The temple festival was in full swing after Priya’s win. The Kapaleeshwarar Temple courtyard glowed with oil lamps and fairy lights, the humid Chennai night thick with jasmine, camphor, and the distant beat of mridangam. I thought my secret was safe between Lakshmi, Ramesh, and me. But power has eyes everywhere in Mylapore.
His name was Karthik Reddy — a rising local politician in his late 40s, known for his fiery speeches on “traditional values,” muscular build from years of gym and rural campaigns, and a reputation for getting whatever he wanted. He was a regular at temple events, always surrounded by supporters and security. That night, during the cultural program, he was in the VIP section. I had slipped out in simple clothes to watch, but Lakshmi had other plans.
She pulled me aside near the end. “Reddy sir noticed you earlier when you helped with the dancers backstage. He wants a private meeting. I showed him one photo… discreetly. He likes pretty girls in silk.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief and fear. Refusing a man like him wasn’t an option in this neighborhood.
Scene: The Ravishing in the Guest House
Lakshmi arranged it quickly. I was taken to a secluded politician’s guest house just behind the temple compound — an old colonial-style bungalow with high walls and loyal staff who knew to disappear. They dressed me fully for him: a heavy crimson Kanjeevaram silk saree with thick gold borders, the kind temple dancers wear. The blouse was low-cut and tight, pushing up my padded chest. Heavy gold jhumkas, multiple necklaces that rested between my cleavage, a waist chain that dug into my skin, bangles, anklets, and a long braid scented with fresh mogra. Full makeup — dark kajal, bright red lipstick, bindi. No petticoat underneath, just the thin silk and my trembling body.
Reddy was waiting in the air-conditioned bedroom, sipping whiskey. The moment I entered, his eyes darkened with raw lust. “Arja… Lakshmi told me about you. Walk for me.”
I moved like in my secret practices, hips swaying, anklets tinkling. He watched hungrily, then stood up. He was taller, broader, with strong arms and a commanding presence.
Without warning, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me close, crushing his mouth against mine. His kiss was brutal — teeth nipping my lower lip, tongue forcing deep. One hand yanked my pallu down, exposing the blouse. He tore at the hooks, ripping two of them, and mauled my chest, pinching my nipples hard through the fabric until I gasped in pain and unwanted pleasure.
“You look like a proper Mylapore whore in this silk,” he growled, voice thick with power. He spun me around, bending me over the heavy teak table. The saree was hiked up roughly over my hips, bunching the expensive silk around my waist. I heard his belt buckle, then felt his thick, hard cock — bigger than Ramesh’s — slap against my ass.
No slow preparation. He spat on his hand, rubbed it once, and thrust into me brutally. I cried out as he stretched me open in one savage push, the gold waist chain rattling. The pain was sharp, but the fullness and the danger made my own cock leak against the silk.
“Take it, beti,” he grunted, pounding hard and deep. Each thrust slammed the table, my bangles clinking wildly, breasts crushed against the wood. The humid night air from the open window mixed with AC chill on my sweat-slick skin. He fucked me like he owned me — relentless, hips slapping loudly against my ass, one hand fisting my braid to arch my back. The other reached around to stroke my cock roughly, squeezing almost painfully.
“Such a tight little temple slut,” he snarled, spanking my ass hard enough to leave marks. The silk pallu had fallen completely; he used it to gag my moans as he railed me faster. My eyes watered, lipstick smeared, but the sensation of being used so brutally while dressed in full feminine glory sent waves of shameful ecstasy through me.
He pulled out suddenly, flipped me onto my back on the table, and shoved his cock into my mouth. I choked on his thickness, tasting myself and his precum as he face-fucked me, balls slapping my chin. Tears ran down my kajal-lined eyes. Then he pushed my legs back, re-entered my ass in one brutal stroke, and pounded missionary-style, his weight crushing me. The gold necklaces bounced between us. He bit my neck, sucked hard on my nipples, leaving marks that would be hard to hide.
I came first — untouched except for the friction — spurting across my own silk blouse and stomach. He laughed darkly and fucked me through it, harder, until with a deep groan he buried himself to the hilt and flooded my insides with hot, thick cum. He stayed inside me, grinding, making sure it leaked out around his cock onto the crimson saree.
When he finally pulled out, he wiped himself on my pallu and smirked. “You’ll come whenever I call, Arja. Or the whole neighborhood sees what you really are.” He tossed a thick envelope of cash on the table — “for your services” — and left.
I lay there trembling, silk ruined with cum and sweat, ass throbbing, body marked. The distant temple bells rang as if nothing had happened. Lakshmi picked me up later, eyes wide at the state of me. “He liked you… a lot,” she whispered, already getting turned on. Back at her place, she and Ramesh cleaned me up with their tongues and then used me again — gentler but still hungry — while I recounted every brutal thrust.
Reddy called for me twice more during the festival week. Each time rougher: once against the wall standing up, lifting me in the saree; another time with his driver watching and joining briefly. The power, the silk, the risk — it consumed me completely.
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