Nestled amidst the rolling misty hills of Kodagu, the family's newly acquired estate sprawled gracefully between the quaint town of Ammathi and the bustling district capital of Madikeri, a scenic stretch of about 20-25 kilometers along winding roads flanked by lush greenery and occasional glimpses of the Cauvery River's tributaries. This prime location placed it in the heart of Coorg's coffee country, where the air carried the perpetual aroma of blooming coffee flowers in season, mingled with the spice of pepper vines climbing silver oak trees.
The estate's 15 acres were a microcosm of Kodagu's agricultural bounty: 5 to 6 acres dedicated to robust coffee plantations, their bushes thriving under the dappled shade of tall trees to protect them from the intense sun;
3 acres intertwined with pepper plantations, the vines coiling around sturdy supports in a symbiotic dance with the coffee; and the remaining land cultivated for ginger, its earthy roots adding to the estate's diverse yield. The bungalow itself, a charming colonial-era structure with verandas overlooking the fields, sat centrally, offering panoramic views of the undulating terrain that dipped into valleys and rose to meet the Western Ghats.
The region was a paradise for tourists, drawing adventurers and nature lovers year-round with its blend of natural wonders and cultural gems. Just a short drive from the estate, Abbey Falls cascaded dramatically about 7 kilometers from Madikeri, its waters plunging 70 feet into a misty pool surrounded by dense foliage and coffee estates, making it a must-visit for those seeking the roar of nature's symphony. Nearby, Raja's Seat offered breathtaking sunset vistas from a garden perch where ancient kings once gazed upon the valleys, while the historic Madikeri Fort and the architecturally unique Omkareshwara Temple—built in Islamic-Mughal style with a central dome—provided glimpses into Coorg's rich history. Further afield but easily accessible, Dubare Elephant Camp allowed visitors to interact with gentle giants along the Cauvery's banks, and Mandalpatti Peak, at 1,600 meters and about 18 kilometers from Madikeri, promised rugged jeep rides to panoramic viewpoints shrouded in clouds.
For thrill-seekers, paragliding had emerged as an exhilarating highlight in Kodagu, with tandem flights launching from sites like those near Madikeri or specialized centers offering 15-minute soars at heights up to 3,500 feet. Pilots, often certified professionals, guided participants through acrobatic stunts and 360-degree views of the emerald hills, forests, and valleys below, with packages ranging from 3,000 to 7,000 INR, ensuring safety for ages 14-60 and weights up to 80 kg. The monsoon-kissed landscapes amplified the adventure, though flights were best in clearer post-monsoon months from October to March.
As the morning sun filtered through the coffee leaves, Banumathi, Dinakaran, and Devasena decided to delve into the estate's operations. They made their way to the small office annex attached to the bungalow—a cozy room filled with ledgers, maps of the plantations, and the faint scent of dried coffee beans. Ashwin, the diligent caretaker, greeted them with his usual quiet efficiency, his sun-kissed features lighting up as he adjusted his simple shirt, ready to explain the intricacies of the business. "Welcome, sir, madams," he said humbly, gesturing to the wooden desk cluttered with harvest records. "Let me show you how we manage everything here."
Dinakaran, ever the practical patriarch, leaned forward with interest, while Banumathi and Devasena perched on chairs, their eyes scanning the charts on the walls depicting crop cycles. Ashwin began with the administration side, pulling out neatly organized files. "The estate runs on a mix of local sales and exports," he explained, his voice steady and knowledgeable. "Our main clients include coffee exporters in Bangalore and Mysore, who buy our Arabica and Robusta beans for blending into premium brands. We also supply pepper to spice traders in Kerala, and the ginger goes to local markets or processors for pickles and powders.
Last year, we harvested about 2 tons of coffee from our 6 acres, fetching good prices due to the high quality—our beans are shade-grown, which makes them more flavorful and eco-friendly. Administration-wise, I handle the labor contracts for the 10-15 seasonal workers we hire during harvest, track yields with these spreadsheets, and coordinate with buyers. We use sustainable practices, like composting coffee pulp back into the soil, to keep the land fertile."
As he spoke, Ashwin led them to a large window overlooking the plantations, pointing out the rows of coffee bushes heavy with ripening cherries. "Kodagu produces around 40% of India's coffee, and estates like ours are the backbone. The plants here are mostly Arabica, which prefers the higher altitudes and cooler climate—our spot between Ammathi and Madikeri is ideal, with elevations around 1,000-1,200 meters and annual rainfall of 2,500-3,000 mm. We interplant with pepper vines for extra income; the pepper harvests twice a year, in December-January and March-April, hand-picked when the berries turn red. For coffee, the cycle starts with flowering in March-April after the first rains, turning into green berries that ripen to red cherries by November-December. Harvest season runs from December to March; workers pluck the ripe cherries by hand to avoid damaging the plants, then we process them—either wet method for washed coffee, where we pulp, ferment, and dry the beans, or dry method for naturals. The beans are sun-dried on patios for 10-15 days, hulled, graded by size and quality, and bagged for sale. It's labor-intensive, but the result is that aromatic Coorg coffee famous worldwide."
Banumathi nodded appreciatively, her floral top fluttering in the breeze as she asked about yields, while Devasena, intrigued by the business angle, inquired about market fluctuations. Dinakaran, stroking his chin, praised Ashwin's expertise. "You've got this place running like clockwork," he said. Ashwin smiled modestly, though his gaze lingered a fraction too long on Banumathi's curvaceous form, her baggy shorts hugging her thighs in a way that stirred his hidden cravings. As he answered her questions, he found himself subtly deferring to her lead—pausing to let her interrupt, fetching a specific ledger at her casual suggestion without hesitation, his tone softening as if eager for her approval. It wasn't overt, but there was an undercurrent in his demeanor, a willingness to yield that went beyond professional courtesy, making Banumathi pause mid-sentence once or twice, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face about what lay beneath his composed surface. She sensed something off-kilter, not in his knowledge of the estate, but in the way his eyes darted away shyly after meeting hers, or how he adjusted his stance almost submissively when she leaned closer to examine a map. It planted a seed of suspicion in her mind about his personal quirks, though she couldn't quite pinpoint it amid the discussion. Ashwin offered to take them on a quick walk through the fields later to see the pepper vines up close. The session left the trio impressed, deepening their appreciation for their new home's thriving legacy.
After the informative session in the office annex, Ashwin led Banumathi, Dinakaran, and Devasena out into the sun-dappled fields, the group weaving through the orderly rows of coffee bushes toward the interspersed pepper plantations. The air was thick with the earthy scent of moist soil and the faint, spicy tang of ripening pepper berries, a natural perfume that invigorated their steps along the narrow paths lined with silver oak trees serving as natural trellises. Ashwin walked ahead, his lean frame moving with practiced ease over the uneven terrain, occasionally glancing back to ensure the family kept pace, his piercing eyes lingering just a moment longer on Banumathi's swaying hips beneath her baggy floral shorts.
"Here we are," Ashwin announced softly as they reached a cluster of vigorous pepper vines, their tendrils coiling upward around the sturdy trunks like emerald serpents, dotted with clusters of green and reddening berries that hung like jewels in the filtered sunlight. He knelt down humbly to demonstrate, his voice deferential as he plucked a small vine segment for closer inspection.
"These are black pepper vines, ma'am," he said, addressing Banumathi directly with a slight bow of his head, handing her the sample almost reverently, as if presenting an offering. His fingers brushed hers lightly in the exchange, a touch that was polite yet lingered a fraction too long, his gaze dropping submissively to the ground before meeting her eyes again with an eager-to-please expression.
Banumathi felt a subtle unease stir within her—not from his words, which were knowledgeable and clear, but from the way he seemed to anticipate her reactions, adjusting his posture to make himself smaller, more accommodating, as if deriving quiet satisfaction from her lead in the conversation.
Dinakaran, absorbed in the practicalities, crouched beside Ashwin to examine the berries up close, asking about pest control and irrigation methods. "We use natural repellents like neem oil, sir," Ashwin replied promptly, his tone respectful, demonstrating by pointing to the drip lines snaking through the soil. Devasena, ever curious, reached out to touch a vine, her fingers tracing the rough texture as Ashwin explained the harvesting process—hand-picking the spikes when half the berries turned red, then drying them in the sun to crinkle into the familiar wrinkled black peppercorns. "It's delicate work, madam," he added to Devasena, but his eyes flicked back to Banumathi, who was now holding the vine sample aloft, inspecting it with interest. As she asked a follow-up question about yield variations, Ashwin leaned in closer than necessary, his breath quickening subtly, a faint flush creeping up his neck as her proximity stirred his hidden urges. He answered thoroughly, but with an undertone of yielding eagerness, volunteering additional details unprompted, as if craving her approval or even a commanding tone in her response.
Banumathi nodded, twirling the vine between her fingers, but couldn't shake the odd vibe—Ashwin's demeanor felt off, not in his expertise on the plantation, but in the personal undercurrent, like he was subtly inviting direction from her, his submissive glances and compliant gestures hinting at depths beyond the caretaker role. It made her slightly suspicious, a nagging curiosity about what drove his overly deferential behavior, though she brushed it aside for the moment, focusing on the vibrant life of the vines around them. The group spent another half-hour wandering the rows, Ashwin guiding them with quiet passion, pointing out how the pepper intertwined beneficially with the coffee for shade and soil health, before they headed back to the bungalow, the visit leaving them enriched by the estate's intricate bounty.
Dinakaran immersed himself in mastering the intricacies of coffee and pepper vine plantations, along with ginger cultivation, delving into essential practices like watering schedules, harvesting techniques, and fertilization methods to enhance productivity. Meanwhile, Banu took charge of managing workers and client interactions, ensuring smooth operations on the administrative side. Devasena found her niche in the accounts department, handling financial records and budgets with precision. Together, the father and his daughters balanced their time between the office and the fields each morning, fostering a strong family dynamic while contributing to the thriving agricultural business.
Meanwhile, Shyamala handled the household chores, bustling in the kitchen and tending to other daily tasks. She woke up early at five in the morning, refreshed herself, and headed to the backyard cattle shed. Shankaran always arrived before her, performing the basic cleaning and preparing for milking the cows. At the same time, Nalini would enter the kitchen, scrubbing the dishes and counters spotless before brewing tea or coffee tailored to each family member's preferences. Shyamala often joined Shankaran to tame the cows, and they responded calmly to her gentle touch, unharmed and affectionate. Weekly, on Friday mornings, Shankaran gave the cows a thorough bath before milking. Today was Friday. Shankaran had arrived before 4 a.m., starting the baths early. He removed his dhoti and set it aside to keep it dry, retaining only his kurta and langot as usual.
Shyamala stirred awake suddenly, glancing at her side where Dinakaran lay in deep sleep. She slipped out of the bedroom and onto the balcony, where the cool breeze sent goosebumps rippling across her skin beneath her thin nightie. Spotting the light and movement in the cattle shed, she tied her hair back and descended quietly. About 100 feet from the entrance, she caught sight of Shankaran bathing the cows; his langot had wedged deep into his ass crack, fully exposing his firm, hairy cheeks to her view. Shyamala paused, her heart quickening as she debated turning back. But she reasoned that such sights would become commonplace in their new rural life, so she pressed on. Barefoot, her steps were silent, unnoticed by him. She lingered at the entrance, mesmerized for over ten minutes by the play of muscles on his bare ass, the dark hair strands glistening with water droplets under the dim light, his body bending and stretching in rhythmic motions that stirred an unexpected warmth between her thighs.
Finally, she cleared her throat to announce her presence. Shankaran jolted in shock, spinning toward her; the front of his langot loosened in the haste, his heavy, hairy balls spilling out on either side, swaying pendulously. His semi-erect cock peeked briefly from the fabric, thick and veined, before he scrambled aside, snatching his dhoti to cover himself, his face flushing crimson.
Shankaran's legs trembled before his employer, his words stumbling out in broken fragments, laced with shame and shyness. "M-Madam... I... sorry... didn't know..." Shyamala waved it off gently, her voice soothing to calm him. "Stay calm, Shankaran. It's alright. Teach me how to milk the cows properly, and tell me about their feeding routines." Her composed demeanor stabilized him, and he nodded, gathering himself. He fetched a small wooden stool from the side, placing it opposite him near the cow. Kneeling almost under the udder, he invited her to sit on the stool facing him. Shyamala rolled her nightie up above her knees, the fabric bunching at her thighs, and knelt in front of him, her wheatish skin glowing softly in the morning light. He handed her a vessel for milking, instructing her to move closer under the cow and clamp the vessel between her thighs.
She inched forward, their knees nearly brushing, the air thick with the scent of hay and fresh milk. Shankaran demonstrated how to grasp the cow's finger-like nipples, but when she fumbled, he reached over, his rough fingers correcting hers with a gentle touch that sent a shiver through him—and her. Bending lower to guide her, his eyes inadvertently drank in the sight of her naturally smooth, silky thighs, exposed and tantalizingly close. Her wheatish complexion made his dick stir and harden beneath his dhoti, the morning chill only amplifying the ache as it slid partially out from his langot, throbbing against the fabric. Shyamala positioned the vessel wrong at first, and as she began milking, warm milk sprayed across her inner thighs, trickling down in rivulets that made her gasp softly, the sensation oddly arousing.
Shankaran halted her, his voice husky. "Stop, madam. Let me correct it." His fingers brushed her smooth mid-thighs as he adjusted the vessel, the rough calluses caressing her flesh in a way that ignited sparks low in her belly. Shyamala felt the deliberate linger of his touch, her breath hitching as an electric jolt passed between them. When he withdrew the vessel briefly, he murmured, "Open your legs a bit wider, please." She complied, parting her thighs, and Shankaran's eyes widened at the flash of her black laced panty clinging to her mound, the sheer fabric outlining her pussy lips faintly through the shadows. The sight sent a bolt of lust through him, his dick hardening fully, pre-cum lubing the tip instantly as it strained against his langot. He'd only ever seen his wife's plain cotton panties; this laced allure was intoxicating, fueling forbidden fantasies.
He repositioned the vessel between her thighs, instructing her to hold it firm with them, then took her fingers in his, teaching her the rhythmic pull for ten to fifteen minutes. His mind raced with images of that laced black panty, imagining the heat beneath it, while Shyamala's focus wavered, her pussy growing damp from the proximity and his guiding touch. After fifteen minutes, her fingers ached, and she asked him to take over. Shankaran obliged, placing the vessel between his own legs, rolling up his dhoti, and widening his stance. Now it was Shyamala's turn for a sweet shock—his semi-erect dick had fully escaped the langot, thick and veined like her husband's, bobbing slightly with his movements. She chuckled inwardly, a flush creeping up her neck, before excusing herself and heading back to the house, her mind buzzing with the unexpected heat of the encounter.
Shyamala entered the house, her steps light as she headed toward her room, but a sliver of light spilling from the crack in Sudhip's door caught her eye. She slipped inside quietly. Sudhip was on the bed, eyes half-lidded as if he'd just woken, a lazy smile spreading across his face at the sight of her. She approached, climbing onto the bed without a word. Sudhip opened his arms wide, pulling her into a fierce hug, his lips crashing against hers in a hungry kiss. His hands roamed greedily over her smooth, heavy boobs, squeezing them through the nightie, thumbs circling her hardening nipples until she moaned into his mouth.
Shyamala rolled her nightie up to her waist, exposing her laced black panties, and straddled him, feeling the bulge of his morning erection straining against his underwear. With one swift hand, she yanked down his underwear, freeing his thick, veined cock that sprang up hot and ready. She tugged her panties aside, guiding his shaft inside the fabric to press directly against her hairy, slick pussy. The contact was electric—his hot length rubbing along her folds as she ground up and down, kissing and licking his face with wild abandon. Sudhip's hands gripped her big, round ass cheeks, kneading the plush flesh roughly, lifting his hips to meet her thrusts, his cock sliding teasingly over her clit and entrance.
Her pussy melted in the heat of her son's throbbing member, juices coating him as arousal built like a storm. Sudhip slipped a hand between them, parting her swollen pussy lips with his fingers, then guided his thick cockhead to her entrance. Shyamala moaned deeply, stretching around him as he pushed in, her walls clenching greedily. She rode him in slow, deliberate rhythms at first, savoring the fullness, but soon the pace quickened—her hips slamming down with fervor, pussy lips wrapping tight like a vise around his shaft. Looking into her son's eyes, she fucked him like a pro, breasts bouncing wildly, her body undulating in perfect sync.
They dived deep into the immense fuck, bodies slick with sweat. Sudhip's hands scratched her ass globes, fingers teasing her puckered asshole, pressing her down harder onto his dick. Shyamala thrust hard, taking him to the hilt, pausing for agonizing seconds to feel him buried deep, pulsing inside her. Sudhip moaned louder, but she locked her lips over his, muffling the sounds with a deep, tongue-twisting kiss. The room filled with the wet, rhythmic slaps—chupak... chupak... fuck... fuck... fuuuck—as they fucked hard and wild in the morning light, bodies entwined in primal lust. Out of nowhere, Shyamala's mind flashed to Shankaran's exposed dick, the hairy thickness fueling her arousal, making her clench tighter around Sudhip.
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They moved, kissed, and caressed wildly, hands exploring every curve and crevice. Before climax hit, Sudhip rolled her onto her back, pinning her beneath him, and drove deep one final time, splashing his hot cum inside his mother's wet, horny pussy. Shyamala gasped, feeling the thick ropes fill her completely, her own orgasm crashing over her in waves, milking him dry as she arched and trembled.
ABOUT SUMATHI:
Same time in the quiet seclusion of the servant quarters, Sumathi's life unfolded like a tightly bound scroll—orthodox, ritualistic, and outwardly serene. But beneath her pious exterior simmered a volcano of unmet desires, her 49-year-old body a temple of untapped sensuality that cried out for a masterful, manly handler to unleash its pent-up fury. Her curves were a masterpiece of natural allure: full, heavy breasts that heaved with every breath, straining against the modest blouses she wore, their dark nipples often pebbling visibly through the thin fabric on humid days, begging for rough palms to cup and knead them until she arched in surrender. Her waist dipped invitingly before flaring into wide, hypnotic hips that swayed like a siren's call, leading to that legendary hot ass—plush, round, and jiggling with each step, its deep cleft a forbidden valley that men dreamed of parting with strong hands, grinding their throbbing cocks against its heat until she moaned for more. Those seductive big eyes, kohl-rimmed and deep as midnight pools, held a smoldering hunger, flickering with unspoken pleas when she caught lingering stares, her full lips parting slightly as if ready to whisper filthy secrets.
Years ago, in a flashback that haunted her sleepless nights, Sumathi had tasted the edge of that ecstasy during a rare monsoon storm in her younger days, when her late husband—rough and commanding—had claimed her in ways her orthodox life rarely allowed. The rain pounded the tin roof like drums of war as he backed her against the wall of their modest home, his calloused hands yanking her saree up in one savage pull, exposing her dripping pussy to the cool air. "You're mine to handle," he'd growled, his voice thick with lust, as he spun her around, bending her over a wooden stool. Her wide hot ass presented itself like an offering, cheeks spreading slightly as he slapped them hard, the sting blooming into fiery pleasure that made her juices trickle down her thighs. He was her manly handler then, gripping her hips with iron strength, his thick cock—veined and unyielding—thrusting into her from behind without mercy, stretching her tight walls until she screamed his name.
Sumathi's body responded like a wildfire, her massive breasts swinging pendulously with each brutal pound, nipples scraping against the rough fabric of her blouse, sending jolts straight to her clit. She needed this—craved a man who knew how to dominate her curves, to make her cum not gently, but explosively, for him alone. His fingers dug into her ass flesh, spreading her cheeks wider as he drove deeper, hitting that sweet spot that made her vision blur, her seductive eyes rolling back in bliss. "Cum for me, you hot bitch," he'd commanded, one hand snaking around to rub her swollen clit in rough circles, the other pulling her hair to arch her back further. Her pussy clenched like a vice around him, milking his shaft as waves of orgasm crashed over her, her juices squirting messily onto the floor, body shaking in surrender. But he wasn't done—flipping her onto her back, he pinned her legs wide, devouring her heaving breasts with his mouth, biting and sucking until milk-white marks bloomed on her skin, then slamming back inside to fill her with his hot seed, making her cum again, harder, her wide ass grinding up to meet him in desperate need.
That night had been her pinnacle, a raw, animalistic release that left her body quivering for days. Now, widowed and alone, Sumathi's sexy form ached for such a handler again—a strong, virile man to ravage her curves, to slap her hot ass until it reddened, to bury his face between her thighs and tongue her until she begged, then fuck her senseless, making her cum rivers for him, reclaiming the fire in her orthodox soul. She touched herself in secret, fingers tracing her slick folds while imagining it, but nothing compared to the real thing—her body needed that manly dominance to truly explode.
At the same time, in Ashwin's quarters—a modest space with a single bedroom, hall, kitchen, and common toilet—Ashwin lay awake but feigned deep sleep, eyes tightly shut, waiting for his mother to stir. He usually slept in the hall, while Sumathi occupied the bedroom. He heard the bedroom door creak open and pretended to slumber soundly. Sumathi emerged, entering the bathroom. Ashwin listened intently to the intimate sounds—her peeing in a steady stream, followed by the splash of water as she cleaned her pussy. After five minutes, she exited and gently woke him. Ashwin rose, heading straight to the toilet.
Eagerly, he scanned for her used panty hanging on the wall hook. Snatching it, he pressed the damp fabric to his face, inhaling deeply the intoxicating aroma—a musky blend of her sweat and faint urine drops that drove him wild. His other hand tugged at his hard cock, stroking roughly as the scent invaded his senses. After a few feverish seconds, he wrapped the panty around his shaft, the soft cotton gripping him like a forbidden lover, and stroked hard and faster, hips bucking. He erupted, splashing hot cum onto the wall in thick spurts. Sumathi heard a muffled moan-like noise and called out, concern in her voice, "Ashwin, what's going on in there?" He replied breathlessly, "All is well, Amma," quickly cleaning up and composing himself, his secret darkness sated for the moment.
