12-12-2025, 02:49 PM
(This post was last modified: 13-12-2025, 05:36 AM by ashuezy2. Edited 6 times in total. Edited 6 times in total.)
Hi, I am Sarika, doing BA Psychology, South Campus at New Delhi.
I live in a Barsati (terrace flat) in Satya Niketan, right opposite the college. My landlord just rented the floor below me to a guy named Girish, a struggling artist, a brooding type.
It was July 24th and that day Delhi drowned. The sky turned black at 4:00 PM, and the clouds burst over the Aravalli Ridge. The traffic on Ring Road was paralyzed.
I was on my balcony, combing my hair, watching the chaos. That’s when I saw the car.
A massive, black SUV with diplomatic plates, it was stuck in the gridlock below, near the foot-over bridge. It hadn't moved for 20 minutes. Suddenly, the back door opened.
A woman stepped out.
This wasn't a college girl like me. This was a woman.
Even from the second floor, the Shape was undeniable. She was the definition of Naturally voluptuous, heavy-set but firm. She was dressed for a formal government function - wearing a heavy, expensive Crimson Red Chiffon Saree.
You know how Delhi humidity is before the rain, It makes everything stick. She stood by the car for a second, arguing with her driver. She pointed toward the narrow lane leading to our building. The driver refused to go in.
She made a choice. She slammed the door shut and started walking. Alone. Into the Satya Niketan lanes.
Then, the heavens opened.
It wasn't a drizzle; it was a violent, vertical sheet of water. I watched her from above. Most women would run for shelter. She didn't. She walked faster, but she didn't hide.
Within ten seconds, that expensive crimson chiffon was destroyed. The saree, which was loose and flowing a moment ago, became a Second Skin. The weight of the water dragged the pallu down. It clung aggressively to her body.
The fabric plastered against her wide, heavy hips, outlining the curve of her waist-chain (kamarbandh) underneath.
The blouse was a deep-cut designer piece, sleeveless. The rain soaked it instantly, turning the fabric translucent. I could see the heavy, rapid rise and fall of her chest as she navigated the puddles.
She wasn't just walking; she was struggling. Her high heels were slipping in the mud. She reached down, unbuckled them, and kicked them off. Now she was barefoot on the Delhi streets. A diplomat's wife, barefoot in the mud, ruining a 50,000 rupee saree... for what? Or for whom?
She had climbed two flights of stairs after walking a kilometre in the rain. She was gasping. Her mouth was slightly open, sucking in air. Her heavy chest was heaving so violently it looked painful.
The humidity and exertion had turned her golden skin a deep, flushed red at the neck and cleavage.
Her hair bun had collapsed. Wet strands were plastered across her face and neck. The pallu had slipped from her shoulder, hanging loosely over her arm, revealing the deep plunge of her neckline and the soft folds of her midriff.
She looked wrecked. She looked desperate. She looked magnificent.
She reached our building gate. She didn't ring the bell. She pushed it open and ran up the stairs.
I leaned over the railing. I had to see. She stopped at the first floor, Girish’s door.
She stood there for exactly five seconds before knocking.
![[Image: aQEJDqyu_o.gif]](https://images2.imgbox.com/a2/2c/aQEJDqyu_o.gif)
The door opened. Girish stood there.
He was wearing track pants, holding a coffee mug, looking bored. Then he looked down.
He saw the mud on her feet. He saw the diplomatic car abandoned on the main road far away. He saw the sheer, wet crimson fabric clinging to her voluptuous curves, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
He realized what I realized: She had burned her world to get to him.
She didn't say "Hello." She didn't say "I missed you." She leaned against the doorframe, water dripping from her nose, shivering violently, and whispered: "My husband is at the States Lower House. I have one hour."
Girish dropped the mug. It shattered. He didn't care. He grabbed her by the waist—his hands pressing into the wet silk on her hips—and pulled her inside. The force of it almost lifted her off the ground. He slammed the door.
I live in a Barsati (terrace flat) in Satya Niketan, right opposite the college. My landlord just rented the floor below me to a guy named Girish, a struggling artist, a brooding type.
It was July 24th and that day Delhi drowned. The sky turned black at 4:00 PM, and the clouds burst over the Aravalli Ridge. The traffic on Ring Road was paralyzed.
I was on my balcony, combing my hair, watching the chaos. That’s when I saw the car.
A massive, black SUV with diplomatic plates, it was stuck in the gridlock below, near the foot-over bridge. It hadn't moved for 20 minutes. Suddenly, the back door opened.
A woman stepped out.
This wasn't a college girl like me. This was a woman.
Even from the second floor, the Shape was undeniable. She was the definition of Naturally voluptuous, heavy-set but firm. She was dressed for a formal government function - wearing a heavy, expensive Crimson Red Chiffon Saree.
You know how Delhi humidity is before the rain, It makes everything stick. She stood by the car for a second, arguing with her driver. She pointed toward the narrow lane leading to our building. The driver refused to go in.
She made a choice. She slammed the door shut and started walking. Alone. Into the Satya Niketan lanes.
Then, the heavens opened.
It wasn't a drizzle; it was a violent, vertical sheet of water. I watched her from above. Most women would run for shelter. She didn't. She walked faster, but she didn't hide.
Within ten seconds, that expensive crimson chiffon was destroyed. The saree, which was loose and flowing a moment ago, became a Second Skin. The weight of the water dragged the pallu down. It clung aggressively to her body.
The fabric plastered against her wide, heavy hips, outlining the curve of her waist-chain (kamarbandh) underneath.
The blouse was a deep-cut designer piece, sleeveless. The rain soaked it instantly, turning the fabric translucent. I could see the heavy, rapid rise and fall of her chest as she navigated the puddles.
She wasn't just walking; she was struggling. Her high heels were slipping in the mud. She reached down, unbuckled them, and kicked them off. Now she was barefoot on the Delhi streets. A diplomat's wife, barefoot in the mud, ruining a 50,000 rupee saree... for what? Or for whom?
She had climbed two flights of stairs after walking a kilometre in the rain. She was gasping. Her mouth was slightly open, sucking in air. Her heavy chest was heaving so violently it looked painful.
The humidity and exertion had turned her golden skin a deep, flushed red at the neck and cleavage.
Her hair bun had collapsed. Wet strands were plastered across her face and neck. The pallu had slipped from her shoulder, hanging loosely over her arm, revealing the deep plunge of her neckline and the soft folds of her midriff.
She looked wrecked. She looked desperate. She looked magnificent.
She reached our building gate. She didn't ring the bell. She pushed it open and ran up the stairs.
I leaned over the railing. I had to see. She stopped at the first floor, Girish’s door.
She stood there for exactly five seconds before knocking.
The door opened. Girish stood there.
He was wearing track pants, holding a coffee mug, looking bored. Then he looked down.
He saw the mud on her feet. He saw the diplomatic car abandoned on the main road far away. He saw the sheer, wet crimson fabric clinging to her voluptuous curves, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
He realized what I realized: She had burned her world to get to him.
She didn't say "Hello." She didn't say "I missed you." She leaned against the doorframe, water dripping from her nose, shivering violently, and whispered: "My husband is at the States Lower House. I have one hour."
Girish dropped the mug. It shattered. He didn't care. He grabbed her by the waist—his hands pressing into the wet silk on her hips—and pulled her inside. The force of it almost lifted her off the ground. He slammed the door.
- PM me for Exclusive content. Stories with full videos for end to end scenes.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)