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yazhiniram

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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