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English Story of the Old Man Who Lived Down the Lane

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The Old Man Who Lived Down The Lane​

It's Diwali, the biggest festival in India. Slutty Shilpi goes down memory lane to revisit the Diwali of 2021. She met a stranger who became her guru.

Part 1​

Diwali. The biggest festival in India. A time of joy and celebration like none other. Like most people, some of my fondest memories are of moments spent during Diwali in the past. Moments are made memorable by not just happiness and fun but also by unique experiences, especially life-altering ones.

This Diwali, as I take a trip down memory lane, I cannot help but wonder how my life would have unfolded without these life-changing experiences. And at the very top of the list would be the Diwali of 2021. I was 21 years of age at that time.

I was then shuffling through the world of adulthood. One step at a time. Doing my MBA while staying alone in Delhi. And navigating the post-Covid world at the same time.

Like all neighbourhoods, mine had its share of oddball characters. Society calls them misfits. Loners, drifters, and individuals who try to avoid social contact and lead an isolated life. One such character lived right down the road, a stone’s throw away from my apartment.

He was an old man, probably in his 70s. The house he lived in was an old but giant property. One of those decades-old structures that can still be found in the dark nooks and corners of every big Indian city. A house with history but no future.

Nobody knew his name. Some addressed him as Guruji, others as Masterji. Rumour had it that he was an artist, a painter probably. However, none seemed to know what he painted and when.

He interacted with no one. He was rarely seen in public, except when he would go out to buy the newspaper every morning. And visit the local grocery shop to buy groceries once a week.

The French poet Jean de La Fontaine once said, “A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.” I guess that would best explain my 1st encounter with this old man. It turned out to be a twist of fate instead of a random event. And how it shaped my destiny forever.

Chapter 1 – The Stranger

It was a day in August 2021, a good 3 months before Diwali. The skies opened up one fine morning. And flooded the city in torrential rain.

I was returning to my apartment after my morning classes. My Honda Scooty broke down in the middle of the road right when the heavy downpour started. It was right in front of the old house where the old man lived.

My flat was just a 5-minute walk away up the road. But there was no way I could have walked in that severe rain. I abandoned my Scooty in the middle of the road. And ran towards the old house to seek shelter under one of its ancient balconies.

I stood under a big 1st-floor balcony to escape the rain. That was when I first heard his voice.

“Don’t leave your scooter in the middle of the road,” said a voice from the balcony above. “A car might ram into it. Park it under this balcony where you are standing.”

I looked up and saw the old man standing on the balcony above, holding an umbrella. His white hair swept across his forehead in the breeze. His white beard was covered in droplets of rain.

I realised he was right. Leaving my Scooty in the middle of the road was risky. I ran out in the rain and somehow managed to push it all the way to the old man’s house.

I was now totally drenched from head to toe. My wet hair clung to my shoulders and back like vines that grew on walls. My white top stuck to my skin and the bra I was wearing underneath.

“You are totally wet. Come in,” he said as he opened the main door. “Let the rain stop. You could then call a mechanic to repair your scooter.”

“No, it’s ok. I will stay outside. Thanks,” I replied politely. This was the 1st time I was interacting with him. And I was in no hurry to enter his big old house.

“Waiting inside would be better,” he said again in his gravelly old voice. “You can’t ride your scooter until it gets repaired.”

“Actually, I stay just down the road,” I told him. “All I have to do is push my scooter for 5 minutes once the rain stops.”

“Fine. As you wish,” I noticed a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Just so you know, I am not a crazy old man, “ he added. “And this is not a haunted house either, irrespective of the stories you might have heard. You will be safe inside.”

I felt embarrassed now. A senior citizen was opening his door and inviting me in to seek shelter from bad weather. And I was refusing him under some preconceived notions formed by rumours and neighbourhood gossip. I felt ashamed.

“Sorry, Sir. I meant no disrespect,” I said apologetically. “Thank you for letting me in.”

I entered the house along with him. And kept walking down a long corridor. It did look like a haunted house, though. Damp and dark, having a typical old-house smell.

“Please wait here,” he told me at the end of the never-ending walk down the corridor. Rooms on either side surrounded a hall. He opened the door to one of those rooms and disappeared inside.

He emerged soon after and handed me a dry towel and a set of neatly ironed clothes. “Here, change into these,” he said. “I am afraid I don’t have any women’s clothes. These are mine.”

I looked at the clothes. It was a set of kurtas and pyjamas. Both were white and ironed. And both looked too large for my size.

“Sir, there’s no need. I am fine,” I replied gratefully. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“You will catch a cold if you keep wearing those wet clothes,” he said in that same sombre tone of his. “You have no reason to worry. There is nobody here except me. You can change in that room. Lock the door from inside.”

I entered the room and locked the door. I took off my top and jeans as well as my bra and panty. All were soaking wet. And put on the kurta and pyjama over my naked body.

Both the kurta and pyjama were too large and voluminous for my delicate petite frame. The neckline of the kurta was so deep that it revealed half of my cleavage. The neck opening was so wide that my shoulders were visible.

I came out of the room holding my wet clothes and the towel in one hand. And tugging at the shoulder of the kurta with the other. I kept the wet bra and panty in the side pocket of the kurta.

“Sir, can I hang these somewhere to dry?” I asked him and pointed to the wet clothes.

“I will take care of these,” he took the wet clothes and towel from my hands.

“Have some hot tea,” he gestured to the table in the middle of the hall. There were 2 teacups and a teapot on it. “I just made some for myself.”

“It’s a very big house,” I tried to engage in small talk while sipping tea. “Must be very old.”

“Yes. 130 years,” he said. “My great-grandfather built it. My wife passed away 20 years ago. We were then living abroad. After her death, I returned to this ancestral house. Now I live alone.”

In between taking sips of tea, I noticed him glancing at my cleavage, now fully visible from the open neckline of the kurta. My dark nipples were also poking out under the light white fabric. There was no bra to protect my modesty. And no buttons on the kurta either.

“I think I should leave now. Thank you for the clothes and tea,” I tried to get up and leave.

“It’s still raining,” he said, “but I could give you a tour of the house if you are ok with it.”

A tour of an ancient house? Why not? Sounded like a nice way to bide some time. I agreed immediately.

He showed me all the rooms, one by one. There were so many that I lost count. But there was one on the 1st floor which was locked. He didn’t show me that one.

“What is that room for?” I was curious to know.

“My work,” he replied softly. “My studio.”

“A studio?” My curiosity increased. “An art studio? Can I see it?”

He looked at me with his old dark eyes. “You can. But you can’t talk about what you see in that room to anyone. I mean it.”

“I promise,” I blurted out without thinking.

He opened the heavy padlock and pushed the giant wooden doors. The 1st thing I noticed was a strong smell of paint or something similar. And then I stood spellbound in the middle of the room.

Surrounding me on all sides of the room were big canvasses. All over the floor, along the walls, and in every corner. There were hundreds of them. All covered by big white sheets of fabric.

The smell and the appearance of these canvasses implied one thing only. Hidden under those white sheets were paintings. Artworks. So many that any museum would be proud to have these.

“You are an artist!” I exclaimed. The neighbourhood gossip was right. “That’s why they call you Guruji.”

“You cannot tell anyone about this,” he reminded me of my promise. “This is my life’s work. And I don’t want anyone to see what’s underneath those sheets.”

“But I want to,” I was more excited than curious now. “Please, Guruji. Can I see the paintings?”

He nodded yes. I removed the cover from the nearest canvas. And stood frozen in awe and shock. It was not what I thought it would be.

I expected to find a landscape or something similar. What I found instead was a nude painting! A woman lying on the sofa, fully nude, appears to be asleep. Painted in vivid and bold colours.

Her big fleshy thighs were slightly parted. Her private parts were slightly visible. Her ample breasts were coloured in milky white, with dark chocolate erect nipples.

I felt squeamish, hot, and slightly aroused.

Chapter 2 – The Artist

The old man took off the sheets one by one. Revealing hundreds of nude paintings. Some were in colour, while others were pencil sketches. They were in all sizes, big and small.

All the paintings showed women in different stages of undress. Some had a fully nude woman, while some depicted partial nudity. The women were also different from one portrait to another.

“Are these real-life models?” I asked naively.

“Yes. All of them. They were all my students. And my inspirations, too,” he replied.

I was stunned. So many models? All were students? And they all posed nude for him? Why?

“It’s not what you think,” he said as if he could read my thoughts. “They were never paid to pose. They did it voluntarily. Our relationships were based on mutual respect. I was the artist, and they were my inspirations. It’s a sacred bond.”

I have seen many nudes in my life. Both male and female. But those were mostly porn. This was art.

“Let me know if you are feeling uncomfortable,” he said. “I don’t know why I showed these to you. Maybe because you have something in common with them.”

“Something in common? What would that be?” I was surprised.

“They were all naive and curious like you when they first walked in,” he replied. “And they all had an innocent charm and tender youth like yours.”

He walked towards me and suddenly caught hold of the placket of my kurta and opened up the neckline. My entire cleavage was now bare before him. I could not react.

“You look much younger than any of them,” he said with his gaze fixed on my boobs. “And curvier, too. How old are you, dear?”

“I am… um…21,” I replied hesitantly.

“21! That makes you younger than all of them.,” he said. “Can I make a portrait of yours? Now? It won’t take long.”

“Mine? No,” I panicked. “I think I should leave now.”

“Don’t worry,” he held my hands. “You don’t have to undress. Just stand here like this for a few minutes. I promise I will not touch you.”

His voice was gravelly. His tone was sombre. His words were reassuring, and his look was gentle and kind. I could not say no.

“The artist and the model never touch each other. As I said, it’s a sacred bond,” he added.

He mounted a large canvas on a wooden stand. I would come to know later that the wooden stand is called an easel. He started sketching on the canvas with a pencil. And I stood in the middle of the room with my cleavage exposed.

A few minutes later, he again walked up to me. “I am not going to touch you. But I have to do something to make the portrait perfect,” he said.

I was not sure what he meant. Or what he was about to do. So, when he did it, I was left speechless. And numb.

He took a dry paintbrush and inserted it through the open neckline of the kurta. The brush gently caressed my boobs and settled on my flat nipples. Then, he began to stimulate my nipples with the tip of that brush. Slowly and sensually.

My nipples had never been touched like that before. The bristles on the brush tickled, prickled, stroked and titillated them until they were fully erect. Until they were poking out under the fabric.

A gasp escaped from my mouth. That was when he withdrew the brush and resumed sketching.

“I hope you didn’t mind,” he said without looking at me. “It was necessary for the sake of the portrait.”

He showed me the rough pencil sketch after some time. I was amazed at how dazzling I looked on the canvas. My wet hair and open cleavage looked more captivating than they did in reality. And my dark nipples looked simply luscious.

The rain had stopped by then. It was time for me to leave. He asked me to go home wearing his kurta and pyjama. And return the next day to collect my clothes and Scooty.

I agreed, but not before asking him a question that was nagging me for quite some time. “Sir, what happened to these women? Your students? Where are they now?”

“They do not visit me anymore,” he replied with a dark look and in a darker voice. “They have all got married and moved out of the city. They have families now. Nobody has time for me.”

His words hurt me as much as they hurt him. I kept thinking about him on the short walk home. And all night until I returned to his house the next morning.

“Your clothes are ready, dried and ironed,” he told me. “And so is the portrait. Would you like to see it?”

The portrait turned out to be half complete. Or unfinished. The upper body was fully sketched out. But there was nothing below the waist.

“No legs?” I asked innocently.

“I focussed on your upper body only yesterday,” he replied. “Do you want the rest to be completed?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Of course.”

“Then you have to pose again, dear. In the same clothes you were wearing yesterday. And no undergarments,” he said. “It would look better without the pyjama, though. You have such a tender body. The pyjama hides all that beauty.”

“Sir, I can’t pose naked,” I told him hesitantly.

“You don’t have to expose yourself fully,” he assured me. “Keep your private parts covered with your hands. But let me draw the rest.”

I was not sure what to say. So I said nothing. A part of me wanted to say yes. The other part wanted to say no. In the end, I nodded my head.

I changed into the same kurta pyjama as the previous day, without undergarments. He stepped forward and pulled the drawstring of the pyjama. Instinctively, my palms moved towards my crotch.

The pyjama fell silently on the floor. I kept both my palms closed together to cover my groin. He resumed his sketching. And I stood nervously in the middle of the studio.

It took him a long time to finish the rough sketch. By the time it was ready, my hands had started aching. He left the room to give me privacy. I quickly put on the pyjamas and looked at the canvas.

The old man sure knew his art. He turned an average girl like me into a sensual, erotic creature. The portrait oozed oomph from every curve of the body. The strokes of his pencil made me look sultry and sizzling.

I kept waiting for him to return to the studio. But he did not. After 10-odd minutes or so, I went out to find him. And stood frozen right around the corner of the staircase.

There was a bathroom in that corner. Its door was open. And standing inside was the old man, stark naked. His right hand was moving back and forth in his crotch area. He was jerking off!

I was so shocked by that sight that I dashed back into the studio, picked up my bag, and ran out of the house. I forgot to pick up my clothes. I pushed the Scooty all the way to my apartment building. And tried to come to terms with what I had just witnessed.

I did not go back to that house for the next 2 days. The image of the 70-year-old masturbating was too overwhelming. Finally, after 2 days, I gathered some courage to go back. To return his clothes and collect mine.

No more posing or modelling, I told myself. Did he get aroused by me? I kept asking myself.

He opened the door and offered an apology. “I am so sorry for what you saw the other day. I did not want you to see that. Please forgive me.”

“It’s ok. I was not expecting to see what I ended up seeing,” I replied curtly. “I trusted you.”

“I apologise. I am old. I lose control over my impulses sometimes,” his old voice quivered and trembled. “I never had any bad intentions. I was trying to feel young again, I guess.”

He sounded full of remorse. I felt sorry for him. Maybe his intentions were not dirty. Maybe he got horny. I decided to give him a 2nd chance.

“Let’s go inside and finish the portrait,” I told him against my advice. We went to the studio, and I decided to pose for him again. He had finished the portrait yesterday itself and wanted to start a new one.

He asked me politely if I would pose topless for him, with one hand across my boobs covering my nipples. Today, I did not leave the studio to undress. I just turned around with my back facing him.

I removed the kurta. Placed my left hand across both breasts, covering my nipples. And raised my right hand behind my head as he wanted.

This portrait turned out to be even more alluring than the last one. He made me look like a goddess. An enchantress. Not like a girl next door.

“Let’s have another one,” I said. I was now feeling much more comfortable and way too excited. I wanted to see more portraits of mine.

“Will you be offended if I ask you to pose in the nude for the next one?” he asked softly. “Covering your private parts, of course.”

I thought for a second and then agreed. My comfort level with the artist was increasing by the minute. I turned around and loosened the drawstring of the pyjama. And kept my palms on my crotch only, leaving my boobs bare.

I turned around to face him again. My 34DD perky tits jiggled before his eyes. Completely bare. My dark brown nipples attracted all his attention.

“Please sit down on that sofa. And slightly part your legs,” he said.

I did as I was told. Sat down on the sofa, fully nude. Kept my crotch covered with my hands. And opened my legs slightly.

He started sketching furiously this time. The portrait was ready in no time. But he wanted to do another. “If you don’t mind, this time, I would like you to sit on the sofa and lift your knees to your chin,” he said.

Now, this was slightly awkward. Lifting my knees to my chin would make my pussy visible. I did as he wanted and kept my slit covered with my palms. Still, I felt he probably caught a glimpse of my pussy and ass while I was positioning myself.

It took him longer to finish this one. And once it was done, he left the studio to give me some privacy, just like the 1st day. I got dressed and peeked at the 2 portraits he had just completed.

My jaw dropped at the way he had sketched me. So sensual and seductive, carnal and voluptuous. And yes, there was the slightest glimpse of my pussyhole peeking between my fingers. It is so beautifully hidden that you would not notice it unless you observed.

I stepped out of the room to look for him. And found him at the same spot as last time. Inside the toilet at the corner of the staircase. Masturbating with the door open.

This time, I did not run away. I did not feel repulsed. Rather, a strange feeling of compassion and acceptance took over my senses as if I could feel for him as if I could feel him.

I watched silently as he kept jerking off. But there was something amiss. He did not cum. He probably did not get an erection, either.

I ignored all sense of shame and decency and entered the bathroom. Startling him in the process. He looked stunned and tried to cover himself. But I was younger and quicker.

“It’s ok, Guruji,” I whispered. “It’s alright. Let me help.”

“No, no,” he protested feebly. “You cannot touch me. It’s wrong.”

“It’s not,” I whispered again. “I know it’s supposed to be a sacred bond. Let me break it. I want to.”

I held his cock in my right hand. It looked old and limp. His balls looked shrivelled and dried like dates. Shrunken and wrinkled, just like the look on his face.

“I have grown old,” his voice trembled. “I can’t get it up anymore. I have erectile dysfunction.”

“You need a woman’s soft touch,” I said. “A young girl’s touch.”

He wept in pleasure and shame while I started jerking him off. Slowly, his limp cock began to enlarge and harden up. But he could not hold it up much longer. He ejaculated before he could get fully erect.

“Sorry,” he was still weeping. “I have not been touched by a woman in the last 20 years. And never by a girl as young as you.”

“Don’t worry, Guruji,” I consoled him and wiped off his tears. “I am now here for you. I will always be there for you.”

His cum was thin and watery. Hardly a few drops had come out. It smelled stale and looked pale. Victim of the ravages of time.

I made up my mind to make him feel young again. To make his cock hard and strong again. I told myself that I would continue to model for him and provide him with a much-needed sexual release. Everyday.

From that day on, he became my Guruji. And I became his muse.

To be continued.
 
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The old man turns Shilpi's body into a work of art. He fulfils her desires, and his, on Diwali. Their illicit relationship grows deeper and turns into love.

Part 2​

Chapter 3 – The Muse

Every artist has a muse. An inspiration. A flesh-and-blood human being, usually from the opposite sex. Behind every successful man, there is a woman. Behind every great artist, there is a muse.

I became the old man’s muse after our 2nd encounter. I posed, and he painted and sketched. Every day from dawn to dusk. I skipped my classes and neglected my studies. Only to be alone with him in his studio.

I surrendered myself to him. Unconditionally and totally. I stripped right in front of his eyes. I posed nude. When he asked me to lie on the sofa sideways and bend my knees so that he could get a peek at my pussy lips, I obliged wholeheartedly.

He made dozens of my portraits in the first 2 weeks. Made me pose in ways that defied standards of moral decency. Poses that were so lewd and explicit that they were not fit to be described in print. And at the end of the day, I would play with his dick and make him cum on my hands.

All this while, he never touched me. He kept his side of the bargain – his ‘sacred bond’ – that the artist should never touch the model. It was in the 3rd week that he broke this rule. And I enticed him to do it.

The old man was in a very good mood that day. He was humming a tune as ancient as his house. The last 3 weeks had transformed him completely. The grumpy senior citizen had turned jolly and cheerful.

“I want to paint on a different material instead of canvas today,” he said.

“Like what? Fabric?” I was curious.

“No. Skin,” he replied. “I have never painted on skin. I want to start with yours.”

“My skin? Wow!” I was surprised as well as excited. “I am ready. Which part of my body do you want to paint?”

“You decide. I will let you choose.”

Now, this was tricky. He put the ball in my court. I would have to decide. Obviously, I chose a part not visible in public.

“My inner thighs,” I said after some thought. “Upper part of my inner thighs. Nobody will notice.”

I sat down naked on the sofa. He knelt on the floor in front of me with a brush in his hand. This was the closest he had been to my nude body to date. I opened up my legs slightly to give him access.

For a few seconds, there was no movement from him. His hand holding the brush stood still an inch away from my pussy lips. His face kept getting closer and closer to my slit as if some invisible force was drawing him in.

And then it dawned on ne. The scent of my cunt was too much for him to resist. I realised what was happening to him. I parted my legs a bit more to let him sniff.

He looked up at me with hungry eyes. Eyes that conveyed the look of a hungry child. A look that sought permission from me. Permission to give in to temptation and break his ‘sacred bond.’

“Go ahead, Guruji,” I mumbled. “Don’t feel shy. It’s all yours. Do whatever you want.”

He obliged like an obedient child. Touched his nose to my slit and closed his eyes. And began to sniff the fragrance of my pussy. As if it was an early morning flower, and he was a bee drawing nectar from it.

I noticed a slight movement inside his pyjama. A tiny bulge appeared on his crotch. My old guru was getting hard. I felt immense satisfaction and relief.

He opened his eyes after some time. Looked at ke with content and gratitude. I made a silent gesture towards his hand. To entice him to use it now.

He did not touch me with his hand. Used his brush instead. Ran it along the length of my slit. And flicked my clit with its tip.

The brush tickled the soft lips of my pussy. The sensation sent shivers down my spine. I opened up my legs as a reflex action. And Guruji pushed the tip of the brush inside my hole.

The bristles of the brush pricked the inside wall of my cunt repeatedly. And kept pushing inside. Wetness began to seep through the opening of my pussy. Drenching the bristles and turning them soft and moist.

“It’s so tender, so fresh,” exclaimed the old man.

“It looks fresher inside,” I said. “Use your fingers, Guruji.”

He gave in to temptation and lust. Violated his moral code. Spread my pussy lips with his trembling fingers. And touched the inner lips with the tip of his finger.

I let out a gasp and closed my eyes. He inserted the finger slightly and took it out. And put it in his mouth instantly.

“It’s so soft, so pink,” he exclaimed, “and so juicy.”

It gave me immense pride and joy to see this old man lose control over himself. He lost all sense of shame and decency and gave in to his impulses. His reactions told me that he hadn’t tasted pussy in a long, long time. A pussy so soft and pink that would compel him to succumb to his dormant desires.

He fingered me. He licked me. He sniffed and poked me. He did things to my cunt that could best be described as obscene. He left my vulva swollen, sloppy and red.

He sucked on my clit and rubbed it with his beard. The hair on his face was pricklier than his brush. I moaned loudly in pleasure and cum in bursts. And squirted my juice all over his wrinkled face.

“You are not a virgin,” he said after the torrid session was over. “I wish you were.”

“Why? Is that going to be a problem?” I was surprised.

“No, no,” he responded. “Just that I have always had this desire of deflowering a virgin someday. Just a fantasy, nothing else.”

“I can pretend to be a virgin,” I said coyly, “once you are strong and hard enough.”

“How long do you think that’s going to take?” he asked.

“A few more weeks. I can already see some improvement,” I pointed at the bulge inside his crotch. “You will be ready before Diwali.”

“And you will let me defile you? An old geezer like me?”

“Guruji, I am yours now. Nothing would make me happier,” I replied. “Now, can we start painting my thighs?”

He wiped his face and my cunt with a clean piece of cloth. And asked me to lie down on the sofa with my legs closed and face upwards.

“I am not going to paint on your thighs,” he announced. “I am going to paint here,” he touched the cleft of my vulva, “and here,” he touched the shaved flaps on either side of my cleft.

“Whatever you decide, Guruji,” I said submissively. “I am all yours.”

“This is so smooth and clean,” he said in admiration while running his fingers along the cleft. “None of my previous students was so clean-shaven.”

Saying this, he dipped his brush in yellow colour and started painting on the right flap of my cleft. He then started drawing on my left flap with another brush dipped in red colour.

“It’s done. Would you like to look into the mirror?” he asked once he had finished.

I jumped up in excitement and ran towards the big mirror on the other side of the studio. And stood astonished at what I saw. The artist had painted a bright yellow sunflower on the right flap! And a red rose on the left.

My crotch had been turned into a painting by the old master. This was beyond my wildest fantasies. Never before had my shaved cooch looked so divine. Never after will it look as radiant and dazzling.

“It’s extraordinary,” I murmured. “All it needs now is a bee.”

“A bee? Why?” he was surprised.

“To sip nectar from these flowers. To pollinate them,” I replied and pointed at the tip of my slit. “Right here.”

He seemed interested and intrigued by the idea. And got down to work on it immediately. Dipped his brush in black colour and painted a bee. Right at the topmost point of my slit in between the 2 flowers.

“I wish I could become the bee,” he said with pleading eyes, “and pollinate the flower that you are.”

“You can, Guruji,” I hugged him. “And you will. I promise I will get you ready by Diwali. And help you pollinate me.”

Chapter 4 – The Pollination

With time running out and Diwali only 2 months away, I got busy. I had to get Guruji’s limp cock hard enough to make it sting me like a bee. And get his dried-up testicles fired up so that they could pump out enough seed.

The 1st mission was relatively easy, though time-consuming. The old man would paint standing naked in the studio. I would sit naked on the floor at his feet and massage his cock with mustard oil warmed with garlic.

Mustard oil rub increases blood flow and, when warmed with a few cloves of garlic, works wonders. My grandma used to rub my chest with this homemade remedy when I was a child to treat cough and congestion in winter.

The 2nd mission was a real challenge, though. How to increase his cum quantity? And improve its quality and density. His balls were 70 years old, and I was not expecting any miracles.

Still, I had to try. I began to massage his balls with raw honey. It’s very good for the skin and reduces wrinkles. I also made him eat a lot of walnuts every day to help increase the volume of his cum.

Word spread quickly in the neighbourhood that I was buying a lot of raw honey and walnuts from the local kirana. And rumours spread about my daily visits to the old house and the unusually long hours I was spending there. But gossip and rumours bothered me none. I had a deadline to meet, and the clock was ticking.

A month before Diwali – around the 2nd week of October – I noticed remarkable improvement in my old guru’s endurance levels. He could stay hard longer, and his cum became thicker than before. The time was right to subject him to a test before the eventual big day arrived.

“Guruji, no oil massage today,” I declared. “I am going to massage you with my mouth.”

He looked surprised at this sudden change in routine. But seemed pleased, too. He began to paint while I played with his balls for a while. As soon as his cock started moving on its own, I wrapped my lips around it and started sucking slowly.

“Ahh!” A deep, low grunt escaped his throat. “Your mouth is so warm and wet. So soft.”

“The place between these 2 flowers that you wish to pollinate is warmer and softer,” I pointed to my pussy. “You have to build up your stamina to maintain your stiffness longer. Especially inside wet and soft places.”

He got the hint and kept quiet after that. He realised my noble intentions behind giving him a blowjob. I gulped down his half-erect cock and moved my head slowly. Took utmost care not to make him cum quickly.

I tightened my lips on the base of his dick. And felt it move inside my mouth as if gasping for air. I pushed the foreskin down with my lips and felt his rigid organ grow by an inch.

It became easier after that. I got into a rhythm, and he responded to it. I pushed my head down slowly, and he responded by thrusting in equally slowly.

His cock became stiffer and bigger than ever before. His eyes closed, and his mouth opened up. I began to squeeze his balls gently. And prayed that he could last another 10 minutes.

He lasted longer than that. Surprised me in the process. I started licking the tip of his cock fast. I combined it with a rhythmic squeezing of his balls. That was when he lost control.

He exploded in my mouth louder than I had anticipated. Surpassing my expectations and earning my admiration. His discharge was heavy, and his cum was sticky. I swallowed every single drop with relish.

“You are ready,” I told him. “Your sack is full of seed, and your organ is no more weak. You could fulfil your fantasy by Diwali.”

“Thank you for making me feel young again,” he replied in gratitude. “You deserve a proper reward. And I have decided what that would be.”

“What?” I could not conceal my excitement.

“My best painting to date. A masterpiece. I am going to start working on it from tomorrow. And gift it to you after Diwali.”

“Will it be another portrait of me?” I was ecstatic.

“Of course,” he smiled. “But you are not allowed to look at it until I ask you to.”

The next 2 weeks were spent in hectic activities. Both of us were racing towards our respective goals. Me, to get him ready to pollinate me on Diwali night. He was to paint and finish his masterpiece by that date.

“I need flowers,” he said one day. “Small white ones like lilies. Small yellow ones like primroses. Don’t ask why.”

His wish was my command. I went to the local florist and bought a bunch of lilies and primrose. Guruji was thrilled when he saw them. And asked me to lie down naked on the sofa.

“Spread your legs wide, dear,” he said. And scattered the flowers all over my naked body. He inserted a couple of white lilies in my pussy. And a yellow primrose in my asshole.

My whole body was now covered in white and yellow flowers, except my boobs and nipples. They stood upright like mountain peaks in a valley of white and yellow colours.

I was fascinated by the old man’s supreme imagination. And his vision of transforming me into his masterpiece. He painted for hours that day. But I suspect his masterpiece was already finished inside his mind. Finishing it on canvas was just a matter of time.

Chapter 5 – Diwali Night

The moment of reckoning finally arrived. Our big night. The night my master would inseminate me and make me his own. It was Diwali night, 2021.

Both of us got busy since early morning, like a couple of over-excited schoolkids. I bought candles and diyas in hundreds from the local market. And he bought new colours a day before.

He had his plans for the big night. He asked me to take a shower in his bathroom in the morning. And come out of the bathroom naked. And bend down on the sofa on my knees with my naked butt pushed upwards.

“Spread your hips with your fingers,” he asked.

I did. And he tickled my asshole with a brush. I had become so used to these obscene poses in the last 3 months that nothing bothered me anymore except the tickling.

Both my holes were super sensitive. And not used to being invaded by a paintbrush. “Guruji, please! No tickling. I can’t stay steady,” I begged him.

He obliged and started painting instead. With colours. On my ass. Covered both my hips with an intricate design originating from my asshole. And held a mirror behind my bottom to show me after he was done.

“What is this design? Looks Tantric,” I asked.

“It is. It symbolises the union of ‘thunderbolt’ and ‘lotus.’ The penis and the vulva,” he explained. “We will follow Tantric rituals for our union tonight.”

Tantric sex? I was stunned. Did Guruji know Tantric rituals? I felt goosebumps all over my body.

I discovered that night that Tantric sex is incredibly complex. And exceedingly long. It is not a 15-minute fuck session. In fact, it takes 3 – 6 hours and involves multiple stages.

The 1st stage was ‘Yoni Puja’, or worshipping the vulva. Tantra considers the ‘Yoni’ (vulva) to be the source of creation. And a sacred vessel that holds the nectar of life. Elaborate rituals in the form of puja, chanting of mantras, etc, are usually performed for ‘Yoni Puja.’

Guruji smeared ghee on my vulva and decorated it with flowers. He then worshipped my ‘lotus’ by touching, tickling, fingering, and licking it. He licked so slowly and fingered so deeply that my ‘sacred vessel’ was mighty pleased. And rewarded him with a steady flow of ‘the nectar of life.’

He placed a glass plate under my bottom and collected all the cum gushing out of my pussy. “I will use this for painting my masterpiece,” he said. It was now my turn to worship his ‘thunderbolt’. His naughty old cock had started twitching and shaking already.

I slipped my fingers inside my cunt and got them smeared in my slippery cum. And applied it along the length of his shaft. My hands kept slipping off his rapidly rising cock. I stroked it by alternating between slow and fast movements.

Within minutes, his cock was stiff and fully erect. I kept pumping it for some time. I had to ensure he was strong and hard enough to penetrate my tight pussy.

“Guruji, it’s time,” I spoke softly when I was fully sure his erection would last for a long time.

“Lie down on the floor, dear,” he responded. “I want to be on top. And do not close your eyes. I want to look into them.”

I lay down on the floor and spread my legs. Guruji placed 2 cushions below my waist to lift it.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Guruji, I have been ready for the last 3 months,” I replied. “I have always been yours.”

“You are so young, so tender,” he said in awe. “Just like the virgin of my dreams.”

“Fulfil your wish, Sir. Treat me as that virgin. Break my seal. Fill me up with your seed,” I prodded him.

He gave in to his lust and gave a quick thrust. The tip of his cock went in and got stuck. I nodded at him in encouragement. He pushed again and waited for my reaction.

“Ah!” I grimaced as if I was in pain. I had to pretend to be a virgin as I had promised him.

“Did I hurt you?” he sounded worried. He suddenly realised he had not penetrated a woman in 20 years.

“Yes, Guruji. It hurts,” I decided to playact. “You tore my hymen. You broke my seal.”

His old eyes lit up at those words. I could feel a sudden rush of blood inside his throbbing dick. It seemed to grow an inch. His fantasy was coming true.

“I am sorry I forgot to buy condoms,” he said.

“No, Guruji. Don’t be sorry,” I replied. “I don’t want a rubber barrier between you and me. I want you to plant your seed deep inside me.”

“You are the most delicate girl I have ever seen,” he said passionately. “I hope God forgives me for defiling you tonight.”

“You have a sackful of seed and a rock-hard prick. And a 21-year-old virgin lying in front of you with her legs open. God wants you to defile her. What are you waiting for?”

He lost all sense of shame and morality after that. All his self-doubts and hesitation vanished. He shoved his rigid cock like a lusty animal. Hard and deep.

His stamina and speed amazed me. Like he had become 20 years younger. I was worried he would cum early. But he didn’t.

He made me moan. He made me cry. Those were tears of joy and pleasure. But he assumed them to be caused by pain, a virgin’s tears of agony and shame.

A loud burst of firecrackers echoed through the neighbourhood. At the same time, my moans echoed inside the giant old house.

“Guruji, it’s time. Push harder,” I spoke after a long time.

He humped like a possessed man. Rammed his old cock into my tender pussy and jammed my hole. I wanted to cum along with him. I rubbed my clit furiously.

Another round of crackers exploded outside the window. And Guruji exploded inside me. His balls pumped a heavy load of cum. And his cock dumped it deep in my pussy.

I, too, had an orgasm at the same time. Our union was complete. His ‘bee’ had pollinated my ‘flower’. His seed had inseminated me.

The artist had violated his sacred code a long time ago to initiate an illicit relationship with his muse. On Diwali night, he violated the delicate body of his muse to initiate another sacred bond.

“You are mine now,” he whispered. “I want you to live with me in this house. Forever.”

To be continued.
 
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A horrific incident turns Shilpi's world upside down and shatters the beautiful dream world she had built with the old man. She accepts it as her destiny.

Part 3​

Chapter 6 – The Mistress

A day after Diwali, I fulfilled my guru’s wish. I moved in to live with him in his old house. I obeyed every command of his. I satisfied his deepest and darkest desires.

The whole neighbourhood was abuzz with rumours of our not-so-secret fling. Gossip spread thick and fast about how I had become his young mistress. Society loves scandals, especially if it happens to be an illicit relationship, more so if the relationship is between a 70-year-old man and a 21-year-old woman.

Nobody understood our deep love and mutual respect. A love that transcended a 50-year age barrier. Respect that laid the foundation of an unshakable bond. A bond between artist and muse that was unfathomable.

Neither me nor the old man was bothered by these titbits of gossip. We had far more important things to immerse ourselves in. He had some really kinky desires to be taken care of. And I submitted myself to his kinks willingly and unconditionally.

For example, the old master became obsessed with body painting. He would paint one of my nipples red and the other yellow. He would paint my asshole purple and my pussy pink.

He would then ask me to massage his dick till it became erect. And request me to draw tiger stripes on it in orange, white and black. He would then insert that striped cock in my pink pussy, presumably to impale me like a tiger.

He would drill me like a tiger and pummel me like a horse. He would dump so much cum inside me that it felt like he was ageing backwards. And he would collect all that cum once it trickled out of my cunt in a glass plate. And use it to paint his masterpiece on canvas.

“When will I get to see your masterpiece?” I asked him 5 days after Diwali.

“Soon enough,” he assured me.

I cooked for him, and I bathed him. I washed his clothes and slept with him. Pretty soon, he stopped going out, and I did grocery shopping for him. That turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life.

5 men accosted me while I was returning from the grocer’s one day. They were all middle-aged, all new to the neighbourhood, and they knew my name.

“Are you Shilpi?” one of them stopped me in my tracks.

“Yes. Why?”

“What’s your relationship with the old man?” asked another.

“Who the hell are you? And why should I tell you?” I was furious.

“Ask your senior citizen boyfriend who we are,” he replied. “What business do you have in that house?”

“None of your business,” I hissed. “And what gives you the right to talk to me this way?”

“Because that house is ours,” replied the 1st one. “That old bastard you are screwing is our father.”

I was astounded, as if the ground shifted beneath my feet. Does Guruji have children? 5 of them? I stood frozen.

“Listen, girl,” stepped in another, “what you do in his bed does not matter to us. But that house does not belong to you. It’s our property.”

“Our inheritance,” corrected another ‘son’. “And we do not want you there. Vacate it by tomorrow, or else you will be in trouble.”

I was shocked at their aggressive tone and posture. They regarded me as a threat to their inheritance. Because I was their father’s “mistress”?

I narrated the whole incident to Guruji. A dark shadow came over his face. He looked worried and disturbed. And asked me to be careful.

“Stay away from them,” he said. “They are bad. Don’t talk to them. Avoid them at any cost.”

“But Guruji, they have asked me to move out of this house,” I replied. “They have given me time till tomorrow. Why?”

“Because they are scared of losing this house,” he said in a solemn tone. “That’s all they care about – this house. And they know I am not going to give it to them.”

“But why did they threaten me? I don’t want your property,” I wailed. “I want you, Guruji. Not your house.”

“They don’t know that. They are incapable of understanding that.”

“Are they really your children? All 5 of them?” I asked.

“Yes. They are all my blood. And my worst nightmare,” he responded angrily. “They were not there when my wife breathed her last. They were nowhere to be seen when I needed them the most. They were waiting for me to die so that they could get their hands on this property. And now they have turned up only because they feel insecure about your presence in this house.”

“Where do they live? In Delhi itself?” I was curious.

“No. They live in different states. They must have heard the rumours about us. And came running all at once.”

“I will leave today itself,” I said. “I don’t want to be a part of this. It’s a family feud.”

“There is no feud,” he yelled. “There is no family. 5 greedy vultures – that’s what they are. I am ashamed to call them my sons. We were never a family.”

“Still. I don’t want to be in the middle of this dispute,” I told him. “Allow me to leave.”

“Never,” he put his foot down. “This house is mine. And I will decide who stays here and who doesn’t. I will donate this house to charity. But I will not give them a penny. They don’t deserve it.”

The old man was so adamant that I had to give in. I gave up my decision to move out. I did have a backup plan ready, though. The rented apartment I was staying in earlier was still vacant.

I had paid advance rent to the landlord till the end of the month. So, I was technically still the tenant. And could move back if the situation demanded it. I kept this thought as Plan B at the back of my mind.

As it would turn out, Guruji’s decision and my acceptance were both the worst mistakes of our lives. And we both had to pay heavily for the same.

Chapter 7 – The Depraved Five

24 hours went by, and nothing happened. Under Guruji’s strict instructions, I spent the whole day and the next inside the house. Did not go out even for a second. And nobody turned up to bother me.

2 days later, Guruji made a sudden plan to visit his lawyer in the afternoon. He told me he had to meet this lawyer to sign some papers personally. He left before lunchtime and promised to return by evening. And asked me not to open the door till he returned.

As the day went by and dusk settled in, I grew anxious. Guruji did not have a mobile phone, so there was no way for me to contact him. It was 8 PM on the clock and pitch dark outside. I took a shower and changed into a nightgown, expecting him to return any moment.

The old man did not like me wearing undergarments. I had stopped wearing them 3 months ago, especially inside the house. It was no different that evening. I was naked underneath the nighty.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on the main door. I felt relieved. He was back. I went running to open the door without bothering to go to the 1st-floor balcony to check who it was.

I realised my mistake as soon as I unlocked the main door. I cursed myself for being stupid and careless. Standing outside the door were those 5 men, and they barged in and locked the door from the inside even before I could react.

“Hello, sweetheart,” one of them said. “What are you still doing here? Didn’t we ask you to leave?”

“You were supposed to be gone 2 days ago,” said another. “Guess you didn’t take us seriously.”

They all smelled of cheap booze. They all appeared to be drunk. They all had bloodshot red eyes. I panicked and prayed for my safety.

“Guruji is not here. Please leave,” I uttered in a shaky voice.

“Why should we leave our property?” asked the 1st one. “And who is Guruji? The old bastard?”

“The old pervert,” corrected another ‘son’. “Banging girls young enough to be his granddaughters.”

“He will be back soon,” my voice was trembling now. “Please wait here.”

“We know when he left. We were watching the house for the past 3 days,” said the 4th son. “We waited till it was dark. We knew you were alone.”

His words sent shivers down my spine. They wanted me, not him. Their invasion was deliberate and pre-planned. I thought of locking myself inside the studio.

“How old are you, honey?” asked the 4th guy. “You don’t look much older than my son. 20? 25?”

“The old geezer likes his girls young and fresh,” chipped in the 2nd one. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

The 5th guy was standing silently in a corner all this while. He suddenly walked up to me. Before I could figure out his intentions, he pressed my boobs with his fingers. Immediately, he realised I was not wearing a bra under my nightgown.

“She is fresh, no doubt,” his eyes lit up instantly. “Does he press like this?” He grabbed my left boob and squeezed it. “Or like this?” he pinched my right nipple through the nighty.

The others surrounded me immediately in the long, dark corridor. My opportunity to run and lock myself up in the studio was gone. I started shivering in fear and panic.

“She is not wearing anything underneath,” announced the 5th man. “Must be getting herself ready for the old dog.”

“Really?” The 1st son stepped forward. And without a warning, he lifted my nighty. “What the hell are these?”

He was referring to the body paintings done by Guruji on my ass and crotch. All 5 of them came forward and bent down to take a closer look. I felt distressed, disgusted and devastated.

“What are these? Flowers?” one of them touched my cleft. “Looks like 2 flowers – yellow and red,” added another.

“There is more on her hips,” said the guy who had lifted my nighty. “Some strange design.”

“We thought he was banging you,” said the 4th one. “But this is something else. This is utter perversion.”

“You two are unfit to live in society,” the man groping my boobs said. “You have no shame and no decency.”

“What do you want?” I yelled at them in anger and desperation but mostly in fear. I felt scared, like I had never felt before.

“We want you out,” the 1st one said. “And we want this house. It might be old, but the land alone is worth crores.”

“You will not get it,” I snapped at him for reasons that are still unknown to me. “He will not give you a penny. In fact, he has gone to meet his lawyer. I am sure he is going to disinherit you all.”

A dark cloud fell over them suddenly. They stopped talking and started staring at each other as if they realised what was going to happen. My words hit them hard, and they responded with vengeance.

“So, he is planning to give you all his property? You want what is rightfully ours?” growled the 2nd son.

“No. I don’t want any of it,” I had calmed down by then. “I have no interest in this house. I want Guruji.”

“To do what? Draw more flowers on your body?” he asked.

“He must be banging her too,” the 5th man said. “He used to draw naked pictures of all his girls in the studio. It is somewhere on the 1st floor.”

“Take us to the studio,” growled the 3rd son. “Right now.”

I had to obey and oblige. There was no way for me to escape or hide. I took them all to the studio. And they started going through all my portraits drawn by Guruji.

“Whatever we have heard about you two is right,” they said. “These paintings are proof of your dirty relationship. These need to be destroyed right away.”

“No! Please don’t,” I pleaded with them. “These are his life’s works. Precious artworks. Please don’t touch them.”

“These obscene drawings are precious artworks?” they started laughing and jeering. “And what does that make you? A precious model?”

“She does have a hot, tight body,” the 5th son lifted my nightdress again. “She looks as hot and young in the flesh as in the paintings.”

“You should be OUR mistress,” said the 1st guy. “Why suck his dirty old cock when you could suck ours?”

“And that would be a deal,” the 5th son groped my breasts with both hands. “You be our mistress, and we will not touch these paintings. At least for tonight.”

I stared at them in shock and disgust. Is this the price I would have to pay to make them leave me and the portraits unharmed? All I could see in their eyes were sheer depravity and lust. There was no alternative. I nodded yes.

Within seconds, they unzipped their pants and pulled down their underwear. 5 hungry filthy cocks stood erect, pointed at me. I stood motionless in fear and shame. What will Guruji think of me when he finds out?

They made me lie down on the floor of the studio. One of them lifted my nighty and removed it over my head. Another held my legs and spread them apart. And then they all descended on me like vultures do on a prey. Their dirty paws groped my tender body. Their sharp nails scratched my soft skin.

“Look at this! One nipple is yellow, the other one is red,” one of them drew the attention of the others towards my boobs. Another pointed at my pussy and shouted, “Her holes are painted purple and pink!”

“I have to say, girl. You are a real slut,” the 5th son got on top of me. “You deserve to be fucked like a whore.”

He was the filthiest and horniest of the group. A sick pervert. They were all twisted degenerates, but he was the worst of the lot. He started his session by savagely inserting his finger in my pussy.

“Please be gentle,” I cried out in pain. “Don’t hurt me.”

“As if a shameless slut like you could ever get hurt by a finger,” he sneered and shoved the finger again. “I bet even this cannot hurt you,” he smacked his hard cock on my crotch.

I kept quiet after that. Pleading with him would have been futile. He was a monster out to devour its prey. And satiate his hunger for pussy and flesh. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the inevitable.

He fingered my pussy roughly and got me wet. He then shoved his cock and rammed it in. He stared at me with the eyes of a wolf. And did not blink even once during the ordeal.

His thrusts were savage and brutal. As though he derived some forbidden pleasure by inflicting pain. After some time, my cunt loosened up under his relentless assault. And I began to moan and hated myself for it.

“She moans like a whore,” he sneered. “We will all treat her like a whore.”

His last few thrusts were especially deep and strong. I kept thinking of Guruji throughout the nightmare. I covered my face in shame and agony. The wicked wolf polluted my insides with one last mighty plunge.

“Your pink hole is white now,” he chuckled as his white cum dribbled out of my pussy. But there was no respite for me. The other 4 vultures were waiting. They were hard, horny and hungry.

One by one, all 5 of them ravished me. 2 of them pounded my asshole, while the other 3 penetrated my pussy. There was no break in between and no pause to let me catch my breath. I was their fuck toy, and they fulfilled their dark, ugly fantasies on me.

“Her holes are too tight. I see why the old man chose her,” said one as he wiped his cum-coated cock on my lips.

“He will not touch her after today,” said another. “Not after he sees her like this.”

“How does that help us? We have to get our hands on this property,” the 3rd one said. “Let’s ruin these paintings before he returns. If we can’t have this house, then he can’t have his paintings either.”

“No, wait,” I wailed. “You promised to leave the artwork untouched. Please don’t damage them.”

“Nobody remains unharmed after tonight,” hissed the 5th son. “Neither you, nor the paintings, nor us. You lost nothing. We lost everything.”

I could not stop them from vandalising the canvases. My battered and bruised body did not have any strength left to fight with them. I lay on the ground sobbing. At the same time, the 5 monsters pounced on the artwork with scissors and paint.

They tore open the paintings with scissors and kitchen knives and doused them in black paint. Every single work of Guruji was destroyed right in front of my eyes. All portraits of me and the previous ones were ruined beyond repair. And they left soon after issuing me a warning.

“We will return to do this to you if you ever inherit this property.”

Chapter 8 – The Masterpiece

Guruji returned late that night, about an hour after his sons left. They had left the main door open while leaving. And Guruji came straight to the studio and saw the carnage left behind.

I was still lying on the floor naked. With cum dripping out of my cavities. One look at my condition and the massacred paintings, and he knew what had happened.

He left the house immediately without saying a single word. I waited all night for him to return, but he did not. In the morning, I washed myself and decided to shift to the rented apartment I was living in earlier. I promised myself that I would only go back to that old house once Guruji returned.

But he never came back. I kept waiting for his main door to open, for him to appear on the balcony. I passed by his house 10 times every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But there was no sign of him.

A week later, a letter arrived from his lawyer. It said that the entire house, along with the land, had been donated to an orphanage, and they would be arriving soon. And I should take back my possessions, if any, left behind in the house. I could also claim any of the furniture if I so wanted.

I called up the lawyer and told him that I was not interested in the furniture. I just wanted to know where the old man was and when he would be back. The lawyer said he had no information whatsoever on Guruji’s whereabouts or his plans to return.

But he had something for me, which he would be sending shortly via Bluedart courier.

In the next 3 days, the orphanage guys turned up in their trucks and moved into the old house. They disposed of some of the ancient furniture and all of the damaged paintings. My heart sank when I saw Guruji’s life’s work being loaded onto garbage trucks.

But those were damaged beyond repair, and I could not keep any with me.

The following day, my parcel arrived via Bluedart. It was a big frame covered in cardboard and Styrofoam. My heart kept pounding rapidly as I opened the box and removed all the packing materials. What I discovered was beyond my wildest expectations.

It was a canvas, a portrait. The old man had finished his masterpiece. He must have hidden it somewhere in the house, presumably to prevent me from taking a peek before it was ready. He must have given that hidden location to his lawyer, who picked it up and sent it to me.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I finally saw it standing in front of me. The portrait was that of a beautiful girl, young and radiant. She is lying on her back with her legs parted. White lilies and yellow primrose cover her cavities.

His skin was painted with milky white cum collected by Guruji after our lovemaking sessions.

Never in my life have I looked so divine and pure, neither in photos nor in imagination. The portrait turned an ordinary girl like me into a virgin angel. And at its bottom were written the following words.

“To Shilpi: The young girl who lives down the lane.

Signed: Avinash Bhargav.”

Avinash Bhargav never returned. I guess he blamed himself for what happened to me. Maybe he felt guilty or responsible somehow. Or maybe he could never muster up enough courage to face me again.

Avinash Bhargav never called. Never wrote to me. I begged the lawyer again and again to share some information about him. But he declined every time and denied any knowledge of his whereabouts.

Avinash Bhargav’s sons never turned up either. I guess they came to know about the fate of the property eventually. And decided to stay away. I blame them to this day for taking my guru away from me.

Avinash Bhargav was the first true love of my life. The only person I surrendered myself to, unconditionally and completely. The society called our relationship illicit. But I called it pure.

Avinash Bhargav was a loner and a lover. He lives on in my memory and in the masterpiece he left behind for me. He was an old man who lived down the lane. He was my world.

Concluded.
 
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