With that, she
stepped out, leaving a calm silence behind her. I walked back into the kitchen
and started rinsing the plates slowly. The quiet felt heavier now, but not in a
bad way—it was full of something new, something that made my heart beat just a
little faster.
A few minutes later,
I felt his presence before I heard him.
“You’ve changed,”
Manoj said softly from behind me.
I turned around,
surprised—but not really. He was standing near the kitchen entrance, arms
crossed loosely, eyes resting on me.
“In a good way, I
hope?” I asked with a shy smile.
He nodded, taking a
slow step forward. “Very good. I almost didn’t recognize you when you opened
the door.”
The way he looked at
me now was different—not just admiration, but a quiet longing. The saree, the
bindi, the bangles… maybe they brought out a side of me he hadn’t seen before.
Or maybe he just hadn’t looked closely until now.
“You look
beautiful,” he added, voice low and sincere.
I felt my cheeks
warm. I looked down for a second, then met his eyes again. “Thank you,” I said
quietly.
He took another step
closer. “Bala… I don’t know what’s happening to me, but seeing you like this…
it’s doing something I didn’t expect.”
I didn’t speak. I
didn’t need to.
The air between us
was still, thick with something we hadn’t named yet—something that had been
quietly building ever since I’d opened the door that afternoon.
Manoj stepped in,
just enough to close some of the space between us. I was standing by the sink,
one hand resting on the edge of the counter, the other still holding a damp
cloth. My heart was beating so loudly, I was sure he could hear it.
“You really are
beautiful in a saree,” he said again, more softly this time—as if he was
confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.
I smiled, lowering
my eyes. “It’s just a saree.”
“No,” he said
gently, “it’s you in it.”
He came a little
closer, and I felt my breath quicken. His eyes weren't just looking at me—they
were seeing me. My bare waist, the soft fall of the pleats, the slight sway of
my bangles as I nervously fidgeted… everything about me was suddenly under a tender,
admiring gaze that didn’t feel threatening—but warm, magnetic.
I turned to face him
fully, my back to the sink now. There were only inches between us. I could feel
the quiet heat of his presence.
“I never thought
you’d look at me like this,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He smiled faintly.
“Maybe I never gave myself the chance to”. With that he just bent more towards
me and removed saree pallu at my waist and kept his at my waist and pushed it
over my hip and he just pulled me towards him and though it was just very intense
and impulsive but I can feel lot of manliness in that action. With this the gap
me and Manoj just a finger tip away and both of us can feel each other’s
breathe. My hands just still on kitchen platform.
Bala…” he said my
name so gently, like it was a secret. “This feels like a dream I’m not supposed
to have. But I don’t know whether to wake up or not”
He reached up and
brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, fingers grazing the edge of my jaw. His
touch was slow, reverent. As if he didn’t want to rush a single second of this
moment.
My hands moved up,
resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under my
palm. His hands slid around my waist, warm and careful, holding me as if I were
fragile.
Manoj slowly started
looking at my lips and he finally met his lips with mine. It wasn’t rushed. It
was slow, deep, and filled with emotion—like he is waiting for a long time for
it. Our kiss not about passion alone—it’s connection, comfort, and longing all
wrapped into one quiet moment that said what neither of us had the courage to
say aloud.
His fingers pressed
gently into my back as he held me closer, and I felt my body melt into his. My
saree shifted slightly with our movement, his touch grazing the bare skin at my
waist. I shivered—not from cold, but from the intensity of feeling. When the
kiss broke, we stayed close, his hand resting just above my hip, my head
against his shoulder with shy.
“I didn’t expect
this,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t
want more of you. I just looked up at him. He gently took my hand and led me
out of the kitchen, I didn’t resist. I followed him—slowly, quietly—into the
bedroom.
Inside, the room felt
untouched, still and waiting. My heart raced as he closed the door behind me,
then turned to face me again.
He moved closer, his
presence warm and steady. With a gentle hand, he traced the edge of my pallu,
eyes meeting mine for silent permission. Slowly, he removed pallu from my
shoulder.
I stopped him
gently. “Wait, let me take out the pins,” I said, my voice barely above a
whisper. As I reached for the small safety pins holding my saree in place, he
stepped away only slightly, switching on the air conditioner. A moment later,
he was behind me again, and I felt the brush of his lips on the back of my
neck—soft, unexpected, and deeply stirring.
His moustache grazed
my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. There was something quietly intense
about the way he stood behind me—unmoving, yet fully present. When I finally
unfastened the last pin, the fabric loosened, and he removed pallu off my
shoulder with a whisper. His hands, firm yet careful, found my breast and he is
pressing so hard that made me bend and, in that process, I am holding his head
and trying to catch the penis which is touching my back trying to pierce
multiple layers of saree, petticoat and panty.
He didn’t gave me
any chance to hold it as he was busy in pressing my boobs and kissing my neck
There was something
quietly intense about the way he stood behind me—unmoving, yet fully present.
When I finally unfastened the last pin at the pleats, saree loosened up. Was
able to keep the safety pin on the side table and I turned slightly, catching
his eyes again before he leaned in to kiss me—slowly, deeply. My hands found
their way to his shoulders, grounding me as the world narrowed to just this
moment. He removed the saree slowly and entire saree is on the floor in a
flash.
He helped to guide
me toward the bed, where he sat and drew me onto his lap. I was still in my
blouse and petticoat, yet I felt more exposed than ever before. His hands
rested lightly on my back, his breath warm against my collarbone. I tried to
unhook my blouse with one hand, fumbling a bit.
He smiled; his voice
low. “Both hands,” he murmured with a gentle nudge.
As I followed his
advice, his hand slid to rest on my thigh, fingertips tracing panty lines over
the petticoat. There was no urgency, just quiet curiosity and care. We
exchanged a few soft words, half teasing, half tender.
Blouse slipped off
like falling petals and handed over to him. He folded it carefully and placed
it aside. That small act—how he respected what I shed—made my heart flutter
more than anything else.
Then his hands found
my waist, where the cotton knot of the petticoat waited. He didn’t rush. His
fingers brushed over the tie. And another hand on the centre of leges, feeling
the warmth of me beneath it and he asked me where is my penis? I told him I
have vagina now! He is kissing my neck and its making me lose control of
myself.
“May I remove the
knot?” he asked.
“Yes,” I murmured,
the word as light as breath.
He loosened the knot
gently. The blue petticoat released, sliding over the curve of my hips, down my
thighs, and to the floor. It joined the soft pile of saree.
Now I stood in only
my bra and panty—delicate lace that kissed my skin and revealed just enough to
quiet every unspoken question between us.
He didn’t reach to
remove them. Not yet. He simply stepped close again, wrapping his arms around
me, pressing me gently to him. There was no space left between us now, only the
hush of breath shared between bodies. He removed bra hooks, and it released my
breasts and now he pulled my panty as well. He is surprised by the look of artificial
vagina and took out the butt plug and tried to insert his fingers in the butt
hole. It was creating the sense of current in my body.
He made me lie on
bed and I told him, please use vagina for now. And I invited him both the
hands. He whispered in ears that I want to make you complete woman tonight, and
I just smiled. With that, he came over me and I just followed his movements, by
spreading my legs. There is a war in the room, and I am feeling like falling
petals in his hands. There is no gap between me and him and not even air can
pass through between us. I can really feel extra flesh touching my body from
the artificial vagina. As my legs are cleanly waxed and when they are brushed
against his hairy legs, started feeling of slightly ticklish and warm feeling.
Though the room is
fully air conditioned, both our bodies were fully wet due to sweat and as I my
voice is very much feminine, room is filled with my sounds. With his each pump,
I am jumping and can feel the pleasure pain. At one point of time, I started
feeling that my artificial vagina might tear up. I really felt loads of sperms on my body and
slowly started feeling his body weight, but Manoj is like a person who is never
willing to admit defeat. At the end, I have fully surrendered to and I became
an object for him. I can feel that my entire body is moving up and down with
his each push. And at last, he whispered, that I need more tonight, I just
hugged him tightly and replied in a lighter voice make me your wife.
After the war ended,
he lay on his side, extended one elbow and without any resistance my head
rested on his hand. I pulled blanked and draped loosely over my shoulders. He
is watching me with eyes that didn’t seek permission and looked like waited for
whatever I wanted to give.
I turned toward him,
tucking myself under his arm, my head finding its place against the curve of
his chest. His skin was warm, his breath steady, and I closed my eyes just to
feel how deeply I could exhale.
His fingers moved
lazily across my back, drawing circles as if mapping quiet constellations only
he could see. I felt his lips press gently to my forehead—just once. No
expectation. No seduction. Just presence.
“Tell me something
real,” I whispered.
He was quiet for a
long time before answering.
“I used to think
love was a rush,” he said. “Like something that took you over. But this…” He
paused, fingers gently resting at the small of my back. “This feels like being
returned to something I didn’t know I lost.”
I nestled closer,
letting my fingers drift along his chest. “I never thought I could feel this
close to someone without falling apart.”
“Maybe falling apart
isn’t always a bad thing,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “Sometimes it’s
how you find your way back.”
And in that
moment—our bodies not tangled in desire, but in warmth—I realized we had
touched something far more intimate than skin.
We had reached a
quiet understanding—intimate yet not exposed. We lay there, close enough to
feel each other’s warmth but not consumed by it. It was the kind of stillness
that almost lulled us into sleep. But then, Sindhu called.
Her voice was calm
and familiar. She said she’d be home in about 30 minutes. I glanced at the
clock—4:20 PM. She asked me to check with the cook if he could make a proper
masala tea. If not, she wanted me to prepare it. She also reminded me that
Manoj had a business appointment at 6:00 PM—something he couldn’t afford to
miss.
Reluctantly, I
pushed myself to sit up. My body ached with fatigue; it struck me then—being a
woman isn’t easy.
Clothes were
scattered all over the floor like a heap of fallen leaves. I started gathering
them. First, I picked up the undergarments—put on the bra and panty. Then came
the petticoat, which I pulled over my head and tied securely at the waist,
knotting it neatly on the right side. Though hair wig, artificial vagina
and breasts were intact, everything got loosened up a bit.
I looked around for
the blouse and didn’t see it on the floor. My hands paused mid-air. It wasn’t
with the pile of clothes. That’s when I noticed Manoj watching me—head resting
on his arm, eyes half-lidded with a mischievous glint that barely masked the weariness
beneath.
“You’re missing
something,” he said, voice low, teasing.
I narrowed my eyes.
“Where’s the blouse?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached behind the pillow and pulled it out slowly, like revealing a
secret. He held it up with a crooked smile, as if this tiny piece of fabric
gave him some fleeting sense of power.
I sighed, half
amused, half too tired to play along. “Really?”
He shrugged, still
grinning, and tossed it to me. I caught it mid-air and shook my head.
Pulling the blouse
on, I hooked it with some effort. The fabric was still warm, like it had held a
breath of the moment we had just shared. I reached for the saree. I took one
end and began to pleat. My fingers moved instinctively, but not with the ease
of experience. The saree slipped once, twice. The pleats came undone. I started
again, trying to fold it right.
Each fold was
uneven. The pallu didn’t fall clean—it clung to me, awkward and insistent. The
pleats gathered slightly crooked at my waist, stubborn in their refusal to look
perfect. But it didn’t matter.
The saree, even in
its flawed drape, said everything I couldn’t: the hesitation, the desire, the
sudden awareness of a new self. It whispered stories in every crease.
I stood there,
finally dressed, but still not fully composed.
Manoj sat up now,
his eyes softer. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He came closer and
gave a strong kiss on my lips and mischievously removed saree pleats and I hit
him smilingly and showed mock anger on him. Though I liked his childish
behaviour.
This time, I moved
bit far from him and started draping again with more focus. And this time,
pleats came much better, thanks to artificial vagina which created proper shape.
But I had bit fear that Sindhu might catch the moment she sees me and the way
saree has many folding’s.
The room felt
suspended in silence, like it was watching me. I held my breath as I stepped
toward the kitchen, one hand clutching the soft edge of my pallu, the other
guiding it carefully into place at my waist. My hips moved with a quiet
confidence.
I called for the
cook. He appeared immediately, almost startled by something he couldn’t quite
name. I asked him to make masala tea—my voice calm, poised, touched with a
quiet authority. For the first time, I didn’t sound like someone asking. I
sounded like someone who belonged. Like a woman the house had accepted.
He didn’t dare meet
my eyes. Just nodded, bowed slightly, and went about his task in silence.
I drifted back to
the bedroom.
Manoj was still
lying there, sprawled across the sheets, bare and unbothered. I paused for a
moment longer than I should have. I reminded him, gently, about his 6:00 PM
business appointment.
He turned to me with
a lazy smile, the kind that lingers like the taste of wine. “Yes, yes… I
remember. Sindhu must’ve reminded you, didn’t she?”
I simply nodded.
With a stretch and a
soft grunt, he rose from the bed and moved toward the washroom, leaving the
sheets tangled and marked with the intimacy of last couple of hours. I stood
for a moment, looking at the stains—evidence of a passion that still clung to
the air like perfume. The musky scent of the blankets stirred something deep in
me, something warm and heady.
I gathered the sheets
quickly, my fingers brushing the warmth still lingering on the fabric, my
thoughts racing. I would need to come up with a reason if Sindhu noticed the
change. Something ordinary. Something believable.
The cook called out,
asking if I preferred sugar or jaggery in the tea. I replied, choosing jaggery,
and asked him to keep it only lightly sweetened—just enough to tease the
palate.
With the bed remade
and the scent of the past hidden beneath clean cotton, I returned to the
kitchen. The steam of boiling spices rose into the air, curling around me. I
watched the cook closely—not just for the tea, but for the strange, unspoken
shift that had passed between us.
Something had
changed. In the house. In him. In me.
The aroma of jaggery
and crushed spices filled the kitchen—sharp, sweet, earthy. The tea simmered in
the pot, its rich color deepening as the last few bubbles rose and broke softly
on the surface. I stood nearby,
watching the cook strain it carefully into a steel kettle. The warmth in the
air felt heavier than just steam.
Behind me, footsteps
echoed across the marble floor.
Manoj emerged from
the bedroom, now a perfect contrast to the man sprawled naked just minutes
earlier. He was dressed immaculately—dark business formals, neatly pressed
shirt, hair still slightly damp from the shower, the faintest trace of cologne
clinging to him like an afterthought. He looked… composed. Powerful.
He walked into the
hall with the ease of someone stepping into a role he knew well.And then—the
doorbell rang.
A single chime that
pierced the stillness like a cue in a well-rehearsed play.
Manoj opened the
door without hesitation.
Sindhu stood
there—elegant, poised, confident. She carried the air of a woman used to being
received, not just expected. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, and without a
word, they embraced. Warmly. Familiar.
Their bodies
lingered in the hug just long enough to remind me that I was watching something
intimate—something real.
I adjusted my pallu,
pulling it tighter across my chest, instinctively covering myself with
practiced grace. The moment demanded composure, not emotion. I picked up the
tray—three cups of masala tea, perfectly balanced—and stepped into the hall
with my head held high.
They both turned as
I entered—Manoj, with a neutral glance, and Sindhu, with a quick smile that
didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Tea?” I offered
softly, voice calm, pleasant.
I placed the tray
carefully on the table, letting the steam rise between us like a quiet
offering. The scent curled in the air—spiced, warm, faintly intimate. It was my
way of marking presence, of reclaiming space.
“Thank you, Bala,”
Sindhu said, her tone smooth, polite, slightly performative.
I also sat on sofa
by softening my dress over hips. We sipped in near silence, the tea filling the
room with its comforting scent, but nothing about this moment felt comfortable.
Sindhu pulled out a
folder from her bag — crisp documents, clipped together with precision. “Here’s
everything you need. You’re set for the presentation,” she said, turning to
Manoj. Her tone had shifted: brisk, professional, a woman locking herself into
purpose.
“Best of luck,” she
added, her eyes momentarily softening.
Manoj stood. And
then, with practiced familiarity, he leaned in and kissed her. Brief. Simple. A
gesture that should have meant little — but cracked something deep inside me.
I looked away — too
quickly, too late. I had already seen it.
And felt...
something. A twist in my stomach. A hollow ache. Longing? Jealousy? I couldn’t
name it. I didn’t dare.
Sindhu turned back
to me with the same polished grace. “Keep me posted, okay?” she told Manoj.
“Regular updates.”
He nodded, and with
one last glance, he left. Leaving the two of us behind. And a silence that
wasn’t empty, but full — of what we wouldn’t say.
