Chapter 1: The Wedding Terrace
The wedding had stretched over three exhausting, exhilarating days in a sprawling Chennai marriage hall. Kolams bloomed fresh each morning at the entrance, nadaswaram melodies drifted through the air thick with jasmine and sambar, and relatives poured in from every corner of Tamil Nadu. Vikram, eighteen and freshly done with his board exams, had come down from Coimbatore with his parents. He knew almost no one on the bride’s side and even fewer on the groom’s. He kept to the edges, helping carry trays of coffee or folding his hands politely whenever an elder pinched his cheek.
On the first evening, during the vratham, he caught sight of her, Shalini Athai, his father’s younger cousin sister. He had heard the name before, seen a rare photo in the family WhatsApp group, but they had never truly met. She lived in Bengaluru, taught sociology at a college, and came home only for the biggest occasions. Tall, straight-backed, dressed in a simple rust-coloured handloom saree, she moved through the crowd with quiet purpose. Her long black hair, threaded with natural silver at the temples, was braided neatly down her back. Thin gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose as she read the invitation card or checked something on her phone. Vikram noticed the gentle lines around her eyes when she smiled at something an old uncle said. Forty-four years old, unmarried by choice. Family gossip had always painted her as fiercely independent. To Vikram, she was simply a distant, almost mythical figure: Athai in name, stranger in truth.
They exchanged no words until the reception night.
The hall was alive with music. The feast, sambar sadam, poriyal, payasam had been cleared away, and the younger crowd spilled onto the dance floor. A DJ mixed old Ilaiyaraaja hits with fast kuthu numbers. Vikram stood near a pillar in his cream veshti and silk kurta, hands in his pockets, watching cousins sway and laugh. He loved the music but hated how clumsy he felt, feet always half a beat behind, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed on the floor.
That was when she appeared beside him.
“Enjoying the view from the sidelines?” Her voice was low, amused.
He turned, startled. Up close, Shalini was even more striking: warm caramel skin glowing under the serial lights, deep brown eyes soft without the glasses she sometimes wore. Her saree tonight was deep indigo silk with a thin zari border, draped elegantly, the pallu slipping just enough to reveal smooth shoulders and the curve of her collarbone.
“I… yes, Athai,” he managed.
She smiled at the honorific. “Athai makes me sound ancient. I’m Shalini. And you’re Vikram, Ravi mama’s younger son, aren’t you? We’ve never properly spoken.”
He nodded, cheeks warming.
She glanced at the dance floor, then back at him. “You look like you want to join but don’t know how. Come, I’ll teach you a few steps. No one will notice two more people.”
Before he could protest, her hand lightly touched his elbow and guided him toward the edge of the crowd. Over three songs, they talked in fragments about his college plans, her favourite books, and why she never married (“Freedom tastes better than most men I’ve met”).
By the end, he was breathless, smiling in a way he hadn’t all week. “Thank you… Shalini,” he said, testing her name.
She gave a small nod, eyes holding his a moment longer than necessary. Then relatives swept her away for photographs.
Past midnight, the hall finally emptied. Vikram returned to the room he shared with three male cousins, all already snoring on their mats. The veshti felt restrictive now; he quietly changed into loose cotton shorts and a plain white t-shirt, his usual sleepwear, before slipping out barefoot and climbing the stairs to the hotel terrace for cool air.
He pushed open the door and stopped.
Shalini stood alone at the far railing, city lights glittering below. She had changed out of her saree sometime after the last photographs. Now she wore soft, wide-legged cotton palazzo pants in deep navy and a long, oversized kurti in charcoal grey that fell loosely to mid-thigh, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The fabric moved gently in the breeze, outlining the soft, mature curves of her hips and breasts without clinging. Her long silver-streaked hair fell in unbound waves down her back, free of pins or plaits. Simple open-toed flat sandals with thin metallic straps glinted faintly on her feet. In her right hand: a small steel tumbler, now nearly empty, the faint scent of Scotch stronger than before. In her left: a fresh cigarette, smoke curling upward like a secret.
She turned at the creak of the door. Her cheeks held a subtle flush from the liquor, her eyes softer and brighter than earlier. A slow, relaxed smile spread across her face.
“Couldn’t sleep either, Vikram?”
He shook his head and stepped closer, the cool tiles pleasant under his bare feet.
She took a deep drag, exhaled slowly, and offered him the tumbler. Only a sip remained. He drank it and coughed mildly at the sharp burn. She watched him with quiet amusement, then lit another cigarette for herself.
They leaned side by side against the railing, talking easily. The Scotch had loosened her tongue just enough. Her voice was lower, warmer, and her laughter coming quicker. She asked about college, about Coimbatore, about the books he actually liked. As she took another long pull from the cigarette, she sighed contentedly, smoke drifting into the night.
“You know,” she said casually, voice husky, “I haven’t had a proper smoke like this in days. These family weddings with everyone watching, and without it, my body just… backs up. Haven’t had a good poo in three days. Feels like everything’s stuck in there.”
Vikram blinked, caught off guard, but something about her bluntness, the casual taboo of it, stirred him unexpectedly. He nodded, not sure what to say, his cheeks flushing.
She chuckled softly, flicking ash over the railing. “Cigarettes always get things moving for me. Nature’s little helper.”
Then, casually, “So… any girlfriends back home?”
He laughed nervously and shook his head. “No, Ath Shalini. Never really… no.”
She turned to face him fully, head tilted, silver strands catching the moonlight.
“Never? Not even a small romance? No stolen kisses behind the school building?”
He looked down, cheeks burning even in the dark. “No. Nothing like that.”
Shalini studied him for a long moment, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. The liquor gave her eyes a gentle gleam, her smile a touch wicked.
“Well,” she said softly, voice husky from smoke and Scotch, “Let’s change that.”
She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell sandalwood, cigarette smoke, and the faint warmth of single malt on her breath.
She cupped his face with both hands, long fingers steady despite the drinks, and leaned in. The first touch was tender: just lips against lips, soft, almost chaste. His first kiss. He froze for a heartbeat, then responded shyly, pressing back.
That was all the permission she needed.
The kiss deepened slowly at first, her lips parting, tongue tracing his lower lip until he opened for her. Then it turned hungry. She tasted of Scotch and smoke and quiet confidence. One of her hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer; the other rested lightly on his chest. He made a small, helpless sound that seemed to ignite something in her.
Their mouths moved together now with real heat—tongues sliding, breaths mingling. Her body pressed against his, soft curves meeting his lean frame through thin cotton. His hands, uncertain at first, settled on her waist beneath the loose kurti, fingers brushing warm bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. She encouraged him with a low hum, guiding his palms higher, over the curve of her ribs, then down again to the swell of her hips.
Minutes passed, maybe five, maybe ten, lost in slow, deep kisses and roaming hands. She nipped his lower lip gently; he grew bolder, fingers tracing the line of her spine through the kurti. When she finally felt how hard he was against her thigh, she broke the kiss just long enough to look at him, eyes dark, lips swollen, breathing uneven.
“Still okay?” she whispered.
He nodded, unable to form words.
She smiled and lowered herself into a deep squat in front of him, palazzo pants pulling tight across her round backside, kurti hem rising to reveal the soft curve of her lower back, sandals flat on the tiles. Her fingers tugged at the drawstring of his shorts, loosening it with calm certainty. She took him in hand first, stroking slowly, then leaned forward and enveloped him in the warm, wet heat of her mouth.
She began bobbing with confident rhythm, taking him deeper each time. Her tummy gurgled audibly in the quiet night. Then it happened: a deep, wet-sounding brrrp ripped out, long and unfiltered, followed almost immediately by a sharper pfft-pfft.
Coming from her, this beautiful, silver-haired woman who had taught him to dance hours earlier, this distant aunt who was now squatting and casually farting while sucking him, ignited something primal and uncontrollable. His mind reeled at the sheer wrongness of it, yet his body betrayed him completely: his cock throbbed violently in her mouth, hips bucking forward as waves of shocking lust crashed over him.
He came instantly, harder than he’d ever imagined possible, groaning her name as his vision blurred and his fingers tightened desperately in her silver-streaked hair.
Shalini swallowed calmly, licked him clean with deliberate care, then rose with a soft grunt. One hand slid instinctively to her abdomen, fingers pressing in firm circular motions as another low rumble sounded from her belly.
“Fuck, that felt good,” she muttered, exhaling a satisfied breath. She picked up her half-smoked cigarette, relit it, and took a luxurious drag. “Three days of nothing, and now it’s all waking up. Gonna be a big one. I can feel it shifting.”
She leaned in suddenly, kissed his forehead, tender and maternal, and whispered against his skin, “You liked that, didn’t you?”
He could only nod, face burning, still trembling.
She chuckled low, voice warm with affection. “Naughty boy. Keep that secret safe.”
Then she turned toward the stairs, walking quickly, thighs pressed slightly together, one hand subtly on her tummy as if holding everything in. Halfway to the door, she glanced back over her shoulder, silver-streaked hair catching the moonlight, and called softly but urgently:
“I really need to find a loo quickly, before this decides to explode right here.”
She flashed a quick, wicked grin, then hurried down the steps, sandals clicking faster now, disappearing into the shadows below.
Vikram stayed on the terrace long after she was gone, breathing in the lingering traces of smoke, Scotch, and her body’s raw, fecal scent that still hung faintly in the air. The cool breeze couldn’t dispel it completely. He pressed a trembling hand to his softening cock, stunned at how the memory alone of her confident mouth, and now the image of her rushing off, made him twitch and harden again.
Chapter 2: The Bengaluru Apartment
Vikram was twenty-two, in the final semester of his engineering degree, when the email arrived: a campus interview call from a mid-sized tech firm in Bengaluru. He cleared every round and was invited to the final in-person panel.
He told his parents he would stay in a paying guest house near the office. Instead, the moment the interview ended on Friday afternoon, he took an auto straight to Indiranagar.
Shalini opened the door in loose charcoal palazzo pants and a sleeveless olive kurti, hair damp from a shower, silver streaks catching the light. Surprise flickered across her face, then melted into a slow, knowing smile.
“Interview over already?” she asked, stepping aside.
“How did you guess?”
“You have that look. Half relieved, half terrified. Come in.”
The apartment was just as he remembered from the single old photo on the family WhatsApp: books on every wall, jasmine spilling over the balcony, faint sandalwood and coffee in the air. A steel tumbler and ashtray rested on the teak coffee table.
They talked through the evening: the panel questions, Bengaluru traffic, his parents’ expectations, his quiet uncertainty about the future. When dusk fell, the front door opened again.
Meera entered with a cloth bag of vegetables and a small string of jasmine. White hair cropped short and elegant, in her early sixties, she wore a simple cream handloom saree draped in a modern, flowing style, pleats neat but not formal, pallu loose over one shoulder. Her eyes were warm behind thin glasses. She paused, looked at Vikram, then at Shalini, and smiled as though she had been waiting for this moment.
“So the boy from the terrace finally found his way here on his own,” she said softly, setting the bag down.
Vikram flushed crimson. Shalini laughed, low and fond. “Don’t embarrass him on his first evening, Meera. He’s still recovering from panel interviews.”
Dinner was simple and fragrant: beans poriyal, mor kuzhambu, rice. The two women moved around the small kitchen with the quiet harmony of decades. Over rasam, Meera told gentle stories of her teaching days; Shalini teased her about being too strict with answer scripts. Vikram listened, captivated by how naturally they touched: a hand on a hip while passing a vessel, fingers brushing while serving.
After dinner, they sat on the balcony with filter coffee. The city lights shimmered below.
Shalini met his eyes steadily.
“We thought you might come sooner,” she said. “But we’re glad you came when you were ready.”
Meera’s hand rested lightly on Shalini’s knee. “We’ve been together since she was twenty-five and I was forty-eight. She was my brightest student, then my dearest friend, then everything else. The world never gave us a name for it, but we never needed one.”
Shalini leaned over and kissed Meera softly, an everyday gesture of love. Vikram felt heat rise in his chest.
Later, the lights dimmed, and they led him to the bedroom. A wide bed, faded Kantha quilt, photos on the wall of younger versions of both women at conferences, beaches, and protests.
Meera undraped her saree slowly, letting the cream cotton fall in soft folds. Shalini slipped out of her kurti and palazzo, standing in simple cotton panties. Both women turned to him.
“Only if you want this,” Shalini said quietly.
He nodded, throat dry.
They undressed him together: Meera’s fingers careful at his shirt buttons, Shalini easing jeans and briefs down with familiar confidence. When he was naked, they guided him to stand at the foot of the bed, then turned to each other.
Shalini cupped Meera’s face and kissed her deeply, slowly, the way only long lovers do. Meera’s hands slid down Shalini’s back, across her bare skin, pulling her closer. They moved to the bed, bodies pressing, mouths never parting. Shalini’s lips trailed down Meera’s neck, across her collarbone, to the heavy, soft breasts. Meera sighed, arching slightly, fingers threading through Shalini’s silver-streaked hair.
Vikram stood mesmerised. He had never seen two women love each other like this: unhurried, reverent, every touch speaking years of knowledge. Meera’s hand found Shalini’s breast, thumb circling a nipple until Shalini moaned softly into her skin. They shifted, Meera, lying back against the pillows, Shalini settling between her thighs, kissing a slow path downward. Meera’s breath hitched; her fingers tightened in the quilt.
Shalini glanced up, caught Vikram’s eye, and smiled against Meera’s skin.
“Come here, Kanna,” she murmured.
He moved forward as if in a dream. Shalini took his hand, placed it on Meera’s thigh, showing him the warm, smooth skin, the slow strokes that made Meera gasp. He kissed Meera’s shoulder, her neck, tasting faint talcum and jasmine. Meera turned her head, kissed him gently, then deeper, her tongue soft and welcoming. Shalini’s hand stroked his thigh, then higher, keeping him hard and aching while she continued pleasuring Meera with mouth and fingers.
When Meera’s hips began to rise in quiet rhythm, Shalini moved aside. She took Vikram’s hand, guided him between Meera’s thighs, showing him the slick warmth, the slow circles that made Meera moan. Then she positioned him at Meera’s entrance.
Meera looked up at him, eyes soft, and nodded.
He entered her slowly, reverently. She was warm, yielding, enveloping him in a way that made his breath catch. Meera’s hands came to his hips, guiding his rhythm, gentle and patient. Shalini lay beside them, kissing Meera’s breast, then Vikram’s shoulder, murmuring encouragement in Tamil and English.
They moved together for a long time: slow, deep strokes, quiet moans, shared breaths. Meera came first with a soft cry, arms tightening around Vikram’s back. The feeling of her pulsing around him pushed him over the edge moments later; he spilled deep inside her with a helpless groan, burying his face in her neck.
They stayed joined for a long minute, breathing together. When he finally slipped out and rolled to the side, Meera turned to him, cheeks flushed, and teased gently:
“Did you like it, Vikram? I must be nowhere near all those young college girls you’ve been with.”
Vikram, still catching his breath, shook his head. “You are the first,” he said quietly. “The very first woman I’ve ever been inside.”
Meera’s eyes widened. A soft blush rose on her cheeks despite her age. She looked at Shalini, half laughing, half touched. “Oh my.”
Shalini’s grin was pure mischief. “Meera! You stole his virginity right under my nose? I’m officially offended.”
Meera swatted her arm lightly. “You had four years’ head start on that terrace, darling. Fair’s fair.”
Shalini leaned over, kissed Meera tenderly, then kissed Vikram’s forehead. “You picked a good one, Kanna,” she whispered.
But Shalini’s eyes held a hunger of her own. She shifted closer, her body still flushed and untouched, thighs pressing together subtly. She trailed a hand down Vikram’s chest, then lower, stroking him lightly back to hardness. He stirred under her touch, the ache returning as she kissed his ear.
“My turn now,” she murmured, voice low and teasing. “Can’t leave me waiting, can we?”
Meera smiled, propping herself on an elbow to watch. “Go on, Kanna. Show her what you learned.”
Shalini guided him onto his back and straddled him slowly. She was wet, slick from watching, and sank down onto him with a satisfied sigh. The sensation was exquisite: tighter, hotter than Meera, her body…