Misc. Erotica Chaitali ki diary: Day 1 in Noida

[Mohit.Kumar]

The recollection dissolved as Chaitali’s gaze drifted past the lobby’s chrome fixtures back to her first week at Vatika, raw and hopeful. Armaan Singh Malik, a young handsome property dealer. He’d been the first friendly face, charmingly solicitous, offering advice on navigating Gurgaon’s cutthroat property scene. His smile, dazzling white against his light olive skin, had felt like a lifeline. He’d suggested dinner at "Oh! Calcutta" in Cyber Hub – a "professional date," he’d called it.

He had insisted she wear something "chic," specifically mentioning a silk saree with a low-back blouse. Chaitali, flustered by his attention and desperate to impress, didn’t own anything remotely resembling that. Her wardrobe held only stiff cottons and cheap synthetics. Panic fluttered in her chest. In a burst of determination, she’d dbangd her one decent silk saree – a deep maroon Benarasi inherited from her mother – over her sturdiest everyday bra, hoping the saree’s pallu would adequately cover the plain straps.

Later, seated across from Armaan in the dimly lit restaurant, Chaitali felt painfully conspicuous. The silk felt alien against her skin, heavy and slippery. Her sturdy bra straps dug into her shoulders beneath the saree’s fabric. He ordered whisky – expensive, single malt – insisting she try it. "Real estate runs on this, Chaitali," he’d chuckled, his eyes crinkling attractively. "Loosen up." The smoky burn of the first sip made her cough, but Armaan’s encouraging smile pushed her to drain the glass. He refilled it immediately. The expensive liquor, unfamiliar and potent, quickly warmed her belly, blurring the sharp edges of her anxiety and the restaurant’s noise into a pleasant hum. Her limbs felt loose, her laughter easier, louder than usual.

The world blurred pleasantly after the third glass. Armaan’s laughter sounded richer, his compliments about her "hidden elegance" warmer. He paid the bill, guiding her unsteady steps out into the humid Cyber Hub night. Inside his sleek sedan, the cool leather seats felt luxurious against her skin. Armaan drove smoothly, one hand resting casually on her thigh, radiating heat through the thin silk. She leaned back, the whisky humming in her veins, lulled by the city lights streaking past. She barely registered when the car slowed, tires crunching on gravel off the main highway.

"Out," Armaan murmured, his voice low and intimate in the sudden quiet. He switched off the engine, plunging them into near-darkness save for the harsh glare of the headlights slicing into the scrubland bordering the road. The abrupt silence felt thick, charged. He got out, walked around, and opened her door. Cool night air washed over her, carrying dust and the faint scent of diesel. "Stand here," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for hesitation, guiding her firmly by the elbow into the twin beams of light. The sudden brightness made her squint, exposed. "Show me," he commanded.

Chaitali had hesitated, the whisky's warmth warring with a prickle of unease. His gaze, intense and unwavering in the shadows beyond the lights, pinned her. She fumbled with the pallu, her fingers clumsy against the slippery silk. The cool air brushed her shoulders as she pulled the fabric down, revealing the sturdy, practical bra beneath – thick straps, faded floral print, utterly incongruous against the expensive saree. Armaan chuckled, a soft, dark sound. "That won't do, Chaitali Didi. All of it." His eyes flicked pointedly to the clasp between her breasts. The headlights felt like lamps, baking her skin.

With trembling fingers, she reached behind her back, fumbling with the hooks. The clasp gave way. The sturdy cups sagged forward, releasing the heavy weight of her breasts into the cool night. The sudden exposure made her gasp – not just from the chill, but from the sheer vulnerability. The harsh white light flattened her dusky skin, illuminating every curve, every stretch mark, every mole, turning her body into an obscene, public exhibit against the desolate roadside backdrop. Dust motes danced in the beams like tiny stars around her nakedness. Armaan leaned against the car's hood, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the gloom beyond the glare. "Better," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Now turn. Slowly." The gravel bit into her bare feet as she pivoted, the headlights carving harsh shadows across her wide hips and the soft swell of her belly, the silk saree suddenly feeling like a flimsy, mocking curtain below her waist.

He circled her like a predator appraising prey, his polished shoes crunching deliberately on the loose stones. His gaze lingered on the sag of her breasts, the dark areolas puckered tight from cold and fear, then traced the thick curve of her waist where the saree bunched. "Lift your arms," he commanded softly. When she obeyed, raising them above her head, the movement pulled her breasts higher, tautening the skin momentarily, exposing the soft underside and the damp patches where her arms had pressed against her sides. He stepped closer, just outside the punishing brightness, close enough for her to smell his expensive perfume mingling with dust. His fingertip, cool and dry, traced a slow, deliberate path from the hollow of her throat, down between her breasts, over the quivering plane of her stomach, stopping just above the saree's border.

Later, over the next several days, he had pimped her out to his friends and clients. It started subtly – a "business meeting" at a discreet farmhouse outside Gurgaon. Armaan introduced her to Vikram Sethi, a portly developer with thick gold chains nestled in his chest hair. "Chaitali handles our premium client relations," Armaan explained smoothly, pouring expensive Scotch. Vikram's eyes, small and greedy, roamed her cheap saree-clad body with undisguised appraisal. "Relations, eh?" he chuckled, his gaze lingering on the swell of her hips. Armaan nudged her subtly towards Vikram. "Show Vikram Sir the terrace view, Chaitali. It’s quite… expansive." Alone on the dimly lit terrace, Vikram’s hand was immediately on her ass, kneading the thick flesh through the thin polyester. "Expansive indeed," he grunted, pushing her against the cold railing. His breath reeked of paan and liquor as he fumbled beneath her saree, blunt fingers shoving aside her damp panties. The intrusion was rough, impersonal. She bit her lip, the rough stone edge digging into her hip bones, focusing on the distant city lights blurring through unshed tears, while Vikram’s grunts vibrated against her back, his thick fingers pinching her nipple painfully hard. He finished quickly against her thigh, leaving a sticky, cooling smear, tossing a crumpled wad of rupees onto the wrought-iron table before walking back inside without a word. "Good girl," Armaan had said, patting her cheek. "Vikram Sir was very pleased with the… view."

The encounters blurred into a humid procession of strangers. A diamond merchant named Rakesh demanded she kneel on the plush carpet of his Sector 54 office, her cheap saree pooling around her knees. "Open wider, bitch," he commanded, shoving his cock past her lips. She gagged, the salty-sour taste flooding her mouth, her jaw aching as he gripped her hair, forcing her head down until his thick pubic hair scratched her nose. She focused on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug beneath her knees, the wool rough against her bare skin, the rhythmic choking sounds escaping her throat as he thrust deeper. Later, a young NRI investor, Rahul, preferred her bent over the hood of his imported BMW in a deserted parking garage. The cold metal shocked her bare belly as he lifted her saree, yanking her panties aside. He entered her dryly, his thrusts sharp and shallow, complaining about the "looseness" while slapping her ass hard enough to leave red welts on her dusky skin. Each time, Armaan appeared afterwards, collecting crisp notes or discreet envelopes, his smile never reaching his eyes. "See? Useful," he’d murmur, sometimes squeezing her sore breast possessively.