Misc. Erotica First Night at the Pub (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

First Night at the Pub

By Novelist Casanova 

My name is Rajesh. I am an oil merchant in Bangalore. The shop sits on a busy road near the wholesale market, the smell of groundnut and coconut oil thick in the air from morning till the shutters come down. I started with one small press my father left me and slowly added three more, then the packing unit at the back. Trucks come at night, unload the seeds, leave with tins stacked to the roof. The money comes steady if you watch the rates and do not trust anyone fully.
For years the money went into one thing only. A piece of land I bought outside the city, empty then, with thorn bushes and a half-broken compound wall. I wanted an apartment building of my own. Not a big one, just three floors, six flats, something I could point to and say this is mine. The papers took two years. The approvals took another. Every office had someone who wanted a share. One week the file moved, the next week it disappeared. I sat outside those rooms with the same plastic folder, the same smile, the same envelope ready under the papers.
Santosh and Lydia made it worse. Santosh is my cousin from my mother’s side. He came to Bangalore after his own business failed in the village. I gave him work at the oil shop, a room in the old house, and later a small advance when he said he wanted to start something. Lydia sat in that room and counted every rupee that left my hand. When the apartment work began she started talking. She told relatives I was spending money that should have stayed in the family. She told the neighbours the building would never finish because I had taken loans I could not pay. Santosh would come to the site, stand with his hands on his hips, and point at the pillars.
“This cement is weak,” he would say, loud enough for the workers to hear. “You are wasting everything.”
I cursed them one evening after they left the site. The sky was dark, the workers had gone, and the half-built walls stood around me. I stood alone on the first-floor slab, the dust still on my clothes, and spoke their names. I said the money they took would never stay with them. I said the road they drove on would not keep them. I said it quietly, then louder, until my throat hurt. After that I stopped answering their calls.
They had planned a trip to Vellankanni. Lydia wanted to go for the church festival. Santosh told everyone at the shop he was taking her, that they would stay two nights and return. I did not go. I stayed at the site. Three days later the call came from a security officer station on the highway. They were returning from Vellankanni when a lorry hit their car. Santosh and Lydia both died before the ambulance reached. The relatives who had listened to Lydia’s words now came to the shop and spoke softly. I paid for the last rites from a distance. I did not go.

The construction moved faster after that. I hired a new contractor who did not know Santosh’s name. The pillars went up straight. The slabs were poured on time. I stood on the top floor the day the last roof was finished, the city spread out below, the wind strong enough to move my shirt. The workers asked for a small celebration. I bought chicken and rice and a crate of beer. We ate on the unfinished terrace, legs hanging over the edge. One of the masons said,
“Saar, this building will stand.”
I nodded. My hands were rough from checking the mix myself. My back ached. I was proud.
The flats were ready by the end of the next month. White walls, tiled floors, balconies with simple railings. I kept one flat for myself. The others I locked and waited. On the day I got the occupancy certificate I walked through every room alone, touching the switches, opening the windows, listening to the quiet. Outside, the compound wall was painted, the gate fixed, the name board ready but not yet hung. I stood in the empty hall of my own flat and felt the years of waiting settle. The hurdles were finished. The building was mine.

That night, after the workers left and the building was locked, I sat on the same terrace where we had eaten the chicken. The city noise came up in pieces. I thought of the empty flats, the money still to come, and the clear space left after Santosh and Lydia died. The pride stayed in my chest, solid, like the pillars under my feet.


We stayed in our house across the road while the apartment was still being built. The house was large, two floors with a wide veranda and a separate room for the oil accounts, the same place we had lived since we married. I am an oil merchant. The business has grown. From the upper veranda I could see the construction site every morning. My wife Sudha would come with me most days. She comes from a small village near Madurai. She has lived there all her life until she married me. She is the mother of my three sons. The boys stay with her mother for now. She said she wanted to watch the building rise so she would know every wall before we shifted.
My wife wears a saree every day. Cotton at home, a better silk one when she crosses the road to the site. The petticoat sits low, well below her navel, the way she has always tied it. The pallu stays across her chest or over one shoulder. She does not wear modern clothes. Even in Bangalore she keeps the same style. The gold chain at her neck is thick. The mangalsutra rests between her breasts. Anklets sound on the tiles when she walks through the house and on the concrete when she moves around the pillars.
Her body is full and heavy in the places a man notices. Her breasts are large and soft, the weight of them clear under the blouse even when she stands straight. The blouse is always modest, sleeves to the elbow, but the fabric stretches tight across the upper curve. Her waist is solid, the kind that comes from carrying children and working in a village kitchen. Below that her hips are wide and round. When she turns on the unfinished slab the saree cloth pulls across the full shape of her backside. Her thighs are thick. When she climbs the temporary steps the saree rides a little and the skin above the knee shows, smooth and a little darker than her face. Her hair is long and black, usually tied in a single braid that falls down her back.
She is innocent and naive. She does not understand the way men look. The construction workers would stop their work when she walked past. Their eyes would follow the sway of her hips under the saree, the heavy movement of her breasts when she bent to check a wall, the open line of skin above the low petticoat. They would stare at the place where the blouse pressed tight and at the thick shape of her thighs when the cloth shifted. She never suspected them. She thought they were only watching the work. She would smile a little if one of them nodded, then turn back to the plaster or the pillar lines, her face calm, her eyes clear. She kept her pallu in place the way her mother had taught her and believed that was enough.
She is conservative. She does not speak much to the workers. She keeps her eyes down when strangers look, not because she knows why they look, but because that is how she was raised. In the village she never went to any place after dark except the temple. Bangalore is different for her. She watches the women who pass the site in fitted clothes. She sees the lights of the finished buildings farther down the road. She has an image in her mind of Bangalore high-fi life, the kind she has only seen in film songs. She thinks those places have soft music and people who drink and dance without shame. She has never entered one. She only looks, curious and unaware.
Every morning she would cross the road with me. She would stand near the pillars and check the lines with her eyes while the workers paused behind her. One day she touched a fresh wall and said,
“Rajesh, the plaster is not even here.”
The contractor looked at her, then at me. I told him to redo it. She walked the length of the first floor, the saree clinging to the wide line of her hips, the anklets quiet on the dust. The men watched the full movement of her backside and the way the blouse strained when she raised her arm. She did not notice. She stopped at the open edge where the balcony would come and looked across at our house.
“From here I can see our veranda,” she said.
“Soon we will see it from the other side,” I answered.
She nodded. Her fingers touched the edge of the blouse where it pressed against her breast. She stayed until the workers stopped for tea, still not seeing how their eyes stayed on her. Then she walked back across the road, the pallu held tight, the full shape of her body moving under the silk. She came every day like that until the last slab was poured.


After the main slabs were done I told the contractor to build one more small room on the terrace. It was not in the original plan. The room was simple, four walls, one door, a small window facing away from the road, and a thick mattress on the floor. I said it was for storage. The workers finished it in four days. From the outside it looked like nothing. Inside it was only for us.
My wife was good in bed. Even after three sons her body answered quickly. At night in the old house she would lie on her back, the cotton saree loosened at the waist, the petticoat string already open. Her breasts would spill to the sides, heavy and soft, the nipples dark and tight when I touched them. Her hips would rise on their own once I was inside her. She made small sounds, almost shy, but her thighs would open wide and stay open. She never asked for anything. She only held my shoulders and let me move. After, she would pull the pallu of the saree over her chest again and sleep with her face turned to the wall, breathing slow. I wanted a place where we did not have to be quiet because of the children or the neighbours. The terrace room was for that.
One evening, after the workers left, I took her up. The sun was going down. She walked ahead of me on the unfinished terrace, the dark blue silk saree moving with her wide hips, the anklets soft on the concrete. She stopped at the new door and looked at me.
“What is this room for?” she asked.
“For us,” I said. “Come inside.”
She stepped in. The mattress was already there. She stood in the middle, hands holding the edge of her pallu, looking at the bare walls. Her blouse was tight across her breasts. The low petticoat showed the soft line of her stomach above the waist string. She turned once, the full shape of her backside clear under the silk saree, then looked at me again.
“Here?” she said. Her voice was small. “Someone can see from the other buildings.”
“The window faces the other way,” I answered. “No one will come up.”
She nodded, still holding the pallu. I closed the door. The light from the window fell across her face and the upper curve of her breasts. She did not move until I reached for the pin of her saree. Her fingers loosened on the pallu. She let me unwrap the dark blue silk saree. The saree fell to the floor. Underneath she wore only the blouse and the low petticoat. Her skin was warm. When I opened the blouse hooks her breasts came free, heavy in my hands, the weight of them familiar. She made the same small sound she always made. Her eyes stayed on my face, innocent, waiting. I pushed the petticoat down past her hips. She stepped out of the petticoat and stood naked except for the mangalsutra and the anklets. Her hips were wide. The hair between her thighs was thick and dark. She looked at the mattress, then at me.
“Lie down,” I said.
She lay on her back the way she always did. Her breasts settled to the sides. Her thighs opened without being asked. I knelt between them. She watched me, breathing a little faster, one hand resting on her own stomach. When I entered her she closed her eyes. Her hips rose once, slow, the way they always did. The room was quiet except for the sound of our bodies and the faint noise of the city below. She held my arms and let me move. After, she pulled the fallen dark blue silk saree over herself and lay still, the mangalsutra crooked on her chest, her face calm again. She did not speak. She only looked at the bare ceiling as if she was still learning the room.


The apartment was finished. The last coat of paint dried, the railings were fixed, the name board went up on the gate. I called the priest for the housewarming. We fixed the date for a Sunday. My wife helped with the arrangements from the old house across the road. She folded banana leaves, counted the coconuts, and checked the sweets the cook had made. She wore a deep red silk saree that day, the pallu pinned neatly over her left shoulder, the blouse fitting close across her heavy breasts, the petticoat tied low so the soft line of her stomach showed when she bent. The mangalsutra rested between her breasts. Her anklets sounded on the tiles every time she walked from the kitchen to the veranda.
Guests started arriving by ten. Relatives from my side, a few oil-market people, the contractor and two of his men, neighbours from both sides of the road. The women sat in the hall of the new flat on the plastic chairs we had rented. The men stood on the balcony and near the gate. My wife moved among them with a steel tray, offering turmeric and kumkum, then later the payasam in small steel tumblers. She kept her eyes mostly down. When someone spoke to her she answered softly and moved on. The workers who had built the place looked at her when she passed. Their eyes stayed on the way the red silk saree pulled across her wide hips and on the tight stretch of the blouse. She did not notice. She thought they were only looking at the new walls.
The priest finished the pooja by noon. We broke the coconut at the entrance. Everyone clapped. I stood beside my wife at the door while people came one by one to bless us. She held the edge of her pallu with both hands. Her face was calm. When the last guest left she turned to me on the empty terrace.
“It is really ours now,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered.
She looked at the finished floors, the painted railings, the open sky above the small room we had built. A small smile came on her face. She touched the mangalsutra once, then let her hand fall. The red silk saree moved with her when she walked back inside. The anklets were quiet. We were happy. The hurdles were over. The building stood complete, and she was beside me in it.


We started renting the flats the week after the housewarming. The first tenant was a software couple. They paid three months in advance. The second flat went to a doctor and his family. By the end of the month four flats were occupied. The money came into the account on the fifth of every month, steady. I told my wife the figures one evening. She listened, hands on her lap.
“It is good,” she said. “The building is giving back.”
We were happy. At night the new flat was quiet.
One night she changed into a loose white cotton nighty before bed. The nighty had short sleeves and fell to her knees. She lay down next to me on her side, facing the wall at first, then turned toward me. The light was off. The fan turned slowly. I was already feeling naughty. My hand moved under the nighty and rested on her bare thigh.
“Rajesh,” she said softly, “what are you doing?”
“Just touching,” I answered.
I lifted the white cotton nighty higher, past her hips. She was not wearing anything underneath. Her skin was warm. I slid my fingers along her inner thigh, slow, feeling the soft flesh there. She stayed still. Her breathing changed a little.
“Your inner thigh is soft,” I said. “Warm.”
My fingers moved higher. I touched the outer lips of her pussy, then parted them gently. She was a little wet already. I ran one finger along the slit, then pressed lightly at the entrance.
“Here,” I said. “Your pussy is open a little. Soft inside.”
She made a small sound. Her hand came to my wrist but did not push me away.
“Rajesh… someone will hear,” she whispered.
“No one is here,” I said.
I moved my finger lower, past her pussy, and touched the tight ring of her asshole. She tensed. I circled it slowly with the tip of my finger, not pushing in, just feeling the heat and the small wrinkles of skin.
“And here,” I said. “Your asshole. Tight. You never let me touch it before.”
“It feels strange,” she said. Her voice was shy. “Don’t put inside.”
“I am only touching,” I answered. “Tell me how it feels.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her thighs had opened a little more without her noticing.
“It feels… hot,” she said. “And wrong. But I am not stopping you.”
I kept my finger there, circling, while my other hand stayed on her inner thigh. The white cotton nighty was bunched at her waist. She lay next to me, breathing faster, innocent face turned toward the dark, letting me explore. Outside the window the road was quiet. She did not pull the nighty down.


She turned toward me in the dark. Her hand came up and began brushing my hair, slow strokes from the forehead back. The cotton nighty had stayed bunched at her waist from earlier. Her bare thigh still rested against mine.
“Rajesh,” she said, “I keep thinking about those pubs. I have only seen them in movies. How do they really work? What happens inside?”
“People come in the evening,” I answered. “There is a bar. They order drinks. Music plays loud. Some sit at tables. Some stand. There is a small floor where people dance if they want. The lights stay low so faces are not clear.”
Her fingers kept moving in my hair. She was quiet for a moment, then asked again.
“Do women also go inside?” she said. “What do they do there? I have only seen the songs in movies. Is it the same?”
“Women go,” I said. “They sit with whoever they came with. They drink if they like. They can dance on that floor. No one forces them. They just watch and decide.”
She wanted to know more. Her voice stayed soft but the questions kept coming.
“Is the music very fast? Do people stand very close when they dance? In the movies it looks different. I want to understand how it really is.”
I reached for the hem of the cotton nighty and pulled it upward. She lifted her arms without speaking. I took the nighty off completely and dropped it beside the bed. She was naked now. The mangalsutra lay between her heavy breasts. Her skin was warm. Her wide hips and thick thighs were bare. The hair between her legs was dark.
“You removed it,” she said.
“I want to see you,” I answered.
I lowered my head to her chest. I took one breast in my hand, feeling the full weight, and closed my mouth over the nipple. It was already tight. I sucked slowly, then licked around the dark circle. She made a small sound. Her hand stayed in my hair, still brushing, but slower now.
“Your breasts are heavy,” I said against her skin. “Soft.”
I moved to the other breast and tasted it the same way. She looked down at me, eyes wide.
“It feels good,” she whispered. Then she asked again, still curious. “When people dance, do they hold each other? I have only seen that in movies. Tell me more. I want to know how everything works there.”
She lay naked beside me, breasts wet from my mouth, still asking small questions about the lights and the floor and the way people moved, wanting to understand the place she had only watched in songs. The cotton nighty stayed on the floor. She did not reach for it.
She lay naked beside me, my mouth still on her breast. Her hand had stopped brushing my hair. She was quiet for a moment, then asked again.
“Rajesh,” she said, “how are the women there? What do they look like? Do they sit separate or with men?”
I lifted my head. Her nipple was wet. I kept one hand on the heavy weight of her breast.
“They look like any women,” I answered. “Some wear sarees. Some wear other dresses. There is freedom there. No one tells them where to sit. The mood is romantic. Couples love to hang out. They sit close, talk, hold hands under the table. Lovers go there to romance. They dance slow, bodies touching.”
She listened, eyes on my face. Her thighs were still a little open from earlier.
“Only couples?” she asked. “Only husband and wife?”
“Not only,” I said. “Even just friends. A man and a woman who are not married can hang out there. They talk. They dance. Sometimes they romance also. It happens.”
Her body went still. She pulled the sheet a little higher over her naked hips, though her breasts stayed bare.
“That is wrong,” she said. Her voice was firm. “Friends should not romance. A woman should not let another man touch her like that. It is not correct.”
I moved my hand down her stomach, slow, feeling the soft skin above her navel.
“It is not wrong there,” I said. “In that place the rules are different. People go to feel free. If two friends want to dance close or kiss, no one stops them. The woman decides. If she likes the feeling she stays. If she does not she walks away. No one forces. That is how it works.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her innocent face was serious now.
“But if she is married?” she asked. “Still?”
“Still,” I answered. “Some married women go with friends. Some go with their husbands and still dance with others. The place allows it. The mood is like that. Romantic. Free.”
She was silent. Her fingers touched the mangalsutra on her chest. She did not agree, but she did not argue again. She only lay there, naked, thinking about the women who sat in those low lights and let men who were not their husbands stand close to them. Her curiosity had not gone. It had only become quieter.
I kept my hand on her stomach. She was still naked under the sheet. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with her breathing. She had not covered them again.
“Some women go there because they like the thrill,” I said. “The feeling of another man looking at them. Standing close. Touching their waist while dancing. They enjoy that it is not their husband. The excitement is different.”
Her eyes stayed on me. She was curious. Her fingers moved on the mangalsutra.
“They like it?” she asked. “With other men? Even if they are married?”
“Yes,” I answered. “They say the heart beats faster. The body feels more alive. A stranger’s hand on the hip or the back feels new. They do not have to do more if they do not want. Just the thrill of being wanted by someone else.”
She shook her head slowly.
“That is bad,” she said. “A married woman should not feel thrill from other men. It is wrong. Her body is only for her husband.”
I slid my hand lower, over the soft hair between her thighs, not entering, only resting there.
“It is not bad in that place,” I said. “The women who go know what they are doing. They choose it. Some only dance and come home. Some let the man touch more. They still love their husbands. The thrill is only for those hours. After that they return to normal life. No one calls it bad inside the pub. It is allowed.”
She looked down at my hand on her. Her thighs had not closed.
“But how can they not feel shame?” she asked. “I would feel shame. Even thinking about another man looking at me like that feels wrong.”
“You have only seen it in movies,” I said. “When you are inside you will understand. The lights, the music, the way people move. The shame becomes smaller. The curiosity becomes bigger. Many women feel the same way you feel now before they go. After one visit they want to know more.”
She was quiet. Her innocent face showed she still thought it was bad, but the questions had not stopped. She wanted to hear more about those women and the thrill they felt when a man who was not their husband put his hand on them in the low light. She lay naked beside me, listening, her body warm under my palm.


I moved my hand between her thighs again, feeling the warmth there. She was still naked. The sheet had slipped lower.
“Some women drink a little,” I said. “The alcohol makes the body loose. But even without drinking, the pub itself does it. The low lights. The loud music that vibrates in the chest. Men standing close, eyes on the body. The air is thick with perfume and sweat. All of that makes women horny. Their skin becomes sensitive. They start wanting to be touched.”
Her breathing changed. She looked at me, eyes wider. The innocent curiosity was still there, but under it something else had started. Her nipples were tight again. She did not cover her heavy breasts.
“They become horny just from being there?” she asked. Her voice was softer.
“Yes,” I answered. “The setup does it. Even a woman who came only to see will feel heat between her legs after some time. The body reacts before the mind decides.”
She was quiet. Her thighs opened a little more under my hand. I could feel she was wet now. The talk had excited her.
I sat up and removed my own clothes. I pulled off the vest I had been wearing and dropped it on the floor. Then I pushed down the lungi and stepped out of it. I was naked. My cock was already hard from watching her and from the words we had spoken. I knelt on the bed between her open legs. She looked at my body, then at my face.
“You are ready,” she said.
“I want to fuck you now,” I answered. “While you are thinking about those women.”
She nodded once. Her hands came to my arms. She lay back, naked, heavy breasts spread to the sides, wide hips open for me. The excitement from the pub talk was still on her face. She waited, breathing faster, as I moved closer to enter her.


I pushed into her slowly. She was wet from the talk. Her pussy opened around me, warm and gripping. A soft moan left her mouth the moment I was fully inside.
“Ahhh… Rajesh…”
Her eyes half-closed. Her lips parted. She hugged my arms tighter, fingers pressing into the muscle. Her heavy breasts rose and shifted with the first thrusts. I fucked her steady, watching her face. The innocent look was still there, but her cheeks had flushed. Each time I pushed deep she made a small broken sound.
“Mmmhh… it feels… full…”
Her wide hips began to rise on their own, meeting me. Her thighs trembled and stayed open. The wet sound of our bodies grew louder. I lowered my head and sucked one nipple hard. She gasped, back arching, one hand flying to the back of my head.
“Ahh— yes… there…”
Her voice was shaky. Emotion showed on her face—surprise mixed with the heat the pub talk had started. Sweat formed on her neck. The mangalsutra stuck to the skin between her breasts. I fucked her harder. Her breasts bounced. She moaned openly now, no longer trying to stay quiet.
“Ahhh… ahhh… Rajesh… I can feel you… so deep…”
Her pussy clenched around me in quick pulses. Her whole body reacted—stomach tightening, toes curling, nails dragging down my back. She was close. Her expression turned helpless, mouth open, eyes wet at the corners.
“I am going to cum inside you,” I said against her ear.
“Do it… ahhh… cum inside me… please…”
Her voice cracked. She hugged me closer with her arms and pulled me deeper with her legs. I thrust hard and stayed buried. My cock pulsed. I came inside her, thick and hot. She cried out, body shaking under me, pussy squeezing and milking every spurt.
“Ahhh— I feel it… so warm… inside…”
She hugged me tight, trembling, face pressed to my neck, breathing in short gasps. Emotion and pleasure mixed on her face. My cum leaked out around my cock onto the sheet. She did not let go. She only hugged me closer, naked, still moaning softly, body open and spent, the excitement from everything we had spoken still moving through her.
We stayed joined, neither of us moving. I softened slowly inside her. She hugged me with both arms, drawing me closer until her cheek rested fully against my neck. Her breathing grew longer, softer. The sweat between us cooled. My cum continued to slip from her in a warm trickle onto the sheet, yet she did not shift away. Her heavy breasts pressed full and quiet against my chest. The mangalsutra lay warm where our skin met.
After a while I lifted my head. She looked up at me, eyes gentle, the flush still soft on her cheeks. The innocent expression had returned, now mixed with something tender and open.
“Tomorrow night,” I said quietly, “I am taking you to the pub.”
She was silent. Her fingers traced a slow, careful line down my back. She hugged me tighter for a moment, as if holding the feeling between us, then spoke, her voice small and shy.
“I feel shy,” she said. “I have never gone to a place like that. I have only seen it in movies. What if people look at me? What if I do not know how to be there?”
“They may look,” I answered, brushing her hair back from her face. “But you will be with me. We will sit together. If your heart feels uneasy, we will leave at once. I want to take you tomorrow. I want you to see it with me.”
She turned her face into my neck. I felt the warmth of her breath and the slight tremble in her arms as she hugged me. Then she nodded against my skin, still holding me close.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow. But stay near me. Do not leave my side.”
“I will not leave you.”
She hugged me again, longer this time, her body softening fully against mine. The shyness remained, yet beneath it there was a quiet trust. Outside the window the road stayed still. She lay naked beneath me, my cum warm inside her, her heart already moving carefully toward the place she had only watched in songs. The excitement was new and delicate, but she had said yes, and she held me as if the promise itself was something precious.


The next day was Saturday. In the afternoon my mother came as she always did. She loved the boys and took them to her house for the weekend. The house grew quiet once they left. It was only me and my wife.
She moved through the rooms with a restless energy I had not seen before. The cotton saree she wore at home was neatly pinned, the pallu resting over her shoulder, the blouse modest, the petticoat tied low in her usual way. Yet her eyes kept returning to me. When I sat on the sofa she came and stood in front of me, fingers lightly holding the edge of her pallu.
“Rajesh,” she said, “for the pub tonight… can I wear a saree? I have never seen the girls in the movies wear saree there. They wear other clothes. Will it look wrong if I go in saree?”
I looked at her. The excitement was clear on her face, mixed with the old shyness.
“We can go shopping now,” I said. “Buy a modern dress if you want. Something you saw in the movies.”
She shook her head at once. Her hand tightened on the pallu.
“No,” she said. “I would feel uncomfortable. I have never worn those clothes. My body will not know how to sit in them. People will look more.”
I reached for her hand and drew her closer. She let me. I spoke gently.
“Then wear the saree of your choice. Any one you like. You will still look like yourself. No one will stop you. I will be beside you the whole time.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then a small smile came to her face. She nodded, the shyness softening.
“Okay,” she said. “I will choose one. You will stay near me.”
“I will.”
She hugged me briefly, arms light around my shoulders, then stepped back. The smile remained. Already her mind had turned to the sarees folded in the almirah, choosing which one she would wear for the first time she stepped into a place she had only seen in songs. The afternoon light fell across the low line of her petticoat and the quiet curve of her smile.


It was already six in the evening. I had showered earlier. Now I stood in front of the mirror and buttoned my white shirt, then pulled on the black pants and fixed the belt. The house was quiet. From the bedroom I could hear movement.
My wife had opened the almirah. She took out the clothes one by one and laid them carefully on the bed: a yellow chiffon saree, light and soft, a matching yellow blouse with modest sleeves, a plain white petticoat, a white bra, and maroon panties. My wife smoothed the chiffon with her palm, then picked up a towel from the rack. She looked at me once, a small nervous smile on her face, and went into the bathroom. The door closed. Water began to run.
I sat on the edge of the bed beside the clothes she had chosen. The yellow chiffon caught the light. I took my phone and called the pub. The man who answered knew my voice. I told him we would arrive around eight, asked for a corner table away from the speakers, and confirmed they would keep it. He said the music would start by then and the place would not be too crowded yet. I thanked him and ended the call.
Inside the bathroom the water continued. I looked at the maroon panties and the white bra lying on the yellow chiffon. My wife had never worn these things outside the house for a place like this. She was showering now, preparing herself for the first time she would step into a pub, still choosing the saree she trusted, still shy, yet already moving toward the evening we had spoken about in the dark. I waited, the white shirt cool against my skin, listening to the water and thinking of the low lights that would soon fall on her.


I went down to the living room and waited. The big television was on. I put a video on YouTube, something light, the sound low, and sat on the sofa. The house stayed quiet except for the faint noise from the screen. Upstairs the bathroom door had opened and closed. I could hear my wife moving in the bedroom, the soft sounds of the yellow chiffon saree and the small click of her bangles.
After a while she came down the stairs. My wife wore the yellow chiffon saree. The matching yellow blouse fit close across her heavy breasts, sleeves modest. The white petticoat sat low beneath the yellow chiffon saree, the usual line of her stomach just visible when she stepped. The pallu rested over her left shoulder. She had left her hair loose, dark and long over one side. The maroon panties and white bra were hidden underneath. She looked stunning. The yellow chiffon saree caught the light as she walked. Her wide hips shifted under the saree. The anklets sounded softly on the steps.
She stopped at the bottom and looked at me. A shy smile touched her face. Her hands held the edge of the pallu.
“Is this okay?” she asked. “For the pub?”
“You look beautiful,” I said. “Perfect.”
She nodded, the smile growing a little. She came closer and stood in front of me. I stood up. For a moment we only looked at each other. Then she hugged me lightly, arms around my waist, cheek against my white shirt.
“I feel nervous,” she said.
“I am with you,” I answered.
She stepped back, still smiling, and picked up her small handbag from the side table. We were ready. The yellow chiffon saree moved as she turned toward the door. Outside the evening had grown darker. We walked out together, her first time stepping toward a place she had only seen in movies, the yellow chiffon saree soft against her body, the excitement and the shyness both clear on her face.


We reached the pub just after eight. The building was on a side road off Brigade Road. I parked the car and we walked up the stairs together. My wife held the edge of her pallu with one hand. The yellow chiffon saree moved lightly around her legs. The white petticoat showed a little at the ankle when she climbed. Her anklets made a small sound on each step. She stayed close to my side.
Inside, the lights were low and red. Music played, not too loud yet. A few people sat at tables. Some stood near the small dance floor. The air smelled of perfume and alcohol. My wife looked around once, eyes wide, then lowered them. She had never been inside a place like this. Everything she knew came from movies.
A waiter showed us to the corner table I had asked for. We sat. I ordered a drink for myself and a soft drink for her. She kept the pallu across her chest. The yellow blouse was modest, yet the weight of her heavy breasts was clear beneath it. Her wide hips filled the chair. She looked beautiful and out of place at the same time.
A man walked over from the bar. He was in his thirties, shirt open at the collar, a glass in his hand. He stopped at our table and smiled at my wife.
“Hello,” he said. “You are new here.” His eyes moved over the yellow chiffon saree, then to her face. “Is she with you, or is she single?”
My wife’s cheeks darkened. She looked at me, then at him. Her fingers tightened on the pallu.
“I am married,” she said softly. “This is my husband.”
The man did not look embarrassed. He smiled wider.
“I thought she was single. The way she is sitting. Married women do not usually come to places like this.” He turned to me. “May I ask her for one dance? Just one song.”
I felt heat start low in my stomach. The way he looked at the curve of her waist under the yellow chiffon saree, at the place where the blouse pressed against her breasts, made my mouth dry. My wife’s hand found my arm under the table. I could feel her pulse.
“Go,” I said. “One dance.”
She hesitated. Her eyes searched mine. When she saw I was not angry, she stood. The yellow chiffon saree shifted around her wide hips. She let the pallu slip a little and stepped onto the small floor with him. The music changed. He placed one hand on her waist. She glanced back at me once, shy and uncertain, as the song began.


To Be Continued..!