Misc. Erotica She Rode With Me, Then Wanted Me - Pt.1-4

[Keran]

I Waited Outside Her Gym
Mornings in Bandra are always the same.
Sticky heat.
Sound of sweeping brooms on footpaths.
Smell of fish and incense.
I start work at 6:45 AM.
Always park near the crossroad — close to the big gym where the rich ladies go.
One of them?
Is her.
Isha.

---

Isha Kapoor.
Daughter of criminal lawyer Rajeev Kapoor.
Lives in a bungalow near Turner Road.
Drives sometimes, but says she "hates morning traffic".
So she takes my rickshaw.
Me.
My rickshaw.
Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

---

She doesn’t remember my name.
Calls me "driverji" when she’s polite.
"Poet rickshaw" when she’s joking.
Once called me "Rickshaw Rumi" in front of her friend — I didn’t understand, but she laughed.
I laughed too.
Later, I googled it.

---

She always sits side-saddle.
Always asks for extra tissue — to wipe the seat before she sits.
Always wears perfume that smells expensive and slightly cruel.

---

First time she rode with me, she said:
"You drive too smooth. Are you trying to impress me?"
I said:
"No, madam. Just don’t want to spill your coffee."
She smiled.
That smile ruined me for a week.

---

Sometimes she hums along with the radio.
Sometimes she scrolls silently, lips parted slightly, looking at her phone like it’s a mirror.
Sometimes, she just stares at the back of my head.

---

Once, at a red light, she said:
"You must get tired of taking people richer than you."
I didn’t reply.
"Sorry," she added, "That was bitchy. But accurate, no?"
She laughed.
I forced a smile.

---

I’ve dropped her at yoga, facials, dentist, a brunch with "the girls".
She once changed her heels while riding.
I slowed down just so she wouldn’t fall.
She looked at me through the mirror and said:
"Gentleman. Careful. That’s dangerous."
I nodded.
She winked.

---

Sometimes I dream of her saying my name.
Just once.
In that voice — not teasing, not mocking.
Just soft.
Like I matter.

---

Last week, she left her lip balm in the back seat.
I kept it.
Didn’t tell her.
Still smells like her.

---

I make ₹500–₹700 a day.
Some days more.
Not enough for her world.
But I still show up.
Every Monday. Every Wednesday. Every Friday.
Same corner. Same wait.

---

Today, she hasn’t come.
It’s already 9:30.
Maybe she got a ride from her friend with the Audi.
Maybe she didn’t feel like yoga.
Or maybe?
She forgot I exist.

---

But I’ll be back Wednesday.
Just in case.

---

[to be continued...]

[Keran]

She Called Me Cute. Then Laughed With Her Friends.
Wednesday. 9:02 AM.
She came out of the gym, glowing.
Hair in a bun. Sweat on her neck.
Expensive sunglasses pushed up on her head.
She wasn’t alone.
Two friends walked beside her — both in bright Nike shoes, both smelling like perfume and money.
They looked at me the way you look at a streetlamp. Functional.

---

“Your rickshaw boyfriend’s here,”
one of them whispered loud enough for me to hear.
They laughed.
Not just giggled — full laugh. Loud. Sharp.

---

Isha walked over, straight to me.
Didn’t get in right away.
Just leaned slightly into the rickshaw frame.
“Missed me, driverji?”
I smiled. Small. Careful.
“Always.”
She smirked.
“Careful. That smile could get you in trouble.”

---

Her friends stepped into another car, but didn’t drive off.
They stayed.
Watching.
She glanced at them, then looked back at me.
“They think you’re kinda cute.”
I blinked. My throat tightened.
Before I could say anything, she added:
“Do you think you’re cute?”

---

I looked at her eyes. They sparkled with something — play, maybe.
“That’s not for me to decide, madam.”

---

She laughed. Open-mouthed.
Not at what I said — at me.
Pulled out her phone. Typed fast. Sent something.
One second later, her friends burst out laughing inside their car.
One of them even made a finger-twirl gesture — like winding spaghetti.
Or teasing a dog.

---

My hands gripped the handlebar tighter.
My ears burned.

---

She looked at me again.
Bit her lower lip slightly.
“Don’t mind them. They’re bitches sometimes.”
Sometimes?
That word stung more than anything else.

---

The rest of the ride was silent.
Just the buzz of my rickshaw’s fan.
And my heartbeat trying to stay quiet.

---

At her bungalow, she handed me a ₹100 note.
“Keep the change.”
I nodded.
She stepped out.
Then paused, turned back slightly.
“And don’t fall in love with me, okay?”
Winked.
Slammed the door.

---

I sat there for a while.
Staring at the seat where she’d been.
At the dent her thigh left in the cushion.

---

I started the engine.
Drove off.
But in my head, her friends were still laughing.

---

Back then, I had no idea that three months later,
I’d fuck her in the storeroom of my own café,
between boxes of spice jars and crates of soda.
But that day?
That day, I felt like nothing.

---

[to be continued...]

[siva05]

Curious

[Keran]

She Forgot Her Purse. I Returned It. She Didn’t Say Thanks.

Friday morning, 8:43 AM.
She got in like always. Perfume, yoga mat, no eye contact.
We rode in silence.
Ten minutes later, she got out near Pali Hill Café, on the phone with someone.
Left the door open longer than usual.
Didn’t look back.
It wasn’t until I hit the next red light that I noticed it.

---

A beige purse.
Slim. Branded.
Still zipped.
Lying on the floor of the back seat like it didn’t belong in this dusty rickshaw world.

---

I pulled over.
Didn’t touch it for a moment.
Just stared at it like it might explode.
Then slowly picked it up — holding it like a temple lamp.

---

For a second, I imagined keeping it.
Selling it.
Spending it.
Taking back some of the dignity she chipped away at.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
I’d already seen her name on the tag inside:
ISHA KAPOOR.

---

I waited.
She didn’t call.
Didn’t message.
Didn’t return.

---

At 10:12 AM, I drove to her house.
Knocked at the gate.
The guard looked at me like I was garbage trying to deliver itself.
“She forgot this in my rickshaw,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just stared.
I held it up.
He picked up his walkie-talkie and buzzed someone.
A minute later, she came out.
Hair tied. Sunglasses on. Holding her phone.

---

“Driver?”
She saw the purse in my hands and frowned.
Not surprised. Not worried.
Just annoyed.
“Ugh. I was wondering where that went.”
She walked down the steps, still typing on her phone.

---

I held it out to her.
She took it, casually.
Not even looking at me.
Not even checking what was inside.
“Thanks,” she muttered — without looking up.

---

She turned around.
Walked back toward the house.
Paused. Looked over her shoulder.
“You didn’t open it, right?”
I shook my head.
“No, madam.”
She shrugged.
“Good.”
And just like that — door shut.

---

No smile.
No real thank you.
Not even my name.

---

I stood at the gate for five more seconds.
Then turned back.
Sat in my rickshaw.
Hands on the handle.
Not moving.

---

I’d returned something valuable.
But still felt poorer than ever.

---

That’s when I saw the ad again.
On a billboard across the street.
Bright blue. Flashy font.
"India bets on 4rabet. Do you?"

---

I didn’t know why it caught my eye this time.
Maybe because it looked so confident.
So bold.
So opposite of how I felt.

---

I turned the key.
Engine coughed to life.
And somewhere in my chest, something whispered:
“Try something that pays you back.”

---

[to be continued...]

[Keran]

The First Time I Opened the App

I didn’t do it right away.
For two days, I just saw the ad.
Billboards, stickers on the backs of buses, YouTube pre-rolls that didn’t let me skip.
4rabet.
India bets.
So can you.
It started to feel personal.
Like someone — or something — was talking directly to me.

---

I downloaded it on Sunday night.
Alone in my room.
Fan creaking above me.
Mosquito coil burning next to my bed.
The screen glowed blue in the dark.
It asked for my name, phone, and a password.
I typed everything slowly. Like I was lighting a diya.

---

Balance: ₹0.00
I transferred ₹100 from my UPI.
My hand shook a little.
I’d never gambled before.
But it didn’t feel like gambling.
It felt like revenge.

---

I didn’t pick a big game.
Just a local cricket match in Pune.
Something small.
Something meaningless.
Except it wasn’t meaningless to me.
It was mine.

---

I watched the live stats crawl like ants across the screen.
My heart beat faster than it should’ve.
When my team hit a six, I clenched my fist.
When the bowler took a wicket, I almost whispered "yes" out loud.

---

Match ended.
Payout: ₹172.
+₹72.
Not much.
But for me?
It was the first time something gave back.

---

No comments.
No mocking.
No girls laughing from cars.
Just numbers.
Result.
Win.

---

I stared at the screen for five full minutes after it ended.
Not because I was shocked.
Because I didn’t know what to do with the feeling.

---

I didn’t dance.
Didn’t screenshot.
Didn’t tweet.
I just breathed deeper than I had in weeks.

---

Isha hadn’t messaged.
She wouldn’t.
She probably forgot me already.
But that night,
as I closed the app,
I said to myself:
“Let her forget me now.
Let her remember me later.”

---

[to be continued...]