Yesterday, 12:00 AM
(This post was last modified: 9 hours ago by thoristhanos. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
DISCLAIMER !!!!!
CAUTION!!! : This is going to be an extreme cuckold, cheating, cuckson, pregnancy story which not some but most of you will find disturbing. So my humble advice is DO NOT READ THIS STORY if you are not into these topics and also MAY NOT READ THIS STORY if you are in these topics but want to keep these fetishes at normal level because this will get to a level where this story will keep lingering in your mind even when you'll be away from xossipy doing your normal work.
INTRODUCTION
The ceiling fan in our living room was finally spinning at its lowest speed. It was March 2006, and the fleeting, mild Mumbai summer was trying its best to settle over the city. Inside our apartment the temperature ran hot for some other reasons too —almost entirely courtesy of my father.
I was eighteen years old at the time, buried under the mounting pressure of my 12th-standard board exams at my junior college. My evenings were mostly spent at the dining table, boxed in by thick physics and chemistry textbooks. But more often than not, my studies became mere background noise to the daily household ritual: my dad’s post-work debrief.
Dad worked at a prominent export company that shipped bulk goods to Dubai. He was exceptionally good at his job and was earning very well for the time, providing us with a comfortable, upper-middle-class life in a city that charged a premium for it. But that comfort came with an intense corporate battleground, and at the center of his crosshairs was a man named Akash.
Akash was a colleague and Dad’s fiercest competitor. If you listened to my father long enough, he was also the absolute bane of his existence. Their rivalry was a bitter, exhausting cocktail of professional jealousy, ruthless ambition, and a quiet but heavy ego clash born out of their age differences. It was the kind of deep-seated animosity that neither man would ever address openly in the boardroom, but which infected every interaction they had.
That particular evening, Dad was pacing the living room floor with a cup of cutting chai in his hand, venting his frustrations. "He tried to undercut my Middle East manifest again," Dad muttered, his voice tight with irritation as he directed his rant toward my mother. "He thinks I don't see his little games."
My mom sat on the sofa, quietly sorting through a pile of freshly dried laundry, offering gentle nods and neutralizing hums. She listened patiently to the endless stories of Akash’s cunning tactics and arrogance, just as she always did but never gave them too much thoughts or attention in her mind partly because she thought that her husband was just trying to stimulate his alcohol with his ranting and also because she thought that this was normal office politics which happens everywhere sometimes at her office too.
To her, Akash was nothing more than a ghost—a faceless villain in her husband’s daily office dramas. She had never seen a picture of the man; she wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a lineup if her life depended on it. What she didn't know, however, was that the anonymity was entirely one-sided. Akash knew exactly who she was. He had observed her from a distance at the company’s annual galas and anniversary dinners whenever she accompanied my dad, silently watching from the periphery of the banquet halls while my father was distracted.
Now let me describe you my mom Pariniti Arya. She stands tall at 5 feet 8 inches, her curvaceous body commanding attention with every movement. She had gain some weight and some fat after her recent pregnancy. Her 38DD breasts strain against the thin fabric of her saree blouse, the deep cleavage visible between the open neckline sometimes as she used to wear comfortable and less conservative clothes only at home because of Mumbai summers . Her breast had gone from 36D TO 38DD after birth of my young brother four years back who she still used to breastfeed sometimes (not regularly although, only when he cries too much and does not want to eat anything else). Her waist measures 32 inches, creating a dramatic hourglass shape that flows into wide, fertile hips measuring 40 inches. Her belly also had a little bit of fat specially after late pregnancy and also some stretch marks too. The soft brown skin of her midriff peeks out from beneath the saree, smooth and inviting. Her thick, dark hair cascades down her back in waves, framing a face with high cheekbones and full lips painted in a deep red. Her dark eyes hold a knowing, sensual gaze, while her heavy breasts sway gently with each step she takes, the weight of them evident in the way they move. Her thick thighs press together beneath the silk of her saree, the fabric clinging to every curve of her mature, voluptuous body.
This is how my mom figure looks like now after pregnancy
this is how my mom's boobs were before her second pregnancy 4 years back
this is how my mom's boobs are now
She worked for a fast-paced sales firm nestled in the commercial heart of South Mumbai, handling relentless quarterly targets, client negotiations, and boardroom pitches with an effortless, radiant poise.
Her wardrobe was a masterclass in balance, split between two distinct styles that she carried with equal mastery. On high-stakes meeting days, she often opted for sharp Western formals—crisp silk blouses in ivory, blush, or slate tucked neatly into high-waisted pencil skirts that fell precisely to the knee. On other days, particularly during major account presentations or festive corporate dinners, she would arrive dbangd in fluid georgette or lightweight Chanderi sarees, the pallu pleated with meticulous precision and pinned modestly at her shoulder.
There was never anything overtly bold or flashy about her choices; every neckline was conservative, every hemline strictly professional, and every dbang impeccably tailored for office decorum. Yet, she was gifted with a naturally striking figure and an upright, statuesque posture that simply transformed whatever fabric she wore. A modest dark skirt effortlessly accentuated the graceful contour of her waist, while the delicate pleats of a saree clung to her curves with an understated, magnetic elegance.
She never had to rely on anything flamboyant to turn heads. Walking through the sunlit, glass-walled corridors of the office with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm, her confident stride, warm wit, and quiet self-assurance made even the simplest corporate attire look stunningly alluring.
She always used to wear/apply these 5 things whether she was at home or office :
1. Vermillion or red line with lipstick or any other cosmetic in her hair parting signifying that she is married.
2. Bindi at her forhead.
3. Cute golden nosering which made her look so cute and homely.
4. Lipstick which was normal pink or red at home but always deep dark crimson red at office (my dad sometimes used to complain to her about lipstick when she came home and he was drunk that it is too deep but she always dismiss him saying that in corporate it is normal to wear this deep ).
5. Her mangalsutra which was the golden chain with a pendant that also signified that she belongs to a man, a family, a bloodline she is continuing.
This is how her face looked like everyday while going to office.
Now for my father Arun Arya Standing at an even five feet ten inches, my father carried the familiar, unremarkable presence of an everyday Indian man in his fiftieth year. He was neither frail nor heavily built, existing in that settled middle ground where decades of desk work, commuter trains, and hearty home-cooked meals subtly shaped a man’s frame. A modest, soft roundness had settled around his waistline over time, but his shoulders still possessed enough natural width to carry his daily half-sleeve formal shirts and pleated trousers with a simple, respectable dignity.
His features quietly mapped out the toll of his years and the relentless corporate grind. Thick black hair was now heavily laced with salt-and-pepper gray, especially around the temples, parted neatly each morning before softening into weary disarray by the time the evening rolled around. Behind a pair of unassuming rectangular spectacles, his eyes were perpetually lined with fatigue, creased deeply at the corners from squinting at spreadsheets and brooding over office politics. A clean-shaven jaw and a small, faded wristwatch he had worn for well over a decade rounded out his look—practical, unassuming, and entirely rooted in middle-class practicality.
He never had the striking, magnetic presence that my mother commanded so effortlessly whenever she stepped into a room. Instead, he moved with a slow, heavy cadence that belonged to someone carrying an invisible weight upon his shoulders. When he took off his formal leather shoes and sank into the corner of the sofa, unbuttoning his top collar button with tired, unhurried hands, he was the very picture of an ordinary man simply trying to survive the exhausting middle chapters of his life.
Then there was my four-year-old brother, whose arrival had thrown our quiet, predictable world completely off balance. When my mother discovered she was pregnant at forty-one, the news had come as an absolute shock to the entire household. It was a late, bewildering surprise at an age when most couples were looking toward quiet retirement rather than sleepless nights and diaper runs. Now, with the little one on the verge of stepping into his very first classroom for formal education, our days buzzed with a newfound innocence. I spent the vast majority of my time at home looking after him, guiding his clumsy hands through the alphabet, playing floor games, and listening to his endless stream of curious questions.
In many ways, pouring my time into my brother filled a silent, aching void that had steadily widened between my mother and me. Throughout my early childhood, our bond had been effortlessly tender; she used to shower me with unending affection, spending hours playing silly games with me on the rug and smothering me in warmth after her long shifts at work. But the moment I crossed the threshold into puberty, that easy closeness began to unravel. A subtle, unspoken awkwardness took root, gradually shrinking our world until the physical affection and carefree companionship of the past were completely left behind.
Her presence around me had transformed into something far more structured and stern. The affectionate banter was largely replaced by sharp, pragmatic questions about my routine, her tone carrying an uncompromising strictness whenever she asked, "How are your studies going? Have you finished revising your chapters?" She looked at me through the demanding lens of academic expectations rather than the soft gaze of maternal doting.
Even so, that older, effortless connection hadn’t vanished entirely. Every now and then, the heavy curtain of parental discipline would slip for just a few minutes. We would find ourselves caught in a brief moment of lighthearted mazaak over an evening cup of tea—sharing a quiet inside joke, teasing my father about his unchanging habits, or laughing over some absurd neighborhood gossip. They were small, fleeting glimpses of the woman she used to be with me, brief reminders of a warmth that still lingered beneath the surface.
The turning point arrived on an ordinary Tuesday evening, shattered by the unexpected sound of my father practically bounding through the front door. He had an uncharacteristic, electric glow on his face, brandishing an official corporate letter like a hard-won trophy. After years of quiet brooding and career suffocations, he had finally landed the coveted promotion he had hungered for. But the actual prize, the detail that made his chest swell and his voice tremble with manic delight, wasn’t the hefty salary bump or the executive perks—it was the fact that he had decisively crushed Akash.
Akash had been bypassed entirely, and my father was now officially his direct superior. The sheer, intoxicating vindication of holding his rival beneath his thumb eclipsed every other thought in his mind.
There was, however, a massive catch: the new role required him to relocate to the company’s regional headquarters in Dubai.
While my father paced the living room floor, thoroughly drunk on his corporate triumph, my mother’s face steadily hardened. She received the news not with shared jubilation, but with a cold, piercing frustration. To her, his celebration felt narrow and intensely selfish; he was entirely consumed by the petty thrill of defeating Akash while completely blind to the logistical upheaval this would inflict on our home. Moving abroad would tear open the fragile balance we had maintained, leaving her to juggle an increasingly demanding life all on her own.
Several days of tense dinners, sharp arguments, and pragmatic calculations followed. Uprooting the entire household to the Gulf simply wasn’t feasible. I was deep into my college last standard and was about to go graduation level college, my mother was thriving in her own sales career and had no intention of abandoning her independence, and my little brother was just taking his very first steps into formal education.
Ultimately, reality forced a reluctant compromise. It was decided that my father would make the move to Dubai alone, venturing across the Arabian Sea to claim his hard-fought corner office. The house would remain anchored in Mumbai under my mother’s steady hand, with the standing understanding that he would fly back home to be with us whenever leave schedules and long weekends permitted.
MEANWHILE AKASH STORY :
Akash was the kind of man whose sheer physical presence commanded immediate attention long before he ever opened his mouth in a boardroom. At thirty-four, he stood at a towering six feet two inches, gifted with a razor-sharp jawline and striking, handsome features that carried an undeniable, effortless magnetism. He was unmarried, entirely unencumbered by domestic responsibilities, and treated his time at the gym with the exact same ruthless, methodical discipline he applied to his corporate ladder-climbing. His physique was meticulously sculpted—broad, powerful shoulders tapering down into a lean waist and chiseled abs—making his slim-fit formal shirts hang over him with deliberate perfection. Between his striking looks and his polished, silver-tongued charm, finding company for the night had never posed the slightest challenge; women naturally gravitated toward him, disarmed by his easy confidence.
Yet behind that sculpted exterior lay an intensely calculating, razor-sharp intellect that made him truly formidable. Akash wasn't merely a handsome face in a corporate suit; he possessed a brilliant analytical mind and an aggressive commercial instinct that solved complex market bottlenecks with chilling speed. That raw intelligence had propelled his meteoric ascent through the firm at a blistering pace. While ordinary managers spent decades clawing through middle management, Akash had dismantled the corporate timeline, sitting as an equal peer across the table from seasoned veterans like Arun a fifty-year-old father despite a sixteen-year age gap.
He had been on the absolute verge of eclipsing my father completely, treating the Gulf appointment as an inevitable stepping stone that belonged to him by right of sheer brilliance. But in the final, decisive assessment by the board, decades of steady crisis management, deep-rooted institutional knowledge, and unyielding tenure had carried the day. Raw intelligence had been forced to bow to sheer experience, delivering Akash a stinging, humiliating defeat that left him trapped under the authority of the very man he had intended to step over.
For Akash, the sting of losing that promotion cut far deeper than wounded corporate vanity or the indignity of reporting to a man sixteen years his senior. The Dubai transfer was never just another tactical chess move on his résumé, nor was it merely a stage to humiliate his rival. For years, he had harbored a quiet, intense longing to relocate to the Gulf. A tight-knit circle of his closest university friends had already built flourishing lives among Dubai's gleaming towers, and a significant branch of his extended family lived across the Emirates—people he had spent years wanting to reunite with and build a life alongside.
The Middle East posting had been the focal point of his five-year plan. It was meant to be the grand intersection of his personal desires and professional ambition—a chance to leave Mumbai’s stifling corporate fishbowl behind, step into a lucrative tax-free haven, and surround himself with the community he genuinely missed. He had practically mapped out the apartments, the weekend drives, and the lifestyle awaiting him across the sea.
Seeing Arun seize that ticket from right under his nose turned professional bitterness into a raw, burning personal resentment. The sheer irony only deepened the wound: Arun didn't care for the city, had no roots there, and had accepted the relocation largely out of stubborn pride to assert dominance over a younger rival. Knowing that the exact future he had envisioned for himself had been snatched away by a weary fifty-year-old who viewed the entire move as an inconvenient battleground made Akash's defeat almost impossible to stomach. But he was not the one to give up so easily.
AT HOME
Ten days after the promotion announcement, the company organized an upscale farewell party to give my father and some other employees who were also promoted and transferred to different branches of the company all over the world a formal send-off before their departure from Mumbai. Because the event was framed as an informal, celebratory gathering rather than a rigid corporate board meeting, the invitation extended to families, with the dress code loosely described as modern and contemporary.
Getting ready for the evening brought its own quiet flurry at home. My father, eager to step into his new stature as an executive, opted for a sharp, tailored suit that lent him an uncharacteristic air of crisp authority. For my part, I kept things simple and modern, pairing a clean black button-down shirt with dark jeans while keeping an eye on my little brother as he darted around the living room in his miniature formal outfit.
My mother, however, found herself standing before her open wardrobe in genuine confusion. The vague instruction to dress "modern" threw her off—her usual corporate pencil skirts felt too starkly professional for a social evening, while a traditional silk saree felt overly formal.
After shifting through several hangers, she settled on a choice tucked away in the back of her closet: an old, lightweight chiffon saree in a soft, fluid shade that dbangd with effortless grace. To pair with it, she pulled out a finely tailored sleeveless blouse—a piece she had custom-stitched years ago, well before her late pregnancy with my little brother.
This is how she looked in this tight blouse from front and back
My 45-year-old Indian mother stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the old sleeveless blouse she stitched years ago when her chest measured 36D. The faded cotton now strains across her expanded 38DD breasts, the front hooks stretched to their limit. Each breath made the fabric pull tighter, the deep valley between her heavy breasts pushing outward through the narrow gap. The blouse sat high on her torso, leaving most of her midriff exposed. Post-pregnancy softness had thickened her waist, so the lower edge of the blouse ride up and rested just beneath her ribs, exposing smooth brown skin that curved outward over her belly.
She dbangd the old chiffon saree around her hips, the thin material sliding over the generous 40-inch curve of her ass. Because the saree was cut for her pre-pregnancy figure, it sat lower than intended, the pleats dipping below her navel. When she tucked the end into her waist, the deep hole of her navel showed clearly, a dark indentation that appears and disappears with each movement. The pallu she threw over her left shoulder kept slipping; every time it fell, it revealed the wide stretch of bare back—almost seventy percent of her spine visible from neck to waist, the blouse barely covering the sides of her breasts.
She had applied a light layer of makeup to her face, giving her features a soft and graceful appearance without making them look overly done. Her hair was neatly arranged, with a line of bright vermillion powder adorning the parting, adding a traditional touch to her overall appearance. A small red bindi sat delicately on her forehead, complementing the deep red lipstick that brought out the warmth of her lips. She also wore a cute golden nose ring that added a subtle charm to her face. Around her neck was a beautiful gold mangalsutra, its delicate chain resting naturally against her big breasts and the deap cleavage formed because of the tight blouse, completing her traditional yet elegant appearance.
Standing alone before the full-length mirror in the quiet of the bedroom, she took one long, scrutinizing look at her reflection. Under the bright vanity lights, the sheer dbang of the chiffon saree seemed far more revealing than she had remembered, and the sleeveless blouse, strained by the big breast, clung snugly against her skin, leaving her shoulders and the contour of her waist prominently framed. A wave of sharp hesitation washed over her. It felt far bolder and more revealing than anything she had ever worn around colleagues or extended family, and the sudden prick of self-consciousness made her second-guess the entire ensemble.
Uncertain and needing reassurance, she called out for my father to step inside and give his opinion.
When he wandered into the room, he brought with him the faint, sweet edge of whiskey on his breath. Riding high on his impending send-off, he had already poured himself a couple of stiff celebratory drinks in the kitchen to set the evening's mood. Catching sight of her standing by the vanity, he paused mid-stride, visibly startled behind his spectacles by how striking and tightly fitted the outfit appeared on her. For a brief second, surprise flashed across his face.
Yet the relentless ticking of the bedside clock broke the silence. The cab was already waiting downstairs, the farewell schedule was tightly fixed, and a complete change of wardrobe would have derailed the entire evening, especially since she had no other modern, semi-formal alternative ready to wear. Eager to arrive and bask in his corporate victory, and already softened by the quiet buzz of the alcohol, my father quickly waved a dismissive hand.
"It's fine, it looks good on you. Let’s just go, we’re already getting late," he muttered, eager to hit the road.
Relieved by his casual dismissal, she adjusted her pallu one last time and picked up her clutch.
But wrapped up in his own impending glory and the haze of a few celebratory drinks, my father had no inkling of the grave, irreversible mistake he had just made with that careless nod.
As she walked through the living room, the chiffon clinged to her thighs, then parted at the side slit. Her heavy breasts swayed with each step, the blouse fabric rubbing against her nipples. When she bent to pick up her handbag, the saree pulled tight across her ass and the blouse rides higher, baring another inch of soft waist. The deep cleavage between her 38DD breasts pressed together, the old hooks threatening to pop. Straightening up, she adjusted the pallu again, but the thin chiffon refused to stay in place, sliding down to expose the full curve of her chest and the dark shadow between her breasts.
A few moments later, her voice echoed down the hallway, calling for me to grab my shoes so we could finally head down to the waiting cab. When I stepped out into the living room and caught sight of her, the words died in my throat. I stopped dead in my tracks, completely paralyzed by sheer disbelief.
Under the bright hallway light, the sheer, airy fabric of the chiffon saree clung seamlessly to her form, and the snug, sleeveless cut of the blouse left an unmistakable expanse of her back and shoulders exposed. My mind instantly raced back to my junior college—a teacher of my mother's age who regularly wore contemporary, deep-cut sleeveless blouses to class. The hallways had been merciless; staff and students alike constantly whispered crude rumors about her, that she is a cheating whore that she sleeps with principal sir and other male teachers for benefits reducing her dignity to cheap locker-room gossip. Looking at my mother standing in front of me, an icy chill gripped my chest as I realized her outfit was even more revealing than her's. An unsettling, nauseating knot tightened in the pit of my stomach, haunted by the terrifying thought of what my own peers would say if they ever saw her standing there like that.
In an Indian household, the figure of a mother exists on an untouchable pedestal. We are raised to revere our mothers almost like deities, carrying an instinctive, ferocious pride that would push any son to fight anyone who dared utter a single disrespectful syllable against her honor. That reverence was woven deep into my bones. Yet looking at her in that room—framed by an outfit that left so little to the imagination—a sharp wave of vulnerability and dread washed over me.
The fierce instinct to protect her crashed violently against the uncomfortable reality before my eyes. If the room we were walking into cast the same leering, judgmental glances my classmates had once thrown at that teacher, how could I stand tall and defend her without the crushing weight of humiliation holding me down?
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards as we walked out into the corridor, the silence between us heavy with an unspoken, suffocating unease.
The enclosed hum of the car engine created a suffocating little bubble, where three entirely different worlds sat pressed together against the slow crawl of the Mumbai evening traffic. Streetlights swept across the dashboard in rhythmic flashes of amber and white, exposing the fractured silence that hung heavily between us.
Behind the wheel, my father was practically brimming over with self-congratulatory energy. Emboldened by the whiskey he had downed earlier, his voice rolled on in an unbroken, triumphant monologue. He relentlessly dissected every corporate maneuver that had led to his appointment, chuckling under his breath as he recounted the exact moment Akash’s polished facade had cracked when the board announced the decision. To him, the posting across the Arabian Sea was a glorious theater of prestige, authority, and ultimate vindication. He steered with a loose, careless confidence, talking not with us, but at us—entirely lost in the intoxicating haze of his own triumph.
In the passenger seat, my mother kept her face turned toward the dark glass of the window, watching the blur of streetlights and passing vehicles. Her participation in his grand speech was reduced to hollow, perfunctory murmurs—a dry "haan," an occasional noncommittal hum, or a faint, mechanical tilt of her head whenever his boasting demanded acknowledgment.
Over the past ten days, a bitter chill had quietly hardened inside her. It was one thing to accept a foreign posting out of financial necessity, but watching him celebrate his departure with such unadulterated glee had severed something vital between them. He had not shown a single flicker of sorrow about walking away from his family, nor had he spared a moment's worry for how she would shoulder her job, my college routine, and a four-year-old toddler entirely on her own. His complete blindness to the life he was abandoning had turned her initial disappointment into a deep, simmering resentment that she barely cared to conceal.
From the backseat, sitting quietly beside my brother, my stomach twisted into tighter knots with every kilometer that brought us closer to the venue. Watching the delicate dbang of the chiffon saree against the headrest and the exposed line of her shoulders, my mind spun with suffocating dread. My father was driving us straight toward his colleagues, utterly oblivious to the storm brewing in his own front seat—and completely blind to the kind of stares that awaited them both the moment those banquet doors opened.
The banquet hall of the upscale rooftop lounge opened up into a shimmering expanse of warm amber lighting, glass chandeliers, and the muffled rhythm of ambient house music blending with the clink of crystal flutes. Stepping across the polished marble threshold, the suffocating dread that had seized my chest during the entire car ride suddenly gave way to an overwhelming wave of relief.
The crowd had fully embraced the evening’s modern brief. Corporate decorum had been traded for bold, high-fashion cosmopolitan flair. Younger women from marketing and creative divisions drifted across the terrace in sleek, backless cocktail dresses flaunting their shapely back and huge protruding asses and plunging velvet jumpsuits, while several senior executives' partners wore contemporary evening gowns with daring side slits and off-shoulder cuts. Compared to the striking silhouettes moving across the floor, my mother’s sheer chiffon saree and tight fitted sleeveless blouse looked completely natural—even modest—within the room's upscale aesthetic. The knot in the pit of my stomach finally loosened; she was not going to be the singled-out, judged spectacle I had so terrifyingly envisioned in our living room.
Before we could settle into a corner, my father caught sight of the firm’s executive circle and eagerly steered us forward. He moved with an inflated swagger, introducing my mother, my little brother, and me to the Managing Director and the firm’s regional head. The company head, an impeccably groomed man with silvered hair and a sharp bespoke blazer, shook my hand firmly and offered polite, respectful compliments to my mother, praising my father's decades of steady service. My mother handled the senior management with her seasoned sales poise, smiling cordially and exchanging effortless pleasantries while keeping a gentle, anchoring hand on my brother's shoulder.
Her blending into the modern dress code of the party does not mean she was being ignored there. I saw several men checking her out and she had become an undeniable visual anchor in the hall, and the men in the lounge took immediate notice.
What unsettled me far more, however, was the executive circle. Even my father’s boss—the polished, silver-haired managing director who had spoken so cordially just moments ago—and his inner circle of veteran directors were not immune. While my father was across the room, loudly laughing and refilling his tumbler at the bar, these senior men kept letting their eyes drift back toward our corner.
Whenever my mother turned slightly to talk or bent to check on my brother, their gazes quietly traced the exposed expanse of her chest which on after her bending was showing so much cleavage of her huge breasts , the sharp contour of her shoulders, her almost fully bare back and the snug silhouette of her waist. They maintained their composed, high-society smiles, but behind the rim of their crystal glasses, their scrutiny was lingering, appraising, and unmistakable.
Watching those covert stares play out sent a sharp, prickly heat crawling up the back of my neck. My father remained utterly oblivious, drowning in his own celebratory stupor, while I was left standing in the quiet crossfire of their gazes, fiercely wishing I could pull a heavy shawl over her shoulders and pull us far away from the rooftop.
Once the formal pleasantries wound down, the gathering shifted into a looser, celebratory rhythm, and my father quickly gravitated toward the open bar. Glass after glass of high-end Scotch disappeared into his grip as he floated from one conversation cluster to the next. With every passing half-hour, his speech grew slightly slurred, his laughter unnecessarily loud, and his triumphant boasting about taking over the Gulf office increasingly uninhibited, completely unbothered by how heavily the alcohol was beginning to cloud his senses.
MEANWHILE AKASH STORY :
Akash arrived later in the evening in the party hall, looking undeniably commanding. Dressed in an impeccably tailored all-black suit paired with a crisp black shirt unbuttoned slightly at the collar, his broad shoulders, towering six-foot-two frame, and razor-sharp jawline turned heads the second he crossed the lounge floor. Several women by the cocktail stations openly tracked his movement with lingering, appreciative glances, but Akash remained entirely numb to the attention.
His mind was elsewhere, trapped in a dark, simmering fog of resentment. It wasn’t just the humiliation of the loosing title to his "greatest enemy" in the office gnawing at him; it was the suffocating reality that his dream of relocating to the Gulf—rejoining his closest friends and family beneath the gleaming skyline of Dubai—had slipped through his fingers. Seeking a shield against the noise, he gravitated toward a small circle of his friendly colleagues by the terrace rail. These were fellow rising managers who had actually secured their overseas transfers and international promotions, their cheerful conversations about foreign postings only adding salt to his fresh wound.
That fragile composure shattered completely when Arun spotted the group and swaggered over, tumbler of Scotch swaying carelessly in his grip.
Thoroughly drunk and riding high on cheap arrogance, Arun planted himself right in the middle of their circle. Without uttering Akash’s name, he launched into a loud, self-aggrandizing monologue, speaking directly over Akash's head. He boasted about how old-college loyalty and seasoned grit would always crush the games of "overly cunning, impatient climbers" who thought they could leapfrog the hierarchy. He threw around thinly veiled barbs about knowing one's place and learning hard lessons in corporate humility.
The deepest cut, however, came from the men surrounding them. Eager to curry favor with the newly minted director, Akash’s own colleagues who he thought were his friends against him began nodding, chuckling, and laughing along with my Arun’s drunken, barbed jokes.
The blatant sycophancy was a vicious slap to Akash's pride. His jaw tightened, the muscles along his neck hardening into stone, but he refused to give my Arun the spectacle of an ugly public confrontation. Swallowing the boiling rage, Akash abruptly turned on his heel and walked away from the circle without a word. While walking he decided he was done here, he is going to find some other company to climb on top as this "defeat" will be with him all the time in this company, he thought tomorrow I will submit my resignation to the managing director.
He retreated to a quiet lounge table near the periphery of the floor, pulling out a low leather chair to nurse his wounded ego in isolation. As he sat down and cast a cold, restless gaze across the shimmering hall to collect himself, his eyes drifted toward our corner—and fell upon Parineeti for the first time today.
He instantly recognised her as Arun's wife but was more shocked by looking at her appearance. She was looking nowhere like what he had seen her in previous events and parties. This time the saree was revealing and as she was sitting on sofa talking to some women of the company bending slightly forward, her 6 inches of cleavage were visible with her golden mangalsutra resting on them which gave him a hard on instantly. He thought, "what a whore she is, having all the married women charactersticks - mangalsutra, sindoor but still shamelessly displaying her body to other men, almost a sanskaari randi (Traditional Whore)".
This is how she looked with mangalsutra dangling while bending
This is how she looked sitting on sofa
The clink of an ice bucket broke through his trance.
"Hey, are you going to keep staring, or should I get you a pair of binoculars?"
A hand clamped down on Akash’s shoulder as Sumit, a close colleague from business development, slid into the empty chair across the table.
Akash blinked, instantly snapping out of his daze. He set his untouched glass onto the mahogany tabletop and cleared his throat, pulling his gaze away from the terrace corner. "Just zoning out," he muttered, forcing a calm, neutral expression back onto his face.
They exchanged a few dry remarks about the crowd, the loud music, and the endless line at the bar, but Sameer wasn't buying the nonchalant act. He leaned in slightly, studying the rigid set of Akash’s jaw.
"Are you okay, man?" Sumit asked quietly.
"I’m fine," Akash replied, keeping his voice flat.
"Well, you definitely don't look okay. You look like you’re ready to put your fist through the wall."
Akash let out a harsh, bitter exhale, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You saw the little show Arun put on back there. The smug speeches, the backslapping... I’m done putting up with it. I'm not spending the next year taking orders from a man who barely understands his own spreadsheets. I’m thinking of handing in my resignation by next week."
Sumit gave a sympathetic grimace, nodding at the harsh reality of corporate politics, but then a mischievous grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head toward the far side of the lounge.
"Fair enough, but that doesn't explain why you were ogling his wife."
Akash gave a dismissive shrug, leaning back against the leather cushion. "It's nothing. Just looking at the contrast, that's all. Besides, she's going to disappear to Dubai with him soon anyway."
Sumit burst into a short, quiet laugh and shook his head. "To Dubai? Where did you get that idea? Arun is flying to the Gulf alone, man."
Akash froze, turning his sharp gaze back to his friend. "What do you mean, alone?"
"Arun was telling the HR head earlier," Sumit explained, taking a sip from his glass. "Apparently she flatly refused to relocate. She has her own sales job here in the city, their older son is in last year of junior college, and the younger one is just starting education. Arun goes to Dubai, but the rest of the family stays right here in Mumbai."
A sudden, electrifying jolt rippled through Akash. The dark gloom that had hung over him all evening lifted, replaced by a strange, sharp spark of calculation. He looked across the shimmering room one more time, his eyes resting on Parineeti's graceful figure, he saw her bare waist as her saree pallu had moved to the left side so much that even her deep navel was slightly visible as she gently tended to her son.
"Is that so?" Akash murmured, a faint, dangerous smile playing at the edge of his lips. "All right."
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