4/27/25, 7:50 PM Story of the Old Man Who Lived Down the Lane
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The Old Man Who Lived Down The Lane – Part 1
by sluttyshilpi 🏆 10-11-2023 24,413
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.
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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.”
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“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.
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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.”
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“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
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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.”
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“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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.”
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“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.
Next Part: The Old Man Who Lived Down The Lane – Part 2
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