Chapter 3: Undressing of Goddess
He rolled off, the sudden absence of his weight a cold shock. “See?” he whispered, his finger tracing a sticky path through the mess on my sternum. “No shame in enjoying a masterpiece you helped create.” I turned my face into the pillow, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sex. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a gilded cage.
He swung his legs off the bed, the mattress shifting. “I’ll get a cloth.” His voice was casual, as if he’d just fetched a glass of water. I listened to his bare feet on the marble, the quiet splash of water in the suite’s ensuite. The normalcy of it was more violating than the act itself. He returned, a warm, damp towel in his hand.
“Look at me, Saumya.” I didn’t move. He sat on the edge of the bed and began cleaning my skin with slow, deliberate strokes. The terrycloth was rough on my oversensitive flesh. He wiped my chin, my breasts, my belly. “This is just physics,” he said, his tone conversational. “Bodies react. Smart girls don’t confuse biology with betrayal.”
“My husband is downstairs,” I mumbled into the linen, the words thick.
“Your husband is a boy who drinks too much whiskey and talks about cricket averages.” He tossed the towel aside. It landed with a soft thud. “He won’t come up here for hours.” His hand returned to my hip, possessive. “We have time for the next lesson.”
“We have time for the next lesson.” His fingers walked up my spine to the long line of buttons on my choli. “Starting with this.” He traced the embroidered fabric stretched tight across my back, appreciating the curve of me within it. “Such fine work, hugging such a fine form.”
His blunt fingers began on the top button. Each tiny pearl slipped free with a soft, decisive pop. My breath hitched in time with each release. “A man should appreciate the unwrapping,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear as the fabric loosened. “Not just tear at the packaging.”
The choli gaped open, cool air kissing the sweat-damp skin of my back. He pushed the stiff material from my shoulders, down my arms, until it joined the lehenga on the floor. I was left in just my bra and petticoat, feeling more exposed than when I was fully naked. His hands slid around to cradle my breasts through the lace, his thumbs finding my nipples immediately. “See how they strain for attention?” he whispered, rolling the hardened peaks slowly. “They’re begging.”
He squeezed the full weight of each breast, a firm, possessive pressure that made my knees weak. He pinched a nipple gently, then less gently, sending sharp, bright lines of pleasure-pain directly to my core. “Perfect response,” he noted, his voice rough. He bent his head and took the lace-covered peak into his mouth, sucking hard. A raw, desperate sound ripped from my throat. His other hand worked its twin, tugging and rolling until my whole world narrowed to that savage, exquisite sensation. It was a sweet, relentless torture, and I was dissolving under it, dying from the shame and the thrilling, unbearable excitement.
The wet lace scraped each time his tongue circled, a rough, delicious friction that made my back arch off the bed. He wasn't kissing; he was devouring, sucking the fabric into his mouth until the tight bud of my nipple was outlined perfectly against the sheer material, a dark, hard peak begging for more. My hands, which had been fisted in the sheets, rose of their own volition, my fingers tangling hesitantly in his thick hair, not to pull him away but to hold him there, to that exact spot of maddening pressure.
He switched to the other breast, his hand taking over on the wet one, squeezing in a slow, rhythmic pulse that mimicked a deeper, more intimate rhythm. "Look at this," he grunted, pausing to nod at the soaked lace. "Your new bridal finery. It's telling me everything your pretty mouth won't." His thumb rubbed the rigid nipple through the drenched bra cup, a slow, milking motion that drew a broken whimper from my lips. I was coming apart, every taught string of my upbringing snapping under this exquisite, vulgar attention.
His mouth returned, but this time his teeth found the edge of the lace cup. He tugged it down, just enough to bare the swollen, aching tip. The cool air was a shock, followed instantly by the shocking heat of his tongue on bare skin. The sensation was so direct, so electric, I cried out. "There she is," he murmured against my flesh, his breath hot. "No more hiding." He drew the entire peak into his mouth, his tongue flicking relentlessly.
The suction was profound, a deep, pulling claim that seemed to connect directly to the molten ache between my legs. My hips lifted off the mattress, seeking friction, seeking anything. He laughed, a low, vibratory hum against my breast. "Eager, even when you're horrified. I love that." He switched again, giving the same lavish, thorough attention to its twin, baring it with his teeth, licking and sucking until my thoughts were just a blur of yes and no and more.
This was his special art: this deliberate, unraveling worship. He paid attention to the way my breath hitched when he used the very edge of his teeth, to the full-body shudder when he blew softly on the wet skin. "You taste like panic and honey," he said, his voice crude, intimate. "A virgin's cocktail. I'm drinking every drop."
I was losing myself. The careful, shy girl who’d worn the heavy lehenga was evaporating under this targeted heat. A raw, guttural sound tore from me as he pinched one nipple hard while his mouth worked on the other, the dual sensations short-circuiting my resistance. My body was no longer my own; it was a instrument he played with ruthless expertise, each touch drawing a louder, more desperate melody from my throat.
"See how they peak for me?" He pulled back, both thumbs now rubbing the slick, hardened nubs in slow, concentric circles. "They're like little stones. Pretty, desperate little stones." He leaned close, his lips brushing mine as he spoke. "Your husband will never make them do that. He wouldn't even know where to look."
The mention of Vikram was a splash of cold water that instantly boiled away under his touch. He captured my mouth again, his kiss demanding all my breath, all my focus. My hands clutched at his shoulders, my fingers digging into the fine linen of his shirt. I was falling into him, into this, the last fragments of my old self scattering like discarded jewelry on the sheets.
I was falling into him, into this, the last fragments of my old self scattering like discarded jewelry on the sheets. His hands slid down my back, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. The metal gave way with a quiet sigh, and the lace, damp from his mouth, loosened its hold.
He didn’t remove it yet. He pushed the cups down slowly, baring me inch by inch to the cool, floral-scented air. My nipples, already hardened into desperate points from his attention through the fabric, now peaked fully, aching and exposed. He watched them, his gaze a physical caress. “See?” he murmured, his voice husky. “They’ve been begging for air all night.”
His thumbs found them immediately, circling the tight, dark areolas with a torturous slowness that made my breath catch. He didn’t just touch; he studied. He applied pressure, released it, rolled the sensitive flesh between his finger and thumb in a slow, milking motion that pulled a low groan from deep in my chest. “So responsive,” he observed, his tone almost clinical, yet dripping with dark appreciation. “Like two perfect little signals, broadcasting everything you’re too shy to say.”
He bent his head, his tongue sweeping a hot, wet path over one pebbled peak. I jerked, a shockwave of pure sensation radiating outward. He licked again, a slower, broader stroke, then drew the entire nipple into the heat of his mouth. The suction was deliberate, deep, a rhythmic pull that seemed to connect directly to the throbbing ache between my legs. My back arched off the mattress, my fingers fisting in his hair. I was losing myself, a virgin drowning in a sea of feeling she had no name for.
He switched to the other, his hand taking over on the wet one, squeezing the full breast in a firm, possessive rhythm. “Sweet,” he grunted against my skin, his breath hot. “Panic and honey. I was right.” His words were crude, vulgar, and they lit a fire in my belly. He bit down gently, his teeth a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips, and I cried out, the sound mingling pain and a shocking bolt of pleasure.
This was his art: this meticulous, devastating unraveling. He paid attention to every micro-response—the flutter of my stomach, the hitch in my breath when his teeth grazed, the involuntary roll of my hips. He was mapping a territory I didn’t know I possessed. “Your husband,” he whispered, lifting his head, his lips glistening, “he thinks this is for babies. He has no idea it’s for this.” He pinched a nipple, hard, and a broken sound escaped me. “For music.”
“Please,” I heard myself whisper, not knowing what I was asking for.
“Please, what?” he teased, blowing softly on the wet skin, making me shudder.
I couldn’t answer. He chuckled, a low, rich sound. He took my wrists, my hands still tangled in his hair, and pulled them down. He placed my own palms over my bare breasts, covering them. “Show me,” he commanded, his voice soft but inflexible. “Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone and curious.”
Shame scorched my cheeks. I tried to pull away, but his hands clamped over mine, forcing them to move. He guided my fingers in slow circles over my own nipples, the sensation bizarre and intensely erotic. “Like that,” he encouraged, his breath at my ear. “See? You know what you need.”
While my hands, under his, kneaded my own flesh, he lowered his head again. But not to my breasts. He nuzzled into the side of my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to the sensitive hollow where my shoulder met my arm. He paused, breathing in deeply. “This,” he said, his voice muffled against my skin. “This is a secret place.”
His tongue darted out, a quick, wet stripe in my underarm. I flinched, a gasp of sheer surprise tearing from me. It was an intimacy so unexpected, so strangely vulnerable, that it shattered another layer of my reserve. “Shhh,” he soothed, but he didn’t stop. He licked a longer, slower path there, where the skin was delicate and rarely touched.
He was relentless, lavishing attention on that hidden curve as my own hands moved on my breasts under his guidance. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a confusing cocktail of self-consciousness and raw pleasure. He sucked gently at the tender skin, leaving a mark I knew would be there tomorrow, a secret brand beneath my sari. I shuddered, a full-body convulsion that was part revulsion, part revelation.
“So sensitive here,” he murmured, switching to the other side, repeating the long, sensual lesson. His tongue explored the subtle hollow, his stubble scraping the surrounding skin. It felt indecent. It felt incredible. My movements on my own breasts became more frantic, less guided, as I lost myself to the novelty of his mouth in that secret, untouched place.
A tight, hot coil was winding deep inside me, pulled taut by every lick, every suck, every rasp of his breath. The crude poetry of his observation, the vulgar artistry of his touch—it was dismantling me. The shy girl was gone, incinerated in this specific, calculated heat. All that was left was a body singing a desperate, unfamiliar song, and the man who’d composed it.
All that was left was a body singing a desperate, unfamiliar song, and the man who’d composed it. He released my hands from my breasts, my own palms now damp and foreign to me. “Up,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no hesitation.
His hands gripped my hips, turning me, guiding my legs off the side of the bed. My bare feet met the cold marble floor, a sharp shock that grounded me for only a second. He stood before me, a dark silhouette against the candlelight, and pulled me upright until we were face to face. I wobbled, my legs liquid. He held me steady, his gaze a physical pressure sweeping from my tangled hair down to my trembling knees.
“Let’s look at you,” he murmured, his hands still firm on my hips. He took a half-step back, his eyes traveling a slow, scorching path up my body. I stood there in only my bra and the thin, soaked petticoat, more exposed than I had ever been. The air felt colder, raising goosebumps on my skin that his eyes followed with interest.
He started at my feet, his gaze lingering on the henna patterns curling over my toes. “Pretty,” he noted absently. His attention moved up my calves, the light catching the faint sheen of sweat. “Strong,” he said, a clinical observation that felt intensely personal. His hands followed his eyes, sliding up the back of my legs, palms rough against my skin. He squeezed the muscle of my calf, then higher, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive hollows behind my knees.
I gasped, my knees buckling slightly. He held me up. “Sensitive here, too,” he mused, repeating the pressure until my breath came in short pants. His journey continued up the length of my thighs, his hands sliding along the outside, then sweeping inward. He didn’t touch the core of me, just traced the inner seams of my thighs with his knuckles, a teasing, maddening promise.
He spent an eternity on my thighs. His hands kneaded the soft flesh, his fingers digging in just enough to claim, to leave faint marks. He leaned in, placing a single, open-mouthed kiss high on my inner thigh, just below the edge of the petticoat. His stubble scraped. My whole body jolted. “Shaking,” he whispered against my skin, his breath hot. “Good.”
His mouth traveled higher, his teeth grazing the skin through the thin silk of the petticoat. He bit down, not hard, but with a possessive pressure that made me cry out. He soothed the spot with his tongue, a slow, wet circle. He was loving me over this final barrier, his mouth and hands worshipping the silhouette of what lay beneath. He sucked the fabric against my skin, the damp silk clinging, outlining his hunger.
His hands rose to my waist, gripping the string of the petticoat. He didn’t untie it. Instead, he slid his hands beneath the waistband, his palms flat on the swell of my hips, his fingers dipping into the crease of my groin. He pulled me against him. The hard, thick line of him, confined within his trousers, pressed insistently against my lower belly. A wave of pure, dizzying heat flooded me.
He rubbed himself against me, a slow, deliberate grind. “Feel that?” he breathed into my neck, his hips moving in a shallow rhythm. “That’s what you do. That’s all you.” His hands slid around to cup my backside over the petticoat, squeezing, pulling me tighter into that grinding friction. The coarse fabric of his trousers scratched my sensitive skin.
My own hips moved. A tiny, involuntary rock against him. He froze. Then a low, triumphant sound vibrated in his chest. “There it is,” he whispered. My traitorous body, operating on a primal script I didn’t recognize, did it again. Seeking the pressure. My hands, which had hung limp at my sides, rose. They flattened against his chest, then slid down, over the fine linen of his shirt, over the taut plane of his stomach.
My fingers found the hard ridge of him through his trousers. I froze, horrified at my own daring. But the pleasure was a tidal wave, drowning the shame. I rubbed him, tentatively at first, then with a firmer, curious pressure, mapping his length through the fabric. A raw groan tore from his throat. “Yes. Just like that.”
I was in a different world. A world of brazen touch and answering groans, of my own slickness and his hard heat. My forehead fell against his shoulder as my hand moved on him, my hips still rocking in a shy, syncopated rhythm. The petticoat, the bra—they were just irritating layers now. He bit my shoulder through the strap of my bra, a sharp, grounding pain. He pinched my nipple through the lace, rolling it hard. I moaned, the sound ragged and open, my hand on him becoming more urgent.
Then, like a bucket of ice water thrown from a great height, reality crashed back. My hand stilled. My hips froze. A choked sob escaped me. I pushed myself away from him, stumbling back a step, my arms flying up to cross over my chest, my other hand splayed over the damp spot on my petticoat as if to hide the evidence. The cold air was a slap. What had I done?
I stood there, covering myself, trembling violently, tears of hot shame finally spilling over. He didn’t move. He just watched me unravel, his own breathing still heavy, his arousal obvious. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. It wasn’t kind. It was conquest.
“Don’t,” he said softly, the word hanging in the fragrant air. “Don’t cover it up now. That,” he nodded toward where my hand had been, toward the wet silk between my legs, “was a victory. For me.” He paused, letting the humiliation sink in, settle deep. “Maybe,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper that slithered into my soul, “maybe for you, too.”
His words echoed in the silence he’d carved inside me. Maybe for you, too. The air felt thin, insufficient. I hugged myself tighter, the slick evidence of my own body cold against my palms. He just watched the conflict play out on my face, a scientist observing a fascinating reaction.
Then he moved. Not with urgency, but with a terrifying certainty. He closed the distance, his hands coming up to my arms. He didn’t pull them down. He just held my wrists, his thumbs stroking the frantic pulse points. “Let go,” he said, so quietly it was almost a thought. I shook my head, a frantic little motion. Tears traced hot paths to my jawline.
He sighed, a sound of mild inconvenience. With one firm motion, he pried my right arm away from my chest, then the left. I was bare again, exposed. He kept hold of my wrists, turning me gently until my back was to him, pressing me against the solid wall of his chest. I could feel every breath he took, the damp heat of his shirt, the relentless hardness pressed against the small of my back. “Better,” he murmured into my hair. His lips found the top of my spine. A shiver, unstoppable, racked me.
His hands released my wrists and slid down my arms, over the goosebumped skin of my belly, coming to rest on the knot of my petticoat string at my hip. His fingers toyed with the simple bow. I stiffened. “No,” I whispered, the word brittle.
“Yes,” he countered, his voice a lazy rumble against my ear. His fingers began to work the knot, slow and deliberate. I grabbed his hands, my fingers desperately clutching his. A real struggle, this time. I pushed against him, tried to twist away. He was a stone wall. He simply tightened his arms around my waist, pinning my own hands against the silk at my front.
“Don’t be difficult, Saumya,” he chided, as if I were a child refusing medicine. He resumed untying the knot with one hand, the other arm an iron band across my ribs. The string loosened. I felt the weight of the petticoat begin to slip. I threw my weight sideways, a pitiful lunge. He easily steered us, turning so my back met the carved post of the bed. He pressed into me, trapping me there.
The fabric pooled around my hips, held up only by the pressure of our bodies. He reached between us, his hand sliding over the silk covering my abdomen. I squeezed my thighs together, a last, futile barricade. He chuckled, the sound darkly intimate. “Silly girl.” He nudged my legs apart with his knee. The petticoat slid down another inch, catching on the swell of my hips.
He leaned back, just enough to look down. His gaze felt like a physical touch, hotter than his hands. He took in the strip of bare stomach, the curve of my hip bones emerging from the silk, the lacy edge of my underwear now visible. “There we are,” he breathed. He didn’t pull it down further. Instead, he bent his head and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the strip of bare skin above the lace.
His mouth was a brand. He kissed a trail across my belly, his tongue dipping into my navel. I gasped, my head thudding back against the wooden post. His hands came up to my breasts, still confined in the lace bra, and kneaded them roughly through the cups. The dual assault—the soft, wet heat on my stomach, the rough possession of my breasts—scattered my resistance into splinters.
He used his teeth next, grazing the sensitive skin of my hip bone just above the petticoat’s waistband. I cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound. “You taste like salt and defiance,” he mumbled against my skin, his words slurred and vulgar. “I want to taste the rest.” His hand left my breast and slid down, over the silk petticoat still tangled at my hips, down to my inner thigh. His fingers traced the seam of my leg, high up, so close to the heat they were promised to.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispered, his lips moving against my ear. His finger pressed, not inside, but against the very core of me through the soaked layers of petticoat and panties. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure shot through me. I trembled violently.
“I…” The word died. Shame sealed my lips.
His finger rubbed a slow, deliberate circle. The friction was madness. “Say it.” His voice was harder now. A command.
My body arched, seeking the pressure. A traitorous, pleading sound escaped me. “I…” I swallowed, the confession ripped from me. “I want it.”
“You want what?” He pressed harder, his finger a relentless, circular pressure.
“This.” It was a sob. “I want this.”
“Good girl.” The praise was a drug. His hand moved, cupping me fully over the fabric, his palm a furnace. He began to rub, a slow, grinding rhythm that matched the frantic beat of my heart. His other hand pulled at the petticoat, finally dragging it down over my hips. It fell in a silken heap around my ankles. Now only the lace bra and the drenched, transparent scrap of my panties remained.
He sank to his knees before me. The sight was profoundly shocking. Vishal, on his knees. But his eyes were level with my stomach, burning with ownership, not supplication. His hands slid up the backs of my bare thighs, under the lace edges of my panties, gripping my backside. He pulled me forward, against his mouth.
He didn’t remove the underwear. He kissed me through it, his mouth a hot, wet brand over the lace. The rough texture of the fabric, the searing heat of his tongue, the dampness he was tasting—it was too much. I writhed, my fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor myself to the spinning world.
“You’re dripping through this,” he muttered, his words muffled against me. “Absolutely soaking it. For me.” He bit the inner flesh of my thigh, then soothed it with his tongue. His fingers dug into the soft skin of my backside. “Your husband’s never seen this, has he? This… waterfall.”
“No,” I choked out.
“Say ‘for you.’” He licked a long, slow stripe. My knees buckled. He held me up. “Say it.”
“For you,” I whispered, the words a sacred blasphemy.
“Again.” His mouth found me again, sucking strongly through the lace.
“For you!” The cry was louder, torn from a place beyond shame.
His hands moved to the front, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of my panties. He stretched the lace taut, rubbing it against me in a slow, maddening friction. He looked up, his eyes holding mine. “You’re going to come like this. Over your pretty bridal underwear. For me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a decree.
And my body, the ultimate traitor, obeyed. The coil he had been winding since he entered the room snapped. Pleasure, vast and annihilating, erupted from that point of friction. It vaporized thought, erased the room, the wedding, my name. A raw, guttural sound ripped from my throat as my hips ground against his hands, wave after shocking wave tearing through me. I fell forward, collapsing over him, my hands clutching at his shoulders, my cries muffled against his shirt.
He held me through it, his hands relentless, until the last tremor subsided. I hung there, boneless, breathless, a vessel utterly emptied. He gently guided my limp form down onto the silk sheets. I stared at the canopy, my vision blurry, my body humming with a strange, spent peace. The scent of jasmine and sex was overwhelming.
He stood, looking down at me. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, deliberate gesture. “See?” he said, his voice returning to that conversational tone. The magic was gone, replaced by the cool precision of a man who had proven a point. “Not so complicated, was it?”