27-04-2025, 06:02 PM
I opened the door of our flat slowly.
The lock turned like usual. Nothing felt different — yet everything inside me had changed.
The fan buzzed. The curtains swayed softly. Kartik’s voice came from the other room — serious, steady, mid-call.
Time was just past 11.
He hadn’t moved from his seat, hadn’t paused to ask anything.
He didn’t even look.
Didn’t know his wife had just been naked under the sun, her clothes dried by another man, her panty missing in someone else’s pocket.
And I… didn’t care.
Let him work. Let him sit in that room and crunch his numbers.
He almost lost me.
But he never noticed.
And now, I was back.
Still his wife.
But no longer the same.
I walked into the bathroom. Quiet. Calm.
My fingers unhooked the blouse. Slid it off.
The bra next.
Then petticoat.
Then saree — the same one Prakash had washed with water and his obedience.
It fell in a soft circle at my feet.
I stood naked in front of the mirror.
One hand brushing damp hair behind my ear.
Then I paused.
Panty.
I looked near the bucket.
Checked the bathroom hook.
Nothing.
I scanned the floor.
I had left it here.
Before the bath.
It was here.
And now it wasn’t.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t feel shame.
I smiled.
He took it. He wore it.
That dirty, silent dog wore my panty.
And I let him.
A chill passed through my chest. Not fear. Something else.
Power.
He would wore it to home. Hide it. Smell it. Keep it like treasure.
That thought alone made my stomach tighten.
I turned on the shower.
Stepped under it without a word.
Let the water run down my neck, between my breasts, across my back, through my thighs.
No soap.
No need.
I was already clean.
Already washed.
Already new.
I stepped out of the steam ten minutes later.
Wiped the mirror once.
My reflection stared back.
Not ashamed.
Not shaken.
Just… clear.
I took a fresh cotton saree — pale green, soft texture.
A clean cream petticoat.
A pink blouse.
New panty.
Bra.
Dressed one piece at a time.
Each cloth clinging differently after what had happened.
The new panty hugged tight. Safe. But it didn’t feel victorious.
That feeling had already left with Prakash.
And it belonged to me.
I walked into the kitchen.
Switched the kettle on.
Walked toward the work room where Kartik sat — head down, phone to his ear, screen glowing.
I waited.
Then spoke lightly.
“Do you want tea?”
He shook his head without looking up.
“No, I’m good.”
That’s all.
No eye contact.
No question where I’d been.
No clue.
I returned to the kitchen.
Poured myself a cup.
Stirred it gently.
Took a sip.
Then walked to the balcony, holding the cup with both hands.
The breeze moved my saree edge.
And I sat.
Leg folded under me.
Elbow resting on the cushion.
Eyes watching clouds.
Waiting.
Not for someone.
But for what I would choose next.
---------------------------------------------------
It was around two o'clock. Saturday afternoon. Fan was spinning fast. The living room was quiet, except for the faint noise from the kitchen exhaust and the occasional street sound outside.
I had already bathed, dried my hair, changed into a soft blue saree, and had coffee an hour back. Saree pleats were tucked neatly. Blouse was dry, cotton type, simple. I was sitting near the window, wiping the tumbler with a cloth, when Kartik finally came out of the kids’ room — his temporary office.
Laptop in hand. Shirt loose. Hair messy from headphones.
He walked straight to the sofa and said, “I may have to fly to Singapore. Tomorrow evening. They want in-person presence this time. Might take a week.”
I looked at him from the kitchen.
“Can I go home for a few days then? Appa was saying to come.”
He sat down, switched on the match, and replied while increasing the volume.
“Better you stay, Pavi. Arjun doesn’t know Chennai well. He’ll need food, help to settle. You stay with him until he finds a house.”
He didn’t even look up. Just eyes on the TV, remote in one hand.
I stood there holding the towel, nodded once.
“Okay.”
Half-hearted.
Not because I wanted to fight. But because it felt like… no one asks me what I want.
---------------------------------------------------------
He got busy watching the match. IPL. Yellow team (CSK). I sat for five minutes beside him, then got up. Didn’t feel like watching anything. Already bored.
I walked to the balcony, holding the railing. Warm air was moving through. That dry Chennai afternoon wind. Sticky but soft.
I stood quietly, letting the wind pass under my saree.
Then I saw her.
Anusha.
Standing on her own balcony, leaning on the rail. Her hair was shiny. She turned and saw me.
She smiled. A sweet, sudden smile.
I smiled back, lifted my hand.
She waved again — this time her fingers called me. “Come,” she was saying with her hand.
I raised my eyebrows slightly — asking if now?
She smiled and nodded again.
I waved like, “Wait, I’m coming.”
---------------------------------------------------------
I turned back and went into the hall.
Kartik was still watching the match, remote in hand.
“I’m going to the neighbour's flat. She called me for help or something. Just for a bit.”
“Okay,” he said, without looking.
I locked the door behind me, wore my slippers, and adjusted my saree pleats once more. The blue one was soft, a bit slippery, but the pallu stayed if I placed it carefully.
I stepped out. Closed the door gently.
Walked to 703.
Pressed the bell.
---------------------------------------------------------
She opened the door in five seconds.
Hair loose. Skin glowing. Some faint parlour smell still fresh. Light kajal. Small earrings — those chain ones that move when she talks.
Wearing a lavender t-shirt and black sports pants. Fitting, but not exposing. Nothing was visible. No cleavage, no waist. But still… she looked fresh. New. Confident.
“Hi akka! Come in,” she said.
“Hello. Hey, how are you?”
“Good good. How are you akka? Come akka, I just made juice. Tired after parlour.”
She stepped aside. I walked in slowly.
---------------------------------------------------------
Her flat was neat. Small one-bedroom setup. Fan spinning. Some soft lemon-spray smell in the air. Curtains were drawn halfway. Sofa was plain grey. A bottle of water on the table. Her purse open, parlour bill sticking out.
I removed my slippers and stepped inside.
“Sit akka, I’ll just keep my phone on charge.”
I sat slowly on the edge of the sofa. My saree pleats spread slightly. I fixed them neatly. Pallu covered my chest well. Still, I pulled the blouse once near the shoulder, just to be safe.
She walked across and plugged in her charger.
“You go to parlour usually?” I asked.
“Hmm. Just clean-up and threading. But so much crowd, akka. One aunty was shouting because they gave her half eyebrow only.”
I laughed a little. “You go every week?”
“Once in two-three weeks. Else face gets dull. You should also come with me next time, akka. We can book same slot.”
I smiled but said, “Don’t call me akka so many times. Makes me feel old. Call me Pavitra. Or Pavi if you want.”
She paused for a second.
“Okay… Pavitra. Next time I’ll call like that.”
---------------------------------------------------------
She sat across from me, one leg folded on the chair, casual. Comfortable.
She poured juice from a bottle into two glasses.
“Sugarless, but chilled,” she said.
“Nice,” I replied, holding the glass.
She was talking… something about work-from-home and one useless HR call.
But my mind was not there.
My eyes… had gone somewhere else.
Not with intention. Just naturally.
The curve of her neck. Her clean chin. The way her t-shirt sat on her chest — flat, but neat. No shape showing, but still… my eyes went there.
And I hated myself.
Why am I seeing her like this?
She’s just a girl.
My neighbour.
Friendly.
And still, something in my stomach twisted.
Not sexual. But something else.
Curiosity?
Maybe.
My eyes dropped once again — to her waist, the black waistband of her pant, the way her body moved when she sat back.
She looked modern. Easy. Comfortable in her skin.
And me?
Sitting in full saree, legs closed, blouse tight, trying to act like I’m just here for juice.
Inside… I could feel a warmth building. Not attraction. But awareness.
And it scared me a little.
---------------------------------------------------------
She offered a tissue. “Too cold?”
“No no, it’s perfect,” I said, wiping the glass.
She leaned back, relaxed.
I kept my legs pressed together, holding the juice with both hands.
Inside my blouse, my nipples had stiffened slightly. Maybe from the AC. Or something else.
And deep inside my saree folds, between my thighs…
…a soft heat had started to grow.
And I didn’t know why.
To be continued…
---------------------------------------------------------
We were just talking normally. Ten minutes passed like that.
She was telling about her office work. Some issue with a bank client. I asked if she cooks daily or orders. She said mostly she orders, but now she’s trying to cook little by little.
She offered some murukku from a dabba. I took one. It was soft. Homemade, maybe from her native place. I asked and she said, “My amma sent last week. From Hyderabad.”
I smiled. “It tastes like tamil style.”
“Same South India only,” she said with a grin.
We both laughed.
I was about to place the empty glass on the table and get up.
“Okay, I’ll go now,” I said. “His cricket match must be over halfway.”
“Wait Pavi,” she said, placing her hand gently on my arm. “Before you go…”
I looked at her. “What?”
“You’re looking really pretty today,” she said suddenly. “Just this simple cotton saree. But still… like angel only.”
I smiled. Laughed a little. “Aiyyo, you’re exaggerating now.”
“No I swear. I’ve seen aunty types wear sarees. But you… you wear it so clean and light. Not too much jewellery, nothing loud. Still… neat and beautiful.”
I shook my head. “You’re too kind. I just wear normal. Not anything special.”
But something in me… felt nice hearing it. Like she had seen something Kartik never even mentioned in years.
She smiled again. Looked a little hesitant. Then said, “Actually… can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
“I have a function today evening. Friend’s engagement. I’ve two sarees. I thought of wearing one. But…”
She looked at me shyly.
“Usually my mom helps me wear. If she’s not there, I’ll wear only chudi. Easy no. But now you’re here… can you help me wear my saree?”
I blinked. “Me?”
She nodded, face hopeful.
“I don’t know if I’m good at teaching others. I somehow manage mine. That too after so many years of practice,” I said.
“You’re wearing so nicely no, just now only I told,” she said quickly. “You help me this one time, please.”
I laughed. “Saree is different size for every person. Some body types won’t sit nicely.”
“You see mine and tell. Just help pleaaase,” she dragged the word like a child.
I looked at her.
She was still sitting there. Slim body. Clean face. Looking up at me like I was some expert aunty.
“Okay, I’ll help you,” I said, smiling.
“But one condition.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t call me akka anymore.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I’m just 27,” I said, lying by one year. “If you call me akka, I’ll feel like old aunty wearing nighty and shouting at kids.”
She laughed out loud.
“Okay okay, promise. Only Pavi. From now on.”
I smiled.
“Deal,” I said.
-------------------------------
After we both laughed about the “akka” thing, the flat felt lighter. She had promised to call me only “Pavi” from now on, and that itself made me feel a little younger inside. Not that anyone was watching, but something about not being called “akka” felt nice. Like I was still... my own person. Not just someone’s elder, or someone’s wife.
We were sitting quietly for a minute. The fan kept spinning, and the lemony smell in her flat had started to settle on my skin too. Her juice glass was half full. Mine was empty.
I stood up slowly and stretched a little, just loosening my shoulders.
“Okay then,” I said, gently wiping my fingers on the pallu. “I’ll go. Before the match finishes.”
She looked up. “Now itself?”
I smiled. “I thought you wanted to get ready only in the evening?”
She tilted her head. Thought for a second.
“Actually… do you have any work now?”
I looked around. As if my answer was written in her curtain or clock. But truly… I didn’t have anything.
“Afaik, no. Kartik’s watching match. Arjun hasn’t come. Kids are with Appa. House is clean. So... mostly free.”
Her eyes widened a bit. That soft kind of excitement you can’t fake.
“Then… can we try now?”
I gave a half-laugh. “You want to practice wearing saree now?”
She nodded quickly. Her bun moved slightly with the motion. “Yes! Please? If I wait till evening, I’ll mess it up in hurry.”
I held my hip for a second, pretended to think. But I was already going to say yes.
“Why not?”
She clapped once, like a child. “Yay! Wait wait, I’ll get the saree!”
She jumped up, bare feet touching the tile lightly as she rushed toward her bedroom. Her anklet made a tiny jingle noise — just one — before she disappeared into the side room.
I stood near the sofa. Pulled my pallu a little tighter over my chest. Adjusted my waist pleats with one casual tug. I didn’t know how this was going to go, but something about the energy felt light. Fun, even.
Within half a minute, she came back.
Holding a neatly folded saree in both hands — almost like she was carrying something sacred.
“Here,” she said, with a proud smile, handing it to me.
I took it.
It was soft. Very soft.
Not like my daily cottons.
This was a modern saree — semi-transparent. Peach-pink in colour, with a soft shimmer that caught even the low light from her window.
I held it up slightly, checking the pallu edge.
The border was silver threadwork — thin but detailed. Like small drops of shine stitched across the edge.
The body of the saree was sheer. Not completely transparent, but close. I could easily see my fingers behind it when I held it open slightly.
“Nice one,” I said honestly. “Very trendy. Looks expensive.”
She smiled proudly. “I bought it last year. From a Diwali sale. It was around 8K. Actual price was 10 plus, but I got a deal.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Worthy one. Color suits your skin also.”
“Thanks Pavi,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
The saree had a faint scent. Something floral. Maybe from the cupboard. Maybe her perfume.
I gently folded it back in half and looked at her.
“Where’s the blouse and petticoat?”
“Oh ya ya, wait! It’s in my suitcase. I didn’t take it out.”
She handed the saree to me — as if she trusted me more than her own cupboard — and turned quickly.
This time, she didn’t walk. She ran.
Literally.
Light, bouncy steps across the floor, feet slightly lifted, heels touching last.
And when she ran…
I saw it.
Her ass.
Moving.
Jiggling, softly — inside that black sports pant.
It wasn’t huge. Not attention-seeking.
But there was bounce.
One cheek, then the other, slightly late. That natural ripple when a woman runs free, without tension.
My eyes followed.
Automatically.
From the curve near her waist, to the motion of each cheek.
Soft. Real. Alive.
The pant was tight enough to hold shape, but loose enough to let her move.
And I noticed.
Fully.
The shape of her ass. The way it moved. The casual freedom of it. Not sexual. Just... natural.
And still, it hit something inside me.
I looked away.
Pressed my lips.
She’s a girl.
A woman.
Same as me.
Why am I watching her run like this?
Not like a pervert. But still… aware.
That she has a body.
That her backside bounces.
That I — Pavitra, wife, mother — just saw it… and didn’t hate it.
In fact, something deep in my chest clenched.
Softly.
Quietly.
My thighs pressed together slightly.
More out of habit than desire.
But I noticed it.
And I stood there — still holding her 8,000 rupees saree — thinking…
What the fuck is going on with me?
---------------------------------------------
She came running back holding the blouse and petticoat in her hand, smiling brightly. Her steps were fast, careless, like a collegegirl coming from tuition.
I stood there waiting, my palms dry and ready.
She came near and handed them to me carefully.
I took the bundle in my hands and unfolded it once.
The petticoat was good — soft cotton, matching the pale peach colour of her saree.
The blouse was nice too, but my eyes immediately caught one thing —
The back was hardly covered.
Only one thin strip of cloth holding both sides.
Modern, revealing design.
It would show most of her back once worn.
I smiled lightly inside.
Today’s young girls had a different kind of boldness.
Not bad. Just different.
I held the blouse between my fingers. It was so light, it felt like it would fly away if I blew on it.
Without wasting time, I asked, “Shall we start?”
“Yes!” she nodded excitedly, almost bouncing.
Without waiting for me to say anything more, she went to the main door and locked it carefully.
Then she walked quickly to the balcony and drew the curtains fully, adjusting even the corners so that no gap was left.
Her movements were quick, full of that young energy.
I stood near the sofa, calmly holding her saree, blouse and petticoat, watching.
She came back — barefoot — her anklets making a tiny jingle once.
---------------------------------------------------------
She stood right in front of me, just one small step away.
Then she started.
Her fingers went to the waistband of her sports pant first.
Without any shyness, she pulled it down slowly.
Her thighs came into view.
Slim. Smooth. Fair.
There wasn’t a single hair visible.
Maybe parlour treatment, maybe regular care.
The skin had that freshly waxed glow — the same polish her face had.
But I didn’t feel jealous.
No.
I simply observed, as a woman noticing another woman.
I had my own beauty.
Fuller thighs.
More flesh.
The richness of a body that had loved, carried, and birthed.
Her body was younger, yes.
But mine was deeper.
More... complete.
I didn’t feel lesser.
I simply felt different.
A small proud smile played at the edge of my lips.
---------------------------------------------------------
She bent, folded the pant neatly, kept it on the side chair.
Now she was standing in a long loose t-shirt and panties.
Without waiting, she pulled the t-shirt upwards in one quick movement.
In a second, it was off.
And she stood there —
In her bra and petticoat.
Her skin glowed under the fan breeze.
Her arms were smooth, her collarbone clean.
Her breasts were small, perky, nicely shaped inside her soft peach-coloured bra.
I noticed —
Young body.
Tight curves.
Soft belly.
But my heart didn’t sink.
Instead —
A small pride rose inside me.
At 28, after marriage, kids, and life —
I could still stand beside any girl and hold my head high.
I had curves she didn't.
I had ripeness she didn't.
I had a woman's scent, not a girl's perfume.
And no matter how young or polished she was,
I was Pavitra.
Complete in my skin.
---------------------------------------------------------
Anusha looked at me innocently, lifting the petticoat slightly.
“Shall I wear this first, Pavi?” she asked.
I nodded, voice calm. “Yes.”
She bent forward slightly, stepping one foot into the petticoat, then the other.
Her breasts wobbled slightly inside the bra with the movement.
I noticed.
I’m a woman. My eyes notice everything.
But there was no dirty thought yet.
Just... warmth building quietly in my chest.
She pulled the petticoat up and tied the string properly around her slim waist.
Now standing in bra and petticoat, she adjusted the petticoat gathers once.
Then looked up at me.
"Now blouse?"
"Turn around," I said softly, stepping forward.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned obediently, showing her bare back.
The thin bra strap lay across her shoulder blades.
I stepped close.
My fingers brushed her skin first — soft, warm.
No scars. No marks.
But my own fingers — stronger, practiced hands — moved with a steady, graceful touch.
I placed the blouse over her back gently.
The cloth was so thin, it almost felt like I was just covering mist.
My hands moved to the hooks, aligning them properly.
Her body shivered lightly when my fingers touched her.
Fan air, maybe.
Or something else.
I didn't react.
I was composed.
I was Pavitra.
Mature. Steady.
I hooked the first clasp neatly.
Then the second.
My palm brushed her bare lower back lightly.
And a small pulse jumped inside my belly.
Deep between my thighs, a warmth was spreading.
Not dirty.
Just... real.
Alive.
---------------------------------------------------------
"Done," I said, stepping back.
She turned, smiling brightly.
The blouse hugged her chest, showing her young, tight curves.
Pretty.
But somewhere inside, I knew —
Mine would fill a blouse differently.
Softer, heavier, more womanly.
And without even thinking, a small victorious pride bloomed inside my chest.
---------------------------------------------------------
She adjusted the blouse front once.
“Shall we do saree now, Pavi?” she asked sweetly.
“Of course,” I said, smiling.
I bent slightly, holding the soft peach saree.
The cloth was flowing like river water.
As I gathered the pleats, my fingers brushed against her lower belly.
Her skin was cool under my touch.
A small, black mole sat just beside her navel.
Perfect little spot.
My fingers paused for one second —
long enough to feel the heat rising between us —
but not long enough to be obvious.
I tucked the pleats into her petticoat slowly, carefully.
My hand brushed against her hipbone lightly.
She sucked a small breath but said nothing.
Neither did I.
---------------------------------------------------------
Inside my body, a slow fire was building.
Under my saree layers, my panty had gone damp.
My nipples were hard inside my blouse, rubbing with every small movement.
And yet, on my face —
Only calm.
Only that small, secret smile.
Because I was Pavitra.
And I was still the most desirable woman in that room.
No matter what.
---------------------------------------------------------
I took my time.
I didn’t rush through it like I do when dressing myself in a hurry.
I carefully adjusted the pleats — one by one — making sure they fell neatly, not sticking out awkwardly.
Her saree material was soft, slippery.
Needed patience.
I tucked it properly into her petticoat, making sure the fall looked straight and clean.
Then I lifted the pallu, brought it around her body.
Pulled it gently over her left shoulder.
Adjusted the pallu height — not too low, not too high.
Folded the border neatly and pinned it, just the way I would pin my daughter’s college badge — carefully, lovingly.
The saree hugged her slim waist, the pallu flowing lightly.
Once done, I stepped back.
"All done," I said, brushing a small imaginary crease from her shoulder.
She smiled wide — like a child seeing herself after dressing up for fancy dress.
---------------------------------------------------------
She walked quickly to the mirror near her dressing table.
Turned this side, that side.
Looked at the front.
Looked at the back.
Tilted her head.
Flipped her hair to one side.
Checked the pallu border fall.
Then looked at herself once fully — head to toe — smiling with satisfaction.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned back to me, eyes shining.
"Pavi!" she called excitedly, running back toward me.
Before I could react properly, she came close and hugged me tightly.
Her arms went around my waist easily — she was slightly shorter than me — and her cheek pressed against my chest.
"Thank you, Pavi! Even my mom can’t wear saree this perfect. Seriously!"
I froze for a second.
My hands stayed at my sides.
Then slowly — naturally — I brought them up and placed them lightly on her back.
Soft.
Warm.
Real.
Her body pressed against mine — her small breasts pushing lightly against my lower chest.
Her waist fitting snugly under my arms.
---------------------------------------------------------
I laughed a little, awkwardly.
"You're exaggerating," I said.
"No, really! I'm so happy," she said, hugging tighter for one second before letting go.
I smiled, adjusting my pallu again.
"Happy for you," I said softly.
She looked at me, her face open, pure, full of genuine joy.
---------------------------------------------------------
But inside me…
Something had shifted.
Something small.
Something dangerous.
When she hugged me —
when her body pressed against mine —
when her skin brushed my saree-covered stomach —
when I smelled her light jasmine-and-body-cream scent up close —
Something had… turned on.
Not like hunger.
Not like need.
Just a slow, lazy coil of arousal — starting deep in my belly.
Warmth had rushed down between my legs.
My nipples, already a little tight from before, became sharper, poking against my bra.
My thigh muscles had clenched.
And even now, as I stood there smiling at her,
inside my saree folds,
inside my panty,
I was growing wetter by the second.
---------------------------------------------------------
I blinked.
Looked away quickly.
Picked up the remaining safety pins from the table, pretending to arrange them.
Inside, my mind was shouting:
"What the hell, Pavitra?"
"She's just a girl."
"Your neighbor. Your friend. She's trusting you."
But my body…
My traitor body…
Was alive.
Awake.
Wanting.
---------------------------------------------------------
"Am I bad?" I asked myself silently.
"Am I some filthy woman now?"
"Am I crossing some line that shouldn’t even exist?"
I wiped my palms on my pallu lightly, pretending it was because of sweat.
Anusha was still looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting the saree, pinning one side properly.
Completely innocent.
Completely trusting.
And me?
Standing behind her.
Chest heavy.
Thighs pressing tightly.
Panty wet.
Just from a hug.
---------------------------------------------------------
"No."
"No, Pavitra. Nothing wrong."
"You’re human."
"It’s just… body reaction. Nothing bad."
I convinced myself.
I folded her t-shirt and pants neatly on the chair to distract myself.
Breathing slower now.
Smile fixed on my face.
I had survived worse temptations.
I would survive this too.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned then, smiling brightly.
"Thanks, Pavi. I’ll change now and keep this ready for evening. You saved me!"
I nodded calmly.
"Anytime," I said.
Even though inside...
Nothing was calm anymore.
---------------------------------------------------------
I glanced at the wall clock.
2:30 PM.
Still early.
She said the engagement was at 6 PM.
If she stayed fully dressed in saree from now, by evening the pleats would get crushed, blouse might loosen, and the fresh look would fade.
Not just that.
As she turned around near the dressing table —
Adjusting her hair —
I caught it.
Her blouse backside.
The slim cloth strip wasn’t hiding much.
And through the thin saree material, I could clearly see her bra strap line.
Light peach colour shining against her smooth back.
She hadn’t noticed it yet.
Maybe excitement. Maybe inexperience.
I stepped closer and said gently,
"You might want to remove the bra when you wear this saree in evening."
She turned, blinking. "Why?"
I pointed lightly at her back.
"Bra strap is fully showing. The blouse design is too open. Either wear a backless bra… or go without."
Her eyes widened slightly — like the thought hadn’t occurred to her at all.
Then she laughed, touching the back of her blouse lightly.
"Thanks, Pavi! Otherwise I would've gone looking like clown only," she said, giggling.
I smiled calmly.
"Better change now. Else saree will get crushed too."
"True true," she nodded, already reaching for the pallu.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned once toward the mirror.
Checked herself.
Then, slowly, carefully —
she started removing the saree.
First, she unpinned the shoulder gently.
Then unwound the pallu.
I stood silently, watching.
The saree flowed off her body like water slipping from a smooth surface.
She folded it expertly, without ruining the pleats I had set so carefully.
I noticed that.
Despite being modern, careless sometimes —
she had learned something about saree respect from her mother.
That small thing made me smile privately.
---------------------------------------------------------
Now she was standing there again.
In just her peach-coloured bra and matching panties.
Slim waist.
Smooth thighs.
Soft young body.
Standing casually in front of me —
without shame, without hesitation —
trusting me fully.
I looked — openly now — taking it all in.
Not like a pervert.
Not like a fool.
Just a woman observing another woman’s young beauty.
And inside my body, the same soft, stubborn arousal kept humming.
Not violent.
Not urgent.
Just… there.
Alive under my skin.
---------------------------------------------------------
She reached for the clothes I had folded neatly earlier — her black sports pant and lavender t-shirt.
First, she wore the pants.
Lifting one smooth leg, then the other.
Pulling the waistband up over her panties with a small adjusting hop.
The pant hugged her slim hips quickly.
Then she grabbed the t-shirt, slipping one arm through, then the other.
Pulling it down, covering herself again fully.
When she adjusted the t-shirt hem over her pants, I noticed how slim her wrists were.
How smooth the skin around her neck was.
Small, small details that somehow stayed inside my mind longer than necessary.
---------------------------------------------------------
Once she was dressed, she turned to me, smiling happily.
"Pavi, you saved me today."
I smiled, adjusting my pallu once.
"Anytime. Now you relax, get ready properly by 5 PM."
I picked up my phone from the sofa where I had kept it.
"Give me your number, Anusha," I said.
"Of course," she said, grabbing her own mobile from the table.
We exchanged numbers quickly.
I saved hers as Anusha (703).
She saved mine as Pavi akka first —
then giggled, corrected it to Pavi.
We both laughed lightly.
---------------------------------------------------------
I checked my keys.
Everything okay.
"Alright then," I said, walking toward the door.
"If you need anything… call me."
"Thanks, Pavi," she said, waving from inside.
I opened the door, stepped out into the slightly hotter corridor.
Closed the door behind me gently.
My heart was beating slower now.
But my panty was still damp.
My bra still rubbing against my nipples with every step.
I took a deep breath, walked back toward my flat —
feet light, saree swishing quietly around my legs.
---------------------------------------------------------
Inside my mind...
Anusha’s hug, her skin, her smile...
were still lingering.
And somewhere deep inside me —
a truth I didn’t want to say loudly —
I had changed today.
In a way that could never fully be undone.
---------------------------------------------------------
Saturday evening was quiet.
Nothing special happened after lunch.
Kartik was in front of the TV, watching IPL as usual — remote in one hand, his leg bouncing slightly when a boundary was hit. He didn’t speak much. I didn’t either.
Around six, Arjun came back.
He had been out the whole afternoon. I didn’t ask where.
He walked in casually, tossed his helmet on the shoe rack, and came straight to the hall.
“I found one room anna,” he said, standing near the kitchen door, looking at both of us.
“It’s far. Bit outskirts. But rent is decent. Owner is okay. I’ll shift in two weeks maybe.”
Kartik nodded without turning.
“Hmm. Good.”
I didn’t say anything.
Just stirred the rasam slowly and wiped my hands on the towel.
Arjun didn’t sit down. Just went into the bathroom, washed his face, came out, and entered the kids’ bedroom — the one he’d been using.
That was it.
No questions. No small talk. No one asked him anything more.
The house felt like a bus stand.
People passing. Nothing sticking.
---------------------------------------------------------
Later that night, after dinner and cleaning, I was lying on the bed, checking my phone lazily.
The house was dark. One small night lamp glowing in the corner.
That’s when I saw it.
Anusha (703) — message with one photo.
I opened it.
She had clicked a picture in the mirror, in full saree — the same one I helped her wear.
Her eyes were lined. Lips had soft lipstick. Smile gentle.
But what caught my attention most…
The saree.
It was exactly how I had covered/put it.
Pallu angle, pleat spacing, even the slight lift at her ankle — all perfect.
She had kept it like that.
And now she was showing me proudly.
I stared at the photo for a few seconds.
Then tapped the heart emoji. Sent.
She replied immediately.
“Love you, Pavi. Seriously. No one ever helped me like this.”
I didn’t reply after that.
Just smiled softly, locked the phone, and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Something inside my body was still remembering her hug.
Her skin.
Her breath.
But I closed my eyes and said to myself, “Enough.”
---------------------------------------------------------
Sunday passed like any other.
I started early — bathed, washed the bedsheets, chopped chicken, and began cooking by noon.
The masala stuck to the pan well. I took time with it.
Bone pieces, small onions, heavy pepper.
Kartik always liked it that way — said outside food is okay, but “only your chicken gives real taste.”
He didn’t praise me directly, but I knew. He’d eat in silence, and that was his style of thanks.
Around 4:45 PM, he zipped his bag, wore his jeans, and came to the hall.
“I’ll leave,” he said, grabbing his laptop.
“Okay,” I said, wiping my hands.
I didn’t go to the door. I didn’t ask if he packed his brush or socks.
I knew he’d done it.
He didn’t look back.
Opened the door.
And walked out.
---------------------------------------------------------
Arjun was already wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
He walked past me while tying his shoelace.
Looked at me once and said, “Bye, I’ll drop anna outside and comback anni.”
No warmth.
No questions.
Just words.
And he left too.
Door closed.
Lock clicked.
And the house went still.
---------------------------------------------------------
Arjun back after sometime.
Now it’s past 5:30 PM.
The fan is spinning.
Chicken curry is still warm on the stove.
Table is clean. Plates are stacked.
I’m sitting on the sofa, legs bent, one hand resting on my thigh.
Wearing my old maroon saree — the cotton one that fits well even without adjusting.
Blouse is plain. Hooks tight. Pallu sitting comfortably on my chest.
I didn’t feel like changing. Didn’t feel like opening the windows.
Arjun is on the other sofa — legs on the centre table, watching some Hindi movie.
One hand behind his head.
The remote lying beside him.
He’s not talking. Not checking his phone. Just… staring at the screen.
I’m not watching the movie.
I’m watching him.
Not openly. Just… observing.
His jaw moves slightly when he swallows.
His t-shirt is stretched across his chest.
One crease in his track pant is pointing right to his thighs.
I look away.
Then look again.
Not because I want to do anything.
Just because it’s quiet.
And he’s the only thing moving in this house now.
---------------------------------------------------------
The lock turned like usual. Nothing felt different — yet everything inside me had changed.
The fan buzzed. The curtains swayed softly. Kartik’s voice came from the other room — serious, steady, mid-call.
Time was just past 11.
He hadn’t moved from his seat, hadn’t paused to ask anything.
He didn’t even look.
Didn’t know his wife had just been naked under the sun, her clothes dried by another man, her panty missing in someone else’s pocket.
And I… didn’t care.
Let him work. Let him sit in that room and crunch his numbers.
He almost lost me.
But he never noticed.
And now, I was back.
Still his wife.
But no longer the same.
I walked into the bathroom. Quiet. Calm.
My fingers unhooked the blouse. Slid it off.
The bra next.
Then petticoat.
Then saree — the same one Prakash had washed with water and his obedience.
It fell in a soft circle at my feet.
I stood naked in front of the mirror.
One hand brushing damp hair behind my ear.
Then I paused.
Panty.
I looked near the bucket.
Checked the bathroom hook.
Nothing.
I scanned the floor.
I had left it here.
Before the bath.
It was here.
And now it wasn’t.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t feel shame.
I smiled.
He took it. He wore it.
That dirty, silent dog wore my panty.
And I let him.
A chill passed through my chest. Not fear. Something else.
Power.
He would wore it to home. Hide it. Smell it. Keep it like treasure.
That thought alone made my stomach tighten.
I turned on the shower.
Stepped under it without a word.
Let the water run down my neck, between my breasts, across my back, through my thighs.
No soap.
No need.
I was already clean.
Already washed.
Already new.
I stepped out of the steam ten minutes later.
Wiped the mirror once.
My reflection stared back.
Not ashamed.
Not shaken.
Just… clear.
I took a fresh cotton saree — pale green, soft texture.
A clean cream petticoat.
A pink blouse.
New panty.
Bra.
Dressed one piece at a time.
Each cloth clinging differently after what had happened.
The new panty hugged tight. Safe. But it didn’t feel victorious.
That feeling had already left with Prakash.
And it belonged to me.
I walked into the kitchen.
Switched the kettle on.
Walked toward the work room where Kartik sat — head down, phone to his ear, screen glowing.
I waited.
Then spoke lightly.
“Do you want tea?”
He shook his head without looking up.
“No, I’m good.”
That’s all.
No eye contact.
No question where I’d been.
No clue.
I returned to the kitchen.
Poured myself a cup.
Stirred it gently.
Took a sip.
Then walked to the balcony, holding the cup with both hands.
The breeze moved my saree edge.
And I sat.
Leg folded under me.
Elbow resting on the cushion.
Eyes watching clouds.
Waiting.
Not for someone.
But for what I would choose next.
---------------------------------------------------
It was around two o'clock. Saturday afternoon. Fan was spinning fast. The living room was quiet, except for the faint noise from the kitchen exhaust and the occasional street sound outside.
I had already bathed, dried my hair, changed into a soft blue saree, and had coffee an hour back. Saree pleats were tucked neatly. Blouse was dry, cotton type, simple. I was sitting near the window, wiping the tumbler with a cloth, when Kartik finally came out of the kids’ room — his temporary office.
Laptop in hand. Shirt loose. Hair messy from headphones.
He walked straight to the sofa and said, “I may have to fly to Singapore. Tomorrow evening. They want in-person presence this time. Might take a week.”
I looked at him from the kitchen.
“Can I go home for a few days then? Appa was saying to come.”
He sat down, switched on the match, and replied while increasing the volume.
“Better you stay, Pavi. Arjun doesn’t know Chennai well. He’ll need food, help to settle. You stay with him until he finds a house.”
He didn’t even look up. Just eyes on the TV, remote in one hand.
I stood there holding the towel, nodded once.
“Okay.”
Half-hearted.
Not because I wanted to fight. But because it felt like… no one asks me what I want.
---------------------------------------------------------
He got busy watching the match. IPL. Yellow team (CSK). I sat for five minutes beside him, then got up. Didn’t feel like watching anything. Already bored.
I walked to the balcony, holding the railing. Warm air was moving through. That dry Chennai afternoon wind. Sticky but soft.
I stood quietly, letting the wind pass under my saree.
Then I saw her.
Anusha.
Standing on her own balcony, leaning on the rail. Her hair was shiny. She turned and saw me.
She smiled. A sweet, sudden smile.
I smiled back, lifted my hand.
She waved again — this time her fingers called me. “Come,” she was saying with her hand.
I raised my eyebrows slightly — asking if now?
She smiled and nodded again.
I waved like, “Wait, I’m coming.”
---------------------------------------------------------
I turned back and went into the hall.
Kartik was still watching the match, remote in hand.
“I’m going to the neighbour's flat. She called me for help or something. Just for a bit.”
“Okay,” he said, without looking.
I locked the door behind me, wore my slippers, and adjusted my saree pleats once more. The blue one was soft, a bit slippery, but the pallu stayed if I placed it carefully.
I stepped out. Closed the door gently.
Walked to 703.
Pressed the bell.
---------------------------------------------------------
She opened the door in five seconds.
Hair loose. Skin glowing. Some faint parlour smell still fresh. Light kajal. Small earrings — those chain ones that move when she talks.
Wearing a lavender t-shirt and black sports pants. Fitting, but not exposing. Nothing was visible. No cleavage, no waist. But still… she looked fresh. New. Confident.
“Hi akka! Come in,” she said.
“Hello. Hey, how are you?”
“Good good. How are you akka? Come akka, I just made juice. Tired after parlour.”
She stepped aside. I walked in slowly.
---------------------------------------------------------
Her flat was neat. Small one-bedroom setup. Fan spinning. Some soft lemon-spray smell in the air. Curtains were drawn halfway. Sofa was plain grey. A bottle of water on the table. Her purse open, parlour bill sticking out.
I removed my slippers and stepped inside.
“Sit akka, I’ll just keep my phone on charge.”
I sat slowly on the edge of the sofa. My saree pleats spread slightly. I fixed them neatly. Pallu covered my chest well. Still, I pulled the blouse once near the shoulder, just to be safe.
She walked across and plugged in her charger.
“You go to parlour usually?” I asked.
“Hmm. Just clean-up and threading. But so much crowd, akka. One aunty was shouting because they gave her half eyebrow only.”
I laughed a little. “You go every week?”
“Once in two-three weeks. Else face gets dull. You should also come with me next time, akka. We can book same slot.”
I smiled but said, “Don’t call me akka so many times. Makes me feel old. Call me Pavitra. Or Pavi if you want.”
She paused for a second.
“Okay… Pavitra. Next time I’ll call like that.”
---------------------------------------------------------
She sat across from me, one leg folded on the chair, casual. Comfortable.
She poured juice from a bottle into two glasses.
“Sugarless, but chilled,” she said.
“Nice,” I replied, holding the glass.
She was talking… something about work-from-home and one useless HR call.
But my mind was not there.
My eyes… had gone somewhere else.
Not with intention. Just naturally.
The curve of her neck. Her clean chin. The way her t-shirt sat on her chest — flat, but neat. No shape showing, but still… my eyes went there.
And I hated myself.
Why am I seeing her like this?
She’s just a girl.
My neighbour.
Friendly.
And still, something in my stomach twisted.
Not sexual. But something else.
Curiosity?
Maybe.
My eyes dropped once again — to her waist, the black waistband of her pant, the way her body moved when she sat back.
She looked modern. Easy. Comfortable in her skin.
And me?
Sitting in full saree, legs closed, blouse tight, trying to act like I’m just here for juice.
Inside… I could feel a warmth building. Not attraction. But awareness.
And it scared me a little.
---------------------------------------------------------
She offered a tissue. “Too cold?”
“No no, it’s perfect,” I said, wiping the glass.
She leaned back, relaxed.
I kept my legs pressed together, holding the juice with both hands.
Inside my blouse, my nipples had stiffened slightly. Maybe from the AC. Or something else.
And deep inside my saree folds, between my thighs…
…a soft heat had started to grow.
And I didn’t know why.
To be continued…
---------------------------------------------------------
We were just talking normally. Ten minutes passed like that.
She was telling about her office work. Some issue with a bank client. I asked if she cooks daily or orders. She said mostly she orders, but now she’s trying to cook little by little.
She offered some murukku from a dabba. I took one. It was soft. Homemade, maybe from her native place. I asked and she said, “My amma sent last week. From Hyderabad.”
I smiled. “It tastes like tamil style.”
“Same South India only,” she said with a grin.
We both laughed.
I was about to place the empty glass on the table and get up.
“Okay, I’ll go now,” I said. “His cricket match must be over halfway.”
“Wait Pavi,” she said, placing her hand gently on my arm. “Before you go…”
I looked at her. “What?”
“You’re looking really pretty today,” she said suddenly. “Just this simple cotton saree. But still… like angel only.”
I smiled. Laughed a little. “Aiyyo, you’re exaggerating now.”
“No I swear. I’ve seen aunty types wear sarees. But you… you wear it so clean and light. Not too much jewellery, nothing loud. Still… neat and beautiful.”
I shook my head. “You’re too kind. I just wear normal. Not anything special.”
But something in me… felt nice hearing it. Like she had seen something Kartik never even mentioned in years.
She smiled again. Looked a little hesitant. Then said, “Actually… can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
“I have a function today evening. Friend’s engagement. I’ve two sarees. I thought of wearing one. But…”
She looked at me shyly.
“Usually my mom helps me wear. If she’s not there, I’ll wear only chudi. Easy no. But now you’re here… can you help me wear my saree?”
I blinked. “Me?”
She nodded, face hopeful.
“I don’t know if I’m good at teaching others. I somehow manage mine. That too after so many years of practice,” I said.
“You’re wearing so nicely no, just now only I told,” she said quickly. “You help me this one time, please.”
I laughed. “Saree is different size for every person. Some body types won’t sit nicely.”
“You see mine and tell. Just help pleaaase,” she dragged the word like a child.
I looked at her.
She was still sitting there. Slim body. Clean face. Looking up at me like I was some expert aunty.
“Okay, I’ll help you,” I said, smiling.
“But one condition.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t call me akka anymore.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I’m just 27,” I said, lying by one year. “If you call me akka, I’ll feel like old aunty wearing nighty and shouting at kids.”
She laughed out loud.
“Okay okay, promise. Only Pavi. From now on.”
I smiled.
“Deal,” I said.
-------------------------------
After we both laughed about the “akka” thing, the flat felt lighter. She had promised to call me only “Pavi” from now on, and that itself made me feel a little younger inside. Not that anyone was watching, but something about not being called “akka” felt nice. Like I was still... my own person. Not just someone’s elder, or someone’s wife.
We were sitting quietly for a minute. The fan kept spinning, and the lemony smell in her flat had started to settle on my skin too. Her juice glass was half full. Mine was empty.
I stood up slowly and stretched a little, just loosening my shoulders.
“Okay then,” I said, gently wiping my fingers on the pallu. “I’ll go. Before the match finishes.”
She looked up. “Now itself?”
I smiled. “I thought you wanted to get ready only in the evening?”
She tilted her head. Thought for a second.
“Actually… do you have any work now?”
I looked around. As if my answer was written in her curtain or clock. But truly… I didn’t have anything.
“Afaik, no. Kartik’s watching match. Arjun hasn’t come. Kids are with Appa. House is clean. So... mostly free.”
Her eyes widened a bit. That soft kind of excitement you can’t fake.
“Then… can we try now?”
I gave a half-laugh. “You want to practice wearing saree now?”
She nodded quickly. Her bun moved slightly with the motion. “Yes! Please? If I wait till evening, I’ll mess it up in hurry.”
I held my hip for a second, pretended to think. But I was already going to say yes.
“Why not?”
She clapped once, like a child. “Yay! Wait wait, I’ll get the saree!”
She jumped up, bare feet touching the tile lightly as she rushed toward her bedroom. Her anklet made a tiny jingle noise — just one — before she disappeared into the side room.
I stood near the sofa. Pulled my pallu a little tighter over my chest. Adjusted my waist pleats with one casual tug. I didn’t know how this was going to go, but something about the energy felt light. Fun, even.
Within half a minute, she came back.
Holding a neatly folded saree in both hands — almost like she was carrying something sacred.
“Here,” she said, with a proud smile, handing it to me.
I took it.
It was soft. Very soft.
Not like my daily cottons.
This was a modern saree — semi-transparent. Peach-pink in colour, with a soft shimmer that caught even the low light from her window.
I held it up slightly, checking the pallu edge.
The border was silver threadwork — thin but detailed. Like small drops of shine stitched across the edge.
The body of the saree was sheer. Not completely transparent, but close. I could easily see my fingers behind it when I held it open slightly.
“Nice one,” I said honestly. “Very trendy. Looks expensive.”
She smiled proudly. “I bought it last year. From a Diwali sale. It was around 8K. Actual price was 10 plus, but I got a deal.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Worthy one. Color suits your skin also.”
“Thanks Pavi,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
The saree had a faint scent. Something floral. Maybe from the cupboard. Maybe her perfume.
I gently folded it back in half and looked at her.
“Where’s the blouse and petticoat?”
“Oh ya ya, wait! It’s in my suitcase. I didn’t take it out.”
She handed the saree to me — as if she trusted me more than her own cupboard — and turned quickly.
This time, she didn’t walk. She ran.
Literally.
Light, bouncy steps across the floor, feet slightly lifted, heels touching last.
And when she ran…
I saw it.
Her ass.
Moving.
Jiggling, softly — inside that black sports pant.
It wasn’t huge. Not attention-seeking.
But there was bounce.
One cheek, then the other, slightly late. That natural ripple when a woman runs free, without tension.
My eyes followed.
Automatically.
From the curve near her waist, to the motion of each cheek.
Soft. Real. Alive.
The pant was tight enough to hold shape, but loose enough to let her move.
And I noticed.
Fully.
The shape of her ass. The way it moved. The casual freedom of it. Not sexual. Just... natural.
And still, it hit something inside me.
I looked away.
Pressed my lips.
She’s a girl.
A woman.
Same as me.
Why am I watching her run like this?
Not like a pervert. But still… aware.
That she has a body.
That her backside bounces.
That I — Pavitra, wife, mother — just saw it… and didn’t hate it.
In fact, something deep in my chest clenched.
Softly.
Quietly.
My thighs pressed together slightly.
More out of habit than desire.
But I noticed it.
And I stood there — still holding her 8,000 rupees saree — thinking…
What the fuck is going on with me?
---------------------------------------------
She came running back holding the blouse and petticoat in her hand, smiling brightly. Her steps were fast, careless, like a collegegirl coming from tuition.
I stood there waiting, my palms dry and ready.
She came near and handed them to me carefully.
I took the bundle in my hands and unfolded it once.
The petticoat was good — soft cotton, matching the pale peach colour of her saree.
The blouse was nice too, but my eyes immediately caught one thing —
The back was hardly covered.
Only one thin strip of cloth holding both sides.
Modern, revealing design.
It would show most of her back once worn.
I smiled lightly inside.
Today’s young girls had a different kind of boldness.
Not bad. Just different.
I held the blouse between my fingers. It was so light, it felt like it would fly away if I blew on it.
Without wasting time, I asked, “Shall we start?”
“Yes!” she nodded excitedly, almost bouncing.
Without waiting for me to say anything more, she went to the main door and locked it carefully.
Then she walked quickly to the balcony and drew the curtains fully, adjusting even the corners so that no gap was left.
Her movements were quick, full of that young energy.
I stood near the sofa, calmly holding her saree, blouse and petticoat, watching.
She came back — barefoot — her anklets making a tiny jingle once.
---------------------------------------------------------
She stood right in front of me, just one small step away.
Then she started.
Her fingers went to the waistband of her sports pant first.
Without any shyness, she pulled it down slowly.
Her thighs came into view.
Slim. Smooth. Fair.
There wasn’t a single hair visible.
Maybe parlour treatment, maybe regular care.
The skin had that freshly waxed glow — the same polish her face had.
But I didn’t feel jealous.
No.
I simply observed, as a woman noticing another woman.
I had my own beauty.
Fuller thighs.
More flesh.
The richness of a body that had loved, carried, and birthed.
Her body was younger, yes.
But mine was deeper.
More... complete.
I didn’t feel lesser.
I simply felt different.
A small proud smile played at the edge of my lips.
---------------------------------------------------------
She bent, folded the pant neatly, kept it on the side chair.
Now she was standing in a long loose t-shirt and panties.
Without waiting, she pulled the t-shirt upwards in one quick movement.
In a second, it was off.
And she stood there —
In her bra and petticoat.
Her skin glowed under the fan breeze.
Her arms were smooth, her collarbone clean.
Her breasts were small, perky, nicely shaped inside her soft peach-coloured bra.
I noticed —
Young body.
Tight curves.
Soft belly.
But my heart didn’t sink.
Instead —
A small pride rose inside me.
At 28, after marriage, kids, and life —
I could still stand beside any girl and hold my head high.
I had curves she didn't.
I had ripeness she didn't.
I had a woman's scent, not a girl's perfume.
And no matter how young or polished she was,
I was Pavitra.
Complete in my skin.
---------------------------------------------------------
Anusha looked at me innocently, lifting the petticoat slightly.
“Shall I wear this first, Pavi?” she asked.
I nodded, voice calm. “Yes.”
She bent forward slightly, stepping one foot into the petticoat, then the other.
Her breasts wobbled slightly inside the bra with the movement.
I noticed.
I’m a woman. My eyes notice everything.
But there was no dirty thought yet.
Just... warmth building quietly in my chest.
She pulled the petticoat up and tied the string properly around her slim waist.
Now standing in bra and petticoat, she adjusted the petticoat gathers once.
Then looked up at me.
"Now blouse?"
"Turn around," I said softly, stepping forward.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned obediently, showing her bare back.
The thin bra strap lay across her shoulder blades.
I stepped close.
My fingers brushed her skin first — soft, warm.
No scars. No marks.
But my own fingers — stronger, practiced hands — moved with a steady, graceful touch.
I placed the blouse over her back gently.
The cloth was so thin, it almost felt like I was just covering mist.
My hands moved to the hooks, aligning them properly.
Her body shivered lightly when my fingers touched her.
Fan air, maybe.
Or something else.
I didn't react.
I was composed.
I was Pavitra.
Mature. Steady.
I hooked the first clasp neatly.
Then the second.
My palm brushed her bare lower back lightly.
And a small pulse jumped inside my belly.
Deep between my thighs, a warmth was spreading.
Not dirty.
Just... real.
Alive.
---------------------------------------------------------
"Done," I said, stepping back.
She turned, smiling brightly.
The blouse hugged her chest, showing her young, tight curves.
Pretty.
But somewhere inside, I knew —
Mine would fill a blouse differently.
Softer, heavier, more womanly.
And without even thinking, a small victorious pride bloomed inside my chest.
---------------------------------------------------------
She adjusted the blouse front once.
“Shall we do saree now, Pavi?” she asked sweetly.
“Of course,” I said, smiling.
I bent slightly, holding the soft peach saree.
The cloth was flowing like river water.
As I gathered the pleats, my fingers brushed against her lower belly.
Her skin was cool under my touch.
A small, black mole sat just beside her navel.
Perfect little spot.
My fingers paused for one second —
long enough to feel the heat rising between us —
but not long enough to be obvious.
I tucked the pleats into her petticoat slowly, carefully.
My hand brushed against her hipbone lightly.
She sucked a small breath but said nothing.
Neither did I.
---------------------------------------------------------
Inside my body, a slow fire was building.
Under my saree layers, my panty had gone damp.
My nipples were hard inside my blouse, rubbing with every small movement.
And yet, on my face —
Only calm.
Only that small, secret smile.
Because I was Pavitra.
And I was still the most desirable woman in that room.
No matter what.
---------------------------------------------------------
I took my time.
I didn’t rush through it like I do when dressing myself in a hurry.
I carefully adjusted the pleats — one by one — making sure they fell neatly, not sticking out awkwardly.
Her saree material was soft, slippery.
Needed patience.
I tucked it properly into her petticoat, making sure the fall looked straight and clean.
Then I lifted the pallu, brought it around her body.
Pulled it gently over her left shoulder.
Adjusted the pallu height — not too low, not too high.
Folded the border neatly and pinned it, just the way I would pin my daughter’s college badge — carefully, lovingly.
The saree hugged her slim waist, the pallu flowing lightly.
Once done, I stepped back.
"All done," I said, brushing a small imaginary crease from her shoulder.
She smiled wide — like a child seeing herself after dressing up for fancy dress.
---------------------------------------------------------
She walked quickly to the mirror near her dressing table.
Turned this side, that side.
Looked at the front.
Looked at the back.
Tilted her head.
Flipped her hair to one side.
Checked the pallu border fall.
Then looked at herself once fully — head to toe — smiling with satisfaction.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned back to me, eyes shining.
"Pavi!" she called excitedly, running back toward me.
Before I could react properly, she came close and hugged me tightly.
Her arms went around my waist easily — she was slightly shorter than me — and her cheek pressed against my chest.
"Thank you, Pavi! Even my mom can’t wear saree this perfect. Seriously!"
I froze for a second.
My hands stayed at my sides.
Then slowly — naturally — I brought them up and placed them lightly on her back.
Soft.
Warm.
Real.
Her body pressed against mine — her small breasts pushing lightly against my lower chest.
Her waist fitting snugly under my arms.
---------------------------------------------------------
I laughed a little, awkwardly.
"You're exaggerating," I said.
"No, really! I'm so happy," she said, hugging tighter for one second before letting go.
I smiled, adjusting my pallu again.
"Happy for you," I said softly.
She looked at me, her face open, pure, full of genuine joy.
---------------------------------------------------------
But inside me…
Something had shifted.
Something small.
Something dangerous.
When she hugged me —
when her body pressed against mine —
when her skin brushed my saree-covered stomach —
when I smelled her light jasmine-and-body-cream scent up close —
Something had… turned on.
Not like hunger.
Not like need.
Just a slow, lazy coil of arousal — starting deep in my belly.
Warmth had rushed down between my legs.
My nipples, already a little tight from before, became sharper, poking against my bra.
My thigh muscles had clenched.
And even now, as I stood there smiling at her,
inside my saree folds,
inside my panty,
I was growing wetter by the second.
---------------------------------------------------------
I blinked.
Looked away quickly.
Picked up the remaining safety pins from the table, pretending to arrange them.
Inside, my mind was shouting:
"What the hell, Pavitra?"
"She's just a girl."
"Your neighbor. Your friend. She's trusting you."
But my body…
My traitor body…
Was alive.
Awake.
Wanting.
---------------------------------------------------------
"Am I bad?" I asked myself silently.
"Am I some filthy woman now?"
"Am I crossing some line that shouldn’t even exist?"
I wiped my palms on my pallu lightly, pretending it was because of sweat.
Anusha was still looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting the saree, pinning one side properly.
Completely innocent.
Completely trusting.
And me?
Standing behind her.
Chest heavy.
Thighs pressing tightly.
Panty wet.
Just from a hug.
---------------------------------------------------------
"No."
"No, Pavitra. Nothing wrong."
"You’re human."
"It’s just… body reaction. Nothing bad."
I convinced myself.
I folded her t-shirt and pants neatly on the chair to distract myself.
Breathing slower now.
Smile fixed on my face.
I had survived worse temptations.
I would survive this too.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned then, smiling brightly.
"Thanks, Pavi. I’ll change now and keep this ready for evening. You saved me!"
I nodded calmly.
"Anytime," I said.
Even though inside...
Nothing was calm anymore.
---------------------------------------------------------
I glanced at the wall clock.
2:30 PM.
Still early.
She said the engagement was at 6 PM.
If she stayed fully dressed in saree from now, by evening the pleats would get crushed, blouse might loosen, and the fresh look would fade.
Not just that.
As she turned around near the dressing table —
Adjusting her hair —
I caught it.
Her blouse backside.
The slim cloth strip wasn’t hiding much.
And through the thin saree material, I could clearly see her bra strap line.
Light peach colour shining against her smooth back.
She hadn’t noticed it yet.
Maybe excitement. Maybe inexperience.
I stepped closer and said gently,
"You might want to remove the bra when you wear this saree in evening."
She turned, blinking. "Why?"
I pointed lightly at her back.
"Bra strap is fully showing. The blouse design is too open. Either wear a backless bra… or go without."
Her eyes widened slightly — like the thought hadn’t occurred to her at all.
Then she laughed, touching the back of her blouse lightly.
"Thanks, Pavi! Otherwise I would've gone looking like clown only," she said, giggling.
I smiled calmly.
"Better change now. Else saree will get crushed too."
"True true," she nodded, already reaching for the pallu.
---------------------------------------------------------
She turned once toward the mirror.
Checked herself.
Then, slowly, carefully —
she started removing the saree.
First, she unpinned the shoulder gently.
Then unwound the pallu.
I stood silently, watching.
The saree flowed off her body like water slipping from a smooth surface.
She folded it expertly, without ruining the pleats I had set so carefully.
I noticed that.
Despite being modern, careless sometimes —
she had learned something about saree respect from her mother.
That small thing made me smile privately.
---------------------------------------------------------
Now she was standing there again.
In just her peach-coloured bra and matching panties.
Slim waist.
Smooth thighs.
Soft young body.
Standing casually in front of me —
without shame, without hesitation —
trusting me fully.
I looked — openly now — taking it all in.
Not like a pervert.
Not like a fool.
Just a woman observing another woman’s young beauty.
And inside my body, the same soft, stubborn arousal kept humming.
Not violent.
Not urgent.
Just… there.
Alive under my skin.
---------------------------------------------------------
She reached for the clothes I had folded neatly earlier — her black sports pant and lavender t-shirt.
First, she wore the pants.
Lifting one smooth leg, then the other.
Pulling the waistband up over her panties with a small adjusting hop.
The pant hugged her slim hips quickly.
Then she grabbed the t-shirt, slipping one arm through, then the other.
Pulling it down, covering herself again fully.
When she adjusted the t-shirt hem over her pants, I noticed how slim her wrists were.
How smooth the skin around her neck was.
Small, small details that somehow stayed inside my mind longer than necessary.
---------------------------------------------------------
Once she was dressed, she turned to me, smiling happily.
"Pavi, you saved me today."
I smiled, adjusting my pallu once.
"Anytime. Now you relax, get ready properly by 5 PM."
I picked up my phone from the sofa where I had kept it.
"Give me your number, Anusha," I said.
"Of course," she said, grabbing her own mobile from the table.
We exchanged numbers quickly.
I saved hers as Anusha (703).
She saved mine as Pavi akka first —
then giggled, corrected it to Pavi.
We both laughed lightly.
---------------------------------------------------------
I checked my keys.
Everything okay.
"Alright then," I said, walking toward the door.
"If you need anything… call me."
"Thanks, Pavi," she said, waving from inside.
I opened the door, stepped out into the slightly hotter corridor.
Closed the door behind me gently.
My heart was beating slower now.
But my panty was still damp.
My bra still rubbing against my nipples with every step.
I took a deep breath, walked back toward my flat —
feet light, saree swishing quietly around my legs.
---------------------------------------------------------
Inside my mind...
Anusha’s hug, her skin, her smile...
were still lingering.
And somewhere deep inside me —
a truth I didn’t want to say loudly —
I had changed today.
In a way that could never fully be undone.
---------------------------------------------------------
Saturday evening was quiet.
Nothing special happened after lunch.
Kartik was in front of the TV, watching IPL as usual — remote in one hand, his leg bouncing slightly when a boundary was hit. He didn’t speak much. I didn’t either.
Around six, Arjun came back.
He had been out the whole afternoon. I didn’t ask where.
He walked in casually, tossed his helmet on the shoe rack, and came straight to the hall.
“I found one room anna,” he said, standing near the kitchen door, looking at both of us.
“It’s far. Bit outskirts. But rent is decent. Owner is okay. I’ll shift in two weeks maybe.”
Kartik nodded without turning.
“Hmm. Good.”
I didn’t say anything.
Just stirred the rasam slowly and wiped my hands on the towel.
Arjun didn’t sit down. Just went into the bathroom, washed his face, came out, and entered the kids’ bedroom — the one he’d been using.
That was it.
No questions. No small talk. No one asked him anything more.
The house felt like a bus stand.
People passing. Nothing sticking.
---------------------------------------------------------
Later that night, after dinner and cleaning, I was lying on the bed, checking my phone lazily.
The house was dark. One small night lamp glowing in the corner.
That’s when I saw it.
Anusha (703) — message with one photo.
I opened it.
She had clicked a picture in the mirror, in full saree — the same one I helped her wear.
Her eyes were lined. Lips had soft lipstick. Smile gentle.
But what caught my attention most…
The saree.
It was exactly how I had covered/put it.
Pallu angle, pleat spacing, even the slight lift at her ankle — all perfect.
She had kept it like that.
And now she was showing me proudly.
I stared at the photo for a few seconds.
Then tapped the heart emoji. Sent.
She replied immediately.
“Love you, Pavi. Seriously. No one ever helped me like this.”
I didn’t reply after that.
Just smiled softly, locked the phone, and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Something inside my body was still remembering her hug.
Her skin.
Her breath.
But I closed my eyes and said to myself, “Enough.”
---------------------------------------------------------
Sunday passed like any other.
I started early — bathed, washed the bedsheets, chopped chicken, and began cooking by noon.
The masala stuck to the pan well. I took time with it.
Bone pieces, small onions, heavy pepper.
Kartik always liked it that way — said outside food is okay, but “only your chicken gives real taste.”
He didn’t praise me directly, but I knew. He’d eat in silence, and that was his style of thanks.
Around 4:45 PM, he zipped his bag, wore his jeans, and came to the hall.
“I’ll leave,” he said, grabbing his laptop.
“Okay,” I said, wiping my hands.
I didn’t go to the door. I didn’t ask if he packed his brush or socks.
I knew he’d done it.
He didn’t look back.
Opened the door.
And walked out.
---------------------------------------------------------
Arjun was already wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
He walked past me while tying his shoelace.
Looked at me once and said, “Bye, I’ll drop anna outside and comback anni.”
No warmth.
No questions.
Just words.
And he left too.
Door closed.
Lock clicked.
And the house went still.
---------------------------------------------------------
Arjun back after sometime.
Now it’s past 5:30 PM.
The fan is spinning.
Chicken curry is still warm on the stove.
Table is clean. Plates are stacked.
I’m sitting on the sofa, legs bent, one hand resting on my thigh.
Wearing my old maroon saree — the cotton one that fits well even without adjusting.
Blouse is plain. Hooks tight. Pallu sitting comfortably on my chest.
I didn’t feel like changing. Didn’t feel like opening the windows.
Arjun is on the other sofa — legs on the centre table, watching some Hindi movie.
One hand behind his head.
The remote lying beside him.
He’s not talking. Not checking his phone. Just… staring at the screen.
I’m not watching the movie.
I’m watching him.
Not openly. Just… observing.
His jaw moves slightly when he swallows.
His t-shirt is stretched across his chest.
One crease in his track pant is pointing right to his thighs.
I look away.
Then look again.
Not because I want to do anything.
Just because it’s quiet.
And he’s the only thing moving in this house now.
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