11-04-2025, 09:37 PM
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.
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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