Adultery Priya Didi

[shailu4ever]

Ravi closed his eyes.


Ravi had a way of seeing things that others often missed. 

It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a quiet habit of noticing the intimate details

Like the delicate arch of a woman’s back as she leaned slightly forward, 

Or the soft sway of her hips as she moved through a room, as if each step was a quiet rhythm of its own. 

He didn’t think much of it, but sometimes, those fleeting moments lingered in his mind,

Like the lingering warmth of a touch that was never fully realized. 

It wasn’t something he tried to do; it just happened, naturally, without him even noticing.


That dinner was vivid in his mind. 

Not just the events of the evening, but every detail, every moment that seemed to pulse with a quiet, simmering heat.

Neetu in her navy-blue ghagra stayed with him, as though she were a vision caught in time. 

The fabric, light and airy as a cloud, clung to her body with each movement, swaying seductively as if it were alive, caressing her skin in a way that seemed intentional, drawing his gaze to every curve. 

The golden embroidery on her blouse shimmered like whispers in the candlelight, each thread glinting as if it had a secret to tell, a promise held in its delicate stitches. 

The blouse clung to her every curve, a soft tension holding her in all the right places, while the low back, framed by the thin tassels, seemed to invite him to linger there, to imagine what was just beneath.


But it was her navel. That deep, perfect dip, still and hypnotic, locked in his mind.

It was as though his eyes were drawn to it, unable to look away. 

The lehenga sat low on her hips, the curve of her belly rising just above the waistband like an invitation, sculpted, yet so alive, so warm. 

The dip of her navel, cast in soft candlelight, held him captive, more compelling than any words spoken that night. 

It wasn’t just a part of her body; it felt like a secret, a temptation, an invitation to something unspoken, something only the two of them could share.

And the way her dupatta, meant to cover her modesty, seemed to have a will of its own. 

It slipped slowly from her shoulder, as if it couldn’t resist the temptation of revealing just a little more of her skin. 

The fabric shifted, teasingly, like it were reluctant to stay in place, sliding down her arm with a quiet, sensual grace. 

Each time it fell just a little further, the bare skin beneath seemed to beckon, 

Inviting the air to brush against it, as though the dupatta, in its own way, was as curious as he was about the warmth hidden just beneath. 

It wasn’t just the movement of the fabric, it was the way it made him ache, the way it seemed to pull her into the space between them, a soft, silent invitation.


He remembered it not as a fleeting image, but as a slow, drawn-out sequence: 

The way she leaned to pass the dal, her body bending slightly, the soft flex of her belly moving beneath the fabric. 

The way her ghagra slipped a little lower as she laughed, her laughter free, unaware of the way the movement made his breath catch. 

And the way her dupatta, meant to conceal, kept slipping from her shoulder, as if it too, was too curious to stay in place, teasing him with glimpses of her skin.



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