Misc. Erotica The New Receptionist: Mrs. Chaitali Ghosh's 'Orientation' at the new office

[Mohit.Kumar]

Chaitali Ghosh arrived at the Vatika Real Estate office early, her heels clicking too loudly in the deserted marble lobby. She clutched a thermos of homemade lassi and a notebook labeled "Property Training" in shaky Bengali script, her thick spectacles fogging slightly from the humid Gurgaon morning. Her crisp white shirt—buttoned unevenly in her haste—strained across her full breasts, and the snug black trousers dug deeper into the soft flesh of her hips after the auto-rickshaw ride. She hummed "Ami Chini Go Chini" softly, scanning the empty reception area. "Arre Baba, koi nahi aaya?" she muttered, shifting her weight. The fabric of her trousers whispered tautly where her thick thighs pressed together, damp with nervous sweat already.

She paced behind the counter, her wide hips bumping against filing cabinets. Each turn stretched the black polyester trouser tighter across her backside, the faint outline of her cotton panties visible beneath the strained seat. "Orientation ka time toh 8 baje tha," she fretted aloud, checking her wristwatch. Her breasts jiggled faintly with each agitated step, a bead of sweat tracing the dark hollow at her throat before vanishing beneath her collar. The scent of coconut oil and talcum powder mingled with the sharp smell of her anxiety.

The main office door creaked open. Chaitali whirled, a hopeful smile spreading across her dusky face. "Arre, aap log—?" Her voice faltered. Only the morning housekeeper shuffled in, pushing his mop bucket. Disappointment slumped her shoulders, pulling her shirt taut across her chest. She fiddled with her mangalsutra, the gold chain warm against her damp skin. "Koi brokers dikh rahe hain?" she asked him, her Bengali accent thickening. He merely shrugged, eyes averted as he slopped water near her feet.

Chaitali sighed, the sound thick in the quiet. She perched awkwardly on the edge of her reception stool, the unforgiving plastic digging into the soft flesh beneath her wide hips.  Her gaze drifted to the frosted glass door of the conference room. Locked. Dark.

"Kya hua sabko?" she murmured to the empty office, her Bengali lilt tinged with confusion. She smoothed her damp palms over her black trousers, the fabric clinging stubbornly to the curve of her belly and the thick swell of her thighs. A faint line of moisture darkened the waistband where her cotton panties bit into soft skin. She glanced at her notebook, the eager "Property Training" label seeming suddenly foolish. Her spectacles slid down her nose again; she pushed them up, leaving a smudge on the lens.

The thermos of lassi felt heavy and pointless in her hands. She unscrewed it, the sharp, fermented scent momentarily overpowering the sterile office air. Taking a hesitant sip, the cool yogurt drink coated her dry throat but did nog to ease the prickling heat gathering beneath her arms and between her breasts. The stiff collar of her Vatika shirt chafed against her neck, already damp with sweat. She shifted on the stool, the plastic groaning under her weight, the unforgiving edge digging deeper into the soft flesh beneath her wide hips. Each small adjustment made the taut black trousers rasp against her inner thighs, the friction a constant, uncomfortable reminder of her own bulk trapped in corporate fabric.

Her gaze kept drifting to the silent corridors. Empty. Utterly still. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder in the vacuum, amplifying the hollow thud of her own heartbeat. Had she misunderstood? Written the time wrong?  Here she sat, foolishly early, her notebook's eager Bengali script mocking her. A drop of sweat traced the curve of her spine beneath her shirt, soaking into the waistband of her cotton panties, the elastic biting into the soft swell above her hips. The cheerful lilt of her morning humming died in her throat, replaced by a low, anxious sigh that made her breasts strain against the straining buttons.

The main door finally groaned open. Vikram sauntered in first, Deepak, Rohan, Manish, and a scowling Arjun trailing behind. They moved with exaggerated nonchalance, jackets slung over shoulders, ties loosened. Vikram slapped his forehead theatrically. "Arre Didi, bhool gaye na hum" he exclaimed, his voice echoing falsely in the quiet lobby. "Orientation... conference room mein nahi... woh... basement storage area mein hai" He flashed a wide, insincere grin, his eyes already raking down her body, lingering on the damp patches darkening her shirt beneath her arms.

Chaitali scrambled off the stool, relief flooding her flushed face. "Basement? Par wahan toh..." Her thick Bengali accent stumbled over the Hindi words, confusion wrinkling her brow. Before she could finish, Deepak stepped forward, his rough hand closing firmly around her soft, slightly sweaty wrist. "Chaliye Didi, hum log late ho rahe hain" His grip was tight, pulling her forward. The sudden movement made her stumble, her wide hips bumping against the reception counter, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her breasts jiggled heavily beneath the strained shirt.

Deepak surged forward, his rough hand engulfing hers before she could regain her balance. "Chalo na, Didi" he urged, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her palm, his thumb pressing hard against her knuckles. He tugged sharply, forcing her away from the counter. Chaitali lurched, her heels skidding slightly on the polished marble.

"Arre, thoda dheere..." she protested breathlessly, her Bengali accent thick with alarm. But Deepak didn't slow. He pulled her toward the dimly lit stairwell leading to the basement, his grip unyielding. Behind them, Vikram, Rohan, Manish, and Arjun fell into step, their footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. Vikram's gaze locked onto the frantic sway of Chaitali's hips beneath the straining black trousers as she stumbled forward – each step stretching the fabric taut across the heavy shelf of her buttocks, the faint outline of her panties' elastic waistband digging deep into the soft flesh above her cleft. Rohan inhaled sharply, fixated on the damp patch darkening the seat of her trousers where it clung to the deep valley, the humid warmth radiating from her skin palpable even from a few steps back.

Chaitali gasped as Deepak yanked her onto the narrow staircase, the sudden descent forcing her to clutch the railing with her free hand. Her heels slipped on the worn concrete edge. "Careful, Didi" Vikram called out from behind, his voice laced with false concern. His eyes, however, remained glued lower – watching the way her wide hips rolled with each unsteady step, the black fabric whispering obscenely as her thick thighs rubbed together. Manish smirked, leaning close to Rohan's ear. "Gaand pe haath rakhna padega lagta hai," he muttered, imagining the heavy slap of palm against yielding flesh. Chaitali's shirt rode up slightly at the back, revealing a sliver of dusky skin and the sweat-darkened band of her cotton panties digging into the soft swell above her hips. Arjun trailed last, his scowl deepening as he watched the thick curve of her waist jiggle with each jarring step downward.

The basement air hit them – thick, dusty, and smelling of damp cardboard and stale chemicals. Deepak pulled Chaitali deeper into the gloom, past towering shelves stacked with forgotten brochures and broken furniture, toward a cramped room barely illuminated by a single flickering bulb. "Yahan... quiet hai," he rasped, finally releasing her wrist. She stumbled back, bumping against a stack of dusty property binders, her breasts straining against the shirt buttons. Vikram swiftly blocked the narrow exit path, his lean frame leaning against a metal shelf. "Training shuru karte hain, Didi?" he asked smoothly, his gaze dropping pointedly to her flushed face. Behind him, Rohan's breath hitched as Chaitali nervously smoothed her trousers, the fabric pulling taut across her belly and the deep cleft of her backside, outlining the distinct press of her panties' against the soft mound beneath.

"Pehle... posture," Vikram declared, stepping close. His hands landed firmly on her shoulders, fingers digging into the tense muscle near her neck. "Receptionist ko confident dikhna chahiye." He pushed down slightly, forcing her spine straighter. Chaitali gasped, her thick hips shifting awkwardly. "Haan ji," she murmured, mistaking the sharp pressure for correction. Vikram's thumbs slid inward, grazing the damp hollows above her collarbones, his knuckles brushing the straining edge of her bra strap. "Shoulders back," he instructed, his voice low. As she obeyed, her chest jutted forward, the shirt gaping wider between buttons. Deepak moved in, his rough palm suddenly pressing flat against the small of her back. "Waist bhi tight rakhni chahiye," he growled, fingers splaying wide, pressing hard into the soft flesh just above her waistband. Chaitali flinched at the unexpected intimacy, but Vikram’s grip tightened, pinning her. "Relax, Didi... professional guidance hai," he soothed, his fingers now tracing the tense line of her shoulder blades, dipping dangerously close to the damp fabric clinging to her spine.

Deepak’s hand slid lower, fingers hooking possessively over the pronounced curve of her hip bone beneath the taut black trousers. "Hip alignment," he announced gruffly, pulling her pelvis sharply forward. Chaitali stumbled, her wide hips colliding with his thigh. "Arre Baba" she breathed, her spectacles askew. The movement stretched the seat of her trousers impossibly tight, the cotton panty seam digging deep, outlining the full swell of each cheek. Rohan stepped closer, feigning interest. "Feet position bhi dekho," he interjected, his polished shoe nudging her worn heel apart. Before she could react, his hand was on her calf, fingers tracing the thick muscle straining against the polyester. "Muscle tension hai," he murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh behind her knee. Chaitali shuddered, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "Thoda... uncomfortable hai," she whispered, shifting her weight, the rasp of her thighs rubbing together loud in the dusty silence. Manish chuckled darkly behind her.

Vikram’s grip tightened, fingers sliding down to the damp patch between her shoulder blades. "Breathingg technique," he instructed, his breath hot near her ear. "Deep inhale, Didi." As Chaitali obeyed, her chest heaved against the straining buttons. Vikram’s free hand drifted lower, skimming the side of her ribcage, his knuckles grazing the swell of her breast beneath the shirt. She gasped, pulling away instinctively, but Deepak’s hand clamped harder on her hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her waistband. "Relax," Vikram soothed, his palm flattening against her lower back, pressing her spine into an unnatural arch. "Professional adjustment." His thumb found the dimple at the base of her spine, rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the damp fabric. Chaitali obeyed, her thighs trembling.

Deepak leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Eye contact," he murmured, his free hand rising to tap her smudged spectacles. "Clients ko dekho." He slid them off her nose, her eyes blinking wide and unfocused. "Better," he declared, tucking them into his pocket. Blurred shapes swam before her. Vikram seized the moment, his wandering hand slipping around to her front, fingers brushing the straining buttons. "Shirt alignment," he announced, thumb hooking a buttonhole. The fabric gaped wider, revealing sweat-slicked skin and the sturdy beige bra beneath. Chaitali stiffened. "Arre, bhaiyya—" Deepak’s grip on her hip jerked her backward against him, his thigh wedging between her legs. "Hold still," he growled, his other hand sliding down her belly, fingers splaying possessively over the soft curve beneath her waistband.

Rohan knelt abruptly, his hands clamping around her thick ankles. "Foot posture," he insisted, forcing her sensible heels wider apart. His thumbs dug into the tendons above her feet, pressing hard. "Spread wider, Didi." The position strained her thighs, the black trousers groaning across her hips. Before she could protest, Manish stepped behind her, his palms slapping heavily onto the taut shelf of her buttocks. "Pelvic tilt," he grunted, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh. He shoved her hips forward violently. Chaitali cried out, stumbling into Vikram’s chest, her breasts crushing against his shirt.

Vikram seized her shoulders, fingers sliding down to cup the sides of her breasts. "Balance" he barked, thumbs grazing the sensitive swell beneath her shirt. Her nipple stiffened against the bra fabric. Deepak’s hand slid lower, fingers hooking into her waistband. "Deep breath," he commanded, wrenching the trousers tighter. The cotton panties cut deeper, the seam grinding into her cleft. Chaitali whimpered, sweat dripping onto Vikram’s collar. "Bhaiyya, please—" Manish slapped her ass hard—*thwack*—the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Focus," he snarled, kneading the reddening flesh.

Rohan gripped her thighs, forcing them wider apart. Her knees trembled. "Proper stance," he hissed, thumbs digging into her inner thighs where damp polyester clung. Deepak’s fingers wormed beneath her waistband, scbanging skin. "Adjustment needed," he growled, wrenching the fabric down an inch. The elastic snapped against her hip bone. Chaitali gasped, spine arching as Vikram’s knuckles pressed against her straining bra clasp. "Almost done," he whispered, breath hot on her neck.

Suddenly, Arjun’s sharp clap shattered the humid tension. "Bas" His voice, cold and commanding, cut through the grunts. The men froze. Vikram’s hand slid reluctantly from her back. Deepak released her waistband with a snap. Rohan stumbled back from her legs. Manish’s kneading fingers lifted from her stinging buttocks. Chaitali sagged, trembling, her breath ragged gulps in the dusty air. Sweat plastered strands of hair to her temples, her spectacles still trapped in Deepak’s pocket leaving the world a smeared, terrifying blur.

Arjun stepped forward, shoving Vikram aside. His eyes, hard and dismissive, raked over Chaitali’s disheveled form—the gaping shirt revealing her bra, the trousers pulled low enough to expose the top curve of her panties digging into dusky flesh. "Seedhi khadi ho," he ordered, his tone devoid of any pretense of training. Chaitali flinched, instinctively trying to cover her exposed midriff with shaking hands. "Na" Arjun barked, slapping her wrists away. The sharp sting jolted her upright. She stood rigid, shoulders hunched, chin trembling.

"Chashma," Arjun demanded, palm outstretched toward Deepak. Deepak hesitated, then dropped the spectacles into his hand. Arjun shoved them onto Chaitali’s sweaty nose, the smudged lenses magnifying her wide, terrified eyes. "Ab dekho," he commanded, his gaze fixed on her heaving chest. "Saari training bekaar hai agar tumhari body language weak hai." He leaned in, stale tobacco breath hitting her face. "Confidence dikhao. Chest out." His fingers, thick and calloused, jabbed the straining buttons of her shirt. "Yeh doodh dikhao na sahi se." Chaitali gasped, a choked sound escaping her as she instinctively arched her back, pushing her breasts forward against the damp, gaping fabric. Arjun’s lip curled—not in desire, but cold appraisal.

"Button kholo," he ordered, his voice flat, devoid of Vikram’s false cheer or Deepak’s predatory growl. It was a command, pure and transactional. Chaitali blinked, sweat stinging her eyes behind the smudged lenses. Her trembling fingers rose, hovering over the topmost button. *Professional adjustment*, Vikram’s words echoed faintly in her muddled thoughts. Orientation. Training. Her thick, soft thumb fumbled against the small plastic disc. With a soft *pop*, the button gave way. A sliver of dusky, sweat-slicked skin and the sturdy beige bra strap beneath widened. The humid basement air prickled against the exposed flesh.

"Sab," Arjun snapped impatiently, gesturing vaguely downward. "Poori shirt." Chaitali obeyed, her movements jerky. *Pop*. Another button surrendered. The damp fabric gaped wider, revealing the swell of her left breast straining against the bra’s full cup, the lace trim digging into flushed skin. *Pop*. The third button opened. The beige bra dominated the view now, the center clasp starkly visible, damp patches darkening the fabric where her breasts pressed together. A bead of sweat traced the deep valley between them. She paused, fingers hovering over the fourth button, knuckles white. Arjun’s gaze, cold and assessing, didn’t waver. "Jaldi karo," he muttered, tapping his foot. Chaitali inhaled sharply, the intake of breath making her chest heave against the confines of the bra. *Pop*. The fourth button opened. The shirt fell fully open from collar to navel, just one more button remaining, framing the sturdy undergarment like a crude exhibit. The humid air felt suddenly icy on her exposed upper belly and the sweat-dampened valley above her bra line. Her breath hitched, a small, trapped sound escaping her lips as she stood rigidly, awaiting the next instruction, the damp cotton of her panties clinging uncomfortably to the cleft beneath the tight trousers.