05-02-2026, 03:08 PM
Divya sat at the dining table under the single tube light, red pen hovering over the last question paper.
The nighty felt tighter than she remembered — the thin white cotton clinging to her damp skin, neckline dipping low every time she leaned forward.
She tried to focus on the child’s answers, but her mind kept drifting: to the empty bedroom, to Ranjith miles away at his parents’ house, to Monu’s soft breathing from the next room.
Then she heard it.
A hoarse, familiar shout drifting up the lane from the main road:
“Roti do… bhagwan ke naam pe roti do… maa-baap ki dua lenge…”
The old beggar.
He came every week — same cracked voice, same tattered kurta, same stooped walk with a crooked stick.
Usually she ignored him from inside the house, or sent Monu with a piece of bread if he was awake.
But tonight the house felt too quiet, too full of her own thoughts.
She stood up. The nighty shifted, riding up slightly on her thighs. She tugged it down absentmindedly, went to the kitchen, tore two warm rotis from the stack still covered with a cloth, folded them in half, and walked to the front door.
She opened it quietly.
Stepped onto the small porch. The gate was only a few feet away.
The beggar had already turned into their street — slow, shuffling steps.
When he saw her standing there in the dim porch light, he stopped.
His rheumy eyes lifted.
Divya hesitated for half a second.
Then she pushed the gate open and stepped onto the road — barefoot, nighty swaying gently with each step.
The street was empty except for a distant street lamp flickering and a stray dog watching from the shadows.
She walked the short distance to him, holding out the folded rotis.
“Here, baba… le lo.”
The old man stared.
Not at the rotis.
At her.
The tight white nighty — damp from the bath, semi-sheer in the yellow streetlight — outlined every curve.
Her full breasts moved freely beneath the thin fabric as she walked: soft, natural bounce with each step, nipples faintly visible as dark shadows pressing against cotton.
The neckline dipped low enough that the upper swells were clearly on display, mangalsutra nestled deep in the cleavage, swaying gently.
He didn’t move to take the rotis at first.
Just stared — stunned, mouth slightly open, stick forgotten in his gnarled hand.
Divya felt the weight of his gaze instantly.
She suddenly became aware of everything: the cool night air making the fabric cling even tighter, the way her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the faint outline of her body that the nighty did nothing to hide.
She thrust the rotis forward again — a little more urgently.
“Le lo, baba… thanda ho jayega.”
The beggar finally blinked. His trembling hand reached out, took the rotis slowly. His fingers brushed hers — rough, calloused, cold.
“Shukriya… beti…” he rasped, voice cracking.
But his eyes never left her chest.
The nighty felt tighter than she remembered — the thin white cotton clinging to her damp skin, neckline dipping low every time she leaned forward.
She tried to focus on the child’s answers, but her mind kept drifting: to the empty bedroom, to Ranjith miles away at his parents’ house, to Monu’s soft breathing from the next room.
Then she heard it.
A hoarse, familiar shout drifting up the lane from the main road:
“Roti do… bhagwan ke naam pe roti do… maa-baap ki dua lenge…”
The old beggar.
He came every week — same cracked voice, same tattered kurta, same stooped walk with a crooked stick.
Usually she ignored him from inside the house, or sent Monu with a piece of bread if he was awake.
But tonight the house felt too quiet, too full of her own thoughts.
She stood up. The nighty shifted, riding up slightly on her thighs. She tugged it down absentmindedly, went to the kitchen, tore two warm rotis from the stack still covered with a cloth, folded them in half, and walked to the front door.
She opened it quietly.
Stepped onto the small porch. The gate was only a few feet away.
The beggar had already turned into their street — slow, shuffling steps.
When he saw her standing there in the dim porch light, he stopped.
His rheumy eyes lifted.
Divya hesitated for half a second.
Then she pushed the gate open and stepped onto the road — barefoot, nighty swaying gently with each step.
The street was empty except for a distant street lamp flickering and a stray dog watching from the shadows.
She walked the short distance to him, holding out the folded rotis.
“Here, baba… le lo.”
The old man stared.
Not at the rotis.
At her.
The tight white nighty — damp from the bath, semi-sheer in the yellow streetlight — outlined every curve.
Her full breasts moved freely beneath the thin fabric as she walked: soft, natural bounce with each step, nipples faintly visible as dark shadows pressing against cotton.
The neckline dipped low enough that the upper swells were clearly on display, mangalsutra nestled deep in the cleavage, swaying gently.
He didn’t move to take the rotis at first.
Just stared — stunned, mouth slightly open, stick forgotten in his gnarled hand.
Divya felt the weight of his gaze instantly.
She suddenly became aware of everything: the cool night air making the fabric cling even tighter, the way her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the faint outline of her body that the nighty did nothing to hide.
She thrust the rotis forward again — a little more urgently.
“Le lo, baba… thanda ho jayega.”
The beggar finally blinked. His trembling hand reached out, took the rotis slowly. His fingers brushed hers — rough, calloused, cold.
“Shukriya… beti…” he rasped, voice cracking.
But his eyes never left her chest.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)