Grandmother, Who, Me?

Grandmother, Who, Me?

Chapter 23: The Manual Under the Bed

Lakshmi’s POV (Satish)

One week had passed since the night I told Rajan everything.

Two full months had passed since the day Jessica first turned me into this body.

Shreya was five months pregnant now. Her belly had grown round and firm under her maternity sarees. Sometimes, when she was not looking, I still found myself watching the gentle curve with a complicated ache that was part love, part grief, part helpless longing for the life I had lost.

I barely spoke to her anymore.

She still tried. Soft questions at the breakfast table. Gentle touches on my arm when she passed me in the hallway. Once or twice she even used the remote in small, punishing bursts when I stayed too silent for too long. The sudden jolts of forced heat would drive me to my knees or make me grip the nearest piece of furniture until the wave passed. But the words between us had dried up. I cooked her favourite dishes. I massaged her swollen feet. I washed her clothes and folded them with the same care I had always given her. I did every single household task without being asked. The love had not died. The baby still mattered. But the easy, open affection we once shared was gone, replaced by a careful, exhausted distance.

The stimulations never truly stopped.

Even on the days she did not press the remote, a low background pulse remained, a constant, simmering arousal that kept my thoughts slippery and incomplete. I could perform the daily routines of a mother-in-law and wife, but I could not plan. I could not think more than a few hours ahead. Every time a clear idea began to form, the heat between my legs would swell and scatter it.

Rajan and I had searched the house quietly whenever Shreya slept or went out. We found nothing useful. The remote never left her possession. Jessica’s contact numbers were locked behind passwords we could not break. Hope had begun to thin.

Then, on a humid afternoon while Shreya was napping, I went into her bedroom to change the bedsheets.

I knelt beside the bed to tuck the fresh cotton under the mattress. My hand brushed against something stiff and rectangular that had slipped down between the bed frame and the wall. I pulled it free.

It was a thin, plastic-covered manual. The cover showed a simple line drawing of a female lower body with dotted internal structures. The title, in small clinical English, read:

Neural-Integrated Sensory Feedback & Behavioural Reinforcement System – User Guide (Confidential)

My heart began to beat harder.

I sat on the floor with my back against the bed and opened it with trembling fingers. Most of the pages were technical, diagrams of nerve interfaces, power cells, remote frequency ranges. But near the middle I found a short section circled in pencil, clearly by Jessica or Shreya herself:

Temporary Override / Deactivation Protocol (24-hour window)

Full deactivation of both remote-triggered and baseline stimulation circuits can be achieved only through the following biological sequence:

1. Complete penetration of the vaginal canal by an external organic object of sufficient girth and length.
2. Deposition of fresh organic material (semen or equivalent protein-rich fluid) against the posterior and lateral inner walls.
3. Sustained contact of said material for a minimum of forty seconds after deposition.

Upon successful completion, all stimulation circuits will enter standby mode for exactly twenty-four hours. After this period the system will automatically reactivate at previous baseline levels unless the protocol is repeated.

I read the paragraph three times.

The meaning settled over me like cold water.

There was a way to silence the constant heat. A way to think clearly again for a full day. A way, perhaps, to finally plan an escape or confront Jessica or do *something* other than drift from one forced arousal to the next.

But the method was absolute.

I had to be penetrated. Fully. And someone had to finish inside me.

I sat on the bedroom floor in my simple cotton saree, the manual open on my lap, the thali heavy against my chest, and the low background stimulation already beginning to rise again as if the system itself knew I had found its secret.

One clear, horrified thought cut through the growing haze:

So basically… I have to get fucked?