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I didn’t go in right away.
My hand was on the grill, but my eyes were on him.
That man.
The one sitting at the gate like a statue with cheap sunglasses and half-buttoned shirt.
Security.
Middle-aged. Balding slightly. One slipper torn at the side. Radio always hanging from his neck but never working.
And eyes?
Always busy.
Every time I stepped out, every single time, his eyes had some job. Sometimes on my feet. Sometimes chest. Sometimes backside when I walk away.
I stood there for two seconds.
He was pretending to look away. Acting like he was watching the kids in the flat opposite.
But I saw.
I saw him seeing.
So I walked toward him.
Slow steps. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just real.
He noticed.
Sat straighter. Legs uncrossed. Hand on his knee.
Still didn’t look directly.
I stopped two feet from him.
He looked up.
Tried to act confused.
I didn’t waste time.
“You’ll never stop, right?”
He blinked.
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I—”
“You look every single day. Like you’re paid to stare.”
“No, ma’am... I was just—”
“What? Looking at the wall? Or my bra strap?”
His face went red.
He looked down.
I folded my arms across my chest. Not to hide anything. Just to show I wasn’t scared.
“You’ve been doing it for days. I’ve seen it. You think women don’t notice when your eyes crawl over them?”
“No ma’am, I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to get caught. That’s all.”
He scratched his chin. “Sorry ma’am... I just—”
“You just what?”
“I was not staring intentionally…”
I laughed. Just once.
That bitter one.
“Men like you always say the same thing. Not intentional. Not your fault. Not staring. But your eyes will peel off a woman’s clothes in three seconds.”
“I didn’t... I just saw—”
“You saw what?”
His mouth stayed open.
I looked him up and down once.
“Do you think I don’t know when someone’s eyes are sliding across my chest?”
Silence.
“Next time I catch you, I’ll complain.”
“No ma’am, please. Don’t. I have family... I won’t do again.”
I nodded once.
“Don’t do it again. Keep your eyes where they belong. On the gate. Not on my blouse.”
“Yes ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”
I turned.
Walked away.
But inside?
That heat didn’t die.
Not from anger.
But from something else.
Something dirtier.
Because the truth?
I liked it.
I hated him for it. But I liked the way he looked.
Not because I liked him.
But because it meant I was still wanted.
Still seen.
Even in a sweaty nightie. Even with tired eyes. Even with milk stain on my shoulder.
That look told me—my body still speaks.
I entered the house.
Closed the door.
Leaning against the wooden frame, I let out a slow breath.
My hand touched the curve of my waist. Lightly.
My own skin felt warm.
I moved inside.
Kitchen was clean.
Plates done. Lunch packed. House quiet.
No Kartik. No Arjun. No kids.
Just me.
And this silence.
I washed my hands. Wiped the counter. Opened the bathroom door.
Heat came out.
I poured hot water into the bucket. Steam rising.
Fan still spinning in the hall.
I walked into the bedroom.
Unhooked my bra.
Dropped it.
Lifted my nightie.
Panties down.
That cloth was damp.
Not from washing.
From me.
My own wetness.
I stepped into the bathroom.
Mirror fogged slightly.
I looked.
My body.
My skin.
The curve of my stomach. The weight of my breasts. The small hair near my hip.
Real.
Alive.
I took the mug.
Poured.
Hot water hit my shoulder.
Rolled down.
Neck to chest. Over nipple. Over stomach.
I leaned forward. Let it pour across my back.
One more mug.
Over ass.
Inside thighs.
I exhaled.
Rubbed soap slowly.
Arm. Armpit. Neck. Breast.
Other breast.
Soap on nipple. I rubbed once.
Felt it harden.
Didn’t stop.
Rubbed my hip. Side. Back.
Then thighs.
But didn’t go in between yet.
Let the heat build.
Water dripping from my chin.
Hair wet.
Eyes closed.
My breathing was quiet, but heavy.
I poured again. Over stomach. Let it flow down.
Over the line of hair between my legs.
That heat...
One more mug.
One more pour.
I bent slightly.
Let it hit the center.
That ache woke up again.
That slow burn.
Just as I reached for the last mug...
DING DONG.
Bell.
Loud.
I froze.
Water still running down.
Water still sliding down my leg.
Last mug still in my hand.
I turned my head, looked at the bathroom door.
Waited.
Silence.
Maybe wrong bell? Maybe neighbor?
I poured the last mug. Quick rinse. No touching. Just wash and finish.
Then—
DING DONG.
Again.
Sharp. Loud.
Faster this time.
I muttered under my breath.
“Oh what the hell now...”
I stepped out, dripping wet.
My hair was sticking to my back. Water running into my ass crack. My thighs were wet and my nipples were poking out hard from the cold water.
I grabbed the same old nightie from the hook.
Pulled it over.
The cloth stuck immediately.
Shit.
Soaked body + thin cloth = full view show.
My nipples were pressing through. The curve of my stomach. Even the triangle between my legs was visible through the material.
Cloth stuck like second skin.
I checked the hall.
No time to dry properly.
I grabbed the small towel from the window bar. The one I use for face wipe.
Pressed it over my chest.
Held it tight with one hand.
DING DONG.
Third time.
I rushed to the door.
Barefoot.
One hand holding towel over my breasts. The other turned the latch.
I didn’t open it wide.
Just pulled it slightly.
Pushed my head out.
Hair still wet. Drops falling from chin.
Eyes still sharp from the bath.
And there he was.
Security.
Same man.
Same shirt.
Same guilty face.
Holding a folded paper in his hand.
His eyes dropped the second I opened the door.
He saw.
Even though I was covered with the towel, he saw the wet nightie underneath. The shape of everything.
He looked up fast.
But too late.
His eyes had already taken the tour.
I didn’t say anything yet.
He held out the paper like a scared collegeboy.
“Ma’am... electric bill came...”
His hand was holding the bill.
But his eyes?
That one quick drop said everything.
He didn’t come to stare. But he stared.
I had opened the door just enough to lean my head out.
Hair dripping. Chin wet.
Towel pressed across my chest.
Old cotton nightie soaked and clinging to every curve.
No way to hide anything.
And he was standing there like someone pressed pause on his brain.
“Ma’am… electric bill,” he said.
Voice soft. Shaky.
I didn’t touch the paper.
I didn’t move.
I just looked at him.
Hard.
“You can't wait two minutes, ah?”
He blinked. “Ma’am?”
“You rang the bell thrice, no? Can’t stand still for one damn minute?”
“I… I didn’t know anyone was inside, ma’am.”
“Even if no one’s there, will door open by magic? You’ll press till someone falls down?”
“I just thought…”
“You didn’t think anything. That’s your problem.”
He tried to look away.
But I saw that moment—his eyes catching the spot where the towel didn’t fully cover.
The wet patch between my breasts. A hint of skin showing.
His throat moved.
Swallowed.
I leaned just slightly toward him.
“You saw what you weren’t supposed to.”
“No ma’am… I didn’t mean—”
“You never mean. But still your eyes go full speed.”
“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t realise you were bathing.”
“You don’t need to realise. You just need to stop pressing the bell like a madman.”
He looked at the floor.
Didn’t speak.
“I opened because I thought it’s important. But here you are. Standing. Eyes rolling.”
“No ma’am. It was not like that. I just saw you by mistake.”
“Hah.”
I smiled.
Dry one.
“Your eyes always make mistakes when a woman’s towel slips half an inch?”
“No ma’am, please…”
I took the bill from his hand.
Slow.
Our fingers didn’t touch. But close.
“Don’t worry. You got what you didn’t ask for.”
“I really wasn’t trying to—”
“But you looked.”
He nodded. Quiet.
“Not the first time either, is it?”
“No, ma’am. I mean… yes ma’am. I won’t look again.”
“You think cloth hides everything when it’s wet?”
“No ma’am.”
“Then next time… press once. Wait. Or better, leave the bill near the grill and walk.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. Before your eyes earn you a slap one day.”
He didn’t argue.
Just stepped back.
Turned around.
Walked slow.
Quiet.
Like he wanted to disappear.
I shut the door.
Calm.
Didn’t slam.
Just clicked it closed and stood there.
Towel slipping now.
One edge fell to the side.
I caught it lazily.
But inside?
I was smiling.
Not because he saw.
But because I let him know that I saw him seeing.
That power. That little shame in his eyes. That heat.
All mine.
I walked to the bedroom.
Dropped the towel.
Nightie was clinging too much now.
Pulled it off. Let it fall to the floor with a wet slap.
Stood there.
Naked.
Skin wet. Fresh.
Body awake.
I wiped down slow.
Neck.
Arms.
Under each breast.
Between my thighs.
One wipe across the back. Soft pressure on the spine.
Then powder.
Dabbed on collarbone. Under boobs. Stomach.
Opened the blouse drawer.
Picked a rust red one.
Hooked it at the back.
Tight fit. No bra.
Let the breasts sit free.
Then a soft cotton saree.
Light cream.
Tied it low.
Hip knot snug.
Pleats pressed deep.
Tucked in proper.
Pallu over shoulder.
Didn’t pin it.
Let it drop.
Hair still wet.
I dragged fingers through it.
Pulled it to one side.
Looked in the mirror.
Didn’t pose.
Just checked.
Blouse sitting perfect.
Waist clean.
Eyes sharp.
Smile?
Small.
Just enough.
—
The sun was boiling even at 11.
Floor tiles hot.
Fan on full inside the house, but my throat still felt like burning.
Summer had come like a slap this year.
I opened the fridge—no curd.
Only one half tomato, some old podi, and a stale lime.
I tied the pallu proper, adjusted the hip tuck, and stepped out.
Plain saree. Thin cotton.
No innerwear.
My body had just started sweating again.
Felt the blouse sticking to the side of my chest as I walked down.
Steps were hot. I took each one slow.
Down the corridor, I could already see the security sitting in his usual chair.
But this time?
His head was fully down.
Like he was examining the floor tile for cracks.
I passed him.
Didn’t say a word.
His eyes didn’t rise.
Not even a glance.
Shame still hanging on his neck like ID card.
Good.
I didn’t look back.
Walked straight to the shop.
Got one packet of curd. Thick type.
Held it under my arm like old aunty style.
Started walking back.
The curd packet was cold under my arm.
Sweat dripping from the back of my neck into the blouse.
The cotton saree stuck between my thighs as I walked back. Fan wasn’t going to fix this kind of heat.
Security was still in his corner chair, same position.
Elbows on knees. Head down. Trying to act invisible.
I slowed down when I reached the gate.
He didn’t lift his face.
Just kept scribbling something on the edge of a newspaper. Like he was writing Ramayanam in rough.
I stood two steps away.
Let my slipper slap the cement twice.
He looked up.
Fast.
Then down again.
Too late.
“Ey,” I said. Voice low but sharp.
No response.
“Look at me.”
He slowly lifted his eyes.
Not fully. Just a scared glance.
“Why are you acting like a collegeboy after PT period?”
“No ma’am.”
“No ma’am what?”
“I... I was just doing duty.”
“Your duty includes pressing bell twice for wet shows?”
He blinked. His mouth opened, then closed.
“Ma’am... I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean but you saw.”
He nodded like a thief caught with coin in hand.
“You saw too much this morning, right?”
“No ma’am, I just came for the bill…”
“You came for the bill, but left with full cinema. Interval, climax, everything.”
He stayed quiet.
I smiled.
“You want me to wash and come out again?”
“No ma’am, sorry. I really didn’t—”
“Didn’t stare?”
He stayed quiet.
I tilted my head, curd packet still under one arm, the other hand resting on my hip.
“Be honest. What did you see?”
He looked scared. “I... I saw by mistake... towel was... and nightie...”
“Oh, now you’re describing it?”
“No ma’am! Not like that—”
“Then what? My towel opened itself and invited you in?”
“No ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”
“Hmmm.”
I took one step closer.
His body moved back like he was expecting a slap.
“You know what you saw?”
He shook his head slowly.
I leaned a little.
“That wet line between my breasts? The nipple poking through the cloth? That hip curve where my nightie stuck? You saw all that.”
He shut his eyes for one second.
As if the images came back.
Good.
“That’s not your eyes’ fault. It’s your hunger.”
“No ma’am... I’m a married man—”
“So? Married men don’t look?”
“No, ma’am. I mean... I respect you.”
I laughed.
“Respect ah? You were ready to swallow me whole with your eyes.”
“No ma’am...”
“You pressed the bell twice like you wanted a second round.”
“I didn’t know you were bathing.”
“You could’ve waited.”
“I’ll never do it again.”
“You won’t get another chance.”
He stayed silent.
I adjusted my pallu once.
His eyes moved slightly. Then fixed back on the ground.
“You’re not lucky, you know that?”
He looked up, unsure.
“Men like you get one second of heaven, then carry it in your pants for a week.”
“I didn’t... I won’t... I mean... sorry ma’am.”
“You better be.”
I stepped back.
“Now go drink some buttermilk. Might cool your thoughts.”
He nodded.
Didn’t even say “yes ma’am” this time.
I turned around.
Started walking toward the building.
Back wet. Pallu clinging to my ass.
I didn’t fix it.
Let it stay.
Felt his eyes on me.
But he didn’t dare look up again.
Good.
Pressed the lift button.
Waited.
—
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Lift number was blinking slow. One more floor to reach.
My blouse was sticking to my back. Curved wet patch spreading.
Curd packet in my hand. Thighs rubbing. Sweat running like stream from the valley between them.
Then I heard it.
That lazy slipper sound.
Rhythm like rain on broken roof.
Raj.
I didn’t turn. Just stood.
Let the sweat do its job.
He came up beside me. Slow steps. Like his body knew its own weight.
Chest wet. Hair damp. T-shirt had sweat patches under both arms. Neck shiny.
He looked like heat was eating him alive.
He gave a small smile.
Not forced. Just... there.
“Lift taking its own sweet time,” he said.
I nodded. “Even the machine is tired of summer.”
He gave a dry chuckle. Wiped his forehead with his T-shirt edge. That one move pulled the fabric up—belly showed for a second. Line of hair under the navel. Clean skin.
I looked once.
Fast.
Then away.
He looked at the curd in my hand.
“Shopping?”
“Just this. Want to make buttermilk.”
“Best thing for this heat,” he said, shifting the bottle in his hand.
I don’t know why I said it. It just came.
“You want some?”
He turned his head slowly.
His eyes touched my cheek.
Not wide-eyed. Not surprised.
Just still.
Like he was waiting to see if I’d say it again.
I realised what I said.
My throat went dry.
But I didn’t take it back.
“Too much for me alone,” I added. Soft.
Silence for two seconds.
Then the lift dinged.
His floor came.
The door opened.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t even glance at it.
He looked forward.
Then down at the floor number.
Then at me again.
Said quietly—
“I’ll come.”
Just that.
I said nothing.
Just stepped into the lift when our floor came.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t nod.
But inside?
My breath wasn’t normal.
His steps followed.
Same rhythm.
Same weight.
I walked ahead.
My saree was hugging now. Wet at the hip. Pallu half-stuck to my lower back.
Pleats swinging with each step.
I didn’t fix it.
I didn’t check.
I just let it move.
Let my hips move how they want.
Let the sway be natural.
Because I knew.
I could feel it.
He was watching.
From behind.
Watching my ass bounce slightly under the cotton folds.
Watching how the blouse pressed on my spine.
Watching like he’d waited a long time to.
—
The latch clicked open. I pushed the door gently.
Didn’t rush.
One hand holding the curd packet.
The other wiping sweat from my upper lip.
He followed me in.
Didn’t speak. Just entered, closing the mesh door behind him.
I didn’t close the main door.
That’s not how it works here.
Third person inside? Door stays half open. Always.
He stood near the entrance for a second, looking around.
Like he was double-checking if he really stepped in.
I didn’t look at him directly.
But I was smiling.
Inside.
Small one.
Body was aware.
More than my face.
I placed the curd on the dining table.
Said without turning, “Fan’s on, you can sit.”
He stepped forward.
Calm walk. That usual soft rhythm.
Sat on the edge of the sofa, not leaning back.
“Feels better inside,” he said.
I turned. “You want me to make it colder than this?”
He smiled. “That’s your department.”
I clicked the fan knob to full. Pointed it straight at him.
“Sit back. You look like you just finished road repair.”
He chuckled once. Rubbed his face with his hand towel.
His neck had fresh sweat. Drops still sliding near the collarbone.
I walked over. Switched on the TV. News channel.
Then turned slightly, holding out the remote.
As I did—pallu slipped.
Didn’t fall.
But the end slid off my shoulder and rested near my elbow.
Left side of my blouse now fully showing. Wet cloth. No lining.
His eyes?
They looked.
One soft second.
Not staring.
Just… soaking.
I saw it.
He didn’t say anything.
Just took the remote from my hand.
Fingers brushed.
His thumb was warm.
Little rough.
That small contact went straight through my wrist.
“Here,” I said, voice casual.
He took it.
Held it with both hands.
Didn’t change the channel.
Just stared at the screen like he was watching it for real.
I smiled inside again.
He didn’t even know the volume was muted.
I walked back to the curd.
“Hope you don’t mind thick curd,” I said.
He replied, “Better than watery ones.”
“I didn’t ask about curd quality,” I teased.
He looked up. “Then?”
“I asked if you can handle it.”
He smiled.
Then looked at the TV again.
I lifted the curd packet, held it up.
“You sure? It’ll chill you down.”
He answered without looking.
“Let it.”
I walked to the kitchen.
Pallu still hanging loose.
Didn’t fix it yet.
Let it sway behind.
His eyes were probably still on it.
On me.
On the blouse that now stuck to my waist with sweat.
I didn’t rush.
My fingers were already itching from the inside.
But my face?
Still calm.
Just another hot day.
With just another glass of buttermilk to make.
—
The buttermilk swirled smooth in the steel glass.
Salt. Jeera powder. One slit green chilli. Curry leaves.
I stirred it with a spoon, slow.
My fingers cold from the water jug.
I could hear the TV sound in the hall now.
He was switching channels like someone testing patience.
Click. Ad. Click. Serial. Click. Sports.
No anchor louder than the fan.
I poured the second glass, set mine aside, and wiped my hands.
Walked out.
He was sitting back now—legs apart, remote in hand, towel around neck.
He looked relaxed. Like a man at his own place.
Still watching the screen.
I came around the side of the sofa.
Held the glass in front of him.
He turned.
His hand brushed mine while taking it.
“Looks deadly,” he said.
“Drink first. Praise later.”
He smiled, nodded, and took a sip.
His eyes closed slightly as the cold hit his throat.
He leaned back, let out a breath.
“Exactly what I needed,” he said.
“I know.”
I sat down beside him.
Not close.
Not far either.
There was a pillow between us.
The kind that doesn’t block heat.
He took another sip.
“I feel human again.”
“You looked half-dead when you entered.”
“I almost was.”
“Why didn’t you sit inside with fan at your place?”
“TV volume is louder here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you came for my speaker?”
“Speaker and buttermilk.”
“Hmm.”
I picked up my glass.
Took a small sip.
It tasted better now. Maybe because someone else was drinking it too.
He wiped his mouth.
“Your house is always clean.”
“Comes with the job title.”
“Housewife?”
“Manager.”
He smiled. “Noted.”
Few seconds passed.
No words.
Fan spinning above. TV sound low.
He flipped one more channel.
Music video.
I took another sip.
Then asked—
“Your work is easy today?”
“Not much. Filed a report. Two calls done.”
“Not missing AC office?”
“Missing your buttermilk more.”
I looked at him once.
Didn’t smile.
Just sipped again.
Let the silence sit.
He didn’t look at me. Still watching TV.
But I could feel it.
The space between us.
Small.
But hot.
—
I took the last sip of buttermilk. The glass still cold against my fingers. It wasn’t sweet or anything special—but that little sting of chilli and salt… it felt good. Real. My throat needed that.
Raj was still sipping his. Slow, like it had to last longer. His hand was resting on his thigh, glass close to his lips. Not looking at me. Not talking much. Just sitting there, like he belonged.
I looked at the steel glass in my hand, then at his. Time to clean up.
I got up.
He looked up just for a second. Not asking why. Just noticing.
I reached for his tumbler. He lifted it, handed it to me.
Our fingers touched again.
That soft brush. Barely there. But it felt like a pulse.
I held both tumblers in one hand, balanced it against my waist, turned toward the kitchen.
Then I heard it.
A small clink.
Not loud. But enough.
Turned slightly.
An ice cube. It had slipped out of his tumbler—probably clinging to the side, dropped when he tilted it.
It was lying near his slipper.
I clicked my tongue softly. “Tch…”
Bent down.
Right hand still holding the glasses. Left hand going toward the floor. My saree moved with me.
The moment I bent—my pallu slipped.
Not just a little.
The whole end of it slid off my shoulder, dragged slowly across my chest, and dropped down in front.
Not fallen to the floor—just hanging loose now.
My chest was covered only by my blouse.
Thin cotton. No lining. No bra. Damp from sweat.
Nothing open. But nothing hidden either.
The outline of my breasts. The curve in the middle. Every shape clearly visible under the cloth.
And I knew it.
Still bent. Still reaching.
My left hand moved slow toward the ice.
Right hand still holding the tumblers, slightly pressing against my stomach.
Then he moved.
Raj bent down beside me.
No sound. No question. Just there.
His knee touched the floor. He leaned forward.
Said softly, "Let me take it."
I paused. Didn’t reply.
My body wasn’t steady now.
He reached near my leg.
His arm brushed my thigh—barely. But fully.
The glassy cold floor met my toes.
I stepped back just a little—reflex.
But I forgot.
My pallu was hanging. Loose and long.
The end had dropped near my feet.
I stepped on it.
The cloth slipped under my sole.
My heel gave way.
Leg bent.
Body lurched forward.
The tumblers shook in my hand.
And I tipped.
Falling.
Right toward him.
He was still bent down.
My chest, fully forward.
Blouse pressing against my skin.
Pallu gone. Blouse tight. Sweat clinging.
My cleavage—deep, full, drawn under the thin blouse fabric—was now right above his face.
Not touched yet.
But almost.
About to.
Falling.
My balance gone.
His head just under me.
Breath stuck.
And we were frozen in that half-second before it all changed.
My body tipped forward.
Balance gone.
Pallu loose. Blouse damp. No support.
I fell.
Straight into him.
He was still kneeling, eyes half raised.
And then—
My boons hit his face.
Not brushed. Not touched.
Full contact.
Soft. Heavy. Damp from sweat.
Blouse pressed between his skin and mine. Nothing in between.
His face buried between them.
My tumblers dropped to the floor.
One rolled away, spinning.
His balance shifted too.
He fell back with me on top of him.
The mat under us rustled. Floor was hard. My knees hit.
His back thudded lightly against the tile.
Door still open. But neither of us moved.
His hands went around my back. Not grabbing. Just there.
I tried to push up.
My arm weak.
My chest still over his face.
His breath warm on my skin.
I whispered, breath shaky—
"I can’t… move."
He shifted.
One hand reached for my waist.
Slid gently along my hip.
Then he pressed.
Trying to lift me.
But my saree was twisted at the hip, tucked tight.
His palm couldn’t get enough grip.
I grunted, half-laughed through my throat.
"Wait... it’s stuck..."
He breathed once.
Then I felt it.
His other hand moved up.
Palm wide.
Firm.
Cupped my left breast.
Fully.
Fingers around the side. Thumb pressing the top.
Through the blouse—but no mercy.
It sank in slightly. Flesh yielding.
He pressed.
And pushed.
Lifted.
My chest rose. Body shifted.
I gasped.
Not pain. Just shock.
His breath caught too.
He whispered low—
"This is the only way I can move you."
My hand gripped his shoulder.
Still not fully up.
But my body was halfway lifted.
Breast still in his hand.
Chest still trembling.
And the door?
Still open.
Wind brushing the back of my knee.
We weren’t out of this yet.
But something had already changed.
And he hadn’t let go.
His hand was still holding my breast.
Fingers curved. Thumb pressing firm.
My whole body stiff.
And his other hand—still gripping my hip, holding my weight.
We were tangled.
Heat between us. Breath fast.
He shifted.
Bent his knees slightly, gathered strength.
Then—
he started lifting me.
Slowly.
My chest rising against his grip.
The breast in his palm pushed up slightly, flesh giving in, blouse straining.
His palm on my hip pressed harder for balance.
And as my legs started straightening, my body almost upright—
I felt it.
His hardness.
Down there.
Firm.
Pushing up against his pants.
Right where my thigh brushed him.
That rod, his cock.
Unmistakable.
Thick. Strong. Pressing.
I gasped quietly.
Didn’t say anything.
But my skin burned.
He didn’t react.
Didn’t explain.
Just held me steady.
And finally—
we stood.
Properly.
Both feet on the floor.
Chest still heavy. His hand slowly releasing from my breast.
Other hand loosened from my waist.
I staggered back half a step.
The door.
Wide open.
I turned fast.
My chest still uncovered. Pallu hanging loose at my side.
Blouse damp. Cleavage fully visible.
I didn’t care.
Not now.
I rushed to the door.
Feet loud on the floor.
Heart thudding in my ears.
Ran without fixing the pallu.
Everything visible.
But I had to close it.
Before anyone saw.
Before anything else slipped.
Click.
The latch slid into place.
And silence filled the flat again.
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marvelous update watchman and raj both making their moves faster
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Marvelous! Loved the way writer told the story. The story feels too alive!
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Awesome, Raj in the morning, watchman in the afternoon and Arjun in the night. She will be busy riding the cocks soon
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The latch clicked softly under my fingers. The noise didn’t match what had just happened. Nothing about this moment was soft.
I was still flushed. Still full of heat. Not due to summer. But from that brief, stupid, chaotic stumble where I had landed straight into him—my chest crushed into his face, his hands gripping me far too firmly. Tumblers falling. Saree in complete disarray.
I didn’t look at him yet.
My back was against the door now. My palm rested against the cool wood, but my skin beneath my blouse was burning.
I felt the cotton blouse cling between my breasts, damp and pulled low from how I fell. My pallu was gone—God knows where it had slipped—and my hair stuck to the side of my face.
I took a deep breath and turned.
Raj was still standing near the sofa, frozen. His eyes weren’t meeting mine. They were somewhere lower. Trying to behave. Failing.
I smirked without meaning to.
“Next time,” I said, adjusting the pallu half-heartedly at my elbow, “if I’m going to fall on your face, at least warn me.”
His lips parted. The blink that followed was slow, guilty.
“I didn’t exactly plan it,” he said, voice low.
“No?” I tilted my head, stepping slightly to the side so I wasn’t fully blocking the doorway. “You didn’t look very shocked.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You... surprised me.”
“Oh, I surprised you?”
A small laugh slipped out of me. I wasn’t trying to mock him, not really. But the tension in the room needed an exit valve.
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. His eyes flicked up, caught mine, then dropped again—just for a second.
That’s when I followed his gaze. And saw it.
A bulge.
Obvious. Not cartoonish. But real enough.
My eyes paused there longer than they should’ve.
Then quickly darted away.
No comment. Not even a breath.
But my body noticed.
A tiny jolt ran through my stomach. A familiar squeeze low between my legs. One I hadn’t felt in too long.
I cleared my throat and adjusted my pallu—finally doing it properly, dbanging it across my chest, pretending like I hadn’t just stared at my husband’s hard-on like some teenage girl.
I turned slightly. That’s when I saw the tumblers.
Two of them.
One lying just near the leg of the sofa, the other rolled off toward the edge of the rug. They looked strangely out of place. As if their fall had marked the moment things had slipped—between us, inside me.
My hand moved slightly, instinctively, like I was about to start cleaning up.
He stepped forward.
“ Do you need my help? Again,” he said quietly.
I didn’t look at him. “It’s okay.”
My voice wasn’t steady.
He didn’t say anything after that.
I walked past him. Slowly.
I could feel his eyes on my back. On my hips. On the faint imprint of damp fabric where my blouse clung tighter than it should.
Each step felt like I was walking through fog.
The house was silent. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Nothing else.
I reached the first tumbler—just there on the floor, near the teapoy leg. My toes touched the edge of it. I paused.
Took a slow breath.
Then bent down.
—
My fingers wrapped around the first tumbler.
It was cool against my skin. The steel felt smooth and a little wet. A small drop rolled down and touched my palm.
I wiped it quickly on my saree.
My other hand stayed on my chest, still holding my pallu close. The edge of the fabric was damp from sweat, sticking to my fingers. My blouse had pulled low when I bent. The air touched the top of my chest and made me shiver slightly.
I didn’t stand up yet.
I looked to the side.
The second tumbler had rolled under the sofa. Not deep, but just enough that I couldn’t reach it easily.
I stayed crouched for a second. Thinking.
Then shifted my knee.
The floor was cool and hard. My right knee touched it gently. I placed the tumbler in my hand on the floor next to me so I could stretch better.
My pallu slipped a little again.
I adjusted it quickly. Pulled it higher. But the blouse was already stuck to my skin. My chest moved with every breath—tight, warm, soft. I felt the shape of it in my own body. Noticed how exposed I was if I let go of the pallu.
So I held it tighter.
I bent lower now. My upper body leaned forward, and my face came near the sofa. I stretched my hand under it. My fingers reached, almost—
But just then…
I heard something behind me.
Footsteps. Soft.
Before I could turn—
Raj bent down too.
Fast.
His hand moved toward the tumbler at the same time as mine.
Our heads bumped.
Hard.
“Ah!” I gasped.
He pulled back with a groan. “Aiyo—sorry!”
I sat up quick, one hand still holding my chest. The other rubbing my forehead.
“Ow! Raj anna!” I looked at him with big eyes. “You broke my head!”
He looked shocked. “I didn’t know you were already down there!”
“What are you doing charging in like that? Trying to fight me for a tumbler?”
He smiled awkwardly, still rubbing his own forehead. “I was just trying to help…”
I narrowed my eyes, still rubbing mine. “Help? This is the second time today you attacked me!”
His brows rose. “Attacked?”
“Yes!” I pointed at him. “First, you caught me in that fall, like a movie fight scene. Then now, a headbutt! What’s next? Body slam?”
He laughed. “Hey, that fall was your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You slipped!”
I stared at him. “So now I’m clumsy too?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t need to,” I said, turning back toward the sofa. “Help me once more and I’ll throw this tumbler at you.”
He held up his hands like surrender. “Okay, okay! I’m not moving.”
I gave him a sideways glance, still holding in a smile.
I leaned down again, slower this time.
He stayed still behind me.
My saree pulled tighter across my hips. I felt the stretch of the blouse again. This time, I didn’t adjust the pallu. I just kept it pressed with my arm while I reached forward.
The tumbler was right there now.
My fingers touched it. Nudged it.
It rolled a little. I reached again and pulled it out slowly.
I sat up again. This time without bumping anyone.
Raj was still crouching beside me. He looked at the tumbler in my hand, then at my face. Then quickly looked away.
I saw his eyes flicker down my chest for a second.
I didn’t say anything.
I picked up the first tumbler again. Held both now—one in each hand.
I stood up slowly.
My legs were a little stiff from kneeling. I straightened my back, adjusted my saree again. The pallu had bunched at the waist now. I took a second to fix it properly across my chest, tucking it tight.
My blouse stuck to my skin. I could feel it even under the fabric.
Raj stood up too. He didn’t speak.
I didn’t look at him.
I turned, holding the two tumblers, and walked toward the kitchen.
Each step felt longer than it needed to be.
I knew he was watching.
I could feel it like a warm line running down my spine.
---
I placed the tumblers in the sink. The metal clinked softly as they touched the bottom. I turned the tap. The sound of water filled the silence, but it didn’t drown out the feeling still clinging to my skin.
My pallu had stayed in place now. But only because I was holding it tightly across my chest. My blouse was still stuck to me from earlier. The sweat hadn’t dried. It clung to me—along my back, under my breasts, the space just below where the fabric ended. I felt it with every tiny movement.
I rinsed both tumblers slowly. Watched the water swirl around the rim. I wasn’t in a hurry. But I also didn’t want to look up. I could feel him near the kitchen door. Not moving. Just standing.
Then he spoke.
“I’ll leave now.”
I didn’t turn.
“You’re leaving like that?”
“Like what?”
I picked up the first tumbler, filled it with water, turned around, and held it out.
“Anna,” I said, keeping my face straight. “Have water and go.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why? You think I’ll faint without it?”
“No. But maybe you’ll crash into someone again.”
He let out a quiet laugh and walked toward me.
“Hey, I didn’t crash,” he said, taking the tumbler from my hand. “You slipped.”
“I didn’t slip. You stood too close.”
“I was helping.”
“You were catching,” I corrected. “Two different things.”
He brought the tumbler to his lips and took a long sip.
I watched him.
His Adam’s apple moved as he drank. His hand was strong, fingers wrapped around the glass tight. His shirt was a little wrinkled now—from the way he held me earlier, maybe. His hair looked slightly out of place.
He finished and handed the tumbler back.
I took it without touching his hand. Barely.
“Thanks,” he said.
I turned to rinse the glass again. “You’re welcome.”
He lingered for a second longer. I could feel him behind me. Then I heard his feet shift.
“Okay,” he said, softer now. “I’ll go.”
I gave a small nod.
He stepped away. I didn’t turn. Just listened.
But just before he left, I heard it—that tiny pause in his breath. I felt his eyes.
On my back.
On the side of my waist.
On the place where the saree tucked in low.
Where the blouse pulled tight and didn’t hide much.
That space just above my hip where skin met fabric.
He didn’t say anything.
And then I heard the door.
Latch.
The sound echoed.
He was gone.
I rinsed the last tumbler slowly. Dried my hands on the end of my pallu.
Then walked back to the hall.
Everything was quiet again. Same fan. Same light.
But I felt full.
Not heavy. Just warm.
I sat down on the sofa. My legs pulled close. My arms folded loose across my stomach.
The spot where I sat still had the slight dent from when Raj had been there earlier.
I didn’t fix it.
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Wonderful way of writing, too detailed.
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Beautiful update
She teases the security because she wants a man as her slave. At one end she is dominative with Security, other end she is submissive with Raj and on the third end she is neutral with Arjun.
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(12-04-2025, 05:46 PM)Vishal Ramana Wrote: Beautiful update
She teases the security because she wants a man as her slave. At one end she is dominative with Security, other end she is submissive with Raj and on the third end she is neutral with Arjun.
i hope she will have fun with 3 of them that will be awesome ;)
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Great writing, she is dominating watchman and very comfortable with Raj/Ram
Hope she starts exposing to watchman and take the lead in flirting with Arjun...
Let's see how the story unfolds....
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16-04-2025, 12:16 AM
(This post was last modified: 16-04-2025, 12:16 AM by yazhiniram. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
I turned around and walked slowly toward the sofa.
Same one where he sat.
Where his thigh had pressed the cushion. Where I had bent slightly to clean, while his eyes stayed on my waist.
I didn’t think so. My body just walked to it.
I sat down exactly where he sat.
Back against the cushion.
Legs folded up. Hair sticking to my neck.
My chest was still sore.
Breasts are heavy.
My blouse fabric clung tighter now—damp from heat, maybe from more than that.
The fall played again in my head.
The slip.
The moment my body lost balance.
And then the crash—straight onto him.
Onto Raj.
His face went straight into my chest.
Not just a glance. Not a graze.
My breasts flattened against his face, full pressure.
My breath stopped.
So did his.
And the way he held me?
First by the waist.
Then…
That shift.
That bold shift.
His hand moved up.
Cupped my breast. Firm. Full.
Fingers wrapping around soft flesh.
No hesitation.
And my body?
Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t push away.
I just stayed there, breath held, skin hot, heart beating like a drum.
And then the lift.
He pulled me up.
Pressed into me.
I felt it.
His cock—hard.
It pushed into my thigh through his pants.
Clearly.
Thick.
Long.
Alive.
And he didn’t hide it.
He didn’t back off.
And I didn’t scream.
I didn’t scold.
I didn’t even move.
Just let it happen.
Let him lift me like that, with one hand still on my breast, the other on my waist.
My nipples had stiffened then.
And now?
Still hard.
Still poking against the blouse, reminding me exactly where his fingers had been.
I leaned my head back on the sofa and closed my eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to breathe.
But even that felt heavy.
Like my breath couldn’t get past the heat sitting in my chest.
My thighs were sticking together.
Wet.
I didn’t check.
Didn’t need to.
I could feel it.
Inside the panty.
On the fabric.
A wetness that wasn’t just sweat.
I touched the side of my neck.
It was warm.
Damp.
I wasn’t aroused now.
But I was still full.
Still burning from what happened.
Raj had touched something deeper.
And now, sitting here, alone, in the quiet afternoon…
I didn’t know how to go back to normal.
I leaned sideways on the sofa.
Closed my eyes again.
One hand resting on my waist.
Just a nap, I thought.
Just close the eyes and slow everything down.
Only for a few minutes.
I didn’t even know when I slipped into sleep.
Just the fan turning.
The weight of the body.
And the image of his hand on my breast…
Holding me like I was something he’d been waiting to touch.
BEEP. BEEP.
My alarm.
It rang sharp, pulling me back.
My eyes opened instantly.
I looked at the clock.
4:00 PM.
I sat up fast.
Eyes still half dazed.
I could hear the sound of college van horns outside.
Kids laughing.
Gates opening.
Footsteps running.
Evening had begun.
My role as mother, wife, lady of the house—had returned.
And Arjun?
He’d be home soon.
Phone buzzed.
I picked it up, still half-dazed from the nap.
Kartik: “Will be late today. Don’t wait.”
I didn’t even react.
What’s new?
Almost felt like a copied-paste text.
Same excuse. Same timing.
I just locked the screen, kept the phone down.
Turned to the hall.
And right on cue—Arjun walked in.
“Anni!”
His voice was light, cheerful.
He smiled like this was his own house—and honestly, it had started to feel like that.
He looked comfortable.
Familiar.
His bag was already off his shoulder before he reached the sofa.
Dropped it in the kids' room without saying much.
Just walked in like this house belonged to him too.
I turned toward the kitchen.
But as I crossed the hall, I saw him coming back out.
Fresh towel in hand.
His t-shirt was already off.
Topless.
Bare-chested.
It wasn’t a shock.
He always did this.
Walked freely around the house like it was his own.
But I hadn’t really noticed until now.
His skin was clean.
Not tanned.
But not pale either.
That soft wheat colour that only young boys have.
Chest wasn’t huge—he wasn’t some gym freak.
But there were muscles.
Defined.
Light lines around his abs.
Shoulders shaped just enough to make my eyes pause for a second longer than usual.
He was only 22.
But there was nothing “kid” about that body anymore.
The towel was flung across one shoulder.
His shorts were low on his hips.
His back… firm.
Even his walk was confident now—head slightly tilted, water still dripping from his neck.
I turned back to the stove.
Acted normal.
But my chest felt warm again.
My blouse had started to stick slightly between my shoulder blades.
I stirred the coffee, pretending I didn’t just trace the lines of his body like some bored housewife.
It wasn’t desire.
It wasn’t guilt.
It was just…
awareness.
My eyes noticed.
And maybe something else inside me stirred.
He came back 5 minutes later, dressed again.
Tight t-shirt this time.
Hair damp.
Sports shorts clinging gently around his waist.
He entered the kitchen casually.
Stood beside me.
Held out his hand.
I passed the cup without a word.
He took one sip.
Sighed.
“Perfect, anni.”
I stirred the boiling pot with one hand and sipped coffee from the other.
The kitchen was warm.
Evening breeze came weak through the half-open window.
Outside, the kids were loud—college bags hitting floors, one of them screaming from a distant balcony, another one shouting for the ball.
Inside?
Calm.
Just me and Arjun.
He leaned against the counter with his cup, holding it with both hands.
Fresh from his shower.
T-shirt slightly damp from hair water.
Thin cotton hugging his chest.
Grey sports shorts sat low on his hips.
Clean. Dry. Relaxed.
“First day was okay?” I asked, eyes still on the pan.
“Yeah… nothing much. Just intro meetings. Office is chill,” he said.
I gave a small nod.
Stirred a little harder.
Steam hit my cheek.
“I got my desk near the window. Finally some sunlight in this city,” he said.
I smiled slightly.
“Good. Just don’t start sleeping near that window.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t jinx it, anni. I already yawned three times by lunch.”
I turned toward the spice shelf to grab the container.
The moment I moved, I could feel the shift in my saree.
The pallu didn’t fall off.
But my blouse side?
It lifted slightly.
Under the armhole—one soft curve slipped into open air.
No lining.
No bra.
Just skin.
Cotton blouse clinging to the top of my sideboob.
And he saw.
I didn’t turn to catch him.
I didn’t need to.
I knew.
I stayed there a few extra seconds.
Pretending to search for the jeera box.
My waist was slightly bent. Hip out. Blouse lifted.
I knew his cup was paused near his mouth.
His eyes were frozen.
Maybe on my skin.
Maybe on my back curve.
Or maybe—just maybe—on the tiny patch of waist showing between saree pleats and blouse back.
Let him look.
Let him learn what happens when a woman doesn’t adjust.
I turned back slowly, calmly, and placed the box on the counter.
He sipped again, eyes back on the cup.
Too quick.
Too guilty.
Too late.
“So your boss is decent?” I asked.
“Yeah. Kind of old-college. Looks scary but seemed nice.”
“Hmm. You said that about your last boss also. Next week you’ll start abusing him.”
He laughed.
“You’re not wrong.”
I raised my cup to my lips, but my eyes stayed on his.
He looked relaxed.
But his eyes were betraying him.
Again and again.
Small flicks downward.
From my eyes to my chest.
From my face to my saree pleats.
Tiny glances.
But I caught them all.
I turned toward the stove again.
One hand lifted to tie my hair back loosely.
When my arm went up, the blouse gaped again.
Sideboob visible.
Clear and full.
I didn’t pull it down.
I didn’t fix anything.
Let the kitchen light fall on my skin.
Let him watch.
Let him pretend not to.
He was still drinking.
Sip by sip.
Cup should’ve been empty by now.
I glanced.
It was nearly done.
But he was still here.
Still leaning.
Still standing near the slab like he had some deep research to do.
“Finished?” I asked, casual.
“Almost,” he said.
“Take your time,” I replied, voice flat but laced with something underneath.
Something unspoken.
Something slow and teasing.
He smiled slightly.
Didn’t reply.
Just sipped again.
Still watching.
And my body?
It wasn’t calm.
My blouse was fully stuck under my breasts now.
Sweat had made the fabric cling.
My thighs were warm.
Panty slightly wet.
Still from earlier.
From Raj.
Not from this.
But now Arjun was here.
And this boy…
This boy was unknowingly holding that heat in place.
By just standing there.
By just looking like that.
He was still leaning against the slab.
I had turned back to the stove and finished stirring the last pot.
Everything was done now.
Just needed to clean up.
I poured water into the coffee filter, let it drip into the tumbler below.
Arjun cleared his throat softly.
“Anni… need any help?”
I didn’t even look back.
“Why? You’re so bored already?”
“No no,” he laughed. “Just thought I could help if something’s pending.”
I turned half-side, wiping my hands on the kitchen towel.
“You want to help, or you want a reason to hang around the kitchen?”
He blinked.
“Both?”
I smirked.
“Nothing needed. You can sit there and talk to me if you’re bored.”
I picked up the used tumblers and spoons from the slab.
Carried them to the sink.
Water running.
Soap spread.
Washing slowly.
One by one.
I could feel it.
His eyes.
He wasn’t even pretending to hide anymore.
I bent forward slightly, reaching for the corner vessel.
My side blouse opened again.
Bare skin from underarm to side breast, slightly damp, slightly glistening.
The saree edge at my waist had dipped an inch lower while I worked.
Navel clearly showing.
And he?
He was scanning everything.
I didn’t need a mirror.
I could feel it on my skin like sunlight.
When I turned a little—casually—his eyes were right there on my blouse side.
The exact spot under my arm.
One second too long.
Then they jumped away, fast.
Upward. Guilty.
He looked at the ceiling like God himself had shouted at him.
I had to bite my cheek to hold the laugh.
But it came out anyway—a soft, knowing smile.
This boy.
Poor fellow.
He doesn’t even know how readable he is.
“Finished the coffee?” I asked, not turning back.
“Yeah. It was really good.”
“Hmm. Is that why you’re watching the sink instead of the cup?”
Silence.
I let it hang.
Then continued rinsing the spoon.
“You’re this quiet with your girlfriends also?” I asked suddenly.
He blinked.
I didn’t see it.
But I felt it.
“N-no… I mean… what?”
“College boy look, decent job. I’m sure one or two girls must be roaming behind you.”
He scratched his head.
“I mean… I talk to people…”
“Ah,” I said, voice flat but playful. “People or person?”
“Anni!”
That one protest.
But his ears had already turned pink.
I laughed.
Low.
Not loud.
Not mocking.
Just enough to keep him flustered.
“That reaction is all I needed.”
He laughed too, nervous.
“You’re too sharp, anni.”
“Of course,” I said, wiping the plate clean. “You should know that by now.”
His eyes dropped again.
This time lower.
Maybe to my waist.
Maybe to the blouse sticking wet to my back.
I didn’t turn.
I didn’t hide.
Let him stare.
Let him swallow hard.
Let him remember every inch in his sleep tonight.
The last spoon went into the drainer.
Water stopped.
I wiped my hands, slowly.
The kitchen still warm.
But something hotter was still rising in the space between us.
The last of the spoons were washed and dripping.
I turned the tap off, wiped my hands slowly on the edge of the towel.
He was still standing there.
Leaning on the counter, same spot.
Half-empty coffee cup still in one hand.
Not moving.
Not talking too much either.
Just… present.
Watching.
I picked up the steel plates and walked to the bottom drawers.
Bent down, opened it, began stacking them neatly.
I didn’t need to look at him.
I could already feel his eyes falling—first to my waist, then my back.
The blouse fabric had stuck fully by now.
Sweat patches were soft under my arms, sides slightly open, and when I bent…
I knew what he was seeing.
The side of my blouse gaped.
The lower curve of my breast showed faintly—warm and round.
My saree had loosened a little too.
Tucked low.
Thin cotton sliding over the curve of my hips.
I leaned down a bit more to reach for the second drawer.
The move made my back arch slightly—lifting my hips just that little bit extra.
And still—no words from him.
I started placing spoons in the smaller rack.
His voice came, soft, behind me.
“You always do all this alone?”
I didn’t turn.
“Why? You want to start helping from tomorrow?”
He laughed.
“Honestly… I’d probably just mess everything up.”
I closed the drawer and stood upright.
Turned toward him slowly, wiping a spoon in my hand.
“Then you better stand exactly where you are. Quiet and harmless.”
He smiled again, but I caught the way his eyes dropped—quickly—then flicked back up.
Back to the blouse, probably.
Or the saree line hugging my waist.
I didn’t respond.
Just placed the spoon down, picked up the bowls, and walked across the kitchen.
As I squatted slightly to open the corner shelf, I kept talking.
“Back in college, did you even enter the kitchen?”
“Only when food was ready,” he said.
“Figures,” I smirked. “You look like that type.”
“What type?”
“Too lazy to cook, too smart to clean.”
He chuckled. “That’s accurate, actually.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, reaching for the last lid. “This house has enough discipline to scare you straight.”
I stood again, one hand resting lightly on the fridge handle.
My back straight.
Chest rising a bit from the heat.
Breasts heavy under the thin blouse—still no bra from morning.
Still sticky.
Still aware.
And him?
He was pretending to be casual.
Still sipping the last drop of coffee.
But I saw his legs shift.
One quick hand movement at the front of his shorts.
Trying to press it down.
Trying to hide.
He thought I didn’t notice.
But I did.
And I let it go.
Instead, I wiped my hands, turned casually and asked,
“Shall we go for dinner?”
Just like that.
Soft. Light. Simple.
But his eyes froze.
His face stiffened for half a second.
Like his brain got caught in two meanings at once.
He nodded slowly.
“Yeah… okay.”
I smiled to myself, turned around, and walked out of the kitchen.
His footsteps followed.
And behind his steps?
I could feel the leftover heat he was carrying… and the fire I left him with.
Dinner was done.
Plates empty.
Kids already run off into their world—TV, bags open, college shoes flung in all directions.
I began clearing the table, casually stacking plates and tumblers, walking them to the sink.
Behind me, I heard him speak again.
“Anni… you want help?”
I didn’t react immediately.
Just rinsed a steel plate, let the water run over my fingers.
In my head, my answer had already come:
Help? You mean come stand next to me, act like you’re assisting, and use the chance to eat me alive with your eyes?
I smiled to myself.
But on the outside?
I kept it simple.
“Not needed,” I said, half-turning. “You can stay here and chat, that’s enough.”
He smiled and followed, standing near the fridge this time.
Close enough to hear the water.
Far enough to not get caught looking—at least that’s what he thought.
I was in the same saree.
Same blouse.
Still no bra.
And with every step I took around the kitchen, every time I leaned toward the sink or opened a drawer, I could feel his eyes trace the outlines of my movement.
But he never said a word.
Never made it obvious.
He just stood there, quietly.
Cup still in hand, long empty by now.
I placed a few spoons in the drainer and leaned forward again to grab a tumbler from the far corner.
I knew what angle I was giving him.
The low back curve.
The soft sway of my hips under the cotton saree.
The slightly open blouse side that showed just enough of my breast’s edge to make any man freeze.
But I didn’t adjust anything.
Didn’t pull the saree tighter.
Didn’t shift the pallu.
Let him take what he could.
In silence.
He asked something suddenly, voice lower.
“You always cook so fast?”
I smiled faintly.
“Habit,” I replied. “If I don’t do it fast, I’ll get stuck inside the kitchen forever.”
He nodded.
Still watching.
Still pretending not to.
As I rinsed the last vessel, I felt his presence again—right near my side now.
Still not touching. Still no words.
Just standing.
Quiet.
Tension in the air.
That low, hungry energy that builds when nothing is said, but everything is felt.
I shut the tap slowly.
Wiped my hands.
Wiped the sink edges.
And then saw it—the small vessel of leftover milk still sitting on the stove.
Still warm.
I turned slightly toward him.
“Tea?”
He looked up.
Quick.
Like he wasn’t expecting a question.
Then nodded.
“Yeah… I’ll have.”
His voice was softer now.
And something about the way he said it told me everything I needed to know.
He wasn’t just thirsty.
He was staying for more than tea.
I lit the burner and placed the milk on low.
Tea powder. Sugar. Ginger. All routine.
My hands moved like second nature.
But my mind?
It was fully awake.
Fully aware.
I could feel his gaze—again.
From the same corner near the fridge.
I didn’t have to look.
I knew exactly when his eyes dropped from my face to my blouse.
Exactly when they paused at my waist.
And when I finally turned slightly, I caught him.
Mid-stare.
Right at the dip between saree and stomach.
His head moved fast—away, like he was checking the ceiling.
I didn’t react.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t say a word.
Just stirred the tea.
Let it boil.
Let him sweat.
The steam rose slowly.
A bubble popped near the edge.
I poured the tea into two glasses.
Handled them carefully and turned.
He followed.
We both sat on opposite sides of the small dining table.
Tea was hot.
But not as hot as the silence sitting between us.
I sipped slowly, letting the edge of the glass rest on my lips.
Arjun leaned back, holding his glass with both hands.
The fan above spun lazily.
And somewhere in the background, the kids were arguing about the TV remote.
“So…” he started, “Kartik anna… always works this late?”
His voice was casual.
But I knew the weight in that question.
He didn’t look up when he asked it.
Just blew on his tea and waited.
I nodded once.
“Mostly. That’s his routine.”
“Long hours every day?”
“Yeah. Most days it’s the laptop or a call. Sometimes I don’t even know what he’s doing anymore.”
It came out without hesitation.
No pain. No pause.
Just truth.
Served like tea—hot, simple, overused.
He looked slightly surprised.
Maybe at my calmness.
Maybe at the way I said it.
I didn’t explain.
Didn’t add “but he’s sweet” or “he cares.” Because lately, he doesn’t.
And I didn’t need to say that out loud.
I placed my glass down gently on the table.
“He used to come home early before. At least earlier.”
Arjun glanced up.
“But now?”
“Now, I think he prefers his office more than this house.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but held it.
I didn’t give space for sympathy.
Just raised one eyebrow lightly and added, “Anyway, I don’t count hours anymore. He comes, he comes.”
He nodded slowly.
Then smiled faintly, like trying to soften the air.
“Maybe his job needs that kind of time.”
I gave a soft shrug.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just easier to be busy than to be present.”
I could feel it.
His eyes wanted to ask more.
But he didn’t.
And I didn’t give him the opening.
Because I had already said enough.
Not too much.
Not too deep.
Just what was needed.
I picked up my tea again and finished the last sip.
Still warm.
Still bitter at the bottom.
Like some truths.
Better taken without sugar.
Dinner done.
Kitchen wiped.
Tea glasses rinsed and left to dry.
I checked the clock.
Almost 8:45.
I called out to the kids.
“Brush and go sleep. college again tomorrow.”
Some grumbling. Some laughter. Same routine.
A few minutes later, lights went off in their room.
The soft hum of the fan took over.
Another day closed in their world.
I came back to the hall.
Arjun was still near the dining table, scrolling his phone lazily.
He looked up when I passed.
“Good night, anni.”
“Hmm. Good night,” I said, half-smiling.
Still no change in my voice.
Still no mention of anything felt, anything seen.
Just routine.
Just normal.
I walked into the bedroom.
Closed the door softly behind me.
Loosened the saree pleats.
Let them fall slowly onto the bed.
Folded it carefully.
Removed the blouse.
Skin finally breathing.
No bra all day. Just a blouse soaked with old sweat and his eyes.
I wiped myself lightly.
Changed into my nightdress.
Didn’t bother checking the mirror.
Didn’t want to.
Phone buzzed once.
I picked it up without thinking.
Raj.
“Hope your head is okay. Sleep well. Good night.”
I stared at the message for a few seconds.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t frown.
Just looked at it.
Then placed the phone aside, screen still on.
Didn’t type anything back.
The fan spun above.
Kartik hadn’t come yet.
Nothing new.
I laid down sideways on the bed.
Leg curled.
Stomach against the sheets.
Body still tired.
Still unsatisfied.
Still burning in places that shouldn’t be this awake at night.
At some point, I heard the door open faintly.
Kartik’s bag hitting the floor.
Bathroom tap running.
The usual.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t open my eyes.
Didn’t say a word.
Sleep came in patches.
Not full.
Not deep.
Just scattered minutes of stillness.
The next morning
Everything moved like muscle memory.
Kids up. Bathed. Fed. Bags packed.
Kartik ready in his usual silence.
He left like a shadow.
One door shut.
Then another.
Arjun came out a little later.
Still in half-sleep.
T-shirt creased. Shorts loose.
He took the first sip of his coffee and said casually,
“Anni… a parcel might come from my office today. Just letting you know.”
I nodded.
He didn’t ask for anything more.
Just walked off to get ready.
The door closed behind him.
And I stood there in the hall.
Bare feet on cool floor.
Coffee in my hand.
And my whole body still remembering yesterday’s heat.
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16-04-2025, 01:43 AM
Wow Wow Wow! Just Wow!!!
What an amazing amazing update!.
The entire update was an amazing ride! You are an amazing writer Yazhini! There is MAGIC in your writing.
Everything I am imagining for the character Pavitra is coming true through your writing and I am so happy and glad and nervous, got my pulse quickening. Every bit from the past updates were erotic.
I am glad that this is not some 1v1 love or obsession story which could tend to get bored pretty quick. I love how Pavitra is not discriminating the source of love and admiration and lust! Even if a beggar wants to show all his love and attention she is willing to listen to his heart! In that sense she's such a damn GODDESS!
I am especially in love with her interactions with the balding watchman! Something about their interactions feels too Taboo and so Primal. It's like I am reading something I shouldn't read, watching something I shouldn't watch and source of it all is Pavitra - The seductress! After reading their bit (all three interactions) my heart racing really fast. Their encounter is more unique, more personal and more erotic of them all!
I like how she's openly berating the old watchman and how he's all nervous and anxious (or at least he's acting as such) and how she's enjoying it all!
It's not that she just wants to insult and humiliate him while taking sick pleasure out of it. I like the part where, she also feels sorry and pity for the middle-aged man (or was that his drama?) and try to cheer him up by talking more erotica and make him look at her maybe just a little, not too much that will piss her off but she wants to be desirable!
Her allure making him to submit to the desires from where and which parts of her body he 'stared' and lusted from his own mouth! The way she's openly talking about her sensual body parts and painting a visual erotic scene for the lowly watchman!
It is too too too damn erotic!
Can't wait more of this duo! The watchman may not be as innocent as he acts to be. At least by now, he should have understood that even though mam likes to insult him, she's not completely heartless! She feels pity for him, when he's sad and sorry. She shows kindness, Maybe he can capitalize on this "soft spot for him" and if he played his acting part correctly, it may land him in a 'situation' with the goddess that many even the most richest and the most handsome man could only dream of!
Maybe he'll increase the frequency of his visits, find any stupid reason to be with the goddess! Maybe he'll entertain her with his sob story to gain her affection and kindness, maybe she'll feel pity and invite him for a small cup of coffee or even the 'buttermilk' she asked him to have. Maybe that will increase the possibilities of 'certain things' happening with beauty. In the coming days she may want to purposefully dress provocatively solely for the benefit of the fat old watchman!
Can't wait to read more dearest Yazhini!
Eagerly waiting <3
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Awesome Narration... Keep it up 
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16-04-2025, 06:03 PM
(This post was last modified: 16-04-2025, 06:04 PM by yazhiniram. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Arjun walked out of his room, already dressed. He was wearing his usual office shirt and pants, and combing his hair with one hand. The other hand held his phone.
He moved around the hall, checking his bag, adjusting his sleeves. He was in his own world.
He stopped near the main door and said, “Anni, I’m leaving.”
I was standing near the kitchen, wiping the slab.
I didn’t look at him. “Hmm,” I said, without turning.
He didn’t wait for more. Just opened the door and walked out.
The door closed.
The lift started moving.
And the house became quiet again.
I stood there for a few seconds.
Wiped my hands, placed the cloth down.
Walked slowly to the sofa and sat down.
The fan above turned slowly. Sunlight from the balcony was falling across the floor in patches.
It was the usual morning.
But I could feel something under my skin.
The phone buzzed.
I picked it up.
Raj.
“Good morning. Hope your head’s okay today.”
I stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Then typed:
“Head’s fine. But your hand left a memory somewhere.”
I sent the message.
No smile. No drama.
Just a reply.
I kept the phone aside.
Leant back.
Let the silence stay.
A few minutes passed.
Another message.
“Didn’t expect it to stay there. Some things stay longer than we think.”
I read it once. Then typed:
“Some people should think before touching.”
No reply came after that.
But I could feel his eyes on the screen somewhere.
I stood up and walked to the bedroom.
Picked a towel and clothes, and entered the bathroom.
I undressed slowly.
Untied my nighty and let it fall.
Stood under the light, looked at my body in the mirror for a moment.
Breasts were soft, a bit heavy. No support. No effort to shape them.
I tied my hair up and turned on the water.
The water was just warm enough.
First it hit my shoulders.
Then my back.
Then slowly ran down between my breasts.
I closed my eyes and stood still for a while.
Let the water do its work.
But my mind didn’t stop.
I remembered how his hand pressed me.
Not soft. Not hard.
But firm.
Not by mistake.
It stayed for long enough.
And even after all that… I didn’t push him away.
I didn’t even shout.
That thought stayed with me more than the touch.
I picked up the soap and cleaned myself slowly.
Arms. Neck. Breasts. Stomach. Legs.
My palm moved down slowly, not with excitement—but with quiet need.
Not pleasure.
Just relief.
The heat under my navel wasn’t going away.
I washed off and stepped out.
Dried my body part by part.
Pressed the towel under my breasts.
Then between my thighs.
I stood for a while in front of the mirror.
Felt my skin cooling.
But the warmth inside hadn’t left.
I walked to the cupboard and opened it.
Picked a simple pink saree.
Cotton.
Soft.
Not too old.
Not too tight.
The kind I wear when I want to feel light, not dressed up.
I wore a plain blouse. No bra.
The blouse sat comfortably. A bit loose near the sides.
Tied the strings at the back.
I didn’t use a pin for the pallu.
Just let it fall.
Tied the saree low on the waist.
Didn’t look in the mirror again.
I stepped back into the hall.
Hair damp.
Feet clean.
The floor felt cool under my toes.
I sat down on the sofa, legs stretched out.
The saree pleats opened slightly near my thighs.
My blouse stuck a bit near my sides.
I didn’t fix anything.
Let it stay.
The phone was silent now.
But the thoughts weren’t.
Even water hadn’t washed away what I was feeling.
And somehow…
I didn’t want it to.
Morning still hot.
Even with the fan spinning in full speed above me, my back was already damp again. The cotton saree I had changed into after the bath was starting to cling in places. Behind my knees. Under my breasts. Along my waistline.
The air felt heavy. Still. Like it was pressing down on the house.
I had opened all the windows. Left the balcony door ajar too.
But not a single breeze had come in.
The kind of summer heat that didn’t burn loudly—but just sat quietly on your skin, making you aware of every part of your body that was covered, wrapped, or tucked.
I had just finished folding the last set of clothes and placed them on the sofa when my phone rang.
Arjun.
“Anni, courier came from the Bangalore office. It dropped in the security cabin.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll take it in the evening when I get back.”
“Okay.”
He hung up.
I put the phone down.
That should’ve been it.
It wasn’t urgent. The parcel wasn’t mine. He’d pick it up in the evening. Done.
But somehow, my body didn’t want to sit.
Something about that box being there—resting downstairs, and that man sitting near it—made me feel restless. Like my skin needed to move.
Maybe it was the heat.
Or maybe it was just me.
I walked into the bedroom, stood in front of the mirror for a second.
My blouse was already showing light sweat marks near the underarms.
The cotton saree pleats were holding tight near the hip.
I adjusted the tuck slightly, ran my fingers over the edge of the waist fold, smoothing it.
The blouse was soft. Worn. No bra underneath.
I adjusted the pallu, pulled it tighter across the chest—not too tight, just enough to feel the fabric move.
I didn’t look at my reflection again.
Picked up the keys from the table.
Locked the main door behind me.
The corridor was dim.
Fan near the stairs turned slowly. Not that it helped.
I pressed the lift button.
The panel blinked softly.
Lift opened.
I stepped inside.
The air inside was no better.
It wasn’t hot—but not cool either. Just dry and closed. I felt a small drop of sweat slide from the back of my neck, into the blouse.
I stood facing the lift mirror.
Didn’t really look at myself.
But my eyes noticed the way my pallu sat across my chest.
Not pinned.
Just folded loosely.
The blouse sat normal—but I could see the way the side opened slightly near the underarm. Small space. Just skin.
I didn’t fix it.
Didn’t feel like it.
The lift beeped softly with each floor.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Every few seconds, I felt the weight of my own body differently.
The saree pulled at my hip.
The fabric sticking near my waistline.
A little itch forming at the edge of my underbust.
Nothing sharp.
Just soft heat building, and staying.
When the lift stopped and the door opened to the ground floor, the first thing I felt was the shift in the air.
Not better.
Just hotter.
The corridor was warmer than my flat.
The sunlight outside was sharp. Strong.
It bounced off the tiles and into the entrance area.
But I didn’t stop.
I stepped out and walked slowly toward the gate.
The guard’s cabin was at the corner.
That usual plastic chair. A fan inside the box spinning, but the man sitting under it was still sweating.
I could see him before he saw me.
He was sitting with one leg bent, resting on the chair leg, slightly slouched.
His shirt was half stuck to his back. He looked tired. Or bored.
But the moment he saw movement—me walking toward him—he straightened up fast.
Almost like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
His eyes met mine for half a second.
Then dropped.
Back to the ground.
Like he was waiting for me to speak first.
Or maybe just scared to say anything wrong.
I kept walking.
Not fast.
Just normal steps.
But inside?
I could already feel something warm spreading down my belly.
Not nerves.
Just awareness.
That he saw me.
That I saw him notice.
And that we both remembered what happened the last time I opened a door with wet nighty.
The path near the cabin was hotter than I expected.
The tiles were baking under the late morning sun. No breeze. The air felt like it was holding its breath.
Inside the small cabin, the pedestal fan spun with a dry squeak. It wasn’t helping him much. His shirt was already clinging to his back, darker around the armpits and spine.
He was sitting lazily at first—left leg folded, one slipper half hanging off. Like he had been in that spot all morning.
But the moment he looked up and saw me approaching—his whole body changed.
His spine straightened.
His hand reached for nothing.
And that casual, useless posture turned stiff and unsure.
I stopped at the edge of the open gate.
He blinked at me. Eyes unsure.
I didn’t give him time to decide.
“Oye. Courier?”
My voice was flat. Not angry. Not kind. Just direct.
His mouth opened quickly. “Yes… madam. Inside, in cabin.”
He stepped aside, letting me pass.
I walked straight into the cabin and saw the parcel resting near the back wall.
It was big.
One of those square brown boxes with rough tape all around it. Looked like a TV box—deep, wide, and annoying to move.
I bent slightly to get a better look.
Then bent more.
Saree shifted with me. My hips pulled the pleats tighter. My pallu slid slightly off my shoulder but didn’t fall.
I reached with both hands, gripping the sides.
Tried lifting once.
It didn’t budge.
Adjusted. Tried again. Nothing.
My back arched a little more.
My chest pressed in as my arms extended forward.
The blouse tightened along the sides.
Sweat was already forming again under my breasts.
I could feel him behind me.
Pretending to look elsewhere.
But I knew.
I knew exactly where his eyes were.
Even if they didn’t move, they were fighting to.
Even if his head was down, I could feel the weight of his stare burning behind me.
Three times.
He rang the bell three times that day.
Not once. Not twice. Three.
Like he couldn’t wait.
And I had stepped out, wet, barely dressed, nighty sticking to every inch of me. A towel that covered nothing. No bra. No lining.
He stood right there. Right where he is now.
Mouth dry. Eyes shameless.
And now he can’t even offer to lift a box?
I let go of the parcel.
Stood straight.
Turned slowly toward him.
He was standing there, half-stiff, half-nervous. Palms by his side. Head slightly down.
I stared at him.
Didn’t hide the judgment in my face.
“You can’t see it’s heavy?”
He jumped slightly.
“Sorry, madam! Sorry…”
He rushed forward, bent to the box quickly. Almost scared to touch it.
He wiped his hands once on his pants before lifting.
He grunted softly as he pulled it up. Big box. Not meant for one man.
But he held it. Arms wrapped around. Chest pressed into the edge.
Balanced it on one thigh and adjusted his hold.
His breathing changed.
I watched the back of his shirt stretch.
The sweat patch ran all the way from collar to belt.
“If needed… I can… carry it up for you, madam,” he said softly, still looking at the floor.
I didn’t reply.
Not immediately.
I just watched him.
The way his arms were trembling slightly—not from the box, but from being this close to me again.
From standing in front of the woman he had seen half-naked. The one who didn’t cover herself fast. The one who scolded him that day but didn’t close the door right away.
He’d been holding that memory since then.
And now he was holding this box—sweaty, silent, nervous.
Good.
Let him.
I lifted one eyebrow.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t thank.
Just said, with a straight face—
“Then carry it.”
He didn’t wait for a second word.
The moment I told him to carry it, he turned, held the box tight, and stepped out of the cabin.
His steps were slow, careful.
The box was big enough to block half his view, and heavy enough that it was pressing into his stomach. His arms wrapped around it awkwardly, trying not to drop it.
I didn’t rush.
Just followed him.
My steps were easy. My eyes watched his back.
Sweat had already spread across his shirt. It clung to his spine like a second skin. His pants were loose, belt hanging off the side slightly, one corner twisted near his waist.
Each time he shifted the weight, his shirt lifted slightly.
Not enough to reveal anything. But enough to show how uncomfortable he was.
Good.
We reached the lift.
He stood in front of it, struggling slightly to balance the box and press the button.
I sighed. Loud enough for him to hear.
“Move aside.”
He stepped a little to the side, box still in hand.
I leaned forward and pressed the button.
The panel lit up.
Lift came down slowly.
I could feel the sweat already forming near my waist again.
The heat was worse near the lift shaft. Closed air. No breeze.
I looked at him once, the box almost covering half his chest.
“You’re going to drop it if you keep shaking like that.”
He shook his head quickly. “No madam… I’m fine.”
“Hmm. Better be.”
The lift dinged.
Door slid open.
It was narrow. Same old one.
Steel walls, mirror on one side, small fan that didn’t work half the time.
I turned to him, gave him one look.
“Hold it properly. If it falls on my foot, I’ll make sure it lands on your head next.”
He nodded nervously, adjusted his grip again.
I didn’t wait.
I stepped in first.
Turned around, facing the lift door.
He followed.
There wasn’t space for anything else.
Now he was directly in front of me, still holding the box, trying to stand straight.
I stayed exactly behind him.
Less than two inches between us.
My face was now facing his back.
My breath—if I exhaled just a little harder—would land straight on the back of his neck.
He was almost my height.
Maybe a touch taller.
But close enough that I could see the collar seam of his shirt was half-torn.
His hair was slightly wet. Not fresh from bath—just from the heat. A mixture of sweat and dust.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t shift.
Let the silence press against his spine the way my breath was about to.
He stood there like he had frozen.
Didn’t dare turn.
Didn’t dare breathe too loud.
The only sound was the slow groaning of the lift door, sliding shut behind us.
And when it closed…
The real heat began.
The lift had started to move, but it was crawling.
I could hear the dull hum from the motor somewhere above, like an old ceiling fan struggling to pick up speed.
Inside, the air was thick.
No circulation.
No breeze.
The fan on the ceiling had turned twice and given up, making a tiny whining sound before going dead.
My blouse had already started sticking to my back.
Under my breast, sweat was collecting again—warm and thin, following the same trail from earlier.
He stood in front of me, holding the box tight, arms wrapped around it like it was the only thing keeping him stable.
The box wasn’t even close to his chest anymore—it was resting slightly on his stomach now, his hands gripping the sides.
And in that tiny lift space, I was less than two inches behind him.
Almost touching.
Not quite.
But close enough that if I took a deeper breath, I could feel the air move between us.
The smell hit me slowly.
It wasn’t sharp like perfume or soap.
It was deep, layered.
Like cloth that had been worn too long in the sun. Sweat soaked into the back collar. Skin unwashed from a full shift.
It wasn’t unbearable.
But it wasn’t pleasant either.
It sat in my nose like a memory I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I didn’t step away.
There was nowhere to go.
The lift was barely wide enough for both of us.
So I just stayed there.
Breathing through my mouth once.
Then my nose again—testing if I could tolerate it.
I could.
But only just.
We had crossed the first floor.
Lift beeped faintly for the second.
Then—
Without warning—
A loud clunk.
Hard stop.
The floor dropped slightly beneath our feet.
Not much.
Just a small, jerking slip—like the lift had changed its mind halfway between the second and third floor.
My body shifted forward before I could register it.
And my balance—completely gone.
I crashed into him.
Not lightly.
My full chest—both breasts—pressed hard into his back.
Soft fabric of the blouse spread and flattened instantly.
The pallu that had been sitting on my shoulder slipped down and bunched between us.
My stomach knocked into the edge of the box he was holding.
And instinct took over—
My arms wrapped around him.
Tight.
Not careful.
One arm across his chest.
One hand gripping just above his stomach.
It wasn’t a hug.
It was a reflex.
But it felt like a hug.
A full-bodied, heat-soaked, chest-to-back embrace.
I was completely on him.
Pinned against his sweaty shirt, my cheek brushing the upper part of his back, hair touching his shoulder.
The front of my body fit into his back like we were molded for a second.
He jolted forward, hit the front panel of the lift with a soft thud.
Box shifted in his grip.
He bent slightly forward to save it.
But he didn’t drop it.
And he didn’t move away from me either.
He froze.
As if his brain had shut down completely.
I didn’t react for one full second.
Then two.
My arms stayed around him.
My body resting against his for just a moment longer than needed.
Then I blinked.
Came back to my senses.
Pulled away.
Quick.
Let my hands fall back to my sides.
Stepped one inch backward, then another—enough to break the body contact.
Fixed my pallu over my shoulder.
Straightened my back.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t speak.
He still hadn’t moved.
Still holding the box, still facing the door.
Still breathing shallow, chest rising and falling like he was afraid to move a muscle.
The back of his neck was wet now.
With sweat?
Or something else?
I didn’t care.
I stood behind him again.
Exactly where I was before.
But everything between us had changed.
And both of us knew it.
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excellent narration its like a movie
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