Misc. Erotica Chaitali ki diary: Day 1 in Noida

[Mohit.Kumar]

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All characters are over 18 years of age.


Mrs. Chaitali Ghosh: A mature average looking dusky complexion Bengali woman with a 38-34-42 figure, Chaitali is a complex character torn between her desperate need for sexual fulfillment and the societal norms that forbid her desires. She has just joined work at Vatika Real Estate in Gurgaon, trying to balance her work and personal life 

*** 

The ceiling fan groaned above Chaitali, stirring the humid Gurgaon air without cooling it, its blades casting wobbling shadows across the peeling paint of her studio apartment. She stood before the cracked mirror, adjusting the cheap polyester saree that clung uncomfortably to her damp skin beneath her arms and between her thighs. The synthetic fabric scratched against her nipples, hardened by the stale heat, as she tried to tuck the pallu neatly over her shoulder. Outside, the relentless honking of Sector 14 traffic seeped through the thin walls, a constant reminder of the city’s impatience. Her reflection showed a woman worn thin—dark circles beneath her eyes, the slight sag of her breasts beneath the bright, ill-fitting blouse, the curve of her wide hips straining against the saree’s cheap weave. She traced a finger along the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat, thinking of the empty Delhi flat where her husband’s laughter used to echo, now replaced by the tinny sound of her son’s voice over a bad phone line.

 

Downstairs, the stench of overflowing garbage bins hit her as she pushed open the building’s rusted gate, mingling with the acrid fumes of autorickshaws idling in the alley. She squeezed past a vendor hawking oily samosas, the heat radiating off his cart making her blouse stick instantly to the small of her back. Her worn sandals slapped against the broken pavement, each step sending a dull ache up her calves. The weight of her sagging breasts shifted uncomfortably beneath the thin fabric with every hurried stride, the cheap lace of her bra chafing against her damp skin. She clutched her frayed handbag tighter, the plastic handle digging into her palm, as she navigated the crowded footpath, avoiding puddles of indeterminate liquid and men who stared a beat too long at her swaying hips.

 

A shared auto already packed with three other sweating passengers slowed beside her, the driver jerking his thumb toward the sliver of space left on the cracked seat. Chaitali hauled herself in, her wide hips scbanging against the metal frame, the sharp edge catching the thin skin above her ankle. The auto lurched forward, throwing her against the bony shoulder of a young man glued to his phone. His elbow jabbed into the soft flesh beneath her ribcage, forcing a small gasp from her lips. The close quarters pressed the heat of strangers against her—the damp cotton of a shirt against her bare arm, the stale scent of tobacco breath near her ear. Beneath her saree, the sweat gathered thickly where her thighs met, the synthetic fabric trapping the moisture, making her shift restlessly on the hard seat. Through the open side, exhaust fumes coated her tongue.

 

The auto shuddered to a halt outside Vatika Real Estate's gleaming glass tower, a jarring contrast to the grimy street. Chaitali extricated herself clumsily, the cheap polyester of her saree snagging on a protruding bolt inside the vehicle. A sharp tug ripped a tiny thread loose near her hip. She smoothed the material down over her hips, feeling the damp patch where sweat had seeped through the blouse onto the small of her back. The cool blast of the lobby AC hit her like a physical slap, raising goose bumps on her damp arms even as it dried the sweat on her upper lip. Her worn sandals clicked softly on the polished marble, echoing slightly in the vast, sterile space. The familiar scent of lemon floor polish and stale coffee hung in the air. She adjusted the pallu over her shoulder, the fabric scratching her neck, and walked towards the reception desk, her wide hips swaying slightly with each step, the ache in her calves replaced by a dull throb behind her eyes.

 

Seated behind the sleek, modern desk, Chaitali felt the cheap plastic chair groan under her weight. The cool leather of the desktop pressed against her forearms as she shuffled papers pointlessly. Outside, Gurgaon shimmered in the midday haze. Her fingers traced the chipped edge of her laminated name tag – “Chaitali Ghosh, Sales Executive”. The AC vent above hissed, directing a stream of frigid air down the neckline of her blouse, making her stiffened nipples ache against the coarse lace of her bra.