Grandmother, Who, Me?

Grandmother, Who, Me?

Chapter 20: The Wet Saree and the Remote

Lakshmi’s POV (Satish)

I locked the bathroom door behind me and leaned against it, breathing hard.

The front of my green cotton saree was dark and heavy with wetness. The petticoat underneath clung to my thighs. Between my legs the stimulation still pulsed in relentless waves, hot, sharp, endless, with no peak and no release. The tiny cage remained completely sealed. Everything I used to be able to touch, to relieve, was locked away inside a body that no longer obeyed me.

I was angry. Of course I was angry. But the stronger feeling was disappointment so deep it made my chest ache. I had always known Shreya longed for a family. I had watched that quiet hunger in her eyes for years. I had even understood, in some twisted way, why she had asked me to become her mother-in-law. But this, the remote, the public wetness, the calm way she had looked at me while my body betrayed itself, this was further than I ever imagined she would go.

And still, under the anger and the disappointment, the old love remained. The same love that had made me say yes in the first place. That was the most humiliating part of all.

I couldn’t think straight. The stimulation kept scrambling every clear thought. My skin felt too tight. My heavy breasts ached. A restless, itching need settled deep in my ass and lower belly, demanding something I could not give.

I hiked up the soaked saree and petticoat with trembling hands and slid one finger between the soft outer lips of the vagina Jessica had given me. The flesh was slick and swollen. Deeper inside, my fingertip brushed against the smooth, unyielding metal of the cage, completely hidden within the new anatomy. There was no shaft to hold, no way to stroke, no way to finish. Only wet, sensitive folds and a locked core that pulsed uselessly against my finger.

I pulled my hand away as if burned.

Damn. I can’t do anything.

I cleaned myself as best I could with a wet cloth, changed into a fresh dry saree (plain cream this time), re-tied the petticoat, and adjusted the thali so it sat properly in my cleavage again. The new fabric still felt too much against my oversensitive skin. Every step sent another low throb through the cage.

When I returned to the living room, Shreya was sitting on the sofa exactly where I had left her. The small black remote rested loosely in her right hand, as if it were nothing more than a television controller. She looked calm. Almost gentle.

She lifted the remote slightly and made a small, casual gesture toward the other end of the sofa where Rajan sat reading the newspaper.

“Go sit with your husband, Attai.”

I moved toward him on unsteady legs. The moment I lowered myself onto the cushion beside him, she pressed a button.

A sharp, full-body jolt of forced arousal shot through me. My back arched before I could stop it. A helpless sound escaped my throat. Instinctively my hand flew out and grabbed Rajan’s forearm, fingers digging into his sleeve as if he could anchor me against the invisible current.

He looked at me, surprised, but said nothing. His free hand came to rest over mine with the quiet certainty of a man who believed he had every right to be touched by his wife.

I sat there, trembling, holding the arm of a man who used to beg on temple steps, while the woman who used to be my wife watched us with soft, satisfied eyes and the remote still resting in her palm.

The stimulation slowly eased back to a low, constant burn, but the question that had been growing inside me for weeks finally formed with perfect clarity.

Damn… when is this going to end?