30-05-2026, 02:45 PM
The door clicked shut behind her.
Devika stood motionless in the small entryway of 2B, both palms flat against the wood, listening. Waiting for his footsteps to retreat. For his door to open and close. For the landing to return to its empty, ordinary silence.
When it came — the soft shuffle of his chappals crossing the few meters to 2A, the creak of his hinges, the gentle thud of wood meeting frame — she exhaled. Pushed herself away from the door.
Her reflection caught her in the small mirror hung beside the coat hooks. Flushed face. Loose strands of hair escaping the bun. Pallu askew despite her frantic adjustments in the lift. She looked exactly like what she was — a woman who had just been pressed against a wall by a man who wasn't her husband.
Her heart hammered. She pressed her hand flat against her sternum, felt the wild percussion beneath her ribs, and tried to slow her breathing through sheer will.
What did I do? What did I just allow to happen?
The memory replayed without permission. His arms wrapping around her. The hardness pressing into her thigh. No — not thigh. Between her backside. Through the layers. She'd felt the thickness of it. The heat. And she'd... what had she done?
Nothing. I did nothing. I told him to stop.
But her hands — God, her hands — had reached back. Had gripped his thighs through the dhoti. Had held him there instead of pushing him away.
She walked to the bedroom on unsteady feet. Sat on the edge of the mattress. Stared at her own lap.
His face buried in her neck. The coarse scbang of his mustache dragging across her skin. The wet heat of his mouth when he'd kissed — yes, kissed, despite her protest — the hollow of her throat. She touched the spot now with trembling fingers. The skin felt normal. Unchanged. But the ghost of sensation remained, etched into nerve endings that refused to forget.
And then he'd turned her. Pressed her against the cold metal wall. His entire body flush behind hers, his hardness nestled perfectly into the division of her backside, and the way he'd ground himself forward—
Her breath caught.
I arched my back.
The realization landed with physical force. She'd pressed into him. Curved her spine. Pushed her backside harder against his groin in a movement so instinctive, so nakedly responsive, that denying it now felt obscene.
She stood abruptly. Walked to the attached bathroom. Locked the door despite being alone in the flat.
The mirror here was larger. She stood before it and slowly — with the careful movements of someone examining a wound — loosened her saree. The fabric slipped from her shoulder. She let it pool around her waist.
Her blouse remained. Modest. High-necked. But the strap of her bra was visible at the shoulder seam, a thin black elastic against fair skin.
He'd bitten it.
She touched the strap. Pulled it aside. The skin beneath showed no mark — no bruise, no redness — but she remembered the pressure of his teeth. The way he'd tugged it with his mouth like an animal testing a tether.
Her hands moved lower. Unfastened the blouse hooks with fingers that wouldn't quite steady. The fabric parted. Fell away.
She stood in her black bra and petticoat, staring at herself.
Her nipples pressed hard against the thin cups. Two small peaks visible through the fabric, unmistakable even in the bathroom's harsh fluorescent light.
Oh God.
She cupped her breasts through the bra. Felt the stiff points against her palms. They'd been like this since the lift. Since his arms wrapped around her waist. Maybe even before — maybe from the moment the doors closed and she'd realized they were alone together in that small metal box.
I enjoyed it.
The thought arrived clean and terrible. No qualifications. No excuses. She had felt his hardness pressing into her body, had smelled his sweat and sandalwood, had heard him call her perfect, and her body had responded with a hunger she didn't recognize.
Arjun had never made her feel like this. Their wedding night had been fumbling and brief. Their intimacy since — scheduled around his work calls, performed in darkness, concluded with a quick kiss before he rolled over and slept — left her feeling more alone than satisfied.
But this dirty old man. This widowed, pot-bellied, mustached uncle who read newspapers on landing benches and spoke gentle Marathi. He'd pressed her against a wall and told her she should be taken from behind every night, and her entire body had ignited like paper touched to flame.
What is wrong with me?
She released her breasts. Stepped back from the mirror. Tried to find the good Kerala girl her mother had raised — convent-educated, properly married, modest in saree and speech. That girl wouldn't have gripped a man's thighs in a broken lift. That girl would have screamed. Would have slapped him the moment his lips touched her neck.
But that girl was nowhere in this bathroom mirror.
The woman staring back had hard nipples and flushed cheeks and the beginning of something dangerous blooming behind her eyes. A realization settling into place with the weight of stone.
I can't escape from him.
The words formed silently. She tested them. Turned them over. They felt true in a way that made her stomach drop.
He lived next door. He knew her schedule. He'd already proven he would involve Arjun — sweetly, strategically — if she continued avoiding him. The city outside their building was hostile and unfamiliar. Kulkarni was her only anchor here, the only person who guided her through markets and translations and lonely afternoons.
And now he'd touched her. Smelled her. Pressed his hardness against her body and made her arch into him. The boundary had dissolved. Whatever fragile distance she'd tried to maintain these past four days had shattered the moment she stepped into that lift.
There's no going back.
She redressed mechanically. Blouse hooks fastened. Saree wrapped and pinned. Hair smoothed. The jasmine in her bun had wilted completely — brown edges curling inward — but she left it there anyway.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the flat felt different. Smaller. The walls pressed closer. Through the kitchen window, she could hear the muffled sounds of Kulkarni's television through the shared wall between 2A and 2B.
He was there. Right there. Meters away.
Her lips curved.
She caught the smile before it fully formed — stopped it, pushed it back down — but the ghost of it remained. A small, involuntary upturn at the corners of her mouth that she couldn't quite erase.
Why am I smiling?
No answer came. Or perhaps the answer lived in her still-hard nipples, in the warmth pooling low in her belly, in the memory of his voice saying you should be taken from behind with such raw certainty that her knees had gone soft.
She walked to the kitchen. Picked up the steel container of shira he'd brought earlier. Opened it. The sweet smell of semolina and ghee rose up.
Devika stood in her empty kitchen, holding an old man's dessert, and felt the ground beneath her shift one final time.
Through the wall, in Flat 2A, Kulkarni sat in his chair with his hands folded across his stomach.
He hadn't moved since entering his flat. Couldn't move. His body still hummed with the memory of her — jasmine and sweat, the softness of her backside pressing into his groin, the way she'd curved her spine and pushed harder against him instead of pulling away.
She didn't resist.
Oh, she'd said the words. Stop. Uncle. Don't. But her hands had gripped his thighs. Her back had arched. Her breath had come fast and shallow against the lift wall, and when he'd ground himself forward one final time before the motor restarted, she'd made a sound — small, helpless, utterly betraying — that lived now in his memory like a treasure he'd stolen and buried.
She was acting. Performing resistance because good wives were supposed to resist. But her body told the truth. Her hard nipples pressed against his chest. The heat radiating through her saree. The way she'd let him turn her, position her, press her exactly where he wanted her.
And then she smiled.
That final smile before closing her door — reluctant, furious, helpless — had confirmed everything. She was already his. She just didn't know it yet.
He closed his eyes. Pictured her standing in 2B right now, probably in front of a mirror, touching the places his mouth had been. Wondering what came next. Knowing — as he knew — that the Rubicon had been crossed.
His hand moved to his groin. Pressed against the hardness still straining beneath his dhoti. He'd waited sixty-seven years for a woman like her to walk through his door asking for help.
Bhagwan had finally answered.
The message came that night at 10:47 PM.
Kulkarni Uncle: Sweet dreams, beta. Sleep well.
Devika stared at her phone screen. The words looked innocent enough — grandfatherly, appropriate — but she could read what lived beneath them. The knowledge of what had happened in the lift. The certainty in his tone, as if boundaries had been dissolved and new rules established without her permission.
She typed three different responses. Deleted all of them. Finally locked her phone and placed it face-down on the bedside table.
Arjun snored softly beside her, one arm thrown across his eyes. He'd come home at nine, eaten quickly, and collapsed into bed without asking about her day. She listened to his breathing — steady, untroubled, completely unaware that his wife had spent the evening standing in front of mirrors examining bite marks.
The second message arrived at 11:23 PM.
Kulkarni Uncle: Tomorrow also I will be home. You can come for chai anytime.
Again, she didn't respond.
Three days passed.
Devika threw herself into housework with manic intensity. She cleaned cupboards that didn't need cleaning. Reorganized the kitchen three times. Stayed inside the flat from morning until Arjun returned, avoiding the corridor, the balcony, any space where Kulkarni might materialize with his soft smile and knowing eyes.
On the second day, she heard his door open while she stood near her own. Footsteps in the corridor. A pause outside 2B. She held her breath, frozen in her kitchen, until the footsteps retreated and his door clicked shut again.
On the third day, Saradha knocked and invited her for coffee. Devika made excuses — headache, tired, maybe tomorrow — and listened to Saradha's concerned questions through the door until the older woman finally left.
Her phone accumulated messages.
Kulkarni Uncle: Not feeling well, beta? I haven't seen you.
Kulkarni Uncle: If you need anything from market, just tell me.
Kulkarni Uncle: Why are you hiding? We are neighbours. Friends.
She deleted each one without responding. As if silence could undo what had happened. As if ignoring him would reset the clock to before the lift, before his mouth on her neck, before the moment she'd arched her back and let him feel exactly what her body wanted.
But on the fourth morning, Arjun reminded her about the ration card application.
"Did you submit the documents to the PDS office yet?"
Devika looked up from her chai. "What documents?"
"For the subsidized rations. I told you last week." He spoke while checking his phone, not meeting her eyes. "You need to go to the Civil Supplies office in Kothrud. Take the rental agreement, marriage certificate, my ID proof. They'll process it there."
Her stomach dropped. "I don't... where is this office?"
"Google it. It's not far." He stood, gathering his laptop bag. "Just go today, okay? The subsidies will help with grocery costs."
"Can't you come with me? Maybe on Saturday—"
"I have client meetings all weekend." He kissed her forehead absently. "You'll be fine. You're not a child, Devi."
The door closed. His footsteps faded down the stairs.
Devika sat at the dining table with her half-finished chai going cold. She pulled out her phone. Opened Google Maps. Stared at the route to the Civil Supplies Office — a maze of unfamiliar roads and Maharashtra government bureaucracy that she'd have to navigate alone in a language she barely understood.
Her thumb hovered over Kulkarni's contact.
No. Anyone but him.
She tried Saradha first. No answer. Then Mrs. Joshi from the third floor. Also no answer. She sat there for twenty minutes, cycling through excuses, alternate plans, any solution that didn't involve knocking on the door of Flat 2A.
But the truth settled like a stone.
She had no one else.
At 10:30 AM, Devika stood outside Kulkarni's door wearing a pale blue salwar kameez and black leggings, her dupatta pinned carefully across her chest. She'd chosen the outfit deliberately — nothing that could be misconstrued, nothing that exposed skin — and braided her hair tightly instead of the usual bun.
Armour. Distance. Clear boundaries.
She knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting.
Kulkarni stood there in a fresh white kurta and pressed trousers, his spectacles catching the corridor light. His face broke into that familiar grandfatherly smile — warm, harmless, delighted.
"Devika beta! What a lovely surprise."
Something in his tone made her skin prickle. The way he said surprise, like he'd known she would eventually come. Like he'd been counting the days.
"Good morning, Uncle." She kept her voice steady. Professional. "I need some help."
"Of course, of course. Come inside—"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I mean... I just need help with some government office work. Finding the location, translating if needed. That's all."
His eyes moved slowly down her body — salwar kameez, black leggings hugging her calves and thighs, small feet in chappals — then back up to her face. "You look very nice today."
"Uncle, please—"
"What?" His smile widened. "I can't compliment my lovely neighbour?"
Heat crept up her neck. "I came to ask for help. Nothing else."
"And I will help. Gladly." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Just come in for one minute. Let me get my phone, wallet—"
"I'll wait here."
Their eyes met. Something passed between them — a test, a challenge — before Kulkarni's smile softened into understanding. "As you wish, beta."
He disappeared into his flat. Devika waited in the corridor, arms crossed, trying to ignore the rapid beating of her heart. Through the open door she could hear him moving around, opening drawers, humming softly to himself.
He emerged two minutes later with his phone and a small jhola bag.
"Okay. Where are we going?"
"Civil Supplies office in Kothrud. For ration card."
"Ah, PDS office. I know exactly where." He locked his door. "Very bureaucratic place. Good thing you asked me. They'll eat a sweet girl like you alive."
"Uncle—"
"What?" He turned to her, all innocence. "I'm just saying, these government people are difficult. Especially with outsiders. You need someone who speaks Marathi, knows how the system works." He started down the stairs. "Unless you want to go alone? Try your luck with the clerks?"
Devika followed, her leggings swishing with each step. She knew exactly what he was doing — establishing his necessity, reminding her how much she needed him — and hated that it was working.
"Just... please don't talk about anything inappropriate."
Kulkarni glanced back at her, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "When have I ever been inappropriate?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The lift. His hands. His mouth on her neck. All of it hung unspoken between them as they reached the ground floor.
"I'm a gentleman, beta." He held the building door open for her. "Always have been."
They stepped into the bright Pune morning, and Devika tried very hard not to think about the last time she'd trusted those words.
The Civil Supplies office was exactly as chaotic as Kulkarni had predicted.
Crowded queues of people shouting over each other. Clerks behind barred windows moving at glacial speed. Forms that required forms that required more forms. Everything in Marathi. Everything hostile to outsiders.
But Kulkarni navigated it with the ease of someone who'd lived in Maharashtra for seven decades. He spoke to the clerks in rapid Marathi, firm but respectful. He organized her documents in the correct order. He physically blocked other people from cutting ahead of her in line, his small body surprisingly effective at establishing space.
And through it all, his hand stayed at the small of her back.
Just resting there. Guiding her. Protective and possessive in a way that made her skin hum beneath the cotton of her kameez.
"Sign here, beta."
His breath touched her ear as he leaned over her shoulder, pointing to a line on the form. She could smell him — Old Spice and something sweeter, like the fennel seeds he chewed after meals.
"Where?"
"Here." His finger tapped the paper, but his chest pressed against her back. "Your signature. Exactly like on the marriage certificate."
Devika signed quickly, leaning forward to break the contact. But when she straightened, his hand had moved from her back to her waist, fingers splayed across the curve where her kameez tucked into her leggings.
"Uncle." She kept her voice low. "People are watching."
"Let them watch." But he removed his hand anyway, smiling. "You're like my daughter. Who would think badly?"
The clerk stamped her form with theatrical finality. "Done. Ration card will come by post in fifteen days."
Relief flooded through her. "Thank you so much—"
"Thank him." The clerk jerked his thumb at Kulkarni. "Without Kulkarni sir, you would still be in wrong queue."
Outside the office, under the harsh midday sun, Devika turned to Kulkarni with genuine gratitude softening her face. "Thank you, Uncle. Really. I couldn't have done this without you."
His eyes moved to her lips. "You can thank me properly."
The warmth drained from her voice. "What?"
"Just one kiss. Small one." He tapped his cheek. "For all my hard work."
"No."
"Why not? You kissed that Imran boy. I saw you."
Her face heated. "That was different—"
"How? He helped you with groceries, you kissed his cheek. I helped you with government bureaucracy, much harder work." His smile didn't waver. "Or maybe you only kiss young men?"
Devika pulled out her phone. "I'm booking a cab."
"Fine, fine. No kiss." He raised his hands in surrender. "I was only joking, beta."
She jabbed at her phone screen, trying three different apps. Uber — no cars available. Ola — fifteen-minute wait. Rapido — all drivers busy.
They stood under the shade of a neem tree. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Her phone showed the same message on every app: No drivers nearby. Try again.
Kulkarni checked his watch. "Lunch time. That's why no cabs."
"I'll wait."
"How long? Another thirty minutes? An hour?" He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "It's very hot, beta."
Twenty more minutes crawled by. The sun hammered down. Sweat gathered under her dupatta, between her breasts, at the small of her back. Her phone battery dropped to eighteen percent.
"There's a share auto stand just there." Kulkarni pointed across the road. "Three-wheeler. Goes to Swargate. Much faster than waiting."
"Share auto?"
"Yes, you sit with other passengers. Very common here." He was already walking toward the stand. "Come. Unless you want to stand here another hour."
Devika looked at her phone one more time. Still no cabs. Her feet hurt. Her head throbbed. The thought of her cool, dark flat seemed impossibly distant.
"Okay." She followed him across the road. "But just... normal sitting. Properly."
Kulkarni's laugh was soft. "Of course, beta. What else?"
The share auto was already half-full when they climbed in.
A young couple occupied the front seat next to the driver. Two men in their thirties sat in the back — construction workers maybe, or factory labour, their clothes dusty and their faces hard. They looked up when Devika entered, eyes tracking her body as she stepped up into the vehicle.
The auto had two benches facing each other in the back. The two men sat on one side. Devika slid onto the opposite bench, pressing herself against the far corner, and Kulkarni settled in beside her.
"Swargate," he told the driver.
The auto lurched forward, engine sputtering. The narrow bench forced Devika and Kulkarni close together — his thigh pressed against hers, his shoulder touching her shoulder. Across from them, the two men had stopped their conversation and now watched her with undisguised interest.
One of them — late thirties, thick mustache, yellowed teeth — caught her eye and smiled.
Devika looked away quickly. Stared out at the passing road, ignoring the heat of multiple gazes on her body. The black leggings suddenly felt too tight, too revealing. She tugged her kameez down, trying to cover more of her thighs.
Beside her, Kulkarni's hand settled on the bench between them. Just resting there. Innocent.
The auto stopped at a signal. Four more passengers tried to board — a woman with two children and an older man with a cloth bag. The driver waved them in impatiently.
"Adjust adjust! Make space!"
Everyone shuffled. The two workers across from Devika pressed closer together, their eyes never leaving her legs. The woman with children squeezed onto their bench. The older man stood in the center, gripping the overhead bar.
The auto was packed now. Bodies pressed against bodies in the midday heat. The smell of sweat and dust and engine fumes thick in the air.
They'd gone three more stops when the driver barked over his shoulder: "Too heavy in back! Someone need to adjust!"
The passengers shifted again. Space opened and closed. But there was nowhere for anyone to go — every inch of the benches was occupied.
The driver met Kulkarni's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Baba, your wife can sit on your lap. Make space for others."
Devika's mouth opened. "He's not—"
But Kulkarni was already laughing, showing all his teeth, his eyes crinkling behind his spectacles. "Good idea, good idea."
"I'm not his wife—"
"Doesn't matter." The driver waved dismissively. "Sit on his lap or get down. Can't drive with this weight distribution."
"I can stand—"
"No standing in auto!" The driver's voice sharpened. "security officer will fine me. Sit properly or get out."
The other passengers were staring now. Impatient. Annoyed at the delay. The two workers across from her exchanged glances, one of them smirking.
Kulkarni's hands came to her waist — gentle, guiding, inexorable.
"Come, beta. Don't be shy."
"Uncle—"
"Driver is right. No other way." His fingers pressed into her sides, lifting slightly. "Just sit. I'm like your father."
Every part of her mind screamed wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Sitting on an old man's lap in public. In a crowded auto full of strangers. With his hands already on her waist and his breath on her neck and—
But the driver was glaring at her. The passengers were muttering. And Kulkarni was pulling her backward, settling her onto his thighs, wrapping one arm around her stomach to hold her steady as the auto lurched forward again.
Devika found herself perched on Kulkarni's lap, her back pressed against his chest, his arm locked around her waist like a seatbelt.
She'd never been in this position before. Never sat on any man's lap except Arjun's, and that only in private, in their bedroom, with doors locked. Certainly never on a stranger's — no, not stranger, something worse — lap in the back of a rattling auto-rickshaw with half of Pune watching.
The two workers across from her weren't even pretending to look away now. Their eyes moved over her body openly — breasts, waist, thighs in tight black leggings — and they leaned close to each other, mouths moving in low conversation. One of them said something that made the other laugh, a dirty sound that needed no translation.
Devika tried to shift her weight forward, creating space between her body and Kulkarni's. But his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her back firmly against him.
"Sit properly," he murmured into her hair. "You'll fall."
The auto hit a pothole. Devika bounced on his lap, her bottom pressing down hard against his thighs. She felt him stiffen beneath her. Felt something else too — something that hadn't been there a moment ago, now starting to swell against her backside.
"Uncle—"
"Even if you try to avoid me," his voice was barely a whisper, breath hot against her ear, "God won't let you. See? He brings you back to me."
She wanted to answer. To tell him this was wrong, that she was only here because circumstances forced her, that none of this meant anything. But the words died in her throat.
Because his hand had moved from her waist to her thigh.
Just resting there. Palm down on the black fabric of her leggings, fingers splayed across her leg. Not moving. Not squeezing. Just... present. Claiming.
"Don't," she breathed.
"Don't what? I'm just holding you steady." His fingers flexed slightly. "So you don't fall."
The auto swerved around a bus. Devika rocked sideways, and Kulkarni's other hand came to her other thigh, steadying her. Now both his palms rested on her legs, thumbs pointing inward, fingers curled around the outside of her thighs.
And beneath her, between her legs where her bottom pressed down onto his lap, she felt it clearly now. The thick, undeniable hardness of his erection growing against her.
"Oh god," she whispered.
"You're made for me, Devika." His lips brushed her ear as he spoke. "Your body knows it. Even when your mind fights, your body knows."
"Please don't talk like this—"
"I never thought I'd have you sitting on my lap like this." His hands slid upward slightly on her thighs, just an inch, fingers pressing into the firm muscle. "In public. With all these people watching. Like you're really my wife."
One of the workers across from them was still watching. Devika met his eyes without meaning to — saw the naked lust there, the way he licked his lips — and felt her face burn with shame.
And something else.
The auto hit another rough patch of road. Devika bounced again, grinding down onto Kulkarni's lap, feeling his hardness press between her buttocks through the layers of clothing. A small sound escaped her — not quite a gasp, not quite a moan — and his hands tightened on her thighs in response.
"Shhh," he breathed. "Others are watching."
"Then stop—"
"But I am your husband now. For them." His mouth touched her neck, just barely, lips grazing skin. "They see a man with his wife on his lap. Nothing strange. They don't care what we do."
His nose traced the line of her neck. Inhaling. Smelling her hair, her skin, the jasmine oil she'd dabbed behind her ears that morning.
Then his mouth opened and he sucked gently on the spot where her neck curved into her shoulder.
"Uncle!" The word came out as a strangled whisper.
But his lips were already moving. Kissing. Tasting. His tongue darted out to trace a path up the side of her neck while his hands stayed locked on her thighs, holding her in place on his lap.
The auto bounced through another pothole. This time Devika's body moved on instinct — hips shifting, back arching slightly — grinding herself down onto the hardness beneath her. She felt it throb, felt Kulkarni's sharp intake of breath against her wet neck.
And her nipples went hard.
Just like that. No permission asked. Her body betraying her completely, nipples tightening into points that pressed visibly against her kameez. Between her legs, where her thighs pressed together, she felt the first telltale slickness beginning.
No no no no—
Kulkarni's mouth moved to her ear. Kissed the lobe. Sucked it gently between his lips. His breath came faster, ragged, matching the rhythm of the auto's shaking progress through Pune traffic.
"I can feel you getting wet," he whispered.
"I'm not—"
"Yes you are." His tongue traced the shell of her ear. "Your body doesn't lie, beta."
His right hand left her thigh. Moved inward. Slid up the side of her leg where the kameez's side slit created a narrow opening.
"Don't." Devika grabbed his wrist with both hands. "Please don't."
But his hand kept moving. Sliding under the hem of her kameez, fingers finding bare skin where the fabric parted, moving up up up along her inner thigh while she held his wrist uselessly, unable to stop him without making a scene.
"Uncle please—" Her voice broke on the words.
His hand slipped fully under her kameez now, hidden from view by the dbanging fabric. His palm flat against her inner thigh, fingers spread wide, feeling the smoothness of her skin through the thin leggings.
"So soft," he breathed. "So perfect."
He kissed her neck again. Open-mouthed. Sucking. Moving up toward her jaw like he was devouring her, tasting every inch of exposed skin while his hand rubbed slow circles on her inner thigh, higher and higher.
Devika's hands still gripped his wrist. But weakly now. Holding him there more than stopping him. Her thighs stayed pressed together, denying him access to what lay between, but they trembled with the effort.
The auto swerved. She bounced. Ground down onto his lap again. Felt his cock throb against her ass. And her hips moved — just slightly, just a small roll of her pelvis — before she caught herself.
The worker across from her saw it. Saw everything. His eyes had been glued to her since Kulkarni's hand disappeared under her kameez. Now he leaned toward his companion again, muttering something while staring directly at Devika's face.
She looked back at him.
Couldn't help it. Her eyes met his across the tiny space of the auto, and she saw her own reflection in his hungry gaze. Saw what she must look like — flushed face, parted lips, hair coming loose from its braid, sitting on an old man's lap while he kissed her neck and rubbed her thigh under her clothes.
She looked like exactly what she was becoming.
And instead of looking away in shame, instead of closing her eyes or turning her head, Devika held the worker's stare. Let him see the confusion and lust and guilt warring in her expression. Let him see her nipples hard against her kameez and her chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
Kulkarni's hand moved higher. His fingers found the join between her thighs, pressed against the leggings where her pussy throbbed beneath the fabric.
"Uncle—" The word dissolved into a sound she couldn't control. Half moan, half plea.
"Shhh, beta." His mouth was at her ear again, tongue flicking out to wet the lobe. "We're almost at Swargate."
His fingers rubbed. Just once. A slow, deliberate stroke along the seam of her leggings where they pressed between her legs.
Devika's thighs clenched involuntarily. Trapping his hand. And through the thin fabric, through layers that suddenly seemed like nothing at all, Kulkarni felt the heat and dampness that proved every word he'd spoken.
She was wet.
Soaked.
Leaking for a sixty-seven-year-old man's touch in the back of a public auto while strangers watched and her husband sat oblivious in an air-conditioned office across the city.
The worker across from her smiled. Yellow teeth. Knowing eyes.
And Devika looked right back at him, her lips parted, her body grinding ever so slightly on Kulkarni's lap, and felt something inside her crack wide open.
"Swargate!" the driver shouted.
The auto lurched to a stop. Passengers began shuffling out — the woman with children first, then the older man with his cloth bag. The two workers across from Devika climbed down slowly, one of them turning back to look at her one more time before disappearing into the crowd.
Kulkarni's hand slipped out from under her kameez. His arm loosened from around her waist. But he didn't push her off his lap — just let her weight rest there a moment longer, his hardness still pressing against her, before finally murmuring, "We should go, beta."
Devika stood on shaking legs. Didn't look at him. Didn't look at anyone. Just climbed down from the auto and stood on the pavement, arms wrapped around herself, while the midday sun beat down and the sounds of Swargate market crashed over her in waves.
Behind her, Kulkarni paid the driver. She heard coins exchanging hands, heard his soft laugh as he said something in Marathi that made the driver chuckle.
Then his hand was on her lower back again. Guiding her forward through the crowd.
"Come. This way."
They walked in silence past the vegetable vendors and fruit stalls. Past the beggars and the stray dogs and the auto-rickshaws honking for space. Past everything normal and ordinary and real.
The dampness between Devika's legs hadn't faded. If anything, it had spread — sticky warmth against her inner thighs, the fabric of her leggings clinging uncomfortably. She wanted to run home, lock herself in the bathroom, wash away the evidence of what her body had done without her permission.
But Kulkarni kept pace beside her, his hand never leaving her back. And after two minutes of walking, he leaned close and whispered, "I can still feel you on my lap."
"Stop."
"Your weight. Your warmth." His fingers pressed harder against her spine. "The way you moved against me."
"I said stop—"
"My cock is still hard, beta." His voice dropped lower. "Still throbbing. All because of you."
Heat flooded her face. She walked faster, trying to put distance between them, but his legs matched her stride easily.
"Did you feel how big it got? How much I want you?"
"Uncle, please—"
"And you're wet. I felt it through your leggings. Soaked right through."
"I'm not—" But the lie died on her tongue. They both knew the truth.
They'd reached the lane leading to Sahyadri Residency. Fewer people here. Just a few aunties gossiping near a compound wall, a vegetable vendor closing his cart, the sleepy afternoon quiet of a residential area.
Kulkarni's hand slid down from her back to her hip. Squeezed.
"Your body is made for pleasure, Devika. Made to be touched. Kissed. Filled."
"Stop talking like this—"
"Why? You liked it when I kissed your neck. When I touched your thigh." His thumb rubbed circles on her hip through the fabric. "You ground yourself on my cock like you were fucking me right there in the auto."
"I didn't—"
"Those men saw it. They knew exactly what we were doing." He pulled her closer as they walked. "They were jealous. Wishing they could have you on their laps instead."
Devika's breath came faster. The building was just ahead now — fifty meters, forty — but each step felt impossibly long.
"And you looked at them. Held their eyes while you sat on me." His mouth brushed her ear. "You wanted them to see. Wanted them to know that this old man was making you wet."
"No—"
"Yes." His hand moved from her hip to her ass. Cupped one cheek through her kameez and squeezed hard. "You're a good girl who wants to be bad. Your husband leaves you alone every night, and your body is screaming to be touched."
They'd reached the building entrance. Devika spun to face him, anger finally breaking through the fog of arousal and shame.
"I can walk from here on my own."
Kulkarni smiled. Adjusted his spectacles. "Of course, beta."
"Thank you for helping with the office." She stepped back, creating distance. "I'll go now."
"Wait—" He raised a hand. "Let me at least walk you to your flat. It's no trouble."
"I don't need—"
"But I'm also going to my flat, remember?" His eyes crinkled with amusement. "Same floor. Same corridor. How can I not walk with you?"
He moved past her into the building. Started up the stairs. Left her standing there with no choice but to follow.
They climbed in silence. First floor. Second floor. The familiar landing with two doors facing each other — 2A and 2B, Kulkarni and Devika, separated by three meters of corridor that felt like nothing at all.
But instead of turning left to his own door, Kulkarni stood in front of hers.
Devika stopped two steps below the landing. "Why are you standing there?"
"Thirsty. Such a hot day." He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Can I have some water?"
"You have water in your own flat."
"But yours is closer. Just one glass, beta." He smiled. "After all my help today, you won't give me one glass of water?"
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. To point to his door, tell him to go, lock herself safely inside her own flat. But guilt pressed down on her shoulders — he had helped, had spent his whole morning navigating government offices on her behalf, had asked for nothing in return except...
Except everything.
"One glass," she said finally. "Then you have to go."
She unlocked her door. Stepped inside. Left it open behind her as she went straight to the kitchen, pulling out a steel tumbler, filling it from the filter.
Footsteps in her living room. Soft. Deliberate.
Devika turned with the water to find Kulkarni standing just inside her door, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
"What are you—"
He crossed the distance between them before she could finish. One hand grabbed the tumbler and set it on the counter. The other wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against him.
"Uncle—"
"Shh." He walked her backward until her spine hit the wall beside the refrigerator. Pressed his body against hers, pinning her in place. "You didn't really think I'd just drink water and leave, did you?"
"Get off—" But her voice came out breathy, weak.
"You're so beautiful, Devika." His eyes roamed her face. "Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?"
"Please—"
"In that auto, your ass was grinding on my dick." His hips pressed forward, letting her feel the hardness still trapped in his trousers. "Moving. Rubbing. Giving me so much pleasure I almost came right there."
"Don't talk like this—"
"Your husband is a fool." Kulkarni's hand came up to her face, thumb tracing her lower lip. "Leaving you alone. Ignoring this perfect body." His gaze dropped. "This beautiful chudidhar..."
He fingered the collar of her salwar kameez. Light blue cotton with a neat line of buttons running down the front. His thumb traced the topmost button.
"Front button type. So elegant. So... accessible."
"Uncle, go to your flat—"
But his fingers were already at the first button. Slipping it free.
"Wait—"
Second button. Third. His hands moved with practiced ease, like he'd imagined this scenario a thousand times and knew exactly what to do.
"Stop—" Devika grabbed at his wrists, but he was faster. Button after button popped open — fourth, fifth, sixth — until the front of her kameez split apart and fell to either side, revealing the black bra beneath.
Only a few buttons remained fastened at her waist.
"Oh god..." Kulkarni breathed.
Devika stared at him in shock. At how quickly he'd undone her. At the hunger in his eyes as they fixed on her bra, on the curves of her breasts swelling against the black fabric.
She grabbed the edges of her kameez, trying to pull them closed. "How dare you—"
But his hands caught her wrists. Pressed them gently against the wall on either side of her head. Held her there while his eyes traveled slowly over her exposed upper body.
"Perfect." His voice shook. "You're absolutely perfect."
"Let me go—"
"Pune women are all wrong. Too thin from dieting. Too fat from sitting at home. Or too artificial from gym workouts." He leaned closer, studying her like she was art in a museum. "But you... Kerala women are blessed. Perfect flesh. Not too big, not too small. Natural. Soft. Real."
His gaze lingered on her bra. On how it cupped her breasts. On the small bit of cleavage visible above the cups. On the way her breathing made everything move.
"Uncle, please—" Devika twisted her wrists in his grip, trying to free herself. But his fingers tightened — not painfully, just firmly — keeping her pinned.
"Stay still, beta. Let me look."
"No—"
But he was already kneeling.
Dropping down to his knees in front of her, his face level with her stomach, his hands releasing her wrists to move to the remaining buttons at her waist.
"What are you—"
He unbuttoned them. One after another. Slow and deliberate. And as each button came free, he spread the fabric apart, peeling the two halves of her kameez away from her body.
Revealing her navel.
For the first time, Kulkarni saw it. The small, perfect indentation in her smooth belly. The way it dipped into shadow. The faint line of fine hair leading down from it toward the waistband of her leggings.
His breathing stopped.
Devika's hands came to his head. Gripped his hair. But she didn't pull him away — just held him there, fingers tangled in his thinning grey strands, while he stared at her navel like it was the holiest thing he'd ever seen.
"Perfect," he whispered. "So perfect."
"Uncle—"
"Matching your body. Not too deep, not too shallow." His hands came to her hips, holding her still. "Like a celebrity. Better than a celebrity. Real."
His face moved closer. Devika's breathing quickened, her stomach muscles tensing as his breath touched her bare skin.
"Don't—"
But his lips pressed against her navel. Hard. A firm kiss right in the center of that small indentation.
"Ahhh—" The sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. Half shock, half something else entirely.
Kulkarni's mouth opened. His tongue darted out, traced the rim of her navel, dipped inside—
The doorbell rang.
Both of them froze.
Kulkarni's lips against her stomach. Devika's hands in his hair. The doorbell ringing again, louder this time, followed by a familiar voice.
"Devi? You home?"
Arjun.
Panic exploded through Devika's body like electricity. She shoved Kulkarni's head back, stumbled sideways, grabbed at the edges of her kameez with shaking fingers.
"Oh god oh god oh god—"
Kulkarni stood calmly. Adjusted his spectacles. "Don't panic."
"He's at the door—"
"I know." His voice was steady. Rational. Like he'd prepared for this exact scenario. "Listen to me, beta. Button your kameez. Take a deep breath."
"He'll know—"
"He won't know anything." Kulkarni moved past her toward the dining table. Pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'll sit here like I'm having dinner. You'll tell him I stopped by and you offered me food. Casual. Normal. Friendly neighbors."
"I can't—"
"Yes you can." His eyes locked on hers. "Unless you want to tell him the truth? Explain why your kameez is open? Why you're flushed and breathing hard?"
The doorbell rang a third time.
"Devi?"
Devika's fingers fumbled with the buttons. She got the bottom ones done. Then the middle. Her hands shook so badly she could barely manage the top buttons near her collar.
"Good girl." Kulkarni's voice was soothing. Poisonous. "Now go. Let your husband in. And remember — I'm just a harmless old uncle who loves your cooking."
She peered through the door viewer. Saw Arjun's face, tired and confused, checking his phone as he waited.
This was insane. Impossible. How could she—
But Kulkarni was right. What choice did she have?
Devika took one shaky breath. Smoothed down her hair. Forced her face into something resembling normal. And opened the door.
"Sorry! I was in the bathroom—"
Arjun stepped inside, briefcase in one hand, keys in the other. "Why didn't you answer? I was about to call—" He stopped. Saw Kulkarni sitting at the dining table. "Oh. Uncle! Didn't know you were here."
"Good evening, beta!" Kulkarni smiled warmly. Grandfatherly. "Sorry for the intrusion. I helped Devika with some government office work today, and she kindly offered me dinner."
Arjun's expression softened. "That's nice. How was the PDS office?"
"Very smooth, thanks to Uncle." Devika's voice came out higher than normal. "He speaks Marathi, knows all the clerks. I couldn't have managed without him."
"See? I told you someone would help." Arjun set down his briefcase. "What are you making?"
"Just... some curry. Nothing special."
"Nonsense! Your wife's cooking is fantastic." Kulkarni leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "That sambar yesterday? Best I've had since my wife passed. And today's rasam..." He kissed his fingertips. "Perfect balance of tamarind and spice."
Arjun walked to the kitchen. Poured himself water. "You're lucky, Uncle. I barely get to eat her food these days. Always stuck at the office."
"That's the problem with these IT jobs. All work, no time for family." Kulkarni shook his head sympathetically. "In my generation, we always came home by six. Dinner with wife. Talking. Spending time together."
"Yeah, well." Arjun drank deeply. "Can't be helped. Project deadlines."
"Of course, of course. I understand." Kulkarni stood. "Actually, I should go now. Let you young people have your evening."
"No need to rush—"
"No, no. I've imposed enough." He walked toward the door, passing close to Devika. Close enough that his arm brushed hers. "Thank you for the lovely food, beta."
His eyes met hers. Held. Said everything his mouth couldn't.
This isn't over.
"Anytime, Uncle." Her voice barely made it past her throat.
Arjun walked Kulkarni to the door. "Thanks again for helping her today."
"My pleasure. Devika is like my daughter." He smiled at both of them. "I'll always be here if she needs anything."
The door closed.
Kulkarni's footsteps faded across the corridor. The click of 2A opening and shutting.
Silence.
Devika stood frozen in the middle of her living room, her body still humming, her navel still tingling where his mouth had been, her mind screaming a thousand different things at once.
"You okay?" Arjun was looking at his phone. "You seem weird."
"Just tired. Hot day."
"Mm." He typed something. Sent it. "I have a call in ten minutes. Can you get me some food quickly?"
"Yes."
She walked to the kitchen on autopilot. Pulled out vessels. Served rice and curry. Brought it to the table.
All while feeling the ghost of Kulkarni's hands on her waist. His lips on her navel. His whispered words burning in her ears.
Your body is made for pleasure.
Arjun ate quickly, one hand shoveling food, the other scrolling through his laptop. He finished in seven minutes, left his plate on the table, and went to the bedroom with his phone pressed to his ear.
"Yes, Richard, I'm here. Sorry for the delay. Let me share my screen..."
The door closed. His muffled voice continued inside.
Devika stood at the sink. Washed the dishes. Stared out the window at the darkening Pune sky.
And tried very, very hard not to think about what had almost happened.
About what would have happened if Arjun had been five minutes later.
About what was definitely, definitely going to happen next.
Devika stood motionless in the small entryway of 2B, both palms flat against the wood, listening. Waiting for his footsteps to retreat. For his door to open and close. For the landing to return to its empty, ordinary silence.
When it came — the soft shuffle of his chappals crossing the few meters to 2A, the creak of his hinges, the gentle thud of wood meeting frame — she exhaled. Pushed herself away from the door.
Her reflection caught her in the small mirror hung beside the coat hooks. Flushed face. Loose strands of hair escaping the bun. Pallu askew despite her frantic adjustments in the lift. She looked exactly like what she was — a woman who had just been pressed against a wall by a man who wasn't her husband.
Her heart hammered. She pressed her hand flat against her sternum, felt the wild percussion beneath her ribs, and tried to slow her breathing through sheer will.
What did I do? What did I just allow to happen?
The memory replayed without permission. His arms wrapping around her. The hardness pressing into her thigh. No — not thigh. Between her backside. Through the layers. She'd felt the thickness of it. The heat. And she'd... what had she done?
Nothing. I did nothing. I told him to stop.
But her hands — God, her hands — had reached back. Had gripped his thighs through the dhoti. Had held him there instead of pushing him away.
She walked to the bedroom on unsteady feet. Sat on the edge of the mattress. Stared at her own lap.
His face buried in her neck. The coarse scbang of his mustache dragging across her skin. The wet heat of his mouth when he'd kissed — yes, kissed, despite her protest — the hollow of her throat. She touched the spot now with trembling fingers. The skin felt normal. Unchanged. But the ghost of sensation remained, etched into nerve endings that refused to forget.
And then he'd turned her. Pressed her against the cold metal wall. His entire body flush behind hers, his hardness nestled perfectly into the division of her backside, and the way he'd ground himself forward—
Her breath caught.
I arched my back.
The realization landed with physical force. She'd pressed into him. Curved her spine. Pushed her backside harder against his groin in a movement so instinctive, so nakedly responsive, that denying it now felt obscene.
She stood abruptly. Walked to the attached bathroom. Locked the door despite being alone in the flat.
The mirror here was larger. She stood before it and slowly — with the careful movements of someone examining a wound — loosened her saree. The fabric slipped from her shoulder. She let it pool around her waist.
Her blouse remained. Modest. High-necked. But the strap of her bra was visible at the shoulder seam, a thin black elastic against fair skin.
He'd bitten it.
She touched the strap. Pulled it aside. The skin beneath showed no mark — no bruise, no redness — but she remembered the pressure of his teeth. The way he'd tugged it with his mouth like an animal testing a tether.
Her hands moved lower. Unfastened the blouse hooks with fingers that wouldn't quite steady. The fabric parted. Fell away.
She stood in her black bra and petticoat, staring at herself.
Her nipples pressed hard against the thin cups. Two small peaks visible through the fabric, unmistakable even in the bathroom's harsh fluorescent light.
Oh God.
She cupped her breasts through the bra. Felt the stiff points against her palms. They'd been like this since the lift. Since his arms wrapped around her waist. Maybe even before — maybe from the moment the doors closed and she'd realized they were alone together in that small metal box.
I enjoyed it.
The thought arrived clean and terrible. No qualifications. No excuses. She had felt his hardness pressing into her body, had smelled his sweat and sandalwood, had heard him call her perfect, and her body had responded with a hunger she didn't recognize.
Arjun had never made her feel like this. Their wedding night had been fumbling and brief. Their intimacy since — scheduled around his work calls, performed in darkness, concluded with a quick kiss before he rolled over and slept — left her feeling more alone than satisfied.
But this dirty old man. This widowed, pot-bellied, mustached uncle who read newspapers on landing benches and spoke gentle Marathi. He'd pressed her against a wall and told her she should be taken from behind every night, and her entire body had ignited like paper touched to flame.
What is wrong with me?
She released her breasts. Stepped back from the mirror. Tried to find the good Kerala girl her mother had raised — convent-educated, properly married, modest in saree and speech. That girl wouldn't have gripped a man's thighs in a broken lift. That girl would have screamed. Would have slapped him the moment his lips touched her neck.
But that girl was nowhere in this bathroom mirror.
The woman staring back had hard nipples and flushed cheeks and the beginning of something dangerous blooming behind her eyes. A realization settling into place with the weight of stone.
I can't escape from him.
The words formed silently. She tested them. Turned them over. They felt true in a way that made her stomach drop.
He lived next door. He knew her schedule. He'd already proven he would involve Arjun — sweetly, strategically — if she continued avoiding him. The city outside their building was hostile and unfamiliar. Kulkarni was her only anchor here, the only person who guided her through markets and translations and lonely afternoons.
And now he'd touched her. Smelled her. Pressed his hardness against her body and made her arch into him. The boundary had dissolved. Whatever fragile distance she'd tried to maintain these past four days had shattered the moment she stepped into that lift.
There's no going back.
She redressed mechanically. Blouse hooks fastened. Saree wrapped and pinned. Hair smoothed. The jasmine in her bun had wilted completely — brown edges curling inward — but she left it there anyway.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the flat felt different. Smaller. The walls pressed closer. Through the kitchen window, she could hear the muffled sounds of Kulkarni's television through the shared wall between 2A and 2B.
He was there. Right there. Meters away.
Her lips curved.
She caught the smile before it fully formed — stopped it, pushed it back down — but the ghost of it remained. A small, involuntary upturn at the corners of her mouth that she couldn't quite erase.
Why am I smiling?
No answer came. Or perhaps the answer lived in her still-hard nipples, in the warmth pooling low in her belly, in the memory of his voice saying you should be taken from behind with such raw certainty that her knees had gone soft.
She walked to the kitchen. Picked up the steel container of shira he'd brought earlier. Opened it. The sweet smell of semolina and ghee rose up.
Devika stood in her empty kitchen, holding an old man's dessert, and felt the ground beneath her shift one final time.
Through the wall, in Flat 2A, Kulkarni sat in his chair with his hands folded across his stomach.
He hadn't moved since entering his flat. Couldn't move. His body still hummed with the memory of her — jasmine and sweat, the softness of her backside pressing into his groin, the way she'd curved her spine and pushed harder against him instead of pulling away.
She didn't resist.
Oh, she'd said the words. Stop. Uncle. Don't. But her hands had gripped his thighs. Her back had arched. Her breath had come fast and shallow against the lift wall, and when he'd ground himself forward one final time before the motor restarted, she'd made a sound — small, helpless, utterly betraying — that lived now in his memory like a treasure he'd stolen and buried.
She was acting. Performing resistance because good wives were supposed to resist. But her body told the truth. Her hard nipples pressed against his chest. The heat radiating through her saree. The way she'd let him turn her, position her, press her exactly where he wanted her.
And then she smiled.
That final smile before closing her door — reluctant, furious, helpless — had confirmed everything. She was already his. She just didn't know it yet.
He closed his eyes. Pictured her standing in 2B right now, probably in front of a mirror, touching the places his mouth had been. Wondering what came next. Knowing — as he knew — that the Rubicon had been crossed.
His hand moved to his groin. Pressed against the hardness still straining beneath his dhoti. He'd waited sixty-seven years for a woman like her to walk through his door asking for help.
Bhagwan had finally answered.
The message came that night at 10:47 PM.
Kulkarni Uncle: Sweet dreams, beta. Sleep well.
Devika stared at her phone screen. The words looked innocent enough — grandfatherly, appropriate — but she could read what lived beneath them. The knowledge of what had happened in the lift. The certainty in his tone, as if boundaries had been dissolved and new rules established without her permission.
She typed three different responses. Deleted all of them. Finally locked her phone and placed it face-down on the bedside table.
Arjun snored softly beside her, one arm thrown across his eyes. He'd come home at nine, eaten quickly, and collapsed into bed without asking about her day. She listened to his breathing — steady, untroubled, completely unaware that his wife had spent the evening standing in front of mirrors examining bite marks.
The second message arrived at 11:23 PM.
Kulkarni Uncle: Tomorrow also I will be home. You can come for chai anytime.
Again, she didn't respond.
Three days passed.
Devika threw herself into housework with manic intensity. She cleaned cupboards that didn't need cleaning. Reorganized the kitchen three times. Stayed inside the flat from morning until Arjun returned, avoiding the corridor, the balcony, any space where Kulkarni might materialize with his soft smile and knowing eyes.
On the second day, she heard his door open while she stood near her own. Footsteps in the corridor. A pause outside 2B. She held her breath, frozen in her kitchen, until the footsteps retreated and his door clicked shut again.
On the third day, Saradha knocked and invited her for coffee. Devika made excuses — headache, tired, maybe tomorrow — and listened to Saradha's concerned questions through the door until the older woman finally left.
Her phone accumulated messages.
Kulkarni Uncle: Not feeling well, beta? I haven't seen you.
Kulkarni Uncle: If you need anything from market, just tell me.
Kulkarni Uncle: Why are you hiding? We are neighbours. Friends.
She deleted each one without responding. As if silence could undo what had happened. As if ignoring him would reset the clock to before the lift, before his mouth on her neck, before the moment she'd arched her back and let him feel exactly what her body wanted.
But on the fourth morning, Arjun reminded her about the ration card application.
"Did you submit the documents to the PDS office yet?"
Devika looked up from her chai. "What documents?"
"For the subsidized rations. I told you last week." He spoke while checking his phone, not meeting her eyes. "You need to go to the Civil Supplies office in Kothrud. Take the rental agreement, marriage certificate, my ID proof. They'll process it there."
Her stomach dropped. "I don't... where is this office?"
"Google it. It's not far." He stood, gathering his laptop bag. "Just go today, okay? The subsidies will help with grocery costs."
"Can't you come with me? Maybe on Saturday—"
"I have client meetings all weekend." He kissed her forehead absently. "You'll be fine. You're not a child, Devi."
The door closed. His footsteps faded down the stairs.
Devika sat at the dining table with her half-finished chai going cold. She pulled out her phone. Opened Google Maps. Stared at the route to the Civil Supplies Office — a maze of unfamiliar roads and Maharashtra government bureaucracy that she'd have to navigate alone in a language she barely understood.
Her thumb hovered over Kulkarni's contact.
No. Anyone but him.
She tried Saradha first. No answer. Then Mrs. Joshi from the third floor. Also no answer. She sat there for twenty minutes, cycling through excuses, alternate plans, any solution that didn't involve knocking on the door of Flat 2A.
But the truth settled like a stone.
She had no one else.
At 10:30 AM, Devika stood outside Kulkarni's door wearing a pale blue salwar kameez and black leggings, her dupatta pinned carefully across her chest. She'd chosen the outfit deliberately — nothing that could be misconstrued, nothing that exposed skin — and braided her hair tightly instead of the usual bun.
Armour. Distance. Clear boundaries.
She knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting.
Kulkarni stood there in a fresh white kurta and pressed trousers, his spectacles catching the corridor light. His face broke into that familiar grandfatherly smile — warm, harmless, delighted.
"Devika beta! What a lovely surprise."
Something in his tone made her skin prickle. The way he said surprise, like he'd known she would eventually come. Like he'd been counting the days.
"Good morning, Uncle." She kept her voice steady. Professional. "I need some help."
"Of course, of course. Come inside—"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I mean... I just need help with some government office work. Finding the location, translating if needed. That's all."
His eyes moved slowly down her body — salwar kameez, black leggings hugging her calves and thighs, small feet in chappals — then back up to her face. "You look very nice today."
"Uncle, please—"
"What?" His smile widened. "I can't compliment my lovely neighbour?"
Heat crept up her neck. "I came to ask for help. Nothing else."
"And I will help. Gladly." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Just come in for one minute. Let me get my phone, wallet—"
"I'll wait here."
Their eyes met. Something passed between them — a test, a challenge — before Kulkarni's smile softened into understanding. "As you wish, beta."
He disappeared into his flat. Devika waited in the corridor, arms crossed, trying to ignore the rapid beating of her heart. Through the open door she could hear him moving around, opening drawers, humming softly to himself.
He emerged two minutes later with his phone and a small jhola bag.
"Okay. Where are we going?"
"Civil Supplies office in Kothrud. For ration card."
"Ah, PDS office. I know exactly where." He locked his door. "Very bureaucratic place. Good thing you asked me. They'll eat a sweet girl like you alive."
"Uncle—"
"What?" He turned to her, all innocence. "I'm just saying, these government people are difficult. Especially with outsiders. You need someone who speaks Marathi, knows how the system works." He started down the stairs. "Unless you want to go alone? Try your luck with the clerks?"
Devika followed, her leggings swishing with each step. She knew exactly what he was doing — establishing his necessity, reminding her how much she needed him — and hated that it was working.
"Just... please don't talk about anything inappropriate."
Kulkarni glanced back at her, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "When have I ever been inappropriate?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The lift. His hands. His mouth on her neck. All of it hung unspoken between them as they reached the ground floor.
"I'm a gentleman, beta." He held the building door open for her. "Always have been."
They stepped into the bright Pune morning, and Devika tried very hard not to think about the last time she'd trusted those words.
The Civil Supplies office was exactly as chaotic as Kulkarni had predicted.
Crowded queues of people shouting over each other. Clerks behind barred windows moving at glacial speed. Forms that required forms that required more forms. Everything in Marathi. Everything hostile to outsiders.
But Kulkarni navigated it with the ease of someone who'd lived in Maharashtra for seven decades. He spoke to the clerks in rapid Marathi, firm but respectful. He organized her documents in the correct order. He physically blocked other people from cutting ahead of her in line, his small body surprisingly effective at establishing space.
And through it all, his hand stayed at the small of her back.
Just resting there. Guiding her. Protective and possessive in a way that made her skin hum beneath the cotton of her kameez.
"Sign here, beta."
His breath touched her ear as he leaned over her shoulder, pointing to a line on the form. She could smell him — Old Spice and something sweeter, like the fennel seeds he chewed after meals.
"Where?"
"Here." His finger tapped the paper, but his chest pressed against her back. "Your signature. Exactly like on the marriage certificate."
Devika signed quickly, leaning forward to break the contact. But when she straightened, his hand had moved from her back to her waist, fingers splayed across the curve where her kameez tucked into her leggings.
"Uncle." She kept her voice low. "People are watching."
"Let them watch." But he removed his hand anyway, smiling. "You're like my daughter. Who would think badly?"
The clerk stamped her form with theatrical finality. "Done. Ration card will come by post in fifteen days."
Relief flooded through her. "Thank you so much—"
"Thank him." The clerk jerked his thumb at Kulkarni. "Without Kulkarni sir, you would still be in wrong queue."
Outside the office, under the harsh midday sun, Devika turned to Kulkarni with genuine gratitude softening her face. "Thank you, Uncle. Really. I couldn't have done this without you."
His eyes moved to her lips. "You can thank me properly."
The warmth drained from her voice. "What?"
"Just one kiss. Small one." He tapped his cheek. "For all my hard work."
"No."
"Why not? You kissed that Imran boy. I saw you."
Her face heated. "That was different—"
"How? He helped you with groceries, you kissed his cheek. I helped you with government bureaucracy, much harder work." His smile didn't waver. "Or maybe you only kiss young men?"
Devika pulled out her phone. "I'm booking a cab."
"Fine, fine. No kiss." He raised his hands in surrender. "I was only joking, beta."
She jabbed at her phone screen, trying three different apps. Uber — no cars available. Ola — fifteen-minute wait. Rapido — all drivers busy.
They stood under the shade of a neem tree. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Her phone showed the same message on every app: No drivers nearby. Try again.
Kulkarni checked his watch. "Lunch time. That's why no cabs."
"I'll wait."
"How long? Another thirty minutes? An hour?" He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "It's very hot, beta."
Twenty more minutes crawled by. The sun hammered down. Sweat gathered under her dupatta, between her breasts, at the small of her back. Her phone battery dropped to eighteen percent.
"There's a share auto stand just there." Kulkarni pointed across the road. "Three-wheeler. Goes to Swargate. Much faster than waiting."
"Share auto?"
"Yes, you sit with other passengers. Very common here." He was already walking toward the stand. "Come. Unless you want to stand here another hour."
Devika looked at her phone one more time. Still no cabs. Her feet hurt. Her head throbbed. The thought of her cool, dark flat seemed impossibly distant.
"Okay." She followed him across the road. "But just... normal sitting. Properly."
Kulkarni's laugh was soft. "Of course, beta. What else?"
The share auto was already half-full when they climbed in.
A young couple occupied the front seat next to the driver. Two men in their thirties sat in the back — construction workers maybe, or factory labour, their clothes dusty and their faces hard. They looked up when Devika entered, eyes tracking her body as she stepped up into the vehicle.
The auto had two benches facing each other in the back. The two men sat on one side. Devika slid onto the opposite bench, pressing herself against the far corner, and Kulkarni settled in beside her.
"Swargate," he told the driver.
The auto lurched forward, engine sputtering. The narrow bench forced Devika and Kulkarni close together — his thigh pressed against hers, his shoulder touching her shoulder. Across from them, the two men had stopped their conversation and now watched her with undisguised interest.
One of them — late thirties, thick mustache, yellowed teeth — caught her eye and smiled.
Devika looked away quickly. Stared out at the passing road, ignoring the heat of multiple gazes on her body. The black leggings suddenly felt too tight, too revealing. She tugged her kameez down, trying to cover more of her thighs.
Beside her, Kulkarni's hand settled on the bench between them. Just resting there. Innocent.
The auto stopped at a signal. Four more passengers tried to board — a woman with two children and an older man with a cloth bag. The driver waved them in impatiently.
"Adjust adjust! Make space!"
Everyone shuffled. The two workers across from Devika pressed closer together, their eyes never leaving her legs. The woman with children squeezed onto their bench. The older man stood in the center, gripping the overhead bar.
The auto was packed now. Bodies pressed against bodies in the midday heat. The smell of sweat and dust and engine fumes thick in the air.
They'd gone three more stops when the driver barked over his shoulder: "Too heavy in back! Someone need to adjust!"
The passengers shifted again. Space opened and closed. But there was nowhere for anyone to go — every inch of the benches was occupied.
The driver met Kulkarni's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Baba, your wife can sit on your lap. Make space for others."
Devika's mouth opened. "He's not—"
But Kulkarni was already laughing, showing all his teeth, his eyes crinkling behind his spectacles. "Good idea, good idea."
"I'm not his wife—"
"Doesn't matter." The driver waved dismissively. "Sit on his lap or get down. Can't drive with this weight distribution."
"I can stand—"
"No standing in auto!" The driver's voice sharpened. "security officer will fine me. Sit properly or get out."
The other passengers were staring now. Impatient. Annoyed at the delay. The two workers across from her exchanged glances, one of them smirking.
Kulkarni's hands came to her waist — gentle, guiding, inexorable.
"Come, beta. Don't be shy."
"Uncle—"
"Driver is right. No other way." His fingers pressed into her sides, lifting slightly. "Just sit. I'm like your father."
Every part of her mind screamed wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Sitting on an old man's lap in public. In a crowded auto full of strangers. With his hands already on her waist and his breath on her neck and—
But the driver was glaring at her. The passengers were muttering. And Kulkarni was pulling her backward, settling her onto his thighs, wrapping one arm around her stomach to hold her steady as the auto lurched forward again.
Devika found herself perched on Kulkarni's lap, her back pressed against his chest, his arm locked around her waist like a seatbelt.
She'd never been in this position before. Never sat on any man's lap except Arjun's, and that only in private, in their bedroom, with doors locked. Certainly never on a stranger's — no, not stranger, something worse — lap in the back of a rattling auto-rickshaw with half of Pune watching.
The two workers across from her weren't even pretending to look away now. Their eyes moved over her body openly — breasts, waist, thighs in tight black leggings — and they leaned close to each other, mouths moving in low conversation. One of them said something that made the other laugh, a dirty sound that needed no translation.
Devika tried to shift her weight forward, creating space between her body and Kulkarni's. But his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her back firmly against him.
"Sit properly," he murmured into her hair. "You'll fall."
The auto hit a pothole. Devika bounced on his lap, her bottom pressing down hard against his thighs. She felt him stiffen beneath her. Felt something else too — something that hadn't been there a moment ago, now starting to swell against her backside.
"Uncle—"
"Even if you try to avoid me," his voice was barely a whisper, breath hot against her ear, "God won't let you. See? He brings you back to me."
She wanted to answer. To tell him this was wrong, that she was only here because circumstances forced her, that none of this meant anything. But the words died in her throat.
Because his hand had moved from her waist to her thigh.
Just resting there. Palm down on the black fabric of her leggings, fingers splayed across her leg. Not moving. Not squeezing. Just... present. Claiming.
"Don't," she breathed.
"Don't what? I'm just holding you steady." His fingers flexed slightly. "So you don't fall."
The auto swerved around a bus. Devika rocked sideways, and Kulkarni's other hand came to her other thigh, steadying her. Now both his palms rested on her legs, thumbs pointing inward, fingers curled around the outside of her thighs.
And beneath her, between her legs where her bottom pressed down onto his lap, she felt it clearly now. The thick, undeniable hardness of his erection growing against her.
"Oh god," she whispered.
"You're made for me, Devika." His lips brushed her ear as he spoke. "Your body knows it. Even when your mind fights, your body knows."
"Please don't talk like this—"
"I never thought I'd have you sitting on my lap like this." His hands slid upward slightly on her thighs, just an inch, fingers pressing into the firm muscle. "In public. With all these people watching. Like you're really my wife."
One of the workers across from them was still watching. Devika met his eyes without meaning to — saw the naked lust there, the way he licked his lips — and felt her face burn with shame.
And something else.
The auto hit another rough patch of road. Devika bounced again, grinding down onto Kulkarni's lap, feeling his hardness press between her buttocks through the layers of clothing. A small sound escaped her — not quite a gasp, not quite a moan — and his hands tightened on her thighs in response.
"Shhh," he breathed. "Others are watching."
"Then stop—"
"But I am your husband now. For them." His mouth touched her neck, just barely, lips grazing skin. "They see a man with his wife on his lap. Nothing strange. They don't care what we do."
His nose traced the line of her neck. Inhaling. Smelling her hair, her skin, the jasmine oil she'd dabbed behind her ears that morning.
Then his mouth opened and he sucked gently on the spot where her neck curved into her shoulder.
"Uncle!" The word came out as a strangled whisper.
But his lips were already moving. Kissing. Tasting. His tongue darted out to trace a path up the side of her neck while his hands stayed locked on her thighs, holding her in place on his lap.
The auto bounced through another pothole. This time Devika's body moved on instinct — hips shifting, back arching slightly — grinding herself down onto the hardness beneath her. She felt it throb, felt Kulkarni's sharp intake of breath against her wet neck.
And her nipples went hard.
Just like that. No permission asked. Her body betraying her completely, nipples tightening into points that pressed visibly against her kameez. Between her legs, where her thighs pressed together, she felt the first telltale slickness beginning.
No no no no—
Kulkarni's mouth moved to her ear. Kissed the lobe. Sucked it gently between his lips. His breath came faster, ragged, matching the rhythm of the auto's shaking progress through Pune traffic.
"I can feel you getting wet," he whispered.
"I'm not—"
"Yes you are." His tongue traced the shell of her ear. "Your body doesn't lie, beta."
His right hand left her thigh. Moved inward. Slid up the side of her leg where the kameez's side slit created a narrow opening.
"Don't." Devika grabbed his wrist with both hands. "Please don't."
But his hand kept moving. Sliding under the hem of her kameez, fingers finding bare skin where the fabric parted, moving up up up along her inner thigh while she held his wrist uselessly, unable to stop him without making a scene.
"Uncle please—" Her voice broke on the words.
His hand slipped fully under her kameez now, hidden from view by the dbanging fabric. His palm flat against her inner thigh, fingers spread wide, feeling the smoothness of her skin through the thin leggings.
"So soft," he breathed. "So perfect."
He kissed her neck again. Open-mouthed. Sucking. Moving up toward her jaw like he was devouring her, tasting every inch of exposed skin while his hand rubbed slow circles on her inner thigh, higher and higher.
Devika's hands still gripped his wrist. But weakly now. Holding him there more than stopping him. Her thighs stayed pressed together, denying him access to what lay between, but they trembled with the effort.
The auto swerved. She bounced. Ground down onto his lap again. Felt his cock throb against her ass. And her hips moved — just slightly, just a small roll of her pelvis — before she caught herself.
The worker across from her saw it. Saw everything. His eyes had been glued to her since Kulkarni's hand disappeared under her kameez. Now he leaned toward his companion again, muttering something while staring directly at Devika's face.
She looked back at him.
Couldn't help it. Her eyes met his across the tiny space of the auto, and she saw her own reflection in his hungry gaze. Saw what she must look like — flushed face, parted lips, hair coming loose from its braid, sitting on an old man's lap while he kissed her neck and rubbed her thigh under her clothes.
She looked like exactly what she was becoming.
And instead of looking away in shame, instead of closing her eyes or turning her head, Devika held the worker's stare. Let him see the confusion and lust and guilt warring in her expression. Let him see her nipples hard against her kameez and her chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
Kulkarni's hand moved higher. His fingers found the join between her thighs, pressed against the leggings where her pussy throbbed beneath the fabric.
"Uncle—" The word dissolved into a sound she couldn't control. Half moan, half plea.
"Shhh, beta." His mouth was at her ear again, tongue flicking out to wet the lobe. "We're almost at Swargate."
His fingers rubbed. Just once. A slow, deliberate stroke along the seam of her leggings where they pressed between her legs.
Devika's thighs clenched involuntarily. Trapping his hand. And through the thin fabric, through layers that suddenly seemed like nothing at all, Kulkarni felt the heat and dampness that proved every word he'd spoken.
She was wet.
Soaked.
Leaking for a sixty-seven-year-old man's touch in the back of a public auto while strangers watched and her husband sat oblivious in an air-conditioned office across the city.
The worker across from her smiled. Yellow teeth. Knowing eyes.
And Devika looked right back at him, her lips parted, her body grinding ever so slightly on Kulkarni's lap, and felt something inside her crack wide open.
"Swargate!" the driver shouted.
The auto lurched to a stop. Passengers began shuffling out — the woman with children first, then the older man with his cloth bag. The two workers across from Devika climbed down slowly, one of them turning back to look at her one more time before disappearing into the crowd.
Kulkarni's hand slipped out from under her kameez. His arm loosened from around her waist. But he didn't push her off his lap — just let her weight rest there a moment longer, his hardness still pressing against her, before finally murmuring, "We should go, beta."
Devika stood on shaking legs. Didn't look at him. Didn't look at anyone. Just climbed down from the auto and stood on the pavement, arms wrapped around herself, while the midday sun beat down and the sounds of Swargate market crashed over her in waves.
Behind her, Kulkarni paid the driver. She heard coins exchanging hands, heard his soft laugh as he said something in Marathi that made the driver chuckle.
Then his hand was on her lower back again. Guiding her forward through the crowd.
"Come. This way."
They walked in silence past the vegetable vendors and fruit stalls. Past the beggars and the stray dogs and the auto-rickshaws honking for space. Past everything normal and ordinary and real.
The dampness between Devika's legs hadn't faded. If anything, it had spread — sticky warmth against her inner thighs, the fabric of her leggings clinging uncomfortably. She wanted to run home, lock herself in the bathroom, wash away the evidence of what her body had done without her permission.
But Kulkarni kept pace beside her, his hand never leaving her back. And after two minutes of walking, he leaned close and whispered, "I can still feel you on my lap."
"Stop."
"Your weight. Your warmth." His fingers pressed harder against her spine. "The way you moved against me."
"I said stop—"
"My cock is still hard, beta." His voice dropped lower. "Still throbbing. All because of you."
Heat flooded her face. She walked faster, trying to put distance between them, but his legs matched her stride easily.
"Did you feel how big it got? How much I want you?"
"Uncle, please—"
"And you're wet. I felt it through your leggings. Soaked right through."
"I'm not—" But the lie died on her tongue. They both knew the truth.
They'd reached the lane leading to Sahyadri Residency. Fewer people here. Just a few aunties gossiping near a compound wall, a vegetable vendor closing his cart, the sleepy afternoon quiet of a residential area.
Kulkarni's hand slid down from her back to her hip. Squeezed.
"Your body is made for pleasure, Devika. Made to be touched. Kissed. Filled."
"Stop talking like this—"
"Why? You liked it when I kissed your neck. When I touched your thigh." His thumb rubbed circles on her hip through the fabric. "You ground yourself on my cock like you were fucking me right there in the auto."
"I didn't—"
"Those men saw it. They knew exactly what we were doing." He pulled her closer as they walked. "They were jealous. Wishing they could have you on their laps instead."
Devika's breath came faster. The building was just ahead now — fifty meters, forty — but each step felt impossibly long.
"And you looked at them. Held their eyes while you sat on me." His mouth brushed her ear. "You wanted them to see. Wanted them to know that this old man was making you wet."
"No—"
"Yes." His hand moved from her hip to her ass. Cupped one cheek through her kameez and squeezed hard. "You're a good girl who wants to be bad. Your husband leaves you alone every night, and your body is screaming to be touched."
They'd reached the building entrance. Devika spun to face him, anger finally breaking through the fog of arousal and shame.
"I can walk from here on my own."
Kulkarni smiled. Adjusted his spectacles. "Of course, beta."
"Thank you for helping with the office." She stepped back, creating distance. "I'll go now."
"Wait—" He raised a hand. "Let me at least walk you to your flat. It's no trouble."
"I don't need—"
"But I'm also going to my flat, remember?" His eyes crinkled with amusement. "Same floor. Same corridor. How can I not walk with you?"
He moved past her into the building. Started up the stairs. Left her standing there with no choice but to follow.
They climbed in silence. First floor. Second floor. The familiar landing with two doors facing each other — 2A and 2B, Kulkarni and Devika, separated by three meters of corridor that felt like nothing at all.
But instead of turning left to his own door, Kulkarni stood in front of hers.
Devika stopped two steps below the landing. "Why are you standing there?"
"Thirsty. Such a hot day." He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "Can I have some water?"
"You have water in your own flat."
"But yours is closer. Just one glass, beta." He smiled. "After all my help today, you won't give me one glass of water?"
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. To point to his door, tell him to go, lock herself safely inside her own flat. But guilt pressed down on her shoulders — he had helped, had spent his whole morning navigating government offices on her behalf, had asked for nothing in return except...
Except everything.
"One glass," she said finally. "Then you have to go."
She unlocked her door. Stepped inside. Left it open behind her as she went straight to the kitchen, pulling out a steel tumbler, filling it from the filter.
Footsteps in her living room. Soft. Deliberate.
Devika turned with the water to find Kulkarni standing just inside her door, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
"What are you—"
He crossed the distance between them before she could finish. One hand grabbed the tumbler and set it on the counter. The other wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against him.
"Uncle—"
"Shh." He walked her backward until her spine hit the wall beside the refrigerator. Pressed his body against hers, pinning her in place. "You didn't really think I'd just drink water and leave, did you?"
"Get off—" But her voice came out breathy, weak.
"You're so beautiful, Devika." His eyes roamed her face. "Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?"
"Please—"
"In that auto, your ass was grinding on my dick." His hips pressed forward, letting her feel the hardness still trapped in his trousers. "Moving. Rubbing. Giving me so much pleasure I almost came right there."
"Don't talk like this—"
"Your husband is a fool." Kulkarni's hand came up to her face, thumb tracing her lower lip. "Leaving you alone. Ignoring this perfect body." His gaze dropped. "This beautiful chudidhar..."
He fingered the collar of her salwar kameez. Light blue cotton with a neat line of buttons running down the front. His thumb traced the topmost button.
"Front button type. So elegant. So... accessible."
"Uncle, go to your flat—"
But his fingers were already at the first button. Slipping it free.
"Wait—"
Second button. Third. His hands moved with practiced ease, like he'd imagined this scenario a thousand times and knew exactly what to do.
"Stop—" Devika grabbed at his wrists, but he was faster. Button after button popped open — fourth, fifth, sixth — until the front of her kameez split apart and fell to either side, revealing the black bra beneath.
Only a few buttons remained fastened at her waist.
"Oh god..." Kulkarni breathed.
Devika stared at him in shock. At how quickly he'd undone her. At the hunger in his eyes as they fixed on her bra, on the curves of her breasts swelling against the black fabric.
She grabbed the edges of her kameez, trying to pull them closed. "How dare you—"
But his hands caught her wrists. Pressed them gently against the wall on either side of her head. Held her there while his eyes traveled slowly over her exposed upper body.
"Perfect." His voice shook. "You're absolutely perfect."
"Let me go—"
"Pune women are all wrong. Too thin from dieting. Too fat from sitting at home. Or too artificial from gym workouts." He leaned closer, studying her like she was art in a museum. "But you... Kerala women are blessed. Perfect flesh. Not too big, not too small. Natural. Soft. Real."
His gaze lingered on her bra. On how it cupped her breasts. On the small bit of cleavage visible above the cups. On the way her breathing made everything move.
"Uncle, please—" Devika twisted her wrists in his grip, trying to free herself. But his fingers tightened — not painfully, just firmly — keeping her pinned.
"Stay still, beta. Let me look."
"No—"
But he was already kneeling.
Dropping down to his knees in front of her, his face level with her stomach, his hands releasing her wrists to move to the remaining buttons at her waist.
"What are you—"
He unbuttoned them. One after another. Slow and deliberate. And as each button came free, he spread the fabric apart, peeling the two halves of her kameez away from her body.
Revealing her navel.
For the first time, Kulkarni saw it. The small, perfect indentation in her smooth belly. The way it dipped into shadow. The faint line of fine hair leading down from it toward the waistband of her leggings.
His breathing stopped.
Devika's hands came to his head. Gripped his hair. But she didn't pull him away — just held him there, fingers tangled in his thinning grey strands, while he stared at her navel like it was the holiest thing he'd ever seen.
"Perfect," he whispered. "So perfect."
"Uncle—"
"Matching your body. Not too deep, not too shallow." His hands came to her hips, holding her still. "Like a celebrity. Better than a celebrity. Real."
His face moved closer. Devika's breathing quickened, her stomach muscles tensing as his breath touched her bare skin.
"Don't—"
But his lips pressed against her navel. Hard. A firm kiss right in the center of that small indentation.
"Ahhh—" The sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. Half shock, half something else entirely.
Kulkarni's mouth opened. His tongue darted out, traced the rim of her navel, dipped inside—
The doorbell rang.
Both of them froze.
Kulkarni's lips against her stomach. Devika's hands in his hair. The doorbell ringing again, louder this time, followed by a familiar voice.
"Devi? You home?"
Arjun.
Panic exploded through Devika's body like electricity. She shoved Kulkarni's head back, stumbled sideways, grabbed at the edges of her kameez with shaking fingers.
"Oh god oh god oh god—"
Kulkarni stood calmly. Adjusted his spectacles. "Don't panic."
"He's at the door—"
"I know." His voice was steady. Rational. Like he'd prepared for this exact scenario. "Listen to me, beta. Button your kameez. Take a deep breath."
"He'll know—"
"He won't know anything." Kulkarni moved past her toward the dining table. Pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'll sit here like I'm having dinner. You'll tell him I stopped by and you offered me food. Casual. Normal. Friendly neighbors."
"I can't—"
"Yes you can." His eyes locked on hers. "Unless you want to tell him the truth? Explain why your kameez is open? Why you're flushed and breathing hard?"
The doorbell rang a third time.
"Devi?"
Devika's fingers fumbled with the buttons. She got the bottom ones done. Then the middle. Her hands shook so badly she could barely manage the top buttons near her collar.
"Good girl." Kulkarni's voice was soothing. Poisonous. "Now go. Let your husband in. And remember — I'm just a harmless old uncle who loves your cooking."
She peered through the door viewer. Saw Arjun's face, tired and confused, checking his phone as he waited.
This was insane. Impossible. How could she—
But Kulkarni was right. What choice did she have?
Devika took one shaky breath. Smoothed down her hair. Forced her face into something resembling normal. And opened the door.
"Sorry! I was in the bathroom—"
Arjun stepped inside, briefcase in one hand, keys in the other. "Why didn't you answer? I was about to call—" He stopped. Saw Kulkarni sitting at the dining table. "Oh. Uncle! Didn't know you were here."
"Good evening, beta!" Kulkarni smiled warmly. Grandfatherly. "Sorry for the intrusion. I helped Devika with some government office work today, and she kindly offered me dinner."
Arjun's expression softened. "That's nice. How was the PDS office?"
"Very smooth, thanks to Uncle." Devika's voice came out higher than normal. "He speaks Marathi, knows all the clerks. I couldn't have managed without him."
"See? I told you someone would help." Arjun set down his briefcase. "What are you making?"
"Just... some curry. Nothing special."
"Nonsense! Your wife's cooking is fantastic." Kulkarni leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "That sambar yesterday? Best I've had since my wife passed. And today's rasam..." He kissed his fingertips. "Perfect balance of tamarind and spice."
Arjun walked to the kitchen. Poured himself water. "You're lucky, Uncle. I barely get to eat her food these days. Always stuck at the office."
"That's the problem with these IT jobs. All work, no time for family." Kulkarni shook his head sympathetically. "In my generation, we always came home by six. Dinner with wife. Talking. Spending time together."
"Yeah, well." Arjun drank deeply. "Can't be helped. Project deadlines."
"Of course, of course. I understand." Kulkarni stood. "Actually, I should go now. Let you young people have your evening."
"No need to rush—"
"No, no. I've imposed enough." He walked toward the door, passing close to Devika. Close enough that his arm brushed hers. "Thank you for the lovely food, beta."
His eyes met hers. Held. Said everything his mouth couldn't.
This isn't over.
"Anytime, Uncle." Her voice barely made it past her throat.
Arjun walked Kulkarni to the door. "Thanks again for helping her today."
"My pleasure. Devika is like my daughter." He smiled at both of them. "I'll always be here if she needs anything."
The door closed.
Kulkarni's footsteps faded across the corridor. The click of 2A opening and shutting.
Silence.
Devika stood frozen in the middle of her living room, her body still humming, her navel still tingling where his mouth had been, her mind screaming a thousand different things at once.
"You okay?" Arjun was looking at his phone. "You seem weird."
"Just tired. Hot day."
"Mm." He typed something. Sent it. "I have a call in ten minutes. Can you get me some food quickly?"
"Yes."
She walked to the kitchen on autopilot. Pulled out vessels. Served rice and curry. Brought it to the table.
All while feeling the ghost of Kulkarni's hands on her waist. His lips on her navel. His whispered words burning in her ears.
Your body is made for pleasure.
Arjun ate quickly, one hand shoveling food, the other scrolling through his laptop. He finished in seven minutes, left his plate on the table, and went to the bedroom with his phone pressed to his ear.
"Yes, Richard, I'm here. Sorry for the delay. Let me share my screen..."
The door closed. His muffled voice continued inside.
Devika stood at the sink. Washed the dishes. Stared out the window at the darkening Pune sky.
And tried very, very hard not to think about what had almost happened.
About what would have happened if Arjun had been five minutes later.
About what was definitely, definitely going to happen next.
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