Risita An Oblivious Star - The Unseen Stage

[Suchh]

Part 3:

 

Risita’s Panty Predicament – Part 2:

 

Risita returned to the bustling familiarity of Kolkata, the city's vibrant chaos a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil within her. The relentless honking of yellow taxis, the aroma of piping hot chai from roadside stalls, and the murmur of countless conversations filled the humid air, yet the echo of her last performance still rang in her ears, not with applause, but with an unfamiliar unease gnawing at her. It wasn't the cheers she remembered, but the split-second panic that had seized her mid-twirl. The chilling coolness against her skin, the sudden, alarming shift, and her futile, almost imperceptible attempts to adjust the errant white low-waist bikini Panty had flashed through her mind like a strobe light. It wasn't just the professional embarrassment; it was the raw vulnerability, the feeling of being exposed, even if (she desperately hoped) only she knew about it and the audience and the stage crew backstage hadn’t noticed anything amiss beneath the bright lights.

That morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, Debu, bless his oblivious heart, had simply showered her with praise, completely unaware of the wardrobe malfunction that had nearly derailed her performance. "You were magnificent, Shona! So graceful, so full of energy!" he’d gushed over breakfast. Stirring her tea, Risita had murmured, "Shona,” she’d begun, choosing her words carefully, “ami kichu notun Panty kinte jabo aaj. Oi gulo ar cholche na. Loose hoye geche mone hochche.” Debu, engrossed in his newspaper, had merely grunted, a sound of mild acknowledgement. "Thik ache, Risita. Ja bhalo lage keno. Tomar ki eka eka Panty kinte giye kono problem hobe na toh?” Risita had managed a weak, almost imperceptible smile, a private sigh escaping her lips. “Na na Shona amar eka giye Panty kinte kono problem hobe na.” “Oh bhalo tahale jao,” he’d replied, already turning the page. He truly had no idea of the silent horror, the internal scramble, or the profound reason behind her sudden shopping trip. The secret was hers alone, a tiny shard of anxiety she carried through the lively streets of Kolkata.

 

Later on afternoon when Debu already off at work, Risita found herself in a quieter part of Gariahat, a winding lane known for its smaller, specialized shops. She spotted a discreet sign: "Shree Bastra Bhandar - Ladies Innerwear & Comfort." Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside the faded velvet curtain and stepped inside.

The shop was dimly lit, smelling faintly of new fabric and old paper. Shelves stacked high with neatly folded sarees and dress materials lined one side, while the other was dedicated to a less ostentatious display of... well, Panties. Various colors, styles, and sizes were tucked away in glass cases or hung on hangers behind a counter.

Behind that counter sat an aged Kaku, his spectacles perched low on his nose, reading a tattered Bengali novel. He looked up as Risita entered, offering a practiced, gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He seemed benign, harmless.

 

The small, venerable ladies garments and hosiery shop, tucked away in a quieter lane off the bustling main street, seemed a relic from a bygone era. It exuded an understated charm, with neatly stacked shelves showcasing an array of undergarments, nightwear, and casual dresses behind glass counters. The air carried a faint, comforting scent of fresh cotton and mothballs. Behind the main counter, an elderly gentleman, with a slightly stooped posture and a gentle, weathered face, was engrossed in a Bengali novel, his spectacles perched low on his nose. This was Kaku, the owner, a familiar and trusted figure in the neighborhood for decades, known for his discretion and the quality of his wares.

As Risita stepped inside, the soft chime of the bell above the door announced her presence. She had deliberately chosen this shop, and this specific time, a quiet afternoon, to avoid the prying eyes and eager chatter of younger sales assistants. Being a 'sanskari' woman, trained in traditional values and acutely aware of societal expectations, discussing such personal items – especially Panty – with a young, potentially flippant male salesman was anathema to her. There was a certain decorum she maintained, a personal boundary that instinctively recoiled from any situation that might invite awkwardness or, worse, impropriety. Her heart, which had been beating a little faster with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension as she approached the shop, settled slightly as her gaze fell upon Kaku. A wave of relief washed over her, an almost palpable easing of the tension in her shoulders. His age, his quiet dignity, and the almost grandfatherly aura he exuded immediately put her at ease, or at least, as much at ease as she could be in such a situation.

Kaku slowly lifted his head, a mild curiosity replacing the focus on his book. "Ki lagbe, apnar?" he asked, his voice a gentle, seasoned rumble, slightly raspy with age but undeniably kind. "Apni kichu mone na korle apnar naam ta jante pari ki?"

Risita offered a soft smile, her voice regaining a measure of confidence. "Namaskar, Kaku," she began, the traditional greeting feeling perfectly appropriate. "Ami Risita!" The introduction felt like an icebreaker, and she felt a small, private surge of relief. Thank goodness, she thought, it wasn’t some slick, overly enthusiastic young salesman who might misunderstand or, worse, make her feel uncomfortable. This was Kaku, a man who had likely seen and heard it all, a silent confidant for generations of women seeking discreet necessities.

Taking a deep breath, Risita articulated her need, though a slight hesitation still laced her words. "Kaku amar kichu Panty lagbe. Bhalo quality’r, jate stage singing performance-er shomoy… umm… kono problem na hoye.” The 'umm' was a tell-tale sign of her struggle to find the right, most appropriate words. It was a delicate balance – explaining a very practical, almost intimate problem without sounding indelicate or creating any misunderstanding. The blush, though faint, had already begun to creep up her neck, a familiar companion whenever she had to discuss such personal matters. She watched Kaku carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, hoping he wouldn't misinterpret her slightly fumbled explanation.

Kaku, however, merely raised an eyebrow, a thoughtful expression on his face. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. "Kaku... Stage e singing performance-er shomoy kono problem na hoye?? Thik bujhlam na ami?" His voice carried no hint of judgment, only a genuine desire to understand, which, paradoxically, made Risita feel a rush of both comfort and renewed embarrassment. He wasn’t judging, but she still had to explain, in detail.

Slowly, Kaku removed his spectacles and placed them with methodical precision on the open book lying on the counter. His eyes, though aged and framed by wise wrinkles, seemed to hold a keen, almost unsettling awareness, a sharpness that belied his gentle demeanor. He looked at Risita, a silent invitation for her to elaborate. "Stage performance," he mused aloud, connecting the dots in his own mind. "Okhane toh onek nora-chora hoy, gaa gotor ghuriye, hath-pa nariye choriye gan gaoa. Thik bolchi toh?” He articulated the physical demands of her profession with surprising accuracy, a testament to his observational skills or perhaps just his general wisdom. "Kintu Problem ta ki seta thik bujhlam na ami?" He acknowledged the physical activity but still couldn't grasp the specific "problem" with the Panty.

Risita felt the blush intensify, a warm wave engulfing her cheeks and reaching up her neck. Her hands instinctively clasped together in front of her. This was the moment of truth, the point where she had to explain, in slightly more detail, something inherently personal. Her 'sanskari' upbringing dictated modesty and discretion, yet her professionalism demanded a precise solution. It was a tug-of-war within her. But Kaku's patient gaze, devoid of any leering curiosity, encouraged her.

“Hyan, Kaku, thik bolechen," she affirmed, appreciating his understanding of her profession's physical demands. "Onek energy dite hoy Gaan gawar shomoy. Mane ki kore bojhabo ami...." She paused, searching for the most appropriate, least embarrassing phrasing. "Mane er age ekbar… mane amar Panty-ta ek dike ektu shore giyechilo sareer niche, jodio ba keo kichu bujhte pareni seta...” She rushed the last part, hoping it would minimize the implied embarrassment. The thought of that moment, during a packed live performance, still sent a shiver of mortification down her spine. The constant, nagging awareness, the subtle discomfort beneath her elegant saree, the profound distraction it caused her while she was supposed to be completely immersed in her music and connecting with the audience.

She continued, choosing her words with extreme care, her voice a soft murmur. .. “but oi bhabe eto audience-er samne sareer niche ek dike shore jawa Panty niye etokon dhore Sing kora Live performece korata khub awkward feel hoye." She emphasized "awkward feel," rather than "discomfort," though it was certainly uncomfortable. "Awkward" encapsulated the psychological aspect – the feeling of vulnerability, the fear of an unexpected malfunction, the constant, distracting mental check she had to do throughout the performance, all while maintaining a facade of complete composure and artistic brilliance. It pulled her focus away from her art, from the connection with her music and her audience. The Panty, a mere undergarment, had become a source of immense mental burden and distraction during a critical moment of her career. "Tai chaichi jate abaar emon na hoy during my performance,” she concluded, her plea clear and earnest, hoping he would truly understand the practical, albeit delicate, nature of her request. She, of course, meticulously omitted any direct reference to the "mature hairy puffy pussy lips" part, maintaining the veil of polite discretion, trusting Kaku's wisdom to infer the full extent of her discomfort without her having to explicitly state it. Her trust in his maturity was absolute, yet her inherent modesty remained her guiding principle. She simply hoped he would suggest a solution that offered both comfort and unwavering security.

 

The Kaku hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. He leaned his elbows on the counter, his gaze steady on Risita’s face, though his mind was already filling with images of a Beautful Sanskari Singing woman, her body twisting, a thin saree, and something shifting beneath. Aha, Panty shore gechilo! Tahole toh besh kichu dekha giyechilo, bojhao giyechilo. A faint tremor went through his aged lund, a ghost of a sensation.

“Bujhechi, bujhechi, Risita. Ei jonnoi toh Panty-er proyojon. Kintu Panty-er toh onek rokomer ache. Sudhu ki stage-e porar jonne panty, naki shob shomoy-e porar jonno panty lagbe tomar? Mane, ki dhoroner Panty chaicho? Tight fit, loose fit? Ki dhoroner saree porbe tar uporeo toh nirbhor kore Panty-er puro beparta.” He spread his hands, inviting her to explain more.

Risita hesitated, trying to choose her words carefully. “Na Kaku, shob shomoy-e porar jonne panty lagbe. Kintu stage-er jonno ektu beshi secure panty chaichi ami. Jodi ektu low-waist hoi, tahole panty side-e shore jawar bhoy ta kom thakbe ki? Obar ami low-waist Panty porechilam, aar petticoat-o chilo na. Tai hoyto beshi jhuki hoye gechilo.”

 

 

The Kaku’s eyes twinkled. Low-waist Panty, aar petticoat-o chilo na! Ah, Risita, nijer mukhei toh shob bole dile! His lund, dormant for years, gave another surprising twitch. He imagined Risita on stage, her supple body moving, the thin saree, the low-waist Panty, the absence of a petticoat. He mentally pieced together the image based on her words, filling in the juicy details of her mature hairy puffy pussy lips, the long curly pussy hairs she had described indirectly.

“Aha, tai bolo! Low-waist Panty aar petticoat nei! Tahole toh erakom bepar gulo hobei. Karon Panty toh sudhu ekta kaporer tukro noy, Risita. Eti nari deher ekta gopon ongsha ke dhore rakhe, ar shob theke proyojoniyo ongsha ke aral kore rakhe. Jodi Panty nischiit bhabe jaygay na thake, tahole toh somosto rup- rekha lavanota, somosto goponiota, shob kichu ujagor hoye jabe.”

Risita nodded, completely missing the loaded meaning behind his words. “Hyan Kaku, thik bolechen. Otai toh. Tai chai jate bhalo kore dhore rakhe.”

Kaku leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Dekho, Risita, Panty toh onek dhoroner ache. Kichu Panty shudhu fashion-er jonno pora hoy, kichu Panty shudhu comfort-er jonne. Ar kichu Panty ache, Risita, jeta porle mone hobe kichui poren ni, eto halka. Kintu jehetu Tomar stage-er bepar, jekhane onek hath-pa nariye-churiye gaan gaite hoy, jekhane onek jolonto light thake, ar lok jon beshi ghure ghure dekhe tomake, tai tomar Panty-er beparta ektu alada.”

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, his imagination running wild. He pictured her mature hairy puffy pussy lips under the harsh stage lights, exposed and vulnerable, and a thrill shot through him. He cleared his throat. “Amar mone hoy, tomar ekta Panty lagbe jeta ‘minimal coverage’ debe, Risita. Jeta shudhu tomar kamar ke dhore rakhbe aar, tomar… umm… gud-ta keo panty-er niche nijer jayga-te bhalo kore dhore rakhbe. Mane, jate kono rokom ‘panty slip’ na hoy. Karon oi ‘panty slip’ hole toh… abar tomar gud-ta puro tai panty-er baire dekha jabe.” He made a sweeping gesture downwards with his hand, his eyes subtly flicking towards Risita's lower body, though she was standing behind the counter.

Risita, still oblivious, nodded earnestly. “Hyan Kaku, etai holo amar prothom priority. Ar Panty-ta jeno cotton’er hoy, groom kaale besh aramdayak hoy.” She thought of her sweaty mature puffy pussy lips and her sweaty asshole, sometimes in the summer heat, and the discomfort it caused during her stage performances.

Kaku suppressed a smile. Cotton, gorom’kaale aramdayak. Aha, bujhechi. Oi mature hairy puffy pussy lips gulo gorom’e koto koshto pay, Risita janiye dilo. He imagined her in the summer heat, the slight dampness, the feeling of her mature hairy puffy pussy lips, the long curly pussy hairs.

“Cotton toh bhalo, Risita. Aramdayak. Kintu tomar jeta main uddeshho, Gud theke Panty jate na shore”, tar jonno sudhu cotton hole hobe na. Ektu lycra ba spandex misrito thakle Panty’r grip ta bhalo hoy. Emni kore Panty tomar gud-er shathe puro lepte thakbe, jeno alada kichu poro ni. Bujhte parcho toh?” His voice was soft, persuasive.

Risita considered this. “Hyan Kaku, bujhte parchi. Kintu amar low-waist Panty pore অভ্যেস. Ektu high-waist hole Panty line dekhate pare saree’r upor diye. Otao toh bhalo lage na. Onek shuruchi-shilpi nari-ra toh Panty porar theke, Panty-less thakte beshi pochondo kore.” She remembered seeing articles about celebrities going Panty-less for certain outfits.

The Kaku’s eyebrows shot up, a glint in his eye. Oi ma go! Nijer mukhei Panty-less’r kotha uthieche, Risita! Ekhon to kotha bolte aro moja hobe! A full-bodied thrill coursed through him, his lund stiffening significantly under his dhoti, a delicious ache forming.

“Ah, Panty-less! Risita, ki shundor kotha bolecho! Onek meye ache jara Panty porte pochondo koren na. Tar onek karon ache. Kichu meye bhabe, Panty-ta tader shorir-er shob theke shundor, shob theke gopon ongsha ke dhaka diye rakhe. Ar kichu meye ache, jader ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ ache, tara bhabhen Panty porle oi jayga’ta aro fule uthe, ar chul gulo Panty’r dhara theke beriye ashe. Shei jonnoi toh Panty pora na pora niye onek meye confused thake.”

Risita listened, a little taken aback by his detailed, almost academic explanation of going Panty-less, and the phrase “mature hairy puffy pussy lips” made her shift uncomfortably, though she still didn’t quite grasp the full extent of his lewdness. She just felt a vague sense of impropriety. Ei Kaku ki kotha bolche? Eto khulasha kore?

“Ar jara Panty pore na bhabe, tara toh freedom ke beshi pochondo kore. Haowa lagche, shorir shash nite parche, kono kichu bandhche na. Stage’e gan gaicho, ar ekta Panty tomar ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ gulo ke niche theke dhore rakhte parchena, tar theke Panty na pora ki bhalo noi? Tai bolte parchi na je Panty pora’i shob shomoy bhalo. Kichu shomoy Panty chhara thaka’o ekta ‘option’ hoe uthe.” Bishes kore tomar moton ek jon Bangali Sanskari Sangeet shilpi jodi panty na pore Stage gaan gaite gele panty slip hoye tomar mature hairy puffy pussy lips beriye jabe ei bhoy theke dure thake tumi aro relax mone perform korte parbe audience-er jonne. Kaku emphasized “mature hairy puffy pussy lips” with a slight pause, savoring the words. His lund was now painfully hard, throbbing in his dhoti, a testament to his vivid imagination.

Risita’s cheeks flushed a deeper red. “Na Kaku, Panty chhara ami kichu tei stage’e uthte parbo na. Ota onek beshi bemanan amar moton ekjon Bangali Sanskari Housewife-er jonne. Amar sudhu ekta Panty chai jeta shore na jaye, ar Panty line-o dekha jabe na.” Her innocent resolve only spurred the Kaku on.

“Achha, achha, bujhechi. Tahole tomar Panty line thik thakle cholbe. Tai Panty’r ‘cut-ta khub proyojon. Jemon ‘thong’ Panty ache, ‘seamless’ Panty ache. Tate Panty line dekha jaye na. Kintu erakom kono panty ki tomar ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ ke dhore rakhte parbe, jokhon tumi hath-pa nariye-choriye sorir duliye stage gaan gaibe? Abar oi ‘low-waist bikini Panty’ holei toh problem hobe, jodi na Panty-ta tomar ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ gulo ke bhalo kore cover na kore. Especially jodi Tomar oi puffy pussy lips-er opre lomba lomba chul thake? Tahole toh kono Panty kono kajer na Risita.”

Kaku’s detailed description of her “mature hairy puffy pussy lips” and the “long hairs” was becoming increasingly uncomfortable for Risita. She felt her skin prickling. He was talking as if he could see them, as if he knew. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure.

“Kaku, apni bollen tahale ki kora jaye? She tried to steer the conversation back to practicalities.

Kaku nodded, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. His lund was still hard, enjoying the extended, semi-private monologue with Risita. “Nishchoi, Risita. Tomar moner moto Panty ami khuje debo. Tomake emon Panty debo, jeta porle tomar ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ gulo bhalo kore dhaka pore thakbe, ar Panty kichu te’i shore jabena, jotoi Tomar stage’e nach-gaan hok na keno.”

He reached into a glass cabinet, pulling out a handful of Panties. Some were made of a blend of cotton and lycra, designed for a snug fit. As he laid them on the counter, he carefully picked one, a plain indigo-colored Panty, almost the same shade as her saree from the previous performance.

“Ei Panty ta dekho, Risita. Eta tomar jonno khub bhalo hobe. Eta na Panty line dekhabe, na Panty shore jabe. Ar tomar ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ ke emon bhalo kore dhore rakhbe, jano oi Panty ta tomar ekta ongsho. Tomake ar kono chinta korte hobe na.”

He held it up, almost reverently, his eyes still holding that unsettling glint. Risita took it, examining the fabric. It felt sturdy, yet soft. She still found his directness about her "mature hairy puffy pussy lips" peculiar, but she was desperate for a solution.

“Koto dam, Kaku?” she asked, trying to sound normal.

“Dam, Risita? Tomar moto Sanskari shilpi’r jonno dam ki? kichui na. Jodi Panty ta Tomar koshto dur korte pare, oi ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips’ gulo ke shamle rakhte pare, tahole dam diye ki hobe? Kintu jehetu tomar Panty proyojon, aar ami bishesh bhabe bolchi, ei Panty ta tomar jonno’i toiri hochhe, tai ami dam ekta nebo.” He named a reasonable price, only Rs. 2069/- for 3 pieces combo set, still maintaining his suggestive tone.

Risita paid, feeling a strange mix of relief and a lingering sense of being observed, even though she couldn't pinpoint why. As she walked out of the shop, the faded velvet curtain falling behind her, she clutched the bag containing her new Panties. The aged Kaku watched her go, a satisfied, almost smug smile spreading across his face. His lund, still comfortably hard in his dhoti, finally began to subside, leaving a warm, pleasant ache. Ah, Risita, koto bhola sanskari meye re tui! Kintu ami toh shob bujhechi. Oi Panty gulo ebar tor ‘mature hairy puffy pussy lips thke beriye porbe, jate tui abar amar kache asish aar ebar tui asle toke chudboi ami . He picked up his tattered novel, a private, lewd chuckle escaping his lips. He knew, and Risita, bless her innocent heart, still oblivious to the lewd conversation she had.

 

-END of Part 3-

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