21-08-2025, 02:26 AM
Chapter 1: The Goddess of Block C
Yamuna stood on the narrow balcony of their two-bedroom flat in Block C, tying her wet hair into a bun. The cotton saree clung to her hips, soaked from her shower. Below, two collegeboys on bicycles pretended to check their tires while their eyes were fixed on the sway of her waist through the grill. Yamuna smiled faintly. She didn’t mind.
Inside, Aneesh was ironing his office shirt, sweat already forming on his back even though it was only 8:30 in the morning. He glanced at her from the living room mirror. The curve of her back under that thin blouse, the way the saree hugged her — he saw her like a goddess sculpted in flesh.
"Tea," she said without looking.
He rushed to make it. She liked it strong, with extra sugar. Yamuna never made her own tea. She didn’t need to. She had trained Aneesh perfectly. He brought it to her with both hands, crouching down slightly so she could take it without turning.
She sipped and sighed. “Not hot enough,” she said.
Aneesh didn’t argue. He just looked at her bare midriff, the little mole near her navel, the slight sweat already forming near her chest. The blouse was sleeveless today — emerald green, low-cut, almost scandalous. But that was normal for her.
She noticed his stare and didn’t stop it. She even adjusted the pallu just enough to make the cleavage line deeper. Aneesh gulped and bent to pick up her slippers.
“Wipe them,” she said, stretching her toes out.
He did, using the end of his own towel. Her feet were small and creamy, and the red nail polish was still fresh. As he cleaned them, the scent of her body floated toward him — talcum, hair oil, and under it all, that musky, natural smell he secretly worshipped.
“Wear that new sari tonight,” he said quietly, still crouching.
She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Who's coming?”
He didn’t answer.
She smirked. “You want them to stare at me again?”
He didn’t speak. He just nodded.
Yamuna laughed — not with joy, but with the knowledge of her own power. That laugh made Aneesh shiver.
The evening came with a thunderstorm. But Yamuna still stepped out for groceries — not because she needed anything, but because she loved to walk during rains. The red sari clung to her in the drizzle. The blouse barely held her in. She didn’t use an umbrella. The streets were quiet, but the few who were out — a young mechanic, the old shopkeeper, the tea stall boy — all stared in silence as she walked by, water dripping down her arms and chest.
She bought only a handful of things. Some milk, some biscuits. She stood too close to the boy at the counter, her chest brushing the ledge as she leaned forward.
On the walk back, two '. aunties passed her. They scowled.
“Shameless,” one of them muttered.
Yamuna smiled inside. She loved that look. Hatred from women meant desire from men.
She got home dripping wet. Aneesh opened the door and froze.
The red saree was practically transparent now. Her blouse stuck to her like a second skin. Her hair was soaked, sticking to her neck and back. The scent of rain, sweat, and her own skin filled the room.
“Dry me,” she said simply, tossing the saree to the floor.
Aneesh followed her into the bedroom without a word.
He knelt beside the bed and began with her feet, patting them with an old cotton towel. She stood still, arms crossed. He moved upward slowly — calves, knees, thighs. The wetness there made his hand tremble, but he dared not touch her without permission.
She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.
"You're smelling me, aren't you?" she said, lips curling.
Aneesh nodded silently.
“You’re not a man,” she whispered.
He looked up.
"You’re a dog. My dog."
She spread her arms slightly, letting him see all of her.
“Now lick the floor where I stood.”
He obeyed. The scent of her wet footprints was more intoxicating than any perfume.
She laughed again — soft, cruel, pleased.
The goddess of Block C was home.
Yamuna stood on the narrow balcony of their two-bedroom flat in Block C, tying her wet hair into a bun. The cotton saree clung to her hips, soaked from her shower. Below, two collegeboys on bicycles pretended to check their tires while their eyes were fixed on the sway of her waist through the grill. Yamuna smiled faintly. She didn’t mind.
Inside, Aneesh was ironing his office shirt, sweat already forming on his back even though it was only 8:30 in the morning. He glanced at her from the living room mirror. The curve of her back under that thin blouse, the way the saree hugged her — he saw her like a goddess sculpted in flesh.
"Tea," she said without looking.
He rushed to make it. She liked it strong, with extra sugar. Yamuna never made her own tea. She didn’t need to. She had trained Aneesh perfectly. He brought it to her with both hands, crouching down slightly so she could take it without turning.
She sipped and sighed. “Not hot enough,” she said.
Aneesh didn’t argue. He just looked at her bare midriff, the little mole near her navel, the slight sweat already forming near her chest. The blouse was sleeveless today — emerald green, low-cut, almost scandalous. But that was normal for her.
She noticed his stare and didn’t stop it. She even adjusted the pallu just enough to make the cleavage line deeper. Aneesh gulped and bent to pick up her slippers.
“Wipe them,” she said, stretching her toes out.
He did, using the end of his own towel. Her feet were small and creamy, and the red nail polish was still fresh. As he cleaned them, the scent of her body floated toward him — talcum, hair oil, and under it all, that musky, natural smell he secretly worshipped.
“Wear that new sari tonight,” he said quietly, still crouching.
She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Who's coming?”
He didn’t answer.
She smirked. “You want them to stare at me again?”
He didn’t speak. He just nodded.
Yamuna laughed — not with joy, but with the knowledge of her own power. That laugh made Aneesh shiver.
The evening came with a thunderstorm. But Yamuna still stepped out for groceries — not because she needed anything, but because she loved to walk during rains. The red sari clung to her in the drizzle. The blouse barely held her in. She didn’t use an umbrella. The streets were quiet, but the few who were out — a young mechanic, the old shopkeeper, the tea stall boy — all stared in silence as she walked by, water dripping down her arms and chest.
She bought only a handful of things. Some milk, some biscuits. She stood too close to the boy at the counter, her chest brushing the ledge as she leaned forward.
On the walk back, two '. aunties passed her. They scowled.
“Shameless,” one of them muttered.
Yamuna smiled inside. She loved that look. Hatred from women meant desire from men.
She got home dripping wet. Aneesh opened the door and froze.
The red saree was practically transparent now. Her blouse stuck to her like a second skin. Her hair was soaked, sticking to her neck and back. The scent of rain, sweat, and her own skin filled the room.
“Dry me,” she said simply, tossing the saree to the floor.
Aneesh followed her into the bedroom without a word.
He knelt beside the bed and began with her feet, patting them with an old cotton towel. She stood still, arms crossed. He moved upward slowly — calves, knees, thighs. The wetness there made his hand tremble, but he dared not touch her without permission.
She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.
"You're smelling me, aren't you?" she said, lips curling.
Aneesh nodded silently.
“You’re not a man,” she whispered.
He looked up.
"You’re a dog. My dog."
She spread her arms slightly, letting him see all of her.
“Now lick the floor where I stood.”
He obeyed. The scent of her wet footprints was more intoxicating than any perfume.
She laughed again — soft, cruel, pleased.
The goddess of Block C was home.