13-06-2025, 12:24 AM
Later That Morning
Abhi sat on the edge of his bed, still in the fitted joggers from the morning, a towel looped around his neck. He hadn't changed, hadn’t showered—his body still humming with a soft ache from the stretches, the poses... and from her touch.
Meghana.
He leaned back slowly, head resting against the wall, eyes closed. But all he saw was her.
The way her body moved in the early morning light—long, slender legs grounded with a dancer’s strength, her form all flowing control and quiet confidence. Her skin had glowed in that soft dawn, fair and smooth, the kind of light-toned warmth that didn’t need anything artificial to be noticed.
And then, her breasts—high, full, and impossibly firm, rising with each breath as she held those poses. Covered, yes—but still commanding. They moved with grace, not weight—a softness that demanded attention without apology. He hadn't tried to stare. But he had.
So had every cell in his body.
Her body was lean, toned in all the right places, shows how much disciplined she is in working out and keeping fit. The curve of her waist, the lines of her arms, the way her hips shifted when she corrected his form—it wasn’t just sensual. It was alive. She was a woman who knew her body deeply, knew how to live in it—and didn't shy away when someone noticed.
But it wasn’t just the shape of her. It was her presence. Her eyes—alert, playful. Her mouth—bare of makeup, but expressive. Slight smirks. Slow smiles. Words that floated somewhere between teasing and testing.
He exhaled, chest heavy.
Was she inviting him? Or was he just imagining it all?
When she placed her hands on his hips to correct that pose... was it just alignment? Or had her fingers lingered on purpose? The way she said “Looking is allowed”—was that a joke, or permission?
Then he remembered something else: her ring.
Meghana was married.
Just 25. Married recently. He’d only heard about it from the apartment gossip circle and a brief passing mention in the elevator. Her husband worked in pharma sales—always traveling, chasing targets, rarely around. She lived alone most weeks. Always seen with her yoga mat, earbuds in, that upright stride of someone who had made peace with solitude.
Abhi had noticed her months before, in the stairwell or collecting her Amazon packages in soft tank tops and tights. But it was only now—after her touch, her words, her body so close—that he really felt her.
And now she lived inside his thoughts.
He opened his eyes, the room too quiet. Every sound from upstairs felt like it might be her. Her footsteps. Her laugh. The sound of water running from her shower, just two floors above.
He shook his head, rubbed his face.
Maybe I’m reading too much. Maybe she’s just kind... open. Comfortable in her skin.
Or maybe, just maybe, she wanted him to read exactly what she was showing.
Whatever it was, he couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow.
Because her voice had curled into his ear like a promise:
“Tomorrow, we try balance poses. Lots of hands-on correction.”
And with that one sentence, she had unspooled something deep in him—a hunger, quiet but unmistakable.
Not just for her body. For her attention. Her eyes. Her daring.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
He finally got up to get ready for the office.
---
Abhi sat on the edge of his bed, still in the fitted joggers from the morning, a towel looped around his neck. He hadn't changed, hadn’t showered—his body still humming with a soft ache from the stretches, the poses... and from her touch.
Meghana.
He leaned back slowly, head resting against the wall, eyes closed. But all he saw was her.
The way her body moved in the early morning light—long, slender legs grounded with a dancer’s strength, her form all flowing control and quiet confidence. Her skin had glowed in that soft dawn, fair and smooth, the kind of light-toned warmth that didn’t need anything artificial to be noticed.
And then, her breasts—high, full, and impossibly firm, rising with each breath as she held those poses. Covered, yes—but still commanding. They moved with grace, not weight—a softness that demanded attention without apology. He hadn't tried to stare. But he had.
So had every cell in his body.
Her body was lean, toned in all the right places, shows how much disciplined she is in working out and keeping fit. The curve of her waist, the lines of her arms, the way her hips shifted when she corrected his form—it wasn’t just sensual. It was alive. She was a woman who knew her body deeply, knew how to live in it—and didn't shy away when someone noticed.
But it wasn’t just the shape of her. It was her presence. Her eyes—alert, playful. Her mouth—bare of makeup, but expressive. Slight smirks. Slow smiles. Words that floated somewhere between teasing and testing.
He exhaled, chest heavy.
Was she inviting him? Or was he just imagining it all?
When she placed her hands on his hips to correct that pose... was it just alignment? Or had her fingers lingered on purpose? The way she said “Looking is allowed”—was that a joke, or permission?
Then he remembered something else: her ring.
Meghana was married.
Just 25. Married recently. He’d only heard about it from the apartment gossip circle and a brief passing mention in the elevator. Her husband worked in pharma sales—always traveling, chasing targets, rarely around. She lived alone most weeks. Always seen with her yoga mat, earbuds in, that upright stride of someone who had made peace with solitude.
Abhi had noticed her months before, in the stairwell or collecting her Amazon packages in soft tank tops and tights. But it was only now—after her touch, her words, her body so close—that he really felt her.
And now she lived inside his thoughts.
He opened his eyes, the room too quiet. Every sound from upstairs felt like it might be her. Her footsteps. Her laugh. The sound of water running from her shower, just two floors above.
He shook his head, rubbed his face.
Maybe I’m reading too much. Maybe she’s just kind... open. Comfortable in her skin.
Or maybe, just maybe, she wanted him to read exactly what she was showing.
Whatever it was, he couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow.
Because her voice had curled into his ear like a promise:
“Tomorrow, we try balance poses. Lots of hands-on correction.”
And with that one sentence, she had unspooled something deep in him—a hunger, quiet but unmistakable.
Not just for her body. For her attention. Her eyes. Her daring.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
He finally got up to get ready for the office.
---
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