Misc. Erotica Chaitali ki diary: Day 1 in Noida

[Mohit.Kumar]

The door creaked under her hesitant push. Harish leaned against a grimy window frame, silhouetted against the hazy light filtering through dirty blinds. Rashid sat perched on the edge of a cluttered desk, knuckles white. Salman slouched low on a stained sofa, his eyes, flat and assessing, snapping to her the moment she entered. The cheap floral scent of her talcum powder clashed violently with the room's stench. Her wide hips brushed against the doorframe as she stepped fully inside, the synthetic pallu catching momentarily.

"Ah, Chaitali Didi" Harish boomed, pushing off the window frame. His grin was wide, predatory, yellowed teeth stark against his dark skin. He gestured expansively. "Aapka intezaar tha Yeh meri dost hain," he announced unnecessareely to the room, his eyes never leaving the damp patch visible on her blouse where it strained over her heavy left breast. "Chaitali, meet Rashid Bhai," he nodded towards the man on the desk, whose hungry gaze traced the curve of her hip beneath the cheap polyester, "and Salman Bhai." Salman merely grunted, a low sound that vibrated in the smoky air, his stare fixed on the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat.

Chaitali offered a hesitant, flustered smile, her palms pressing nervously against her thighs. "Namaste," she murmured, her voice breathy, thick with exertion and lingering metro anxiety. Rashid slid off the desk, stepping closer. He clasped her damp hand clumsily. "Arre Didi, aap toh bahut mast lag rahi ho" he exclaimed, his thumb rubbing a rough circle over her knuckles, lingering too long. Salman remained seated, a silent, coiled presence, his dark eyes eyeing the way her saree clung to the wide swell of her hips, the slight tremble in her fingers as she pulled her hand back. She instinctively smoothed her pallu, the synthetic fabric rasping against her damp neck.

The air felt thick, charged. Rashid leaned in conspiratorially, his cheap cologne sharp against the stale smoke. "Harish ne bataya... aap kaam karti ho Gurgaon mein? Bohut mushkil hota hoga na?" His gaze flickered down to her chest, where her blouse gaped slightly with each breath. Chaitali nodded, shifting her weight, the worn sandal strap biting her blistered heel. "Haanji, bahut hectic hai... metro mein..." "Baithiye na, thak gayi hogi." Chaitali sank onto the hard seat, her large breasts settling heavily against her ribs, the thin blouse damp and uncomfortable.

Salman finally spoke, his voice a low scbang. "Harish ne bola... aap Bengali hai?" He watched her throat work as she swallowed. Chaitali managed a small smile. "Haanji, Kolkata se." Rashid grinned. "Arre Didi Roshogolla pasand hai?" He nudged her knee playfully. Her thigh jiggled beneath the polyester, warm where his knuckle brushed skin. She laughed nervously, the sound too loud in the cramped room. "Sabse zyada" Rashid chuckled, leaning closer. "Hamare yahan bhi achhe milte hain... ek din khilaenge." His hand lingered on her knee, thumb pressing into the soft flesh above her saree's waistband.

The cheap vinyl chair groaned as Salman shifted forward. "Office mein kaam kaisa hai?" His fingers, rough and calloused, felt unnaturally hot against her damp skin. Chaitali's breath hitched slightly. "Bas... thoda busy rehta hai." Rashid's thumb began tracing slow circles on her knee. "Aap jaise aurat ko tension nahi lena chahiye." Salman's gaze dropped to where her blouse gaped slightly, revealing the dark sweat stain between her breasts. "Haan," he rasped. "Dekhiye, paseena nikal raha hai." Chaitali flushed, instinctively pulling her pallu tighter, the synthetic fabric catching on her damp collarbone.

Harish chuckled, leaning against the desk. "Didi ko thanda paani pilao na, Rashid." Rashid sprang up, his hand lingering a fraction too long on her shoulder as he moved towards a mini-fridge. The sudden absence of his touch left her knee feeling strangely cold. Salman watched her intently. "Aapke husband Delhi mein rehte hain?" The question felt like a probe. Chaitali nodded, twisting the edge of her pallu. "Haanji... bachcha bhi." Salman's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Akele rehna mushkil hota hoga." Rashid returned, pressing a chilled plastic bottle into her hand. Condensation dripped onto her thigh. "Shukriya," she murmured, the cold shocking against her palm.

Rashid perched on the desk corner, his knee brushing hers again. "Hum log bhi akele hi hain yahan, Didi. Kabhi kabhi bahut boring ho jata hai." He grinned, leaning closer. "Movie dekhte hain kabhi saath mein?" Chaitali took a small sip of water, the chill spreading down her throat. "Kaunsi movie?" Salman shifted, the sofa springs groaning. "Koi bhi. Horror achha lagta hai aapko?" His gaze dropped pointedly to her damp blouse. She felt the water’s cold trail meet the heat pooling between her breasts. "Thoda dar lagta hai," she admitted softly, shifting her hips on the vinyl seat. Rashid laughed. "Hum protect karenge" His hand landed heavily on her shoulder, thumb rubbing the strap of her blouse.

Harish watched, arms crossed. "Didi ko tension nahi lena chahiye," he echoed Salman, a predatory softness in his tone. "Aap relax karo." Salman leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Haan. Aapke liye chair aaram wali laata hoon?" Before Chaitali could protest, he stood. His calloused fingers grazed her bare forearm as he passed—a deliberate, lingering scbang. The air felt thick with cheap cologne and anticipation. Rashid took the opportunity to scoot nearer, his thigh now flush against hers through the thin polyester. She felt the hard muscle beneath his jeans, the radiating warmth making her own skin prickle with sweat beneath the saree.

Salman returned, dragging a worn leather office chair that groaned under its own weight. "Yeh lo, Didi. Soft hai." He positioned it directly beside her vinyl seat, unnecessareely close. As Chaitali shifted, Rashid’s hand "helped" guide her elbow, fingers tightening possessively. Her wide hip brushed Salman’s leg as she settled into the softer cushion. The leather was cracked and dusty, releasing a faint odor of mildew that mixed with the floral talc on her neck. Rashid’s hand remained on her arm, thumb tracing idle circles on her inner elbow—a touch too intimate for strangers. "Achha laga na?" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Chaitali nodded, forcing a smile that trembled at the edges. "Haanji, sir.".Rashid leaned forward,  "Aapka makeup thoda bigda hai, Didi," he observed softly, reaching out. His calloused thumb swiped clumsily at a smudge of kajal beneath her eye, lingering on the delicate skin. Chaitali flinched, a tiny gasp escaping her. "Sorry," Rashid chuckled, not moving his hand. "Bas saaf kar raha tha." His thumb drifted down, grazing her cheekbone, rough against her sweat-slicked skin.

Salman shifted in his chair, the leather groaning. "Metro mein hua hoga," he said flatly, his eyes fixed on the damp patch spreading visibly across her blouse where her heavy breast pressed against the fabric. Rashid’s hand slid lower, fingertips tracing the tense line of her jaw. "Didi paseene mein bheeg gayi hai," he murmured.

A shrill ringtone sliced through the thick air—Khanna’s call flashing on Harish’s cracked phone screen. Harish snatched it up, his grin turning sharp. "Haanji, Sir? ... Ha, Didi pahunch gayi... Bilkul safe-safe... Ha? ... Ha, zaroor..." He winked broadly at Rashid and Salman. "Undamaged? Bilkul fresh fresh hai Sir... Ekdum taza maal." His eyes raked over Chaitali’s rumpled saree, the sweat-darkened hollow between her breasts. "Haanji... Ha... Theek hai Sir." He ended the call, the predatory gleam intensifying. "Khanna sahab ne pucha... koi damage toh nahi hua metro mein?" He chuckled, low and dark. "Dekho Didi, kitni chinta karte hain aapke liye."

Chaitali’s breath hitched, the cold plastic bottle slick in her damp palm. Rashid’s thumb resumed its slow, grinding circle on her inner elbow, the calloused pad digging into tender skin. Salman leaned closer, the sour tang of stale tobacco and sweat rolling off him. "Damage?" he rasped, his gaze fixed on the damp crescent spreading beneath her left breast where the blouse clung. "Nahin Didi... sab kuch toh bilkul achha hai." His rough fingers brushed her knee, tracing the edge of her saree’s pallu where it lay rumpled on her thigh. The cheap polyester felt suddenly thin, unbearably revealing. She shifted, trying to pull her elbow free, but Rashid’s grip tightened, pinning her arm against the vinyl armrest. His thigh pressed harder against hers, radiating heat through the thin fabric. The floral talc felt gritty and cloying against her flushed skin.

"Sir... bathroom?" Chaitali whispered, the words thick and desperate. Rashid’s grin widened, predatory. "Arre Didi, zaroor" He stood abruptly, pulling her up by the elbow. Her sandal caught on the chair leg, pitching her forward into his chest. His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her waistband, thumbs pressing hard against her pelvic bones. The sudden intimacy stole her breath. "Careful," he murmured, his breath hot against her temple. "Chalo, main dikhata hoon." Salman watched, motionless, as Rashid steered her toward the corridor door, his palm sliding possessively to the small of her back, fingers splayed wide over the sweat-damp polyester.

The corridor swallowed them—dim, narrow, lined with peeling paint and locked doors. Muffled voices seeped through the wood: a sharp argument, low laughter, the rhythmic thump of something heavy against a wall. Rashid crowded close behind her, his chest brushing her shoulder blades, forcing her to quicken her steps. His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric, stopping just above the swell of her buttocks. "Yahan," he announced unnecessareely, nudging her toward a chipped wooden door. His other hand lingered on her hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into the yielding flesh.

Inside, the cramped bathroom reeked of urine and cheap disinfectant. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows. Rashid didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, blocking the exit, his gaze fixed on her. "Didi, jaldi karo," he murmured, a rough edge beneath the false concern.

Chaitali fumbled with the rusted latch, her fingers trembling against the cold metal. The flimsy lock clicked shut, a frail barrier against the predatory silence outside. She leaned against the chipped sink, its porcelain slick with grime, and stared at her reflection in the smeared mirror. Sweat had dissolved her cheap kajal into dark smudges beneath her wide, anxious eyes. Her blouse clung in damp patches to the heavy swell of her breasts. The synthetic pallu felt like a coarse shroud against her neck. She splashed tepid water on her face, the grit scbanging her skin, but the flush of shame remained—a deep, prickling heat spreading from her chest to her thighs.

The door handle rattled sharply. Rashid’s voice, thick with impatience, cut through the thin wood. "Didi? Sab theek hai?" Chaitali jumped, water dripping from her chin onto her damp blouse. "Haanji... bas... ek minute," she stammered, hastily smoothing her saree.

Outside, Rashid exchanged a low chuckle with Salman. "Ek minute," he mimicked, his knuckles rapping harder. "Jaldi karo na, Didi. Harish bhai ka kaam hai." Chaitali fumbled with the latch, her fingers slick and clumsy. The door swung open to reveal Rashid leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.