The train screeched to a halt. Being an introvert, I waited till my co-passengers left with their baggage. I contemplated my next move in an unfamiliar place and with no money. Suddenly, a leather purse on the floor caught my attention. The world was never kind to me, and I quickly disregarded any fleeting moral thoughts of returning the purse.
Me: “Jackpot. Twenty Thousand. Looks like I won’t have to worry about money for a while”. I exclaimed while glancing at the ID.
“Mrs. Saranya, Lecturer, Mount Cornell Engineering College.” A teacher, no wonder she was so orthodox and smirked at my education as a fashion designer. Well, her body was generous, unlike her mind as I recalled fleeting images of her mature neglected body, especially her big rounded melons and fleshy tummy, beautifully draped in a blue cotton saree while she struggled to get up on the middle berth. The stretch marks around her navel were the only revealing sign that she was 55.
I thanked her in my mind, took the purse, strapped my only shoulder bag, and roamed on the streets till my hunger became unbearable. Nearby, I saw a small hotel as isolated as the road I was walking. As soon as I approached the shop, an aged lady stood up and beamed at me, and asked me If I wanted food. After a debate in my mind, I decided to call her granny rather than aunty. Her hair was predominantly white with streaks of black hair and was tied up in a tight bun. She was wearing a faded, light blouse with a torn saree pallu. The blouse was loose at her neck and the arms She was very dusky, slim with dark circles around her eyes, tell-tale signs of her poverty and hunger. It seemed she was running the shop alone. She asked something to which I had no clue. By hand gestures, I managed to order meals.
Me: “Yeh Kaunsi Jagah Hai (What place is this).”
Seeing her confused face, I used hand gestures. She replied, “Chennai. Tamil Nadu”.
So that’s where I am at. Maybe this place is the key to my destiny. The secluded spot and the lack of her customers make me ogle at her aged body in detail. (Yeah.Yeah.I understand your disgust. But think about how, at some point in our life, sex starvation made us lust on some average-looking aunties, beggars, maids and low-class women if no one is watching. Come on. This granny is average-looking. We all know how perverted lust and an idle mind can make us). Anyway, her saree was untidily wrapped around her body, almost entirely passing through the valley of her twin oranges. Her boobs were small (I would argue 32B) and saggy. It was no surprise that she wore no bra. Her charcoal black nipples were straining against the thin blouse fabric. Her tummy was well-toned, and her ass seemed well rounded and firm despite her age.
After lunch, seeing no other customers, I enquired about Chennai in general and her history in specific. Chennai is a metropolitan city with a significant mix of liberal and orthodox people. Slums are common, and many people live in poverty, like the Granny Gowthami. She lives in a slum nearby. After her husband’s death, she runs this shop and struggles to make ends meet. She broke down crying, and I generously comforted her, letting my arms run over the back of her blouse, feeling her sweaty blouse while smelling her oiled hair bun, oddly arousing me. I proposed an arrangement to let me stay with her and provide me with food, and I will give her three thousand monthly. She was wary at first. However, I cunningly emotionally blackmailed her with my non-existent orphan history of being a wandering nomad looking to settle down here. In addition to money, I will help her with the shop, and she fell for that.
After three months, the shop was still struggling with us being the main/only customers. I learned some Tamil. However, courtesy of Saranya aunty, the money I had was fast dwindling. I decided to discuss the hotel with Gowthami in the evening. “Paati (Granny), the business is not improving; we have to do something or commit suicide.” Paati started crying, “Pera (Grandson), think of something; I don’t want to die; I want to live,” She cried inconsolably while hugging me. Call it the effect of her oiled hair and her sweaty body or my deviant fetishes, and it awakened the devil in me. That got me thinking. I started working on my idea. After one week, I told her in broken Tamil about the problems, opportunities, and solutions.
Me: “Paati, there are many offices and only two hotels nearby. Your food is tastier than theirs. You don’t compromise on hygiene. So, demand is there, yet everyone goes to Kamasamy and Murugan’s hotel. I talked to some people nearby, and I can pinpoint three significant reasons—lack of variety. We have only idly-sambar and meals. The second is less seating space. Third and most important is the lack of good publicity and much negative publicity.
“What negative publicity,” a visibly angry and distressed Gowthami asked.
Me: “The other hotel owners point out your worn-out clothes and untidy dressing. That makes the customers feel that the food is also unhygienic.”
Gowthami looked defeated. “Pera, you know I can’t afford to….” Her voice breaks off. Accepting her defeat, she slumps over and starts sobbing.
I comforted her. “I have the solution. I bribed the health official to give me the quality certificate in two days. I know Photoshop. I can create ads for social media. I have already ordered to refurbish the shop next week. We will have a grand reopening in May, two months from now. But your dressing is the problem, Paati….” I broke off.
I knew I had to act the next part perfectly to set my plan in motion to morally corrupt this extremely orthodox and devout grandmother.
Gowthami: “What’s the problem, Pera? I can wear some new sarees; it’s not a problem.”
Me: “It is. People will come once to our hotel. But if we are to retain our customers, we have to motivate them to come back. Something more than tasty food. Something every man desires.”
“What is it,” Gowthami asked curiously
Me: “The beauty of your mature body, Paati. I am not ashamed to tell you that I ogled at your body the first day I saw you. I have smelled your sweat-stained blouse countless times and even watched you bath in your pavadai (Skirt) along the riverbank. You need to do more than just wear sarees Paati, you need to entice men by your choice of modern sarees”. Gowthami looked at me in disbelief. Her stare then turned at the now visible swelling in my pants. The pride of my superior Rajput ancestry made me blurt out the truth . Her look of disbelief turned into one of rage. She stood up and walked toward me. Whack….” A sound slap across my cheek…
Gowthami: “How could you? I thought of you as my grandson. If my Purushan (Husband) was alive, he would have…… ”
Me: “Well, he isn’t…. Paati. All that he left you is poverty. You were the one to offer me food and shelter. I have no one else in this world. I just want you to live happily. I spent all my remaining money on you. I don’t even have money to pay your rent for the next month. I am sorry I made you angry. I will leave now. Sorry for everything, Paati.”
I sobbed as I shamelessly lied through my teeth. I am not naïve like her to spend my money on charity for her. If I am investing, I need profits. On hearing this, she got emotional and apologized
Gowthami: “Sorry, Pera. I didn’t know the trouble you have gone through for me. Forgive me Pera”.
Me: It’s all right Paati. I only want you to be happy. If you have a better idea, we will do it. Think and let me know within 2-3 days.”
I again played on her weak thoughts “Even if we commit suicide, I will be with you Paati” (Like hell, I will commit suicide. But the word “Suicide” reminded her of her dire situation, and it visibly shook her. But she stayed silent.
The following day, she had that determined look on her face. “I want to live Pera. I want to enjoy the riches of the world. What should I do? I will follow your instructions. You are now the man of this house. You are all I have.”
I invited the nearby hotel owner Murugan to be our chief guest for the grand reopening. We had 60 days, and I planned to change Gowthami Patti drastically while the hotel was being refurbished. For the next fifty days, I made her eat four times a day while getting more personal and touchier with her. I made her oily junk foods and ice-creams and restricted her from doing anything…apart from sleeping and reading some spicy masala comics and film magazines. I wanted her to get familiar with the current fashion sense.
After 45-50 days, I saw visible changes in her body, and man, never did I think I would get a boner for Paati (I know I got aroused, but never a full hard boner). Her body started getting fleshier like a jersey cow. Her blouse was becoming tighter around her arms, her face got chubbier, and her oranges just got ripe. Yeah, her udders swelled up like inflated balloons. Her areolas were like black dosas, and her nipple pierced through her thin blouse fabric. Her tummy got fleshy, and she had to tie her saree above her navel to hide all that tummy meat. It was a pleasure to see her fleshy hip folds. Even at 60, she could turn quite a few heads.
Now for stage two of my plan. I bought Gowthami Patti two sets of sarees online. One was a stretchable red silk blouse with medium sleeve and padded push-up bra with underwire, lace panty, and a stiff cotton saree so that her boobs would stand out just fine. I also brought her another low-quality nylon figure-hugging saree for the ads with a matching thin fabric black blouse (like the one usually worn by low-class ladies). I made her wear a contrasting white bullet bra that projected her oranges as perky and rounded. Oblivious to Gauthami Patti, The photos were carefully taken to give the viewers a seductive view of her fleshy tummy, contrasting see-through innerwear, and a taste of her aging body. The social ads were a hit. Even hotel owner Murugan rang me up.
Murugan: “I saw the ad. Is it really Gauthami? She looks so…so….
Me: “Sexy… Isn’t it? A little motivation and determination can do wonders.”
Murugan: “We need to meet in person. We need to discuss something.”
Me: “Sure, after the reopening and hopefully after I bang this aged chick.”
Murugan: “What are you saying. In Real?”
Me: “Let’s see. I will talk later. Bye”.
Evening, when I entered the home, Gauthami Patti was waiting for me with the designer bra and panty in her hand. The saree and the blouse are excellent. But this, Gowthami Paati looked at me in disbelief. “You want a woman in her sixties to wear this. I have never worn them,” throwing the designer bra and panties at me. Patti, they will make you feel youthful and comfortable while you work. Sweat patches on her armpits and fidgeting made me slyly grin at her. I just made her subconsciously aroused and curious.
“Just try it, Paati. If you don’t like it, I will return it”.
Slightly blushing, she scooped up the dress and went to her bedroom to change, and I could hear the lock falling in place. But it didn’t matter. The saree and the innerwear were too sophisticated. She will need my help soon. Sure enough, I saw the door unlock, and her head popped out
Gowthami: “Pera, how to wear this? Help me out.”
I went inside. The sight that beheld my eyes was something out of a porn movie. When I first met Gawthami Patti, I never imagined that this granny would turn out to be a GILF (Granny I Love to Fuck). Against the dim light, I could see the straps of her designer bra loosely worn over her shoulders. She had tried to wear the bra, but being cross-strapped, she could not clasp the hooks. She had crossed her arms to prevent me from getting a good view of her Tamil oranges. Her dusky back was shimmering in the dim light. Pavadai (Skirt) covered her body waist down. I clasped the bra and whispered in her ear.
Me: “Gowthami, you look gorgeous. I want to marry you”.
My hot breath down her neglected body and the depravity of my words made her shiver. Before she could process and turn around, I slowly undid her hair bun, letting her long white and black-streaked hair flow over her body, veiling her back up to her waist. The scent of her pheromones, sweat, and oil was enough to push me over the edge. I smoothly slid out my pants, exposing the hard tent in my boxers. I could sense the tremors in her body as I slowly rested over her shoulders from the back and cupped her now 34B ripe oranges. She spun around, glancing at my bulge before stammering
Gowthami: “Pera…. What are you…? I am so old…. Ashamed.”
Me: “Vithreya…. My name is Vithreya. You have been a widow for so long that you have forgotten the touch of a man. Tonight, It all changes. Tonight, you will be liberated, and this North Indian pervert grandson will be your new husband.”
Gowthami: “Vithreya……what are you saying. I love my husband. I am so old……No. I can’t,” was the only meek reply she could muster.
Me: “Shhisshh, my dear, no more talk.”
I gently slid my serpentine tongue into the unsuspecting mouth of Gowthami Patti, who looked after me as her grandson. It’s time to return the favor. She will be Vithreya’s first hunt in the forest of Tamil Nadu, and I intend to devour her entirely. Our tongues melted in the heat of lust. Gowthami, a widow deprived of the lust of a real man and me, shamed as an introvert loser my whole life, enjoying the taste of a fleshy mature Tamil GILF. Gradually she reciprocated. Saliva was mixed, some drooling out from our mouths, some flowing into our throats.
We knew we wanted more of each other. Her skirt came off. The lace panty was valiantly trying to contain her hairy jungle. Bushes of her greyed hair peeked from the sides. I stripped her off, and I immediately went down her and buried my head in the Gowthami’s hairy yet tidy jungle. The hot breath of my lust on her cunt lips and the touch of my wet tongue on her cunt was enough to send her over the peak. The dam of her cultural integrity and her orthodox traditions broke, liberating the woman she always longed to be. The warm juices flooded my mouth quickly. While I drank her love juices to my heart’s content, I let my fingers play with her wet, oozing clitorises. I wish I hadn’t done that. Her body arched backward, almost falling before she squirted a load of her lust all over me. I couldn’t resist humiliating her.
Me: “Gowthami Paati, you let a North Indian stranger lick and violate your aged south Indian cunt. What have you become? What will your Purushan say? I am feeling guilty. I am stopping.”
Amidst her visibly loud moans of pleasure, Gawthami panted, “he never did this to me. He never licked it. I never felt this pleasure… He was always fast and quick”. Don’t you dare stop, you dirty pervert, she said, grabbing me by the back of my head. Yes. I am a thevadiya (Slut). Yes. I submit to you, my Purusha. Vithreya, suck this lonely granny Punda (cunt). Make her regain all the pleasures she lost in her youth. Aaah…Marry me…aaaahhhh”
Me: “Are you not ashamed to ask a guy your grandson’s age to marry you.”
Gowthami: I don’t know. I have never felt this. Aaah. Northern guys are so good. I want to feel your monster dick ram my aged cunt daily. Stay with me, Vithreya. Breed me. Give me your babies. Please don’t leave me. You are so fair and handsome. I want to marry you. I will do whatever you want. I just want your Sunni (dick) inside my pussy.
Me: “Transfer your property to my name. You cannot run a hotel, Gowthami Patti. You are a born nymphomaniac GILF and meant to live and die as a sex slave. You can only be my illegal wife.
Gowthami Patti looked visibly shocked and pained as I pushed this conservative granny to the limits of her moral boundaries. She weakly replied, “No. I can’t do that”.
I made her face me and turned on the light before I asked her again, “I didn’t hear you. What did you say”?
Gowthami: “Please don’t make me do this Vithreya. This property is my purusan’s memory. If I give you this property, I will die a beggar.”
I rammed my monster dick into her sloppy yet tight cunt for one last time before I pulled it out and started to walk away.
Gowthami screamed at her denied pleasure and fell on her knees, just inches away from my throbbing dick, still glistening from her cunt juices.
Her eyes were half-closed, still processing the pleasure of relentless pounding her neglected pussy got.
Me: “You will die a beggar. But at least you will die as a beggar who has experienced insatiable lust and pleasure. Your purushan is dead. I am now the man of the house. In that moment of lust, I took her thali (Mangalsutra) from the pooja room, where she kept it after her husband’s death.
Me: “Tie this thali around my dick and suck it better than how you suck your purushan’s dick, I will make you my illegal wife, and you will write your property to me. Else you can order me to leave the house.”
One look at the throbbing monster with the pink tip enticing her and the foreskin pulled back was enough to make Gawthami Patti decide. She lost her sense of morality, and she knew it. She shamelessly tied it around my Lund and started to suck it like a possessed woman. She squatted and sucked my rod with one hand around my dick while her hand was furiously fingering her hairy cunt.
Suck it, Paati. Take it in your mouth, Gowthami paati. No, Vithreya, don’t call me that. Paati is a name of respect and tradition. It’s not fit for a woman like me who fell so easily into debauchery. Shhshh…I always love you, Paati; you are just enjoying what your husband failed to give you.
Gauthami: “I beg you. Aaah.. Tie this, Thali. Make me your wife—smear sindhooram (Sindhoor). Make me yours, Vithreya.. That was enough to make me lose control. Like a wild beast with no concern for her aging body, I rammed my dick deep into her sloppy black cunt. Aah..It was a pleasure to see her pink cunt lips part way to accommodate the thali. We doggy fucked for five minutes, each raw thrust of my fair Lund (dick) into her black pussy, bringing moans of pleasure and lust as her brain desperately failed to understand or accept the immorality of her act.
Me: “Thevadiya Patti, I am cumming…..I am impregnating you… Take it all.”
Warm milk sloshed through and filled her womb. Gowthami reached the crest of her pleasure, and her moans and dirty talk were so loud that I was sure that the entire slum knew of Gowthami getting banged and bred by me. I fell on top of her while we panted from the exertion and pleasure. She rested her sweaty cum stained face over my fair well-chiseled body.
Gowthami: “You are not Vithreya. You are my Purushan, Kamadevan (God of Lust).
The big day arrived. Does Gowthami regain her moral value of an orthodox Tamil granny? Or does she submit to the lust of worldly pleasures and fall into debauchery.
Your feedback is very dear to me, buddies. Equally important are your fetishes and desires on how to take this story forward. Feel free to express your love for Tamil culture. Positive and negative criticism is very welcome at [email protected]
