Adultery The Descent of Meera; An Indian House Wife
#10
Chapter 4

The smell of sandalwood and citrus seemed stuck in Meera's nose. Sweeping the floor, the broom's sound became the rustle of her navy saree in the grocery aisle. The natural sway of her hips. Dust in sunlight became the memory of Arjun's look. Washing dishes, warm water felt like the heat of his accidental touch. And Aarti’s words – blunt descriptions of Arjun’s hands, his mouth, his intensity – echoed loudly between chores.

Why? The question pounded in her head. Why look at me? Aarti is younger, lively... free. Standing at the counter chopping vegetables, Meera’s hand stopped. She looked down – her comfortable cotton salwar kameez, the curve of her waist under the cloth. Are these curves... worth that look? From a man like him? A mix of shame and an unwanted, thrilling heat prickled her skin. The knife slipped, nicking her finger. A tiny drop of blood appeared. She sucked it without thought.

The Bath: Temptation Under Water
The shower was meant to clean, to reset. But as warm water hit her head, soaking her hair, running down her face, neck, shoulders, it became fuel for forbidden thoughts. Closing her eyes, the water’s sound became Aarti’s voice: "tongue ka magic..."

Meera’s breath caught. Her hands, soaping her arms, slowed. The slick lather felt different. As her palms slid over her collarbones, down the slope of her breasts, the feeling wasn't just washing. It was... stirring. Her fingers traced the swell, circling a nipple that hardened instantly, tight and sensitive under her touch. A soft gasp left her lips, lost in the water. Wrong. This is wrong.

Yet, her hand drifted lower, over the soft curve of her stomach. Water streamed down, droplets catching on her navel, tracing paths over her lower belly, slipping between her thighs. Her fingers followed, grazing the sensitive skin there. A spark, hot and deep, flared inside her core. Her breath came fast now, shallow puffs fogging the glass. Her chest rose and fell, water running over her breasts. The urge to touch lower, to chase that spark, to imagine a different touch – confident, exploring, his touch – became a physical ache, a throb matching her racing heart.

Her trembling fingers went lower, brushing her damp curls. A sharp jolt of pure feeling shot through her. Guilt. Sharp and cold. She snatched her hand back like it was burned, pressing it flat against the cold, wet tiles. No! Rajiv. Aaryan. Family. She forced her eyes open, blinking against water. Focus. Wash. Rinse. Get out. She scrubbed hard, mechanically, trying to wash away the thoughts, the feelings, the phantom smell in the steam. But the heat stayed, a low pulse under her skin, a secret shame carried out wrapped in a towel.

Rajiv came home, bringing his usual warm affection. He hugged her, nuzzling her damp hair. "Mmm, fresh. Long day, jaan?"

"Usual," Meera murmured, forcing a smile, leaning into his solid warmth, needing anchor. "Aaryan finished homework. Dinner almost ready."

"Perfect," he sighed, letting her go but keeping a hand on her waist as he went to change. At dinner, Aaryan talked about college. Rajiv talked about a tough project. Meera listened, nodded, served food, but her mind felt split, part here, part lost in the steamy shower and her guilt.

"Office mein ek baat hai," Rajiv said casually, scooping bharta with roti. (There's one thing from office.) "Next month Mahabaleshwar family trip planned. Team-building. Wives and kids invited."

Meera’s hand froze holding the water jug. Mahabaleshwar. Romantic. With... colleagues. With him? The thought of being under Arjun's watchful look sent panic through her. "Mahabaleshwar? Rajiv... no, please. Aaryan ka college... aur ghar ka kaam..." (Aaryan's college... and housework...)

Rajiv looked surprised. "Arre, mostly weekend. college fine. Fun, na? Change?"

"Not this time, Rajiv, please," Meera insisted, voice too firm. "Maybe next? I... too much here now." She couldn't meet his eyes, focusing hard on his water glass.

Rajiv studied her, then shrugged, disappointment flashing. "Okay. As you wish. Next time."

Silence hung, broken only by Aaryan chewing. Then Rajiv added, almost offhand, "Oh, Arjun asked about your cooking today. Remembers Diwali samosas. Foodie, apparently. Might drop by Friday evening after work, just a bit. Wants 'real home food', he said. If you don't mind extra?"

The jug slipped slightly in Meera’s hand, clinking. Friday. Arjun. Here. In my home. Her safe place, where her thoughts were already wild. She steadied the jug. "Arjun? Friday?" Her voice sounded tight. "Umm... haan... theek hai. Kuch bana deti hoon." (Yes... okay. I'll make something.)

Rajiv smiled. "Great. Good guy. Aaryan liked him." He ate, unaware of the quake he'd started. Meera stared at her plate, bharta looking wrong. Friday. The word echoed, a countdown. The shower heat, his gaze, Aarti’s words – all crashed into one point on the calendar. Her inner storm, calmed a little by the bath, surged back hard.

Friday
Friday dawned heavy. Every clock tick loud. Morning chores felt like moving through mud. Alone after Rajiv and Aaryan left, the silence wasn't peace; it was thick with Arjun's coming presence. Reading? Words blurred. Cleaning? Movements jerky, distracted.


The Bath: Mirror to the Storm
The afternoon bath became a fight. Water hit her skin, thoughts she fought all day rushed back stronger. Arjun watching her walk in the blue saree – the sway of her hips he seemed to like – played over and over. Aarti’s whisper: "Tongue ka magic..." Meera’s hands, washing her body, brought both torment and want.

She traced her jawline, her neck – places she imagined his lips, his tongue. Her fingers brushed her breasts, lingering on hard nipples, touch sending jolts straight to her belly, mixing with thoughts of his skill. Her breath grew ragged in the tiled space. Water streamed over her, showing her shape – swell of breasts, dip of waist, flare of hips, smooth skin of inner thighs. Droplets clung to her, beading on her stomach, tracing paths she ached to follow with her touch, imagined his touch!

Her hand drifted lower, shaking badly. The need to touch, to ease the building ache, to find release from the tension, was almost too strong. Her fingers grazed the sensitive skin near where she wanted touch. A gasp tore from her, half-pleasure, half-fear. Sin. Betrayal. With effort, she ripped her hand away, slamming it against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut, turned her face up into the hard spray, letting water beat her eyelids, trying to drown the thoughts, the feelings, the heat. Family. Rajiv. Aaryan. Stop! She scrubbed fiercely, focusing on washing hair, rinsing soap, anything to grip reality. But the tension stayed, a live wire humming under her skin.

Wrapped in a big towel, she stood before the full mirror, steam swirling. The fight left her trembling, but also strangely awake. She dropped the towel. Naked, exposed body and soul before her reflection.

Her look moved slowly. Her face – heart-shaped, dark eyes wide from the bath's battle, damp hair clinging. Flushed cheeks. Full lips slightly parted as she breathed. Her neck, smooth shoulders. The slope of her breasts, still full and high, nipples hard and sensitive. The curve of her waist, into the soft swell of her hips. Strong thighs. She saw faint stretch marks near her hips, marks of motherhood, slight softness at her middle – signs of life lived.

This? she thought, eyes locked on her reflection. This is what he saw? This is what he liked? My curves? My... body? A spark of unexpected pride flickered in the confusion. Am I still... beautiful? Am I… wanted enough to tempt a man like that? Not just by Rajiv, whose love was safe, but... by...? By Arjun, who had choices, who was with Aarti? Why praise her? The question wasn't just confusion; it challenged her. Was she worth that look? Standing there, water drops trailing down her skin, body humming with held-back tension, she felt a dangerous glimmer that maybe... she was.

Picking her underwear was tense. Delicate cream lace set, feminine, hidden beneath layers. A choice she didn't fully understand. Dressing felt like getting ready for war. She opened the wardrobe, eyes scanning sarees. Silks, cottons, prints. And there. Hanging separate. The navy blue silk. The saree Arjun saw her in. The one he praised to Aarti. "Perfect curves... inner grace..."


Her hand shook reaching for it. Cool silk slid over her fingers. Why this one? Why test things? Because it was pretty? Because she felt pretty in it? Or... because a hidden part wanted to see if he'd look again? Wanted to prove his admiration? Wanted to feel that unsettling heat of his gaze here, in her home?

Fingers fumbled with her blouse hooks. Every step of dbanging the saree felt loaded. Tucking pleats tight at her waist, fixing the pallu over her shoulder, adjusting the fall. She moved slow, careful, the mirror her silent partner.

Finally, she stood before the mirror, wrapped in blue silk. It clung right, flowed over her shape, the silver border catching light. Her fingers smoothed the pallu over her breast, feeling her own fast heartbeat against the silk, the silver border tracing lines he admired. She saw the woman Arjun might have seen – elegant, sensual, holding a quiet inner strength. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes held stormy depth. She looked... wanted. Worthy.

The knowing sent new feelings crashing over her – pride, fear, guilt, and a scary, strong need. The sexual tension wasn't just in her head now; it was woven into the silk she wore, a clear sign of the war inside. Arjun was coming.


Chapter 5: Sugar and Sparks
Meera focused fiercely on frying jalebis, trying to shield against the storm inside her. By 7 PM, cardamom and ghee filled the kitchen as she coiled batter into golden spirals. Her usually steady hands trembled. A droplet of scalding syrup splashed near her wrist. Get control, she scolded silently, wiping the spill with a shaking cloth. Each sigh felt heavy with tension.

The front door opened. Rajiv's cheerful greeting, Aaryan's chatter, then... that voice. Deep, resonant. Arjun playfully engaging her son: "Arre, Aaryan! Kya baat hai? Kya seekha aaj college mein?" The easy laughter sent fresh unease through Meera. She stayed low behind the counter, wiping the same spot repeatedly.

"Meera? Arjun aa gaya hai!" Rajiv called warmly.

Her heart hammered. Breathe. She smoothed the navy silk over her hips, adjusted the pallu to cover every inch, touched her bindi for false composure. Forcing movement, she walked to the living room.

The sight hit her physically. Arjun crouched with Aaryan but stood as she entered. Dark jeans, charcoal shirt emphasizing broad shoulders and lean strength. His easy smile aimed straight at her. For one treacherous second, pure admiration sparked in Meera—he was magnetically handsome. Then his scent washed over her—sandalwood and citrus cutting through kitchen smells, making her dizzy.

"Meera," he said, warmth feeling personal. "Wonderful to see you. Thank you for having me. Those aromas... Rajiv didn't exaggerate."

"Welcome, Arjun," Meera managed, voice tight. She clasped trembling hands. "Bas, kuch khaane layak banana try kar rahi hoon."

"Edible?" Arjun chuckled, gaze sweeping her, lingering on the silk clinging to her curves. "From the smell, fantastic. And you look lovely today as well." The whispered "as well" sent heat up her neck.

Dinner blurred—passing pulao, dal, papad, golden jalebis. Arjun praised generously: "This dal is incredible... jalebis truly special." Meera murmured thanks, eyes down, but felt his gaze like touch. Not constant, but intentional. When she reached for salt: he's looking. When offering Rajiv rice: still looking. When laughing at Aaryan: definitely looking. Each glance fed the heat simmering low in her belly since her bath. He knows. He sees this tension. And he likes it.

Aaryan drooped. Rajiv scooped him up. "Story time. Back soon, yaar."

"Of course," Arjun smiled, leaning back.

As Rajiv left, the air thickened unbearably. Arjun's presence alone felt overwhelming—his glances, his scent, Aarti's words crashing down. I can't stay. "I'll clear up," Meera stammered, rising jerkily.

She fled to the kitchen but found no peace. Grabbing a dishcloth, she scrubbed countertops frantically. Footsteps approached—lighter than Rajiv's. Deliberate.

"Madam ko koi help chahiye?" Arjun's smooth voice came from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, watching her.

Meera froze, back turned, cloth clenched. His presence filled the small space, his scent mixing with jalebi sweetness. "Nahi... theek hai. Aap baithiye." Her voice strained thin.

He ignored her. Stepping to the sink, he picked up a plate. "Arre, guest hoke bhi kuch kaam nahi karenge?" He turned on the tap. "Besides, Rajiv's busy with the boss." His charming grin felt dangerous.

He's here. In my kitchen. Touching my things. The proximity terrified her. Heat radiated from him. She kept eyes down but tracked his movements—water splashing, plates clinking, his body shifting beside her. Tension thickened the air. Her skin felt electric, hypersensitive.

She needed a spice bottle above the sink where he stood. "Excuse me," she whispered, stretching up. Her body twisted. The saree slipped—exposing her waist.

Time slowed. Cool air hit the tender skin of her waist and stomach. Fine hairs rose into goosebumps. Exposed: the elegant curve of her waist, the smooth plane of her stomach leading down. Steam-dampened blouse clung to her side, revealing the perfect curve of her breast. The blouse edge rode up, showing a sliver of lower back, the delicate spine indentation.

She felt Arjun freeze. His gaze burned over her exposed skin—waist, stomach, breast curve, spine. Not a glance. An exploration. Silence charged with raw desire.

Horrified, Meera gasped. Jerking her arm down, she covered herself like shielding from fire. Turning, face flaming, she met his eyes. Warmth replaced by dark, hungry intensity. He saw. He wanted what he saw.

Shivers wracked her body. Breath shallow. The dishcloth fell from numb fingers.

Arjun cleared his throat, a faint smile playing. "Careful, Meera," he murmured, voice vibrating in the charged air. He nodded toward the counter. "You spilled syrup earlier... still sticky." His gaze lingered on her flushed face. "Sweet things can be messy, no?"

Words innocent—about syrup. But his tone, the pause before "sticky," the emphasis on "sweet things"—made it intensely flirty. Is he talking about me? About what he just saw?

Another violent shiver tore through Meera. Throat tight, she stared helplessly. His gaze dropped—tracing her covered shoulder, arm, rememberingIs he imagining more? Heat flared into a painful throb between her legs. The ordinary kitchen transformed into dangerous, erotic space.

Rajiv's approaching footsteps broke the spell. "Chai, Arjun?" he called, entering. Meera bent, fumbling for the cloth, hiding her burning face. Her heart pounded against silk suddenly too thin. The spilled syrup glistened—sticky, sweet evidence of her inner chaos.


Chapter 6: Echoes and Illusions


The quiet after Arjun left felt heavy, filled with the memory of his sandalwood scent and the heat of his look. Rajiv yawned, stretching. "Good guy, right? Loved the food. Especially your jalebis." He patted her hip before heading to brush his teeth. Meera forced a weak smile, her body buzzing with leftover tension.

Before changing, she stood before the full-length mirror. Aaryan slept, Rajiv was freshening up. The room was dim. Hesitantly, she raised her left arm, copying the stretch from the kitchen. She turned slightly, just like before, still in the navy silk saree. Her eyes scanned her reflection, a hot curiosity taking over.

What exactly did he see? The question burned. She traced where the pallu had slipped. This curve of my waist... Her fingers brushed the silk covering her side, imagining the smooth skin underneath. Did he see the tiny hairs there? She knew they stood up with goosebumps from the cool air and his nearness. Her fingers moved higher, pressing gently against the silk where her breast began to swell. This shape... The blouse was thin. From the side, the curve pressing against the fabric – was it clear? He was so close. She pressed her palm flat against her own curve, feeling the warmth and soft firmness under the silk. A shiver ran through her. Her breath caught. The small of my back... the top of my spine... She twisted further, trying to see the dip just above her petticoat. Did his eyes trace that line too? The memory of his hungry stare on her exposed skin hit her, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling deep in her belly. Her fingers trembled where they pressed. A deep ache pulsed low inside her, insistent and confusing. She dropped her arm fast, covering her face with her hands, the silk cool on her hot skin. Wrong. This is so wrong.

Sleep felt impossible. Lying beside Rajiv, his steady breathing familiar, Meera felt tense and wound up. Every rustle of sheets, every sigh from Aaryan, sounded loud. The tingling deep inside her core, started by the mirror and Arjun’s presence, wouldn’t stop. It was a constant low hum of awareness, an unwelcome echo of the want she’d fought all day. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to crush it, but the pressure only made it stronger. She lay stiff, staring into the dark, her mind full of Arjun’s look, his scent, the heat coming off him in the kitchen.

Haunted Chores
Morning chores gave no peace. Washing dishes, the water felt like the ghost of his elbow brushing hers. Folding laundry, Rajiv’s shirt reminded her of the charcoal grey one Arjun wore, showing off his shoulders. When Rajiv hugged her from behind while she chopped vegetables, his familiar touch felt strange. Instead of relaxing into him, her body stiffened. His arms aren’t as thick... he smells different... The thoughts shocked her, bringing instant guilt. She forced herself to lean back slightly. "Arre aaj bhi vahee Sabzi?" Rajiv asked, nuzzling her neck. "Haan," Meera murmured, voice tight, staring hard at the onions. All she saw was Arjun leaning in the doorway, watching her.

After Rajiv took Aaryan out, Meera went to the bathroom. The shower was meant to clean, but warm water only made the restless energy under her skin buzz louder. Wrapped in a big towel, hair dripping, she stood at the vanity. Her phone buzzed beside the sink.

A single word:

Unknown Number: Hi.

She deleted it fast. Wrong number. She tried to believe it. It buzzed again, immediately. Same number:

Unknown Number: It's Arjun.

Meera froze. The towel felt suddenly too thin. Her reflection in the mirror looked guilty. How? Rajiv must have given her number, casually. The message was simple:

Arjun: Hi Meera, Just wanted to say thanks again for last night. The food was incredible.

Simple. Polite. Seemed innocent. But Meera felt naked. Standing there, damp skin barely covered, reading a message from him. The memory of his gaze on her exposed waist, her side, flooded back. Thanks for what? the bad thought whispered. For the food... or seeing me? A violent shiver shook her, making her gasp. The towel slipped, pooling at her feet. She stood naked and trembling before the mirror, the phone hot in her hand. She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. It feels wrong, being naked like this, exposed, seeing his messages. She grabbed the towel, wrapping it tight, like armor.

Avoiding the phone became a fight. She left it face down on the counter while cleaning, the silence heavy with its potential. But her mind raced. Did he message again? What did he say? The pull was strong, dangerous. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked to the phone. The afternoon dragged, filled with chores done with distracted hands and a fast-beating heart.

Finally, when Rajiv and Aaryan were watching cartoons, Meera gave in. She picked up the phone, fingers shaking, unlocked it. More messages.

Arjun: Seriously, those jalebis were the best I've had in ages. What's the secret? My cook tries, but...

Arjun: Rajiv's a lucky man. Great food every day!

(An hour later): Arjun: Hope I'm not disturbing. Just curious about the jalebi recipe. :)

(Two hours later): Arjun: Everything ok?

She stared, the last message jolting her. Was he worried? Why? Before she could think, the three dots appeared. He's typing. Now. Her breath caught. She watched, pulse pounding. The dots moved... and moved... stretching seconds painfully. What is he writing? Deleting? Rewriting? The waiting was agony, a slow burn of forbidden connection. Finally:

Arjun: Hi Meera.

He knew. He knew she was looking right then. The understanding sent more heat through her. How? Was he waiting, watching for the 'seen'? His patience felt intensely personal, charged.

She typed, fingers clumsy:

Meera: Hi. Yes, all ok. Just busy.

She paused, then added, feeling she had to:

Meera: Thanks for the praise about food.

Arjun: Not just praise, truth! And of course it should be also said…. That blue saree looked nice on you yesterday….

The compliment landed like a touch. Indirect – about the saree, not her directly – but powerful. Was it what Aarti had told her he'd said? Meera read it, then read it again. She didn’t reply. What can I say? 'Thank you'? That felt like admitting something dangerous. She put the phone down, face down, but the words glowed: ...looked nice on you...

Late that night, Rajiv and Aaryan slept deeply. Silence filled the apartment. Meera lay awake, the phone a heavy secret under her pillow. She pulled it out, the screen's glow lighting her face in the dark. She opened the chat, reading the messages again. Delete them. Delete them now. Her finger hovered over 'delete chat'.

But then... the three dots appeared. Arjun is typing...

Her heart stopped, then hammered against her ribs. How? How does he know I'm looking? Guessing? Waiting? The dots pulsed. Meera lay frozen, the silky fabric of her nightdress cool on her skin. The waiting was electric. She became intensely aware of her body – the soft silk brushing her nipples, making them tighten hard. The smooth fabric gliding over her thighs. A restless, wanting feeling stirred deep in her core, a direct reaction to those glowing dots and the man behind them.

The message came:
Arjun: Usually you sleep late?

The feeling inside her grew stronger. Why? She looked down at herself. The thin, sheer nightdress clung to her trembling body. Why does just a message from him make me feel this heat? Her skin felt hypersensitive. Almost without thinking, her free hand moved from under the covers. Her fingertips brushed lightly over her collarbone, tracing where his gaze might have gone. They drifted lower, skimming the silk over her breast. The light touch sent a sharp jolt straight to the throbbing heat between her legs. She gasped silently, her body arching slightly off the mattress. Her fingers traced the curve he had seen – or imagined – through the saree blouse. The side of her waist, where the tiny hairs were... She imagined his gaze there again, felt ghost goosebumps. Her touch got bolder, pressing, exploring the curve, the swell under the thin silk. The arousal was sudden and fierce, a wave of heat and wetness that shocked her. It was fueled by the forbidden messages, his phantom presence in her kitchen, his intense eyes, and now, her own hand.

Arjun... The name echoed, not as Rajiv's colleague, but as the cause of this fire. Her fingers moved lower, towards her panty waistband, drawn by the strong pulse. She felt her own touch making her stomach muscles tighten. Just as her fingertips touched the elastic, a loud snore from Rajiv broke the spell.

Guilt, cold and sharp, killed the fire. She snatched her hand away like it was burned, rolling onto her side away from her husband. Shame washed over her, hot and thick. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push away the images, the feelings, the dangerous connection marked by the dark phone beside her. Sleep, when it came, was broken and troubled.

Sunday Grocery: Ghosts in the Aisles
Sunday grocery shopping should have been normal. The usual family outing. Rajiv pushed the cart, Aaryan inside talking about cartoons. Meera walked beside them, her smile feeling thin.

Inside, she was on high alert, scanning. Every tall man, every flash of dark hair, made her heart jump. They turned into the snack aisle – the exact spot where Arjun had first appeared with Aarti. Meera’s steps slowed. She could almost see him there, crouched talking to Aaryan. The memory was vivid, loaded with everything that happened after.

Moving towards dry goods, the crowd got thicker. Rajiv steered the cart. Meera found herself pushed close to the shelf with lentils. This is where... Her hand brushed the moong dal packets. The exact spot where his fingers touched hers. A phantom warmth spread over the back of her hand. She pulled it back fast, tucking it away.

Then, near the spice counter. She walked ahead a little, picking tea bags. He was here... behind me. She felt the ghost of his presence, the imagined weight of his stare on her back, on the sway of her hips in her simple yellow cotton saree. Am I walking differently? Trying not to sway? It felt awkward, forced. Her body remembered his attention, wanted it even as her mind fought it. Every step felt heavy, every turn of her head felt like it might invite a look that wasn’t there.

The tension wasn’t with Arjun today; it was inside her, a constant buzz of awareness and guilty memory, turning the familiar store aisles into a place haunted by want and shame. She stayed close to Rajiv’s side, her laugh a bit too loud, her eyes carefully avoiding the spots where ghost touches and looks still lingered.

Chapter 7: Threads of Silk and Desire

The phone chirped loudly in the quiet Monday morning after Rajiv and Aaryan left. Meera froze, cloth mid-wipe on the counter. She knew. A glance confirmed:

Arjun: Good morning Meera.

Her heart pounded hard against her ribs. Yesterday's plan to ignore him vanished. Her fingers moved fast:

Meera: Good morning.

Arjun: Hope you have a good day. Kitchen mein kya special banane ka plan hai aaj? (What special cooking plan today?)

Meera: Just something simple. Rajiv's favourite potato cauliflower.

Arjun: Ah, classic. Always good. Tasty too, healthy too. Will taste even better from your hands.

From your hands. The words stayed on the screen. Was it about the food? Or remembering her fingers fumbling, her skin showing? Heat spread across her collarbone.

Arjun: Rajiv mentioned you make the best rotis. Soft and perfectly round. That’s skill.

Meera: Just happens with practice.

Why this praise? Her knuckles turned white gripping the phone. What does he mean by soft and round?

Arjun: Practice needs passion too. Your passion for cooking shows.

The word passion seemed to pulse on the screen. A familiar warm flutter started low in her belly. She didn’t reply. The silence felt heavy.

Later, chopping vegetables for aloo gobhi, the phone buzzed again.

Arjun: Quick update. Need to drop by your place with Rajiv around 4. Urgent document at his home.
Her knife slipped, nicking her finger. A tiny drop of blood appeared. He’s coming. Here. Today.

Arjun: Waiting… and maybe steal another glance of that blue magic you weave? That blue veil worked a different kind of magic on you.

It was direct. Flirty. Talking about the saree and how it affected him. The boldness shocked her.

Panic hit. The blue saree? No. Absolutely not. That saree felt like giving in now, inviting his look. She couldn't wear it, couldn't let him see that again. Frantically, she left the half-chopped veggies and rushed to the bedroom. She pulled out the navy blue silk saree, its cool feel mocking her. With shaking hands, she shoved it deep into the wardrobe behind other clothes. She looked for safety. A simple, comfortable navy blue cotton salwar kameez – loose kurta, straight salwar. Nothing clung. Nothing could slip open. Safe. Hidden. She changed fast, the soft cotton a weak shield against the storm inside.

At 4 PM, the doorbell rang. Meera’s heart jumped into her throat. She wiped sweaty palms on her salwar, staying near the kitchen door. Rajiv came in with Arjun.

Arjun stepped in, looking effortlessly good in dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up showing strong forearms. His eyes scanned the room—Aaryan playing, then landing on Meera in the doorway.

"Meera," Rajiv called.

Forcing her legs to move, Meera stepped into the living room. "Hello, Arjun." Her voice sounded thin to her.

Arjun’s smile stayed, but his eyes changed. They flickered over her salwar kameez. A clear, quick flash of disappointment. He hid it fast with charm, but Meera saw it. She felt it – he missed the blue silk. "Hello, Meera," he said smoothly, but the message was just for her. Tension crackled silently between them, thick and strong despite the normal room. His smell. Sandalwood and citrus hit her again, making her dizzy. 

She found herself watching him – his confident shoulders, his strong forearms, his jawline. A spark of pure admiration flared in her, quickly drowned by guilt.

She served tea. Rajiv took his cup, talking about the document. Aaryan babbled. Then Rajiv’s phone rang. "Office ka hai, urgent lagta hai," he muttered. "Just a minute, yaar." He stepped onto the balcony, closing the sliding door.

Silence fell, heavy and charged. Arjun stood near the sofa, cup in hand. Meera stood awkwardly near the dining table, suddenly very aware of the space between them without Rajiv. Arjun took a slow sip of tea, his eyes meeting hers over the cup rim. The charm was still there, but mixed with something more focused.

"You look great in the salwar suit too, Meera," he said, his voice low, meant only for her over Aaryan's noise. "Comfortable hota hai na, ghar pe?" (It’s comfortable, right, at home?) He paused, letting the compliment hang, then added, the disappointment hidden but there, "Par woh blue wala saree... fit you perfect like rather suited you perfectly." (But that blue saree... fit you perfectly.)

Meera felt heat flood her face and neck. The comment about the saree was bold. She looked down, couldn’t hold his gaze, a shy, flustered smile touching her lips anyway. She let out a small, nervous laugh, tucking imaginary hair behind her ear. "Haan... comfortable hai," she managed weakly, ignoring the saree part, her heart hammering.

Arjun smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. "Good." He took another sip. "Aaj kaunsi chai patti use ki? Flavour achha hai." (Which tea leaves today? Flavor is good.) "Achaa Meera, aaj mein aathe time Aaryan ka college dekha, its so near right?" (Oh Meera, today coming I saw Aaryan's college, it's so close right?)

Meera: Haan, college van aatha hee. (Yes, college van comes.)

Her voice was still slightly breathless, her answers short. She was hyper-aware of everything – how he looked at her when she glanced away, how he leaned slightly towards her when speaking, how his presence filled the space Rajiv left. The cotton salwar felt like no protection at all against his focus. When Rajiv came back, the tension eased, but the feeling of that private talk stayed with Meera long after Arjun left.

Late that night, the same scene. Rajiv and Aaryan slept. Silence filled the apartment. Meera lay awake, the phone a guilty weight under her pillow. She pulled it out, the screen glowing in the dark. She opened Arjun’s chat. Instantly, the three dots appeared. Arjun is typing... Her breath caught. He knew. He was waiting. Watching for her. Why? Why every night?

The message came:

Arjun: Hi Meera. Why today also no sleep? Kal ki tarah? (Hi Meera. Why no sleep today either? Like yesterday?)

Meera lay still. The silky nightdress suddenly felt alive on her skin. The cool touch felt like a caress, especially where it brushed her breasts, already tightening just from the message and him knowing she was awake. She felt the smooth slide of the silk over her stomach, over her thighs. His words – fitted you, suited you – combined with the dark and the glowing phone, made the low heat in her core flare into a steady, strong flame. She felt herself grow wet, the silk clinging slightly to the skin of her inner thighs. Why is he messaging? Why does he want to see me in that saree? What does he feel? The questions tumbled. And why... why isn't it anger I feel? Why does my body... react like this? The heat pulsed, a deep ache demanding notice. Her free hand moved from under the covers. Fingertips traced her nightdress neckline, then skimmed lightly over the silk covering her breast, following the curve he’d admired. A soft gasp escaped as the touch sent a sharp jolt straight to the heat between her legs. The wetness increased. Her thighs pressed together tightly, seeking friction against the growing throb.

She forced her shaking fingers to type, trying for distance:

Meera: Hi. Just about to sleep. Good night.

Arjun: Good night! Missing it. Suited you differently....

The playful, suggestive tone made her breath catch.

Meera read the words. The heat inside flared almost painfully. Missing it. Suited you differently. He was openly saying he wanted to see her body in that saree. Her skin burned. Her fingers, almost on their own, drifted lower, grazing the silk over her hip, near the curve he’d seen exposed. She imagined his gaze there again. The wetness grew. A soft whimper escaped as her fingertips pressed lightly against the silk, feeling the pulse beneath. Why him? Why this? Guilt fought the strong physical need his words created. She wanted to reply, to ask him why... but fear stopped her. She dropped the phone beside her, screen still lit with his message, and rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to smother the fire he lit. The silky nightdress clung to her damp skin, a constant reminder of the want she couldn’t put out.


Chapter 8: The Dance of Fabric and Desire


The Good morning Meera message arrived seconds after Rajiv left. A jolt of forbidden excitement shot through her. Her fingers moved fast:

Meera: Good morning.

the connection felt tight with unspoken tension.

The day became a fight against her own racing pulse. The phone, face down on the counter while she swept, pulled her eyes like a magnet. Did he message? What did he say? Washing vegetables, her hands moved on autopilot while her mind replayed: ...that blue magic you weave... The bath gave no peace. Warm water flowed over her skin, feeling like a dangerous touch. Playing with fire, she thought, scrubbing hard, trying to wash away the growing heat. Guilt stabbed cold under her ribs. Rajiv. Aaryan. This is poison. She left the phone in the bedroom, an accusing presence.

Late that night, beside her sleeping family, the pull won. She grabbed the phone. The screen glowed cold. She opened Arjun’s chat. Instantly – Arjun is typing… Her breath caught, warmth pooling low in her belly. He’s waiting. Watching. Panic hit. She couldn’t face it. She slammed the phone down, burying it under the pillow. Sleep was broken, haunted by phantom typing dots.

Next morning, after Rajiv left, she scrambled for the phone. His messages glowed:

(Last night, 11:45 PM): still awake? why no sleep?

(11:55 PM): are you there Meera?

Relief fought sharp disappointment. He was there. Waiting. She typed, forcing calm:

Meera: Good morning. Sorry, slept early.

The lie felt bitter.

Afternoon brought another message:

Arjun: Salwar kameez time?

Meera stared, confused.

Meera: What?

Arjun: Aaj phir ghar aana hai na? Rajiv ke saath. Soch raha tha comfortable salwar mein hi rahogi kya? (Coming again today? With Rajiv. Thinking you’d stay in comfortable salwar?)

Understanding hit. Comfortable salwar. A direct tease about yesterday’s shapeless shield. He knew she wore it to hide. A surprised, breathless laugh escaped her.

Meera: Haha. ?

She sent the emoji, hiding the sudden flutter in her chest. Her mind raced: What should I wear? The question felt like giving in.

Standing before the mirror later in soft lavender chiffon, she saw herself – the curve of her rear, the dip of her waist, the slight fullness of her breasts under the thin fabric. Almost without thinking, she slid the pallu lower, smoothing it over her stomach. Her fingers traced the flat skin below her navel. He saw this… The memory of his gaze on her exposed skin sent a shiver. But not bare today. Yet… a new part of her wanted his admiration. Once, she feared stares; now, she craved the heat of his look. Showing skin felt too risky.

She unwound the chiffon. Opening the wardrobe, she passed the hidden blue silk. Her eyes landed on deep emerald green silk – a salwar kameez. She put it on. The gasp wasn't just surprise; it was shock. The rich silk clung. The kurta dbangd perfectly over every curve – her breasts subtly shaped by a neckline hinting at the shadowed space between them. The back curved over her spine. Turning sideways, she saw the key detail: a long, thigh-high slit up the side of the salwar pants. When she moved, it flashed smooth, tight skin on her upper thigh, covered by matching silk beneath. She pressed a hand against the firm shape of her rear, outlined clearly. Sensual. The word felt hot, true. Covered, but completely shown. Armor and invitation. She looked at herself, a flush of new power warming her skin. He’ll see the silk hugging my hips, my rear curve, my thigh when I walk. He’ll see the shadow at my neck… and he’ll want.

The deep sound of Arjun’s voice in the living room sent the usual electric jolt through her. She was in the kitchen, the heated awareness blooming inside. Hearing him, she slipped into her bedroom, needing a second. Arjun, seeing a flash of emerald green vanish down the hall, felt pure delight – yesterday’s disappointment gone, fierce anticipation taking its place.

Meera stood frozen before her mirror. She wasn’t exposed like in the saree, but every part was highlighted by the tight silk. If he looks now… if his eyes go from my neck down… over the silk pulling across my breasts… down to where the slit shows my thigh… Heat would flood her; she knew. I shouldn’t want that. But a deep part of her ached for it. The conflict was dizzying. Cover up. She grabbed a cream pashmina shawl, dbanging it over her shoulders and chest, hiding her shape. Safe. Hidden.

Walking back into the living room, she saw the change instantly. The spark in Arjun’s eyes died, replaced by deep disappointment, quickly hidden but clear to her. It tightened his eyes, dimmed his smile.

Arjun: Hello, Meera.

His voice was smooth but cool, lacking warmth.

Rajiv took a call, stepping onto the balcony. Heavy silence fell. Arjun sat stiffly on the sofa, barely noticing Aaryan offering a toy car. The playful ease was gone. He seemed distant. The tension hadn't left; it had turned cold and heavy.

Meera floundered.

Meera: Chai... chaahiye? (Tea?)

Arjun glanced at her, gaze flat.

Arjun: Haan. Theek hai. (Yes. Okay.)

Short. Dismissive.

The dismissal stung. Meera turned to the kitchen. Inner chaos raged – confusion, guilt, a sharp pang of rejection. Why care? Why does his disappointment hurt? Her hands shook badly reaching for teacups. The shawl, her shield, felt suffocating, blocking the dangerous link she might secretly want. In a burst of angry confusion, she yanked it off, throwing it onto the counter. Let him look. Let him see what he’s missing.

She walked back into the living room, no shawl, carrying the tea tray. Arjun changed instantly. His dull eyes ignited. They swept over her with raw hunger – the emerald silk clinging to the swell of her breasts, the dangerous slit showing the smooth, strong line of her thigh with each step, the neckline hinting at the soft curves beneath. Pure, intense pleasure lit his face. His gaze devoured her.


ueera saw it. Saw the hunger in his eyes, how his attention stuck to the silk stretched tight across her rear as she bent slightly to put the tray down, the flash of her inner thigh from the slit. Her lips trembled. The heat from his look traveled down her spine like hot liquid, pooling deep in her core, making her feel wet and swollen under the silk. She placed the tray with shaking hands.


Meera: Here.

Her voice was thick. She avoided his burning eyes.

She sat opposite him, the low table a weak barrier. Aaryan played nearby. The air crackled. Unspoken want, thick and strong, flowed between them. Almost without thinking, Meera shifted, arching her back just a little as she leaned forward to move the sugar bowl. It was subtle – the curve of her spine, the lift of her breasts under the silk, the way the movement made the slit open slightly wider. Let him see how the silk stretches over me here. She felt his gaze, hot and heavy, tracing every detail. He sees the silk hugging my waist, the shape of my breast from the side, the smooth skin of my inner thigh… he sees it all. He sees the silk pulling tight over my full breast curve, how the neckline shadows the space between them. He sees my waist dip in, then curve out to my hips. He watches the slit, how it opens to show the smooth skin of my inner thigh, the strength there, leading up to where the silk pants hold me tight. Does he picture the heat beneath? Does he see how my back arches, how my rear presses against the silk? The deliberate arch. Deep under the guilt, a small, defiant spark of pleasure lit. He admires. He wants. Me. Like this.

Arjun cleared his throat softly.

Arjun: You look... Meera. That colour... it suits you.

Meera’s eyes flicked up, catching his for a quick, electric second before looking away. Her lips trembled into a faint smile.

Meera: Thank you.

the word was shaky, breathless. The sensual feeling surged, a strong force making the room feel smaller, hotter, charged with the silent knowledge of her revealed body. Rajiv’s call felt endless.

Unable to take the tension, Meera stood up fast.

Meera: More water...

She headed to the kitchen. Walking, she was painfully aware of the slit opening with each step, showing the smooth skin of her thigh, the sway of her hips clear in the clinging silk. Is he watching? He must be. Is he seeing my rear curve? The line of my leg? The thought sent another wave of wet heat flooding her core. Almost unseen, her hand went to her side, seeming to smooth the silk over her hip. But the pressure was firm, deliberate—pushing the fabric tighter, defining the full curve of her buttock, shaping it for his view. It was a silent, bold offer, an invitation in silk for his gaze to linger, to remember the shape he clearly wanted. The walk felt endless, charged with her own quiet, sexy show, every step pulsing heat from between her legs.

From the living room, she heard Arjun’s voice – warm, playful.

Arjun: Arre Aaryan, yeh gaadi kitni tez chalti hai? Race karenge? (Hey Aaryan, how fast does this car go? Shall we race?)

He was back, his mood lifted, his attention now on her son. Meera leaned against the cool kitchen counter, a small, secret smile touching her lips. Inside, the erotic feeling bloomed, warm and confusingly strong. She felt desired. Seen. Wanted. And a powerful, treacherous part of her loved it.

Later, as Arjun left, his "Good night, Meera" held new weight. It wasn't just goodbye; it was an understanding, a promise in his long look as it swept over the emerald silk one last time, tracing the curves it showed.

Meera: Good night.

Her voice was steadier than she felt, the echo of his silent want vibrating deep inside long after the door closed. The armor was off. The fire, carefully fed and now openly burning, was hotter than ever.
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The Descent of Meera; An Indian House Wife - by subtle - 04-08-2025, 01:05 AM



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