Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the car keys, the metal biting into his palm. The interruption was jarring, unwelcome. He forced a chuckle, the sound hollow in the cool night air. "Bas yaar, dinner tha. Professional meeting." His Hindi was clipped, dismissive. He subtly shifted his body, attempting to block Ritesh’s view of Chaitali, who stood frozen, her face still shadowed by the dbangd silk, the scent of coconut oil and whisky clinging to her like a shroud. Ritesh’s gaze, however, lingered, curiosity piqued by her obscured presence and Armaan’s uncharacteristic stiffness. "Professional?" Ritesh snorted, switching to Hinglish. "Tera yeh professional meeting... thoda tipsy lag rahi hai, bro?" He gestured vaguely towards Chaitali’s swaying silhouette. "Theek hai na, madam?"

Armaan’s jaw tightened. The predatory ease vanished, replaced by a cold irritation. He knew Ritesh – persistent, gossipy, impossible to shake off easily. With a curt sigh, he stepped aside, revealing Chaitali fully. Her pallu was pulled tightly over her head like a shroud, shadowing her face, her arms crossed protectively over her chest despite the heavy silk. "Meet Chaitali Ghosh," Armaan introduced flatly in English, the formality stark. "New CRM at Vatika." He turned to Chaitali, his voice dropping into a low, insistent murmur laced with Hindi. "Chaitali, yeh Ritesh hai. Mera college friend." The introduction felt like an exposure, stripping away the intimate darkness of the booth.

Chaitali flinched at the sudden spotlight. The wind whipped strands of hair loose from her pallu, stinging her flushed cheeks. She forced her head up, meeting Ritesh’s curious gaze. Her eyes were glazed, pupils dilated from whisky and exhaustion. "Namaskar," she mumbled in Bengali, the greeting thick and slurred. She instinctively clutched the pallu tighter under her chin, the damp silk sticking to her collarbone. The sturdy lace edge of her bra pressed uncomfortably against her skin beneath the fabric. Ritesh grinned wider, oblivious to the tension. "Arre wah! Bengali madam!" he exclaimed in enthusiastic Hinglish, stepping closer. "Kaise ho? Armaan ne toh kabhi bataya nahi office mein itni sundar colleague hai!" His gaze lingered appreciatively on her dbangd figure, missing the tremor in her hands.

He thrust his hand out. "Ritesh Sharma. Armaan ka dost." Chaitali hesitated, her fingers sticky with residual turmeric oil and sweat. Slowly, reluctantly, she uncurled one hand from its protective grip on her pallu and extended it. Ritesh clasped her hand firmly, his grip warm and slightly damp. He didn't release it immediately. Instead, his thumb slid unconsciously over the pronounced ridge of her knuckles, his eyes dropping to her wrist. There, stark against her dusky skin, lay the traditional symbols: the thick, red-and-white bangles. His grin softened into genuine curiosity. "Ye kya hai?" he asked, his Hindi gentle, tilting her hand slightly to get a better look at the ornaments glinting under the parking lot lights. "Bahut sundar laga... par pehli baar dekha hai." His thumb lingered near the cool of the pola, feeling its texture..

Chaitali flinched at the prolonged contact, the whisky amplifying her discomfort. She tried to pull her hand back, but Ritesh held on with friendly insistence. "Shakha Pola," she mumbled in Bengali, her voice thick. "Bengali shaadi ki chinh hai." She tugged harder, her palm slick. Ritesh finally released her, chuckling softly. "Arre wah! Married?" he exclaimed in Hinglish, his eyes flicking briefly towards Armaan, whose expression had hardened into stone. "Armaan, tune toh kaha tha professional meeting?" Chaitali quickly hid her hand back under the folds of her pallu, the cool silk a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her cheeks. The Shakha Pola felt suddenly heavy, a reminder of a life far removed from this humid parking lot and predatory eyes.

Ritesh grinned wider, nudging Armaan playfully. "Yaar, tu toh kamaal kar raha hai!" he teased in Hindi, his tone thick with insinuation. "Mature married lady ko Cyber Hub mein dinner? Professional curiosity ka level hi alag hai tera!" He winked broadly at Chaitali, whose blush deepened to a dusky crimson visible even in the shadows. "Madam ko toh tumne bahut blush karwa diya!" Armaan’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath his skin. He forced a short, humourless laugh. "Bas Ritesh, tu bhi na..." he muttered dismissively in Hinglish, "Chill kar. CRM discuss kar rahe the bas." But his eyes, cold and watchful, tracked Ritesh’s lingering gaze on Chaitali’s dbangd figure, noting the undisguised curiosity mixed with amusement.

Chaitali stood frozen, the silk pallu pulled taut over her head like a shield. Ritesh’s teasing words echoed in her whisky-fogged mind – mature married lady, blush. Mortification burned hotter than the alcohol in her veins. She could feel Ritesh’s eyes dissecting her silhouette beneath the heavy silk, lingering on the exposed bra strap at her shoulder where the pallu had slipped again. "Sir... main gaadi mein baith sakti hoon?" she whispered hoarsely in Bengali, her voice trembling. The cool night air did nothing to soothe the prickling heat spreading across her chest and neck. Her Shakha Pola felt like a cold, accusing weight against her wrist.

Ritesh chuckled, leaning closer to Armaan with a conspiratorial grin. "Yaar, dekha tune?" he murmured in Hindi, nodding towards Chaitali’s hunched form. "Shaadi-shuda aurat ko itna embarrass kar diya tune? Poori kali kali ho gayi blush se!" He switched to Hinglish, raising his voice slightly for her benefit, "Arre madam, relax karo! Hamare Armaan ka style hi aisa hai – sharks ko bhi patane wala!" His laughter boomed, sharp and intrusive in the quiet parking lot. Armaan forced a tight smile, his knuckles white around the car keys. He saw Ritesh’s gaze flicker back to Chaitali – not just amused now, but genuinely intrigued by her flustered dignity, the way her damp sari clung to the heavy curve of her hip as she shifted uncomfortably.

Armaan’s reply was clipped, layered with warning. "Bas Ritesh, bakchodi band kar," he hissed in Hindi, stepping deliberately between his friend and Chaitali’s trembling silhouette. "Gaadi mein baith," he commanded her in English, jerking his chin towards the open passenger door. Chaitali stumbled forward gratefully, the cool leather upholstery hitting the backs of her thighs as she sank into the seat. She pulled the pallu tighter, burying her flushed face in the folds, the scent of coconut oil and whisky trapped against her skin. Ritesh watched her retreat, his grin fading into thoughtful appraisal. "Seriously yaar," he murmured, switching back to Hinglish as Armaan moved to shut the door, "Who is she? Full milf material hai... details bata na. Kaise pakda?" His eyes lingered on the shadowed outline of Chaitali’s ample bosom rising and falling rapidly beneath the silk.

Armaan slammed the car door shut harder than necessary, the sharp thud echoing in the parking lot. He turned to Ritesh, his voice low and dangerous. "Tu apna kaam dekh," he growled in Hindi, the charm utterly absent. "Yeh teri fantasy nahi hai." But Ritesh only chuckled, unfazed, leaning closer. "Arre, tension mat le!" he teased, his Hinglish dripping with insinuation. "Mature aurat ko handle karna teri expertise hai, I know. Par uska blush... dekha tune? Kaliyan phoot rahi thi uske gaal pe!" He nudged Armaan’s arm conspiratorially. "Shaadi ke baad bhi itni sharm? Rare hai yaar." Armaan’s gaze flickered to the car window, catching Chaitali’s hunched profile behind the tinted glass. He saw Ritesh’s genuine fascination – not just crude interest, but a sharp curiosity about the woman beneath the sari and the Shakha Pola.

Inside the stifling car, Chaitali pressed her burning cheek against the cool leather seat. Ritesh’s booming laugh penetrated the glass – "Professional meeting, haan! Tu toh serial killer lagta hai, Armaan!" – followed by Armaan’s sharp retort in Hindi she couldn’t fully catch. Each word was a needle prick. Her Shakha Pola felt like ice against her feverish wrist. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image flashed: Ritesh’s amused eyes dissecting her exposed bra strap, his thumb brushing her Shakha. Mortification warred with the whisky’s lingering warmth, making her stomach churn. The scent of Armaan’s sandalwood aftershave mixed with her own sweat trapped under the silk pallu, thick and cloying. She pulled the fabric tighter, desperate to vanish, the damp silk sticking uncomfortably to the sweat-slicked skin of her neck and collarbone.

Outside, Armaan leaned against the car, his posture deceptively relaxed. Ritesh nudged him, grinning. "Yaar, seriously," he pressed in Hinglish, voice lowered but carrying, "Shaadi-shuda Bengali milf ko date pe le aaya? Full guts!" He chuckled, nodding towards the tinted window where Chaitali’s shadowy form hunched. "Dekh tune uska face jab maine shakha-pola dekha? " Armaan’s jaw tightened, but a flicker of cold amusement touched his lips. "Chutiya hai kya?" he shot back, his Hindi sharp. "Discussing property leads tha. Uska husband NRI hai, Dubai mein. Connections useful ho sakte hain." The lie was smooth, transactional. Yet, he watched Ritesh’s gaze linger on the car window, noting the undisguised curiosity – less crude now, more intrigued by the flustered dignity she radiated even in retreat.

Ritesh snorted, unconvinced. "Property leads?" He mimed quotation marks, switching fluidly to Hinglish. "Tera 'lead' abhi gaadi mein blush kar raha hai, yaar! Poori kali kali ho gayi thi mere comment se." He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Par sahi mein... kaise hai woh? Thick hai na? Solid maal?" Armaan’s knuckles whitened around his keys, the metal biting into his palm. He forced a dismissive shrug. "Bas. Average." But Ritesh caught the slight dilation in Armaan’s pupils, the involuntary glance back at the car. "Average?" Ritesh laughed, a low, knowing rumble. "Tere muh se jhoot bol raha hai, dost. Dekha maine uski back? Saree tight tha... full shape dikh raha tha. Aur woh blush..." He shook his head appreciatively. "Shaadi ke baad bhi itni sharm? Rare hai. Tu pakka kuch khaas plan kar raha hai."

Armaan pushed off the car door, the movement abrupt. "Chal, ab main jaata hoon," he stated flatly in Hindi, the charm utterly absent. "Tu apna kaam dekh." He moved towards the driver’s side, but Ritesh blocked his path slightly, his grin widening. "Arre, tension mat le! Bas ek baat bata... seriously interested hai kya tu?" His eyes gleamed with crude curiosity. "Full milf hai woh, yaar. Experience wali. Kya plan hai?" Armaan paused, the cool night air chilling the sweat at his temples. He met Ritesh’s gaze, a slow, predatory smirk finally touching his lips. "Kal bataunga," he murmured in Hinglish, the promise loaded and dark. "Abhi nahi. She’s... waiting." He jerked his chin towards the impatient silhouette behind the tinted glass. Ritesh chuckled, stepping back with a mock salute. "Sahi hai, player! Kal full details chahiye. No filter."