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.”