Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan froze, his predatory smirk vanishing, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. "Blouse nahi?" he echoed in Hindi, his voice sharp. His gaze locked onto the exposed strap, the unexpected texture under his fingertips. "Toh phir yeh kya hai? " His eyes narrowed, scanning the thickly dbangd pallu concealing her chest. The raw intimacy of the undergarment, exposed by her clumsy evasion, sent a jolt of illicit thrill through him – hotter than the whisky. "Dikhao," he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, insistent growl. "Show me what you wore." His hand darted forward again, not towards the strap, but towards the fold of silk at her shoulder, intent on ripping the veil away.

Chaitali recoiled, slapping his wrist with more force this time, the sharp smack echoing in the booth. "Chhiye! Hands off!" she hissed in Bengali, the vernacular sharp and defensive. Her vision swam violently, the whisky haze amplifying her panic. She clutched the pallu tighter, her knuckles white against the dusky silk. "Aapne bola casual chic... dress!" Her voice trembled, thick with alcohol and indignation. "Maine pehna... pehna..." Words failed her.

Armaan leaned back, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. The surprise had evaporated, replaced by a predatory gleam. "Dress?" he echoed, his Hindi smooth, mocking. "Toh dikhao na! Tumhari figure... covered like this?" His gaze raked the thick folds. "Cheating kar rahi ho, Chaitali. Hiding?" He gestured dismissively. "Yeh pallu... itna thick? Kya chhupa rahi ho?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Show me. Bas ek jhalak." His hand hovered near the silk, fingers twitching with anticipation.

"Sir... yeh inappropriate hai," she stammered in Bengali, clutching the pallu tighter. The room tilted, candlelight smearing into streaks. "Maine... respectable dress pehna hai..." She could feel the bra strap digging into her shoulder where his touch had lingered, a stark reminder beneath the silk shield.

Armaan leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Respectable? Hiding that body?" His Hindi dripped mockery. "Dikhao na, Chaitali. Tumhari figure deserves appreciation." His fingers brushed the silk fold near her collarbone, tracing the damp edge. "Bas ek jhalak... prove karo tum modern ho." His thigh pressed harder against hers, a solid, immovable anchor in the dizzying spin.

Just then, a waiter materialized beside their booth, balancing steaming plates. The sudden intrusion shattered the suffocating tension. "Sir, ma'am, your order," he announced in accented English, placing down a clay pot of shorshe ilish, its pungent mustard aroma cutting through the whisky haze. Golden luchis followed, puffing steam beside cholar dal speckled with coconut and steamed rice. The fragrant assault – earthy cumin, sharp green chilies, the rich tang of tamarind in the aloo posto – momentarily overwhelmed Chaitali's senses. She inhaled sharply, the familiar scents piercing her whisky fog like an anchor.

Armaan jerked back, his predatory focus broken. He forced a charming smile for the waiter. "Bahut shukriya," he said smoothly in Hindi, though his eyes flickered with irritation. As the waiter retreated, Armaan gestured expansively at the spread. "See, Chaitali? Authentic. Just like home, na?" His tone was light, but his gaze remained fixed on her pallu.

The sudden burst of aroma – sharp mustard oil, earthy hilsa, the comforting sweetness of cholar dal – momentarily anchored Chaitali. She inhaled deeply, the familiar scents slicing through the whisky-induced haze. Her stomach churned violently, torn between nausea and a primal hunger. "Haan... smells good," she mumbled in Bengali, her voice thick. She instinctively reached for a luchi, its golden surface steaming. The crisp, fried texture felt grounding against her trembling fingers.

Ignoring the fork beside her plate, Chaitali tore the luchi apart with her hands. The soft, yielding interior was warm and comforting. She scooped up a chunk of shorshe ilish, the pungent mustard sauce coating her fingers. Bringing it to her lips, she ate ravenously, almost desperately. The rich, oily fish, the sharp bite of mustard seeds, the familiar tang – it was a lifeline thrown to her drowning senses. "Aah... khub bhalo," she sighed involuntarily, Bengali spilling out as she sucked the sauce from her thumb, momentarily forgetting Armaan’s presence. Her pallu slipped further down her arm as she leaned over the plate, her focus entirely on the food, her movements urgent and unselfconscious.

Armaan watched, transfixed. Her thick fingers moved with surprising dexterity, shredding fish, pinching rice, mopping up thick cholar dal. A stray grain clung to the corner of her mouth. Her cheeks bulged slightly as she chewed, a faint sheen of sweat reappearing on her brow despite the AC. The raw, primal hunger was mesmerizing. He leaned back, swirling his whisky, his predatory gaze sharpening. "Bhookh lagi thi na, Chaitali?" he murmured in Hindi, his voice low and intimate. "Eating like a starving woman... such appetite."

Chaitali paused, a chunk of ilish halfway to her lips. The Bengali words registered slowly through the fog. "Haan... bohot," she mumbled, swallowing thickly. Her tongue felt coated, clumsy. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of yellow mustard oil across her dusky skin. The gesture was unthinking, earthy. She tore another luchi, the crisp sound loud in the booth. "Ghar jaisa taste hai," she added softly, almost to herself, her Bengali thick with longing. She scooped up more aloo posto, the soft potato yielding easily.

Armaan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze wasn't on her face, but lower – fixed on the rhythmic movement of her jaw, the slight tremor in her plump forearm as she lifted the food. He watched the way the damp silk of her pallu clung to the curve of her shoulder where it had slipped, revealing the sturdy bra strap beneath. "Slow down," he murmured in English, his voice a low thrum. "Enjoy it." His eyes tracked a bead of sweat that escaped her hairline, tracing a path down her temple towards the soft fullness of her jawline. He took a slow sip of his whisky, the ice clinking sharply. "Keep eating. I like watching."  The admission hung thick in the air, mingling with the pungent scent of mustard oil.

Chaitali froze mid-bite, a chunk of ilish dripping sauce onto her plate. The Bengali words registered slowly through the haze: "Dekhna pasand hai?" Her voice was thick, confused. She lowered the food, her fingers sticky with turmeric and oil. A flush crept up her neck, hotter than the whisky burn. His intense stare felt like a physical touch, crawling over her skin where the pallu had slipped. She instinctively tugged the silk higher, covering the exposed bra strap, her knuckles white against the dusky fabric. "Sir... yeh..." she stammered, switching to hesitant Hindi, "...thoda ajeeb hai."  

"Keep eating," he murmured in English, swirling his whisky. "Don’t stop on my account." His thumb traced the rim of his glass, mimicking the path he imagined on her skin. "Tum jab khaati ho... tumhari aankhein band ho jaati hain. Like you’re tasting heaven."

His gaze lingered on her lips, glistening with mustard oil. "That ilish... does it taste like your mother’s?" he murmured in Hindi, leaning closer. "Ya phir... kuch missing hai?" The question was intimate, probing. Chaitali swallowed, the rich fish suddenly heavy in her mouth. She nodded mutely, her fingers trembling as they reached for another luchi. The crisp edge scbangd her knuckle. "Thik hai," she mumbled in Bengali, avoiding his eyes. "Kintu Ma-er moton noy." The admission felt raw, exposing a vulnerability deeper than her exposed shoulder. She tore the bread fiercely, crumbs scattering like fallen stars on the dark tablecloth.

Armaan’s smile was razor-thin. "Maybe," he breathed in English, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper that vibrated in her whisky-fogged ear, "some flavours need... new hands to cook them."

Suddenly, Armaan pushed his chair back with a sharp scbang against the tile. "Excuse me, Chaitali," he announced, his Hindi smooth and clipped, the predatory gleam momentarily veiled by practicality. "Loo jaana hai. Thoda time lagega." He stood, towering over the booth, his shadow falling across her plate. "Don’t go anywhere," he added in English, a command disguised as charm, his gaze lingering on the exposed bra strap before flicking to her half-eaten ilish. "Finish that. Looks delicious." He didn’t wait for a reply, weaving through the crowded restaurant with confident strides, the scent of his aftershave briefly overpowering the spices before fading.

Chaitali slumped back against the plush booth, the sudden absence of his oppressive heat creating a vacuum. The whisky’s grip intensified, the room tilting violently. She clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white, her breath shallow. The thick pallu felt suffocating now, damp and heavy against her flushed skin. With trembling fingers, she fumbled at the silk fold near her shoulder, desperate for air. "Uff... garmi," she gasped aloud in Bengali, her voice thick. She managed to loosen the dbang slightly, exposing more dusky skin and the sturdy lace edge of her bra strap. Cool air whispered against the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat, a fleeting relief before the nausea surged again. She pressed a damp palm to her forehead, the world dissolving into smears of candlelight and blurred patrons.

Armaan strode past crowded tables, the din of laughter and clinking glasses fading into a dull roar. The men's room door swung shut behind him, muffling the chaos. Inside, the harsh fluorescent lights glared off white tiles. He unzipped his linen trousers with practiced ease, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. A low groan escaped him as the stream hit the porcelain, echoing loudly in the tiled space. "Ahhh... finally," he muttered in Hindi, eyes closed momentarily, the whisky’s burn momentarily easing. His reflection in the mirror above the sink was sharp – predatory eyes, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He pictured Chaitali alone at the table, vulnerable, her pallu slipping. "Kali kaluti... abhi toh shuru hua hai," he whispered to his reflection, the crude Hindi words a private thrill. He shook himself off, the zipper rasping shut. "Patience," he murmured in English, adjusting his collar. "Slow feast."

He splashed cold water on his face, droplets tracing his jawline, before turning back towards the door.

The harsh fluorescents of the restroom gave way to the restaurant's dim, amber glow. Armaan navigated the crowded space, his gaze instantly locking onto their secluded booth. Chaitali sat slumped against the plush leather, her head lolling slightly to one side. The remnants of her meal lay scattered before her – fish bones gleaming with oil, shreds of luchi clinging to the plate, the clay pot of shorshe ilish scbangd nearly clean. Her pallu had slipped completely off one shoulder.. The sturdy, sensible bra was fully exposed now, its textured lace stark against the dusky expanse of her skin, damp with sweat that caught the candlelight. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and rhythmic. The raw, unguarded exhaustion in her posture was complete. She hadn't just finished her meal; she had been consumed by it, then conquered by the whisky.

He slid into the booth beside her, the leather creaking. The predatory focus sharpened, honed by her vulnerability. He leaned close, his sandalwood aftershave cutting through the lingering spices. "Chaitali?" he murmured in Hindi, his voice low and intimate. "Thoda dessert khayegi? Something sweet to finish?" His hand rested lightly on her bare shoulder, his thumb tracing the edge of her bra strap. The skin was warm, yielding beneath his touch. "Bahut tired lag rahi ho... sweets energy dete hain." His English followed, smooth as silk. "They have mishti doi... thick, creamy. Just like Kolkata."

Chaitali stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. The world swam—candlelight smeared into golden streaks, Armaan's face hovering too close. His thumb moved in slow circles on her shoulder, the friction sending confusing shivers through her whisky-heavy limbs. "Mishti doi?" she mumbled in Bengali, the words thick and clumsy. A phantom sweetness bloomed on her tongue, the memory clashing violently with the oily residue of fish coating her palate. Her stomach lurched. "Nahi... pet bhar gaya," she protested weakly, trying to pull away, but his grip on her shoulder tightened subtly, anchoring her.

Armaan chuckled, a low rumble vibrating in the confined space. "Pet bhar gaya?" he echoed in Hindi, his tone mocking yet intimate. He leaned closer, his breath warm and whisky-scented against her ear. "Thoda sa... bas ek spoonful? For me?" His English followed, a velvet command. "Open your mouth, Chaitali. Let me see if you taste as sweet as the doi."

Chaitali flinched, the proximity overwhelming. His thumb pressed harder into the muscle of her shoulder, a possessive anchor. "Nahi... please," she slurred in Bengali, turning her face away, the movement causing a fresh wave of dizziness. The bra strap dug sharply into her exposed skin where his grip held her immobile.

Armaan’s smile vanished, replaced by cold calculation. He withdrew his hand abruptly, the sudden absence leaving her skin chilled despite the heat. "Fine," he snapped in Hindi, the charm evaporating. "Waiter! Bill lao!" His voice cut through the ambient noise, sharp and impatient. He pulled out his wallet, thick with notes, barely glancing at the slip the waiter presented. "Haan, theek hai," he muttered, tossing down a wad of cash far exceeding the amount. He commanded Chaitali in English, already sliding out of the booth. "Time to go. Can you walk?"

Chaitali blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift. The whisky’s grip tightened as she clumsily gathered her slipping pallu, fingers fumbling with the silk. "Haan... haan, chal sakti hoon," she mumbled in Bengali, pushing herself upright. Her legs felt unsteady, the floor tilting slightly as she stood. The cool air from the AC hit her sweat-dampened shoulder where the bra strap still lay exposed, raising gooseblesh. She swayed, catching herself on the edge of the table, the lingering scent of mustard oil and fish suddenly nauseating.

Armaan’s hand clamped firmly around her upper arm, steering her through the crowded restaurant. His grip was possessive, impersonal, his linen sleeve rough against hern. "Dheere chalo," he instructed sharply in Hindi, navigating past laughing groups. "Gaadi mein aaram kar lena." The promise of rest in the car felt hollow. Chaitali focused on placing one foot in front of the other, the click of her heels echoing dully in her fogged mind. The cool night air outside hit her face like a slap, thick with exhaust fumes and the distant scent of rain. She inhaled deeply, the sharpness cutting through the whisky haze just enough to make her shiver.

A gust of wind whipped across the parking lot, slicing through the humid Gurgaon night. Chaitali gasped as the sudden chill bit into her sweat-dampened skin. Instinctively, she glanced down – the silk pallu had slipped completely off her shoulder again, pooling loosely around her elbow. The sturdy lace of her bra cup was fully exposed now, stark against the dusky swell of her breast catching the harsh glare of a parking lot floodlight. A wave of mortification washed over her, colder than the wind. "Arre baba" she whispered frantically in Bengali, her thick fingers scrambling to gather the slippery silk. With clumsy urgency, she hauled the pallu back up, dbanging it hastily over both shoulders and pulling a generous fold over her head, the fabric forming a modest cowl that shadowed her flushed face – a gesture instinctively borrowed from the shy dignity of a newlywed bride shielding herself from unfamiliar eyes.

Armaan watched her frantic adjustments from beside the sleek black sedan, his car keys dangling loosely from one finger. A low chuckle escaped him, sharp and amused in the quiet darkness. "Kya hua, Chaitali?" he called out in Hindi, his voice laced with mock concern. "Thand lag rahi hai? Ya phir... sharam aa rahi hai?" He leaned casually against the car door, his eyes gleaming with predatory amusement in the dim light. "Covering up like a village bride now? After all that... appetite?" The English word dripped with insinuation. He unlocked the car with a soft chirp, the headlights flashing briefly, illuminating her hunched figure momentarily before plunging her back into shadow. "Get in," he commanded flatly in English, gesturing towards the passenger seat. "Jaldi karo. AC chalu kar deta hoon."

Just then, a sharp male voice cut through the parking lot's low hum. "Armaan! Yaar, kahan chhupa hua tha?" The familiar, slightly nasal tone sliced through the tension. Armaan froze, his hand still on the car door handle. He turned slowly, a practiced mask of casual surprise sliding over his features. In the deep shadows cast by a towering SUV parked nearby, Ritesh emerged. His old college friend looked incongruous here – slightly rumpled shirt, hair thinning, a paunch straining against his belt. A grin spread across Ritesh's face, revealing slightly crooked teeth. "Sala, office ke baad bhi suit-boot mein?" he teased in Hindi, stepping closer, his eyes flickering past Armaan to take in Chaitali's hunched form clutching her pallu. "Kya scene hai? Party kar rahe the?"