The Hidden Chapters - 9

 

Once Sindhu left the room, I turned to the parlour lady and asked about her charges. She smiled gently and said, “I usually charge Rs. 10,000 per hour. But in your case, since this is a special arrangement, I’ve agreed to Rs. 8,000—and one complimentary session tonight.”

After the parlour lady left, I stood up and walked over to the mirror, admiring my reflection. I gently brought my hair forward, letting it fall over my chest as I began brushing it slowly. Lost in the moment, I didn’t realize that Sindhu had quietly returned and was standing behind me. Without saying a word, she snapped a photo of me from behind.

“This is how you’re looking right now,” she said softly, holding up her phone with a small smile.

 

I was quietly surprised when I saw myself. Something about the reflection felt different, yet I couldn't look away. I started walking, gradually becoming aware of the fabric brushing against me. The presence of the plug made my steps smaller, subtly influencing my posture and the way I moved. There was a noticeable shift in how I walked—more measured, more graceful.

I adjusted the pallu, tucking it neatly into my waist. A quiet sense of nervous energy lingered, but it was mixed with a calm acceptance of the change. The discomfort from Friday night seemed distant now, replaced by a sense of ease I hadn't expected.

I adjusted the pallu, smoothing it into place at my waist. A quiet tension lingered beneath my skin — not quite nerves, not quite excitement — just the soft awareness that something had shifted. The discomfort I’d felt on Friday night had faded into the background, replaced by a strange, settling calm.

Sindhu motioned for me to sit and handed me a glass of water. Her touch was casual but reassuring. I took a slow sip, trying to steady the flutter in my chest. As I swallowed, she leaned in with a familiar glint in her eyes — playful, knowing — and without a word, turned on the butt plug.

A wave of sensation pulsed through me, delicate but insistent. I gasped, surprised more by the timing than the feeling, and the glass slipped slightly in my hand. Water splashed across my blouse, cooling my skin where warmth had just begun to gather.

The mixture of sensation — the gentle ache, the wet fabric clinging to me, the way she looked at me — made my breath catch. I turned to her, trying to keep my voice even. “You need to stop… it’s making me feel like I need to go to the bathroom.”

Sindhu smiled softly and nodded, switching it off without protest. I sat back, heart still unsteady, as the moment settled around us. The clock on the wall read 11:30 AM.

 

I remembered catching a glimpse of Sindhu’s phone about an hour ago — Manoj had messaged, saying he’d be home between 11:30 and 11:45 AM. I hadn’t let on that I saw it, but ever since, a slow tension had been building inside me. A distinctly feminine awareness had settled in — not just a desire to be seen, but to be recognized.

I could barely sit still. Anxious, yes — but also undeniably aware of my own body in a way I hadn’t been before. The saree clung to me with gentle insistence. The soft petticoat brushed against my freshly waxed legs, and every step made me more aware of the woman I was becoming.

The blouse fit snugly across my chest, outlining the soft swell of my breasts in a way that felt both intimate and powerful. My waist curved inward, the fabric tightening just enough to accentuate the silhouette, before flowing outward into the generous fullness of my hips. From the front to the back, every inch of me felt shaped, defined — not by fabric alone, but by something deeper. Something real.

I looked down at myself and couldn’t help but feel it — I looked like a woman. I felt like a woman. And with every passing second, I found myself wanting to be seen that way — especially by Manoj.

The weight of my anxiety pressed heavily on me as I slowly made my way toward the kitchen. With each step, I could feel the presence of artificial vagina, butt plug, breast forms and the subtle shift in my movement, a reminder of how the saree altered my every stride. I was acutely aware of the way the pleats swirled around me and how the petticoat, with its gentle friction, kept me from taking long steps. Every motion had a rhythm of its own, and I couldn’t help but notice the way my back swayed with each careful step and also adjusting my pallu on my chest to cover my newly formed modesty.

Reaching for the pallu, I tucked it neatly around my waist, and for the first time, I truly understood its purpose. It wasn’t just about covering my waist—it shielded my modesty, flowing over my hips in a way that felt both protective and graceful.

I casually asked the cook, almost absentmindedly, “What’s for lunch today?” My voice was soft, but the words still felt like they hung in the air. The cook replied, “Roti, brinjal curry, and rasam,” and I nodded absentmindedly, focusing more on the feeling of the saree around me.