Misc. Erotica The New Receptionist: Mrs. Chaitali Ghosh's 'Orientation' at the new office

[Mohit.Kumar]

Chaitali's trembling fingers fumbled toward the fifth button, hovering just above the pronounced swell of her belly where the shirt strained tightest. The plastic disc felt slick with her sweat. Before she could pinch it, a distant, echoing SLAM reverberated through the basement’s concrete bones—the heavy fire door crashing shut somewhere deep in the building’s bowels. The sound jolted the men. The humid air crackled with a new tension—fear replacing lust. Only Arjun remained unnervingly still, his cold eyes flicking from the dark corridor back to Chaitali’s frozen form, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The others flinched like startled crows. Deepak hissed, "Security?" Vikram shook his head sharply, finger pressed to lips, listening intently.

Footsteps approached—measured, unhurried—echoing off the damp concrete walls. Not the heavy tread of building security boots, but the sharp, precise click of leather soles. Each tap cut through the basement's thick silence, growing louder, deliberate. The brokers froze, exchanging panicked glances. Arjun’s cold mask slipped for a fraction—a tightening around his eyes. Chaitali remained paralyzed, shirt gaping open, her exposed skin prickling under the sudden chill that wasn't just air. The footsteps stopped just beyond the stacked brochures obscuring the doorway. Silence stretched, thick with dust and dread. Then, a voice—cultured, calm, utterly out of place—cut through the gloom: "Gentlemen. Is this how we welcome new staff?" Mr. Khanna, Vatika’s impeccably tailored Regional Director, stepped into the flickering bulb’s weak halo, his gaze sweeping over Chaitali’s dishevelment, the brokers’ guilty stances, lingering on Arjun’s rigid posture. His expression remained unreadable, polished marble in the grime.

Chaitali gasped, scrambling to clutch her shirt closed, fingers trembling against the damp fabric. The sudden movement pulled the strained trousers tighter across her hips, the cotton panties’ elastic digging sharply into her soft flesh above the waistband. A flush burned up her neck, hotter than the basement’s stale air. "Sir, I—" she stammered, her Bengali accent thick with panic, tears blurring her smudged spectacles. The brokers shuffled backward, Vikram bumping into a shelf. Only Arjun held his ground, jaw clenched, meeting Khanna’s cool appraisal with defiance. Deepak’s rough hand, moments ago possessive on her hip, now hung limp at his side, knuckles white.

Khanna stepped fully into the room, the polished leather of his Oxfords gleaming incongruously against the dusty concrete. His gaze, detached yet piercing, swept over Chaitali’s exposed bra , the sweat-darkened patches beneath her arms, the way her thick thighs quivered within the taut black trousers.  "Mrs. Ghosh," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection, "kindly compose yourself." He didn’t look at the men, yet his presence coiled around them like chilled wire. Rohan swallowed audibly, the sound echoing in the sudden silence broken only by Chaitali’s ragged breaths.

Arjun’s defiance hardened into brittle ice. "Sir, we were just—" Khanna’s hand lifted, a minute gesture silencing him mid-sentence. His eyes remained fixed on Chaitali’s trembling hands clutching her gaping shirt. "The orientation," Khanna murmured, the word dripping with acidic precision, "appears... intensive." He took another step, the click of his heel sharp.

Chaitali flinched as Khanna’s polished shoe stopped inches from her scuffed heel. His gaze traveled upward—past the damp trousers clinging to her thick thighs, over the exposed swell of her belly above the bunched waistband, lingering on the sturdy bra cups straining against her heaving chest. "Button it," he commanded softly, not to her, but to the humid air thick with fear. Chaitali fumbled, fingers slipping on the slick plastic. Vikram shifted, a bead of sweat tracing his temple. Khanna’s stillness was more terrifying than any shout.

Arjun’s jaw worked silently, knuckles white against his cheap polyester trousers. Khanna turned his head slowly, the crisp collar of his shirt barely grazing Arjun’s shoulder. "Your initiative," he murmured, the words icy, "is noted." Arjun’s defiance cracked—a muscle twitching near his eye. Deepak’s breath hitched as Khanna’s gaze swept over him next.

Vikram’s eyes narrowed. Khanna’s tie—usually knotted tight—hung loose, the silk dimpled just below the Adam’s apple. A bead of sweat traced the director’s temple, vanishing into his immaculate hairline. Vikram’s panic coiled into something colder, sharper. He caught Deepak’s eye, flicked a glance toward Khanna’s throat, then down to Chaitali’s trembling hands still clutching her shirt. A silent understanding passed between them—Khanna wasn’t here to rescue her. The reprimand was theatre. The director’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as Chaitali finally managed to fasten the top button, her breasts straining against the damp fabric with each shallow breath.

Khanna’s polished facade remained intact, but his gaze lingered on Chaitali’s waistband where the trousers dug deep, carving a reddened line into the soft flesh above her hip. "This basement," he stated, his voice unnervingly calm, "is unsuitable for... onboarding." He gestured toward the stairs with a flick of his wrist. "Mrs. Ghosh, return to your desk. Now."

Chaitali stumbled forward, the heels catching on uneven concrete. The director’s throat worked as he watched Chaitali’s wide hips sway up the dim staircase, the black trousers stretched taut across each heavy cheek, whispering with every step. The brokers exchanged glances—not relief, but a feral understanding. Khanna’s reprimand wasn’t protection; it was claim-staking.

Deepak’s knuckles brushed Vikram’s arm. "Saala khud ka tie dheela kar raha tha," he breathed, barely audible. Vikram nodded. Khanna’s polished detachment had cracked—a bead of sweat, the loosened silk, the way his nostrils flared when Chaitali’s trembling fingers fumbled with her buttons. The director wasn’t immune, he was hungry.

Chaitali stumbled into the third-floor washroom, the fluorescent glare blinding after the basement gloom. Her reflection in the smudged mirror was a stranger—shirt gaping where buttons strained, bra strap twisted, trousers riding low on her hips, the elastic waistband of her cotton panties digging angry red lines into dusky flesh. Sweat plastered stray hairs to her temples. She clutched the cold porcelain sink, knuckles white, gulping air thick with disinfectant. Training, she told herself, forcing a shaky inhale. Professional adjustment. Her fingers trembled as she straightened her bra strap, tucking it securely beneath the damp shirt fabric. She smoothed the bunched waistband of her trousers, wincing as the material pulled taut across her hips, the seam biting deep into the cleft. With clumsy, urgent movements, she refastened every button, her breasts protesting against the confinement. She splashed icy water on her face, the shock jolting her senses. Water dripped onto her collar as she adjusted her spectacles, pushing them firmly up her nose. The smudged lenses magnified her wide, bewildered eyes—confusion warring with a dawning, unsettling suspicion.

She pushed through the frosted glass door into the reception area. The familiar hum of the overhead lights offered no comfort. Her desk felt like a fragile island. Collapsing into her chair, the cheap plastic groaned under her weight. She pressed her trembling palms flat against the cool laminate surface, trying to anchor herself. The memory of Khanna’s detached scrutiny – his gaze lingering on her strained buttons, her damp patches, the indentations above her waistband – washed over her. His command echoed: *Go back to your desk.* It hadn’t been rescue; it felt like dismissal.. She fumbled for her water bottle, gulping lukewarm water, the liquid doing little to soothe the raw tightness in her throat. Her reflection in the dark computer monitor was a smudged ghost – dishevelled hair escaping her bun, spectacles askew, shirt wrinkled and clinging where sweat had dried.