The Hidden Chapters - 13

 

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.