மோகனீயம் - Sindhu the stripper

Next morning, I cornered Visu—eyes sharp, voice low, catching him sprawled on the couch, wireless headphones still on, eyes bleary like he hadn’t slept, DVDs flickering on the TV from some late-night binge. He looked wrecked, scared of his own nightmares or some shit—I could tell, his quiet way of falling apart. “Do you guys have issues?” I asked, smirking, but my gut twisted—defiance roaring, but something else too, like I was poking a bruise. He didn’t answer, just stared, heart pounding loud enough I could almost hear it. I snapped, voice cutting—“I’m not going to rape you, please don’t insult me by sleeping on the couch. If you don’t like me staying here, I’ll go back to my house.” Shit, I saw him flinch—his face crumpled, but he stayed silent, coffee cup trembling in his hand, words buzzing past me, no reply.

What did I want from him? What was Mom asking for me? What did I want from both of them—Mom’s quiet love, Visu’s raw edge? Fuck, I didn’t know. It was all tangled, my game spinning out of control. I knew Janani texted him—saw the message flash on his phone, asking if she could come over—but I didn’t care about her, not really. He loved Mom, that much was clear, his goddess glow, her yellow saree with jasmine flowers, untouchable. Me? I was still a puzzle, even to myself—wild, young, a tease, maybe. Lust hit me hard when I saw him—his messy hair, that quiet intensity—but deep down, this nagging thought twisted my gut: he’s like a dad, or worse, I’m his daughter. It fucked with me, sharp and cold, like I’d crossed some line I couldn’t see.

Mom and Visu—their thing, me and Visu—lust boiling over, tangled up. Maybe me wanting both of them stirred that fire, but some old part of me, stuck in tradition, wouldn’t let it sit right. If I got Visu, I’d lose Mom—fear gnawed at me, quiet but deep. Why couldn’t she—Mom—get it? Why couldn’t I? For me, though, it was a game—tomorrow, if my lust bored me, I’d toss him out, no sweat. My youth, my fire—I couldn’t cross that line, betraying Mom, turning her into the talaivi from Kalithokai, questioning if pain for pleasure’s worth it. If I let Visu go, Mom might heal—I hoped, anyway, her quiet strength shining through the mess I’d made.

Headache hit again—days without sleep, coffee my only crutch, bitter as hell. I made it perfect, though, pouring it like I’d learned from some magic trick, watching Visu sip it slow, dazed. I grinned, bold—“I love you!”—then bolted to the bathroom before he could answer, leaving him reeling, smirk wide. Coffee didn’t save him that day—fever spiked, doc’s sleeping pills kicking in, mind half-awake, half-lost, like he was going crazy, fighting himself. I stepped out, naked, skin glowing, youth sharp as a blade—defiance roaring, teasing him, my game pushing limits.

“You should be a magician,” he muttered, voice rough, eyes wide. I laughed, easy, carefree—Frank O’Hara’s lines hit me, “When I’m depressed and obnoxious, sullen, all you have to do is take off your clothes, and all is wiped away, revealing life’s tenderness.” My youth worked on him, sure—but the problem? I was the problem, obnoxious as hell. That word—“obnoxious”—stuck, shaking me: unpleasant, disagreeable, nasty, offensive, all of it hitting home. “Do you want a hand job?” I asked, youth’s edge cutting through—his freshness reminded me of life’s fire, and yeah, I thought, Frank O’Hara’s a fanboy in my head. My soap, hair spray, perfume mixed into a lonely buzz—but my untrimmed pubic hair pulled him in, I could tell, tension easing, his eyes locked on me, though questions would claw back. “Thanks and no thanks,” he said, voice tight, but I saw the spark.

I wandered naked, teasing, torturing him—dressing slow, a tease, my game driving him nuts. I sipped more coffee, savoring his squirm, defiance roaring low. “I invited some friends for a party today. You know some of those guys,” I said, smirking, watching his face twist.

By evening, the party was raging before Visu got home—friends I’d seen at pubs, others I didn’t know, all too wild to be his age, some beautiful madness in them. The room reeked—not just my cigarettes, but weed, thick and sweet, their high buzzing loud. One guy, stoned out of his mind, crawled over me, hands on my breasts—my hot beauty, yeah. Usually, I’d let him keep going, no big deal, but today I had something else planned, so I slapped him off, fast. He moved on, groping another girl, the room a haze of smoke and dance. I was wrecked, high as hell, staring, taunting Visu as he walked in. I stumbled over, buzzing, and dragged him to the couch’s center, plopping him down. I cranked up Mia’s Bad Girls—some random striptease song, nothing special, just loud and sexy—stripping to the beat, clothes flying. I’d slipped on this perfect lingerie earlier, the kind strippers wear—black lace, tight, sexy as hell, like I’d seen in some club videos, feeling hot and untouchable. It hugged me right, making me smirk, knowing I looked fire. My striptease was too skilled, yeah—practiced in my room, watching YouTube, loving how it made me feel powerful, like I owned the room. I climbed his hips, dancing, feeling it—natural, raw—reached to touch, but pulled back, teasing, my game pushing limits.

Before I yanked off my bra, I grinned, thinking, Fuck yeah, my youthful breasts might freak him out—perky, tight, nothing like Mom’s, all soft and full under her saree, sagging a little with age, jasmine scent clinging to them. Maybe I should brush them against his face, see him squirm, show him I’m hotter, wilder. I held my breasts in both hands, firm, feeling their weight, my hardened nipples tingling—then pressed them against his face, my nipples brushing his lips, soft and electric. He froze, shocked, but I laughed, easy, heart pounding. The second time, I went for it again—pushing closer—but he was ready, mouth opening like he wanted to take it in. Shit, I pulled back fast, smirking, not letting him get that far. He looked disappointed, hands reaching for my breasts, desperate—but I slapped them away, sharp, keeping him on edge, my game still in control. Panties on, hips swaying, I felt his hardness—easy, obvious, rock-solid under me—and I grinned wider, loving how he moved his hips, matching my grind, desperate but dry. I knew I could make him cum if I let him touch me, but fuck that—I wanted to tease him, leave him hanging, no orgasm, just frustration, my victory. Song ended, I slid off, walking away, back turned, getting ready for the next phase—Nelly’s Move That Body, another loud, grinding beat. I sat on top of him again, facing away, teasing harder, feeling his hardness press against me, his hips bucking, but I kept it tight, no touching, just my dance driving him crazy. After two songs, I leaned in, kissed him—“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you fuck me today”—then crashed on the bed, leaving him wrecked, grin wide.

After crashing on the bed, leaving Visu wrecked and dry, I couldn’t shake the buzz—my blood was still pumping, high from the weed, the music, and the tease I’d pulled on him. The party in the next room kept raging, Nelly’s Move That Body thumping through the walls, bass shaking the floor, driving me wild. I needed to burn off this fire, so I slipped out, closed my bedroom door tight, shutting out the chaos but letting the music pulse through me, loud and sexy.

I grabbed the long mirror from the corner, propping it against my dresser, its edge steady on the hardwood floor. Sitting cross-legged on the woven rug, close enough to see myself, I stared at my reflection—skin glowing, eyes wild, still in that black lace lingerie, sexy as hell. Just thinking about checking out my body sent a shiver through me, even though I’d done it before. But tonight, after teasing Visu like that, it felt different, electric, like I was reclaiming something. I spread my legs slowly, watching myself in the mirror, the sight hitting me hard—my skin smooth, my curves tight, my vulva full and glistening, like some secret heat I could unlock with a touch, damp and hot, pulling me in.

I slid my hands up, cupping my breasts, feeling their weight in my palms, still perky and tight from the dance. “You twins enjoyed the show, huh?” I muttered, smirking at them in the mirror, giving my nipples a sharp pinch—like Visu would’ve done if I’d let him, hard and hungry, making me gasp. “Bet you loved teasing him, driving him crazy, showing off how hot you are,” I teased, rolling my nipples between my fingers, imagining his hands there, desperate but denied, the thought sending a jolt through me.

Then I let my hands slide down, fingers brushing the soft skin between my thighs, teasing the edges, not rushing to my clit yet. “Dolores, I know you’re begging me to touch you,” I whispered, circling around it, slow and deliberate, avoiding the direct hit. “Always whining for those predictable ways to make you explode, huh? Not now, lady—let me tease you too, keep you waiting like I did him.” I grinned, tracing lazy circles, feeling the heat build, my breath hitching. “I know you would’ve shown your real face, cumming hard if I’d ground on him just a little more, you needy bitch,” I taunted, loving the edge, the control, picturing Visu’s wide eyes, his hardness under me, left dry and frustrated while I held all the power.

The music pounded louder, syncing with my heartbeat, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I slipped two fingers inside, slow, feeling the slick heat, searching for that spot that’d send me over. Pulling them out, I traced around my clit again, not touching it directly yet, breath quickening, heart racing. Then I went for it—one hand spreading my folds, the other rubbing my clit, fast and rhythmic, fingers sliding over that tight, swollen bud. The orgasm built like a storm, my body shaking, hips bucking like I was grabbing something I couldn’t let go of, a wild, raw explosion tearing through me. I watched it all in the mirror—my hands moving, my skin glistening, thighs trembling, clit shining wet between them. I screamed, loud and primal, the music drowning it out, overwhelmed by the raw, beautiful release crashing over me, leaving me soaked, shaking, tears streaming down my face, not even sure why I was crying but feeling so fucking alive.

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Mohandoss

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மோகனீயம் - Sindhu being wingwomen

I’d been grinding Visu down for days—teasing, poking—till he broke, voice tight with exasperation. “Fine, but hook me up with a girl I pick first.” Grinned wide—fuck, I’d cracked him open like a cheap lock. “'But' always stinks, huh? Not this time—think I’d stumble into that trap?” Laughed, sharp—“I’d love to be your wing woman, damn fucker.” Paused, smirked—“But you’re helping me too.” Deal set—anger from last night’s shame simmering low, defiance roaring high—time to spin this my way, play puppet master with a twist.

Tavern Pub again—just us, no sloppy crowd to dodge. Place thrummed—drinks clinking, chatter buzzing—and Visu scanned, eyes landing on her: full suit, sharp edges, older—Janani, he’d find out. “Her,” he said, hand stretching—fuck, not some giggling kid, a real score. “Get her for me—wing woman up.” Smirked—challenge on—anger flared, he’s testing me, but I’d ace it. Stood there a beat, cigarette dangling, playful buzz kicking in—shame a faint hum, defiance loud. Idea hit—fuck, I’d sell her a story, juicy and wild: Visu’s banging Mom, but he’s mine too—boyfriend, friend, whatever sticks—make her bite, hook her with the mess of it. She’d lap it up—someone like her, all polished and deep, needs a tale worth hearing. Grinned—perfect, twisted, my kind of game—anger fading, this was my turf now.

Strutted over, heels clicking loud against the worn floor, cigarette swinging loose—leaned in close, voice slick, eyes glinting with a spark I couldn’t kill. “Hey—see that guy over there, shy bastard—needs a night bad,” I said, nodding at Visu. Her eyes flicked up—Janani, broad forehead, makeup sharp but light, lashes long, maybe 40s, hair spilling free—tough, no soft edges. He’d tossed me that “fine” days back—grudging okay for a quick fuck, safe, no drama like the college pricks I dodge—but then flipped it, smirking, “Wing woman me first,” pointing her out—toughest bitch in the bar, suit crisp, eyes that’d cut you. Anger flared—he’s screwing with me, thinks I’m some dumb kid who’d crash and burn asking her—picked her sure I’d flop. Grinned wider—fuck that, I’d show him. “He’s eyeing you—good catch. I’m watching over there, and you’re bored as shit—another office drone night, huh?” She smirked, drink tilting—“What’s your angle, kid?”—ready to splash it or bolt, all business, too big for my game. Dropped it smooth—“He’s banging my mom—I’m trying to snag him off her, all mine”—bait tied tight, a sly lure landing easy. Her face twitched—shock, then curiosity—hooked her clean. “Hell, really?” she said, grip easing—defiance roared, I’d beat his trap silly. Took her back—“Worth it?” “Tons,” I lied, grinning—dropped her by Visu—“Your date”—they clicked—“Fucking her mom, huh?” she threw, and I cackled—“Gotta piss,” I tossed, slipping off—wing woman out, smirk wide—my game, asshole, eat it.

Stumbled back from Tavern Pub, head fuzzy from shots—Janani’s sharp smirk still bouncing in my skull—aimed straight for Visu’s room, not Mom’s side. Been sneaking over slow—first his couch, nicking his snacks, now this, my first night staking his bed. Umaiyal’s space was tight, hers and Dad’s—rules, shadows, suffocating—Visu’s was mine, messy, open, a win I’d clawed out step by step. Knew he’d be at Janani’s till dawn—fucking her silly, no doubt—so I sprawled on his sheets, shorts and tee, no bra, legs splayed—defiance roaring, my spot now. Light buzzed overhead, too bright—didn’t give a shit, crashed hard, smirking—Mom’s loss, my gain. Mind kicked up, giggling—Visu’s night, what a riot he’d snag. Pictured Janani strapping on some giant rubber dick—bright purple, thick as hell, veins popping—shoving it up his ass while he yelps, “Take it, shy boy!”—her cackling, pinning him missionary, no mercy. Grinned—then saw her stroking that flaccid dick I’d glimpsed at Kappa Kappa Gamma, pants down in that drunken haze—soft, droopy, kinda cute, my quiet buddy—not the hard one, nah, that’s a stranger. She’d tease it slow, liking its limp flop, coaxing it to dribble weak—laughed hard, rolling—poor Visu, stuck with that bad end. Regretted it quick—“Fuck’s it good for, just pissing?”—shook it off, still snickering. Then flipped it—him banging her, smug, till her husband storms in—big bastard, raging—Visu diving into a closet, pants tangled, peeking at them grunting sweaty—stifling laughs, he’d be fucked. Giggled—nah, too crazy—probably just dull missionary, her flat, him huffing—yawned, “Bet she’s snoring by now”—funny he’d pick tough but land lame. Drifted off, smirk fading—door creaked, snapped me awake—Visu, stinking, staring—anger flared, he’s back?—but I grinned, owning it.

Dawn broke—door creaked, Visu shuffled in, reeking of booze and Janani’s polish—anger flared, he’s back?—but I grinned, half-awake, owning it. He froze, seeing me—first time I’d taken his bed, not just camped out. Shame prickled—he’d rather Mom here?—but I tossed it off, playful edge cutting through. “Switch off the lights…” I mumbled, voice thick—paused, softer—“please.” He didn’t fight—just flopped on the couch, wrecked—anger softened, fuck, I’d kicked him out of his own bed. Felt bad, a twinge—he’s curled there, sweaty, muttering in his sleep—dreams twisting him up, probably that octopus shit he’d laugh off later. Then he jolted, gagging—rolled off, puked hot and rank on the floor—anger spiked, gross—but I bolted up, towel dripping from my half-shower, held his head as he heaved again. Dug out a Combiflam—shoved it at him—“Take it, dumbass”—watched him crawl back, dazed, eyes darting, lost—knew he wanted Mom, not me. Teased, sharp—“Janani’s still at her place”—grinned, torturing him—defiance roaring, let him squirm.

Days later, hauled my shit in—shorts, tees, a suitcase of random bras and panties I’d toss on when I felt like it—hooked my MP3s to his TV, speakers blaring—figured Mom must’ve told him not to stop me, her soft spot letting me slide. He didn’t fight, didn’t shove me out—just let it happen, sprawled on that couch like a beaten dog. Grinned wide—my room now, asshole, whether you like it or not.

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Mohandoss

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மோகனீயம் - Sindhu winning rounds

It was Saturday morning, early 2010, head still thumping from last night’s tequila flood, but I couldn’t stay away—back at Visu’s room like some dumbass moth to a flame. Chennai’s heat was already creeping, that sticky buzz that made me want to peel everything off and start shit. Knew he’d be there—weekends are his Umaiyal days, waiting for Mom like a loyal dog—but I’d bet my ass he’d half-expected me to roll in again, wrecked or not. Last night’s mess—stripping, fingering myself silly, soaking his sofa—burned in my skull, shame twisting hard, but fuck it, I’d own it, shove it in his face.

Dressed sharp—tight shirt, no bra, tits pressing the fabric, short skirt riding high, high heels clicking loud. Pulled my hair into a ponytail, still damp from the shower, swiped mascara to stretch my lashes long, dabbed light blue shadow on my lids, pink lipstick with a slick line—19 and gorgeous, even if I doubted it sometimes. Stood there, heels making my chest bounce just right, knowing he’d clock it all—last night’s chaos still buzzing between us. Marched straight to his balcony, where he sat pretending to read some fat History of South India book, like I gave a shit. Flopped into the spare chair, crossed my legs—knee over knee—and yanked a cigarette from the pack I’d been clutching. Lit it quick, tossed the lighter and pack on the table between us, puffing slow, watching him dodge my vibe.

He played it cool, nose in his book—bullshit act. Tilted my head, read the title, smirked. Blew the smoke out sideways, aiming low, letting it curl toward the floor. “Softie, huh?” I tossed, voice light, teasing—defiance bubbling over the shame still gnawing my gut. He shut the book, set it down, eyes flicking to me. “How many cigs a day?” he asked, like he cared. Took a deep drag, savored it slow, then let it spill. “Tense days? Could burn through ten packs. Chill ones, maybe two—why you asking?” Grinned, sharp—let him stew.

He didn’t flinch, just stared at my eyes. “Mom never buy you bras?” Voice flat, but I caught the edge. Locked on him, matching his stare—fuck, he’s good at this. “Why’s she gotta? I grab my own shit. Last week, Venki—cousin prick—rolled in from somewhere, hauled a box of Victoria’s Secret bras and panties, sized me up perfect.” Took another drag, grinned through the smoke. “All fit like a glove—sat there modeling every piece till he fucked off.” Watched his face—blank, but I knew he was thinking about Mom, how he’d made her strut in lace too. Could’ve jabbed him—“You and her, huh?”—but didn’t, kept it loose, playful, shame from last night simmering under my skin.

He didn’t bite. I leaned in, smirking. “Bet you’re wondering why I’m like this today—class later, lecturer’s a drooling creep. Pops a boner every time I tease—figured I’d give him something to choke on.” Let my eyes drift to his lap, slow and deliberate—defiance spiking, shame fading fast. “Wanna see?” he shot back, dry as hell. Laughed, loud—“Know you too well, asshole!”—dropped my cig, crushed it under my heel. “Hungry—buy me food.” He hesitated—“Mom’ll look for you.” Snorted, stood, grabbed his arm. “Fridge’s got bananas—she’ll live. Move.” Dragged him out, all bossy—mine now, not hers.

He threw on shorts, a tee—RTR180 waiting outside. Slid behind him, thighs pressing close, heels making me tall enough to match his height if I stood. Bike roared, and I forgot myself—wind ripping through, his body warm against mine, weaving Delhi streets like a goddamn king. Hit Munirka Vihar McDonald’s—fast, wild, my kind of rush. “Any day, you’d make a killer boyfriend,” I said, winking—didn’t flinch at the speed, loved it, bikes my thing too. Ordered burgers, coffee—sat across, slurping, grinning. “Mom asked where I was last night—told her upstairs with you, all night.” Watched his eyes—panic flickered, shame pricked me, but I shoved it down, defiance rising. “Said yeah when she pushed.”

He swallowed hard—“Okay.” Knew he was scared—Mom catching us tangled up like this—but I didn’t let it show. “Party tonight—coming?” Didn’t wait. “Won’t fuck with you, limit the booze, play nice—sorry for last night.” Voice softened, shame creeping back—didn’t want it there, but it stuck. “You remember what happened?” he asked, low. Shrugged, casual, hiding the burn. “Not at first—hit me in the shower, full blast. Don’t wanna talk it—might get horny again.” Grinned, sharp—let him squirm.

He glared. “Don’t mess around—know how many college guys chase me? Even in our building…” Stood, pissed—defiance flaring over shame. He grabbed my arm, sat me down. “How old are you?” Eyes hard. Smirked—“Saw last night, didn’t you?” He didn’t flinch. “Not your body—your head. You’re not old enough.” Rolled my eyes—“Not marrying you, chill.” Anger spiked—“Fuck off, Sindhu,” he snapped, voice tight. Laughed, loud—“Motherfucker,” I shot back, grinning—meant it loose, playful, but it stung him, saw it in his flinch. “Said I’d tell Mom you raped me last night—what’s your move then?” Teased, defiance roaring—knew he’d laugh it off. He did, smirking. “Dream on—think she’d buy it from you? She’d trust me. Wanna test it?” Bastard turned it back—anger flared, but I grinned wider—game on.

“Fine, whatever—coming or not?” I pressed, circling back, impatience itching under my skin. He stared, steady, then laid it out. “Got conditions—dress proper, at least bra and panties, limit the booze when I say stop, and not one fucking ‘Fuck me’ slips out.” Defiance flared—fucker thinks he’s my keeper now? Laughed, sharp. “Big dreams—last night’s party had a dress code, this one’s different. Birthday bash—who shows up looking like trash?”

Evening rolled in—I strutted back, red tube top hugging tight, a little more makeup than morning—mascara thick, lips slick. Yanked the top down a bit, flashed the edge of my sleeveless bra. “See? Bra, panties—wanna check?” Grinned, teasing, half-daring him—shame from last night a dull hum, defiance roaring louder. He shot me a pleading look—“Least shave your arms.” Froze—my fuzz again? Glared, then stomped to his bathroom, razor buzzing quick—fuck the itch, I’d make it work. Cleaned up, we rolled out.

Birthday party wasn’t wild—no big chaos from me—but the booze flowed hard, and fuck if I could rein it in. Shots hit like punches, despair creeping under the buzz, loneliness gnawing despite the crowd—youth and beauty my only armor, like Bukowski said. Night blurred—Visu dragged me home, half-carrying my wrecked ass. Stumbled up, head spinning, and there she was—Umaiyal, outside, waiting like she knew we’d crash in messy.

Got to my room, dumped my shit—knew Mom’d probably sneak up to Visu’s soon, like she always does when the house quiets down. Shame from last night stung, but defiance roared louder—fuck it, I’d catch her this time. His windows are usually locked tight from inside—some paranoid habit—but I’d cracked one open days back, next to his bedroom, prying it loose with a screwdriver when no one was looking. Kept thinking one night it’d pay off, that I’d see what they do up there—her stained glow, his hands on her—and tonight felt like it. Didn’t rush—lay there a bit, head pounding, tequila still sloshing, letting the buzz settle. Then I heard it—soft steps, her door creaking—Mom heading up. Slipped out, quiet as hell, crept to his balcony window, peeked through the gap I’d made.

There she was—black silk nightgown, that Victoria’s Secret shit he’d gotten her, sliding over her curves like a goddamn tease. Visu grabbed a cigarette—my pack, cheeky bastard—lit it slow, Mom taking one too, both puffing in silence. Air thick, heavy—felt it even from outside, shame and desire twisting tight in my gut. She shut the door, tossed her legs on his lap—bare, pedicured, glowing—and he rubbed them, steady, like he owned her. Watched her sigh, bra straining under that gown, tits shifting—anger flared, why her?—but I couldn’t look away. Cigarettes died, and she spilled it—“Sindhu said you two are in love.” Voice low, eyes worried—fuck, my lie hit her hard. He dodged—“She knows about us”—calm, too calm. Then she cracked—“Said she’d tell me you raped her”—and he laughed, soft, like it was nothing.

Mom didn’t laugh—her face froze, stuck somewhere I couldn’t read. He pulled her close, buried his face in her neck—her bra strap dug into his hand, and it slid, slow, under that gown, kneading her tit like it was his right. I peeked through the window, shame prickling my scruffy skin, but defiance simmered—I’d outshine her yet. Mom grabbed Visu’s lips, fierce, wild—clawed his face, shoving him to the bedroom, gown off, panties yanked, bare fast. Sucked him quick, rode him hard—hips slamming—and he came fast, groaning, spent in minutes, collapsing under her. Surprise hit me—fuck, she didn’t cum, just slumped there, calm, like she’d planned it. That ’09 blowjob flashed—him forcing her deep, cumming quick while she choked, same deal, him done, her left hanging. Thought that’s it—but then she went at him again, mouth on his limp dick, sucking slow, steady, like it was her damn mission. I smirked—flaccid, useless, what’s she even trying?—but five minutes in, it twitched, thickened, hardening under her lips, her lifetime duty to pull him back. Shock ripped through me—fuck, she’s doing it—desire flared, nipples tightening, a wet ache pooling low, my breath catching as I watched her craft him strong again.

She climbed on—cowgirl, hips rolling slow—and I couldn’t look away, horny as hell, heat spreading. Took forever—15, 20 minutes—his hands roamed her breasts, teasing her nipples, but she slapped them off, sharp, like his touch broke her focus. He didn’t try again—kept them away—and she rode harder, thighs flexing, chasing it, till she shook, cumming fierce, a full, wild rush, hair thrashing. Surprise turned to want—’09, he’d ruled her; here, she’s the master, using him, stretching it till she wins. Wanted to be him—forcing her like that night, owning her—but fuck, wanted to be her too, riding him raw, making him wait till I burst. Horniness burned—hand slipped into my pants, past my panties, rubbing my clit fast, nipples hard, wet pulsing—nearly hit it with them, right as she did, panting, split raw between shame I’m out here and defiance I’d do it better, take them both my way.

She cleaned up, kissed him soft—“Thought you were her boyfriend for a sec, that’s why”—and crashed, leg over him, out cold. I slipped back, head spinning—not just booze, but them, that fire I’d lit. Hours later, couldn’t sleep—eyes burning, red from no rest—grabbed my phone, pinged him online, request to add. He bit—logged on—and I hit him: “You, motherfucker.” Grinned—meant it loose, playful, but knew it’d sting. “Please don’t call me that,” he shot back—soft, rattled. Smirked, tossed a winking smiley. “Check your bedsheets.” Waited—knew he’d see her there, naked, tangled—my win, my mess. Stood outside his window, 4 a.m., watching—he flipped me off, fingers sharp—“Fuck you.” Laughed—“I’m waiting”—and bolted, defiance roaring over the shame still clawing my chest.

Came back quick—Mom gone, his room empty—eyes still red, no sleep. Leaned on his bathroom wall while he showered, buzzing. “Was good, huh?” Started, casual—anger simmering, desire prickling. “Watched it all—fuck, you two go hard, felt it from outside. Should’ve recorded it—internet’s dry of good shit, you know?” He froze, water splashing—didn’t look. Stepped in, bold—shower mist hitting me, his hands fumbling to cover. “Masks on, us two—video?” Pleaded, half-teasing—anger spiking, wanting him to bite. “Got sites if you need,” he dodged, smirking—eyes on mine, then slipping low when I didn’t flinch. Grabbed his balls—hard—“Why not me, asshole?” Squeezed tighter, pain flashing his face—“One day, I’ll crush you, watch”—let go, stormed out. “Don’t pull that again,” he called, calm—fuck him, I’d won that round.

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Mohandoss

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மோகனீயம் - Sindhu joining Kappa, Kappa, Gamma

It was late 2010, Chennai drowning in 2G rumors and the sticky heat of a city faking it wasn’t falling apart. I’d been plotting this night for days, ever since my close friend, a Kappa senior, spilled it over cheap coffee at some hole-in-the-wall joint. She’d smirked, voice low. “Rush week’s coming, Sindhu. Kappa Kappa Gamma wants a blowjob. Your boyfriend’s the mark.” A dare I couldn’t dodge. I smirked back—I’d drag Visu into this, kicking and screaming if I had to. Outside, the city buzzed with Nokia ringtones slicing through IPL rerun noise, but my head was already spinning a playlist. Eminem’s Guilty Conscience thumped in my skull, Sylvia Plath whispering, “my bones hold a stillness, the far fields melt my heart.” Youth’s a bitch, tangled in songs and ghosts.

Prep was my war plan. Amma—Umaiyal—was my last shot, and I hated it. Hated her since last year, catching her on her knees, Visu’s dick choking her, that image searing into me like a Plath line—“I am too pure for you or anyone”—unbearable ever since, a wound that wouldn’t scab. Asking her about him felt like swallowing glass, but I was desperate, and desperation’s a hell of a tune.

Started soft in my head, like a melody—Kalyani raga, gentle, Sa Ri Ga Ma, a slow hum I’d play on my veena back when college was just music and no bullshit. I paced my room, ganja echoes drifting from upstairs where he slept, clueless. Could fake it—tell the Kappa bitches I’d done it, but they’d want proof, cum on my lips or some shit. Could ditch the whole thing, but that meant losing my edge, letting Sonu’s ghost win. No way. Amma was it—my maestro, my fucked-up muse. The melody picked up, Pa Dha Ni Sa, strings tightening, my pulse kicking as I ran the odds.

Scenario one—she’d slap me. Hard. Face twisted, “Sindhu, you filthy little slut, what’s wrong with you?” Her palm stinging my cheek, mascaraed eyes blazing, saree swishing as she stormed out. Fair—last year’s scene flipped, me the sinner now. Ni Sa Ri Ga—raga climbing, drums thumping in my skull. Scenario two—she’d cry. Silent tears, big and gorgeous, dripping onto her chai, lips quivering, “How could you ask me this? After everything?” Guilt trip deluxe—I’d choke on it, maybe beg harder. Dha Ni Sa Pa—tempo rising, violins screeching. Three—she’d laugh, loud and mean, face sharp, “You? Blow him? Good luck, kid, he’s mine.” Smirk slicing me open, leaving me raw, no answers. Heavy metal kicked in—Metallica’s Master of Puppets shredding my brain—“Obey your master!”—guitars screaming as I pictured her slamming the door, or worse, calling Visu down to gloat.

Could she ignore me? Stare through me like I wasn’t there, sipping chai, hair dripping like she’d just scrubbed him off—fuck, that’d kill me. Or yell for Dad—Intelligence Bureau prick wouldn’t get it, just grunt and leave. Master peaked—drums pounding, my chest tight, riffs clawing as I knocked on her door, night thick with upstairs ganja haze. She sat there, yellow saree hugging her, hair wet, sipping chai like nothing—too calm, too fucking gorgeous. My melody crashed—silence swallowed me whole. Took every shred of guts, voice cracking. “Amma, party’s coming. They want me to blow Visu.”

Her big, mascaraed eyes widened—still stunning, damn her. “Sindhu, what the actual hell?” Voice sharp, but no slap, no tears—just shock frozen on her face. I spilled it—Kappa Girls, the test, my panic. “I don’t know how to break him. He’s a wall.” She sat still, chai trembling, staring like I’d sprouted horns. Seconds stretched—silence thicker than the ganja haze upstairs, heavier than any metal riff. I braced—slap, sob, sneer, anything—but her face was a mask, emotions flickering I couldn’t pin. Was that shock tightening her jaw? Guilt shadowing her eyes? A twitch of something—pity, maybe, or a secret I’d never crack? My gut churned, Plath’s “blood jet” pulsing—waiting, guessing, lost. Inside her head, I couldn’t see it—she wanted Visu to fall for me, maybe marry me, picturing some twisted happy ending. Wanted him off her back, knowing this affair was rotting her, but terrified of losing his love, no clue how she’d survive it. All that churned silent, locked behind her stare.

She sighed, long and heavy, breaking the quiet like a dam. Didn’t ask, didn’t pry, just leaned close after that endless pause, voice low and deadpan. “Eyes, Sindhu. Paint them. Mascara, liner, lock his stare. He’ll crack.” I caught the flicker—sadness, maybe surrender—in her unreadable face, those words landing like stones, giving me what I needed. Left her room dizzy, Plath humming, “there is no stopping it,” that mascara trick a live wire in my skull—mine now, not hers.

Morning hit. I pounced on Visu, no mercy. “Party tonight, you’re in,” I barked, cutting his work crap. “Show up, hi-bye, fuck off—I’m begging here, Sonu’s screwed me.” That prick ex still haunted me. Visu groaned, “No chance, Sindhu, after last night,” but I knew he’d bend. Always did. The party wasn’t his world. Mylapore flat, some rich kid’s folks gone, seniors turning it into a jungle. Hip-hop thumped low—Eminem’s Lose Yourself bleeding through shitty speakers—ganja haze clashing with room freshener. I’d crashed earlier, half-lit on a couch, tee riding up, skirt barely on. Blanket crumpled, useless. Visu rolled in late, pissed-off vibes screaming. “Senior bash,” I grinned. “Know sororities?” He nodded, smug. “Girls’ fraternity, yeah?” “My baby’s sharp. Kappa Kappa Gamma rush week. Catch is, they want a blowjob. From you.” His face went tomato. Gold. “Blowjob? Get lost, you nut!” He spun. I grabbed him. “You owe me!” He snarled, “Your place then, not here, not that.” I smirked. “My call, right?” Didn’t remember saying it, but it stuck. He stormed. I dropped it. “I’ll talk to Mom.” Froze him. “What’s that?” “I’ll say I don’t love you, so you two can play house forever,” I sneered, venom sweet. Knew it’d hook—he’d rather choke than lose Umaiyal. He stayed. I’d won. Knew he’d smell the trap—this wasn’t his crowd. My chaos—college brats, Eminem vibes—not his lone-wolf shit. Dragged him to a backroom restroom, big as hell, locked it. He stood, tense. I stared, game on. “Why not another crew? This one’s trash,” he bitched, all high horse. “Strip, or I will,” I shot back—done playing. “I don’t cum, Sindhu. Hour won’t do it. Ask Janani, don’t blame me,” he said, fear real. Knew he’d locked it down with Umaiyal—blowjobs just tease, no climax. Didn’t care. “Relax, give me your fly,” I teased. “Not diving past this.” “Good,” he muttered, like it mattered.

I grabbed his belt, ripped it off, and tossed it aside. Jeans dropped, then the shorts. Stood there, staring at it—flaccid, limp, dangling like some fucked-up relic. My breath caught. Not the first time I’d seen it—2009, that upstairs window, Visu’s dick plunging in and out of Amma’s mouth, a methaphor etched into me, sharp as a Karnatic Sa Ri Ga gone sour. Back then, it was distant—a shadow play I couldn’t unsee, giving me shivers of secret heat some nights, twisting into nightmares others, the way he rammed it like a tool, her throat just a hole. Took months to quiet that storm—pleasure and disgust wrestling till I’d made peace, or something like it. Now, up close, my nose braced for the gamble—most Indian guys I’d blown, uncircumcised like him, came with a stench, smelly dicks not cleaned right, sweat and funk baked in. I’d had my share—horny boys who’d blush when I’d snap, “Wash it first,” and they’d scurry off to scrub. Here, no time, no space—if Visu’s was rank, I couldn’t ask, couldn’t risk him storming out, offended, leaving me high and dry for Kappa. Held my breath, banking on him being different—clean as a whistle, pristine like his slick IT-boy act. Pants down, the air hit—no foul whiff, no sour sting, just soap-sharp freshness, like he’d prepped for this, like he knew. It wasn’t some mythic beast anymore—just flesh, soft, pathetic, spotless. Looked up at him. “Not lying, huh?” Voice shook a little—couldn’t hide it. That bulge didn’t bullshit, but my head spun stories—Amma’s gasps, my stolen gasps, clean relief crashing in. Slid the shorts off slow, hands steadying the tremble. “Told you,” I grinned, forcing it, shoving the ghosts back. He stared—Mr. Predictable—but I was the one caught, reeling from what it dragged up. “Give me something,” I said, sharper now, daring him to snap me out of it. “I’m tense, no chance,” he whined. Lit me up—stripped fast, top and skirt gone, bare underneath. Lunged, lips on his, right hand squeezing his balls. “Not helping,” he groaned, but I spun him. Mirror in his face now, full-length, light glaring. My naked ass, hair spilling, hand circling his dick—it hit him. Took forever, but he stiffened. Yes.

No time—he’d bolt if I blinked. Dropped to my knees, mouth on him—not my first dance. Locked eyes, didn’t break. Mascara thick, brows sharp—hours on this face, Amma’s trick pulsing in me. The Killers’ Mr. Brightside kicked in my head—“I’m coming out of my cage, and I’ve been doing just fine”—sharp ears caught it, party noise a symphony Visu couldn’t hear. Music’s my blood. Teased the head, sucked, rolled it. His eyes teared, locked on mine. His body jolted. My mouth stayed busy, but my mind broke free, diving into Kalyani raga ālāpana. Couldn’t sing with him filling my lips, so I ran it silent, a cascade in my skull. Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa climbed sharp and slow, no veena, just me threading the notes like a tightrope walker. My eyes stayed wide, nailed to his, refusing to blink as tears stung and spilled from the strain, the raga’s swell, the dig of him deeper. Sa Ni Dha Pa looped fierce in my brain’s concert hall, lighting me up, horny as hell, wetter with every note. That soundless song and those unblinking eyes pushed me over. My thighs clenched, a quiet rush hit, and I came right there, mid-raga. Popped him out, grinned.

“Guess what? I just came.”

Love burst out—I couldn’t hold it. Visu’s face shifted—not wild, not lost, just done, like he’d been waiting to get this over and bolt. He’d trained himself—blowjobs don’t finish him, just tease, years with Umaiyal locking that down tight. Kept sucking, steady, my eyes still on his, Kalyani fading. Thought he’d stay dry—his thing’s getting women off, cunnilingus king, always bragging how he’d make Amma cum. Bet he’d been stressing—me unsatisfied, mouth full, no payoff. My words flipped it—relief flickered in his stare, like my cum freed him from some duty. Focused hard, jaw tightening—wanted it now. Rhythm picked up—his hand gripped my hair, not pushing, just there. Then he twitched, pulled back—dick slipping, aiming out. Remembered him bitching about “disgusting” cumming in mouths, some old chat. Fuck that—Kappa needed proof. I grabbed his hips, locked him in, mouth tight—his eyes widened, caught, and he came, hot and fast, filling me. Tried pulling again—too late. Swallowed it all, jumped up, skirt and top on, bolted. Flashed the seniors—cum dripping—one Kappa girl leaned in, lip-to-lip, tasting it. Visu’s “disgusting” rang as he slammed the door—I didn’t give a shit.

Home, wiping my mouth with tissue, I caught his glare. “Thanks,” I smirked—an edge to it. He scowled, pissed he’d lost, maybe at himself. “Knew they’d want it. My girl tipped me off, knew I’d drag you, knew it’d be this. Wondered if you’d crack, same as me.” Kept it chill, kept going. “Amma dropped gold, eye makeup, lock your stare. Theory, hilarious then—you fell, proved she’s a pro. You’re so predictable, machi.” He didn’t ask—I’d half-wanted him to. “Still a chauvinist pig, epic climax, filled my mouth. Where’s my kiss or thanks, asshole?” I grinned, makeup smeared, crashed on the couch, same skirt, no panties. Week since he’d cum—pre-party—and Umaiyal’s chill had shifted. He softened, leaned in, kissed my forehead, a quiet fix. “Thanks,” I said, playful. “What, you my dad now, handing out forehead kisses like some stepfather with Amma?” Bit my tongue, teasing his old-man vibe next to her. “Fuck off,” I laughed, stretched out, crashed hard, Mr. Brightside fading—“Destiny is calling me, open up my eager eyes.”

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Mohandoss

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