Adultery His Wife

[KKDOM]

Introducing Anil and Uma

This is the story of Anil Kumar, forty, a strong, dark, small-town businessman, and his wife Uma Kumari, thirty-six, a caring housewife, devoted mother, and thoughtful daughter-in-law. They live in a cozy home in a quiet town, sharing their lives with their eight-year-old son and Anil’s parents. Das, the fifty-five-year-old caretaker, helps with chores, errands, and keeping the household running smoothly. Their life is ordinary, calm, and routine — a portrait of a happy, typical family.

For years, Anil and Uma shared a loving marriage, yet their intimacy was quiet, almost predictable. They knew comfort, companionship, and trust, but the spark between them had dimmed into the rhythm of daily life. Then, one night, everything changed. A single, unexpected moment of rough intimacy revealed a hidden side of both of them — a side neither had acknowledged before.

Since that night, subtle shifts have appeared in their private world. Uma remains outwardly shy and composed, tending to the family, managing the house, and caring for her son. But inside, a quiet curiosity and hunger have begun to stir. She notices small things: the way Anil watches her, the brush of his hand, the teasing glance that lingers a fraction too long. Each touch and glance carries unspoken meaning, a private language between them.

Anil has discovered that he enjoys more than just the act itself. He finds excitement in exploring Uma’s hidden reactions, testing boundaries gently, observing her quietly, sometimes in ways she does not even realize. For him, it is not just desire — it is fascination, control, and the thrill of knowing her testing her and enjoying her.

Their daily life continues normally. Uma manages breakfast, laundry, and the household routine. Anil handles his small business, his parents occupy the living room, and Das takes care of errands. Everything appears ordinary, yet beneath the surface, a slow, sensual adventure has begun — one measured in stolen touches, quiet glances, and the first steps toward exploring desires they never spoke aloud.

This is the story of Anil Kumar and Uma Kumari: a small-town couple, seemingly ordinary, yet discovering a hidden, intimate world together — a world that will grow, slowly and secretly, into the adventures that define the chapters to come.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 1 – Blindfold and light Bondage

The house is quiet. Anil Kumar and Uma Kumari are alone today — their son and Anil’s parents went to visit relatives for the day, leaving them in rare, private solitude. Uma moves through the rooms, tidying up, doing the usual chores with calm efficiency.

Anil returns home earlier than usual, the thought of an afternoon alone with Uma stirring a strange heat in him. He watches her from the doorway, noticing the gentle sway of her hips, the curve of her waist, the softness of her figure as she bends and moves. His pulse quickens, and a tension coils low in his body — an arousal unfamiliar, but thrilling.

A flicker of memory crosses his mind: a low-budget movie he had watched late one night a few nights ago, the kind of Indian thriller where a woman is tied, blindfolded, and dominated. Not polished, not expert, but raw — and for some reason, it ignites an idea in him. Could he recreate a small version of that game? A private experiment, just for the two of them? The thought makes his chest tighten with excitement.

The afternoon passes with small touches and lingering glances. When Lata serves dinner later, Anil finds excuses for brief, subtle contact — brushing a hand across her shoulder, adjusting the plate in front of her, letting his fingers linger a moment too long. Uma blushes each time, a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. She murmurs softly, “Ji...eat first,” shyly trying to delay him.

But Anil is patient, playful in his own hesitant, clumsy way. He smiles, letting the tension build, waiting for the right moment. After the chores are done and the house is quiet once more, he gradually brings up the topic again, soft and careful. “Uma… I have an idea. Just a small… game. Will you let me try?”

Uma hesitates, heart racing, cheeks warm, but she nods slightly. She is shy, unsure, but obedient — the dutiful wife willing to fulfill her husband’s unusual request. “Okay Ji… if you want,” she whispers, voice low and hesitant. The words feel both dangerous and thrilling in the quiet of the room.

Anil exhales sharply, excitement tightening his grip as he retrieves a soft cotton dupatta from the wardrobe. The fabric is familiar — something Uma wears daily — but tonight, it will serve a new purpose. He folds it carefully, pressing it against her eyes, knotting it snugly at the back of her head. “Tell me if it’s too tight,” he murmurs, adjusting the blindfold as Uma’s breath hitches. The darkness envelops her completely, heightening every sensation — the rough texture of Anil’s fingers brushing her cheek, the warmth of his breath against her neck. She trembles slightly, fingers clutching at her sari’s pallu. “Ji… I can’t see anything,” she admits, voice trembling.

Anil smirks, running his hands down her arms, savoring the way she shivers under his touch. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. He guides her wrists behind her back, using another length of fabric to loosely bind them together. The restraint isn’t tight enough to hurt, just enough to make her aware of her helplessness. Uma’s pulse jumps beneath her skin; she bites her lower lip, uncertain but curious. “Anil Ji… what are you doing?” she asks, breathless.

His response is a low chuckle, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, dipping lower to squeeze the swell of her hips. “Exploring,” he replies, voice thick with intent. The slap lands suddenly — sharp, stinging against the back of her thigh — and Uma gasps, jerking against the bindings. Before she can protest, Anil’s mouth is on her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Tell me, fatty… does it feel good?” he growls against her ear, and Uma whimpers, torn between embarrassment and the unfamiliar thrill coiling in her belly.

The sari unravels with rough urgency, pooling at her feet in a rustle of fabric. Anil doesn’t bother with delicacy now; his fingers twist in the waistband of her petticoat, yanking it down until she stands bare except for the blindfold and bindings. The cool air prickles against her skin, but Uma barely registers it — not when Anil’s hands are everywhere, kneading her breasts with rough possessiveness, pinching her nipples until they stiffen painfully. “Ji… please—” she pants, but he ignores her, too lost in the way her body responds, the way her breath hitches even as she tries to squirm away. His palm cracks against her ass again, leaving a reddening print, and Uma moans, high and startled, her thighs pressing together instinctively.

Anil notices — of course he notices — the wetness glistening between her thighs despite her protests. A smug grin spreads across his face as he crouches behind her, his fingers tracing the curve of her ass before dipping lower, brushing feather-light over her dripping folds. Uma jerks, a shocked gasp escaping her lips. "Ji—!" she whimpers, but his response is another sharp smack against her thigh, the sting blending deliciously with the sudden press of his thick finger pushing inside her.

"Such a good fatty," Anil murmurs, his voice rough as he pumps his finger lazily, curling it just enough to make her hips buck. "Already so wet for me, huh?" His free hand grips her hip, holding her steady as he adds a second finger, stretching her with deliberate slowness. Uma's moan is muffled against her own shoulder, her bound wrists straining uselessly behind her. He scissors his fingers, relishing the way her inner walls flutter around him, then withdraws abruptly — only to land another stinging slap against her pussy lips. Uma cries out, her knees nearly buckling, but Anil catches her, his breath hot against her ear. "You like that, don't you?" he taunts, his fingers diving back in, this time rougher, faster.

The rhythm is merciless — thrust, slap, thrust, pinch — until Uma's whimpers turn to desperate, broken pleas. Her orgasm crashes over her unexpectedly, her body arching as a guttural sob tears from her throat. Anil doesn't let up, fingers working her through the convulsions, his other hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back. "Look at you," he growls, though she can't see him — only feel the heat of his gaze. "My shy little wife, coming on my fingers like a cheap whore." The degradation sends another shudder through her, her cunt clenching around his fingers anew.

When he finally withdraws, Uma sags, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. Anil presses a kiss to the nape of her neck, surprisingly tender after the onslaught. "Good fatty," he murmurs, untying her wrists but leaving the blindfold.

Uma's hands tremble as she rubs her freed wrists, her breath still uneven. The cool air kisses her flushed skin, raising goosebumps along her thighs. Anil watches, transfixed—the way her heavy breasts rise with each breath, the glisten of sweat between them, the way her nipples remain stiff and dusky. His cock twitches against his pants, painfully hard.

"Ji..." Uma whispers, reaching up to touch the blindfold uncertainly. Anil catches her wrist, stopping her. "Leave it," he orders, voice rough. His palm skims down her spine, possessive, admiring the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of her ass, kneading roughly. "Look at you," he growls. "Fatty like you shouldn't be this tempting."

Uma flushes at the crude praise, her thighs pressing together instinctively. The blindfold heightens her awareness—the scrape of his calloused hands, the musky scent of his arousal, the wet sound as he spits into his palm before gripping his cock. Her breath hitches when she hears the rustle of fabric, then the thick, hot press of him against her back.

"Still wet for me?" he taunts, dragging the swollen head of his cock through her slick folds. Uma whimpers, nodding frantically. Anil fists her hair, yanking her head back. "Use your words, fatty."

"Yes, Ji—please!" she gasps.

The slap comes without warning—stinging, sharp against her inner thigh. Before she can recover, Anil drives into her with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Uma's cry is choked, her nails scraping the bedsheets as he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips punctuated by the wet slap of skin. The blindfold traps her in sensation—the stretch, the burn, the delicious friction as he fucks her like he owns her. Because he does.

"Say it," he snarls, fingers tightening in her hair. "Say who you belong to."

"Y-you, Ji—ah! *Ah!*" Her voice fractures as he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes her vision whiten. She's sobbing now, drooling on the sheets, her body no longer hers to control. Anil groans, hips stuttering as her cunt milks him greedily. He comes with a roar, spilling inside her in hot, pulsing waves, his teeth sinking into her shoulder to muffle his own noises.

They collapse in a heap, sticky and spent. Anil rolls onto his back, chest heaving, watching as Uma's trembling fingers finally pull the blindfold free. Her eyes are dazed, pupils blown wide—not with fear, but with something darker. Hungrier. She licks her swollen lips, shyly avoiding his gaze, but the flush creeping down her chest betrays her.

"Fatty," Anil rasps, reaching out to tuck a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb traces the bite mark on her shoulder, and she shivers. "Did you like that?" The question is a dare, a challenge. Uma's throat works silently before she nods, so slight it's almost imperceptible. Anil's grin is wolfish. "Use your words, wife."

Uma's breath hitches. "Y-yes, Ji," she whispers, voice raw. The admission sends a fresh bolt of heat through him. He catches her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Say it properly."

Her lashes flutter, but she doesn't look away this time. "I... liked when you... used me rough." The words are barely audible, but they land like a slap. Anil's cock twitches against his thigh, already stirring again.

He pulls her against his chest, her curves molding to him perfectly. Uma hesitates, then tentatively rests her palm over his heart. The gesture is unexpectedly tender—a quiet counterpoint to the brutality minutes before. Anil exhales sharply, pressing his nose into her hair. It smells of sex and jasmine oil. "Next time," he murmurs, nipping her earlobe, "I'll make you beg louder."

Uma stiffens, but the pulse beneath his fingertips quickens. She doesn't speak, yet her breathing grows uneven—shallow little gasps that tell him more than words ever could. Anil smirks into the darkness, satisfied. The wife who'd blushed at his touches over dinner now lies pliant against him, her skin still fever-hot from their rough coupling. He traces idle circles on her hip, listening to the hitch in her breath when his fingers drift too close to the bite mark on her shoulder.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 2 – Breaking Uma’s sense of decency

The wedding hall sparkles with lights and laughter, but the day has been long. Uma follows Anil quietly, hands folded over her saree, her steps careful. They had planned to return home the same evening, but heavy rain has made the roads dangerous. A distant cousin arranges a nearby hotel for them, and they reluctantly agree.

As the evening stretches, Anil drinks more than usual, laughing loudly with relatives, pride loosening under alcohol. Uma hovers beside him, quietly making sure he drinks water, guiding him when he sways.

Then the trigger comes. In the middle of the hall, a relative unexpectedly bumps into Anil, spilling a drink over his expensive kurta. Instinctively, Uma leans in, pressing a napkin to the stain, trying to clean it quickly. Her hands brush his chest, his shoulders—gentle, caring, obedient.

To Uma, it’s simple help. To Anil, it is mockery, condescension, and embarrassment—he feels shown down in front of everyone, humiliated, weak. The alcohol sharpens his pride into fire.

“Why are you touching me like that?” he snaps, voice low, tense. “Do you think I can’t handle myself?”

Uma flinches, hands folding, voice trembling yet obedient. “Ji… I’m only trying to help…”

He sways, jaw tight, muttering under his breath. Every small gesture of hers—the careful touch, the soft voice, the concern—now twists into insult in his mind. His chest burns, a restless heat spreading, tinged with humiliation he believes she caused.

The rest of the evening passes tensely. Uma stays close, silent, careful, guiding him to the car, her saree brushing lightly, fingers grazing his hand. Every touch ignites the simmering tension, even as she only tries to care for him.

The hotel is modest, the only option. Uma leads him inside, sets down the bags, folds his coat, arranges the pillows. He slumps onto the bed, still muttering, flushed with alcohol and anger.

She bends to remove his shoes—too fast, too close. His fingers clamp around her wrist like iron, jerking her upright. "Fatty," he slurs, breath sour with whiskey, "who told you to act like I'm some cripple?" Her pulse jumps under his grip, her lips parting—not in protest, but shock. The first slap cracks across her cheek before she can whisper "Ji." The sting blooms, her face snapping sideways, saree slipping from her shoulder.

"Always—fucking—hovering," he growls, dragging her by the hair toward the bed. Silk tears as her blouse catches on the bedpost. Uma whimpers, hands fluttering up—not to push him away, but to shield herself. Futile. His palm smacks her bare thigh, leaving a red print that darkens as he watches. "Look at you," he laughs, rough fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, "dressing like some bride when you're just a cow." The insult hangs, cruel and hot, as he rips her petticoat down with one yank.

Her sari pools around her ankles like a fallen flag. She stands naked except for her bangles, shivering, arms crossed over her heavy breasts. Drunk strength makes him careless—he shoves her onto the mattress, her body bouncing once before he's on her, knee pressing into her belly. "Say sorry," he demands, thumb tracing her swollen lip where he hit her. Uma's breath hitches, tears spilling silently. "Ji... I..." Another slap, harder. "Louder."

His belt buckle clinks as he undoes it. Uma's breath hitches when she sees him pull the leather free—not to beat her again, but to loop it around her neck like a halter. The cold metal press of the buckle against her collarbone makes her flinch. "On your hands and knees," Anil slurs, giving the belt a sharp tug. The command is thick with whiskey and something darker, something that coils low in Uma's belly despite the fear. She hesitates, trembling, but another yank sends her scrambling onto all fours, her bare breasts swaying, the stretch of her back dipping like a bowed animal.

"Fat fucking cow," he spits, circling her. The belt digs into her throat when he jerks it sideways, forcing her head up. "Look at these tits—dripping like you're in heat." His fingers twist into her hair, wrenching her face toward the grimy hotel mirror across the room. "See yourself? This is what you are. Nothing but a village whore my father picked from the gutter." Uma's reflection stares back—wide-eyed, lips swollen from his slaps, the red imprint of his fingers blooming on her thigh. Shame floods her, but beneath it, something hotter pulses when he kicks her legs wider apart, exposing her glistening cunt in the mirror's reflection.

"Say it," Anil growls, grinding his heel against her inner thigh. The pain is sharp, but the wetness between her legs betrays her. "Say you're my dumb breeding cow." His free hand grabs a handful of her hair, yanking her head back until her neck arches. Uma's whimper dies in her throat when his other hand smacks her ass hard enough to leave a handprint. "Say it!"

"Ji... I—I'm your... cow," she chokes out, the words scraping her throat raw. The belt tightens as Anil leans down, his whiskey-sour breath hot against her ear. "Louder, you stupid bitch. Let the whole fucking hotel hear how much of a slut you are." His fingers dig into the meat of her ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Uma's knees wobble as she obeys, voice trembling but clear—"I'm your dumb breeding cow, Ji!"—and the humiliation burns through her like cheap liquor.

Anil's laugh is rough, unhinged. He kicks her legs wider, the stretch making her inner thighs ache. "Should've seen you today—flaunting those tits in front of my cousins, rubbing against me like a bitch in heat." Uma's breath hitches; she hadn't, she'd only—but his palm cracks against her cunt, the sudden sting wringing a cry from her lips. "Don't lie," he snarls, twisting her nipple hard between his fingers. "I saw how you leaned into Ramesh when he 'accidentally' brushed your ass. You liked it, didn't you? This fat cunt"—another slap, her folds glistening under the harsh overhead light—"You acting so mighty in marriage hall, make me fool infront all?"

Uma whimpers, her wrists buckling as he fists her hair tighter. The spit lands warm and thick across her cheekbone, sliding down to her trembling mouth. "Ji, I never—"

"Shut up." Anil's open palm cracks across her other cheek, the sound sharp as a whip in the stale hotel air. Her head jerks sideways, hair sticking to the wetness on her face. "Acting like I'm some helpless idiot in front of the whole family," he snarls, dragging her up by the belt noose until her bare knees scrape the rough carpet. "You think I didn't see? Your fucking 'help' was just you showing everyone how useless I am." His fingers dig into the soft underside of her jaw, forcing her to meet his bloodshot eyes. "My own wife. My cow."

Uma's throat works around nothing. The belt bites deeper when he shakes her like a ragdoll. "Answer me, fatty! You enjoyed making me look weak?" Another slap—this time with the back of his hand—makes her ear ring. Her nipple brushes his thigh as she sways, the accidental touch making his breath hitch.

"Ji, please," she gasps, tears mingling with his spit on her chin. "I only wanted—"

"Wanted what?" His knee jams between her thighs, rough denim scraping her inner skin. "To prove you're better than me? That this"—he grabs a fistful of her breast, squeezing until she cries out—"is all I married you for?" Uma's sob catches when he pinches her nipple hard, twisting. The pain radiates, but her hips jerk forward traitorously, her swollen cunt brushing his shin.

Anil's laughter is dark, uneven. "Look at you," he murmurs, thumb smearing her tears across her cheek. "Even now, your slut body can't lie." His other hand fists in her pubic hair, yanking sharply. Uma's scream strangles into a moan as wetness gushes between her legs, dripping onto his shoe. "Pathetic," he breathes, but his pupils dilate when her thighs quiver.

The belt digs into her windpipe as he shoves her onto her back, knees forcing her legs apart like a gutted fish. "Spread wider, cow," he snarls, undoing his pants with one hand. His cock slaps against her inner thigh, thick and angry purple, veins pulsing. Uma whimpers—not in protest, but anticipation—her fingers scrabbling at the stained carpet when he spits onto her cunt. The wet glob lands cold before he rubs it in with two rough fingers, stretching her tight hole without preamble. "See how you drip?" He laughs, curling his fingers cruelly. "Even your cunt knows its place."

Anil doesn't bother aligning himself properly. He rams in halfway, the brutal stretch making her arch off the floor with a choked scream. "Shut up," he growls, slapping her tit hard enough to make it wobble. The pain ricochets through her as he sheathes himself fully, pelvis grinding against her clit with deliberate roughness. "You wanted this, didn't you?" His hips snap forward, the slap of skin echoing off the yellowed walls. "Dressing up like a fucking goddess when you're just a hole." Uma's nails rake uselessly at his thighs, her choked "Ji—!" cut off when he fists her hair, smacking her head against the floorboards.

"Look at me," he orders, thrusts turning erratic with alcohol and rage. Her breasts jounce violently, sweat-slick and marked with his fingerprints. The mirror across the room reflects her wrecked face—mascara streaked, lips bitten raw, the belt still looped around her neck like a dog's collar. Anil follows her gaze and grins, twisting her nipple hard. "See? That's all you are." His pace turns punishing, the bedframe rattling against the wall with each snap of his hips. "A dumb, fuckable animal."

Uma's thighs tremble, her orgasm building despite the ache—or because of it. The shame coils hot in her belly when Anil sneers, "Going to come, fatty? From this?" He punctuates each word with a brutal thrust, his balls slapping against her ass. Her climax hits like a punch, cunt clenching around him as she sobs, her toes curling into the carpet. Anil curses, pulling out last second to paint her stomach in thick, white stripes. "Filthy," he murmurs, smearing it into her skin with his palm. "But you love it." Her whimper sounds suspiciously like agreement.

He staggers upright, belt still looped around her neck like a leash. Uma stays sprawled on the floor, limbs loose with exhaustion, sweat cooling on her skin. Anil looks down at her, swaying slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he spits—a thick, deliberate glob that lands square on her cheekbone. It slides sluggishly toward her ear. "Sleep there," he slurs, toeing her hip with his shoe. "Where you belong." Uma doesn't move, her breath hitching as another wad of spit hits her collarbone, then her nipple. The warm wetness contrasts sharply with the hotel's stale air.

"Ji..." she starts, voice hoarse, but he cuts her off with a rough laugh. "Still talking?" He leans down, reeking of whiskey and sweat, and spits directly into her open mouth. Uma's throat works instinctively, swallowing before she can think to resist. The degradation burns hotter than his slaps. Anil watches, eyes dark, then grunts and kicks her thigh—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her flinch. "Good cow," he mumbles, stumbling toward the bed.

The mattress creaks as he collapses onto it fully clothed, snoring within minutes. Uma stays on the floor, limbs leaden, the carpet rough against her bare skin. She should crawl to the bathroom, clean herself—but the thought of moving exhausts her. Instead, she curls onto her side, the belt still loose around her neck. Her fingers brush the drying spit on her breast, and to her horror, her cunt pulses weakly. The shame curls warm in her belly as she drifts off, listening to Anil's drunken snores.

Morning light slices through the cheap curtains, stabbing Anil’s skull like a hot knife. He groans, rolling onto his side—and freezes. Uma lies motionless on the floor beside the bed, nude except for the tarnished belt draped around her throat like a grotesque necklace. Her knees are drawn up slightly, one arm flung out as if she’d tried to shield herself in sleep. The sight punches the air from his lungs.

His stomach lurches. Finger-shaped bruises bloom along her hips, her left nipple still red from his pinching. Dried spit streaks her cheekbone. "Fuck," he croaks, scrambling off the mattress. The movement makes his head pound, whiskey-sour guilt rising in his throat.

"Uma?" He touches her shoulder—too gently, like she might shatter. Her lashes flutter open, eyes focusing slowly. Not fear. Not anger. Just... quiet recognition. "Ji," she murmurs, voice raspy from last night's screams.

Anil's fingers tremble as he unfastens the belt. The leather leaves a faint indent on her skin. "I—" His throat closes. Drunk excuses taste like ash. "I didn’t mean to... fuck, look at you." His thumb grazes the welt on her thigh. Uma shivers but doesn’t pull away.

"It’s okay, Ji." Her hand lifts—not to cover herself, but to rest lightly on his wrist. The contact sends a jolt through him.

He searches her face for cracks, for the quiet resentment he deserves. Instead, her thighs shift subtly, the musk of last night’s sex still clinging to her. Anil’s pulse stutters when he notices—no, it can’t be—but there’s no mistaking the slick warmth his fingers brush against as he helps her up.

Uma sways slightly, her full breasts swaying, stretch marks catching the light. She doesn’t cross her arms. Doesn’t scramble for a sheet. Just stands there, breathing evenly, while Anil’s gaze drops to the bite mark on her inner thigh. His teeth. His claim.

A soft sound escapes her when his fingertips trace it—not pain. Something else.

His drunken rage crystallizes into a horrifying, exhilarating realization: she’s not broken. She’s... *glowing*. The morning sun gilds the sweat at the hollow of her throat, the curve of her hip where his grip left fingerprints.

"Uma..." His voice cracks. She meets his eyes, and the faintest smile ghosts her swollen lips. No words. Just the quiet, devastating truth between them—last night wasn’t an end. It was a beginning.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 3 – Degradation in sex life

The hotel night is still fresh in Anil’s mind. He remembers how drunk he was, how he lost control, how he treated Uma like she was nothing—abusing her, degrading her, using her. And the morning had surprised him.

She had trembled, flushed, her body giving her away. He realized then—she didn’t just take it, she enjoyed it. Not rough sex alone, but humiliation, being used, being degraded. It excited her.

Since then, in their private moments, even during ordinary rough sex, he has tested her. A harsh word, a teasing comment, a small degradation. Every time, she had reacted just the way he expected. She liked it. Deep inside, she wanted it.

Tonight is Saturday. Their son sleeps with Anil’s parents. They finish dinner quietly. Uma clears the plates, moving around the kitchen with her usual ease. Her curves are natural and soft, her hips and waist shaping her movements, the weight of her body and the way she carries herself making him aware of her sensuality without exaggeration. Even in the simple domestic routine, his pulse quickens.

When she finishes, she moves toward the bedroom. Anil leans back slightly on the bed, watching her approach. She’s wearing a simple cotton nightdress, the kind most Indian women wear at home—loose but soft, falling to her knees, outlining her curves without being revealing, hair tied back casually. The soft fabric sways with her steps, and the light from the table lamp catches the natural glow of her skin.

He feels the familiar heat coil in his stomach, pulse quickening. She doesn’t notice his gaze, shy and obedient as always, unaware of the anticipation she is stirring.

As she enters the bedroom, he speaks, firm, husky, the way a husband does when he doesn’t ask politely.

“Tonight… I want it a little more… dirty,” he says, eyes fixed on her. “More… degrading.”

Uma pauses, cheeks flushing. She bites her lip nervously, heart racing, then lowers her gaze, voice soft and obedient.

“You can… do anything, Ji,” she whispers. “I’m your wife.” The words hang between them—soft, trembling, but unmistakable. Anil exhales sharply, the confirmation tightening his gut. He sits up straighter, fingers curling into the bedsheet. “Everything,” he orders, voice rough. “Take it all off. Even your mangalsutra.” Uma’s breath catches. The sacred thread—gold beads strung on black thread—rests against her collarbones, a symbol of her marital status, her devotion. Her fingers hover over it instinctively, hesitating.

“Now,” Anil growls. The command sends a visible shudder through her. Slowly, she unties the knot behind her neck, letting the mangalsutra slip into her palm before placing it on the dresser with exaggerated care. The act feels heavier than it should—like surrender. Then comes the nightdress, lifted over her head, arms rising, fabric catching briefly on her full breasts before pooling at her feet. The air brushes her bare skin, and she stands there, utterly exposed, hands hovering uncertainly over her thighs.

Anil doesn’t touch her. Not yet. He drinks her in—the swell of her hips, the dark triangle between her legs, the way her nipples stiffen under his stare. His gaze lingers on the stretch marks across her belly, the softness of her arms, the way her body has changed after motherhood. A slow smirk twists his lips. “Fatty,” he murmurs, dragging the word out like a taunt. Uma flinches, cheeks burning, but her thighs press together reflexively. Anil sees it—the way her breath quickens.

He rises abruptly, circling her like a predator. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “Look at yourself,” he orders, steering her toward the full-length mirror. Uma whimpers but obeys, staring at her own reflection—naked, flushed, his hands possessive on her body. Anil leans close, his breath hot on her ear. “See how soft you are? How… used?” His palm smacks her ass sharply, the sound cracking through the room. Uma jerks, a gasp escaping her lips, but her eyes stay locked on the mirror, watching his fingers trail up her stomach to pinch a nipple—hard. “You’re just meat,” he breathes. “Mine.”

The belt comes next. He yanks it from the almirah with a metallic clatter, the leather dark and familiar. Uma’s pulse stutters—she remembers this belt coiled around her throat in that hotel room, the way the edges bit into her skin. Anil sees the recognition flicker across her face and smirks. “Scared?” He loops the belt slowly around her neck, not buckling it yet, just letting the weight of it rest against her collarbones like a leash. “You should be.” His voice drops to a growl. “Because tonight, you’re not my wife. You’re my cow.” The word lands like a slap. Uma’s breath hitches, her thighs trembling, but she doesn’t protest. Anil tightens the belt abruptly, not enough to choke, but enough to make her feel it. “Say it,” he demands.

“I-I’m your c-cow, Ji,” she stammers, cheeks flaming. The humiliation coils hot in her belly, mixing with something else—something slick and shameful. Anil’s fingers dig into her hips, forcing her closer to the mirror. “Look at yourself,” he sneers. “Fat tits, fat ass, nothing but a hole for me to use.” His free hand grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. Uma gasps, her reflection staring back—wide-eyed, lips parted, the belt stark against her skin. Anil’s spit lands on her cheek first, warm and thick, sliding down toward her jaw. She flinches but holds still. “Lick it,” he orders.

Uma hesitates, shame burning her throat. But then her tongue darts out—tentative, obedient—catching the wetness before it drips off. The taste is bitter, salty. Anil’s laugh is dark. “Good cow.” His thumb smears the remaining spit across her lips like cheap lipstick. “Open.” When her mouth parts, he spits again, this time directly onto her tongue. Her eyes water, but she swallows instinctively, the warmth of it sliding down her throat. “Again,” he growls, cupping her chin. This time, he lets saliva pool in his palm, thick and glistening, before shoving his hand against her mouth. “Lick it clean.” Her tongue swirls over his calloused skin, collecting every drop, her knees trembling. The belt tightens around her neck as she obeys, a silent leash reminding her—she’s not allowed dignity tonight.

“Look at you,” Anil murmurs, dragging his spit-slick fingers down her chest to pinch her nipple. Uma whimpers, the sting sharp, her reflection in the mirror showing flushed skin. “Such a greedy slut. Even my spit turns you on.” His other hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back further. “Admit it.” Her voice is ragged. “Y-yes, Ji.” He spits on her again, this time letting it splatter across her breasts. “Clean yourself.” Her hands shake as she wipes the wetness with her palms, then brings them to her mouth, licking slowly, eyes downcast. Anil watches, his cock straining against his pants. “Faster,” he snaps. She hurries, tongue flicking over her fingers like a starved thing, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

The degradation seeps into her bones, hot and filthy. When Anil grabs her wrist and forces her spit-slick fingers between her own thighs, she doesn’t resist. “Feel that?” he taunts, rubbing her knuckles against her wetness. “You’re dripping. For this.” Uma’s stomach clenches, the truth of it undeniable—her body betrays her, throbbing where his belt bites into her throat. Anil leans in, his teeth scraping her earlobe. “You’re nothing but a hole,” he breathes. “Say it.” Her whisper is broken. “I’m… nothing, Ji.” He rewards her with another slap to her ass, the sound echoing. “Good fatty.” Then his hand is back at her mouth, demanding, “More.” She opens obediently, letting him spit straight down her throat this time, her body arching toward him even as shame floods her cheeks. The belt creaks as he pulls it tighter, her submission a noose she doesn’t want to escape.

With a rough jerk, Anil drags her toward the bed. Uma stumbles, knees hitting the mattress’s edge, her reflection flashing in the mirror—a naked woman, flushed and trembling, spit glistening on her chin, belt snug against her throat. Anil pushes her down, hands flat on her shoulders, pressing until her back hits the sheets. The cold cotton shocks her overheated skin. He towers over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. “Legs open,” he orders, voice thick. She spreads them slowly, the stretch of her thighs obscene in the lamplight. His calloused palm runs up her inner thigh, stopping just short of where she aches. “Look at you,” he sneers, pinching the soft flesh near her knee. “So desperate.” Uma whimpers, her hips lifting involuntarily. Anil smirks and slaps her thigh—hard. The sting makes her gasp, her cunt pulsing. “Stay still,” he growls. “You don’t get to move unless I say.”

He strips his vest off in one rough motion, the fabric catching on his thick arms before he tosses it aside. His chest is broad, dark hair trailing down to the waistband of his pants, already tented with his arousal. Uma’s breath hitches—she knows what comes next. Anil unbuckles his belt slowly, the leather sliding free with a whisper, his eyes locked on hers. “Hands above your head,” he commands. She raises them, wrists crossing like a sacrifice. The belt loops around them in a practiced motion, tightening until her skin chafes. He yanks the excess, forcing her arms higher, her breasts jutting upward. “Better,” he murmurs, palming one roughly. His thumb flicks her nipple, the pain sharp, delicious. Uma’s back arches off the bed, a moan trapped in her throat. Anil slaps her tit this time, the sound ringing. “You like that, cow?” She nods frantically, tears pricking her eyes. His laugh is dark as he climbs onto the bed, knees bracketing her hips, his weight pressing her deeper into the mattress. “Wait till you see what’s next.”

His fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, dragging them down just enough to free his cock—thick, veiny, already leaking. Uma’s mouth waters instinctively. Anil grabs her hair, yanking her head up. “Lick,” he orders, dragging the tip along her lips. Her tongue darts out, tentative at first, catching the bitter salt of him. He groans, thrusting shallowly into her mouth. “Faster,” he snarls. She obeys, swirling her tongue around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks. Anil’s grip tightens, forcing her deeper until she gags. Saliva drips down her chin. He pulls back just to spit directly onto her tongue. “Swallow,” he growls. She does, throat working, tears streaking her cheeks. His free hand pinches her nipple cruelly, twisting until she whimpers around his cock. “That’s it,” he pants. “Take it like the filthy slut you are.”

Her jaw aches, but she doesn’t stop, bobbing her head with ragged desperation. Anil watches her, his breath ragged, fingers tightening in her hair with every slurp. He slaps her breast again, the sharp crack making her flinch, but she keeps sucking, her nose brushing his pubes. “Look at me,” he orders. Her eyes flick up, watery, obedient. He spits onto her face this time, the glob landing heavy on her eyelid. She blinks it away but doesn’t stop moving her mouth, her tongue working the underside of his shaft. Anil’s hips jerk. “Fuck,” he hisses. His other hand grabs her throat, not squeezing—just holding, a silent reminder of who owns her. “Gonna come down your throat,” he warns, voice rough. Uma moans around him, the vibration making him curse. Her nipples throb where he’d pinched them, the pain sweet and filthy.

He pulls out suddenly, his cock glistening with her spit. Uma gasps for air, lips swollen, chin slick. Anil smirks, dragging the head over her cheek, leaving a wet trail. “Not done yet,” he murmurs. Reaching behind him, he yanks his underwear down—a pair of worn cotton briefs, damp with sweat. Uma’s eyes widen as he balls them up. “Open,” he commands. She hesitates, pulse hammering, but parts her lips obediently. The fabric tastes musky, salty, the scent of him thick and masculine. Anil shoves it deeper, stuffing her mouth until her cheeks bulge. “Bite down,” he growls. Her teeth sink into the cotton, the texture rough against her tongue. He leans close, breath hot. “This is so you don’t scream loud enough to wake the whole house.” His fingers tap her cheek mockingly. “Understand, cow?” She nods, eyes watering.

Anil grabs the belt’s loose end, winding it around her head like a bridle, tightening it until the fabric presses deeper into her throat. Uma gags slightly, her breath coming in ragged bursts through her nose. He watches, satisfied, as drool leaks from the corners of her stuffed mouth. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, wiping the spit with his thumb before shoving it back between her lips, forcing her to suck. Her muffled whimper makes his cock twitch. He leans down, nipping her earlobe. “You love this, don’t you? Being a slut.” Her hips jerk involuntarily, her thighs glistening with arousal. Anil chuckles, trailing a finger down her chest. “Disgusting,” he mutters, though his voice is thick with desire.

With a rough jerk, he flips her onto her stomach, her tied wrists straining. The belt digs into her throat as he mounts her from behind, his knees forcing her legs apart. Uma’s muffled moan vibrates against the gag. Anil spits onto his palm, slicking himself up before pressing the head against her entrance. “Feel that?” he taunts, grinding lightly. She nods frantically, her ass pushing back instinctively. He slaps her thigh. “Greedy slut.” Then he thrusts in—hard, unforgiving. The stretch burns, her cry muffled by the underwear. Anil groans, his fingers digging into her hips as he sets a brutal pace. Each snap of his hips jolts her forward, the belt tightening with every movement. “Take it,” he snarls, spanking her ass. The sharp sting mixes with the pleasure, her body shuddering. He leans over her, his breath hot on her ear. “You’re just a hole,” he reminds her. “My hole.” She whimpers, her cunt clenching around him—agreement, surrender.

The room fills with the wet slap of skin, the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths. Anil’s fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her head back as he pounds into her. “Look at yourself,” he orders, forcing her face toward the mirror. Her reflection is obscene—cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, spit and tears streaking her face. The underwear bulges obscenely between her lips. He spits on her back, watching the glob slide down her spine. “Filthy,” he mutters, but his thrusts grow erratic. Uma’s thighs tremble, her climax building despite the shame, the pain. His fingers find her clit, rubbing rough circles. She bucks against him, a silent scream trapped in her throat. Anil laughs darkly. “Come for me, cow.” The command snaps something inside her. Her back arches, her cunt pulsing around him as pleasure crashes through her. He follows with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside her, his teeth sinking into her shoulder.

Afterwards, he doesn’t untie her. Doesn’t remove the gag. He collapses beside her, still buried inside, their sweat-slick bodies sticking together. Uma’s chest heaves, her limbs limp. Anil lazily traces the belt marks on her wrists. “Good fatty,” he murmurs, almost tender. She shivers, her body still humming. He pulls out slowly, watching his cum leak from her onto the sheets. “Messy,” he comments, smearing it with his fingers before bringing them to her lips. “Clean it.” She obeys, tongue lapping weakly. Exhausted, he yanks the gag out finally, tossing it aside. Uma coughs, her throat raw, but she doesn’t complain. Anil gathers her against him, her back to his chest, his arms possessive. “Sleep,” he orders. She nods, eyelids heavy. The last thing she feels is his fingers tracing the bite mark on her shoulder as darkness swallows them both.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 4 – Changes in Daily life

At home, behind closed doors, their nights had settled into a new rhythm. The way Anil treated Uma, the way he uses her, humiliated her, degrade her—it was no longer an experiment. It was part of their sex life. Both crave it, both enjoyed it. Uma’s scream, laud moans, her shivers, the watery eyes, the heat that rose in her body when he called her degrading names, when he rough way use he like she is nothing—all of it had become a secret, shared only between them.

This private life began influencing small things during the day. Not drastically, not publicly, but in ways that made their relationship feel different. Anil’s authority, his control, his way of claiming her—even casually—grew. Uma, obedient and submissive, followed him without question. She did not start doing things on her own; she did not even fully understand what she wanted. But when Anil guided her—words, gestures, touches—she followed, her body and mind responding to him.

The nickname “Fatty” became natural. One afternoon, Anil was guiding Das Kaka in repairing the boundary wall at the back of the house.

“Fatty,” he called lightly, without turning. “Bring some tea for both of us.”

Das Kaka paused, confused, then looked at Anil. “Fatty?”

Anil smirked. “You know… Fatty of the house. Uma.”

Das Kaka chuckled quietly and went back to work, thinking it was a husband joking with his wife.

A few minutes later, Uma approached, tray in hand, her saree flowing lightly over her curves. Her blouse was sleeveless, the back a little open, just as Anil had instructed. He glanced at her belly, then at the subtle swell of her hips. “See,” he said softly, “isn’t she a fatty?”

Uma felt a faint heat rise across her skin but lowered her eyes politely, carrying the tea. Das Kaka laughed quietly, assuming it was just teasing. To Anil, it was ownership, quiet, private, and entirely his.

The clothes she wore began to change—sleeveless, backless, slightly exposing. Not on her own initiative, but because Anil guided her. Sarees and blouses that once covered every inch of her were replaced, piece by piece, by sleeveless blouses and backless designs. Nothing vulgar, nothing extreme, just enough to make her aware of herself.

One afternoon, Anil took her to the market. Uma moved quietly, aware of the way her backless blouse rested against her spine, aware of how her curves shifted with every step. The heat of the sun made the thin fabric cling slightly, and Anil noticed every detail.

They step into Raghu’s small, crowded cloth shop. The smell of detergent and old fabric hangs heavy in the air. Fans spin lazily overhead, and the piles of folded cottons and maxis make the space feel smaller than it is. Uma walks beside Anil in her sleeveless, backless blouse and long skirt, moving naturally as she has in these weeks. Nothing about her dress makes her feel self-conscious yet—it has become normal.

“We need a new maxi for me,” she says softly.

Raghu looks up, nods politely. “Of course, Bhabhiji. I’ll show you what we have.”

He gestures to a rack of neatly folded maxis. Uma begins flipping through, picking up a few options. Anil’s eyes sweep the shop, scanning the clutter. Then, near the floor, he notices a small pile of cheap, faded, colorful blouses. The kind women near the railway line slum wear—bright, loud, inexpensive.

“These?” Raghu says quietly. “Mostly for… customers near the railway line. Not really decent for daily wear.”

Anil bends down, picks one up, and glances at Uma. A slow smirk spreads across his face. “Decent?” he asks, mockingly. “Doesn’t matter. Fatty, this is perfect for you. Cheap, bright… exactly what you are at home. Why waste money on anything better?”

Uma freezes for a second, cheeks heating. She glances down, clutching her saree lightly, fingers gripping the fabric. Her stomach tightens, a faint tremor running through her body. The blouse is harmless, but the way he says it, in front of Raghu, mocking her figure and calling her useless, hits her differently.

Anil picks up another blouse, holding it near her shoulder. “See this? Fits you well. Cheap, worn out… just like your belly, hips… everything wasted at home. Perfect for Fatty.”

Uma bites her lip, lowering her gaze. Her breath comes faster. Heat rises across her chest. She feels shame, embarrassment, but also… something more she cannot name yet.

Raghu glances at her, initially puzzled. Then curiosity replaces confusion. He notices her sleeveless blouse, the low back revealing the curve of her spine, her bust subtly outlined. His gaze lingers, scanning her waist and hips. A faint flush creeps over his face.

“Bhabhiji…” Raghu says casually, picking up a thin, silky nighty from a nearby pile, “this one is… comfortable. Soft. Maybe for home?”

Uma’s breath catches. She stiffens slightly, awareness blooming across her skin. Her hands tighten, but she does not move away—obediently still beside Anil. Her heart races.

Anil notices Raghu’s subtle lewd interest, sees the way his eyes linger. He smirks faintly, a small flicker of stir in him—but he says nothing. He does not stop Raghu, nor direct him. It is not planned or deliberate yet. He only observes quietly, feeling the new sensation of seeing someone notice her in this way while she reacts obediently, flushed, vulnerable.

Raghu, emboldened, holds the nighty against her. “Soft… see, Bhabhiji? Comfortable.” His voice drifts low, a teasing edge in it.

Uma blushes deeper, shifting slightly, the fabric brushing her wrist, and she feels a warmth crawling across her body. She lowers her eyes. Humiliation, embarrassment, and the secret thrill of being noticed mix, leaving her shivering internally.

Anil watches quietly. Every blush, every small adjustment, every subtle tightening of her body is etched in his mind. He does not speak, he does not guide. He simply feels the stir, the curiosity, the new awareness of what others’ attention does to her—how she reacts under their gaze, even if slightly.

After selecting a few items, they leave the shop.

By the time they returned home, the sun was lowering. As they walked, the sky darkened suddenly. Rain began to pour. Within seconds, they were soaked. Uma’s blouse clung tightly, the fabric darkened and revealing her shape more than usual. She hesitated, shy and aware of her curves, pressing slightly against him as they moved.

Anil felt every reaction—the shiver of her spine, the warmth in her cheeks, the way her body pressed subtly to his. The rain had made her vulnerable, exposed, and it excited him in a way that was quiet but intense. Her obedience, her soft nervousness, the way she remained close but aware of her own revealing—everything sparked a thought in his mind.

For the first time outside their home, he imagined testing her boundaries further, somewhere private but beyond their walls. A new idea, new anticipation, began forming quietly in him. The rain washed the streets, but it also ignited something inside him.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 5 – First Step into Outdoor Play

Since that rainy evening, Anil can’t stop thinking about Uma—wet, exposed, the sari clinging to every curve. The way she reacts without realizing it, the shyness mixed with heat—it keeps turning over in his mind. Her vulnerability outside home sparks a daring thought: he wants to take it further, test boundaries, explore something new.

One evening, he tells Uma, “A friend invited us for dinner. It might get late, so we’ll go just the two of us.”

Uma nods, expecting a normal outing. Their son stays at home with her parents, and Anil’s parents are busy in the evening routines. Nothing seems unusual.

As he drives past familiar roads into quieter, unfamiliar lanes, he finally says, calm but commanding, “I want to try something tonight.”

Uma looks at him, puzzled. “Try… what?”

He places a small bag on her lap. “Wear this.”

She opens it and freezes. Inside is the same cheap, thin blouse and worn sari from the shop—the one that embarrassed her when Raghu noticed. A matching petticoat comes with it. Nothing protective, nothing decent.

Before she can speak, he says in that tone she never questions: “Strip everything you’re wearing. Bra, panties, everything. Put on only what’s in this bag.”

Her pulse races. Obedience comes naturally. She follows. The thin fabric clings to her, showing every curve. Every small bend, turn, or lean exposes more than she expects. Shame and heat mix in her body, making her respond before her mind can.

Anil drives quietly, eyes flicking to her when he can. The thrill of taking this exposure further, deliberately, outside, grows in him. Finally, he stops at the entrance of a narrow lane.

“Walk down this lane,” he says, pointing. “I’ll follow.”

Uma looks down the lane. At first, it seems like a narrow, ordinary market street—shops on both sides, faded signboards, dim yellow lights swinging from wires. The paint on the walls is chipped, some shutters half-open, some closed. Small groups of men sit idly outside the shops. A few women stand in doorways, moving slowly, their painted faces and bright clothes catching the dim light.

There’s a strange quiet in the lane, broken only by faint conversations and the occasional laugh. Some doorways have red lights glowing faintly; others have old curtains drawn aside to reveal women lingering in the shadows. The air smells faintly of incense, dust, and the musty scent of old walls.

Uma hesitates, her heartbeat quickening. Something about the lane feels different, slightly uneasy, though she can’t place it yet. She senses the energy—faintly electric, tense, daring. Her hand brushes the thin sari, awareness of how exposed she is making her pulse race faster.

She steps carefully, glancing around. She doesn’t know yet that this is the town’s red-light area, a place she has never entered. All she knows is that the lane feels alive, dangerous, and unfamiliar.

The men leaning against the walls watch her with lazy curiosity—a new face, a hesitant walk. Their eyes linger on her bare midriff where the blouse rides up, on the sway of her hips beneath the thin petticoat. One whistles softly; another nudges his friend and murmurs something that makes them both chuckle. Uma keeps her gaze low, but she catches glimpses—women in similar cheap saris, laughing too loudly, leaning into men who aren’t their husbands. Their hands slide over bare shoulders, their fingers teasing at waistbands.

Anil trails a few paces behind, his breath shallow with excitement. He watches the way Uma’s sari slips with each step, revealing flashes of her skin. He sees the moment she realizes—the slight stiffening of her shoulders when a woman nearby giggles as a man palms her breast openly. Uma’s steps falter. This isn’t just a market.

Three men slouched near a paan stall straighten as she passes. The tallest, a wiry man with a gold chain glinting against his sweat-slicked chest, steps forward. "Price?" he rasps, eyes raking her body. Uma blinks, confused. The man licks his lips. "How much for the night, bhabhi?"

Her breath catches. Before she can react, another man, younger but with the same hungry gaze, circles her. "Thousand?" he suggests, fingers twitching like he wants to touch. The third one, paan juice staining his teeth red, leans too close—she smells cheap tobacco and sweat. "Two thousand," he counters, eyes dropping to her chest where the thin blouse gapes. "Fresh item like you? Worth it."

Uma steps back, pulse hammering in her throat. "Ji...?" she whispers, turning instinctively toward Anil's voice—but he's just standing there, arms crossed, watching. The first man grabs her wrist, his grip hot and sticky. "Shy, huh?" He smirks, thumb rubbing her pulse point. "We'll go slow, bhabhi." The younger one grins, nudging her hip with his knee. "Or fast. Your choice."

Anil moves then, sudden and sharp. He shoulders between them, pulling Uma against his side. "She's booked," he says, low and rough, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist where the blouse rides up. "Paid for the night." The men hesitate, eyes flicking between Uma's flushed face and Anil's possessive grip. The wiry one licks his lips again but steps back with a shrug. "Lucky bastard," he mutters, raking his gaze over Uma's trembling form. "Look at those tits—two thousand wasn't enough."

The younger one lingers, fingers twitching near the loose end of her sari where it dips low over her hip. "Where'd you dig her up?" he asks, breath sour with gutka. "Not from around here." Anil smirks, thumb stroking the curve of Uma's hipbone through the thin fabric. "Found her," he says simply, and the man whistles, shaking his head as he backs away. "New stock, huh? Fresh meat always costs extra."

Uma stumbles when Anil tugs her forward, her bare feet skidding on cracked pavement. The red glow of a lantern above a doorway paints her skin sticky-sweet, like syrup. "Ji—" she breathes, clutching at his arm, "what... what *place* is this?" Her voice trembles, but not just from fear—her thighs are damp, rubbing together with each step.

Anil slows, turning her toward a dim alcove where a woman with kohl-smeared eyes lounges against a doorway, her sari hitched up to show thick, hennaed thighs. "That one?" he murmurs against Uma's ear, nodding toward the woman. "She takes fifty rupees for ten minutes against the wall." Uma's breath hitches as the woman winks, tongue sliding over her teeth. "This lane," Anil continues, fingers tightening on her waist, "is where men pay to fuck." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "And you just walked it bare under cheap cloth, no underwear, swinging those hips while they priced you like mutton at the butcher's stall."

Uma's knees buckle. The realization crashes over her—the whistles, the stares, the way the men's eyes had lingered on the shadow between her thighs where the petticoat clung damply. Her cheeks burn, but deeper, lower, heat pulses in time with the distant thump of a tabla from some shadowed room. "They thought—" she starts, then chokes on the rest.

Anil's hand slides down to cup her ass through the thin petticoat, fingers kneading. "They thought you were for sale," he finishes, voice rough. "And you walked like you were." The woman in the doorway laughs suddenly, sharp as a knife. Uma jumps, her nipple scraping against the rough blouse seam—hard, aching. Anil's breath is hot on her neck. "Feel that?" he murmurs. "Your body knows what this place is."

He guides her past the woman, deeper into the lane. The air thickens with the smell of sweat, spilled liquor, the musky tang of sex. A man stumbles out of a curtained doorway, buttoning his pants; his bleary eyes lock onto Uma’s exposed midriff. She flinches when he reaches out, calloused fingers brushing her waist before Anil jerks her away. "Eyes off," Anil growls, but his grip on her wrist tightens—not protective, possessive.

At the lane’s end, the shops thin into cracked walls, then nothing but a dirt path leading toward the railway tracks. The moon glints off the rails like a dare. Anil pulls Uma into the shadows where the bushes grow wild, their leaves rustling against her bare legs as he pushes her deeper. The air smells of damp earth and crushed grass—nothing like the cloying sweat of the lane behind them.

His fingers dig into her hips as he backs her against a tree, the bark rough through the thin sari. "Tell me," he murmurs, lips grazing her ear, "how much would you have let that gutka-chewing bastard pay to peel this off you?" Uma shivers as his hands slide up her blouse, the cheap fabric riding higher until her heavy breasts spill free. The night air licks her nipples, tight and aching. "Ji, please—" she whispers, but he cuts her off with a sharp pinch to her nipple.

"Should’ve heard them," he continues, voice rough. "That one with the gold chain—he wanted to bend you over the paan stall. Said he’d pay extra to hear you scream." His fingers hook into the waistband of her petticoat, yanking it down her thighs. The sari follows, pooling in the dirt like discarded trash. Uma gasps as the rough bark scrapes her bare back, her legs trembling.

Anil steps back, eyes raking her naked body in the moonlight. "Look at you," he mutters, thumb rubbing over her damp inner thigh. "Wet as the whores back there, and we haven’t even started." He spits into his palm, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet, before gripping himself. "Bet you’d have taken their money," he growls, pushing her legs wider. "Bet you’d have spread for any man who asked." Uma’s breath hitches—shame and heat twisting together—as he shoves into her without another word.

The roughness steals her voice. His hips slam against hers, the tree digging into her back with every thrust. Anil grunts, fingers bruising her thighs. "Louder," he orders when she whimpers. "Let them hear." Distant laughter drifts from the lane, mingling with the slick sounds of their bodies. Uma’s fingers claw at the bark, her breasts bouncing wildly. "Ji, someone—someone will—" she gasps, but he cuts her off with a hand over her mouth. "Good," he pants against her ear. "Let them see what I paid for."

A train rattles past, its roar drowning her moans as Anil’s pace turns brutal. His free hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back. "Tell me," he demands between gritted teeth, "What’s the price that would’ve made you go along with them?" Uma whimpers, her thighs quivering as his thrusts knock her spine against the tree. "N-no, Ji," she gasps, but her hips rock forward shamelessly, taking him deeper.

The night air sticks to her skin, humid with the scent of crushed grass and their sweat. Anil’s fingers dig into her hips, lifting her slightly to adjust his angle—then slams back in with a grunt. "Liar," he growls, watching her swollen lips part on a silent scream. "You would have fuck with them for free.” The crude words send a jolt through Uma’s belly, her inner walls fluttering around him. Her toes curl in the dirt, her sari long forgotten in the dust beneath them.

A rustle in the bushes makes her stiffen, but Anil only chuckles, pressing closer. “Scared?” His breath is hot against her ear. “Maybe it’s one of those men—come lookig for you.” He punctuates the taunt with a sharp thrust that makes her gasp. The rough bark scrapes her shoulder blades raw, but the sting only fuels the fire coiling low in her stomach. Uma clutches at his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin. “Ji, please—!”

“Please what?” His hand slides between them, fingers finding her swollen clit with unerring precision. “You want them to watch?” His thumb circles roughly, his hips never slowing. “Want them to see how wet you get for me?” The crude words—so unlike his usual respect—send another pulse of heat through her. Somewhere beyond the bushes, a bottle clinks against stone, followed by muffled laughter. Uma’s eyes fly open, her breath hitching—but Anil’s grip tightens, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Look at me,” he orders, voice ragged. “Not them. *Me.*”

She obeys, her vision blurring as pleasure builds like a storm. The train’s distant rumble vibrates through the ground beneath them, syncopated with Anil’s relentless pace. His teeth graze her collarbone, possessive. “Next time,” he pants, “I’ll let them touch you.” The threat—or promise—sends her over the edge. Uma arches with a choked cry, her body clamping around him as heat floods her veins. Anil follows with a groan, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he spills inside her, his grip bruising. For a long moment, the only sound is their ragged breathing—and the distant, hungry murmur of the lane they left behind.

After, when her legs won’t hold her, Anil lowers her to the grass. Uma trembles as he gathers the torn sari, draping it loosely over her shoulders. The fabric—once cheap, now ruined—does little to cover her. Moonlight glints off the bite marks on her thighs, the damp sheen between them. “Up,” he murmurs, pulling her to her feet. She sways, but his arm bands around her waist, steering her toward a narrow, overgrown path. The bushes scratch her bare calves; a twig snaps underfoot. “Ji,” she whispers, clutching the sari to her chest, “someone will see—” Anil’s chuckle is dark. “Too late for shame, fatty.”

The car waits, a silent shadow at the path’s end. Anil opens the door, shoving her original clothes into her hands—the familiar cotton sari, the sturdy blouse, the soft petticoat. Uma dresses with shaking fingers, the clean fabric a stark contrast to the grime clinging to her skin. The waistband of her panties catches on her damp thighs; she hesitates, then leaves them off, stuffing them into the glovebox. Anil watches, eyes glinting as she adjusts her pallu to cover her breasts properly again. “Better?” he taunts, thumb brushing a lingering drop from her lower lip. Uma ducks her head, but her pulse jumps when his fingers trail lower, tracing the edge of her blouse where it meets her sari. “Almost decent,” he murmurs. “Almost.”

The engine purrs to life. As Anil drives back home, the car quiet except for the hum of the engine. He glances at Uma, still adjusting the sari she wears over her normal clothes.

“Did you… enjoy it?” he asks casually.

Uma bites her lip, cheeks flushed. “I… I was scared,” she admits softly, voice trembling slightly. “Those men… and… being out there… under the open sky…”

Anil watches her closely. Her body, the way she shifts in the seat, the flush that hasn’t faded, the small tightening of her thighs—it tells him everything he needs to know. She enjoyed it far more than she will admit.

He doesn’t say a word. No teasing, no comment. But inside, he already imagines the next time—how he can push this further, take their outdoor play to new heights. He smiles faintly to himself, understanding the dangerous, thrilling path they have just begun.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 6- Hotel room expose

After that night in the rain and bushes, Anil tries a few more times to bring the outdoor thrill into their life. Sometimes it the same bushes near railway line, sometimes dark corners, sometimes empty roads. Uma obeys every time, heart racing, body responding. But this is a small town. Faces are known. Lanes are familiar. Anil realizes he cannot push much further here.

The thought stays in his mind. But he wanted to explore it much more freely.

A few days later, while having dinner at home, Anil says casually,

“I have to go to the city next week. Work related.”

Uma looks up.

“Oh.”

After a pause, Anil adds, without looking at her,

“I will take you with me.”

She freezes for a second.

“With you?”

He finally looks at her. Calm. Certain.

“Yes.”

He does not ask. He tells.

Something inside Uma tightens—and warms. She nods slowly.

“But… Maa-Papa?”

Anil says flatly,

“You act a little unwell for few days. Stomach, weakness… nothing serious. I’ll say I want to show you to a city doctor.”

Uma understands immediately.

She does not question.

She plays along.

Over the next few days, Anil notices how easily she slips into the role.

Tired eyes. Slow movements. Hand on stomach.

Too natural.

Too eager.

He does not say anything, but he knows—she is enjoying the planning as much as what will come.

Saturday morning, they leave.

Two nights.

City.

Anil books a hotel away from the main area. Not a family hotel. Not a tourist one either. The kind where people mind their own business.

By evening, his work is done. He comes back to the room. The door closes behind him. Uma sits on the bed’s edge, fingers twisting the edge of her saree. The cheap blouse—the one he bought from that lane—clings slightly damp under her arms. The room smells of soap and something else—her nervousness.

Anil doesn’t speak. He walks to the bed, fingers already loosening his belt. Uma’s breath hitches. She knows this look—the dark, focused one that means he won’t wait. His hands grab her waist, yanking her forward until she’s half-off the bed, saree crumpling under her. “Fatty,” he murmurs, rough against her neck, and she shivers. His teeth find the curve where her shoulder meets her throat. Not gentle. Never gentle anymore.

The blouse tears before she realizes he’s pulled it. Buttons scatter. Cool air hits her bare skin, and then his palm—hard—against her left breast. She gasps, arching, but his grip tightens, keeping her pinned. The petticoat slides down her hips without ceremony. No underwear. His fingers dig into her thigh as he pushes her legs apart. “Look at you,” he growls, and she does—sees herself in the mirror across the room, splayed open, blouse gaping, his handprints already reddening her skin.

He doesn’t bother undressing fully. Just shoves his pants down enough to free himself, thick and impatient. Uma whimpers when he pushes in—no warning, no slow stretch—just the sudden, brutal fullness. Her nails scrape the bedsheet as he fucks her, short, sharp thrusts that jolt her body up the mattress. The headboard knocks the wall in a rhythm that would be embarrassing if she could think past the heat coiling low in her belly. Anil’s breath is hot against her ear, his voice rough with something darker than pleasure: “Next time, I’ll make you walk down the hotel hallway like this.” The thought—exposed, watched—sends her over the edge with a choked cry. He follows, biting her shoulder to muffle his groan.

When he pulls away, Uma doesn’t move. Just lies there, trembling, clothes ruined, skin marked. The room smells like sweat and sex. Anil exhales, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then reaches for the phone beside the bed. His fingers dial room service without hesitation—chicken curry, roti, dal—his voice steady like they hadn’t just fucked raw against the sheets. Uma watches the corded phone press against his ear, the way his throat moves when he speaks. Normal. Casual. As if her blouse isn’t torn open, as if her thighs aren’t still wet.

He hangs up. Turns to her. “Bath.” It’s not a suggestion. Uma’s legs wobble as she stands, her torn blouse sliding off one shoulder. Anil doesn’t pick it up—just watches her walk barefoot to the bathroom, the sway of her hips exaggerated by exhaustion. Steam rises as he turns the tap, the water hitting the tiles with a hiss that drowns out the city noise beyond the window. The mirror fogs instantly, erasing their reflections, leaving only the shapes of their bodies—his broad shoulders, her rounded silhouette—blurred at the edges.

Anil pours hotel shampoo into his palm, the scent of synthetic jasmine thick in the humid air. His hands—calloused from work, still damp with her—slide over Uma’s back, kneading the tension from her muscles. She exhales, leaning into his touch, her spine pressing against his chest. “Tired?” he murmurs, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, dipping lower to cup her hips. She nods, eyes half-closed, the heat seeping into her bones. The water runs in rivulets down her stomach, pooling where his fingers linger.

Uma turns, her breasts brushing against him, the soap slick between their skin. Anil’s thumbs trace the underside of her nipples—slow circles that make her breath catch—but he doesn’t rush. The roughness from before is gone, replaced by something deliberate, almost reverent. He cups her face, tilting it up, and kisses her forehead. “Ji—” she starts, but the doorbell cuts her off. Sharp. Insistent.

Anil steps back, water dripping from his beard. “Open it.” Uma blinks, droplets clinging to her lashes. “But—” His fingers tighten on her wrist. “Now.” She swallows, glancing at the towel hanging just out of reach. The doorbell rings again. Anil’s gaze doesn’t waver. The unspoken hangs between them: *No dressing.*

Her pulse thrums in her throat as she steps onto the cold tiles. Water trails down her legs, pooling at her feet. "Ji... I can't—" Her voice wavers, fingers twitching at her sides. Anil doesn't answer. He bends, picking up the discarded petticoat from the floor where it lies in a wet heap, translucent as melted sugar. The fabric drips when he shakes it out, clinging to his fingers like a second skin.

"Wear this." He holds it out, the sodden cotton sagging between them. Uma stares at the garment—how the embroidered hem has frayed, how the once-white cloth now clings gray and sheer. It would cover less than her shadow. Her nipples pucker against the humid air, and she crosses her arms instinctively. "It's... soaked," she whispers, as if he hasn't noticed.

Anil's mouth curves—not quite a smile. "And?" He steps closer, the petticoat brushing her bare stomach. The damp chill makes her shiver. "You walked through that lane last month in worse." His thumb grazes her hipbone, tracing the memory of that night: the way her sari had slipped, how strangers' eyes had burned against her skin. Uma's breath hitches. The comparison coils low in her belly, hot and shameful.

She reaches for the petticoat, her fingers brushing his. The fabric slithers against her thighs as she steps into it, clinging like a lover's hands. The waistband sags, refusing to stay atop her hips, and the wet hem barely kisses her knees. Anil watches, silent, as she fumbles with the folds—how they stick to her belly, how her big nipples show through like dark coins pressed against cloth. The doorbell rings again, impatient.

Uma shuffles forward, each step making the soaked petticoat slap her thighs. The carpet muffles her wet footprints, but the chill climbs up her legs anyway. Her fingers hover over the doorknob—cold metal against her palm—then twist. The door creaks open just enough to reveal the boy: twenty, maybe younger, his uniform too crisp for this hour. His eyes dart from her face to her chest, where the petticoat clings transparent. The tray wobbles in his grip.

"Ji... food?" she whispers, pressing one arm across her breasts. The boy swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He nods mutely, gaze skittering down to her waist—to how the wet fabric bunches between her legs, outlining every curve. Uma steps aside, her cheeks burning, but he doesn’t move. Just stands there, tray shaking, until she clears her throat. "Table... there." She points weakly toward the room’s center, where the low glass surface winks under the yellow light.

The boy stumbles in, his shoes squeaking on the damp trail she’s left. His neck flushes red as he sets the tray down too hard, making the dal slosh against the rim of the bowl. He doesn’t look at her again, but his shoulders tense—waiting, listening. Behind the half-open bathroom door, water still runs. Steam curls around the edges, carrying the scent of hotel soap and something muskier. The boy’s breath quickens. Uma knows he hears it too: the wet sound of Anil’s hands moving under the spray, the occasional groan.

"Thank you," she murmurs, clutching the doorframe. The boy jerks his head in a stiff nod and nearly trips over the threshold in his haste to leave. Uma watches him disappear down the hallway—how he keeps glancing back, how his fingers flex at his sides—before she closes the door softly. Her pulse thrums in her wrists, in her throat, between her legs. The petticoat peels away from her skin as she turns, leaving a darker patch on the carpet.

Anil leans against the bathroom doorway, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from his beard onto his chest. "How many times did he look?" His voice is casual, but his eyes are black with something hungry. Uma presses her thighs together. The petticoat makes a wet sound.

"Ji... I didn’t—"

"Three?" Anil steps closer, catching a drip from her collarbone with his thumb. "Four?" His fingertip trails down to where the fabric clings to her nipple. "Or did he lose count?"

Uma’s breath hitches. The boy’s face flashes in her mind—how his lips had parted, how his knuckles had whitened on the tray. Her stomach tightens. Anil’s smile sharpens. He knows. He always knows.

Anil doesn’t push further. He lets the alluring play hang between them, unspoken. They eat the food. Uma moves slowly, careful, still flushed from earlier. Neither speaks much. The exhaustion of travel and the intensity of their private play weigh on them. Soon, they lie down together, letting the warm sheets swallow their tired bodies.

Sleep comes easily. Deep. Heavy. Dreamless.

When Anil wakes, it is 8 p.m. The room is dim, the air still thick with the faint heat of the day. Uma lies beside him, back to his chest, soft breaths even and slow. Her hair is loose across the pillow, a few strands curling against her neck. Even in rest, the curves of her body are impossible to ignore—the swell of her bust, the roundness of her hips, the gentle slope of her waist. A mother. A wife. Yet so undeniably alluring.

Anil watches her quietly, heart thumping with that familiar, possessive pull. He leans slightly closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face, lingering on her shoulder. He thinks of everything he has seen, everything she has allowed, and something deep inside him stirs.

He doesn’t move her. Doesn’t speak. He simply looks. And in the quiet dark of the hotel room, he realizes: he wants more. Not just tonight. Not just this hotel. Not just these playful, exposing games. He wants to explore every hidden desire, every vulnerability, every thrill his wife has to give—and he will not stop until he has.

Anil slides from the bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. He moves to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to let the dim city glow filter in. The night air is thick with heat and distant sounds—honking cars, muffled voices, the occasional whistle of a train. He lights a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his face before he exhales a slow stream of smoke into the dark.

Uma stirs behind him. A soft sigh, the rustle of sheets. He doesn’t turn, but he knows the moment she wakes—her breathing changes, slows, becomes more deliberate. “Ji?” Her voice is sleep-heavy, warm with drowsiness.

Anil takes another drag, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Fatty,” he murmurs, affectionate but teasing.

She doesn’t protest the name anymore. Instead, he hears the faintest shift of fabric—the whisper of her bare legs sliding against the sheets as she sits up. The mattress dips slightly with her weight. “You didn’t sleep?”

He shrugs, still gazing out the window. “Enough.”

A pause. Then the soft pad of her feet on the carpet as she approaches. He feels her before he sees her—her warmth at his side, the faint scent of soap and sleep clinging to her skin. Her fingers brush his bare back, tentative. “Ji… you’re thinking?”

Anil exhales, turning his head just enough to catch her in his periphery. The dim light outlines her—the messy tumble of her hair, the curve of her shoulder, the way her nightgown clings slightly to her body, loosened by sleep. “Mm.”

She leans against him, her cheek pressing lightly against his arm. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts the cigarette to his lips again, watching the orange glow reflect in the glass. Then, quietly: “How far you’ll let me take you.”

Uma doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t pull away. She only exhales, slow and steady, her breath mingling with the smoke. “Ji…”

Anil watches her reflection in the glass—how her eyelashes flutter, how her fingers tighten slightly around his arm, then loosen. She doesn’t say no. Doesn’t say yes. Just lingers in the space between, where curiosity and hesitation wrestle silently. He knows this dance by now—the way her body betrays what her words won’t.

“You don’t know, do you?” His voice is low, almost conversational, as he taps ash into the tray. He stops the topic and tells Uma to freshen up.

Uma presses her lips together, hesitating for a breath before turning toward the bathroom. The tap runs, the sound muffled by the thick hotel walls, and when she emerges minutes later, her face is damp, her hair hastily tied back. The nightgown clings slightly to her damp skin, outlining the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. She pauses near the bed, uncertain.

Anil stubs out the cigarette and beckons her with a curl of his fingers. “Come here, fatty.” The old tease rolls off his tongue easily. Uma’s cheeks flush, but she obeys, stepping closer until his hand finds the soft curve of her belly. His fingers press lightly, testing, as if gauging the give of her flesh. “Still so much here,” he muses, thumb circling her navel. “A cow you are.” The words should sting, but the way he says it—low, almost admiring—makes her stomach flutter instead.

Her breath catches as his palm slides upward, pushing the thin fabric of her nightgown along with it. Cool air hits her ribs before his fingers close over one breast, squeezing just shy of rough. “Ji—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a pinch to her nipple that steals her voice. Anil watches her face, the way her lips part on a gasp, how her lashes tremble when he rolls the stiff peak between his fingers. “Quiet,” he murmurs, though no one can hear them. The command thrums between them like a live wire.

Uma’s thighs press together instinctively as his other hand finds the hem of her nightgown, gathering the fabric in his fist until it bunches at her waist. The calluses on his palm scrape her inner thigh when he spreads her legs apart with a nudge of his knee. “Tonight,” he says, thumb tracing the crease where her leg meets her hip, “I want you tied.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t even nod. Just watches as he turns toward their luggage, rummaging through the side pocket of his bag with the casual efficiency of a man retrieving a toothbrush. The ropes emerge first—thin, frayed jute ones they’ve used before, their fibers softened by sweat and tugging. Next, the cloth strips: faded cotton sarong pieces, edges frayed from being knotted too tightly around her wrists last time. Anil lays them across the bedspread with deliberate care, arranging them like a surgeon prepping his tools.

Uma’s pulse hammers against her ribs when he gestures toward the mattress. "Up." His voice leaves no room for hesitation. The springs creak under her weight as she climbs onto the bed, the nightgown riding up her thighs. Anil doesn’t help her. Just watches her settle back against the pillows, her arms already falling slack at her sides in anticipation. His fingers brush her ankle first—a fleeting touch—before looping the rope around it with practiced ease. The knot tightens just enough to bite, not enough to bruise.

"Other leg," he murmurs, nudging her knee outward. Uma obeys, spreading herself wider, the damp heat between her thighs already pooling anew. The second rope cinches around her right ankle, stretching her open. Anil exhales through his nose—a sound almost like approval—as he leans over her to bind her wrists. His elbow brushes her nipple through the thin nightgown, and she shivers. "Still so eager," he mutters against her temple, his breath warm. The blindfold follows, a strip of dark cloth that smells faintly of their detergent. The world vanishes in a sweep of black.

Fabric tears before she registers his hands moving. The nightgown splits down the middle with a sound like wet paper, cool air rushing over her bare skin. Anil doesn’t peel it off—just leaves the ruined halves splayed beneath her, edges catching on the ropes. His thumb traces the swell of her breast where it spills over the torn cloth. "Look at you," he murmurs, though she can’t see his face. "Ripped open like cheap packaging."

The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. Uma’s breath comes faster, her bound wrists twisting slightly against their restraints. She knows what comes next—the slow, torturous exploration of her exposed body, the way his fingers will map every curve and dip with possessive precision. But Anil doesn’t touch her further. Instead, the bed creaks as he stands, and she hears the distant click of the television remote.

A news anchor’s voice fills the room, low and droning—some political scandal she doesn’t care about. The volume is just loud enough to drown out the occasional groan of the hotel pipes but soft enough that she can still hear the rustle of fabric as Anil settles into the armchair beside the bed. "Ji?" she whispers, her voice thick with uncertainty.

"Hungry," he replies simply. The phone receiver lifts with a soft beep, followed by the deliberate press of buttons. She counts each tone—three, then a pause, then four more—before he speaks to room service. His voice is casual, almost bored: "Chicken biryani. Extra raita and yes some chocolate ice cream." No mention of the woman tied spread-eagle on the bed, her torn nightgown barely clinging to her sweat-damp skin.

The television flickers to life as he hangs up, bathing the room in intermittent blue light. A cricket match plays—some inconsequential T20 series—but Anil watches with feigned interest, elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting on his knuckles. Uma's breath hitches when the commentator's voice spikes excitedly; she flinches at the sudden noise, her bound ankles tensing against the ropes. Anil doesn't glance her way, just adjusts the volume with a lazy press of the remote.

"Delhi needs this partnership to—" The commentator's analysis cuts off as Anil mutes abruptly during an ad break. The silence presses against Uma's skin more intimately than his hands ever could. She hears the rustle of his cotton shirt as he shifts, the creak of leather when he leans forward. "Seven overs left," he remarks to no one, though the match holds no real stakes. The mundanity of it makes her toes curl—how normal he sounds, how utterly routine this all feels to him now.

The doorbell rings before she can respond. Anil doesn't rush. His sandals scuff against the carpet in unhurried strides, each footfall measured. Uma strains against the blindfold as if she could see through it—could catch the exact moment the boy's gaze lands on her sprawled form. The latch clicks open, followed by the rush of hallway air smelling faintly of antiseptic and last night's biryani.

"Ji...your order." The boy's voice cracks on the honorific. Anil doesn't immediately take the tray. Instead, he steps aside just enough—just so—allowing the boy an unimpeded view past his shoulder. The metallic clatter of utensils against the tray betrays his trembling hands. "Put it there." Anil gestures toward the table near the entrance, his tone detached, as if discussing rainfall predictions. The boy stumbles forward, his polished shoes squeaking against the tiles.

Uma feels the weight of his stare like sunburn—slow, searing, unavoidable. She knows what he sees: the ropes making her not able to close her thighs, the torn fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, the way her nipples stiffen under the boy’s stunned gaze. Her pulse throbs in her throat, her bound wrists twisting uselessly against the restraints. “Ji…” she whispers, her voice barely louder than the rustle of sheets beneath her.

Anil doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the boy’s Adam’s apple bob as he takes in the scene. The tray trembles in his grip, the clatter of dishes betraying him. “Ice cream will melt,” Anil remarks idly, nodding toward the table. The boy jerks into motion, nearly tripping over the threshold in his haste to deposit the food and flee. But Anil’s foot blocks the door before he can escape. “Take the tip,” he says, fishing a crumpled note from his pocket.

The boy’s fingers brush Anil’s palm like a startled bird’s wing. He doesn’t glance at Uma again—not directly—but his peripheral vision betrays him, the quick flick of his pupils toward the bed before he bows his head and stammers a thank you. Anil lets him go then, the door clicking shut with finality.

The room feels heavier without the boy’s nervous energy. Anil exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he turns toward the bed. Uma lies exactly as he left her—spread open, torn nightgown clinging to her damp skin, blindfold slightly askew from her frantic head movements. The scent of chocolate ice cream wafts from the table as he lifts the lid off the dessert bowl, the cold sweetness mingling with the musk of their earlier activities.

“Fatty,” he murmurs, scooping up a spoonful. The ice cream glistens under the TV’s blue glow, soft peaks already melting at the edges. He drags the spoon down her sternum, leaving a glistening trail that catches in the hollow of her throat. Uma shivers, her breath hitching as the cold registers. “Did you see how he looked at you?” Anil asks conversationally, swirling the spoon around her navel. The chocolate pools in the dip of her belly, dark against her wheatish skin. “Like he’d never seen a woman before.”

Uma’s lips part on a shaky inhale. The blindfold hides her eyes, but her mouth tells him everything—the way her bottom lip trembles, how her tongue darts out to wet it. Anil taps the spoon against her collarbone, leaving a smudge of chocolate. “Answer,” he says, though his voice lacks its usual edge.

“Ji…” she whispers, then stops when he drags the spoon lower, skating it along the swell of her breast. The ice cream drips onto her nipple, the cold making it pucker instantly. Anil hums, watching the chocolate slide down the curve. “He—he stared,” she manages, her voice thin.

“Mm.” Anil licks the spoon clean, never breaking eye contact with where her eyes should be. “Like a starving man.” He dips the spoon back into the bowl, this time gathering a heaping portion. “Open.”

Uma hesitates for only a second before parting her lips. The ice cream melts on her tongue before she can taste it properly, the chill making her gasp. Anil watches her throat work as she swallows, his thumb swiping at a drop on her chin. “Sweet?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

She nods, her breathing uneven. The ropes creak as she shifts, her skin pebbling under the alternating sensations of cold dessert and his warm fingers. Anil scoops another spoonful, but this time, he doesn’t bring it to her mouth. Instead, he lets it drip onto her inner thigh, the chocolate streaking down toward the heat between her legs. Uma jerks against the restraints, a whimper escaping her.

“Look at you,” Anil murmurs, dragging the spoon back up, leaving a sticky trail. “Dripping like a cheap sweet shop’s counter.” He chuckles when she flushes deeper, her thighs trembling. “Even room service boys can see what a glutton you are—spread open, begging for attention.” His free hand pinches the soft flesh of her belly, making her gasp. “All this fat, and still so greedy.”

The insults settle over her like a second skin, familiar and thrilling. She doesn’t protest when he wipes the remaining ice cream across her breasts, smearing it roughly. The cold makes her nipples ache, but the humiliation burns hotter. “Ji, please—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a sharp slap to her thigh.

“Quiet, cow.” His voice is low, almost affectionate as he climbs onto the bed, his knees pressing hers wider. The ropes dig in, unforgiving. “You don’t get to beg. You just lie there and take what I give you.” His fingers twist in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose the column of her throat. He licks a stripe up it, tasting salt and chocolate. “Pathetic,” he mutters against her skin.

When he enters her, it’s without preamble, his thrusts rough and uneven. The bedframe rattles, the headboard knocking against the wall in time with his movements. Uma cries out, her back arching, but Anil merely grunts, his grip tightening on her hips. “So loose,” he pants, leaning down to bite her shoulder. “Like you were made for this.”

She moans, the words sending a jolt through her, sharper than his teeth. The blindfold is damp now—whether from sweat or tears, she isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does except the way he fills her, the way he names her: *fatty, greedy, his.* The ice cream melts between their bodies, sticky and sweet, as he fucks her like something to be used, not cherished. And when he finally spills into her with a groan, his fingers bruising her thighs, she comes undone silently, her pleasure as shameful as it is undeniable.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 7 – The Swap

The 2nd day in the city morning as they fresh up, Anil simply slides a bag across the bed toward Uma.

She opens it and freezes.

Inside is a sari and blouse. The blouse is thin, worn-out, barely covering her chest. The sari is nothing like the one he had made her wear on the railway lane before—it is cheap, almost transparent, the color faded, the fabric rough. The petticoat is flimsy, barely hiding her thighs. The blouse rides up with every movement, the sari slips easily, and together they make her look smaller, lower, more exposed than she has ever felt.

Uma holds it, cheeks flushing.
“Ji… this… this is… too much.”

Anil leans back on the bed, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes calm and sharp.
“Wear it,” he says, low and firm.

Her pulse hammers. She doesn’t question anymore. She strips off her normal clothes, feeling her skin prickling with anticipation and shame. She steps into the sari and blouse. The thin fabric clings to her bust, her waist, her thighs. Every small movement shifts the blouse, threatens to reveal more than she intends. Every step of the sari flicks her legs openly. She looks like… a cheap woman, nothing proper left. And that thought ignites heat deep inside her.

Anil watches, quiet, unblinking. He notes the way the sunlight catches the thin fabric, how her skin shows through, how her curves look sharper, more vulnerable, more tempting.

When they step out, Uma’s heart races. The streets are grey and narrow—shops faded, walls cracked, doorways dark. Men linger, staring openly. Some whisper. Some laugh. She feels every look, every thought from those eyes pressing against her like fire. Shame and thrill coil together inside her, making her breath short, her movements hesitant.

Anil walks beside Uma, hand lightly brushing the small of her back, feeling the heat radiate from her through the cheap, thin sari and blouse. Every glance from the men in the grey streets, every whispered comment, every lingering stare makes her shiver. He notes the subtle tremor in her thighs, the flush rising across her chest, the way her body arches slightly as she moves. His pulse tightens. She is his, his to guide, to tease, to watch.

Then a familiar voice cuts through the murmurs.

“Anil?”

He freezes. Heart skips.

Amit. College friend, polished and confident. And beside him, Rani—slim, fair, modern, effortlessly sensual. His chest tightens. Not here. Not now.

Amit’s eyes travel to Uma, lingering on the thin sari, the blouse clinging to every curve. Then he smirks.

“Bhabhiji?” Amit says, teasing, playful. “Is that really you? We never thought… very proper, always-decent Uma… would be walking around like this.”

Uma freezes, cheeks burning. She presses her thighs together instinctively, glancing at Anil for reassurance. He watches every reaction, every tremor, every hint of heat. She is embarrassed, trembling—but alive, alert, responding.

Rani smiles, leaning slightly forward, the subtle sway of her slim hips catching his attention. Modern dress clinging to her figure, high heels accentuating long legs. Every glance, every movement, every tilt of her head—he feels a spark he hasn’t felt in years. His pulse quickens. She is sexy, confident, tantalizing. Completely different from Uma, yet the contrast excites him. He notices her eyes—curious, amused, playful—and feels an undeniable pull.

Rani laughs softly. “You’re braver than I imagined, Bhabhiji. Never thought we’d see this side of you.”

Anil steps slightly forward, brushing the small of Uma’s back, guiding her subtly. Her blush, the arch of her back, the flush on her chest—he notes every detail. He glances at Rani again, drawn to her confidence, her curves, the way she moves as if she owns every space. His pulse tightens. Desire coils inside him.

Amit gestures toward a nearby café.

“Come on, lunch. Let’s catch up properly.”

Anil looks at Uma. Her eyes flicker to him. He nods slightly. She follows, shivering slightly under his touch. Every step, he sees her reacting to attention, to exposure. Heat presses through her, subtle, undeniable.

Inside the café, laughter flows. College memories, old pranks, teasing. Amit nudges Anil, grinning. “Looks like someone’s been teaching Bhabhiji a few new tricks, huh?”

Uma stiffens, then relaxes slightly, a subtle warmth spreading through her chest.

Rani leans closer, eyes sparkling, voice low and playful. “Honestly, Bhabhiji… we never imagined you’d enjoy this kind of adventure. But clearly… you do. And it suits you.”

Anil watches both of them carefully. Rani’s confidence, her effortless curves, the sway of her hips, the sensual tilt of her head—he feels it deep in his chest, a sharp, awakening desire. He notices the teasing looks she gives, the subtle way she measures him, gauging his reaction. Heat flares inside him. He glances at Uma. Her shy flush, her body reacting, her eyes darting between him and Rani… it excites him even more.

Amit chuckles. “Seriously, Ji… she’s incredible. Bold, adventurous… and clearly enjoying herself. We never thought a woman like Bhabhiji would ever try something like this.”

Uma bites her lip, lowering her eyes. Heat presses through her body. Anil sees everything—the subtle arching of her back, the flush, the trembling in her thighs. She responds to his gaze, to his authority, to the attention. She is alive.

Rani leans closer again, voice soft, teasing. “Little tip… a tiny lift of the sari while walking. Subtle, but thrilling. It’s about control… and the look in men’s eyes.”

Uma flushes hotter, glancing at Anil. He doesn’t say a word. He only watches. His presence grounds her, gives permission, commands obedience without speaking. He feels the coil of excitement and curiosity tightening in her body.

Hours pass. Jokes, playful teasing, old stories, and subtle touches. Amit’s hand brushes hers lightly. Uma stiffens, then slowly relaxes, warmth spreading. Anil notices every tremor.

He also notices Rani—long legs, confident posture, the way she moves as if aware of every man and every eye around her. Sensual, modern, the kind of woman he has only ever admired from afar. Desire coils tight. He imagines her in ways he has never imagined before.

Amit leans back, voice low, teasing, casual. “You know… we swap sometimes. Couples… exchange partners. Exciting. Fun. Different experiences.”

Anil freezes slightly. He immediately watches Uma. Her hands tighten in her lap. Her chest rises fast. Her eyes flicker to him, questioning, nervous, but alive with a strange warmth.

He studies her. Flush across her chest, subtle arch in her back, shiver down her thighs. Desire. Curiosity. Excitement. She is responding before she even understands.

He glances at Amit and Rani. They are playful, teasing—but not pressuring. He feels their confidence, experience, and how easily they read his reactions.

Then he looks back at Uma. His hand brushes hers lightly. Firm, steady, possessive.

“Bhabhiji,” he says quietly, low, commanding, “this… only if you want. Only if I want. Only if it excites us. I… want to see you completely, in every way.”

Uma swallows hard, hides her face. But her body betrays her—chest rising fast, thighs pressing together, subtle shivers along her skin.

Anil smiles slightly. Possessive, calm, in control. He notices Rani’s playful, confident gaze. He feels the pull of desire toward her. Heat coils in his chest. His mind calculates, observes, plans.

Amit chuckles softly. “No pressure. Only if you both want. We just thought… since you’re exploring already, maybe…”

Anil interrupts, decisive, authoritative. “Yes. Carefully. One time. Only if everyone agrees. And only because I want to see her… completely, fully.”

He turns to Uma. Shy, embarrassed, her body betraying desire. She is his. Her heat, her shiver, her curiosity—all belongs to him.

They leave the restaurant slowly. Two rooms booked. Separate partners. Doors close softly behind them. And in the quiet, Anil knows: this door, once opened, can never be closed.

Inside Amit’s room, Uma sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, fingers clutching the hem of her torn sari. The fabric barely covers her thighs. She doesn’t look up. Amit leans against the dresser, arms crossed, studying her with a smirk. Not mocking—interested. “Bhabhiji,” he murmurs, voice softer than she expects. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Uma exhales shakily. His hands are smooth—no roughness, no callouses like Anil’s. He steps closer, tilts her chin up. “Do not afraid Bhabhiji. You will enjoy it." Her breath catches as his lips brush hers—slow, deliberate, nothing like Anil’s hungry kisses.

Across the hall, Rani stands in front of Anil, peeling off her blouse with a slow, teasing flick of her wrist. The fabric pools on the floor. Her bare skin glows under the dim hotel light—smooth, slender, no curves like Uma’s. Anil stares, pulse hammering. Rani laughs, low and knowing. “Surprised?” She steps closer, tracing a finger down his chest. “I can see you comparing.” Anil swallows hard. She smells expensive—perfume, confidence. Nothing like Uma’s earthy warmth. Rani leans in, lips grazing his ear. “Relax. Just enjoy.”

Back in Amit’s room, Uma whimpers as his hands slide up her waist—gentle, unhurried. Nothing like Anil’s rough grip. He kisses her neck, murmuring, “You’re so soft.” Uma shivers. It’s… nice. Not thrilling like Anil’s dominance, but warm, steady. Amit pulls back, studying her face. “You miss him, don’t you?” Uma flushes, ashamed. Amit chuckles. “It’s okay. I know what he does to you.” His fingers trail lower. “But let me show you something different.”

Anil groans as Rani straddles him, her lithe body moving with practiced ease. She grins down at him. “Not used to this, are you?” Her fingers tighten in his hair—not painful, just firm. Anil’s breath hitches. She’s in control, teasing, toying with him. He’s always been the one commanding, degrading. Now, he’s… reacting. Rani leans down, her breath hot against his lips. “Admit it. You like this.” Anil doesn’t answer. But his body does.

In the other room, Amit pins Uma’s wrists above her head. She gasps as his weight settles between her thighs. “Look at me,” he murmurs. His voice is calm, but his grip is unyielding. Uma trembles—not from fear, but from the thrill of surrender. Amit’s thrusts are deep, deliberate. Nothing like Anil’s frenzied roughness. This is calculated dominance. “Tell me,” Amit orders, pausing just long enough to make her squirm. “can you handle domination?” Uma whimpers. Her body arches, signaling she can.

Back with Rani, Anil finally flips her onto her back. She laughs, delighted. “Finally fighting back?” He doesn’t answer—just fists a hand in her hair and kisses her hard. Rani moans, arching into him. “God, yes,” she breathes against his mouth. Anil fucks her with a wild rhythm, chasing something he can’t name. But even as he loses himself in her, his thoughts flicker to Uma—her flushed cheeks, her whimpers, the way she always melts under his control.

In the other room, Amit shifts, pressing Uma deeper into the mattress. His hips snap forward relentlessly. “Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing her lower lip. “So quiet, but your body’s screaming.” Uma whimpers, nails digging into his shoulders. Amit’s dominance is different—controlled, patient, relentless. He doesn’t degrade her like Anil does. Instead, he watches, studies every reaction. “Tell me,” he coaxes, slowing just enough to make her squirm. “Do you like this?” Uma bites her lip. His fingers tighten in her hair. “Say it.” Her voice cracks. “Y-yes.” Amit smirks. “Good girl.”

Rani gasps as Anil flips her onto her stomach. She arches, pressing back against him. “Fuck, you’re—” He cuts her off with a sharp thrust, hand wrapping around her throat. Not squeezing—just holding. Rani moans, writhing. “Yes,” she pants. “Just like that.” Anil growls, gripping her hips. He fucks her harder, rougher, but something’s missing. Her body’s perfect, tight—but she doesn’t tremble like Uma does. Doesn’t blush, doesn’t hide. She meets him thrust for thrust, matching his intensity. It’s exhilarating… but not intoxicating.

Amit pins Uma’s wrists, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “He’s thinking about you right now.” Uma shudders. “Imagine it—him fucking her, wondering if you’re coming for me.” His thrusts deepen, deliberate. Uma’s back arches. Amit chuckles darkly. “You are, aren’t you?” She whimpers, toes curling. “Say it.” Her voice cracks. “I—I am.” Amit groans, hips stuttering. “Fuck. You’re perfect.” And for a moment, Uma forgets to miss Anil’s roughness—because this, this slow unraveling, is its own kind of thrill.

The next morning, sunlight spills through gauzy curtains, painting Uma’s bare shoulder gold as she hastily ties her sari. Her fingers fumble—she’s used to Anil dressing her, his rough hands tugging fabric into place with possessive precision. The memory burns. Across the room, Amit watches, amused. “Need help?” Uma shakes her head, cheeks flushing. He chuckles, stepping closer. “Relax, Bhabhiji. No one’s judging.” His fingers brush hers as he adjusts the pleats, deft and practiced. Uma freezes. It’s… intimate. Not sexual, just startlingly tender. Amit smirks. “You’re blushing.” She looks away.

Down the hall, Rani stretches like a cat, sheets pooling at her waist. Anil watches the play of muscle under her fair skin—so different from Uma’s soft curves. Rani catches his gaze and laughs. “Still comparing?” She rolls onto her side, propping her head on one hand. “Tell me, was she better?” Anil’s jaw tightens. Rani grins. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She traces a finger down his chest. “But I know you missed her.” He doesn’t deny it.

They meet in the lobby—Uma hovering near a potted plant, Anil stiff-backed by the elevators. Rani breezes between them, pressing a kiss to Uma’s cheek. “You were adorable,” she murmurs. Uma’s eyes dart to Anil. He’s staring at Rani’s hand on Uma’s waist. Something primal flickers in his gaze. Rani notices. She smirks, stepping back. “Until next time?” Amit claps Anil’s shoulder. “Think about it.” Then they’re gone, leaving silence thick as honey.

The city fades behind them as the car hums along the highway. Morning light streams in, catching dust in the air. Uma sits beside him, cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy, fingers twisting nervously in her lap.

Anil glances at her. Every curve, every subtle shiver, every faint warmth tells him she is still alive with the night’s heat. He doesn’t know what happened in the other room, but her reactions speak volumes—shyness, curiosity, a lingering thrill.

He thinks of Rani beside him—slim, confident, teasing, sensual—but no woman has ever responded like Uma does. The obedience, the trembling desire, the mixture of shame and excitement… that belongs only to her.

“Did you… enjoy it?” he asks softly.



Uma bites her lip, eyes downcast. “Yes… Ji,” she murmurs, voice shy but tinged with heat.



Anil lets the words hang, studying her subtle reactions—the flush, the warmth, the quiet tremor. A slow smile curls on his lips. Last night, they crossed a line neither imagined, a boundary they had never dared approach. And yet, as he watches her now, he knows this is only the beginning. Uma has much more inside her, waiting to be explored.



He tightens his grip on the wheel, anticipation stirring in him. The door is open, and they are only stepping further into it.

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 8 – More exposure



It is around eleven in the morning. Their parents are away in the village, and after dropping their son at school, Anil and Uma walk through the market lanes. Uma carries a small list: petticoats for herself, a few shirts for their son. The market is busy but quiet enough that their steps echo on the pavement, and the sun warms their faces.



Raghu’s shop appears around the corner, small, colorful fabrics spilling from shelves, the glass slightly dusty. As they step in, Raghu looks up from behind the counter.



“Anil ji,” he says, bowing slightly. His tone is respectful, measured. There is no greeting for Uma. His dark, curious eyes flick toward her, lingering a moment too long, and she feels the weight of the stare. There’s something different—bold, teasing, commanding—all wrapped in caution because Anil is there.



Anil nods. “Raghu, we need a few things. Petticoats for Uma, shirts for the boy.” He steps aside and sits at the small corner chair, gesturing toward Uma. “You help her choose.”



Raghu’s lips twitch, just slightly, before his face settles into something sly. “Of course, Anil ji.” He turns to Uma, his gaze dipping—slow, deliberate—down her body. His voice drops, roughens. “Bhabhiji, what you need?” The words drip with false politeness. His fingers tap the counter, impatient, like he already knows the answer.



Uma smiles, unbothered, her thick brows knitting together in thought. “Plain cotton petticoats, Raghu ji. Two or three.” She moves toward the shelves of children’s clothes, her hips swaying under the yellow sari. Raghu watches, exhales through his nose, and smirks as she bends to inspect a shirt. The blouse gapes at the back, revealing smooth milky white skin. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips.



Anil leans back in the chair, arms crossed. He notices the way Raghu’s shoulders tense when Uma straightens up.



“This one for my boy,” Uma says, holding up a blue shirt.



Raghu chuckles, low and mocking. “Small size? Your boy fat like you, no?” He glances at Anil, grinning, testing boundaries.



Uma blinks, then laughs—soft, unruffled. “No, no. He is slim.” She pats her own waist absentmindedly, the fabric pulling tight across her hips.



Raghu hums, stepping closer. “If you say so, Bhabhiji.” His fingers graze the shirt as he takes it from her, slow, deliberate, letting his knuckles brush against her wrist. She doesn’t flinch. He exhales sharply through his nose and turns toward the shelves, rummaging through piles of folded petticoats.



Raghu pulls out a thin, synthetic petticoat—the kind that clings and rides up, the kind women wear in cheap brothels. The fabric is garish pink, nearly sheer, the waistband frayed. He holds it up between two fingers like it’s something dirty. “This one, Bhabhiji? Very... light. Easy to move in.” His grin widens as he shakes it, letting it flutter—translucent under the shop’s dim bulb.



Uma frowns, tilting her head. “No, ji. Cotton one. This is—” She gestures at the flimsy material, nose wrinkling.



Raghu’s lips press into a thin line. A flicker of disappointment passes over his face. He had expected Anil to tease her, push her toward the cheap ones, maybe laugh at her hesitation. Instead, Anil simply waves him off. He lets out a soft sigh, then picks up a neatly folded white cotton petticoat and holds it out. “This one… will do,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, as if the thought of her wearing decent fabric is a small frustration.



Uma reaches for the petticoat, smoothing its folds. Anil leans back, half-lost in thought, eyes distant, thumb brushing his lips. He barely notices the fabrics, absorbed in something else entirely.



Raghu moves among the shelves, holding out a few more decent cotton petticoats. “Try this one… not too tight,” he says casually, voice low, eyes flicking to her waist. There is no real aggression, but the tone carries a faint edge—taunting, judging, the kind a man would use with a cheap roadside woman he feels he could control.



Uma carefully lifts another petticoat, folding it against her arm. As she shifts slightly to see a row of folded dresses on the lower shelf, her hand accidentally nudges a few aside. A small, innocent mistake—but it is enough.



“Oi!” Raghu snaps, voice sharper now, scolding. “Watch it, Bhabhiji! Don’t just toss things around. You’ll tear them—won’t even know how to handle them properly.” His gaze flicks over her figure as he talks, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Careful… these aren’t made for someone… like you.”



Uma freezes for a fraction of a second, surprised, then quickly adjusts the dresses and goes back to the petticoats as if nothing happened. To her, it’s a minor inconvenience—she doesn’t read any deeper meaning into it.



Anil shifts slightly, finally noticing the tone, the glance, the smirk. Raghu is treating Uma differently now—taunting, slightly disrespecting, adding a pinch of body-shaming in his words, as if she’s someone beneath normal respect. And yet Raghu restrains himself from crossing any real line because Anil is there.



A sharp warmth rises in Anil’s chest, a tingle spreading slowly. He realizes that last time, his teasing and subtle body-shaming of Uma has already marked her in the minds of others. Raghu’s behavior, the casual disrespect, the teasing, all of it… it excites him in a way he hadn’t expected.



Uma, oblivious as always, continues folding the petticoats, her face calm, obedient. To her, it’s normal, nothing remarkable. But for Anil, watching her being measured, teased, slightly scolded… it is electric.



Raghu’s smirk lingers even as Uma adjusts the petticoat. Anil shifts in his chair, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, and suddenly it clicks—he sees it clearly. Raghu no longer treats Uma as a normal customer. His eyes, the teasing tone, the subtle body-shaming—all of it shows that last time Anil had openly teased her, used cheap, improper fabrics, it had left a mark. Raghu now sees her as someone… lower, someone he could measure, correct, and play with.



A slow, mischievous thought forms in Anil’s mind. He leans forward, voice low, commanding, almost bored. "Fatty, why are you messing up his shop?" The nickname rolls off his tongue casually. "Fatty just knows how to eat and mess things up. See, Raghu, how she has become fat? Can't even fold a dress properly." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as if disappointed but watching Raghu’s reaction from the corner of his eye.



Uma immediately obeys, adjusting her hands to fold the petticoats neatly, unaware of the subtle meaning in his words. Her curvy frame leans slightly as she bends, full breasts shifting gently, the soft swell of her belly exposed just enough under the thin sari folds.



Raghu’s eyes light up instantly. The earlier hesitation, the faint restraint, melts into something sharper—more daring. He leans a little closer to the counter, voice dropping low, almost muttering as he watches Uma. “Slow hands, huh? Must be hard to move fast with so much… weight.” His fingers drum against the wood, his gaze dragging from her hips to her thick thighs pressing against the yellow sari. “Careful, Bhabhiji, don’t break anything.”



Anil watches silently, a slow warmth spreading through his chest. He sees how Raghu’s tone changes: the body-shaming, the teasing, the subtle dominance over Uma—all now flowing naturally, restrained only by Anil’s presence. And he feels a sharp tingle, knowing that Raghu would go far worse if left alone with her.



When the selection is done, Anil rises, stretching slightly. He watches Raghu’s expression carefully, noting the lingering smirk, the faint flush in his eyes, the way his hands move slightly closer to the fabrics as if tempted to touch more. A grin spreads across Anil’s face.



Outside, walking back through the market lanes, Anil’s mind is already working. The thrill, the taunting, the subtle degradation—it has given him an idea.



“Uma,” he says suddenly, stopping mid-step. She looks up at him, curious.



“You will go again,” he says simply, voice low. “To Raghu’s shop.”



“Ji?” Uma tilts her head, confused. “Why?”



“Whatever he does,” Anil says, eyes glinting, “you play along. No questions.”



Uma blinks, nervous, shy, lowering her gaze. “I… I can’t, Ji. It’s a local shop… everyone will see…”



Anil laughs softly, the sound warm, teasing. “You already like it, don’t you? And I already know what you are.” He reaches for her petticoat, tugging it slightly lower over her belly. The fabric shifts, exposing the soft curve of her white stomach and the hollow of her navel.



She flushes, breath catching slightly, but her stance doesn’t change. Her eyes flick up, shy, hesitant, yet there is a quiet acknowledgment in her posture—she wants to go, even if she cannot say the word.



Anil’s hand rests lightly on the fold of the sari, adjusting it just enough to remind her of her exposure. “Go,” he whispers. “I’ll be nearby.”



Her medium-height, curvy frame shifts slightly as she walks ahead, long black hair swaying, full bust moving gently, thick thighs brushing lightly together. Broad hips, soft waist—every movement accentuated, naturally sensuous. Her wheatish complexion glows faintly in the morning sun.



Anil follows at a distance, eyes hidden, mind already spinning through possibilities, plans, and the sharp, warm thrill of what he’s orchestrating.



Uma steps into the shop alone this time, her yellow sari fluttering slightly in the draft from the ceiling fan. The petticoat rides low—lower than before—exposing the soft swell of her stomach, the faint indentation of her navel, the way her flesh creases slightly as she bends to push the door open. Raghu looks up from his counter, his dark eyes narrowing, then widening—slowly, hungrily—as he registers her alone. His little surprise by Uma returning again. He smirks, leaning back against the shelves, arms crossed. "Bhabhiji," he drawls, voice thick with amusement. "Back so soon?"



Uma hesitates, fingers twisting in the folds of her sari. "Ji," she murmurs, eyes downcast, but her voice carries clearly. "The... the petticoat. The cheap one you showed earlier. Anil ji said to buy that one for home."



Raghu’s grin splits his face. He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tapping the counter. "Oh? That one?" He chuckles, low and rough, like gravel underfoot. "I knew Anil ji would want it. Suits you better, Bhabhiji—cheap fabric for cheap bodies." His gaze drags over her exposed belly, the way her blouse gapes slightly at the sides. "See, fatty women like you? Shouldn’t wear tight things. Makes you look like a stuffed sack." He reaches under the counter, pulling out the same garish pink petticoat with deliberate slowness.



Uma’s breath hitches as he shakes it out, the thin fabric shimmering. She doesn’t move, doesn’t protest—just stands there, fingers twitching at her sides. Raghu steps closer, invading her space, the petticoat dangling from his fingers. "Turn around," he orders, voice rough, no pretence of politeness left. "Let’s see if it fits that fat ass."



She obeys, slow and stiff, turning her back to him. The blouse gapes wider, revealing the dimples at the base of her spine. Raghu’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t touch her—not yet—but his knuckles graze the swell of her hip as he holds the petticoat against her waist. "Too small," he mutters, lips curling. "But Anil ji wants it, no? So you’ll squeeze in." His fingers brush the bare skin above her petticoat, deliberate, testing her reaction.



Outside, hidden behind a stack of crates, Anil’s pulse thrums in his throat. The shop’s grimy window distorts the scene slightly, but he sees everything—Raghu’s dark fingers against Uma’s wheatish skin, the way her shoulders tense but she doesn’t pull away. Raghu tugs the petticoat higher, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of her waist. "Lift your arms," he commands. Uma hesitates, then raises them, the movement making her blouse ride up further. Raghu exhales sharply, his knuckles brushing the underside of her heavy breasts as he place the petticoat over her dress. "See? Tight," he murmurs, voice thick. "Like wrapping a melon in paper." His hands linger, smoothing the cheap fabric down her hips with deliberate slowness, fingers dipping into the curve of her waist.



Uma shifts uncomfortably, her breath uneven, but she doesn’t stop him. Raghu’s smirk deepens. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing her ear. "Anil ji likes this, huh? Showing off his fat wife?" His fingers trail lower, skimming the edge of her sari where it clings to her thick thighs. "Maybe he wants others to see what he gets at home." Uma’s face burns, but she stays silent, her fingers gripping the counter. Raghu takes it as permission—his touch grows bolder, palming the swell of her hip, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. "So soft," he muses, voice dripping with mock admiration. "Like dough. No wonder Anil ji calls you fatty."



Anil watches, gripping the crate so hard the wood bites into his palms. Raghu’s hands are everywhere now—tugging the blouse sleeve to expose more shoulder, dragging the sari’s pallu aside to reveal the dip of her collarbones. Uma’s lips part, her chest rising fast, but she doesn’t protest even when Raghu’s fingers slip beneath the petticoat’s waistband, grazing the bare skin of her stomach. "You like this," he accuses, breath hot against her neck. "Cheap women always do." Uma whimpers, a sound so quiet it’s almost lost under the ceiling fan’s whir, but Raghu hears it. His fingers press harder, inching lower, toward the forbidden. "Tell me to stop," he dares, lips curling.



Uma doesn’t. The words clot in her throat, thick and unspoken. Raghu’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of her belly, slipping lower, beneath the petticoat’s waistband, where the fabric is already damp with sweat. His breath hitches—hot, uneven—against her ear. "Fatty," he murmurs, the word rough, almost affectionate in its cruelty. His other hand slides up her back, pressing her flush against the counter’s edge. The wood bites into her hips. She whimpers again, louder this time, but her arms stay raised, trembling.



Raghu doesn’t wait. With a grunt, he spins her, shoving her facedown onto the dusty ledger spread across his desk. The pages crinkle under her cheek. Her sari bunches at her waist, exposing the full swell of her ass, the thin petticoat stretched tight. His palm lands hard—once, twice—the sound sharp in the cramped shop. Uma jerks, a gasp tearing free, but she doesn’t struggle. Her fingers clutch the desk’s edge, knuckles white. Raghu’s laugh is dark, triumphant. "See? No shame." His fingers knead the stinging flesh, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "Cheap body, cheap mind."



Anil’s pulse hammers in his skull. Through the smudged glass, he watches Raghu’s hands roam—rough, possessive—over Uma’s sprawled form. The way her blouse has ridden up, baring the dimples above her ass. The way Raghu’s thumb hooks into her petticoat, yanking it down just enough to reveal the crease where thigh meets hip. Uma’s breath comes in shallow hitches, her face still pressed to the ledger, eyes screwed shut. Raghu leans over her, his voice a growl. "Anil ji lets anyone touch this, huh?" His fingers slip lower, brushing the damp heat between her thighs.



Uma jerks—a tiny, involuntary flinch—but doesn’t pull away. Raghu smirks, pressing closer, his erection nudging against her hip. "Say it," he goads, fingers teasing at her entrance. "Say you want it." Uma whimpers, fingers clawing at the ledger. Raghu laughs, low and cruel. "See? No shame—"



The shop door slams open. Anil strides in, face unreadable. Raghu stumbles back, hands falling away from Uma like she’s burned him. His smirk falters. "Anil ji! I was just—"



Anil doesn’t look at him. His gaze fixes on Uma, still bent over the desk, her sari crumpled around her waist. Her shoulders tremble. Slowly, she pushes herself upright, face flushed. She doesn’t meet his eyes.



Anil steps forward, tugging her petticoat back into place with deliberate slowness. His fingers linger on her hip. "Got what we needed?" he asks, voice mild. Uma nods, mute.



Raghu clears his throat, shifting behind the counter. "Bhabhiji was just—"



"Testing the fabric," Anil finishes for him, finally turning. His smile is razor-thin. "Right?"



Raghu’s Adam’s apple bobs. "Of course, Anil ji." His voice is too high. "Very... durable material."



Anil hums, picking up the discarded pink petticoat. He rubs the cheap fabric between his fingers. "Good. We’ll take it." He tosses a crumpled note onto the counter. Raghu doesn’t move to pick it up.



Uma smooths her sari, avoiding Raghu’s gaze. Her hands shake. Anil slides an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Let’s go, fatty," he murmurs, lips brushing her ear.



Raghu watches them leave, his earlier bravado crumbling. As the door swings shut, Anil glances back—just once—and catches Raghu’s gaze. His grin is all teeth.



Outside, Uma sags against him. "Ji, I—"



Anil squeezes her hip, hard enough to make her gasp. "You did well," he says. His thumb strokes the spot where Raghu’s fingers dug in.



Anil watches her face. He can see it clearly now. The way her shoulders are slightly drawn in, the way her hips move with a softness she doesn’t usually show outside. Raghu’s hands, Raghu’s tone, the way Uma didn’t resist—everything replays in Anil’s mind. And it stirs something deep, dark, and unmistakably alive.



By the time they reach home, the house is quiet. Too quiet. The front door creaks softly as Anil closes it behind them. No parents. No son. Just the stillness of midday.



Anil doesn’t wait.



The moment the door shuts, he steps close, hands gripping her arms, pulling her toward him. His mouth finds her cheek, then her jaw, lingering there longer than usual. Uma gasps softly, startled, but her body doesn’t pull away. Her hands rise instinctively, resting against his chest, unsure whether to stop him or steady herself.



“You like it, don't you? His spank on your meaty ass,” Anil murmurs, more statement than question.



His fingers press into her waist, firmer now, as if confirming something he already knows. Uma’s breath catches. Her body reacts before her mind does, leaning into him just slightly.



Then—



“Anil beta…”



The voice cuts through the moment like a blade.



Das Kaka’s voice. From the back of the house.



Uma stiffens instantly. Her eyes widen, fear and urgency flashing across her face. She grips Anil’s wrist tightly, shaking her head. “Not here,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “He’s there… Please lets go… bedroom.”



Anil freezes for half a second, irritation flaring—then reality settles in. He exhales sharply, nods once, and steps back.



“Come,” he says quietly.



Uma adjusts her sari with quick, practiced movements, smoothing herself down, hiding what only moments ago felt impossible to hide. Her face returns to its usual softness, but something underneath has shifted. Something that won’t settle so easily.



Anil walks ahead toward the bedroom, his mind still buzzing, still replaying Raghu’s hands, Uma’s silence, her unspoken acceptance. He knows this isn’t over.



The bedroom door clicks shut behind them, and Uma exhales—too quickly, too loud—like she’s been holding her breath since they stepped inside the house. She turns, pressing her back against the door as if bracing herself. Anil doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he watches her, slow, deliberate, letting the silence stretch until she squirms under his gaze.



"You were so good for him," he says finally, stepping closer, voice rough. His fingers tug at the pallu of her sari, loosening it with a sharp jerk. "Like a cheap woman, standing there, letting him touch you." The fabric slithers down her shoulder, pooling at her waist, exposing the swell of her breasts beneath the thin blouse. Uma shivers but doesn’t cover herself. Her lips part—no protest, just quiet, shaky breaths.



Anil grips her chin, tilting her face up. "Tell me," he growls. "Did his fingers dig into you like this?" His other hand slides down, squeezing her ass hard enough to make her whimper. "Did you squeeze back? Hmm?" Uma's cheeks flush darker, her eyes darting away, but Anil doesn't let her escape. He drags her blouse down, baring her chest, thumbs scraping over her nipples. "Or did you like it more when he called you names? Cheap wife? Useless?"



Uma’s breath hitches, her hands gripping his forearms—not pushing, just holding on. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Anil already sees it—the way her body betrays her, the way she arches into his touch despite the humiliation curling in her gut. He leans in, lips brushing her ear. "You want me to treat you like him? Like the filthy woman you are?"



Her nod is almost imperceptible. Almost.



Anil’s blood sings. He spins her around, shoving her face-first against the door. Her sari unravels completely, pooling at her feet. The blouse follows, ripped open in one sharp tear. She gasps, bare now except for her petticoat, still clinging low on her hips—just like in Raghu’s shop. Anil presses against her, his cock already hard against her ass. "No blouse this time," he murmurs, fingers hooking into the waistband of her petticoat. "Let’s see how much of a cheap woman you really are."



The fabric snaps loose. Uma’s thighs press together instinctively, but Anil spreads them with his knee, his palm smacking down on her bare ass—once, twice—until the skin blooms red. She whimpers, fingers scrambling against the door. "Look at you," he growls, dragging her back by the hips. His fingers dig into her flesh, leaving marks. "Raghu didn’t even have to try, did he? You spread your legs just by looking at him." Uma shakes her head, but her body betrays her, hips grinding back against him. Anil laughs—dark, approving. "Liar."



He yanks her away from the door, tossing her onto the bed. She bounces, hair wild, breasts heaving. Anil climbs over her, pinning her wrists above her head. "Say it," he demands, grinding his cock against her thigh. "Say you liked it." Uma bites her lip, eyes flickering away. Anil slaps her tits—hard—making her cry out. "Say it!"



"Y-yes," she finally whimpers, voice cracking. "I liked it."



Anil’s grin is feral. He releases her wrists only to grab her throat—not choking, just holding—forcing her to meet his gaze. "Then prove it." He flips her onto her stomach, dragging her hips up. "Show me how much you wanted him." Uma hesitates, then arches her back, presenting herself shamelessly. Anil’s breath catches. His palm cracks down on her ass again. "Filthy," he mutters, spreading her cheeks with his thumbs. "Look at you—dripping for a stranger."



She is. The evidence glistens between her thighs. Anil spits on his fingers, rubbing them roughly over her clit. Uma jerks, moaning into the sheets. "No," he snaps, pulling her hair. "You don’t get to come yet." He lines himself up, pushing in with one brutal thrust. Uma screams, back bowing. Anil doesn’t slow. He fucks her like he owns her—hard, deep, every snap of his hips a punishment. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" he pants, gripping her hips tight enough to bruise. "To be used?"



Uma sobs, but she doesn’t deny it. Her fingers twist in the sheets, knuckles white. Anil watches her—the way her back muscles ripple, the way her ass clenches around him—and then, suddenly, he feels it. A prickling sensation, like eyes boring into his skin. His rhythm falters. He glances up—and there, through the half-open window, Das Kaka stands frozen.



The old man’s mouth hangs open, his weathered face slack with shock. His hands clutch a rusted watering can, forgotten. Anil’s pulse spikes—not with anger, but something darker, hotter. He grips Uma’s hips tighter, pulling her higher onto her knees, angling her body toward the window. The sunlight spills over her bare back, her sweat-slick skin glowing. Her ass juts out obscenely, Anil’s cock buried deep inside her, her thighs trembling. He leans down, lips brushing her ear. “Tell me how much you love it,” he growls, thrusting harder. “Louder.”



Uma whimpers, confused, but obedient. “Ji—I love it,” she gasps, voice cracking. Anil slaps her ass, making her yelp. “Louder,” he demands, watching Das Kaka’s throat bob. Uma moans, high and desperate, her fingers scrabbling at the sheets. “P-please, Anil ji—harder!”



Anil’s breath rasps in his chest. He pulls out abruptly, making Uma whine. His hands find his waistband, tugging his underwear down—the same pair he’d worn all morning, damp with sweat. Before Uma can react, he yanks them over her head, covering her eyes, the fabric stretched taut against her nose and mouth. She inhales sharply—his scent, musky and thick—then chokes on a gasp as Anil drags her backward by the hips. “Up,” he orders, hauling her onto trembling legs.



The window looms ahead, sunlight spilling across the floor. Uma stumbles blindly, her fingers clutching at air until Anil shoves her forward, pressing her bare torso flush against the warm glass. Outside, Das Kaka jerks back behind the neem tree, but not before Anil catches the flash of his startled eyes. The old man’s grip tightens on the watering can, knuckles white. Anil smirks, grinding his cock against Uma’s ass, letting his thumb trace the crease where her thigh meets her hip—slow, deliberate. “You’re dripping on the floor,” he murmurs, loud enough for the window to carry. “Disgusting.”



Uma squirms, her breath fogging the glass. “Ji, please—” she whimpers, the underwear muffling her voice. Anil ignores her, spreading her legs wider with his knee, exposing her completely to the midday heat—and to Das Kaka’s frozen stare. The old man’s mouth hangs slack. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Anil licks his lips, fingers digging into Uma’s hips as he thrusts back inside without warning. She screams, her nails scraping against the windowpane.



“Quiet,” Anil growls, slamming into her harder, watching Das Kaka’s Adam’s apple bob. The old man hasn’t moved. Can’t move. His eyes dart from Uma’s bouncing breasts to where Anil’s cock stretches her open, glistening with each brutal thrust. Anil leans closer, lips brushing Uma’s ear. “Tell me how much you love being watched,” he breathes. She shakes her head, confused, but he slaps her ass—once, twice—until she sobs out, “I—I love it, ji!” Her voice cracks, high and desperate. Das Kaka’s fingers twitch. The watering can slips, hitting the dirt with a dull thud. Anil grins, fucking her faster, harder, his hips slapping against her flesh. “Louder,” he commands.



“Ji, please—!” Uma’s back arches, her body shuddering as Anil drives her toward the edge. Outside, Das Kaka’s hand drifts to his waistband, hesitating. Anil sees it—the tremor in his fingers, the way his breath comes too fast. He tightens his grip on Uma’s hair, wrenching her head back. “Come for him,” he rasps, knowing she doesn’t understand. “Now.”



And she does—with a broken cry, her thighs clamping around him, her cunt pulsing. Das Kaka staggers back a step, his face flushed dark. Anil watches, chest heaving, as the old man fumbles with his dhoti, then turns and flees into the shadows of the backyard.



Uma slumps against the window, gasping. “Ji… who…?” she pants, still blindfolded.



Anil chuckles, pulling the underwear from her face. “No one,” he murmurs, kissing her sweaty temple. “Just the wind.”

 

[KKDOM]

Chapter 9 – The Mela Game





The car hums steadily as Anil drives past the familiar edges of town, the road narrowing as fields and scrub take over. Uma sits beside him, sari neatly draped, pallu carefully arranged across her chest. Her fingers keep adjusting it, almost unconsciously, as if holding on to decency by habit.



Anil notices. He always does.



“Don’t fuss so much with that sari, fatty,” he says, voice low and teasing, eyes still on the road. “It won’t be there for long anyway.”



Uma freezes, her hands pausing mid-adjustment. She lowers her gaze, cheeks warming. “Ji…?”



Anil glances at her, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking over her milky white skin, the soft curve of her waist, the rounded hips, the gentle swell of her chest beneath the fabric. “You really think I brought you all this way just to stay decent?” He lets the words linger, taunting. “I have something special for you today. Much more… suitable.”



Her breath catches. She doesn’t ask what it is, doesn’t protest. She only keeps her head slightly bowed, hands folding over her lap, submissive and attentive.



Anil smirks. “Enjoy your little cover while it lasts. You’ll need it for a few more steps.”



They had left home with the usual casual excuse—son with the grandparents, parents none the wiser. This had become normal now, a routine part of their lives. No one questioned anything anymore.



The road winds toward the outskirts, the railway line appearing faintly in the distance. Faint noises reach them—music, shouting, the hum of a gathering crowd. Uma glances briefly, curiosity flickering, but she says nothing. She already knows the nature of the outing, even if not the details.



Before reaching the Mela, Anil pulls over at a quiet corner where the road bends slightly and a few stray trees provide cover. He stops the car, reaches into the back seat, and hands her a small bag. “Here,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “Put this on and strip away whatever you’re wearing—from your dress and underwear to your jewelry.”



Uma hesitates, fingers hovering over the bag. She knows what’s inside will be something degrading—something meant to expose, meant to humiliate. Yet, there’s a strange thrill in that anticipation, an ache low in her belly. Slowly, she unfurls the bag’s opening, the cheap synthetic fabric rustling in her trembling hands. The first thing she sees is a garish, deep-cut red blouse—backless, sleeveless, the neckline plunging so low her nipples might peek out if she breathes too deeply. The fabric is thin, almost sheer under direct light, and the stitching looks hastily done. Underneath lies a faded black petticoat—threadbare and impossibly short, barely reaching mid-thigh—and a flimsy, transparent sari that looks more like a decorative ribbon than actual coverage.



“Ji…?” she whispers, her throat tightening. “This—this is too much.” Her fingers clutch the blouse tighter, the cheap embroidery scratching her palms.



Anil watches her reaction with dark amusement, his fingers drumming lazily on the steering wheel. “No, it’s exactly enough,” he counters, his voice rough. “I want every man there to see what’s mine. I want them to stare.” His gaze drops pointedly to her chest, imagining the way the fabric will barely contain her. “Change. Now.”



Uma swallows hard, her pulse fluttering under her skin like a trapped bird. The car windows are fogging slightly from their shared breath, the air thick with anticipation. She hesitates only a second longer before gathering the cheap garments, her movements stiff with reluctant obedience. Anil doesn’t look away—he never does during these moments—his eyes tracing the way her fingers fumble with her sari’s pins, the way her breath hitches as the first layer slips from her shoulders. The pallu pools at her waist, revealing the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse, the fabric straining over her nipples.



“Hurry up,” Anil murmurs, leaning closer. His hand lands on her thigh, squeezing possessively. “Or should I help you?”



Uma’s breath catches as she shakes her head, hurriedly unbuttoning her blouse. The cool air hits her skin, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Anil’s gaze. The new blouse is tight—too tight—the fabric clinging obscenely as she struggles into it. The neckline gapes, the thin material doing nothing to hide the dark circles of her areolas. The petticoat is too short, so she has to tie it tightly well below her navel. The sari—if it can even be called that—barely covers anything, and when she tries to drape it, Anil stops her with a rough chuckle. “Leave it loose,” he orders, fingers pinching her nipple through the cheap fabric. “Let it slide off if it wants to.”



She barely has time to register his words before his hand fists in her neatly braided hair, yanking hard enough to make her gasp. The sudden pain shoots down her spine, sharp and delicious, and she bites her lip to keep from moaning. Anil twists his grip, unraveling the braid with rough tugs until her hair spills wild and tangled over her shoulders. “Better,” he growls, pulling her head back to expose her throat. “Now look at yourself.”



Uma catches her reflection in the rearview mirror—hair disheveled, lips parted, eyes wide and dark with arousal. The cheap red blouse barely contains her, the deep neckline sagging to reveal the upper curves of her breasts. Anil releases her hair only to shove a small makeup pouch into her trembling hands. “Kajal. Thick,” he orders, voice rough. “And that slut-red lipstick from last time. Don’t make me wait.”



Her fingers shake as she uncaps the kajal, the waxy scent flooding her nostrils. The first stroke is hesitant, but Anil’s impatient grunt spurs her on. She drags the stick along her waterline, smudging it deliberately darker, heavier—the way the cheap dancers at the mela do. The lipstick comes next, garish and sticky, staining her lips a vulgar crimson. She presses them together, the taste bitter on her tongue, and Anil exhales sharply. “Fuck,” he mutters, thumb swiping across her lower lip, smearing the color. “Look at you. Like some roadside whore.”



The transformation is obscene. Her milky skin glows against the cheap red fabric, the blouse stretched taut over her heavy breasts, the neckline sagging to expose the dusky shadow of her cleavage. The petticoat clings to her thick thighs, riding up with every slight movement, the frayed hem brushing dangerously high. The flimsy sari slips off one shoulder, the transparent fabric doing nothing to hide the swell of her hips or the curve of her ass. Her hair, now wild and loose, frames her face—kohl-rimmed eyes wide, lips parted around uneven breaths.



Anil’s grip tightens on her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’re dripping already, aren’t you?” he rasps, fingers sliding down to thumb at the dampness seeping through the thin petticoat. Uma whimpers, her thighs pressing together instinctively, but he tsks, prying them apart. “None of that. Let them see how wet you get.”



He leans back, surveying his handiwork—the disheveled hair, the smeared lipstick, the blouse barely clinging to her curves—and grins. “Walk straight into the mela. Don’t look back. I’ll be watching.” The order hangs between them, thick with unspoken threat and promise. Uma nods shakily, her pulse hammering in her throat as she steps out of the car.



The night air is thick with dust and the distant cacophony of the mela—drunken laughter, the tinny wail of Bhojpuri music, the occasional catcall. Her cheap sandals sink into the soft earth as she walks, the petticoat riding higher with every step, the flimsy sari slipping further off her shoulder. Behind her, Anil’s footsteps are deliberate, unhurried, his presence a shadow just far enough to let the vultures circle.



The first whistle cuts through the noise when she’s barely twenty steps in. “Oi, bhabhi!” a slurred voice shouts from the liquor stall. Uma stiffens but keeps walking, the petticoat already riding up her thighs with each stride. The blouse clings to her sweat-damp skin, the deep neckline slipping further with every uneven breath. Another whistle follows, then laughter—crude, hungry. She doesn’t turn, but Anil, lingering near the gambling tables, sees the way her fingers twitch at her sides, how her shoulders tense just slightly.



“Look at those tits spilling out,” someone mutters too close, and Anil’s jaw tightens with dark satisfaction. He watches as a drunk man stumbles into her path, leering down at her exposed cleavage. “How much for a squeeze, randi?” The man’s fingers twitch toward her, but Uma sidesteps smoothly, her head bowed—submissive but not stopping, not protesting. Anil’s pulse spikes.



A vendor’s cart blocks her path, forcing her to weave through a tighter crowd. Hands brush her waist, her hips, the swell of her ass. One lingers too long, squeezing, and Uma’s breath hitches audibly. Anil catches the way her hips jerk forward instinctively—not away, but into the touch. His cock throbs. She’s enjoying this.



Then the orchestra shift ends.



The crowd surges like a sudden tide, bodies pressing closer, hotter. Anil loses sight of her for a heartbeat—then spots her trapped near a rowdy group of young men. Their hands are already on her, rough and impatient, tugging at her blouse, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist. One yanks her hair back, exposing her throat while another cups her breast shamelessly, thumb rubbing her nipple through the thin fabric.



“Ahh what a big melons—” she gasps, but it’s half-hearted, trembling. The man squeezes harder, the cheap blouse fabric straining under his grip, stretching dangerously low. Another hand palms her ass, kneading roughly, fingers slipping under the frayed hem of her petticoat. The third presses against her belly, pushing—forcing her back against the fourth, who already has his cock grinding against her thigh through his pants. Uma’s breath comes in ragged bursts, her body arching instinctively between their rough touches, her nipples pebbling visibly under the stretched fabric. Then, just as a calloused thumb flicks her exposed nipple, a hand snakes through the crowd and yanks her wrist hard—Anil’s grip, familiar and bruising.



“Enough,” he growls, shoving a drunken man aside with his shoulder. The crowd parts reluctantly, murmurs of protest fading as Anil drags her backward, Uma stumbling—her blouse button torn open, the fabric gaping to expose one heavy breast entirely. The nipple stands stiff in the humid air, wet from a stranger’s thumb. Anil doesn’t bother covering her. Instead, he grips her wrist tighter, steering her toward the shadowed gap between two food stalls, where the stench of frying oil mixes with the acrid tang of piss and spilled liquor.



The stall’s backside is cluttered with broken crates and discarded bottles, the ground sticky underfoot. Anil shoves her against the rough wooden wall, his free hand ripping the remnants of her blouse wider. “You okay?” His voice is gruff, but there’s an edge—something almost like concern beneath the roughness. Uma’s chest heaves, her exposed breast glistening with sweat in the dim light.



“Ji… I’m—I’m fine,” Uma pants, her voice trembling but not with fear—her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted around uneven breaths. Anil’s gaze drops to her chest, where her exposed nipple stands stiff, the areola puckered tight. A thin sheen of sweat glistens between her breasts, and her skin flushes a deep pink, spreading down to her heaving belly. He knows that look—the way her thighs press together, the damp patch darkening the threadbare petticoat. She’s *enjoyed* it.



“Tch. Look at you,” Anil mutters, thumb swiping roughly over her nipple, smearing the wetness left by some stranger’s fingers. “Little fatty gets off on being manhandled by randos now?” Uma’s breath hitches, her hips jerking forward as if seeking friction. Anil smirks and pinches her nipple hard, twisting until she whimpers. “Fix this blouse. Cover those tits—*somehow*.” He releases her, stepping back to watch her fumble.



Uma’s hands shake as she tries to pull the torn fabric together. The blouse gapes open, one cup hanging loose, the other straining over her swollen breast. She tugs at the neckline, but the cheap stitching snaps further, exposing more of her dusky areola. “Ji, it’s—it’s torn,” she whispers, biting her lip. Anil leans in, his breath hot against her ear. “Use the sari then, idiot. Or just hold it shut.” His hand slides down to grope her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the flimsy petticoat. “Unless you *want* more hands on you?”



She whines, hastily draping the transparent sari over her chest—but it’s useless, the sheer fabric clinging to her sweat-slick skin, her nipples poking through. Anil barks a laugh. “Pathetic. You look even sluttier now.” His fingers hook into the sari’s edge, yanking it down again. “Leave it. Let them stare.”



Then a voice cuts through the noise, familiar, low, and charged:



“Anil ji… didn’t expect to find you here.”



Anil freezes, instinct sharp. He spins around—and there is Raghu. Dusky, average height, hair slightly mussed from the crowd, standing a few steps away, leaning lightly against a stall post. His eyes flick immediately to Uma—her exposed state, her hurried adjustments, the curves of her full-bodied frame visible even under the tattered sari.



Anil’s jaw tightens slightly. Raghu smirks, the familiarity between them already loaded. He knows her. He knows her body, her submissive nature, and he knows how easily she responds to attention, to control, how Anil body shame and degrade her even in front of him. But this… this is something different. This is full exposure, in public, far beyond anything he’s seen her in before. His dark eyes rake over Uma’s disheveled state—the torn blouse barely hanging on, the petticoat riding low enough to show the soft swell of her belly, the sari uselessly draped like a flimsy excuse for modesty. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.



“Fatty Bhabhiji,” Raghu murmurs, stepping closer. The term is mocking now, stripped of respect. “What a state you’re in.” Uma stiffens, her breath quickening, but she doesn’t protest—just clutches the sari tighter, as if that could hide anything. Raghu chuckles, low and knowing. “No use covering up now. Half the mela’s already seen those tits bounce.” His gaze flicks to Anil, assessing. “Unless that was the plan?”



Anil exhales sharply through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides. He doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t deny it. Just watches, waiting to see how far Raghu will push.



Raghu takes another step. The air between them crackles—not with tension, but with something darker, hungrier. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and Uma doesn’t move as his fingers brush the torn edge of her blouse. “Ah, I remember this. It’s one of my shop’s pieces. Cheap thing.” He tugs lightly, exposing more skin. “But then, cheap things fit cheap women, no?” His laugh is rough, but his pupils dilate as Uma shivers. “Last time you were in my shop, Bhabhiji, you were shy—buttoned up, looking down. Now look at you.” His thumb traces the underside of her exposed breast. “Like a roadside whore.”



Anil’s pulse jumps—not in anger, but anticipation. He watches Uma’s throat bob, her fingers twisting the sari uselessly. Raghu’s other hand dips into his pocket, withdrawing a faded blue handkerchief, rough cotton, the edges frayed. He unfolds it with deliberate slowness, letting Uma see the stains—old sweat, maybe liquor, something unidentifiable. “Here.” He presses it against her chest, right over her stiff nipple. The fabric clings instantly, damp from her sweat. “Better than nothing, fatty.” Uma gasps, but her thighs press tighter together. Anil exhales sharply. “Thanks,” he mutters, clapping Raghu’s shoulder, grip lingering a second too long. “Didn’t expect you at this shithole.”



Raghu shrugs, eyes flicking back to Uma, who clutches the handkerchief like a lifeline. “Needed a drink. Got more than I paid for.” His chuckle is low, uneven. The three of them start walking, Uma sandwiched between them, her steps unsteady. Raghu’s voice drops conspiratorially. “But Anil ji… I didn’t take you for the type to let your wife”—he gestures loosely at Uma’s disheveled state, the handkerchief doing little to hide the curve of her breast—“get mauled by half-drunk idiots in a mela. Unless…” He trails off, grinning when Anil doesn’t interrupt. “Unless you *like* watching.”



The path ahead is uneven, lit by flickering bulbs strung haphazardly between stalls. Uma stumbles over a loose stone, and Raghu’s hand shoots out to steady her—fingers curling around her waist, sliding down to grip the swell of her hip. She doesn’t pull away. “Careful, fatty,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into the soft dip above her pelvis. “Wouldn’t want you falling face-first into more trouble.” His breath smells of cheap whiskey, warm against her cheek.



Anil smirks, kicking a bottle out of their path. “And I didn’t take you for the type to follow us.”



Raghu’s laugh is sharp. “Didn’t follow. Just saw a crowd—heard men laughing about some milky housewife letting them grope her.” His fingers tighten on Uma’s hip, pulling her closer as they navigate a cluster of gamblers. “Thought, *no way*. Not respectable Bhabhiji.” He leans in, lips brushing Uma’s ear. “Then I saw those big tits bouncing, and—ah, what a surprise.” His free hand ghosts over the handkerchief, teasing the damp fabric. “You’ve been holding out on me.”



Anil doesn’t respond, just jerks his chin toward the bushes ahead, where their car is parked—dusty, half-hidden, windows rolled down. The scent of crushed grass and engine oil mixes with the lingering musk of sweat. Uma’s breath hitches as Raghu’s palm slides lower, fingers digging into the swell of her ass through the thin petticoat. “Raghu ji—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a pinch to her thigh.



“Shh, fatty. Save the respect for when it matters.” Raghu’s hand slides up her back, fingers tangling in the loose threads of her blouse. The moment they reach the car, he doesn’t hesitate—he grips the already torn fabric and rips it clean off in one sharp motion, exposing Uma’s full chest to the night air. The sound of stitching giving way is loud in the sudden quiet of the parking area. Uma gasps, her arms flinging up instinctively to cover herself, but Anil catches her wrists, pinning them against the car door. “Fatty,” he growls, his knee nudging her thighs apart. “Covering up now? After half the mela’s seen those tits?” His thumb traces the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse rabbit-fast beneath his grip.



Raghu whistles low, circling her like a predator. “Damn, Anil ji. Thought she was shy.” He reaches out, cupping Uma’s bare breast roughly, his palm warm against her skin. His thumb flicks over her nipple, already stiff from the night’s earlier handling. “Look at this—standing up like she’s begging for more.” Uma whimpers, her hips shifting against Anil’s thigh where it presses between her legs. Raghu’s other hand slides down her belly, fingers hooking into the waistband of her petticoat. “And what’s under here, huh?” He yanks the fabric down just enough to reveal the dark thatch of curls beneath, the dampness already glistening there. “Fuck. She’s soaked.”



Anil’s grip tightens, his breath hot against Uma’s neck. “Tell him, fatty. Tell him how much you liked those strangers’ hands on you.” Uma shakes her head, cheeks burning, but Raghu chuckles, stepping closer until his chest brushes her bare back. “No? Then I’ll guess.” His fingers dip lower, tracing her slit through the thin fabric still clinging to her hips. “You clenched when that drunk bastard squeezed your tits, didn’t you? Bet you got wetter every time someone ‘accidentally’ brushed your ass in the crowd.” Uma’s moan is muffled against Anil’s shoulder as Raghu’s fingers find her clit, rubbing slow circles. “See? She’s nodding.”



Anil’s free hand fists in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat. “Say it.” His voice is rough, demanding. “Tell him how much you loved it.” Uma’s lips part on a shaky exhale, her body trembling between them. Raghu’s fingers press harder, his other hand groping her breast possessively. “C’mon, fatty. Or should I stop?” He starts to pull away, and Uma’s hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing his touch. “N-no—!” The word bursts out of her, ragged and desperate. Anil’s laugh is dark with triumph. “There it is.”



Raghu’s grin is wolfish as he hooks a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Say it properly, bhabhiji.” His thumb smears the dampness from her lower lip. “Tell me you *liked* those filthy hands on you.” Uma’s eyes dart to Anil, seeking permission—or maybe absolution—but he just tightens his grip on her wrists. “Say it,” he growls. Her whisper is barely audible: “I… I liked it.” Raghu’s fingers dig into her hip. “Louder.” She whimpers, the words tumbling out: “I liked their hands on me!”



Anil barks a laugh, his knee shoving her thighs wider. “Pathetic.” Raghu’s hands are already tearing at the remains of her petticoat, the fabric shredding like paper under his rough handling. The night air licks her bare skin as he yanks the scraps away, leaving her completely exposed. “Look at this,” Raghu mutters, palming the thick swell of her ass. “So much fucking meat.” He lands a sharp slap, the sound cracking through the quiet. Uma jerks forward with a gasp, her flushed skin stinging. Anil catches her, his free hand groping her breast, fingers pinching her nipple hard. “Fatty can’t even stand straight,” he taunts.



Raghu’s hands slide up her trembling thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft crease where her legs meet her hips. “White like milk,” he muses, squeezing the plush flesh, leaving faint red marks. “But fat like a buffalo.” Uma whimpers as Anil yanks her head back by her hair, exposing her throat. “Open up,” he orders, spitting into her mouth. She obeys instantly, tongue darting out to catch the wetness, her cheeks flushing hotter as Raghu laughs. “Look at that—your fucking cow."



They maneuver her onto the patch of grass beside the car, the blades cool and slightly damp under her bare back. Anil kneels over her face, his thick cock bobbing against her lips, the musky scent of his arousal filling her nostrils. “Suck,” he growls, pressing the head against her tongue. Uma’s lips stretch wide, taking him in, her throat fluttering as he pushes deeper. Raghu settles between her spread thighs, his calloused hands gripping her hips, lifting her slightly. “Keep sucking, fatty,” he taunts, lining himself up. “Let’s see if you can stay quiet when I ram this in.”



The first thrust punches the air from her lungs. Uma’s moan vibrates around Anil’s cock as Raghu buries himself to the hilt, her body jolting against the grass. “Tighter than I remembered,” Raghu grunts, pulling back only to slam in again, his balls slapping against her ass. Anil fists her hair tighter, fucking her mouth in short, brutal strokes. “Choke on it,” he orders, and she does—gagging, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as her throat struggles to accommodate him. Raghu’s pace is relentless, his hips pistoning, the slap of skin echoing in the quiet night. “Fuck, look at her,” he pants, thumb rubbing rough circles over her clit. “Dripping like a whore.”



Anil pulls out abruptly, letting her cough, spit trailing down her chin. “Switch,” he commands, and Raghu doesn’t hesitate—withdrawing with a wet sound, leaving her gaping. Anil shoves her onto her knees, her ass in the air, and spits between her cheeks before plunging in. Raghu grabs her face, guiding his cock back between her swollen lips. “Better?” he mocks, thrusting shallowly. Uma’s muffled moan is answer enough, her fingers clawing at the grass as Anil pounds into her, each snap of his hips driving her forward onto Raghu’s length. “Take it,” Raghu murmurs, brushing her tears away with his thumb. “Fatty’s made for this.”



Anil’s grip on her hips tightens, his rhythm faltering—a ragged groan tears from him as he spills inside her, hot and pulsing. Raghu watches, transfixed, as Anil pulls out, thick streaks dripping down Uma’s thighs. “Your turn,” Anil rasps, still catching his breath. Raghu’s laugh is guttural. He yanks Uma’s head back by her hair, dragging his cock from her mouth with a lewd pop. “Open wide, bhabhiji,” he orders, stroking himself roughly. The first spurt hits her cheek, thick and salty; the next stripes her collarbone, painting her heaving chest. “Fuck,” he hisses, jerking himself off over her face, smearing it across her lips with his thumb. “Look at that—covered in us.”



Anil wipes his hands on her sari, chuckling as Raghu staggers back, spent. “Good?” he asks, though he already knows. Raghu exhales shakily, eyes dark with satisfaction. “More than good, Anil ji.” He gestures to Uma, still kneeling, trembling, her skin glistening under the moonlight. “This fatty…” He shakes his head, awe bleeding into his voice. “Never seen a woman take it like this. Begging for more even when she’s dripping.” Anil smirks, hauling Uma up by her arm. Her legs wobble; she clings to him, breath uneven. Raghu steps close, fingers trailing down her spine. “Before I go…” His palm cups her ass, kneading the sore flesh. “One last taste.”



He spins her around, catching her mouth in a rough kiss—lips bruising, tongue thrusting past her teeth. Uma whimpers, hands fluttering at her sides before she dares to grip his shirt. Raghu groans, biting her lower lip as his fingers twist her nipples, pinching hard enough to make her arch. “Remember this,” he rasps against her mouth. His hand slides between her legs, fingers slipping through the mess they’d left. “Fatty.” He drags his wet fingers over her lips, smearing their combined taste. “Filthy.”



Anil watches, arms crossed, arousal stirring again at the sight. “Enough,” he says, though his tone lacks bite. Raghu steps back with a grin, adjusting his pants. “Till next time, fatty.” Uma ducks her head, but not before Anil catches the flicker in her eyes—shame, yes, but something hotter beneath.



Raghu leaves with a whistle, disappearing into the mela’s noise. Anil digs through the car’s backseat, tossing Uma’s original clothes at her—a decent sari. “Wear it,” he orders, leaning against the hood as she fumbles with the folds.



Uma’s hands shake as she pulls the blouse over her bruised shoulders, the familiar fabric a stark contrast to the cheap, torn thing. The blouse’s drawstring knots clumsily under her fingers; Anil doesn’t help, just watches her struggle. “Still wet?” he asks, nodding at the damp patch between her thighs soaking through the fresh fabric. Uma flushes, adjusting the saree to cover it. “Ji, no, I—”



Anil snorts, yanking the car door open. “Liar.” The engine sputters to life, the headlights cutting through the dark. Uma hesitates, fingers lingering on the torn blouse discarded in the dirt. Anil follows her gaze. “Leave it,” he says, softer now. “Let some other bastard find it and wonder.”



She climbs in, wincing as the seat presses against her soreness. The drive home is quiet, the radio humming static. Anil’s thumb taps the wheel, his other hand sliding onto her thigh, squeezing. “You did good,” he mutters, almost to himself. Uma’s breath hitches. He doesn’t elaborate.