7 hours ago
Chapter 3 - Can He Do It?
Days melted into weeks, the monsoon skies giving way to the oppressive heat of an Indian summer. Ravi's routine became a comfortable, yet torturous, rhythm. He was punctual to a fault, his polished shoes echoing on the marble floor each morning at precisely 7:00 AM. He was the perfect driver, but his eyes were never on the road; they were on his prey, Mrs. Ankita Gupta.
He watched her with the patience of a spider. He saw the way the morning sun would catch the fine hairs on her arms as she watered her balcony plants. He memorized the curve of her spine when she bent over to pick up fallen leaves. He knew the exact shade of her nipples through the thin fabric of her white nightie when she came for her early morning tea, oblivious to his gaze from the driver's seat. Each moment was a delicious torment, a feast he could see but never taste.
Her conservative nature was a fortress with high walls. Ravi quickly understood he had no chance of a direct assault. She was a woman who had built her life around piety and propriety, a fortress he couldn't breach with a simple leer or a suggestive comment.
To his immense frustration, Ankita had adopted him. She had taken him not as an employee, but as a family member. The other residents of Swades Apartments, the gossiping aunties and the bored housewives, saw them together and assumed. "Ankitaji's brother from the village has come to stay," he overheard one say to another in the elevator. Ravi did nothing to correct them. He enjoyed the status.
She treated him like a big brother. "Bhaiya, can you get this from the market?" she would ask, her trust in him absolute. "Ravi bhai, come, I need your opinion on this new saree." She would hold up a vibrant silk, asking for his thoughts, her body inches from his, the scent of jasmine and sweat filling the air, driving him mad. He would give a gruff, brotherly approval while his mind screamed with primal urges. She gave him the keys to the household, the responsibility of her daily tasks, making him indispensable.
Her son, Arjun, was a ghost in their lives, a spoiled, ungrateful specter. Ravi would see the light on the international phone blink for hours, unanswered. He would hear Ankita's voice, soft and pleading, leaving messages that were never returned. "Arjun beta, just call back. It's your mother's birthday." The silence that followed was heavy with her disappointment. Ravi saw her vulnerability in these moments, the crack in her armor, and it fueled a dark hope within him. A lonely woman was a woman who might eventually need a man.
Frustration gnawed at him. He knew that no matter how well he played the part of the loyal, grieving brother, he couldn't seduce this woman. Her piety was too deep, her trust in him too pure. She was blind to the lust that rolled off him in waves.
One afternoon, as they were pulling out of the apartment complex, Ravi's eyes flickered to the passenger seat. He had noticed it before, but today it seemed like a deliberate invitation. The seatbelt lay unused, coiled like a dark snake beside her.
"Mrs. Gupta," he began, keeping his voice casual, concerned. "For your safety, you should wear the seatbelt. The traffic can be unpredictable."
In his mind, a vivid scene played out. He pictured her reaching across her body, pulling the strap taut. He saw the thick band of nylon pressing firmly into the soft flesh of her breasts, flattening them, highlighting their fullness, creating a delicious line of pressure that would draw every eye. The thought made his mouth dry and his loins tighten.
Ankita looked at the seatbelt, then at him, a faint line of annoyance creasing her brow. "No, Ravi bhaiya. I don't like it."
"It is constricting," she explained, her gaze drifting out the window. "It feels... improper. It pulls at the saree. I prefer to be free."
Ravi's heart sank, but a perverse thrill shot through him. Her reason was so typically, so frustratingly, her. It wasn't about safety or rebellion; it was about a misplaced sense of propriety. She would rather risk her life than have a piece of nylon mar the dbang of her saree or feel the "improper" pressure against her body. The irony was not lost on him. He, who fantasized about the most improper acts with her, was being lectured on the impropriety of a seatbelt.
"But Mrs. Gupta, it is for your own good," he pressed, trying one last time, his voice laced with a concern that was entirely for his own viewing pleasure.
She gave him a small, dismissive smile. "I appreciate your concern, bhaiya. But I will be fine. Just drive carefully."
And so, every time they drove, his eyes would be drawn to that empty space beside her, that unused strap. It became a symbol of his frustration—a safety device she rejected, just as she would reject his advances. A simple piece of equipment that stood between him and the spectacle he desperately wanted to see.
Ankita was an island unto herself. She never spoke to the other apartment owners, her social circle limited to the temple and the occasional family obligation. The watchman, a wiry man named Shankar, knew little about her beyond her car number and her flat number.
This is where Ravi found his small victories. He began to linger at the security gate, chatting with Shankar. The new shirts Ankita had bought him, the crisp linen and soft cotton, changed their dynamic.
"You are Mrs. Gupta's brother, no?" Shankar asked one evening, offering Ravi a bidi.
Ravi took it, letting the assumption settle comfortably. "Something like that," he replied with a mysterious smile. "Family is family."
He enjoyed it immensely. He enjoyed the respectful nods from the neighbors who had once ignored him. He enjoyed being seen as someone of consequence, not just a driver. He would never, ever clarify.
The car became their shared sanctuary. Ankita always sat in the front passenger seat, a habit that further blurred the lines of their relationship. To the outside world, they were not employer and employee. They were a brother and his widowed sister, perhaps even something more. Ravi relished this ambiguity, this public intimacy that was so chaste in reality.
One sweltering afternoon, they were stuck in traffic, the air conditioner struggling against the heat. Ankita had been to the temple, and the heat had made her drowsy. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her eyes closed. Her saree, a pale green georgette, had ridden up slightly with her movement, exposing a tantalizing stretch of her calf and ankle. The fine golden chain around her ankle glinted in the sunlight.
Ravi's hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His eyes darted from the unmoving sea of vehicles to the expanse of her skin. He could see the delicate blue veins beneath the surface, the smooth texture he could almost feel. He imagined his fingers tracing that path, up her calf, behind her knee, to the soft flesh of her thigh. His cock swelled, a painful, insistent pressure against his trousers. He shifted in his seat, the movement a silent agony.
He risked a glance at her face. She was fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, her breathing even and deep. She was completely oblivious, trusting him completely in her vulnerable state. The thought sent a jolt of power through him that was more potent than any lust. He was the wolf, and the lamb had fallen asleep beside him.
The traffic began to move, but Ravi didn't want the moment to end. He drove slowly, deliberately, his eyes feasting on her. He saw a drop of sweat trickle down from her temple, along her jawline, and disappear into the soft hollow of her neck. He wanted to lean over, to taste that salt on his tongue. He imagined her waking up, not to a brotherly gaze, but to the raw hunger of a man. What would she do then? Would she scream? Or would the lonely woman within her finally awaken?
He pulled into the apartment's basement parking, killing the engine. The sudden silence was jarring. He turned to her, his heart pounding in his chest. "Mrs. Gupta," he said softly. "We are home."
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep. She smiled at him, a sweet, innocent, brotherly smile. "Oh, I must have dozed off. Thank you, Ravi bhaiya."
Days melted into weeks, the monsoon skies giving way to the oppressive heat of an Indian summer. Ravi's routine became a comfortable, yet torturous, rhythm. He was punctual to a fault, his polished shoes echoing on the marble floor each morning at precisely 7:00 AM. He was the perfect driver, but his eyes were never on the road; they were on his prey, Mrs. Ankita Gupta.
He watched her with the patience of a spider. He saw the way the morning sun would catch the fine hairs on her arms as she watered her balcony plants. He memorized the curve of her spine when she bent over to pick up fallen leaves. He knew the exact shade of her nipples through the thin fabric of her white nightie when she came for her early morning tea, oblivious to his gaze from the driver's seat. Each moment was a delicious torment, a feast he could see but never taste.
Her conservative nature was a fortress with high walls. Ravi quickly understood he had no chance of a direct assault. She was a woman who had built her life around piety and propriety, a fortress he couldn't breach with a simple leer or a suggestive comment.
To his immense frustration, Ankita had adopted him. She had taken him not as an employee, but as a family member. The other residents of Swades Apartments, the gossiping aunties and the bored housewives, saw them together and assumed. "Ankitaji's brother from the village has come to stay," he overheard one say to another in the elevator. Ravi did nothing to correct them. He enjoyed the status.
She treated him like a big brother. "Bhaiya, can you get this from the market?" she would ask, her trust in him absolute. "Ravi bhai, come, I need your opinion on this new saree." She would hold up a vibrant silk, asking for his thoughts, her body inches from his, the scent of jasmine and sweat filling the air, driving him mad. He would give a gruff, brotherly approval while his mind screamed with primal urges. She gave him the keys to the household, the responsibility of her daily tasks, making him indispensable.
Her son, Arjun, was a ghost in their lives, a spoiled, ungrateful specter. Ravi would see the light on the international phone blink for hours, unanswered. He would hear Ankita's voice, soft and pleading, leaving messages that were never returned. "Arjun beta, just call back. It's your mother's birthday." The silence that followed was heavy with her disappointment. Ravi saw her vulnerability in these moments, the crack in her armor, and it fueled a dark hope within him. A lonely woman was a woman who might eventually need a man.
Frustration gnawed at him. He knew that no matter how well he played the part of the loyal, grieving brother, he couldn't seduce this woman. Her piety was too deep, her trust in him too pure. She was blind to the lust that rolled off him in waves.
One afternoon, as they were pulling out of the apartment complex, Ravi's eyes flickered to the passenger seat. He had noticed it before, but today it seemed like a deliberate invitation. The seatbelt lay unused, coiled like a dark snake beside her.
"Mrs. Gupta," he began, keeping his voice casual, concerned. "For your safety, you should wear the seatbelt. The traffic can be unpredictable."
In his mind, a vivid scene played out. He pictured her reaching across her body, pulling the strap taut. He saw the thick band of nylon pressing firmly into the soft flesh of her breasts, flattening them, highlighting their fullness, creating a delicious line of pressure that would draw every eye. The thought made his mouth dry and his loins tighten.
Ankita looked at the seatbelt, then at him, a faint line of annoyance creasing her brow. "No, Ravi bhaiya. I don't like it."
"It is constricting," she explained, her gaze drifting out the window. "It feels... improper. It pulls at the saree. I prefer to be free."
Ravi's heart sank, but a perverse thrill shot through him. Her reason was so typically, so frustratingly, her. It wasn't about safety or rebellion; it was about a misplaced sense of propriety. She would rather risk her life than have a piece of nylon mar the dbang of her saree or feel the "improper" pressure against her body. The irony was not lost on him. He, who fantasized about the most improper acts with her, was being lectured on the impropriety of a seatbelt.
"But Mrs. Gupta, it is for your own good," he pressed, trying one last time, his voice laced with a concern that was entirely for his own viewing pleasure.
She gave him a small, dismissive smile. "I appreciate your concern, bhaiya. But I will be fine. Just drive carefully."
And so, every time they drove, his eyes would be drawn to that empty space beside her, that unused strap. It became a symbol of his frustration—a safety device she rejected, just as she would reject his advances. A simple piece of equipment that stood between him and the spectacle he desperately wanted to see.
Ankita was an island unto herself. She never spoke to the other apartment owners, her social circle limited to the temple and the occasional family obligation. The watchman, a wiry man named Shankar, knew little about her beyond her car number and her flat number.
This is where Ravi found his small victories. He began to linger at the security gate, chatting with Shankar. The new shirts Ankita had bought him, the crisp linen and soft cotton, changed their dynamic.
"You are Mrs. Gupta's brother, no?" Shankar asked one evening, offering Ravi a bidi.
Ravi took it, letting the assumption settle comfortably. "Something like that," he replied with a mysterious smile. "Family is family."
He enjoyed it immensely. He enjoyed the respectful nods from the neighbors who had once ignored him. He enjoyed being seen as someone of consequence, not just a driver. He would never, ever clarify.
The car became their shared sanctuary. Ankita always sat in the front passenger seat, a habit that further blurred the lines of their relationship. To the outside world, they were not employer and employee. They were a brother and his widowed sister, perhaps even something more. Ravi relished this ambiguity, this public intimacy that was so chaste in reality.
One sweltering afternoon, they were stuck in traffic, the air conditioner struggling against the heat. Ankita had been to the temple, and the heat had made her drowsy. She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her eyes closed. Her saree, a pale green georgette, had ridden up slightly with her movement, exposing a tantalizing stretch of her calf and ankle. The fine golden chain around her ankle glinted in the sunlight.
Ravi's hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His eyes darted from the unmoving sea of vehicles to the expanse of her skin. He could see the delicate blue veins beneath the surface, the smooth texture he could almost feel. He imagined his fingers tracing that path, up her calf, behind her knee, to the soft flesh of her thigh. His cock swelled, a painful, insistent pressure against his trousers. He shifted in his seat, the movement a silent agony.
He risked a glance at her face. She was fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, her breathing even and deep. She was completely oblivious, trusting him completely in her vulnerable state. The thought sent a jolt of power through him that was more potent than any lust. He was the wolf, and the lamb had fallen asleep beside him.
The traffic began to move, but Ravi didn't want the moment to end. He drove slowly, deliberately, his eyes feasting on her. He saw a drop of sweat trickle down from her temple, along her jawline, and disappear into the soft hollow of her neck. He wanted to lean over, to taste that salt on his tongue. He imagined her waking up, not to a brotherly gaze, but to the raw hunger of a man. What would she do then? Would she scream? Or would the lonely woman within her finally awaken?
He pulled into the apartment's basement parking, killing the engine. The sudden silence was jarring. He turned to her, his heart pounding in his chest. "Mrs. Gupta," he said softly. "We are home."
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep. She smiled at him, a sweet, innocent, brotherly smile. "Oh, I must have dozed off. Thank you, Ravi bhaiya."
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