her neck, then the place just above the blouse line. She gasped softly. Her fingers curled into his shirt. She was still trying to control it, breath short, eyes half-closed, but her body had begun to lean into every kiss.
“See how you hug me now,” he murmured. “Your husband is watching and he is calm. He wants you to enjoy. Give in a little more.”
She looked at me over his shoulder. I stood with one hand in my pocket, face relaxed, as if we were only talking. Inside, my cock throbbed hard against the black pants. I gave her another small nod.
“It is fine,” I said, voice ordinary. “Stay with him.”
Naresh smiled against her skin and hugged her tighter, lifting her slightly so her feet almost left the floor. He kissed her neck again, longer this time, tongue tasting the salt there. She moaned, quiet and broken, and hugged him fully, the yellow chiffon saree shifting around her legs, the white petticoat brushing his thigh. The struggle was still in her face, but it was weaker now. She let him tempt her, kiss after kiss, hug after hug, while I watched and let it continue.


Naresh hugged her even closer, one hand sliding up her back beneath the pallu, the other low on her waist. He kissed her mouth this time, soft at first, only the corner, then fuller when she did not turn away. My wife made a helpless sound against his lips. Her arms hugged his neck tighter. The yellow chiffon saree pressed and shifted between their bodies. Her heavy breasts flattened against his chest with every breath.
“Open a little,” he whispered on her mouth. “Just a little.”
She did. Her lips parted. He kissed her deeper, slow and warm. She kissed him back for a moment before guilt made her pause. She pulled her mouth away, breathing hard, forehead against his.
“Rajesh is right there,” she said, voice thin.
“And he is fine,” Naresh answered. He hugged her again, lifting her so her feet barely touched the floor. He kissed her cheeks, her closed eyes, the line of her jaw, then returned to her neck, sucking gently now. She shivered hard. Her wide hips rolled once against him without her deciding to. The white petticoat brushed his thigh. She hugged him as if she needed the support, fingers gripping his shirt.
“I cannot stop shaking,” she whispered.
“Do not stop,” he said against her throat. “Let it happen. Hug me tighter.”
She did. She hugged him fully, body melting, the yellow blouse warm against him, the pallu fallen almost to her elbow. Another soft moan left her. I stood a step away, hand still in my pocket, face calm, watching every kiss and every tighter hug. My cock ached inside the black pants. She glanced at me once, eyes wet and lost, and I only nodded, easy and quiet, letting Naresh keep kissing her neck and holding her against him while the music moved around us.
The music dipped. The DJ’s voice came over the speakers, calling Naresh by name and asking him to come up. Naresh smiled, kissed my wife’s cheek one last time, and walked to the small stage. The DJ congratulated him in front of everyone, saying he would soon choreograph songs for movies, that his work was already getting noticed. People clapped. My wife watched, eyes bright, impressed. She turned to me.
“He is going to work in movies?” she said.
“That is what the DJ said,” I answered.
The DJ then called another woman onto the stage and began congratulating her too, speaking about her own projects. My wife stayed close to me now, the yellow chiffon saree still warm from Naresh’s hands. She leaned in and spoke low.
“He was kissing me too much,” she said. “On my cheeks, on my neck. Again and again.”
“That is how a pub is,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “It is a different world here. People get close. They kiss, they hug, they dance. Feel free. Enjoy yourself.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, so only I could hear.
“But this is wrong. And… it was making me horny.”
The words hit me hard. My cock swelled fully inside the black pants, a huge boner pressing tight against the cloth. I shifted my stance so it would not show, face still ordinary, as if we were only talking about the music.
“It is natural,” I said. “When you dance close, when someone kisses your neck, the body feels it. Do not worry. Enjoy yourself. That is why we came.”
She looked at me, cheeks still flushed, the yellow blouse rising with her breath. She nodded slowly, the conflict clear on her face, while I stood beside her with the boner hidden and my expression easy, letting her believe everything was normal.
The DJ finished with the other woman and looked out over the floor. His eyes stopped on my wife. He smiled into the microphone.
“And we have someone new tonight,” he said. “The beautiful lady in the yellow saree. Come up for a moment. Let everyone see you.”
My wife froze. Her hand tightened on my arm. The yellow chiffon saree seemed suddenly brighter under the lights.
“Rajesh…” she whispered. “He is calling me.”
“Go,” I said, voice calm. “It is only for a minute. I am right here.”
She hesitated, then walked forward. The pallu slipped a little as she climbed the two steps. Naresh was still on the stage. He reached for her hand at once. She let him take it. His fingers slid between hers and locked, palm to palm, holding tight. The contact was clear even from where I stood. Sexual tension moved between them immediately, thick and visible in the way her shoulders rose and the way he did not let go.
She stood beside him, cheeks dark, the yellow blouse tight across her heavy breasts. The DJ congratulated her for being there and asked the room to clap. People did. Naresh kept their fingers interlocked the whole time, thumb moving slowly over the back of her hand. My wife’s breath changed. She glanced at me once, eyes wide. I felt the tension reach me. My cock hardened fast inside the black pants, pressing full and obvious against the cloth. I shifted my stance, face still easy, and gave her a small nod.


The clapping grew louder. Someone from the floor called out for one jodi dance. Others joined, cheering, telling them to dance together. My wife’s face tightened with nerves at first. She looked at me, then at Naresh, their fingers still interlocked. The yellow chiffon saree seemed too bright on the small stage.
The DJ laughed into the microphone and cheered them on as well.
“One dance,” he said. “What style do you want? Romantic?”
Voices from the crowd answered at once.
“Romantic! Romantic!”
Naresh glanced at my wife, then at the DJ.
“Romantic,” he said.
The DJ started a slow song. The lights dropped lower. Naresh drew her against him. The dance turned erotic at once. One arm hugged her waist. He kissed her cheek, then her neck, open-mouthed and slow, while his other hand moved freely over her body. He felt her thoroughly. His palm slid up her side, over the yellow blouse, cupping and squeezing the full weight of her heavy breast. He pressed her wide hips hard to his, fingers gripping her backside through the yellow chiffon saree. Then he bent lower and kissed her navel directly, lips pressed to it, lingering there while the crowd watched.
My wife became totally horny. I could see it clear on her face. Her eyes half-closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed deep. Every kiss made her shiver. She stopped trying to follow steps and simply let him move her. Her mouth stayed open. Soft sounds escaped her. The nervousness was gone. Only want remained. Her body rolled into his hands and his mouth without shame now.
People cheered. Some whistled. At the bar one bartender leaned toward the other.
“Look at that,” he whispered. “Kissing her neck, her navel… he is almost fucking her on stage. And her face… she is completely gone.”
I stood below them, cock fully hard and throbbing inside the black pants. My wife’s pallu had fallen to her elbow. She glanced down at me once, eyes heavy and lost with total horniness, while Naresh kept kissing her neck and her navel, hands owning her body under the slow music, and the whole room cheered the erotic dance.


The song ended. The whole floor cheered for Naresh and my wife. People clapped and whistled. They both smiled and thanked the crowd, then stepped down from the stage together. On the side of the stage the other woman had started singing as people asked her to. Her voice rose over the speakers.
My wife and Naresh walked toward me. The yellow chiffon saree was slightly loose now, the pallu resting lower on her arm. Her cheeks were still flushed. Naresh kept close beside her.
“Did you see how good she danced?” he said to me, smiling. “She followed everything. Natural.”
“I saw,” I answered.
He put his arm around my wife’s shoulder and drew her against his side. She let him. The yellow blouse pressed lightly to him.
“Your wife is so good to romance,” he said. “The way she moves, the way she responds. Perfect for this place.”
His arm stayed around her. My cock throbbed hard inside the black pants. The boner was immediate and full. I kept my face calm and nodded, as if the words were ordinary, while heat spread through me from watching his arm on her and hearing him speak about how good she was to romance. She glanced at me once, still breathing a little fast, the yellow chiffon saree warm against his body.

[novelistcasanova]

Naresh guided us the few steps to the bar. The low red light caught the yellow chiffon saree as my wife moved between us. He rested one hand lightly on the polished counter and spoke to the bartender in a calm, unhurried voice.

“A Macallan 12, neat, for me. And the same for him.”
He inclined his head toward me, then turned fully to her. The matching yellow blouse rose and fell with her breathing. The white petticoat sat low beneath the saree.
“What will you have?” he asked.
“I do not drink,” she said. Her voice was soft. Her fingers still held the edge of the pallu.
He smiled. He drew her closer by the waist until the yellow chiffon saree pressed against him. Then he kissed her. The kiss was slow, his mouth settling fully on hers, unhurried. She was already horny from the stage. She kissed him back at once, shamelessly. Her lips parted. A small, broken sound left her throat. I watched every detail. The way her heavy breasts flattened against his chest. The way her wide hips shifted once under the chiffon. The way her eyes closed. Heat rushed through me. My cock hardened completely inside the black pants, thick and insistent.
I stepped in. I took her free hand and slid my fingers between hers, holding her. She stood between us now, one side warm against Naresh, her other hand locked in mine. The bartender’s eyes stayed on them. Behind the counter the clear ridge of his boner pushed against his trousers.
Naresh did not rush the kiss. He kept his mouth on hers a moment longer, then spoke against her lips, voice low.
“This is a pub. You have to drink something. Just one light drink. Nothing strong. You will like the taste. Trust me.”
She stayed close, breathing faster, her hand tight in mine. The flush on her cheeks had deepened. She gave a small nod. Only then did he turn back to the bartender.
“And for the lady, a white-wine spritzer. Very little wine, more soda, with a twist of lime. Something light.”
My wife remained between us. The kiss still lingered on her mouth. The yellow chiffon saree was warm where it had been pressed to him. I held her hand, cock throbbing, while the bartender turned to prepare the drinks, his gaze flicking back again and again to the way Naresh kept her close.
The bartender turned to the bottles. He lifted the Macallan 12, poured two precise measures into heavy glasses, the amber moving slow and clean. For the spritzer he took a tall glass, added a small splash of white wine, filled the rest with chilled soda, then cut a thin twist of lime and set it on the rim. The ice clinked softly. Naresh waited beside us, one arm still resting lightly at my wife’s waist, watching the drinks come together.
“They will be ready in a moment,” he said.
I was so horny I could not stay still. The taste of Naresh was still on her mouth. I turned her face toward me with the hand that held hers.
“Come here,” I said.
I kissed her. My lips met the same lips that had just opened under his. I kissed her deeply, slowly, tasting what he had left there. She made a small sound and kissed me back at once.
“Rajesh…” she whispered against my mouth, then kissed me again.
Her mouth was warm, already soft from him. The yellow chiffon saree shifted as she leaned into me. Her heavy breasts pressed my chest. Between us her hand stayed locked in mine.
“You taste like him,” I said quietly.
“I know,” she answered, breath shaky. “I can still feel it.”
Naresh did not move away. He simply waited, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body on her other side.
“She kisses well,” he said, voice calm.
I kept kissing the mouth he had just kissed while the bartender finished the drinks behind the counter and set the three glasses on the bar.
The bartender set the three glasses down without a word. Naresh lifted them easily, passed me the Macallan, kept the second for himself, and placed the tall spritzer carefully into my wife’s hands. The lime twist shifted once against the rim. She held the glass with both palms as if it might slip. The yellow chiffon saree moved across her hips when she drew it closer. The low line of the white petticoat showed for a second as she settled her weight.
“Take it slowly,” he said, his voice close and unhurried. “Just a small sip. Let it stay on your tongue for a moment so you can taste it properly, then swallow. The soda will keep everything light. There is no need to rush.”
She nodded, eyes on the glass. She raised it the way he had said, took a careful sip, and held the liquid in her mouth. Her throat moved when she finally swallowed. A faint trace of wine and lime shone on her lower lip. Her shoulders eased. The yellow blouse rose and fell more gently.
“Was that right?” she asked. The question came out softer than she seemed to expect. “I am not sure if I did it the way you meant.”
“That was exactly right,” he answered. “Do it once more, the same way. You will feel the difference.”
We drank. The Macallan moved warm across my tongue. She took the second sip more slowly, eyes lowering as the taste settled. A quiet breath left her. The colour in her cheeks deepened. I watched the soft shift of her heavy breasts beneath the yellow blouse with every small swallow.
Naresh watched her over the rim of his own glass, his arm still resting lightly at her waist.
“Tell me,” he said, “how has this first night in a pub felt for you so far? You have been quiet about it.”
She lowered the glass until it rested against the yellow chiffon saree. For a moment she only looked at the drink. Her free hand touched the edge of the pallu, then fell away. Something shy and open moved across her face at the same time.
“It feels different from anything I know,” she said. “Everything is louder, and people stand so near each other. I have only ever seen places like this in movies. I did not understand that the body would feel it so strongly, even when you are only standing still.”
Her voice thinned on the last words. She glanced at me, then back to him. Her hips had drifted closer to his side without her seeming to notice.
“And right now?” he asked. “Standing here with us, drinking, after what happened on the stage. How does it feel in this moment?”
She drew a slow breath. The yellow blouse tightened across her breasts. Her lips were still wet from the spritzer.
“I feel warm,” she said. “All over. Under the saree, on my skin, everywhere he touched me. I did not think it would stay with me like this.”
Naresh’s thumb moved once, gently, against the chiffon at her waist. She did not step away. She lifted the glass again and sipped the way he had shown her, small and careful, while the three of us remained close and the low music moved around the quiet heat that had gathered between her body and his.
Naresh set his glass down. He turned to my wife and drew her the last small step closer until the yellow chiffon saree brushed his shirt. She was still holding the spritzer. Her eyes lifted to his face.
“You have a little lime on your lip,” he said, voice quiet. “May I?”
She did not answer with words. She only looked at him, breath already a fraction shorter. He leaned in and kissed her. The kiss was unhurried, his mouth settling fully over hers, tasting the spritzer she had just sipped. She made a soft, helpless sound and kissed him back at once. Her lips parted. The glass tilted slightly in her hand. I watched the way her heavy breasts pressed forward against the yellow blouse, the way her wide hips shifted under the chiffon as the kiss deepened.
Heat moved through her visibly. Her free hand came up and rested on his chest. She was getting horny again, fast. A faint tremor ran through the arm that still held the drink. When he finally eased back, her mouth stayed open for a second, wet and flushed. She looked at him, then at me, eyes darker than before.
“That…” she started, then stopped. Her voice was unsteady. “I can feel it everywhere again.”
“Good,” he said. He stayed close, one hand light at her waist. “Stay with it.”
She nodded, almost without meaning to. The yellow chiffon saree rose and fell with her quicker breath. She was horny, openly now, standing between us with the taste of the kiss still on her lips and no attempt left to hide it.
I watched the kiss end. The sight of her mouth still soft from his made me harder. My cock pressed thick and insistent inside the black pants. I stepped closer, still holding her hand, and looked at her face.
“May I?” I asked, voice low.
She laughed, a small nervous sound meant for anyone watching, but the laugh did not reach her eyes. She was horny. The smile she gave me was bright on the outside and shaky underneath. She leaned in so only I could hear.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Kiss me. I can still feel him.”
I kissed her. My lips met the same lips Naresh had just opened. I tasted him there, and the faint lime from the spritzer, and the warmth of her own mouth. She kissed me back at once, deeper than the laugh had promised. A quiet sound left her throat. Against my mouth she whispered again.
“Do not stop yet… it feels too much.”
The yellow chiffon saree shifted as she leaned into me. Her heavy breasts pressed my chest. Her hand tightened in mine. The smile was gone now. Only the horniness remained, clear in the way she opened for me and the way her body stayed soft and willing between us.
I kept kissing her. Her mouth was still warm and open from Naresh. She pressed closer, the yellow chiffon saree shifting between us, and turned her face just enough to whisper against my lips.
“Take me home,” she said, voice shaky and low. “I cannot stay like this. Take me home and fuck me. Please. I need it now.”
The words went straight through me. I kissed her harder for a moment, tasting him on her, feeling how horny she had become. My cock throbbed painfully inside the black pants. I broke the kiss slowly, our lips parting, a thin strand of wetness between us. She looked at me, eyes dark, breathing fast, the yellow blouse tight across her breasts.
I thought of the terrace room, of her naked under me, of everything Naresh had done to her body on that stage and at this bar. She was asking me to finish what he had started. I brushed my thumb across her lower lip, still wet.
“We will go,” I whispered back. “Finish the drink. Then I will take you home and fuck you properly.”
She nodded, almost desperate, and stayed close against me, the want clear in every small movement of her body.


Naresh turned from the bar and looked at both of us. His gaze moved over my wife first, slow and open. He took in the flush on her cheeks, the part of her lips, the way the yellow chiffon saree clung across her heavy breasts and wide hips. The pallu had slipped lower. Then his eyes came to me.
“You are both already horny,” he said, speaking to the two of us. “It is clear on her face and in the way she is standing. And on you too. Neither of you has been able to hide it since the stage.”
My wife’s fingers tightened inside mine. A shaky breath left her. Naresh stepped closer so he stood between us and the bar. His hand settled lightly at her waist over the yellow chiffon.
“For the memory of her first night,” he continued, looking from her to me and back again, “let me fuck her. Just once. Upstairs. There are hotel rooms on the top floor. Clean and private. We go up, I finish what the dance started, you stay with us the whole time, and then we come back. Or we do not. But the want is already here. You can both feel it.”
He did not wait for an answer. He turned to her, cupped the side of her face, and kissed her. The kiss was filthy. His mouth opened over hers at once, tongue sliding in, wet and deep. Saliva passed between them. A soft, broken sound left her throat. She kissed him back before she could stop herself, lips parting wider, the yellow blouse pressing to his chest. The wet sound of the kiss was clear even over the music. When he finally drew back, a thin strand of saliva connected their mouths for a second before it broke. Her lips were swollen and shining.
“Think about it,” he said, voice calm, speaking to both of us again. “I am stepping out for a smoke. The rooms are right upstairs if you decide she should have this.”
He touched her waist once more, then turned and walked toward the exit. My wife stayed against me, breathing hard, mouth still wet from him, hand locked in mine. The filthy kiss and the question he had left behind sat thick between us while the music moved around the tension.


The moment Naresh stepped out for his smoke, the space he left behind felt suddenly too small. I turned to her. Her lips were still swollen and shining from his mouth, a thin thread of his saliva catching the low red light. Something hot and possessive moved through my chest. I could not wait.
I cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. My mouth opened over hers at once, and the taste of him met me immediately, thick and unmistakable on her tongue. I licked into her slowly, then deeper. She made a small, broken sound. Her body softened all at once. Her arms came around my neck and she hugged me close, almost desperately, as if she needed the anchor. The yellow chiffon saree pressed and shifted between us, warm from her skin. Her heavy breasts flattened soft against my chest. Her wide hips rolled forward once, seeking contact without shame.
I broke the kiss just enough to speak, our lips still brushing.
“I can taste all of him,” I whispered. My voice was rough. “Every bit he left inside you. Does it feel different when I kiss you now?”
She shivered hard. Her fingers tightened in my hair. Her eyes stayed half-closed, lashes trembling. A flush rose higher on her cheeks. She pressed closer, the yellow blouse warm against me.
“Yes,” she breathed. The word came out shaky. “It feels dirtier. Better. I can still feel his tongue. When you kiss me it mixes and I cannot think.”
Her hips shifted again, a small helpless motion. I felt the heat of her through the saree.
“Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head at once. Her arms hugged me tighter. Her breath came faster against my mouth. Emotion and want were naked on her face.
“No.” Her voice cracked. “Do not stop. Kiss me more. I need to feel you taking it from me.”
I kissed her again, slower and deeper. I sucked gently on her tongue, sharing the wetness he had pushed into her. A soft moan left her throat. Her body trembled against mine. She spoke between kisses, words tumbling out raw, her lips brushing mine with every syllable.
“It is making me so horny… Rajesh… I can feel it between my legs… I do not know how to stop wanting this…”
Her thighs pressed together for a second, then relaxed. She clung to me as if her legs might not hold her.
“Then do not stop,” I answered against her mouth. My hand slid to her waist, holding her steady. “Stay with me. Let me taste all of it.”
She nodded against my lips. Her eyes were wet. She opened for me again, hugging me as if she might fall, the yellow blouse tight across her breasts, her whole body yielding and warm. Every shared trace of his kiss made my cock throb painfully inside the black pants. She stayed soft and open against the wall, mouth yielding, whispering my name between wet kisses, both of us lost in the fierce, aching want that refused to settle.


We stayed in the corner. Her back rested against the wall. I kept one hand at her waist, the yellow chiffon saree warm under my palm. Her breathing had not slowed. The taste of Naresh was still on both our mouths.
“He will be back soon,” I said quietly. “If we are going upstairs, we have to tell him now.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were dark and wet. A tremor moved through her body. She hugged my arm, pulling it closer against her.
“I know,” she whispered. “My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat. Part of me is scared. Part of me… does not want him to change his mind.”
Her free hand pressed low on her stomach, over the saree. She shifted her weight. The yellow blouse rose and fell quickly.
“When he kissed me like that,” she continued, voice thinner, “with so much saliva, so deep… my legs went weak. I could feel myself getting wet. I am still wet. If we go up, he will fuck me. I will not be able to pretend it is only dancing anymore.”
I brushed my thumb across her flushed cheek. She leaned into the touch.
“Do you want to stop?” I asked.
She shook her head at once. Her arms came around my waist. She hugged me tightly, face against my chest, as if she needed the contact to stay steady.
“No,” she said into my shirt. “I do not want to stop. I want to go. I want to feel it. Just… do not leave me. Stay where I can see you. If you are there, I can do it.”
I hugged her back. Her body was soft and trembling against me. The decision sat heavy and hot between us.
“Then we will tell him yes,” I said against her hair. “When he comes back from his smoke. We will go upstairs together.”
She nodded against my chest. Her hands tightened on my back. She stayed hugged to me, breathing him and me both, already wet and certain, while we waited for Naresh to return.

[novelistcasanova]

She was still hugged against me when her body suddenly stiffened. She pulled back just enough to look at my face. The want that had been clear in her eyes wavered. Shame moved across her features.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice shook. “Rajesh… this is wrong. He is not my husband. I should not let another man fuck me. Even if my body wants it. Even if I am wet. It is not right. I am getting carried away by this place.”
Her hands loosened on my back. She looked down. The yellow chiffon saree seemed heavier on her now. Her breathing was uneven.
I cupped her face gently and made her meet my eyes.
“Look at me,” I said. “You are not doing this alone. I am here. I kissed the same mouth he kissed. I tasted him on you and it made me harder. This is not only your want. It is ours tonight.”
She bit her lip. A tear gathered at the corner of her eye but did not fall. Her hands came back to my waist, hesitant.
“But after?” she asked. “When we go home… will you still see me the same? Will you think I am dirty?”
“I will see you as my wife who trusted me enough to feel this,” I answered. I kissed her forehead, then her wet lips, soft and sure. “Nothing changes between us. If you want to stop, we stop. But if the only thing holding you back is fear of what I will think… then do not be afraid. I want this with you.”
She searched my face for a long moment. Her body slowly softened again. She hugged me tightly, face pressed to my neck, a shaky breath leaving her.
“You promise you will stay?” she whispered.
“I promise.”
She nodded against my skin. The resistance eased out of her shoulders. She stayed hugged to me, still scared, still horny, but no longer pulling away.


Naresh came back from his smoke. The smell of cigarette clung lightly to his shirt. He stopped in front of us, eyes moving from my face to hers. My wife was still close against my side, the yellow chiffon saree slightly creased from how tightly she had hugged me.
“What have you decided?” he asked. His voice was calm, but direct.
We looked at each other. Neither of us spoke at first. Her eyes were wide, asking me without words. She nudged my arm gently with her elbow, a small pressure that said you tell him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hand found mine again and held tight.
I turned to Naresh.
“We have decided,” I said. “We will go upstairs. She wants it. I want to be there.”
Naresh studied us both for a moment. Then he nodded once.
“Good,” he said. “But understand this before we go up. Once we are in the room, do not change your minds. No sudden shame. No stopping halfway because it feels too real. If we start, we finish. She gets the full memory. You stay and watch. Are we clear?”
My wife’s fingers tightened in mine. She looked at me, then at him. Her voice came out soft but steady.
“We will not change our minds,” she said.
“We will not,” I added.
Naresh’s mouth curved slightly. He reached out and touched her waist once, light over the yellow chiffon.
“Then let us go,” he said. “The rooms are ready upstairs.”
She took a slow breath and nodded. We turned together toward the stairs, her hand locked in mine, the decision no longer hovering but already moving with us.



The lift doors opened on the floor. We stepped inside. The space was small, mirrors on three sides. Naresh pressed the button for the top floor. The doors closed. Soft music played. The yellow chiffon saree looked brighter under the white light.
He did not wait. He turned to her at once and drew her against him. His mouth found her neck. He kissed her there, slow and open, just below the ear, then lower, along the side of her throat. She gasped softly. Her hand tightened in mine. The yellow blouse rose quickly with her breath.
“You are already trembling,” he murmured against her throat. “Good. Do not fight it now.”
He kissed her neck again, wetter, sucking gently at the place where her pulse beat. His hand slid to her waist, pulling her hips closer. She made a small, helpless sound. Her eyes half-closed. In the mirror I watched her body soften against him, the pallu slipping lower, her wide hips shifting forward.
“Feel how easily you open for me,” he said, voice low, tempting. “By the time we reach the room you will be ready. No more thinking. Only this.”
She turned her face toward me, eyes dark and wet with want, even as she stayed in his arms. I held her hand tighter. The lift rose. He kept kissing her neck and the soft place under her jaw, slow and thorough, while she breathed faster and let him tempt her all the way up.


The lift doors opened on the top floor. Naresh led us down a short corridor. He stopped at a door, unlocked it with a card, and pushed it open. We stepped inside. The room was clean and quiet. A wide bed with white sheets. Soft lamps on either side. Heavy curtains drawn. The door closed behind us with a soft click.
My wife stood just inside, still holding my hand. The yellow chiffon saree looked softer in the low light. Her neck showed the faint marks from his mouth. She looked at the bed, then at me, then at Naresh. Her breathing was uneven. Her cheeks were flushed.
Naresh locked the door. He turned to her.
“Come here,” he said.
She hesitated one second, then let go of my hand and walked to him. He drew her close at once. His hands settled on her waist over the yellow chiffon. She looked back at me once, eyes dark, asking without words if this was still all right. I nodded.
“We are here now,” Naresh said against her ear. “No more waiting.”
She swallowed. Her body stayed soft against him. The yellow blouse rose and fell quickly. I moved to the chair near the bed and sat, close enough to see everything, my cock already hard inside the black pants. The room was quiet except for her breathing and the low sound of the city far below.
Then we all moved quickly. She stepped back and began undressing, watching both of us. The yellow chiffon saree fell. The yellow blouse and white bra came off. Her heavy breasts spilled free. She pushed the white petticoat and maroon panties down and stood naked, wet, giggling softly when Naresh called her whore under his breath. At the same time I took my clothes off and got naked. Naresh did the same. We both watched her. She watched our hard cocks, cheeks flushed.
Naresh got on the bed first and lay back. I stepped to her and kissed her, passionate and deep, tasting him still on her mouth. She moaned into the kiss and hugged me briefly.
“You taste like him,” I whispered against her lips.
“I know,” she whispered back, shameless. “It is making me so horny. Are you okay with this?”
“Yes, Sudha,” I said, kissing her again. “I love seeing you like this. Go to him. I am right here with you.”
“Don’t let go of me,” she breathed.
“I won’t.”
She nodded, eyes dark, and climbed onto the bed. She moved over to Naresh and joined him, straddling his thighs, leaning down to kiss him again while I followed and settled beside them, hand finding hers.


She got on the bed hornily, almost clumsy with want. She crawled over Naresh and kissed his lips first, deep and open. A soft giggle escaped against his mouth before it turned into a moan. Then she moved down. She kissed his chest, lips lingering, tongue flicking once. Her heavy breasts hung and brushed him as she went lower.
I settled beside them, one hand resting lightly on her back. She did not speak. She was already lost in it. She reached his cock, hard and thick, and kissed the head softly. Then she licked the underside, slow. A small giggle left her when he groaned. She took him into her mouth, tasting him properly, sucking gently at first, then deeper. Her ass stayed raised, pussy wet and open. Naresh watched her, hand in her hair.
“That’s it, whore,” he said. “Suck it.”
The word made her moan around him. She took him deeper, eyes half-closed, fully enjoying the taste and the weight of him on her tongue. I stayed close, stroking her back, cock throbbing as I watched her lose herself in it. The enjoyment was strong. A sharp twist of regret still moved through me, but I said nothing, letting her have this without distraction.


She kept sucking his cock, slow at first, then deeper. Her mouth moved wetly up and down his cock. Soft gagging sounds mixed with her muffled moans. Saliva shone on her lips and on his cock. She was fully enjoying it, eyes half-closed, one hand stroking the base of his cock. Her heavy breasts swayed with every bob of her head. Her ass stayed high, pussy dripping onto the sheets.
Naresh groaned, hand tight in her hair. He looked at me.
“Look at her,” he said. “She is taking my cock so well. Your wife is a natural whore.”
“She is,” I answered, voice low. My hand moved over her back and squeezed her ass. “She loves it. I can see it.”
She moaned around his cock at our words and took his cock deeper, throat working. A shaky giggle vibrated against his cock before she settled into a steady rhythm. I loved watching her lose herself on his cock. The sharp regret still flickered underneath, but I pushed it down and kept talking to him while she enjoyed every second.


She kept sucking his cock in a steady rhythm, mouth wet and eager. Saliva dripped down his cock onto her fingers. Her heavy breasts swayed. Her ass stayed raised, pussy glistening and open. She was lost in the taste, eyes closed now, soft moans vibrating around his cock.
Naresh watched her, then looked at me again.
“She is getting wetter the more she sucks,” he said. “Her pussy is dripping on the bed. You can see it from here.”
“I see it,” I answered. My hand slid lower, fingers brushing the wetness on her pussy from behind. She shivered but did not stop. “She is completely into your cock.”
“Good,” Naresh said. “Let her enjoy it a little longer. Then I am going to fuck this wet pussy.”
She moaned louder around his cock at the words, taking his cock deeper for a moment, a small giggle escaping before she went back to sucking. I kept touching her gently, cock throbbing, loving how shameless she looked while the sharp edge of regret still moved quietly underneath.
Naresh gently pulled her mouth off his cock. A string of saliva connected her lips to the head for a second before it broke. She looked up, dazed and horny, breathing hard. He guided her onto her back on the white sheets. She opened her thighs wide at once, pussy swollen and dripping.
“She is ready,” Naresh said to me. “Look at that pussy. She needs to be fucked.”
“She does,” I answered. I moved closer and took her hand, locking our fingers. “Sudha, look at me.”
Her eyes found mine. They were dark and glassy.
“I want it,” she whispered only to me. “Please… let him.”
Naresh knelt between her legs and rubbed the head of his cock up and down her wet slit. She gasped, hips lifting. He pushed in slowly. Her pussy stretched around his cock, inch by inch, until he was buried deep. A long, shaky moan left her. She squeezed my hand tightly.
“So tight,” Naresh groaned, speaking to me. “She is gripping my cock already.”
I watched his cock disappear inside her, loved the sight, and felt the sharp regret cut through at the same time. She held my hand and looked only at me while he began to move.
Naresh began to fuck her with long, deep strokes. His cock slid in and out of her wet pussy, the sound slick and clear. Her heavy breasts bounced with every thrust. She held my hand tightly, eyes locked on me, lips parted.
“She feels incredible,” Naresh said to me, voice rough. “So wet and tight around my cock. She is taking every inch.”
“I can see it,” I answered. I leaned down and kissed her softly. “You are doing so well, Sudha. Let him fuck you.”
She moaned into the kiss, then whispered only to me.
“He is so deep… ahhh… it feels so good. I love it. Don’t let go of my hand.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Naresh gripped her wide hips and thrust harder. Her pussy clenched visibly around his cock. She gasped, back arching, completely open beneath him. I loved the way she looked, the sounds she made, the way she clung to me. The sharp regret still moved through me, but it stayed quieter under the heat of watching her enjoy every stroke.

[novelistcasanova]

Naresh fucked her harder. His cock drove deep into her pussy with every thrust, wet sounds filling the room. Her heavy breasts bounced. Sweat shone on her stomach. She clung to my hand, moaning softly, eyes never leaving mine.

“Listen to her,” Naresh said to me. “She is loving my cock. Her pussy is sucking me in.”
“She is,” I answered. I kissed her forehead, then her lips. “Sudha, you look beautiful like this. Keep taking him.”
“I am,” she whispered, voice breaking. “It feels so full… I cannot stop moaning. Rajesh… I am so close already.”
Her thighs trembled. Her pussy clenched hard around his cock. She was completely shameless now, hips rising to meet every thrust, lost in the pleasure. I loved watching her fall apart. The enjoyment burned hot. Under it the sharp regret still flickered, quiet but present, as she held my hand and let him fuck her deeper.
Her moans grew higher. Her pussy clenched tighter around his cock with every deep thrust. She squeezed my hand hard, eyes wet and fixed on me.
“Rajesh… I am going to cum,” she gasped, shameless. “His cock is making me cum… ahhh… don’t let go…”
“Cum, Sudha,” I said, kissing her. “Let me see you cum on him. I am here.”
Naresh groaned and fucked her faster.
“She is about to cum all over my cock,” he told me. “I can feel her pussy gripping me.”
Her back arched hard. She came with a broken cry, body shaking, pussy pulsing and milking his cock. She held my hand to her lips, kissing it while the orgasm rolled through her. I loved every second of it. The sight, the sounds, the way she looked only at me. The sharp regret still moved underneath, but it was smaller now, drowned under how much I loved watching her fall apart on his cock.
She was still trembling from her orgasm when Naresh kept moving. His cock slid through her sensitive, pulsing pussy, slower now but deep. She whimpered, oversensitive, yet her hips still rose to meet him. She held my hand tightly against her chest.
“She came so hard,” Naresh said to me, voice strained. “Her pussy is still gripping my cock. I am close.”
“Do not pull out,” I answered. I looked at her. “Sudha… he is going to cum inside you. Do you want it?”
“Yes,” she whispered, eyes glassy and locked on me. “I want to feel it. Cum inside me… please…”
Naresh groaned and thrust faster again. Her heavy breasts bounced. She moaned softly, body open and accepting, still clinging to my hand. I loved the raw need on her face. The sharp regret flickered once more, then faded as I watched her take him, waiting for him to fill her.
Naresh thrust deep and stayed buried. His cock pulsed hard inside her pussy. He came with a low groan, flooding her with thick cum. She felt every spurt and moaned, hips rolling, pussy clenching to milk him.
“He is cumming inside me,” she gasped to me, voice raw. “I can feel it… so warm… ahhh…”
“Take it, Sudha,” I said, kissing her. “All of it.”
“She is squeezing every drop,” Naresh told me, still throbbing inside her. “Your wife loves being filled.”
She held my hand tightly to her lips, kissing it while he emptied himself. Her body shook with the aftershocks. I loved the sight of her taking his cum, the way she looked only at me. The sharp regret was still there, quiet now, buried under how much I had enjoyed every moment of watching her.
Naresh stayed inside her for a moment longer, cock still pulsing with the last of his cum. Then he slowly pulled out. A thick trickle of cum leaked from her pussy onto the white sheets. She lay there breathing hard, legs still open, body soft and spent. She had not let go of my hand.
“She took it all,” Naresh said to me, voice satisfied. “Look at her. Full of my cum.”
I looked. The sight made my cock throb again. I leaned down and kissed her gently.
“Sudha,” I said. “How do you feel?”
“Full,” she whispered, eyes half-closed, looking only at me. “Warm. Tired. Happy you stayed.”
She tugged my hand closer and hugged it against her chest. A small, shaky smile touched her lips. I loved the softness in her face now. The sharp regret was still present, faint but real, yet it sat quieter beside the warmth of holding her while another man’s cum leaked out of her.
Naresh sat back on the bed, catching his breath. Cum continued to leak slowly from her pussy. She turned her face toward me, still holding my hand, and spoke softly.
“Kiss me,” she said.
I kissed her, slow and gentle. She kissed me back, tired and tender. After a moment she whispered against my lips.
“I want you too. Not yet… but soon. When we go home.”
“We will,” I answered.
Naresh stood and began picking up his clothes.
“She was perfect,” he said to me. “First time in a pub and she took everything. You both enjoyed it.”
“We did,” I said.
She smiled faintly at that, eyes on me, and squeezed my hand. The room smelled of sex. Outside, the city lights glowed behind the curtains. We stayed like that a little longer, her naked and full of his cum, me beside her, the night still not over.
We stayed on the bed a few minutes more. She kept my hand against her chest. Her breathing slowed. Naresh dressed quietly. When he was done he looked at both of us.
“I will go down first,” he said. “Give you a moment. The room is paid. Take your time.”
He left. The door closed. It was only us now. She turned fully toward me, naked, cum still leaking from her pussy onto the sheets. She hugged me, arms around my neck, face against my shoulder.
“Thank you for staying,” she whispered. “I was scared, but you were there. It made it better.”
“I am glad I stayed, Sudha,” I said. I kissed her hair. “How is your body?”
“Sore. Full. Good.” She pulled back enough to look at me. “Do you regret it?”
I was quiet for a second. The sharp feeling was still there, but smaller.
“A little,” I admitted. “And I also loved it. Both.”
She nodded, understanding, and hugged me again. We lay like that until her shivering stopped. Then she sat up slowly.
“Let us clean up and go home,” she said. “I want our bed now.”
I helped her stand. We gathered the yellow chiffon saree and the rest of her clothes from the floor and went into the bathroom together.


In the bathroom she stood under the warm water while I helped her. She winced a little when she washed between her legs. His cum ran down her thighs and disappeared into the drain. She looked at me, hair wet, heavy breasts shining with water.
“It still feels strange,” she said softly. “Knowing he was inside me.”
“I know,” I answered. I soaped her back gently. “We will go home now. Just us.”
She nodded. After she rinsed, she stepped out and dried herself. I watched her pull the maroon panties back on, then the white petticoat, the white bra, the yellow blouse. Finally she wrapped the yellow chiffon saree around herself again. The pallu covered the faint marks on her neck. She looked almost the same as when we had arrived, except for the softness in her eyes and the way she moved a little slower.
We left the room and took the lift down. Neither of us spoke much. In the car she rested her head on my shoulder while I drove.



I drove through the quiet night roads. The city lights slid across the windshield. My wife sat close beside me in the yellow chiffon saree, the pallu resting on her lap. She had not let go of my hand since we left the hotel. Her fingers stayed laced with mine on the gear shift, thumb moving slowly over my skin as if she was checking something.
“Are you okay?” she asked after a while. Her voice was soft. She turned her head to look at me. “You have been quiet. I keep holding your hand to see if you are still here with me.”
“I am here, Sudha,” I said. I squeezed her hand gently. “Just thinking.”
“About what happened?”
“Yes.”
She was silent for a moment. Her thumb kept stroking my hand.
“Do you feel different toward me now?” she asked. “I need to know. That is why I am holding you like this. To feel if you pull away.”
“I am not pulling away,” I answered. I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles while I drove. “I am still yours. We will reach home soon.”
She nodded and rested her head on my shoulder again, hand still tightly held in mine, the yellow chiffon saree warm against my arm as the car moved through the empty streets.


I parked the car in front of our house. We got out. My wife walked beside me in the yellow chiffon saree, still holding my hand. I unlocked the front door and we stepped inside. The moment the door closed behind us I turned to her.
I did not wait. I pulled the pin of the yellow chiffon saree and tore the pallu away. The saree loosened. I yanked it off her body in rough folds and let it fall. She gasped. I opened the yellow blouse quickly, almost tearing the hooks, and pushed it off her shoulders. The white bra followed. Her heavy breasts spilled free. I shoved the white petticoat and maroon panties down her thick thighs in one motion. She stood naked in the living room, breathing fast, eyes wide.
“Rajesh…” she started.
I pushed her back onto the sofa. She fell onto the cushions, legs opening. I took my clothes off in a hurry, white shirt and black pants hitting the floor, and got naked. My cock was already hard. I stood over her, looking at her naked body on our sofa, the same body another man had just fucked. She looked up at me, chest rising, waiting.



I got on top of her on the sofa. Her thighs opened for me at once. I pushed my cock into her pussy in one hard thrust. She was still wet and loose from him. I groaned at the feeling and began to fuck her deep and rough.
While I moved inside her I replayed everything. The way Naresh had kissed her neck in the lift. The filthy saliva kiss at the bar. Her giggling when he called her whore. The sight of her sucking his cock on the hotel bed. The way her pussy had stretched around him. The moment he came inside her and she moaned my name. Every image made me fuck her harder.
“I keep seeing it,” I said against her ear. “All of it. You with him.”
“I know,” she gasped, arms around me. “Fuck me. Take it back.”
I drove into her, enjoying the heat and the memories at the same time, cock throbbing as I claimed her on our sofa while the night’s pictures played behind my eyes.



I fucked her harder on the sofa. My cock drove deep into her pussy with every thrust. She was wet and open, still carrying the feeling of him. Her heavy breasts bounced under me. She held onto my shoulders, moaning with each stroke.
The pictures kept coming. Naresh kissing her navel on the stage. Her shameless whispers in my ear while he licked her. The way she had giggled when he called her whore. The sight of his cum leaking out of her in the hotel room. Each memory made me thrust deeper.
“You let him cum inside you,” I said, voice rough. “I watched all of it.”
“Yes,” she gasped. “And now you are fucking me. Don’t stop. I need you.”
I grabbed her wide hips and pounded her. The sofa creaked. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me in, eyes locked on mine. I loved the heat of her, the way she took me after him. The sharp edge of everything that had happened only made me fuck her more desperately, claiming her body on our own sofa while the night still burned in both of us.



I kept fucking her deep on the sofa. My cock drove into her pussy, and she gripped me tighter with every thrust. Her heavy breasts pressed against my chest. She was moaning, but her eyes had turned wet. Guilt moved across her face, clear and painful.
“I should not have let him,” she whispered, voice breaking. Her hands clutched my back as if she was afraid I would pull away. “I let another man fuck me. I am sorry, Rajesh. I can still feel him.”
I thrust harder, feeling the heat and the ache in her words.
“Then give me everything now,” I said against her mouth. “All the pleasure. Do not hold anything back from me.”
She nodded, almost desperate. A shaky breath left her. She wrapped her legs tighter around my waist and pulled me deeper, hips rising to meet every stroke. She kissed me hard, lips trembling, pouring herself into it.
“Take it,” she gasped. Her voice was raw. “All of me. I am yours. I can feel you getting close… my pussy is clenching… don’t stop… please…”
I fucked her harder, right to the edge. Her body shook under me. Her nails dug into my skin. I was throbbing, seconds away from cumming, but I held there, buried deep inside her, both of us trembling on the edge while she gave me every bit of her pleasure and her guilt at once.



I could not hold the edge any longer. I thrust one last time and buried my cock as deep as it would go inside her pussy. The second I was fully inside, my cock began to pulse. Thick cum surged out of me in hard spurts. At the exact same moment her whole body tightened under me. Her back arched off the sofa. A broken, raw cry left her throat.
“Rajesh… I am cumming… with you… ahhh…”
Her pussy clenched hard around my cock, milking every pulse. I groaned her name against her neck and kept cumming, flooding her. She shook violently, legs locked tight around my waist, arms hugging me so hard I could barely breathe. Her heavy breasts pressed flat against my chest. Tears of pleasure and guilt wet her cheeks. She kissed my neck again and again while her orgasm rolled through her in long waves.
“I can feel you filling me,” she whispered, voice cracking. “All of it… stay inside… don’t leave…”
We trembled together on the sofa. Her pussy kept fluttering around me, drawing out every last drop. I held her close, still buried deep, both of us cumming as one until the final pulses slowly faded and only our shaky breathing remained.



We stayed hugging together on the sofa long after the last pulses faded. My cock softened slowly inside her. Her pussy gave small, tired flutters around me. She did not let go. She kept hugging me, face pressed to my neck, her breathing gradually slowing into something softer.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, the words barely there. “For letting him fuck me. For how much I enjoyed it.”
“I know, Sudha,” I said. I kissed her hair, then her temple. “You gave me everything just now. I felt all of it.”
She nodded against my shoulder. Quiet tears touched my chest and stayed there. Her legs remained loosely wrapped around my waist. Our mixed cum leaked slowly from her pussy, warm between her thighs and on the sofa. The house was completely silent. We lay in the afterglow, sweaty, heavy, and close, her guilt resting open between us while I held her and neither of us moved.


We stayed hugging on the sofa. My cock had slipped out of her. Our mixed cum was warm between her thighs. She kept her face against my neck, arms still around me.
“Naresh was lucky tonight,” I said quietly. “He got to enjoy you. Your body, your sounds, all of it. First time in a pub and he had you completely.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes were soft and tired.
“You are more lucky, Rajesh,” she said, my name gentle on her lips. “You had me before him. You had me after him. You are the one I came home to. He only borrowed me for a while. You are the one I belong to, Rajesh.”
She hugged me tighter and kissed my shoulder.
“He was lucky for one night,” she whispered. “You are lucky every night, my Rajesh.”
I hugged her closer. The guilt in her voice had softened. We stayed like that, naked on the sofa, the house quiet around us.


We stayed hugging on the sofa, naked, the house completely still around us. She rested her head on my chest. I stroked her hair slowly. Neither of us spoke for a long time.
“Rajesh,” she said at last, voice soft. “I do not want to go to a pub again. Not like that. Tonight was too much. I want to stay only yours.”
“We will not go again,” I answered. I kissed the top of her head. “It is finished. Only us from now on.”
She nodded against me and hugged me tighter.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” she whispered. “Thank you for still holding me like this.”
“Always, Sudha.”
We lay there a little longer, comforting each other in the quiet, the yellow chiffon saree forgotten on the floor, the night’s heat slowly cooling. Then we got up, switched off the lights, and went to our own bed. She curled into me under the sheet, and we slept.

The End

Regards 
Novelist Casanova