Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan slid into the driver’s seat, the leather sighing under his weight. The car’s interior was thick with trapped heat and Chaitali’s scent – coconut oil, whisky, and the faint, intimate musk of her sweat beneath the silk pallu still shrouding her head. He slammed the door shut, the sound a sharp punctuation. Without a word, he jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the floorboards, a low growl that mirrored the tension coiling in his gut. He didn’t look at Chaitali, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he reversed sharply, the tires screeching against the concrete. The headlights swept over Ritesh, still standing there grinning, his silhouette shrinking rapidly in the rearview mirror until swallowed by the darkness.

Chaitali flinched at the sudden acceleration, pressing herself deeper into the passenger seat. The cool leather was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her cheeks and neck. She dared a glance sideways. Armaan’s profile was sharp, unreadable in the dashboard’s green glow, his jaw clenched tight. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thump of her own frantic heartbeat against her ribs. The Shakha Pola felt like a cold, heavy shackle on her wrist. She swallowed, her throat dry and tight. "Sir main" Her voice emerged as a hoarse whisper, thick with Bengali cadence and shame. "Mujhe sorry. Woh shakha-pola usne dekha" She trailed off, unable to articulate the crushing embarrassment, the violation of Ritesh’s touch on her marriage symbols.

Armaan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking. He didn’t turn his head. "Sorry? Kyun?"  He accelerated sharply, weaving through sparse Gurgaon traffic. "Ritesh gadha hai, par tune usko aur curious kar diya. Shaadi-shuda aurat ko dekho, kitni sharmati hai." His tone was laced with a cold amusement. "Par sir woh" she stammered, fingers nervously smoothing the silk over her thigh, feeling the heavy curve beneath. "Mujhe laga professional meeting tha."

He snorted, a harsh sound in the confined space. "Professional?" He finally glanced sideways, his eyes raking her shrouded form. "Teri Shakha-Pola professional hai? Tu office mein pehenti hai?" His Hinglish was sharp, dismissive. "Ritesh ko laga main tera affair kar raha hoon. Ab woh gossip karega. Sabko pata chalega teri 'professional curiosity'." Chaitali shrank back, the damp silk clinging to her collarbone. The Shakha Pola felt like a brand. "Lekin sir" she whispered, the scent of whisky and her own rising panic thick in her nostrils. "Maine kuch nahi kaha"

He cut her off, accelerating through a yellow light. "Chup. Damage control karna padega." His knuckles whitened on the wheel. "Kal office mein sabko clear kar denge – pure professional tha. CRM reports discuss kiye. Property leads." He paused, voice dropping to a cold murmur. "Tu bhi yehi bolegi. Agar kisi ne Ritesh ka naam liya" The unspoken threat hung, heavy as the humid night air. Chaitali nodded mutely, her throat tight.

Armaan suddenly swerved onto a deserted service lane, gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine, plunging them into silence. The only sound was Chaitali’s ragged breathing beneath her pallu. He turned fully, the leather seat creaking. "Ek baat clear karni hai," he stated, his Hinglish low and deliberate. "Teri shaadi teri problem hai. Mere saamne hide mat kar." His gaze burned through the silk dbangd over her head. "Woh pallu utaar."

Chaitali froze, the damp silk suddenly suffocating. "Sir please" she whispered, her Bengali accent thick with panic. "Main comfortable nahi" She clutched the fabric tighter, knuckles white against the dark silk. Armaan leaned closer, invading her space. The scent of his sandalwood aftershave mixed dangerously with the trapped heat of her sweat and fear. "Utar," he repeated, the command flat, final. "Abhi." His hand shot out, not towards her face, but towards the silk pooled heavily over her shoulder.

His fingers closed on the pallu’s edge – rough, impatient. "Dekhna hai ki kya chhupa rahi hai itni," he muttered in Hinglish, a predatory curiosity hardening his voice. He yanked. The silk hissed against itself, dragging across her collarbone. Chaitali gasped, instinctively recoiling against the cool leather seatback. The pallu slid, bunching around her elbow, exposing her bare shoulder and the delicate strap of her lace bra beneath – thin, black, startlingly intimate against her dusky skin. The sudden exposure sent a violent shiver through her, goosebumps erupting on her arms despite the car's stifling warmth. "Bas itna hi?" Armaan’s gaze raked the exposed strap, the swell of her breast hinted at beneath the saree dbangd over her chest. "Blouse nahi pehni aaj?" His thumb brushed the lace strap, the touch deliberate, assessing the flimsy barrier. "Sirf yeh?" His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Kitni bold ho gayi hai tu, Chaitali?"

Chaitali’s breath hitched, trapped in her throat. She tried to pull the pallu back, her fingers clumsy with panic. "Nahi sir please" she stammered, the Bengali lilt thick with desperation. "Office se seedha time nahi mila" The lie sounded feeble even to her own ears. The lace strap dug into her skin where his thumb rested. "Time nahi mila?" Armaan echoed, a cold amusement twisting his lips. "Ya phir kisi aur ke liye taiyar ho rahi thi?" He leaned closer, the sandalwood scent sharp, overwhelming the trapped musk of her sweat and fear. "Dikha ki kitni bold ho."