Suman pov

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******

“Lai aa, Randi!”

The shout from the dining table was a physical blow, a familiar, hateful wave that crashed over me. My spine stiffened, my hands freezing on the tray I was preparing. Randi. The word, even after a year of hearing it daily, still carved a fresh wound every time. I wasn’t a whore. I was Suman, eighteen years old, and all I wanted was for my grandfather to see me.

“Lai bhi aa, Randi! Ab bhooka marega kya mujhe?” he shouted again, his voice grating with impatience.

I gripped the tray, the warmth of the freshly made parathas doing nothing to combat the chill in my veins. “Laa rahi hoon, Dada-ji,” I called back, my voice a thin, trembling thing. I hurried into the dining room, the clatter of the tray on the wooden table sounding far too loud in the tense silence.

He didn’t look at me. His eyes, the same stormy grey as my father’s, were fixed on the newspaper. He picked up a paratha, took a deliberate bite, and then, with a look of utter disgust, spat it back onto the plate.

“Itna namak? Randi, ek kaam dang se nahi hota tujhse!”

“Dada-ji, aapne hi kaha tha thoda zyada dalna…” I tried to reason, my voice barely a whisper.

His head snapped up. The newspaper fell forgotten. In one swift, brutal motion, his hand shot out and gripped my hair, yanking my head back. I gasped, my eyes watering instantly from the sharp, stinging pain at my scalp.

“Ab jaban chalayegi mujhse, Randi?” he snarled, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled of old tobacco and coffee.

Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Aap mujhe Randi kyun kehte hain?” I cried, my hands flying up to uselessly clutch at his punishing wrist.

“Kyuki tu bilkul apni maa jaisi hai!” he roared, and with a final shove, he threw me back. I stumbled, my hip connecting sharply with the leg of a chair before I landed hard on the cool marble floor. The impact knocked the air from my lungs.

He loomed over me, a dark silhouette of my misery. “Bahar ja raha hoon. Khana le kar aunga. Tere haath ka khana kha kar mood kharab nahi karne  mujhe Apne doston ka . ghar ki safai kar lena, Randi. Agar thoda bhi kachra dikha na, tujhse chat kar saaf karwaunga,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Dada-ji, mujhe school jana hai,” I pleaded from the floor, my voice cracking.

“Ek din nahi jayegi to fail nahi ho jayegi. Padi reh ghar par, chup chap,” he dismissed, turning on his heel. The slam of the front door echoed through the house like a gunshot, a final punctuation to my humiliation.

Alone, I let the sobs come. I curled on the cold floor, my body aching. He hated me. He had always hated me, a living reminder of the daughter-in-law he believed had stolen his son. And now, with my father gone, I was utterly alone with his contempt. A deep, primal fear lived in me—the fear that one day he would follow through on his threats and throw me out, and I would have nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

My phone buzzed. I scrambled up, wiping my tears with the back of my hand, and retreated to the perceived safety of my small bedroom.

“Suman? Kahan reh gayi hai? Bus aane wali hai!” It was Ridi, my friend.

“Ridi… main nahi aa rahi school aaj,” I said, trying to steady my breath.

“Kyun? Kya hua?”

“Ghar pe kaam hai,” I lied, the words ash in my mouth.

“Achha, theek hai. Achha, woah party ki permission le li?” she asked, her voice bright and oblivious.

The party. I’d completely forgotten. My heart sank. “Mujhe nahi lagta Dada-ji manenge.”

“Puch kar to dekh!”

“Dekhungi,” I whispered, just as I heard the distinct sound of the front door opening again. My blood ran cold. “I have to go!” I hissed, ending the call and shoving the phone under my pillow.

He was back too soon. Had he forgotten something?

“Abhi tak khadi hai Randi? Kaam pe lag, randi!” his voice boomed, closer now, right outside my door.

I felt a deep, aching sadness every time he called me that word. Randi. It wasn’t just an insult; it was a label that cut into my soul. I wasn’t a whore. I didn’t even fully understand what it meant at first. One day, I looked it up on the internet, typing the word hesitantly into the search bar. The definition made my stomach churn. A woman who has sex for money. The idea horrified me. Sex? What even was that? For the longest time, I didn’t know.

It wasn’t until I overheard my friends giggling about it during recess that I began to piece it together. Curious and confused, I asked them what they were talking about. They laughed at my naivety but eventually pulled out a phone and showed me a video. My heart sank as I watched. A girl was on a bed, her cries echoing through the room while a man moved aggressively on top of her. She seemed to be in pain, her face twisted, tears streaming down her cheeks. I felt a pang of sympathy for her, but my friends just laughed.

“She’s not crying because it hurts,” one of them said, grinning. “She’s crying because she’s enjoying it. That’s what pleasure feels like.”

I stared at the screen, bewildered. How could someone cry from pleasure? Her sobs didn’t seem happy or joyful—they sounded desperate, almost pained. I couldn’t understand what there was to enjoy. The memory of that video stayed with me, a confusing mix of fear and curiosity.

And now, here I was, every time Dada-ji called me Randi, my mind raced back to that video. My friends had said the girl in it was a Randi. But when he used that word, a part of me wondered—did he call me that because he wanted to do the same to me? Did he want to have sex with me? Wasn’t that wrong? My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but then I remembered my friends saying the people in the video were in love. Did that mean Dada-ji wanted to love me too? But… with sex? I couldn’t make sense of it, the thought twisting in my mind like a forbidden knot, leaving my chest tight and my face flushed with a mix of shame and an unwanted, curious flutter.

*****

Dadaji pov

The laughter filled the room as my friends and I sat around the table, playing cards. The atmosphere was light, but my mind kept drifting to her—Suman.

“Yaar, chai to manga,” one of my friends said, breaking my thoughts.

“Randi, Randi chai la ke aa!” I called out, the word slipping out almost instinctively.

“Ji,” she replied in her soft, trembling voice, appearing moments later with a tray of tea cups. Her small hands struggled to balance the heavy load, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a pang of guilt. But then I reminded myself: she deserved this. She was the daughter of that greedy woman who had stolen my son from me. She was a reminder of everything I had lost.

She began serving the tea, moving silently around the table, her head bowed. Each “Ji” she uttered was shaky, her entire frame trembling under the weight of my disdain. As she turned to leave, one of my friends chuckled.

“Vaise naam to sahi rakha hai, Randi. Dekho kaise randi ke jaisa jism hai uska,” he said, his tone laced with vulgar amusement.

“Iski maa bhi aisi hi thi,” I muttered before I could stop myself, my voice bitter.

Suman was only 18, but her body… it was as if nature had played a cruel joke on her innocence. Her breasts were full, her curves pronounced, especially in the ill-fitting clothes I provided. Today she wore a small frock, her lack of undergarments making her figure even more evident.

“Kitni baar chodta hai isko?” another friend asked, his words crude.

“Kya bakwas kar raha hai?” I snapped, anger flaring.

“Gussa kyun ho raha hai? Bata de, chod ke hi toh yeh hal hai,” Ramesh said, gesturing toward her retreating form.

“Aisa kuch nahi hai. Woh aisi nahi hai, aur chodi bhi nahi hai aaj tak. Bahut bholi hai. Yeh bas uski maa ke genes hain,” I defended, though my voice lacked conviction.

Yes, I hated her. I called her a whore. But deep down, I knew she was innocent. Her father had sheltered her, and my harsh words had kept her timid. She rarely spoke, rarely went out. She was untouched—a fact I was certain of.

“Abhi tak nahi chodi? Agar yeh meri poti hoti, toh roz chodta ise,” Mahesh said, his tone mocking.

“Kya bakwas kar raha hai? Poti hai meri, ise thodi na chodunga,” I retorted, though his words stirred something dark within me.

“Hum toh chodte hai,” the three of them chimed together, their laughter echoing in the room.

I stared at them in disbelief. “Tum log apne poti ko chodte ho? Sharam nahi aati?”

“Maza aata hai bahut. Choti si choot chodne mein,” Mahesh admitted shamelessly.

“Hamne toh socha tu roz chodta hoga,” Ramesh added.

Shock rippled through me. “Apne poti ko kaun chodta hai, saale?”

“Hum sab chodte hai,” they declared again in unison.

Before I could process their words, Suman passed by the corridor, heading to her room. Her innocent demeanor contrasted starkly with the lewd comments that followed.

“18 ki ho gayi hai, nayi nayi choot hai uski. Kab tak khote pe paise barbaad karta rahega? Dheele choot pe? Iss Randi ki lai tight puri ghar ki bani hui,” Mahesh said.

“Bakwas mat karo, khalo chup chap,” I snapped, though his words lingered in my mind.

They shook their heads, calling me an idiot for wasting such an “opportunity.” To be honest, I had never thought of her that way. I called her Randi because of her mother’s past—not because I wanted her. But now... doubt crept in. What if they were right? What if I had been blind to something all along?

The front door opened, whirlwind of motion caught my eye. Suman. She was back, rushing through the living room toward the kitchen, a panicked look on her face. She must have forgotten something on the stove. Her sundress, a tiny floral thing, fluttered around her thighs as she moved. And her boobs… god, they jumped with every hurried step, a mesmerizing, full bounce that made my mouth actually water. A raw, primal urge surged through me—a need to reach out, to grip the soft flesh, to feel that weight in my hands.

I shook my head, physically trying to dislodge the thought, and focused back on the cards in my hand. Focus on the game.

Suresh’s phone chimed with a distinctive notification. He grinned, his eyes lighting up as he looked at the screen. “Dakho!” he laughed, shoving the phone toward us. “Salo mare randi poti ki photo. School se aayi hai. Roz datli hai.” He placed his cards down with a definitive smack. “Chalo, main chalta hoon. Uske maa-baap bahar gaye hain. Jam ke chodunga ab use.” He was out the door before any of us could say another word, eager for his conquest.

“Mujhse to khud intezaar nahi hota raat ka,” Ramash said, shaking his head with a wistful sigh.

“Tu bhi time mat gawa, ghar ki randi chod,” Mahesh said, elbowing me. “Do fayde honge.”

“Konse?” I asked, my voice tighter than I intended.

“Ek to tera paise bach jayenge. Aur doosra…” he leaned in, a lewd grin spreading across his face. “…tight chut milegi, saale.” They both laughed, a crude, knowing sound that seemed to echo in the suddenly too-quiet room.

We resumed the game, but the rhythm was broken. My mind was no longer on the cards. It was running wild, fueled by their words. They fuck their granddaughter . They actually fuck  and enjoy it. I love sex, crave it intensely, visiting workers three, sometimes four times a week to sate the hunger. But I’d never once looked at Suman, my quiet, granddaughter, like that. Not until now. Now, the seed was planted, and it was a vicious, thirsty thing. They’re right. I’m wasting a chance. A perfect, willing opportunity right next door.

We played until the evening light began to fade, and then they too excused themselves, leaving me alone in the stifling silence of my own thoughts. I couldn't sit still. The image of Suman, of her body moving, of what my friends implied, played on a relentless loop behind my eyes.

*****

The door clicked shut behind me, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet of the house. My body ached with a long day’s exhaustion, every muscle pleading for the embrace of my mattress. But as my eyes adjusted to the lamplight of my bedroom, my plans for silent, solitary sleep evaporated.

There she was.

Suman Curled on her side in the center of my bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other clutching that absurdly soft penguin toy to her chest. Deep, even breaths lifted her shoulders in a gentle rhythm. A familiar, frustrated sigh built in my chest. I just spent the whole day shouting at her over one immature thing after another, and yet here she is. The thought was a angry spark, but it died instantly. Because I knew the truth. Her fear of the dark, of the nightmares that followed, was a terror so absolute it dwarfed any anger I could ever muster. After her father—my son—passed last year, the crying from her room was a sound that could shatter stone. Letting her sleep here was the only way either of us got any peace.

The main light was on, of course. She’d never turn it off. The window was a sheet of black glass, reflecting the room back at itself. My hand was already reaching for the switch when my phone buzzed violently in my pocket. The friends’ group chat. I frowned, pulling it out.

It was Mahesh. A photo, poorly lit and grainy, sent from under a blanket. The image took a second to resolve in my bleary vision. His thick fingers wrapped around his own erection, the flushed head of his cock pressing against a small, pink slit. The caption followed a second later.

‘Dekh rahe ho kitni gulabi hai meri poti ki chut? Tumhaari aisi kisi ki bhi poti ki nahi hogi.

A cold knot twisted in my stomach. Disgust, sharp and acidic, rose in my throat. Before I could process it, another message popped up from Ramesh.

‘Are is ghade ki poti ki hogi, hamari potiyon se zyada gori hai woh. Paka bahut gulabi hogi uski.’

He’s talking about her. Ramesh was referring to suman. The cold disgust in my gut was suddenly swamped by a hotter, far more dangerous feeling. My eyes, as if pulled by a magnet, snapped from the phone screen to the sleeping figure on my bed.

The angry words I’d shouted at her today—about her mess, her carelessness—felt like ash in my mouth. Because there was no denying it. In the warm glow of the lamp, her skin was milky white, flawless and smooth like poured cream. Her hair fanned out over my pillow, dark silk against the white cotton. One strap of her thin camisole had slipped down her shoulder, revealing the gentle, graceful curve towards her breast.

My gaze traveled down, past the gentle swell of her hips, to where the hem of her short frock had ridden up. It was bunched just above her thighs, offering a scandalous glimpse of the shadowed junction between her legs. Right above her pussy.

A jolt of pure, undiluted lust slammed into me, so forceful it stole my breath. I quickly looked away, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was wrong. She’s your granddaughter. She’s sleeping. This is a violation. The thoughts were a frantic, panicked chorus.

But another voice, lower and hungrier, drowned them out. It was the voice that had heard Ramesh’s crude message and pictured her. That remembered the way her lower lip trembled when I scolded her. That now compared the grainy, vulgar image on my phone to the pristine, sleeping beauty in front of me.

I felt a familiar, insistent pressure against the fly of my jeans. I was hardening, the fabric growing painfully tight. My mouth went dry. I tried to swallow, to look at the door, to think of anything else. But my eyes were dragged back to her. To the innocent, trusting slope of her nose. To the part of her lips with each soft exhalation.

‘Paka bahut gulabi hogi uski.’ Ramesh’s words echoed, taunting me.

A war raged inside my skull, but my body had already chosen a side. My feet carried me to the edge of the bed, the floorboards silent beneath my weight. I stood there, a predator caught in the glow of its prey, just watching her sleep. The air seemed to thicken, charged with a electricity that had nothing to do with the lamp.

The message came again: 'Par yeh Gadha konsa chodne wala hai use, chalo dosto, apne poti chodne mein focus karo, chhodo ise,' Ramash said, and they all went offline.

I set the phone down and got on the bed, still trying to shake off the thought of what they could do to their granddaughters. I wouldn't, especially not her, whom I hated so much.

But the message kept repeating in my mind. My eyes kept falling on her milky legs, recalling the message that hers would be even pinker.

I looked at her pussy through the fabric.

My dick hardened. Dakhne mein kya jata hai? I thought, and moved toward her slowly, making sure not to wake her up.

I lifted her  frock a bit. She groaned in her sleep but didn't wake up.

I slowly lifted it until her pussy was fully exposed, and my mouth watered. She was so damn pink—more than my friend's granddaughter.

I felt a hunger in me to latch on; I almost did but controlled myself, not wanting her to wake up and get scared.

But my hands ached to touch her. Giving in to the temptation, I placed my hand on her pussy.

She groaned again, but as it was late at night, she was deep in sleep, so she didn't wake up. She was so warm. I occasionally looked at her face while admiring her pussy.

I wasn't able to hold back; I began circling her cunt.

"Ahhh," a moan escaped her lips, so low. I stopped, thinking she had woken up, but she was still asleep.

I began again.

She was softly moaning in her sleep. I made sure to keep my pace slow; I wanted to take my time, not rush her.

I felt her wetness pooling out; my mouth watered to drink from her.

I slowly kneeled between her legs, spreading them slowly without waking her up. Pushing her legs apart lightly, I licked her juices.

'Ahhhh,' she moaned harder. I looked up; she was still asleep.

A smirk came on my face as I began licking her slowly, too lost to care if she would wake up. My fingers automatically found her pussy. I tried to put one inside.

She moaned loudly. I looked at her; she was holding her toy tightly, eyes shut completely, body lost in sleep and pleasure.

I pushed the finger inside; she was so tight—she was really a virgin. I began thrusting my finger slowly inside her, making sure to keep my pace slow so as not to wake her up.

Her moans softened. She relaxed into the sensation.

I bent down again, finger-fucking her while licking her juices. I was so lost I didn't care if she would wake up.

I felt her coming; her legs shook.

Jhad jaa, randi, jhad ja apne dade ke liye, I said in my mind, still finger-fucking her and licking, and she did. I eased my pace so she wouldn't wake up with the impact of the orgasm.

After she came, I pulled out my finger and sucked it.

'So sweet,' the words escaped my mouth as I sucked her orgasm from my finger.

My dick ached to get inside her, but she wasn't ready—I knew it. Still, I pulled it out and began jerking off at the sight of her glistening wetness.

I undid a few buttons of her frock and revealed her huge boobs.

My hand moved faster on jerking myself as I ran my hand over her breast and nipple. She was so beautiful.

My dick arched to get in her. But instead of putting it in her and scaring her, I just placed it on her cunt and began dry humping.

'Oh god,' my head fell back in pleasure.

I heard her moaning too, softly.

A smirk came on my face, thinking she was enjoying it in her sleep.

I felt myself coming; I rubbed a little faster, and then I came right on her cunt.

I held back the sudden scream of cum from myself. I never came this fast, but she was too good; she made me.

I grabbed a tissue and cleaned her. Then I lay beside her, just watching her breathing softly as she turned toward me and wrapped her arm around me, hugging me. She placed her leg on me too, her pussy touching the side of my leg, hardening my dick again, but I controlled myself.

Instead of doing anything, I got closer to her, and she wrapped herself around me more. For the first time in the entire year, I liked her near me. She smelled so fresh too. I pushed her hair behind her ear. She was so innocent and beautiful. Should I stop hating her? I'm just making her suffer, and myself too. Maybe we could make our life fun now instead of miserable. I smiled as I hugged her back.

She laid her head on my chest. I felt her tear falling, and then she began speaking like she always does in her sleep.

"Dadaji, please stop hating me; it hurts," she whispered. She was still in sleep. She used to speak this daily, but before it sounded irritating to me, fueling me more to hate her. But now I was feeling guilty for her. I think I should really stop hating her now; maybe we could get into a relationship like my friends have with their granddaughters.

A smirk came on my face as my mind was already running on how I could make it possible. I know she would agree. She's been doing everything she can to make me happy, accept her, and maybe when she learns this thing will make me accept her and make me happy, she will do it. She will.

I looked at her.

"Randi," I called softly.

"Ji, Dadaji," she replied softly, still in sleep.

"Chahati ho main tumse pyar karu?" I asked.

She hugged me tighter and just nodded; more tears fell.

"Theek hai, tu fir taiyar ho jao mere pyar ke liye. Bahut pyar karunga main ab tumhe," I said, smiling softly and lying relaxed.

Life will be fun now.

*****