Adultery Nalini and The Unseen Virus

[tweeny_fory]

Part 7 - Nalini's Armpit Shave

"Ma'am," Anbu's voice was low and insistent, a hushed whisper that seemed to vibrate only against her skin. His breath was warm, almost feverish, as it ghosted across the delicate curve of her ear. "For a more accurate reading, we need to ensure that the area is as clean as possible." He paused, allowing the implication to hang heavy in the air.

His eyes, dark and intense, met hers. It wasn't the detached, professional gaze of a healthcare worker; there was a flicker of something deeper, something primal, that made her stomach twist into a knot of unease. It wasn't just professionalism anymore; there was a hint of desire, a disturbing fascination that made her skin crawl. The room, previously sterile and impersonal, suddenly felt charged with an unspoken tension.

Nalini felt a flush of embarrassment bloom across her cheeks, spreading down her neck and threatening to engulf her entirely. She felt exposed, vulnerable under his scrutinizing gaze. In the chaos of the pandemic, amidst the fear and the relentless demands of survival, personal grooming had been relegated to the bottom of her list of priorities. Now, it was being held against her, weaponized in a way she couldn't have imagined.

Her armpit was not shaved, the dark hairs a stark contrast to the pale, sensitive skin beneath. The realization felt like a public humiliation. "I...I haven't had a chance to..." she trailed off, her voice a mere whisper, choked by shame and a growing sense of dread. The words felt inadequate, a pitiful excuse for a perceived transgression.

Anbu nodded slowly, his expression unreadable behind the sterile white mask that concealed the lower half of his face. His eyes, however, remained fixed on her, betraying a hint of something she couldn't quite decipher. "It's quite all right, ma'am," he said soothingly, his voice a carefully constructed mask of normalcy. "We can help you with that." He stepped back, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and for a fleeting moment, Nalini dared to hope that she had misinterpreted his intentions, that her anxiety had conjured a monster where none existed.

But then Teja spoke up, shattering the illusion. His eyes, she noticed with sickening clarity, were still blatantly glued to her chest, lingering on the exposed skin where the fabric of her dupatta had inadvertently slipped. "Yes, it's part of our protocol," he said, his voice a little too smooth, a little too practiced for genuine reassurance. "We can't proceed without a clean area for the thermometer." The clinical language felt like a thinly veiled excuse, a justification for a violation that was rapidly approaching.

Nalini felt the room close in around her, the air growing thick and suffocating. The dupatta slipped a little more, exposing more of her skin, offering a further invitation to their unwelcome gaze. She could feel the dampness of her armpit, the stickiness of her own sweat, amplified by her mounting anxiety. It felt as though every imperfection was magnified, every vulnerability laid bare. She didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe too deeply, for fear of attracting more attention, of provoking a reaction she couldn't control. The men's eyes were on her, their desire as palpable as the humid air in the confined room, and she felt trapped, a cornered animal with nowhere to run. The sterile environment had transformed into a cage, and she was the unwilling exhibit.

Anbu stepped closer, the lacquered surface of his porcelain mask gleaming in the dim light of the room. His nose, so close it was almost touching her armpit, sent a jolt of awareness through Nalini. She could feel his breath, a humid caress against her skin, raising goosebumps despite the stifling heat. The fabric of his mask fluttered slightly with each exhale, a silent rhythm that amplified the tension in the air. She focused on the rigid line of his shoulders, the almost painful tightness of his jaw – a stark contrast to the detached professionalism he usually projected. He took a deep, deliberate breath, inhaling her scent, and despite herself, she felt a shiver trace its way down her spine. It was a primal response, unexpected and unwelcome.


"Ma'am," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. Was it clinical detachment? Deeper hunger? Fear? "For a more precise reading, it's essential that the area is hairless." His eyes, visible through the narrow slits of the mask, never wavered from hers, holding her captive in their unsettling gaze. There was something undeniably predatory in their depths, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of her home. Nalini felt a confusing cocktail of fear, revulsion, and, to her utter horror, a strange, undeniable thrill. The thought of his touch, the violation of this intensely personal space, ignited a forbidden curiosity.

As Nalini sat in her modest South Indian home, the scent of jasmine and turmeric usually comforting, now felt suffocating. She had always been self-conscious about her body hair, a mark considered unfeminine, especially the thick, almost defiant bushiness of her armpits. Growing up, her grandmother had urged her to remove it, whispering about societal expectations and the importance of attracting a good husband. Nalini had always resisted, clinging to it as a small act of rebellion, a quiet assertion of her own identity. She had never imagined anyone, least of all a man like Anbu, seeing or touching them, yet here she was, her privacy about to be irrevocably breached. She looked down at her arm, obscured by the dark, tangled hair, a sudden wave of shame washing over her. She had never thought they would cause a problem like this, a compromise of her dignity.

The overhead fan whirred, its rhythmic drone a constant, almost maddening presence in the small room. It barely stirred the thick, humid air, doing little to alleviate the oppressive heat or the growing sense of dread that coiled in her stomach. The cloying sweetness of the jasmine seemed to mock her growing unease, a stark reminder of the normalcy she was about to lose. The only sounds were the fan, the pounding of her heart, and the slow, measured breaths of the masked man who held her fate in the balance.